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A Modern Cinderella
By
Louisa May Alcott
A
Modern Cinderella
A MODERN CINDERELLA OR, THE LITTLE OLD SHOE
HOW IT WAS LOST Among green New England hills
stood an ancient house, many-gabled, mossy-roofed, and quaintly built, but
picturesque and pleasant to the eye; for a brook ran babbling through the
orchard that encompassed it about, a garden-plat stretched upward to the
whispering birches on the slope, and patriarchal elms stood sentinel upon t=
he
lawn, as they had stood almost a century ago, when the Revoiution rolled th=
at
way and found them young.
One summer morning, when the air was full of c=
ountry
sounds, of mowers in the meadow, black- birds by the brook, and the low of =
kine
upon the hill-side, the old house wore its cheeriest aspect, and a certain
humble history began.
"Nan!"
"Yes, Di."
And a head, brown-locked, blue-eyed, soft- fea=
tured,
looked in at the open door in answer to the call.
Just bring me the third volume of 'Wilhelm Mei=
ster,'
there's a dear. It's hardly worth while to rouse such a restless ghost as I,
when I'm once fairly laid."
As she spoke, Di PUlled up her black braids, t=
humped
the pillow of the couch where she was lying, and with eager eyes went down =
the
last page of her book.
"Nan!"
"Yes, Laura," replied the girl, comi=
ng
back with the third volume for the literay cormorant, who took it with a no=
d,
still too content upon the "Confessions of a Fair Saint" to remem=
ber the
failings of a certain plain sinner.
"Don't forget the Italian cream for dinne=
r. I
depend upon it; for it's the only thing fit for me this hot weather." =
And Laura, the cool blonde, disposed the folds=
of
her white gown more gracefully about her, and touched up the eyebrow of the
Minerva she was drawing.
"Little daughter!"
"Yes, father."
"Let me have plenty of clean collars in m=
y bag,
for I must go at once; and some of you bring me a glass of cider in about an
hour;--I shall be in the lower garden."
The old man went away into his imaginary parad=
ise,
and Nan into that domestic purgatory on a summer day, -- the kitchen. There
were vines about the windows, sunshine on the floor, and order everywhere; =
but
it was haunted by a cooking-stove, that family altar whence such varied inc=
ense
rises to appease the appetite of household gods, before which such dire
incantations are pronounced to ease the wrath and woe of the priestess of t=
he
fire, and about which often linger saddest memories of wasted temper, time,=
and
toil.
Nan was tired, having risen with the birds,-- =
hurried,
having many cares those happy little housewives never know,--and disappoint=
ed
in a hope that hourly " dwindled, peaked, and pined." She was too
young to make the anxious lines upon her forehead seem at home there, too
patient to be burdened with the labor others should have shared, too light =
of
heart to be pent up when earth and sky were keeping a blithe holiday. But s=
he
was one of that meek sisterhood who, thinking humbly of themselves, believe
they are honored by being spent in the service of less conscientious souls,
whose careless thanks seem quite reward enough.
To and fro she went, silent and diligent, givi=
ng the
grace of willingness to every humble or distasteful task the day had brought
her; but some malignant sprite seemed to have taken possession of her kingd=
om,
for rebellion broke out everywhere. The kettles would boil over most
obstreperously,-- the mutton refused to cook with the meek alacrity to be
expected from the nature of a sheep,--the stove, with unnecessary warmth of=
temper,
would glow like a fiery furnace,--the irons would scorch,--the linens would
dry,--and spirits would fail, though patience never.
Nan tugged on, growing hotter and wearier, more
hurried and more hopeless, till at last the crisis came; for in one fell mo=
ment
she tore her gown, burnt her hand, and smutched the collar she was preparin=
g to
finish in the most unexceptionable style. Then, if she had been a nervous w=
oman,
she would have scolded; being a gentle girl, she only "lifted up her v=
oice
and wept."
"Behold, she watereth her linen with salt
tears, and bewaileth herself because of much tribulation. But, lo! Help com=
eth
from afar: a strong man bringeth lettuce wherewith to stay her, plucketh be=
rries
to comfort her withal, and clasheth cymbals that she may dance for joy.&quo=
t;
The voice came from the porch, and, with her h=
ope
fulfilled, Nan looked up to greet John Lord, the house-friend, who stood th=
ere
with a basket on his arm; and as she saw his honest eyes, kind lips, and
helpful hands, the girl thought this plain young man the comeliest, most
welcome sight she had beheld that day.
"How good of you, to come through all thi=
s heat,
and not to laugh at my despair!" she said, looking up like a grateful
child, as she led him in.
"I only obeyed orders, Nan; for a certain
dear old lady had a motherly presentiment that you had got into a deomestic
whirlpool, and sent me as a sort of life-preserver. So I took the basket of=
consolation,
and came to fold my feet upon the carpet of contentment in the tent of
friendship."
As he spoke, John gave his own gift in his mot=
her's
name, and bestowed himself in the wide window-seat, where morning-glories
nodded at him, and the old butternut sent pleasant shadows dancing to and f=
ro.
His advent, like that of Orpheus in hades, see=
med
to soothe all unpropitious powers with a sudden spell. The Fire began to
slacken. the kettles began to lull, the meat began to cook, the irons began=
to
cool, the clothes began to behave, the spirits began to rise, and the collar
was finished off with most triumphant success. John watched the change, and,
though a lord of creation, abased himself to take compassion on the weaker
vessel, and was seized with a great desire to lighten the homely tasks that
tried her strength of body and soul. He took a comprehensive glance about t=
he
room; then, extracting a dish from he closet, proceeded to imbrue his hands=
in the
strawberries' blood.
"Oh, John, you needn't do that; I shall h=
ave time
when I've turned the meat, made the pudding and done these things. See, I'm
getting on finely now:--you're a judge of such matters; isn't that nice?&qu=
ot;
As she spole, Nan offered the polished absurdi=
ty for
inspection with innocent pride.
"Oh that I were a collar, to sit upon tha=
t hand!"
sighed John,--adding, argumentatively,
"As to the berry question, I might answer=
it
with a gem from Dr. Watts, relative to 'Satan' and idle hands,' but will me=
rely
say, that, as a matter of public safety, you'd better leave me alone; for s=
uch
is the destructiveness of my nature, that I shall certainly eat something
hurtful, break something valuable, or sit upon something crushable, unless =
you
let me concentrate my energies by knocking on these young fellows' hats, and
preparing them for their doom."
Looking at the matter in a charitable light, N=
an
consented, and went cheerfully on with her work, wondering how she could ha=
ve
thought ironing an infliction, and been so ungrateful for the blessings of =
her
lot.
"Where's Sally?" asked John, looking
vainly for the functionary who usually pervaded that region like a domestic
police-woman, a terror to cats, dogs, and men.
"She has gone to her cousin's funeral, an=
d won't
be back till Monday. There seems to be a great fatality among her relations;
for one dies, or comes to grief in some way, about once a month. But I don't
blame poor Sally for wanting to get away from this place now and then. I th=
ink
I could find it in my heart to murder an imaginary friend or two, if I had =
to
stay here long."
