4 Which Records The Dark Doings Of Mlle. Mimi

“COLD chicking,” says Jemima Ann—”that’s one, buttered short-cake—that’s two, cranberry sass—that’s three, and frizzled beef—that s four. Yes, four. I’ve got ’em all. And tea—that’s five. There ain’t nothin’ the matter with her appetite, whatever there may be with her morals.”

The antecedent of this personal pronoun is, of course, Mlle. Mimi, and Jemima Ann is busily engaged arranging her supper on a tray. Up in the parlor, in a pale blue negligée, and looking more or less like an angel, with her floating, untidy, fair hair, Mimi is yawning over a fashion-magazine, and listening to the prattle of her small daughter.

“Enter, Jemima Ann!” she cries, gayly, springing up, “laden with the fruits of the earth. Snowball and I were beginning to think you had forgotten us. And where is the precious auntie, my Jemima, and is she still as far gone as ever, in blackest sulks?”

It is the afternoon succeeding that night, and no thundercloud ever gloomed more darkly than does the countenance of Mrs. Hopkins whenever it turns upon her audacious boarder.

“She is feeling dreadful bad, Miss Mimi,” responds Mrs. Hopkins’ niece, gravely, “and no wonder. You really hadn’t ought to done it.”

Mimi laughs, with genuine, unaffected amusement, and pinches Jemima Ann’s hard, red cheek, in passing.

“I really hadn’t ought to done it! Dew tell! Here, Snowball, come on-here’s a lovely bit of chicken for you. Well, now, Jemima Ann, I admit I did imbibe a little too freely last night; but what will you? I was dead beat, I was warm and aching with fatigue, and Lacy’s Clicquot was the very best, and iced to perfection. Did you ever drink iced champagne, my poor Jemima? Ah! the Wine of life is not for such as you. If I had to exchange places with you, and grub down in that abominable kitchen among pots and pans, and wait on dirty, oily foundrymen, and be girded at by that virago, your aunt; I would simply cut my throat in a week, and of two evils think it the least.”

“Aunt ain’t a bad sort. Please don’t abuse her,” returned Jemima, still gravely, “her bark is worse than her bite. Who is Lacy, Miss Mimi?”

The first shyness of new acquaintance is over. Mimi is a free-and-easy, touch-and-go sort of person, easy to grow familiar with, and Miss Hopkins has her full share of feminine curiosity.

“Is he that aristocratic-looking gent, with the raven black mustache and diamond studs, a stoppin’ at the Washington House?” asks Jemima, in considerable awe, as she assists Snowball to milk and short-cake.

“Dyed, Jemima—dyed, my dear,” laughs Mimi; “that mustache gets mangy sometimes and purple. But the studs are real, and he is rich enough to wear a whole diamond shirt front, if he chose. Yes, my Jemima, ’tis he! the gent at the Washington; and a very swell young man he is! And he is dead in love with me; but this is a secret. mind,” and Mimi laughs again at the simple, puzzled face of Miss Hopkins. “He is down here from New York, wasting his sweetness on Clangville air, for me and for me alone. I might be Mrs. Lacy to-morrow, my Jemima, if I chose.”

“And you don’t choose?”

“No, I don’t. I have had enough of men and matrimony. They’re a mistake, Jemima. The game isn’t worth the candle. No!” her face sets and darkens suddenly, “at the very best, it’s not worth it.”

” Are—are you a widow?” Jemima Ann ventures, timidly.

There is no reply; Mimi is carving her chicken with a certain vicious energy, and all the laughing light has vanished from her insouciant face.

“A widow,” she says, impatiently. “Oh, yes, of course I’m a widow—Rogers told you that, didn’t he? Snowball, don’t choke yourself with that chicken wing, you little gourmand. Take her away from the table, Jemima Ann; she’s had enough.”

“Wasn’t had ’nuff,” cries out Snowball, lustily, clinging to her plate with both hands; “s’ant go. ‘Noball wants more sort-cake, ‘Mimy Ann.”

“Oh, let her have some more,” says Jemima. “The dear little pet is hungry.”

