FullReads

Twilight came on and Ida sat by the fire, which rose into importance now that the sunshine was gone; and, moreover, spring evenings are cold.

Ida felt desolate, and, on the whole, rather ill-used. Nurse had not been upstairs for hours, and though she had promised real tea and toast this evening, there were no signs of either as yet. The poor child felt too weak to play, and reading made her eyes ache. If only there were some one to tell her a story.

It grew dark, and then steps came outside the door, and a fumbling with the lock which made Ida nervous.

“Do come in, Nursey!” she cried.

The door opened, and someone spoke; but the voice was not the voice of Nurse. It was a sweet, clear, gentle voice; musical, though no longer young; such a voice as one seldom hears and never forgets, which came out of the darkness, saying:

“It is not Nurse, my dear; she is making the tea, and gave me leave to come up alone. I am Mrs. Overtheway.”

And there in the firelight stood the little old lady, as she has been before described, except that instead of her Prayer-book she carried a large pot hyacinth in her two hands.

“I have brought you one of my pets, my dear,” said she. “I 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.