And Nan laughed so blithely, it was a pleasure=
to
hear her.
"Where's Di?" asked John, seized wit=
h a most
unmasculine curiosity all at once.
"She is in Germany with 'Wilhelm Meister'=
; but,
though 'lost to sight, to memory clear'; for I was just thinking, as I did =
her
things, how clever she is to like all kinds of books that I don't understan=
d at
all, and to write things that make me cry with pride and delight. Yes, she'=
s a talented
dear, though she hardly knows a needle from a crowbar, and will make herself
one great blot some of these days, when the 'divine afflatus' descends upon
her, I'm afraid."
And Nan rubbed away with sisterly zeal at Di's
forlorn hose and inky pocket-handkerchiefs.
"Where is Laura?" proceeded the
inquisitor.
"Well, I might say that she was in Italy;=
for
she is copying some fine thing of Raphael's or Michael Angelo's, or some gr=
eat
creatures or other; and she looks so picturesque in her pretty gown, sitting
before her easel, that it's really a sight to behold, and I've peeped two or
three times to see how she gets on."
And Nan bestirred herself to prepare the dish =
Wherewith
her picturesque sister desired to prolong her artistic existence.
"Where is your father?" John asked
again, checking off each answewr with a nod and a little frown.
"He is down in the garden, deep in some p=
lan about
melons, the beginning of which seems to consist in stamping the first
proposition in Euclid all over the bed, and then poking a few seeds into the
middle of each. Why, bless the dear man! I forgot it was time for the cider.
Wouldn't you like to take it to him, John? He'd love to consult you; and the
lane is so cool, it does one's heart good to look at it."
John glanced from the steamy kitchen to the sh=
adowy
path, and answered with a sudden assumption of immense industry,--
"I couldn't possibly go, Nan,--I've so mu=
ch on
my hands. You'll have to do it yourself. 'Mr. Robert of Lincoln' has someth=
ing
for your private ear; and the lane is so cool, it will do one's heart good =
to
see you in it. Give my regards to your father, and, in the words of 'Little
Mabel's' mother, with slight variation,--
'Tell the dear old body This day I cannot run,=
For
the pots are boiling over And the mutton isn't done.'"
"I will; but please, John, go in to the g=
irls
and be comfortable; for I don't like to leave you here," said Nan.
"You insinuate that I should pick at the
pudding or invade the cream, do you? Ungrateful girl, leave me!" And, =
with
melodramatic sterness, John extinguished her in his broad-brimmed hat, and
offered the glass like a poisoned goblet.
Nan took it, and went smiling away. But the la=
ne
might have been the Desert of Sahara, for all she knew of it; and she would
have passed her father as unconcernedly as if he had been an apple-tree, ha=
d he
not called out,--
"Stand and deliver, little woman!" <= o:p>
She obeyed the venerable highwayman, and follo=
wed
him to and fro, listening to his plans and directions with a mute attention
that quite won his heart.
"That hop-pole is really an ornament now,=
Nan;
this sage-bed needs weeding,--that's good work for you girls; and, now I th=
ink
of it, you'd better water the lettuce in the cool of the evening, after I'm
gone."
To all of which remarks Nan gave her assent; t=
he
hop-pole took the likeness of a tall figure she had seen in the porch, the
sage-bed, curiously enough, suggested a strawberry ditto, the lettuce vivid=
ly
reminded her of certain vegetable productions a basket had brought, and the=
bobolink
only sung in his cheeriest voice, "Go home, go home! he is there!"=
;
She found John--he having made a free-mason of
himself, by assuming her little apron--meditating over the partially spread
table, lost in amaze at its desolate appearance; one half its proper
paraphernalia having been forgotten, and the other half put on awry. Nan
laughed till the tears ran over her cheeks, and John was gratified at the e=
fficacy
of his treatment; for her face had brought a whole harvest of sunshine from=
the
garden, and all her cares seemed to have been lost in the windings of the l=
ane.
"Nan, are you in hysterics?" cried D=
i,
appearing, book in hand. "John, you absurd man, what are you doing?&qu=
ot;
"I'm helpin' the maid of all work, please=
marm."
And John dropped a curtsy with his limited apron.
Di looked ruffled, for the merry words were a =
covert
reproach; and with her usual energy of manner and freedom of speech she tos=
sed
"Wilhelm" out of the window, exclaiming, irefully.--
"That's always the way; I'm never where I=
ought
to be, and never think of anything till it's too late; but it's all Goethe's
fault. What does he write books full of smart 'Phillinas' and interesting
'Meisters' for? How can I be expected to remember that Sally's away, and pe=
ople
must eat, when I'm hearing the 'Harper' and little 'Mignon?' John, how dare=
you
come here and do my work, instead of shaking me and telling me to do it mys=
elf?
Take that toasted child away, and fan her like a Chinese mandarin, while I =
dish
up this dreadful dinner."
John and Nan fled like chaff before the wind, =
while
Di, full of remorseful zeal, charged at the kettles, and wrenched off the
potatoes' jackets, as if she were revengefully pulling her own hair. Laura =
had
a vague intention of going to assist; but, getting lost among the lights and
shadows of Minerva's helmet, forgot to appear till dinner had been evoked f=
rom
chaos and peace was restored.
At three o'clock, Di performed the coronation =
ceremony
with her father's best hat; Laura retied his old-fashioned neckcloth, and
arranged his white locks with an eye to saintly effect; Nan appeared with a=
beautifully
written sermon, and suspicious ink-stains on the fingers that slipped it in=
to
his pocket; John attached himself to the bag; and the patriarch was escorte=
d to
the door of his tent with the triumphal procession which usually attended h=
is
out-goings and in-comings. Having kissed the female portion of his tribe, he
ascended the venerable chariot, which received him with audible lamentation=
, as
its rheumatic joints swayed to and fro.
"Good-bye, my dears! I shall be back earl=
y on
Monday morning; so take care of yourselves, and be sure you all go and hear=
Mr.
Emerboy preach to-morrow. My regards to your mother. John. Come, Solon!&quo=
t;
But Solon merely cocked one ear, and remained a
fixed fact; for long experience had induced the philosophic beast to take f=
or
his motto the Yankee maxim, "Be sure you're right, then go ahead! He k=
new
things were not right; therefore he did not go ahead.
"Oh, by the way, girls, don't forget to p=
ay Tommy
Mullein for bringing up the cow: he expects it to-night. And Di, don't sit =
up
till daylight, nor let Laura stay out in the dew. Now, I believe I'm off. C=
ome,
Solon!"
But Solon only cocked the other ear, gently ag=
itated
his mortified tail, as premonitory symptoms of departure, and never stirred=
a
hoof, being well aware that it always took three "comes" to make a
"go."
"Bless me! I've forgotten my spectacles. =
They
are probablv shut up in that volume of Herbert on my table. Very awkward to
find myself without them ten miles away. Thank you, John. Don't neglect to
water the lettuce, Nan, and don't overwork yourself, my little 'Martha.'
Come--"
At this juncture Solon suddenly went off, like=
"Mrs.
