Mrs. Overtheways Remembrances | Page 7

think we
both love flowers."
The little old lady had come to tea. This was charming. She took off her
bonnet, and her cap more than fulfilled Ida's expectations, although it
was nothing smarter than a soft mass of tulle, tied with white satin
strings. But what a face looked out of it! Mrs. Overtheway's features
were almost perfect. The beauty of her eyes was rather enhanced by the
blue shadows that Time had painted round them, and they were those
good eyes which remind one of a clear well, at the bottom of which he
might see truth. When young she must have been exquisitely beautiful,
Ida thought. She was lovely still.
In due time Nurse brought up tea, and Ida could hardly believe that her
fancies were realized at last; indeed more than realized--for no bread
and treacle diminished the dignity of the entertainment; and Nurse
would as soon have thought of carrying off the Great Mogul on his
cushions, as of putting Mrs. Overtheway and her chair into the corner.
But there is a limit even to the space of time for which one can enjoy
tea and buttered toast. The tray was carried off, the hyacinth put in its
place, and Ida curled herself up in an easy chair on one side of the fire,
Mrs. Overtheway being opposite.
"You see I am over the way still," laughed the little old lady. "Now, tell
me all about the primroses." So Ida told everything, and apologized for

her awkward speeches to the housekeeper.
"I don't know your name yet," said she.
"Call me Mrs. Overtheway still, my dear, if you please," said the little
old lady. "I like it."
So Ida was no wiser on this score.
"I was so sorry to hear that you had been made ill on my account," said
Mrs. Overtheway. "I have been many times to ask after you, and
to-night I asked leave to come to tea. I wish I could do something to
amuse you, you poor little invalid. I know you must feel dull."
Ida's cheeks flushed.
"If you would only tell me a story," she said, "I do so like hearing
Nurse's stories. At least she has only one, but I like it. It isn't exactly a
story either, but it is about what happened in her last place. But I am
rather tired of it. There's Master Henry--I like him very much, he was
always in mischief; and there's Miss Adelaide, whose hair curled
naturally--at least with a damp brush--I like her; but I don't have much
of them; for Nurse generally goes off about a quarrel she had with the
cook, and I never could tell what they quarrelled about, but Nurse said
cook was full of malice and deceitfulness, so she left. I'm rather tired of
it."
"What sort of a story shall I tell you?" asked Mrs. Overtheway.
"A true one, I think," said Ida. "Something that happened to you
yourself, if you please. You must remember a great many things, being
so old."
And Ida said this in simple good-faith, believing it to be a compliment.
"It is quite true," said Mrs. Overtheway, "that one remembers many
things at the end of a long life, and that they are often those things
which happened a long while ago, and which are sometimes so slight in

themselves that it is wonderful that they should not have been forgotten.
I remember, for instance, when I was about your age, an incident that
occurred which gave me an intense dislike to a special shade of brown
satin. I hated it then, and at the end of more than half a century, I hate it
still. The thing in itself was a mere folly; the people concerned in it
have been dead for many years, and yet at the present time I should find
considerable difficulty in seeing the merits of a person who should
dress in satin of that peculiar hue.
"What was it?" asked Ida.
"It was not amber satin, and it was not snuff-coloured satin; it was one
of the shades of brown known by the name of feuille-morte, or
dead-leaf colour. It is pretty in itself, and yet I dislike it."
"How funny," said Ida, wriggling in the arm-chair with satisfaction.
"Do tell me about it."
"But it is not funny in the least, unfortunately," said Mrs. Overtheway,
laughing. "It isn't really a story, either. It is not even like Nurse's
experiences. It is only a strong remembrance of my childhood, that isn't
worth repeating, and could hardly amuse you."
"Indeed, indeed, it would," said Ida. "I like the sound of it. Satin is so
different from cooks."
Mrs. Overtheway laughed.
"Still, I wish I could think of something more entertaining," said she.
"Please tell