“No,” confessed papa, “I did not. I supposed, of course, she could; else why did she apply. Can’t she be of any use, my birdie?”
“I don’t see how, papa.”
“Well, then, we shall have to send her away, I suppose. I fancied she would be quite the person you would like to have about you—she is so different from that fluttering, nervous French Adele. But you certainly do not need another mere chambermaid.”
“Yet, papa, I cannot have her go, now that she has come. Can’t I keep her, papa, to look at? She won’t cost so much as a Sevres vase.”
Felice, with her droopy face and soft steps, was passing. She had a small satchel in one hand, and in the other—what do you suppose?
A violin-case, little, black, old.
“Whew!” said papa to himself. “That’s queer luggage.” But Miss Redfern did not see the queer luggage.
So “Pretty” staid, on the footing of a Sevres vase; and drooped over and about her little mistress like a beautiful lily wherever she went, and that was nearly all she could do for many days.
Now, this little girl, who could have everything almost, could not have everything quite. She loved music beyond all things else; but on account of her little lame feet she could not play. The grand piano was for the guests. Rare players used to come and play for her; and none of the music ever seemed to depart from the house, so that all the rooms were haunted by divine harmonies. When Lulu lay awake at night, kept awake by pain, the wondrous strains played themselves again at her ear, and the sweet, pure young soul took wings to itself, and swept away and away among lovely scenes, until lameness and pain and a thwarted life were quite forgotten.
It was one night, about a week after Felice came. She had lifted her mistress into bed, and had said, “I wish you a most lofely good night, Mees Looloo,” and had gone. It was not a “most lofely” night. “Mees Looloo’s” little feet were throbbing with pain worse than ever before; but about midnight she was growing hushed and serene. There were wafts and breathings of Mendelssohn, and Wagner, and Mozart, and Beethoven all about her; and she was falling asleep, when, suddenly, a fine, sweet, joyous, living strain pierced through the dreamy songs and harmonies.