Gamp," in a sort of walking swoon, apparently deaf and blind to all
mundane matters, except the refreshments awaiting him ten miles away; and t=
he
benign old pastor disappeared, humming "Hebron" to the creaking
accompaniment of the bulgy chaise.
Laura retired to take her siesta; Nan made a s=
mall
carbonaro of herself by sharpening her sister's crayons, and Di, as a sort =
of
penance for past sins, tried her patience over a piece of knitting, in which
she soon originated a somewhat remarkable pattern, by dropping every third
stitch, and seaming ad libitum. If John bad been a gentlemanly creature, wi=
th
refined tastes, he would have elevated his feet and made a nuisance of hims=
elf
by indulging in a "weed;" but being only an uncultivated youth, w=
ith
a rustic regard for pure air and womankind in general, he kept his head
uppermost, and talked like a man, instead of smoking like a chimney.
"It will probably be six months before I =
sit here
again, tangling your threads and maltreating your needles, Nan. How glad you
must feel to hear it!" he said, looking up from a thoughtful examinati=
on
of the hard-working little citizens of the Industrial Community settled in
Nan's work-basket.
"No, I'm very sorry; for I like to see yo=
u coming
and going as you used to, years ago, and I miss you very much when you are
gone, John," answered truthful Nan, whittling away in a sadly wasteful
manner, as her thoughts flew back to the happy times when a little lad rode=
a
little lass in a big wheelbarrow, and never spilt his load,--when two brown
heads bobbed daily side by side to school, and the favorite play was
"Babes in the Wood," with Di for a somewhat peckish robin to cover
the small martyrs with any vegetable substance that lay at hand. Nan sighed=
, as
she thought of these things, and John regarded the battered thimble on his
finger-tip with increased benignity of aspect as he heard the sound.
"When are you going to make your fortune,=
John,
and get out of that disagreeable hardware concern? " demanded Di, paus=
ing
after an exciting "round," and looking almost as much exhausted a=
s if
it had been a veritable pugilistic encounter.
"I intend to make it by plunging still de=
eper
into 'that disagreeable hardware concern;' for, next year, if the world kee=
ps
rolling, and John Lord is alive, he will become a partner, and then --and
then--"
The color sprang up into the young man's cheek,
his eyes looked out with a sudden shine, and his hand seemed involuntarily =
to
close, as if he saw and seized some invisible delight.
"What will happen then, John?" asked
Nan, with a wondering glance.
"I'll tell you in a year, Nan, wait till
then." and John's strong hand unclosed, as if the desired good were no=
t to
be his yet.
Di looked at him, with a knitting-needle stuck=
into
her hair, saying, like a sarcastic unicorn,--
"I really thought you had a soul above po=
ts and
kettles, but I see you haven't; and I beg your pardon for the injustice I h=
ave
done you."
Not a whit disturbed, John smiled, as if at so=
me mighty
pleasant fancy of his own, as he replied,--
"Thank you, Di; and as a further proof of=
the
utter depravity of my nature, let me tell you that I have the greatest poss=
ible
respect for those articles of ironmongery. Some of the happiest hours of my=
life
have been spent in their society; some of my pleasantest associations are
connected with them; some of my best lessons have come to me among them; and
when my fortune is made, I intend to show my gratitude by taking three
flat-irons rampant for my coat of arms.
Nan laughed merrily, as she looked at the burn=
s on
her hand; but Di elevated the most prominent feature of her brown countenan=
ce,
and sighed despondingly,--
"Dear, dear, what a disappointing world t=
his is!
I no sooner build a nice castle in Spain, and settle a smart young knight
therein, than down it comes about my ears; and the ungrateful youth, who mi=
ght
fight dragons, if he chose, insists on quenching his energies in a saucepan,
and making a Saint Lawrence of himself by wasting his life on a series of
gridirons. Ah, if I were only a man, I would do something better than that,=
and
prove that heroes are not all dead yet. But, instead of that, I'm only a wo=
man,
and must sit rasping my temper with absurdities like this." And Di wre=
stled
with her knitting as if it were Fate, and she were paying off the grudge she
owed it.
John leaned toward her, saying, with a look th=
at
made his plain face handsome,--
"Di, my father began the world as I begin=
it,
and left it the richer for the useful years he spent here,--as I hope I may
leave it some half- century hence. His memory makes that dingy shop a pleas=
ant
place to me; for there he made an honest name, led an honest life and beque=
athed
to me his reverence for honest work. That is a sort of hardware, Di, that no
rust can corrupt, and which will always prove a better fortune than any your
knights can achieve with sword and shield. I think I am not quite a clod, or
quite without some aspirations above money-getting; for I sincerely desire =
that
courage that makes daily life heroic by self-denial and cheerfulness of hea=
rt; I
am eager to conquer my own rebellious nature, and earn the confidence of
innocent and upright souls; I have a great ambition to become as good a man=
and
leave as good a memory behind me as old John Lord."
Di winked violently, and seamed five times in =
perfect
silence; but quiet Nan had the gift of knowing when to speak, and by a time=
ly
word saved her sister from a thunder-shower and her stocking from destructi=
on.
"John, have you seen Philip since you wro=
te about
your last meeting with him?
The question was for John, but the soothing to=
ne
was for Di, who gratefully accepted it, and perked up again with speed.
"Yes; and I meant to have told you about
it," answered John, piunging into the subject at once.
"I saw him a few days before I came home,=
and
found him more disconsolate than ever,--' just ready to go to the Devil,' a=
s he
forcibly expressed himself. I consoled the poor lad as well as I could, tel=
ling
him his wisest plan was to defer his proposed expedition, and go on as stea=
dily
as he had begun,--thereby proving the injustice of your father's prediction
concerning his want of perseverance, and the sincerity of his affection. I =
told
him the change in Laura's health and spirits was silently working in his fa=
vor,
and that a few more months of persistent endeavor would conquer your father=
's prejudice
against him, and make him a stronger man for the trial and the pain. I read=
him
bits about Laura from your own and Di's letters, and he went away at last as
patient as Jacob ready to serve another 'seven years' for his beloved Rache=
l."
"God bless you for it, John!" cried a
fervent voice; and, looking up, they saw the cold, listless Laura transform=
ed
into a tender girl, all aglow with love and longing, as she dropped her mas=
k, and
showed a living countenance eloquent with the first passion and softened by=
the
first grief of her life.
John rose involuntarily in the presence of an =
innocent
nature whose sorrow needed no interpreter to him. The girl read sympathy in=
his
brotherly regard, and found comfort in the friendly voice that asked, half
playfully, half seriously,--
"Shall I tell him that he is not forgotte=
n, even
for an Apollo? that Laura the artist has not conquered Laura the woman? and
predict that the good daughter will yet prove the happy wife?"
With a gesture full of energy, Laura tore her =
Minerva
from top to bottom, while two great tears rolled down the cheeks grown wan =
with
hope deferred.
"Tell him I believe all things, hope all
things, and that I never can forget."
Nan went to her and held her fast, leaving the=
prints
of two loving but grimy hands upon her shoulders; Di looked on approvingly,
for, though stony-hearted regarding the cause, she fully appreciated the
effect; and John, turning to the window, received the commendations of a ro=
bin swaying
on an elm-bough with sunshine on its ruddy breast.
