With the specter of famine thus banished, confidence, good humor, and the luxurious expectancy of a reposeful summer returned to Mrs. De Peyster. Soon she was being further diverted by the mild excitement of being dressed in one of Matilda's sober housekeeper gowns, the twin of the dress Matilda now wore, for her evening ride with William. They were fortunately of nearly the same figure, though, of course, there was a universe of difference in how those two figures were carried.
Matilda, the competent, skilled Matilda, was inexplicably incompetent at this function. So clumsy, so nervous was she, that Mrs. De Peyster was moved to ask with a little irritation what was the matter. Matilda hastily assured her mistress that there was nothing—nothing at all;—and buttoned a few more buttonholes over the wrong buttons. As she followed the fully garbed and thickly veiled Mrs. De Peyster, now looking the most stately of stately housekeepers, down the stairway, her nervousness increased.
"I wish—I wish—" she began at the door. "What is the matter with you, Matilda?" demanded Mrs. De Peyster severely.
"I—I rather wish you—you wouldn't go out, ma'am."
"You are afraid I may be recognized?"
"No, I wasn't thinking of that, ma'am. I—I—"
"What else is there to be afraid of?"
"Nothing, ma'am, nothing. But I wish—"
"I am going, Matilda; we will not discuss it," said Mrs. De Peyster, in a peremptory tone intended to silence Matilda. "You may first clear away the dishes," she ordered. "But I believe I left a squab and some asparagus. You might put them, and any other little thing you have, on the dining-room table; I shall probably be hungry on my return from my drive. And then put my rooms in order. I believe the tea-tray is still in my sitting-room; don't forget to bring it down."
"Certainly, ma'am. But—but—" "Matilda"—very severely—"are you going to do as I bid you?"