There was no reason why she should not buy, now and then, a little gift for her servants, and there was no need of proclaiming what she had done, and so making the others jealous. Or perhaps John had asked his mistress to exercise her taste in his behalf, himself paying for the finery. He was a very sensible, independent man, and did not need to be pecuniarily assisted.
At the head of the stairs, the mistress of the house met Bettie, the chambermaid, who had been a witness to this little scene.
“How do you get along, Bettie?” the lady asked, trying to patronize.
The girl turned her back and flounced away, muttering something about some folks who couldn’t get along so well as some other folks, who could go throwing presents over the balustrade to other folks.
Poor Bettie! perhaps she envied John his neck-tie.
The rich woman went into her chamber, and shut the door. “I declare, I’m sick of the way I have to live,” she whimpered, wiping her eyes. “I don’t dare to say my soul’s my own. I’m afraid to speak, or hold my tongue, or move, or sit still, or put on clothes, or leave ‘em off, or to look out of my eyes when they’re open.” She wiped the features in question again. “And now I’m likely to be starved,” she resumed despairingly; “for, if Annette sets out to make me do anything, she never lets me rest till I do it. I was happier when I had but one gown to my back, and could act as I pleased, than I’ve ever been with all the finery, and servants, and carriages that are bothering the life out of me now. It’s all nonsense, this killing yourself to try to be like somebody else, when what you are is just as good as what anybody is.”
Which was not at all a foolish conclusion, though it might have been more elegantly expressed.
She stood a moment fixed in thought, her face brightening. “I declare,” she muttered, “I’ve a good mind to—“ but did not finish the sentence.
A wavering smile played over her lips; and as she sat on the edge of the sofa, with a stout arm propping her on either side, and her heavily jewelled hands buried in the cushions, Mrs. Ferrier sank into a reverie which had every appearance of being rose-colored.
When she was moderately pleased, this woman was not ill-looking, though her insignificant features were somewhat swamped in flesh. Her eyes were pleasant, her complexion fresh, her teeth sound, and the abundant dark-brown hair was unmistakably her own.