The clock struck five, and John declared that =
he must
go; for, being an old-fashioned soul, he fancied that his mother had a bett=
er
right to his last hour than any younger woman in the land,-- always remembe=
ring
that "she was a widow, and he her only son."
Nan ran away to wash her hands, and came back =
with
the appearance of one who had washed her face also: and so she had; but the=
re
was a difference in the water.
"Play I'm your father, girls, and remembe=
r that
it will be six months before 'that John' will trouble you again."
With which preface the young man kissed his fo=
rmer
playfellows as heartily as the boy had been wont to do, when stern parents
banished him to distant schools, and three little maids bemoaned his fate. =
But
times were changed now; for Di grew alarmingly rigid during the ceremony; L=
aura
received the salute like a graceful queen; and Nan returned it with heart a=
nd
eyes and tender lips, making such an improvement on the childish fashion of=
the
thing that John was moved to support his paternal character by softly echoi=
ng
her father's words,--"Take care of yourself, my little 'Martha.'"=
Then they all streamed after him along the gar=
den-path,
with the endless messages and warnings girls are so prone to give; and the
young man, with a great softness at his heart, went away, as many another J=
ohn
has gone, feeling better for the companionship of innocent maidenhood, and =
stronger
to wrestle with temptation, to wait and hope and work.
"Let's throw a shoe after him for luck, as
dear old 'Mrs. Gummage' did after 'David' and the 'willin' Barkis!' Quick, =
Nan!
you always have old shoes on; toss one, and shout, 'Good luck!'" cried=
Di,
with one of her eccentric inspirations.
Nan tore off her shoe, and threw it far along =
the dusty
road, with a sudden longing to become that auspicious article of apparel, t=
hat
the omen might not fail.
Looking backward from the hill-top, John answe=
red the
meek shout cheerily, and took in the group with a lingering glance: Laura in
the shadow of the elms, Di perched on the fence, and Nan leaning far over t=
he
gate with her hand above her eyes and the sunshine touching her brown hair =
with
gold. He waved his hat and turned away; but the music seemed to die out of =
the
blackbird's song, and in all the summer landscape his eyes saw nothing but =
the
little figure at the gate.
"Bless and save us! here's a flock of peo=
ple coming;
my hair is in a toss, and Nan's without her shoe; run! fly, girls! or the
Philistines will be upon us!" cried Di, tumbling off her perch in sudd=
en
alarm.
Three agitated young ladies, with flying drape=
ries
and countenances of mingled mirth and dismay, might have been seen
precipitating themselves into a respectable mansion with unbecoming haste; =
but the
squirrels were the only witnesses of this "vision of sudden flight,&qu=
ot;
and, being used to ground-and-lofty tumbling, didn't mind it.
When the pedestrians passed, the door was deco=
rously
closed, and no one visible but a young man, who snatched something out of t=
he
road, and marched away again, whistling with more vigor of tone than accura=
cy
of tune, "Only that, and nothing more."
=
HOW IT
WAS FOUND.
Summer ripened into autumn, and something fair=
er
than
"Sweet-peas and mignonette In Annie's gar=
den
grew."
Her nature was the counterpart of the hill-sid=
e grove,
where as a child she had read her fairy tales, and now as a woman turned the
first pages of a more wondrous legend still. Lifted above the many-gabled r=
oof,
yet not cut off from the echo of human speech, the little grove seemed a gr=
een
sanctuary, fringed about with violets, and full of summer melody and bloom.
Gentle creatures haunted it, and there was none to make afraid; wood-pigeons
cooed and crickets chirped their shrill roundelays, anemones and lady-ferns=
looked
up from the moss that kissed the wanderer's feet. Warm airs were all afloat,
full of vernal odors for the grateful sense, silvery birches shimmered like
spirits of the wood, larches gave their green tassels to the wind, and pines
made airy music sweet and solemn, as they stood looking heavenward through
veils of summer sunshine or shrouds of wintry snow.
Nan never felt alone now in this charmed wood;=
for
when she came into its precincts, once so full of solitude, all things seem=
ed
to wear one shape, familiar eyes looked at her from the violets in the gras=
s,
familiar words sounded in the whisper of the leaves, grew conscious that an
unseen influence filled the air with new delights, and touched earth and sky
with a beauty never seen before. Slowly these Mayflowers budded in her maid=
en
heart, rosily they bloomed and silently they waited till some lover of such
lowly herbs should catch their fresh aroma, should brush away the fallen
leaves, and lift them to the sun.
Though the eldest of the three, she had long b=
een
overtopped by the more aspiring maids. But though she meekly yielded the re=
ins
of government, whenever they chose to drive, they were soon restored to her
again; for Di fell into literature, and Laura into love. Thus engrossed, th=
ese
two forgot many duties which even bluestockings and inamoratos are expected=
to
perform, and slowly all the homely humdrum cares that housewives know became
Nan's daily life, and she accepted it without a thought of discontent.
Noiseless and cheerful as the sunshine, she went to and fro, doing the tasks
that mothers do, but without a mother's sweet reward, holding fast the
numberless slight threads that bind a household tenderly together, and maki=
ng
each day a beautiful success.
Di, being tired of running, riding, climbing, =
and boating,
decided at last to let her body rest and put her equally active mind through
what classical collegians term "a course of sprouts." Having unde=
rtaken
to read and know everything, she devoted herself to the task with great ene=
rgy,
going from Sue to Swedenborg with perfect impartiality, and having different
authors as children have sundry distempers, being fractious while they last=
ed, but
all the better for them when once over. Carlyle appeared like scarlet-fever,
and raged violently for a time; for, being anything but a "passive buc=
ket,"
Di became prophetic with Mahomet, belligerent with Cromwell, and made the
French Revolution a veritable Reign of Terror to her family. Goethe and
Schiller alternated like fever and ague; Mephistopheles became her hero, Jo=
an of
Arc her model, and she turned her black eyes red over Egmont and Wallenstei=
n. A
mild attack of Emerson followed, during which she was lost in a fog, and her
sisters rejoiced inwardly when she emerged informing them that
"The Sphinx was drowsy, Her wings were
furled."
Poor Di was floundering slowly to her proper p=
lace;
but she splashed up a good deal of foam by getting out of her depth, and ra=
ther
exhausted herself by trying to drink the ocean dry.
Laura, after the "midsummer night's dream
" that often comes to girls of seventeen, woke up to find that youth a=
nd love
were no match for age and common sense. Philip had been flying about the wo=
rld
like a thistle-down for five-and-twenty years, generous-hearted. frank, and
kind, but with never an idea of the serious side of life in his handsome he=
ad.
Great, therefore, were the wrath and dismay of the enamored thistle-down, w=
hen
the father of his love mildly objected to seeing her begin the world in a
balloon with a very tender but very inexperienced aeronaut for a guide.
