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Page 54
"Is she sick?" asked Elizabeth with a strange constriction about her
heart.
"O no, she is not up yet, miss," said the kind old butler; "she never gets
up before this. You're from Mrs. Sands, I suppose." Poor soul, for once
his butler eyes had been mistaken. He thought she was the little
errand-girl from Madam Bailey's modiste.
"No, I'm just Elizabeth," said the girl, smiling. She felt that this man,
whoever he was, was not against her. He was old, and he had a kind look.
He still thought she meant she was not the modiste, just her errand-girl.
Her quaint dress and the long braid down her back made her look like a
child.
"I'll tell her you've come. Be seated," said the butler, and gave her a
chair in the dim hall just opposite the parlor door, where she had a
glimpse of elegance such as she had never dreamed existed. She tried to
think how it must be to live in such a room and walk on velvet. The carpet
was deep and rich. She did not know it was a rug nor that it was woven in
some poor peasant's home and then was brought here years afterward at a
fabulous price. She only knew it was beautiful in its silvery sheen with
gleaming colors through it like jewels in the dew.
On through another open doorway she caught a glimpse of a painting on the
wall. It was a man as large as life, sitting in a chair; and the face and
attitude were her father's--her father at his best. She was fairly
startled. Who was it? Could it be her father? And how had they made this
picture of him? He must be changed in those twenty years he had been gone
from home.
Then the butler came back, and before he could speak she pointed toward
the picture. "Who is it?" she asked.
"That, miss? That's Mr. John, Madam's husband that's dead a good many
years now. But I remember him well."
"Could I look at it? He is so much like my father." She walked rapidly
over the ancient rug, unheeding its beauties, while the wondering butler
followed a trifle anxiously. This was unprecedented. Mrs. Sands's
errand-girls usually knew their place.
"Madam said you was to come right up to her room," said the butler
pointedly. But Elizabeth stood rooted to the ground, studying the picture.
The butler had to repeat the message. She smiled and turned to follow him,
and as she did so saw on a side wall the portraits of two boys.
"Who are they?" she pointed swiftly. They were much like her own two
brothers.
"Them are Mr. John and Mr. James, Madam's two sons. They's both of them
dead now," said the butler. "At least, Mr. James is, I'm sure. He died two
years ago. But you better come right up. Madam will be wondering."
She followed the old man up the velvet-shod stairs that gave back no
sound from footfall, and pondered as she went. Then that was her father,
that boy with the beautiful face and the heavy wavy hair tossed back from
his forehead, and the haughty, imperious, don't-care look. And here was
where he had lived. Here amid all this luxury.
Like a flash came the quick contrast of the home in which he had died, and
a great wave of reverence for her father rolled over her. From such a home
and such surroundings it would not have been strange if he had grown weary
of the rough life out West, and deserted his wife, who was beneath him in
station. But he had not. He had stayed by her all the years. True, he had
not been of much use to her, and much of the time had been but a burden
and anxiety; but he had stayed and loved her--when he was sober. She
forgave him his many trying ways, his faultfindings with her mother's many
little blunders--no wonder, when he came from this place.
The butler tapped on a door at the head of the stairs, and a maid swung it
open.
"Why, you're not the girl Mrs. Sands sent the other day," said a querulous
voice from a mass of lace-ruffled pillows on the great bed.
"I am Elizabeth," said the girl, as if that were full explanation.
"Elizabeth? Elizabeth who? I don't see why she sent another girl. Are you
sure you will understand the directions? They're very particular, for I
want my frock ready for to-night without fail." The woman sat up, leaning
on one elbow. Her lace nightgown and pale-blue silk dressing-sack fell
away from a round white arm that did not look as if it belonged to a very
old lady. Her gray hair was becomingly arranged, and she was extremely
pretty, with small features. Elizabeth looked and marvelled. Like a flash
came the vision of the other grandmother at the wash-tub. The contrast was
startling.
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