The reigning belle

That day Boyce carried some groceries to Mrs. Lambert’s kitchen. He was very intimate in that region, especially with Robert the footman; who had a face not unlike his own, and hair of the same brick-dust hue, a tint that Ellen Post admired exceedingly. In fact, the waiting maid’s fancy did not stop there, but took in the five feet ten of the footman’s entire person. For his sake, she gave a little lofty patronage to Boyce, though it was a thorn in her side that Robert’s influence had been brought to bear on the cook in the same direction.

After all, society is like a tangle of wild vines, it is impossible to separate the fruit from the leaves that breathe for it. What society is in the mass, families are in detail. Each member has an important influence on the others. The mistress of a household would often be shocked, if she dreamed how completely she is the tool and puppet of a servant, with more brains and less money than herself; or how completely her most sacred thoughts are criticised and discussed in the kitchen.

For some days Miss Spicer had been staying with Mrs. Lambert, who was far from well, and kept her room, refusing to see any one but this girl, who brought her news from their outer world, and talked with her continually on the only subject she wished to think of.

Miss Spicer being an active person, erratic in her movements, and fond of talking, had many spare hours which could not be spent with Mrs. Lambert, who got tired of the girl, the moment her stock of news was exhausted, and pined for solitude, being sick at heart, and weary of everything.

Now there was no other lady in the house, and, as Miss Spicer must fraternize with some one, it naturally fell out that she became intimate, and even confidential, with Ellen Post.

A little before Boyce brought his basket of groceries into the kitchen, Miss Spicer and Ellen were together in the young lady’s room, talking over the merits of a changeable silk, which Miss Spicer was in suspense about, not being quite certain of its effect upon her complexion.

Ellen Post stood in the centre of the room, her head crowned with its little French cap, knowingly canted on one side, as she held up the breadths of shimmering silk, which changed and glistened like a pigeon’s neck with each movement of her hand.

“Now, for Mrs. Lambert, I should say at once, take it,” she said, with the solemn air of a priestess at the altar; “but, for you, Miss Spicer, it is different. As a general thing, solid colors, and delicate at that, is what I could wish.”

“You think so, Ellen? Well, I am not sure. The silk is exquisitely lovely in itself.”

“Yes, but haven’t you observed, Miss Spicer, that the most charming tints in silk are not always the most telling, when you get them on! There is the dress you wore the other night. Now, to my mind, that dress was a failure.”

“That dress a failure? Why, Ellen Post, it cost ten dollars a yard.”

“Shouldn’t wonder; but still, it didn’t come up to my expectations. When the madam came out, she killed it dead.”

“Nothing, I believe, came up to any one’s expectations that night. I never spent such an evening. Every one I knew was out of sorts,” said the young lady.

“I’m sure the madam was,” answered Ellen. “Never saw her so wild and white in my life. What could have happened? You ought to know, Miss Spicer—you, as one might say, a part of the family.”

“No, I’m not, Ellen Post, and it’s likely I never shall be.”

“Why, Miss Spicer, I thought it was settled. I am sure the madam treats you as if you were her own daughter, and Mr. Ivon——”

“There, there, don’t mention him! It’s only an aggravation. One day sweet as honey-dew, the next after some one else, flirting, like a humming-bird, right before my face, and daring to tell me that another girl—one of those forward, low creatures that sell goods—has rejected him.”

Ellen Post dropped the silk which she had been holding, and all its shining folds fell in a heap on the carpet.

“Miss Spicer, you don’t mean to say that!”

“Yes, I do mean to say just that, and could say more. Only think, Ellen Post, of taking that girl’s leavings, a creature with hair like ink, and eyes hid away under her lashes like a brook sleeping under rushes. Then the impudence of her air, walking like an empress, and she a shawl-fitter, a—a—Oh, I would give five thousand dollars this very hour to see her so disgraced, that he would be ashamed to own that he had ever spoken to her. I hate her very name!”

“What is her name?” inquired Ellen Post.

“Laurence. Eva Laurence. Such a name for a shop-girl!”

“Eva Laurence. I have heard that before. The madam kept saying it over in her sleep the night she came home from Mrs. Carter’s party. She does not like the girl more than you do, I am certain, though I never heard her speak the name except in sleep; then it left her lips white as if henbane had touched them.”

“I should not wonder,” exclaimed Miss Spicer, struck by a sudden idea. “Didn’t you tell me that Mr. Ross, the great artist, called here once or twice?”

“Once; I remember only once; but she received him in her private room—a thing I do not remember of any other man—and told me to say that she was not at home to a human being. He stayed ever so long—three hours, I should think.”

“That is strange,” said the young lady. “She must have known him before.”