"Laura is too young to 'play house' yet, =
and you
are too unstable to assume the part of lord and master, Philip. Go and prove
that you have prudence, patience, energy, and enterprise, and I will give y=
ou
my girl,--but not before. I must seem cruel, that I may be truly kind; beli=
eve
this, and let a little pain lead you to great happiness, or show you where =
you
would have made a bitter blunder."
The lovers listened, owned the truth of the ol=
d man's
words, bewailed their fate, and yielded,-- Laura for love of her father, Ph=
ilip
for love of her. He went away to build a firm foundation for his castle in =
the
air, and Laura retired into an invisible convent, where she cast off the wo=
rld,
and regarded her sympathizing sisters throug a grate of superior knowledge =
and
unsharable grief. Like a devout nun, she worshipped "St. Philip,"=
and
firmly believed in his miraculous powers. She fancied that her woes set her=
apart
from common cares, and slowly fell into a dreamy state, professing no inter=
est
in any mundane matter, but the art that first attacted Philip. Crayons,
bread-crusts, and gray paper became glorified in Laura's eyes; and her one
pleasure was to sit pale and still before her easel, day after day, filling=
her
portfolios with the faces he had once admired. Her sisters observed that ev=
ery
Bacchus, Piping Faun, or Dying Gladiator bore some likeness to a comely
countenance that heathen god or hero never owned; and seeing this, they
privately rejoiced that she had found such solace for her grief.
Mrs. Lord's keen eye had read a certain newly =
written
page in her son's heart,--his first chapter of that romance, begun in parad=
ise,
whose interest never flags, whose beauty never fades, whose end can never c=
ome
till Love lies dead. With womanly skill she divined the secret, with mother=
ly discretion
she counselled patience, and her son accepted her advice, feeling that, like
many a healthful herb, its worth lay in its bitterness.
"Love like a man, John, not like a boy, a=
nd learn
to know yourself before you take a woman's happiness into your keeping. You=
and
Nan have known each other all your lives; yet, till this last visit, you ne=
ver
thought you loved her more than any other childish friend. It is too soon to
say the words so often spoken hastily,--so hard to be recalled. Go back to =
your
work, dear, for another year; think of Nan in the light of this new hope: c=
ompare
her with comelier, gayer girls; and by absence prove the truth of your beli=
ef.
Then, if distance only makes her dearer, if time only strengthens your
affection, and no doubt of your own worthiness disturbs you, come back and
offer her what any woman should be glad to take,-- my boy's true heart.&quo=
t;
John smiled at the motherly pride of her words=
, but
answered with a wistful look.
"It seems very long to wait, mother. If I
could just ask her for a word of hope, I could be very patient then." =
"Ah, my dear, better bear one year of
impatience now than a lifetime of regret hereafter. Nan is happy; why distu=
rb
her by a word which will bring the tender cares and troubles that come soon=
enough
to such conscientious creatures as herself? If she loves you, time will pro=
ve
it; therefore, let the new affection spring and ripen as your early friends=
hip
has done, and it will be all the stronger for a summer's growth. Philip was
rash, and has to bear his trial now, and Laura shares it with him. Be more
generous, John; make your trial, bear your doubts alone, and give Nan the
happiness without the pain. Promise me this, dear,--promise me to hope and
wait."
The young man's eye kindled, and in his heart =
there
rose a better chivalry, a truer valor, than any Di's knights had ever known=
.
"I'll try, mother," was all he said;=
but
she was satisfied, for John seldom tried in vain.
"Oh, girls, how splendid you are! It does=
my
heart good to see my handsome sisters in their best array," cried Nan,=
one
mild October night, as she put the last touches to certain airy raiment fas=
hioned
by her own skilful hands, and then fell back to survey the grand effect.
"Di and Laura were preparing to assist at=
an event
of the season," and Nan, with her own locks fallen on her shoulders, f=
or
want of sundry combs promoted to her sisters' heads and her dress in unwont=
ed
disorder, for lack of the many pins extracted in exciting crises of the toi=
let,
hovered like an affectionate bee about two very full-blown flowers.
"Laura looks like a cool Undine, with the
ivy- wreaths in her shining hair; and Di has illuminated herself to such an
extent with those scarlet leaves. that I don't know what great creature she
resembles most," said Nan, beaming with sisterly admiration.
"Like Juno, Zenobia, and Cleopatra simmer=
ed into
one, with a touch of Xantippe by way of spice. But, to my eye, the finest w=
oman
of the three is the dishevelled young person embracing the bed-post: for she
stays at home herself, and gives her time and taste to making homely people=
fine,--which
is a waste of good material, and an imposition on the public."
As Di spoke, both the fashion-plates looked af=
fectionately
at the gray-gowned figure; but, being works of art, they were obliged to nip
their feelings in the bud, and reserve their caresses till they returned to
common life.
"Put on your bonnet, and we'll leave you =
at Mrs.
Lord's on our way. It will do you good, Nan; and perhaps there may be news =
from
John," added Di, as she bore down upon the door like a man-of-war under
full sail.
"Or from Philip," sighed Laura, with=
a
wistful look.
Whereupon Nan persuaded herself that her strong
inclination to sit down was owing to want of exercise, and the heaviness of=
her
eyelids a freak of imagination; so, speedily smoothing her ruffled plumage,=
she
ran down to tell her father of the new arrangement.
"Go, my dear, by alll means. I shall be
writing; and you will be lonely if you stay. But I must see my girls; for I
caught glimpses of certain surprising phantoms flitting by the door." =
Nan led the way, and the two pyramids revolved=
before
him with the rapidity of lay-figures, much to the good man's edification: f=
or
with his fatherly pleasure there was mingled much mild wonderment at the am=
plitude
of array.
"Yes, I see my geese are really swans, th=
ough
there is such a cloud between us that I feel a long way off, and hardly know
them. But this little daughter is always available, always my 'cricket on t=
he
hearth.'
As he spoke, her father drew Nan closer, kisse=
d her
tranquil face, and smiled content.
"Well, if ever I see picters, I see 'em n=
ow,
and I declare to goodness it's as interestin' as playactin', every bit. Mis=
s Di
with all them boughs in her head, looks like the Queen of Sheby, when she w=
ent
a-visitin' What's-his-name; and if Miss Laura ain't as sweet as a lally-bar=
ster
figger, I should like to know what is."
In her enthusiasm, Sally gambolled about the g=
irls,
flourishing her milk-pan like a modern Miriam about to sound her timbrel for
excess of joy.
Laughing merrily, the two Mont Blancs bestowed=
themselves
in the family ark, Nan hopped up beside Patrick, and Solon, roused from his=
lawful
slumbers, morosely trundled them away. But, looking backward with a last
"Good- night!" Nan saw her father still standing at the door with
smiling countenance, and the moonlight falling like a benediction on his si=
lver
hair.
"Betsey shall go up the hill with you, my
dear, and here's a basket of eggs for your father. Give him my love, and be=
sure
you let me know the next time he is poorly," Mrs. Lord said, when her =
guest
rose to depart, after an hour of pleasant chat.
But Nan never got the gift; for, to her great =
dismay,
her hostess dropped the basket with a crash, and flew across the room to me=
et a
tall shape pausing in the shadow of the door. There was no need to ask who =
the
new-comer was; for, even in his mother's arms, John looked over her shoulder
with an eager nod to Nan, who stood among the ruins with never a sign of
weariness in her face, nor the memory of a care at her heart.-- for they all
went out when John came in.