“The dear little pet will be as fat as a dear little pig, directly, under your injudicious indulgence, Miss Hopkins. No, Snowball, not another morsel, and no more milk. Leave the table this moment; you ought to know by now that what mamma says she means.”

She rises and bears Snowball bodily from the victuals. And straightway Snowball opens her mouth, and there rises to heaven such a shriek, as it is to be hoped few children have the lungs and temper to emit.

“There!” says Mimi, composedly, “that is the sort of angelic disposition your dear little pet is blessed with, Jemima. Please open the window if she doesn’t stop this instant, and throw her out!”

Jemima Ann declines to act on this summary hint. She soothes the enraged child, instead, and surreptitiously conveys to her a contraband wedge of short-cake.

“What an odd name you have given her,” she remarks, clearing away the things; “she never was christened Snowball, was she? That’s not a Christian name.”

“She never was christened anything, my good Jemima,” responds her mother; with a shrug. “What is the use of christening? She was a little white, roly-poly baby; white hair, white skin, white clothes—so her father used to toss her up and call her his snowbird, his snow flake, his snowball, and all sorts of silly, snowy names. As she had to be called something, Snowball it finally came to be, and Snowball I suppose it always will be now. It suits the little white monkey as well as anything else. Pearl or Lily would be more sentimental, but I don’t profess to be a sentimental person myself. I leave that for you, O romance-reading Jemima Snow!”

The door opens as she speaks.

“Samantha,” says a pleasant voice, “are you here?”

The pleasant voice belongs to a pleasant face, and both are the property of a pretty matron all in drab, like a Quaker, who opens the door, and stands gazing inquiringly around.

“Why, Mrs. Tinker!” exclaims Jemima Ann, “is it you? When did you come? Aunt Samanthy’s jest gone out marketin’. Do come in and wait. I know she s been wantin’ to see you, and a talkin’ of going to the cottage all week.”

” How do you do, Jemima Ann?” is the smiling response of the drab matron. ” Well, perhaps I had better——”

She stops suddenly. Her eyes have fallen on Snowball, then on Mimi, and the words die on her lips.

A startled look comes into her eyes, a startled pallor falls on her face, her lips part breathlessly, she stands and stares like one who has received a shock.

“Oh!” says Jemima Ann, remembering her manners, “this is Mrs. Tinker, Miss Mimi. Mrs. Tinker, this is Mamzel Mimi, a lady that boards here, and her little girl.”

Mimi smiles easily, shows her small white teeth, and nods.

Mrs. Tinker tries to bow, but some sudden, and strange, and great dread and surprise have fallen upon her—she retreats backward in a sort of panic, without a word. Mimi lifts her eyebrows and laughs.

“Upon my word!” she exclaims, “is that nice motherly old party cracked, Jemima Ann?”

Jemima Ann hurries out without reply. The elderly lady stands in the passage, still pale as whitewash, her hands pressed over her heart.

“Goodness me, Mrs. Tinker!” she cries. “Whatever is it?”

“Oh, my dear,” says Mrs. Tinker. “I’ve had a turn, I’ve had a turn, my dear. Who is that lady in the parlor?”

“Mamzel Mimi, Mrs. Tinker. Surely you don’t know her?”

“Oh, my dear, I’m afeared I do—I’m sore afeared I do. What is she, Jemima Ann? An actress?”

“A tight-rope dancer—a circus performer. Lor! Mrs. Tinker, you ain’t a-going to faint?”

For Mrs. Tinker, breathing in gasps, lays sudden and violent hold of Jemima, as if an immediate swoon were indeed her intention. And Mrs. Tinker weighs ten stone, and Jemima Ann feels that with the best wishes in the world, she is not equal to bearing her to the nearest cold-water tap. Mrs. Tinker thinks better of it, however, and does not swoon.”

“No,” she says, weakly. “No, Jemima, my dear, I shall not faint. Oh, me! oh, me! to think it should come at last. I’ve always feared it, my dear, always feared it. Sooner or later, I said, she will find us, and she will come. Oh, me, my dear mistress! How will she bear this?”

“Do you mean Madam Valentine?” says Jemima Ann, looking sympathetic, and deeply puzzled. “Does she know Mamzel Mimi? Good gracious me, Mrs. Tinker, you can never mean that?”