"Now tell us how and why and when you cam=
e. Take
off your coat, my dear! And here are the old slippers. Why didn't you let us
know you were coming so soon? How have you been? and what makes you so late
to-night? Betsey, you needn't put on your bonnet. And--oh, my dear boy, have
you been to supper yet?
Mrs. Lord was a quiet soul, and her flood of q=
uestions
was purred softly in her son's ear; for, being a woman, she must talk, and,
being a mother, must pet the one delight of her life, and make a little
festival when the lord of the manor came home. A whole drove of fatted calv=
es
were metaphorically killed, and a banquet appeared with speed.
John was not one of those romantic heroes who =
can
go through three volumes of hair-breadth escapes without the faintest hint =
of
that blessed institution, dinner; therefore, like "Lady
Letherbridge," he partook, copiously of everything." while the two
women beamed over each mouthful with an interest that enhanced its flavor, =
and
urged upon him cold meat and cheese, pickles and pie, as if dyspepsia and
nightmare were among the lost arts.
Then he opened his budget of news and fed them=
.
"I was coming next month, according to
custom; but Philip fell upon and so tempted me, that I was driven to sacrif=
ice
myself to the cause of friendship, and up we came to-night. He would not le=
t me
come here till we had seen your father, Nan; for the poor lad was pining for
Laura, and hoped his good behavior for the past year would satisfy his judge
and secure his recall. We had a fine talk with your father; and, upon my li=
fe,
Philip seemed to have received the gift of tongues, for he made a most eloq=
uent
plea, which I've stored away for future use, I assure you. The dear old
gentleman was very kind, told Phil he was satisfied with the success of his
probation, that he should see Laura when he liked, and, if all went well,
should receive his reward in the spring. It must be a delightful sensation =
to
know you have made a fellow-creature as happy as those words made Phil to-n=
ight."
John paused, and looked musingly at the matron=
ly tea-pot,
as if he saw a wondrous future in its shine.
Nan twinkled off the drops that rose at the th=
ought
of Laura's joy, and said, with grateful warmth,--
"You say nothing of your own share in the=
making
of that happiness, John; but we know it, for Philip has told Laura in his
letters all that you have been to him, and I am sure there was other eloque=
nce
beside his own before father granted all you say he has. Oh, John, I thank =
you
very much for this!
Mrs. Lord beamed a whole midsummer of delight =
upon
her son, as she saw the pleasure these words gave him, though he answered
simply,--
"I only tried to be a brother to him, Nan;
for he has been most kind to me. Yes, I said my little say to-night, and ga=
ve
my testimony in behalf of the prisoner at the bar; a most merciful judge pr=
onounced
his sentence, and he rushed straight to Mrs. Leigh's to tell Laura the blis=
sful
news. Just imagine the scene when he appears, and how Di will open her wick=
ed
eyes and enjoy the spectacle of the dishevelled lover, the bride-elect's te=
ars,
the stir, and the romance of the thing. She'll cry over it to-night, and
caricature it to-morrow.
And John led the laugh at the picture he had c=
onjured
up, to turn the thoughts of Di's dangerous sister from himself.
At ten Nan retired into the depths of her old =
bonnet
with a far different face from the one she brought out of it, and John,
resuming his hat, mounted guard.
"Don't stay late, remember, John!" A=
nd
in Mrs. Lord's voice there was a warning tone that her son interpreted arig=
ht.
"I'll not forget, mother."
And he kept his word; for though Philip's
happiness floated temptingly before him, and the little figure at his side =
had
never seemed so dear, he ignored the bland winds, the tender night, and set=
a
seal upon his lips, thinking manfully within himself. "I see many sign=
s of
promise in her happy face; but I will wait and hope a little longer for her
sake."
"Where is father, Sally?" asked Nan,=
as
that functionary appeared, blinking owlishly, but utterly repudiating the i=
dea
of sleep.
"He went down the garding, miss, when the=
gentlemen
cleared, bein' a little flustered by the goin's on. Shall I fetch him in?&q=
uot;
asked Sally, as irreverently as if her master were a bag of meal.
"No, we will go ourselves." And slow=
ly
the two paced down the leaf-strewn walk.
Fields of yellow grain were waving on the hill=
-side,
and sere corn blades rustled in the wind, from the orchard came the scent of
ripening fruit, and all the garden-plots lay ready to yield up their humble
offerings to their master's hand. But in the silence of the night a greater
Reaper had passed by, gathering in the harvest of a righteous life, and lea=
ving
only tender memories for the gleaners who had come so late.
The old man sat in the shadow of the tree his =
own
hands planted; its fruit boughs shone ruddily, and its leaves still whisper=
ed
the low lullaby that hushed him to his rest.
"How fast he sleeps! Poor father! I shoul=
d have
come before and made it pleasant for him."
As she spoke, Nan lifted up the head bent down=
upon
his breast, and kissed his pallid cheek.
"Oh, John, this is not sleep."
"Yes, dear, the happiest he will ever kno=
w."
For a moment the shadows flickered over three =
white
faces and the silence deepened solemnly. Then John reverently bore the pale
shape in, and Nan dropped down beside it, saying, with a rain of grateful
tears,--
"He kissed me when I went, and said a las=
t good-night!'"
For an hour steps went to and fro about her, m=
any
voices whispered near her, and skilful hands touched the beloved clay she h=
eld
so fast; but one by one the busy feet passed out, one by one the voices died
away, and human skill proved vain.
Then Mrs. Lord drew the orphan to the shelter =
of her
arms, soothing her with the mute solace of that motherly embrace.
"Nan, Nan! here's Philip! come and see!&q=
uot;
The happy call re-echoed through the house, and Nan sprang up as if her time
for grief were past.
"I must tell them. Oh, my poor girls, how=
will
they bear it?--they have known so little sorrow!"
But there was no need for her to speak; other =
lips
had spared her the hard task. For, as she stirred to meet them, a sharp cry
rent the air, steps rang upon the stairs, and two wild-eyed creatures came =
into
the hush of that familiar room, for the first time meeting with no welcome =
from
their father's voice.
With one impulse, Di and Laura fled to Nan. and
the sisters clung together in a silent embrace, more eloquent than words. J=
ohn
took his mother by the hand, and led her from the room, closing the door up=
on
the sacredness of grief.
"Yes, we are poorer than we thought; but =
when
everything is settled, we shall get on very well. We can let a part of this
great house, and live quietly together until spring; then Laura will be
married, and Di can go on their travels with them, as Philip wishes her to =
do.
We shall be cared for; so never fear for us, John."
Nan said this, as her friend parted from her a=
week
later, after the saddest holiday he had ever known.
"And what becomes of you, Nan?" he asked, watching the patient eyes that smiled when others would have wept. <= o:p>
"I shall stay in the dear old house; for =
no
other place would seem like home to me. I shall find some little child to l=
ove
and care for, and be quite happy till the girls come back and want me."=
;
John nodded wisely, as he listened, and went a=
way
prophesying within himself,--
"She shall find something more than a chi=
ld
to love; and, God willing, shall be very happy till the girls come home
and--cannot have her."
Nan's plan was carried into effect. Slowly the=
divided
waters closed again, and the three fell back into their old life. But the t=
ouch
of sorrow drew them closer; and, though invisible, a beloved presence still
moved among them, a familiar voice still spoke to them in the silence of th=
eir
softened hearts. Thus the soil was made ready, and in the depth of winter t=
he
good seed was sown, was watered with many tears, and soon sprang up green w=
ith
a promise of a harvest for their after years.
Di and Laura consoled themselves with their fa=
vorite
employments, unconscious that Nan was growing paler, thinner, and more sile=
nt,
as the weeks went by, till one day she dropped quietly before them, and it
suddenly became manifest that she was utterly worn out with many cares and =
the secret
suffering of a tender heart bereft of the paternal love which had been its
strength and stay.
"I'm only tired, dear girls. Don't be
troubled!, for I shall be up to-morrow," she said cheerily, as she loo=
ked
into the anxious faces bending over her.
But the weariness was of many months' growth, =
and
it was weeks before that "to-morrow " came.
Laura installed herself as nurse, and her devo=
tion
was repaid four-fold; for, sitting at her sister's bedside, she learned a f=
iner
art than that she had left. Her eye grew clear to see the beauty of a self-=
denying
life, and in the depths of Nan's meek nature she found the strong, sweet
virtues that made her what she was.
Then remembering that these womanly attributes
were a bride's best dowry, Laura gave herself to their attainment, that she
might become to another household the blessing Nan had been to her own; and
turning from the worship of the goddess Beauty, she gave her hand to that
humbler and more human teacher, Duty,--learning her lessons with a willing
heart, for Philip's sake.
Di corked her inkstand, locked her bookcase, a=
nd
went at housework as if it were a five-barred gate; of course she missed th=
e leap,
but scrambled bravely through, and appeared much sobered by the exercise. S=
ally
had departed to sit under a vine and fig-tree of her own, so Di had undispu=
ted sway;
but if dish-pans and dusters had tongues, direful would have been the histo=
ry
of that crusade against frost and fire, indolence and inexperience. But they
were dumb, and Di scorned to complain, though her struggles were pathetic to
behold, and her sisters went through a series of messes equal to a course of
"Prince Benreddin's" peppery tarts. Reality turned Romance out of
doors; for, unlike her favorite heroines in satin and tears, or helmet and
shield, Di met her fate in a big checked apron and dust-cap, wonderful to s=
ee;
yet she wielded her broom as stoutly as "Moll Pitcher" shouldered=
her
gun, and marched to her daily martyrdom in the kitchen with as heroic a hea=
rt
as the "Maid of Orleans" took to her stake.
Mind won the victory over matter in the end, a=
nd
Di was better all her days for the tribulations and the triumphs of that ti=
me;
for she drowned her idle fancies in her wash-tub, made burnt-offerings of
selfishness and pride, and learned the worth of self-denial, as she sang wi=
th
happy voice among the pots and kettles of her conquered realm.
Nan thought of John, and in the stillness of h=
er sleepless
nights prayed Heaven to keep him safe, and make her worthy to receive and
strong enough to bear the blessedness or pain of love.
Snow fell without, and keen winds howled among=
the
leafless elms, but "herbs of grace" were blooming beautifully in =
the
sunshine of sincere endeavor, and this dreariest season proved the most
fruitful of the year; for love taught Laura, labor chastened Di, and patien=
ce
fitted Nan for the blessing of her life.
Nature, that stillest, yet most diligent of
housewives, began at last that "spring cleaning" which she makes =
so
pleasant that none find the heart to grumble as they do when other matrons =
set
their premises a-dust. Her hand-maids, wind and rain and sun, swept, washed,
and garnished busily, green carpets were unrolled, apple-boughs were hung w=
ith
draperies of bloom, and dandelions, pet nurslings of the year, came out to =
play
upon the sward.
From the South returned that opera troupe whose
manager is never in despair, whose tenor never sulks, whose prima donna nev=
er
fails, and in the orchard bona fide matinees were held, to which buttercups=
and
clovers crowded in their prettiest spring hats, and verdant young blades tw=
inkled
their dewy lorgnettes, as they bowed and made way for the floral belles.
May was bidding June good-morrow, and the roses
were just dreaming that it was almost time to wake, when John came again in=
to
the quiet room which now seemed the Eden that contained his Eve. Of course
there was a jubilee; but something seemed to have befallen the whole group,=
for
never had they appeared in such odd frames of mind. John was restless, and =
wore
an excited look, most unlike his usual serenity of aspect.
Nan the cheerful had fallen into a well of sil=
ence
and was not to be extracted by any Hydraulic power, though she smiled like =
the
June sky over her head. Di's peculiarities were out in full force, and she
looked as if she would go off like a torpedo at a touch; but through all her
moods there was a half-triumphant, half-remorseful expression in the glance=
she
fixed on John. And Laura, once so silent, now sang like a blackbird, as she
flitted to and fro; but her fitful song was always, "Philip, my
king."
John felt that there had come a change upon the
three, and silently divined whose unconscious influence had wrought the
miracle. The embargo was off his tongue, and he was in a fever to ask that
question which brings a flutter to the stoutest heart; but though the
"man" had come, the "hour" had not. So, by way of stead=
ying
his nerves, he paced the room, pausing often to take notes of his companion=
s,
and each pause seemed to increase his wonder and content.
He looked at Nan. She was in her usual place, =
the
rigid little chair she loved, because it once was large enough to hold a
curly-headed playmate and herself. The old work-basket was at her side, and=
the
battered thimble busily at work; but her lips wore a smile they had never w=
orn
be- fore, the color of the unblown roses touched her cheek, and her downcast
eyes were full of light.
He looked at Di. The inevitable book was on her
knee, but its leaves were uncut; the strong- minded knob of hair still asse=
rted
its supremacy aloft upon her head, and the triangular jacket still adorned =
her
shoulders in defiance of all fashions, past, present, or to come; but the
expression of her brown countenance had grown softer, her tongue had found a
curb, and in her hand lay a card with "Potts, Kettel & Co."
inscribed thereon, which she regarded with never a scornful word for the Co=
."
He looked at Laura. She was before her easel a=
s of
old; but the pale nun had given place to a blooming girl, who sang at her w=
ork,
which was no prim Pallas, but a Clytie turning her human face to meet the s=
un.
"John, what are you thinking of?"
He stirred as if Di's voice had disturbed his =
fancy
at some pleasant pastime, but answered with his usual sincerity,--
"I was thinking of a certain dear old fai=
ry
tale called 'Cinderella.'"
"Oh!" said Di; and her "Oh"
was a most impressive monosyllable. "I see the meaning of your smile n=
ow;
and though the application of the story is not very complimentary to all
parties concerned, it is very just and very true."
She paused a moment, then went on with softene=
d voice
and earnest mien:--
"You think I am a blind and selfish creat=
ure.