“Don’t ask me any questions, Jemima Ann; you will hear it all soon enough. Come down-stairs, I feel fit to drop, and answer me a few questions. Tell me when this—this person came, and all about her.”

They descend to Mrs. Hopkin’s own particular sitting-room, and Mrs. Tinker, still in a weak and collapsed state, is provided with a fan and a glass of water, which stimulants bring her slowly round to calmness and coherence. Jemima Ann unfolds all she knows of Mlle. Mimi, which is not very much, but which is listened to with profound and painful intensity of interest.

“It’s the same, it’s the same,” says Mrs. Tinker, mournfully. “I know it’s the same, I never heard the name afore, but I knew the face at once. It is many and many a weary day ago, but she hasn’t changed. Oh, me! oh, me! to think of her coming at this late day, and all the harm she’s done! It’s wicked, my dear, but I hoped she was dead—I did, indeed. And the child, too. Oh! what will Madam Valentine say?”

“Mrs. Tinker,” begins Jemima, literally devoured by curiosity—but Mrs. Tinker rises, a distressed look on her face, and motions for silence with her hand.

“No, my dear,” she says, in the same mournful tone,” I can’t tell you. I can’t tell any one. I can’t stay and see Samantha. I don’t feel fit to talk or anything. I’ve had a blow, Jemima Ann, a blow. I’ll go home, my dear, and read a chapter in my Bible, and try to compose my mind.”

Jemima Ann escorts her to the door, more mystified than she has ever been before in her life, and watches her out of sight, walking slowly and heavily as if burdened with painful thoughts. Then she returns upstairs and into the parlor, where Mimi lies indolently on the sofa, her little feet crossed in an attitude more suggestive of laziness and ease than lady-like grace.

“Well, Jemima, has that flustered old person departed? And what was the matter with her? Is she generally knocked over in that uncomfortable manner by the sight of a stranger? And is she on her way back to the highly respectable lunatic asylum whence she escaped?”

“Miss Mimi, are you sure? Do you mean to say you never saw her before?”

“Never, to the best of my belief. Why? Does she seem to say that she knows me?”

Jemima Ann is silent. There is a mystery here, and she feels that discretion may be judicious.

“Who is the venerable party anyhow? She is a nice kindly-looking body, too, the sort of motherly soul one would like for a nurse or that.”

“She is Mrs. Tinker—Mrs. Susan Tinker.”

“Susan Tinker. Euphonious cognomen!” laughs Mimi. “What else is she, oh, reticent Jemima Ann?”

“Well, she is housekeeper for Madam Valentine. She has been her housekeeper for more than twenty years.”

Jemima is just about lifting the tray to go, but Mlle. Mimi springs erect so suddenly, utters an exclamation so sharply that she drops her load.

“Land above!” she exclaims, in terror, “what is the matter with you?”

“Who did you say?” Mimi cries out, breathlessly; “housekeeper for whom?”

“Madam Valentine—old Madam Valentine of the Cottage. So then you do know something of the secret after all?

“Mlle. Mimi is standing up. A flush sweeps over the pearly fairness of her face—then it fades and leaves her very pale. She turns abruptly away, walks to a window, and stands with her back to curious Jemima Ann. She stands for fully five minutes staring out; but she sees nothing of the dull, darkening street, the leaden October sky, the few passers-by, the ugly shops over the way. The blue eyes gleam with a light not good to see.

“Don’t go,” she says at last, turning round as she sees Jemima Ann gathering up the tray, “I want to ask you a question. Who is Madam Valentine?”

“Who is she? Why, she is Madam Valentine, though why madam any more than other folks I don’t know, except that she is very rich—immensely rich and aristocratic. Oh, my goodness!” says Jemima Ann, despairing of conveying any idea of the pinnacle of patrician loftiness and wealth, which Madam Valentine has attained.”

“Rich and aristocratic! What in the world, then,” asks Mimi, with a gesture of infinite contempt out of the window, “does she do here?”