So I am, but not so blind and selfish as I have been; for many tears have
cleared my eyes, and much sincere regret has made me humbler than I was. I =
have
found a better book than any father's library can give me, and I have read =
it
with a love and admiration that grew stronger as I turned the leaves.
Henceforth I take it for my guide and gospel, and, looking back upon the se=
lfish
and neglectful past, can only say, Heaven bless your dear heart, Nan!"=
Laura echoed Di's last words; for, with eyes as
full of tenderness, she looked down upon the sister she had lately learned =
to
know, saying, warmly,--
"Yes, 'Heaven bless your dear heart, Nan!=
' I
never can forget all you have been to me; and when I am far away with Phili=
p,
there will always be one countenance more beautiful to me than any pictured
face I may discover, there will be one place more dear to me than Rome. The=
face
will be yours, Nan, always so patient, always so serene; and the dearer pla=
ce
will be this home of ours, which you have made so pleasant to me all these
years by kindnesses as numberless and noiseless as the drops of dew." =
"Dear girls, what have I ever done, that =
you should
love me so?" cried Nan, with happy wonderment, as the tall heads, black
and golden, bent to meet the lowly brown one, and her sisters' mute lips
answered her.
Then Laura looked up, saying, playfully,--
"Here are the good and wicked sisters;-wh=
ere shall
we find the Prince? "
"There!" cried Di, pointing to John;=
and
then her secret went off like a rocket; for, with her old impetuosity, she
said,--
"I have found you out, John, and am asham=
ed to
look you in the face, remembering the past. Girls, you know when father die=
d,
John sent us money, which he said Mr. Owen had long owed us and had paid at
last? It was a kind lie, John, and a generous thing to do; for we needed it,
but never would have taken it as a gift. I know you meant that we should ne=
ver
find this out; but yesterday I met Mr. Owen returning from the West, and wh=
en I
thanked him for a piece of justice we had not expected of him, he gruffly t=
old
me he had never paid the debt, never meant to pay it, for it was outlawed, =
and
we could not claim a farthing. John, I have laughed at you, thought you stu=
pid,
treated you unkindly; but I know you now, and never shall forget the lesson=
you
have taught me. I am proud as Lucifer, but I ask you to forgive me, and I s=
eal
my real repentance so-- and so."
With tragic countenance, Di rushed across the =
room,
threw both arms about the astonished young man's neck and dropped an energe=
tic kiss
upon his cheek. There was a momentary silence; for Di finally illustrated h=
er
strong-minded theories by crying like the weakest of her sex. Laura, with
"the ruling passion strong in death," still tried to draw, but br=
oke
her pet crayon, and endowed her Clytie with a supplementary orb, owing to t=
he
dimness of her own. And Nan sat with drooping eyes, that shone upon her wor=
k,
thinking with tender pride,-- They know him now, and love him for his gener=
ous
heart."
Di spoke first, rallying to her colors, though=
a little
daunted by her loss of self-control.
"Don't laugh, John,--I couldn't help it; =
and don't
think I'm not sincere, for I am,--I am; and I will prove it by growing good
enough to be your friend. That debt must all be paid, and I shall do it; for
I'll turn my books and pen to some account, and write stories full of clear=
old
souls like you and Nan; and some one, I know, will like and buy them, though
they are not 'works of Shakespeare.' I've thought of this before, have felt=
I had
the power in me; now I have the motive, and now I'll do it."
If Di had Proposed to translate the Koran, or =
build
a new Saint Paul's, there would have been many chances of success; for, once
moved, her will, like a battering-ram, would knock down the obstacles her w=
its could
not surmount. John believed in her most heartily, and showed it, as he answ=
ered,
looking into her resolute face,--
"I know you will, and yet make us very pr=
oud of
our 'Chaos,' Di. Let the money lie, and when you have a fortune, I'll claim=
it
with enormous interest; but, believe me, I feel already doubly repaid by the
esteem so generously confessed, so cordially bestowed, and can only say, as=
we
used to years ago,--'Now let's forgive and so forget."
But proud Di would not let him add to her obli=
gation,
even by returning her impetuous salute; she slipped away, and, shaking off =
the
last drops, answered with a curious mixture of old freedom and new respect,=
--
"No more sentiment, please, John. We know=
each
other now; and when I find a friend, I never let him go. We have smoked the
pipe of peace; so let us go back to our wigwams and bury the feud. Where we=
re
we when I lost my head? and what were we talking about?"
"Cinderella and the Prince."
As she spoke, John's eye kindled, and, turning=
, he
looked down at Nan, who sat diligently ornamenting with microscopic stitche=
s a
great patch going on, the wrong side out.
"Yes,--so we were; and now taking pussy f=
or the
godmother, the characters of the story are well personated,--all but the
slipper," said Di, laughing, as she thought of the many times they had=
played
it together years ago.
A sudden movement stirred John's frame, a sudd=
en
purpose shone in his countenance, and a sudden change befell his voice, as =
he
said, producing from some hiding-place a little wornout shoe,--
"I can supply the slipper;--who will try =
it first?"
Di's black eyes opened wide, as they fell on t=
he
familiar object; then her romance-loving nature saw the whole plot of that
drama which needs but two to act it. A great delight flushed up into her fa=
ce,
as she promptly took her cue, saying--
" No need for us to try it, Laura; for it
wouldn't fit us, if our feet were as small as Chinese dolls; our parts are
played out; therefore 'Exeunt wicked sisters to the music of the wedding-be=
lls.'"
And pouncing upon the dismayed artist, she swe=
pt her
out and closed the door with a triumphant bang.
John went to Nan, and, dropping on his knee as=
reverently
as the herald of the fairy tale, he asked, still smiling, but with lips gro=
wn
tremulous,--
"Will Cinderella try the little shoe, and=
--if
it fits--go with the Prince?"
But Nan only covered up her face, weeping happy
tears, while all the weary work strayed down upon the floor, as if it knew =
her
holiday had come.
John drew the hidden face still closer, and wh=
ile she
listened to his eager words, Nan heard the beating of the strong man's hear=
t,
and knew it spoke the truth.
"Nan, I promised mother to be silent till=
I
was sure I loved you wholly,--sure that the knowledge would give no pain wh=
en I
should tell it, as I am trying to tell it now. This little shoe has been mv=
comforter
through this long year, and I have kept it as other lovers keep their fairer
favors. It has been a talisman more eloquent to me than flower or ring; for,
when I saw how worn it was, I always thought of the willing feet that came =
and
went for others' comfort all day long; when I saw the little bow you tied, I
always thought of the hands so diligent in serving any one who knew a want =
or felt
a pain; and when I recalled the gentle creature who had worn it last, I alw=
ays
saw her patient, tender, and devout,--and tried to grow more worthy of her,
that I might one day dare to ask if she would walk beside me all my life an=
d be
my 'angel in the house.' Will you, dear? Believe me, you shall never know a
weariness or grief I have the power to shield you from."
Then Nan, as simple in her love as in her life=
, laid
her arms about his neck, her happy face against his own, and answered softl=
y,--
"Oh, John, I never can be sad or tired an=
y more!"