“It ain’t such a bad place, Clangville ain’t,” retorts Jemima, rather hurt; “but she don’t live here. She don’t live nowhere, Mrs. Tinker says, for good; she just goes about. She has houses and places everywhere, in cities and in the country. She came here three or four years ago, and took a fancy to a place out of town, and thought the air agreed with her. So she bought the cottage, and comes for a month or two every fall since. And her nephew likes it for the shooting—pa’tridges, and that. She is going away next week, and won’t come again till next September.”

“Her nephew?” Mimi repeats quickly. “Who is her nephew?”

“Mr. Vane Valentine, a young English gentleman, and her heir. You oughter see him a ridin’ through the town, mounted on a big black horse, as tall and straight as anything, and looking as if everybody he met was dirt under his feet!” cries Jemima Ann; in a burst of enthusiastic admiration.

“Indeed! Mr. Vane Valentine puts on airs, does he? So he is the heir! I knew there was a British cousin, and an heir to the title. Do you know that high-stepping young gentleman will be a baronet one day, Jemima Ann?”

“Yes,” says Jemima Ann; “Mrs. Tinker told me. But how do you come to know? You ain’t acquainted with him, are you?”

“I have not that pleasure—at present. I may have, possibly, before long. No—don’t ask questions; all you have to do is to answer them. There are only the old lady and this patrician nephew?”

“That’s all. Mr. Valentine is dead.”

“Yes. But used there not be someone else—a son?”

Jemima Ann looks at her with ever-growing curiosity. But her back is to the waning light, and there is nothing to be seen.”

It’s odd,” she says, “that you should know about that; not many people do. Even Mrs. Tinker hates to talk of it. But, yes—there was a son.”

“What became of him?”

“Well, he went wild, and ran away, and made a low marriage, and was cut off, and drowned. I don’t know nothin’ more—I don’t, indeed. I only found that out by chance. And now I must go,” says, nervously, Jemima Ann, “for its nearly six, and aunt will be back, and the hands’ supper is to get.”

Mimi makes no effort to detain her; but when she is alone she stands for a very long time quite still, the dark look deepening and ever deepening in her face. She hears the house door open, and the shrill, vinegar voice of Mrs. Hopkins—hears the sweet, shrill singing of her baby daughter, chanting with much spirit and “go,” the ballad of the “Ten Little Injun Boys”—hears the earsplitting workmen’s whistle—and still stands rapt and motionless, though the night has long since fallen, and all the room and all the street is dark.

But Mlle. Mimi belongs to the public, and a couple of hours later, flashes before it in all the wonted bravery of tinsel and glitter, and even eclipses herself in the matter of hazardous flying leaps on the trapeze, and daring doings on the dizzy slack-wire. All trace of that darkly-brooding cloud of thought has vanished from her riante face, and at the after-circus supper she outsparkles, her sparkling self, and returns home after one, flushed and excited, as usual, with the amber vintages of France, as furnished by the Hotel Washington, and paid for by Mr. Lacy.

For Mrs. Hopkins, keeper of the most respectable temperance boarding-house in the good New England town of Clangville, it is the bitterest trial of her life. And she is powerless to help herself; the sting lies there. Mrs. Hopkins is total abstinence or she is nothing, the most daring foundry hand never returns muddled more than once. “There is the door,” says Mrs. Hopkins, with flashing eyes, “and here is you. You git!” There is something in this Spartan brevity that takes down the biggest and blackest hand of them all. But Mlle. Mimi absolutely laughs in her face. “My good soul,” she says, “don’t put yourself in a passion. I intend to go when my week is up, not an hour sooner, I require stimulants, prescribed by my medical attendant, I assure you. The life I lead is frightfully exhausting. I am not going to change my habits and injure my health to accommodate your old-fashioned prejudices, my very dear Madam Hopkins.

There is nothing for it but to suffer and be strong. Aunt Samantha knocks under to the inevitable, and counts every hour until the blessed one of her happy release.

*******

“Land o’ hope!” cries out, despairingly, Mrs. Hopkins. “Jemima Ann, will you look at this! Of all the shameful creeters,”—a hollow groan finishes the sentence—words are weak to express her sense of reprobation.

Jemima Ann looks. She is not so easily scandalized as Aunt Samantha, and in her heart of hearts, rather envies Mimi her “right good time,” but even she is startled at what she beholds. An open, double-seated carriage, bright with varnish, is flashing past; and perched high on the driver’s seat, beside the renowned Mr. Lacy, holding the reins, and ” hi-ing ” to four spirited horses, is Mlle. Mimi. An expert whip she evidently is, and remarkably jaunty and audacious she looks, a pretty hat set coquettishly on the gilded hair, a cigarette between her rosy lips, she smokes with gusto while she drives. Behind sits one of the Bounding Brothers and his young woman, also with cigarettes a light, and loud laughter ringing forth, and as they fly past, the whole deeply shocked town of Clangville seems to rush to their doors and windows, to catch a glimpse of the demoralizing vision.

“I knew she smoked,” Jemima Ann remarks, in a subdued voice; “she does in her own room sometimes of an afternoon.”

Mrs. Hopkins sinks into a chair, faint with despair “What will this reckless creature do next?”

“She’Il give the house a bad name,” she says, weakly, “and there don’t seem nothin’ I can do to prevent it. To sit up there, drivin’ two team of rarin’, prancin’ horses, smokin’ cigars, and likely’s not half tight. I’ll go over to Rogers this very minute and give him a piece of my mind anyhow.”

The landau, with its four laughing, smoking occupants flashes out of town, leaving the coal smoke, the noise, and black grime of foundries and manufactories far behind, and whirls along a pleasant country road, trees on every hand, brilliant with the crimson and orange glories of bright October.

“Does anybody happen to know a place called The Cottage?” asks Mimi, “the residence, I believe, of one Mrs. or Madam Valentine?”

“I do,” replies Mr. Lacy. “I’ve met young Valentine; dused stiff young prig; puts on airs of British nobility—’aw, don’t you know, my deah fellah’—that sort of thing. Felt like kicking him on the only occasion we met. Sour-looking, black-looking beggar! But he lives right out here, with his grandmother, or fairy godmother, or something.”

“His aunt, my friend; be definite. There is a painful lack of lucidity in your remarks, Lacy,” says Mimi. “Well, I want to stop at The Cottage. I am going to make a call. Don’t ask questions; it is my whim; that is enough for you. Madam Valentine is a real grande dame, so they tell me, and I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting one of the breed. So I am going to call, and see for myself. I may never have another chance.”

“You have the audacity of the devil,” says Mr. Lacy, with artless admiration.” By George! I should like to see the old lady’s face when you announce yourself. Judging from what I hear, and from the look of that black-visaged nephew, she is more like a venerable empress run to seed than an every-day, rich old woman. Shall we all call, or will you go it alone?”

Mimi responds that she will go it alone. Her cigarette is smoked out. Mr. Lacy lights her another, as she pulls the four prancing bays up at the gates of The Cottage.

Her pretty face is slightly paler than usual; her lips are set in a tight line; a somber light, that bodes no good to the lady she proposes to visit, is in her blue eyes. She sits a moment, and scans the house and grounds.”

“Not much of a place,” remarks Mr. Lacy, slightingly; ” only a shootin’-box for the black boy—I mean the nephew. Lots of space, though; could be made a tip-top country-seat if they liked. Want to get down?”

Mimi waves his hand aside, and leaps lightly to the ground.

“Wait for me here,” she says, and out of her voice all the snap and timbre have gone—”or no; drive on, and come back in half an hour. I will be ready for you then.”

“Wish we had an old shoe to throw after you for luck, Mimi,” calls out the Bounding Brother. “Don’t let the Ogress of the Castle eat you alive if you can help it.”

“And don’t fall in love with the high-toned nephew,” says the young person by his side.

“Or, what is the more likely, don’t let the high-toned nephew fall in love with you,” adds Mr. Lacy. “Sure to do it once he sets eyes on you. Ta, ta, Mimi! Speak up prettily to the old lady. Don’t be ashamed of yourself.”

She waves her cigarette, opens the iron gates, and enters. The carriage and four-in-hand whirl on—vanish.

With the yellow afternoon sun sifting down on her through the lofty maples and larches, Mimi, with head defiantly erect, and blue eyes dangerously alight, walks up to the front door of The Cottage.