University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
SHOWERS AND SUNSHINE.

We pass over several years in the annals of our
young friends. The current of their lives had flowed
smoothly on. Charlotte, living in rigid obedience
to the laws of health, as laid down and expounded
by Dr. —, and to the laws of heaven, as applied
by her faithful conscience, had enjoyed a degree
of health and comfort that she had not anticipated.
Susan, at nineteen, was an accomplished tailoress;
and, what is most rare, her health and sunny cheerfulness
had been in nowise impaired by her confinement
to her needle. She was a singular union
of sweet temper and efficiency; and the only
seamstress we ever heard of, that, for year after
year, so far resisted the effects of sedentary employment
as to sing at her work.

“What is the reason, Susan May,” said an acquaintance
to her, “that you are always so well

and light-hearted? Poor Sally Baker did not do as
much work as you, and yet the doctors said it was
sitting so steadily that brought on her dyspepsy;
and only see Jane Mills, she is a sight to behold!
and nothing but sewing, the doctors say.”

“Nothing but sewing, they may say, Adeline;
Sally Baker used to sit in her little stove-room
from morning till night, and never let in any fresh
air any more than if it were poison: poor Jane did
get a little walk when she went to her place in the
morning, but she was always behindhand with her
work; never could say no, and would set up half
the night to oblige her customers; and, after all,
was tormented to death with reproaches for broken
promises; and then, when her appetite failed, she
used to live on pies, and cakes, and such trash.
As Lottie's doctor told her, God has written laws
in our constitutions, and if we break them we must
pay for it.”

“But how do you manage, Susan—your cheeks
are as fresh as roses?”

“I began, Adeline, with an excellent constitution;
and Lottie, knowing the value of health,
watched over it. She made me follow her New-York
doctor's rules about washing myself.”

“Washing yourself! I should like to know if
everybody don't wash themselves; I am sure
Sally Baker, and Jane Mills too, were neat as
pinks.”

“So they were, Adeline; but few even of neat
people know the importance of daily bathing the
whole person, and rubbing it smartly with a coarse
cloth.”

“That's what I call superstition.”

“You may call it what you please, Adeline; but
I believe that, and changing my clothes, airing the
bed, and the house, and room, have kept my cheeks,
as you say, fresh as roses. Lottie never lets me sit
more than two hours at a time at my needle; she
calls me to do a chore, or run of an errand. She
will not let me pass one day, rain or shine, without
exercise in the open air. Neither cold, wet, nor
heat hurts me. As to my lightheartedness, Adeline,
that's natural to me; but Lottie has helped to
keep that up too, by taking eare that I don't get
fretted at by my customers. She never would let
me make a promise that I was not sure of performing.
I often get my work done beforehand, and I
take pains to fit and please, and somehow I think
our Essex folks are easy to please; and smiles
beget smiles, you know—if they are pleased, I am.
And then it's such a heart-comfort to keep the
family together, now father is getting old and
feeble.”

“After all, Susan, I guess,” said her visiter, with
an ominous contraction of the lips, “you'll not
always be so lighthearted.”

“Maybe not; but I don't believe in borrowing
trouble.”

“It may come without borrowing—they say it's
a bad sign to feel too well.”

“I don't believe in signs, Adeline.”

“You may—they say everybody believes prophecy
after it comes to pass.”

“Do you mean any thing in particular?” asked
Susan, struck more by her companion's tone than
her words; “if you do, pray speak out.”

“Have you seen Paulina Clark?”

“Paulina Clark! is she in Essex?”

“Yes; her mother's husband is dead, and they
have come back here to live; and they say the
old man left the widow a fortune; and Paulina is
dressed as if it was true—all in fine bombasin,
and a crape veil down to her feet, and a black bead
bag, and every thing answerable; though you
know she did not scruple to say she hated the old
man while he was alive.”

“I am sorry she behaves so unbecomingly; she
was always fond of outside show, Paulina; but I remember
Harry used to say that was natural, she
was so handsome.”

“Don't you think it strange, Susan, that some
people can be so taken up with beauty?”

“Oh, I don't know; I like to look at every thing
that is beautiful.”

“But should you think that such a person as
Harry Aikin would put beauty before every thing?”

“I don't think he does,” replied Susan, keeping
her eyes steadfastly to her work, and slightly
blushing.

“Well, I don't know whether it is the beauty or
the fortune; but it must be one or the other, or
both—for I am sure, in other respects, you are
far enough before Paulina Clark; and everybody
thought Harry was paying attention to you before
he left Essex.”

“Harry was always like a brother to Charlotte
and me,” replied Susan, her voice a little tremulous.

“Like a brother to Charlotte he might have
been; but he was more like something else to
you, and everybody thought so.”

“Everybody don't know every thing,” rejoined
Susan, her eyes still riveted to her work, and her
heart throbbing so that it seemed to her her companion
must hear it.

“Well, now,” continued the persevering gossip,
“Susan May, be candid, and own, if you should
hear that Harry Aikin was going to marry Paulina
Clark, should not you feel as if he had deceived
you?”

“No,” replied Susan, now speaking firmly, and
looking her companion full in the face; “if all the
world, and Charlotte, thought Harry paid me particular
attention—and if I sometimes had thought
so too, and if he marries Paulina Clark to-morrow,
I should think we were all mistaken, and Harry
true-hearted.”

“Well, you'll be put to the trial, for Paulina as
good as owned to me her expectations; but I am
sorry for your disappointment, for you can't but say
'tis a disappointment.” Susan said nothing, and
her tormentor proceeded. “It's nothing new nor
strange; them that has not any interest[1] must expect
to be slighted; and I have often heard that
when young men get to New-York, all they think
of is making money, and getting a wife that will
make a show with it; and you say yourself that
Harry thought Paulina a beauty.”

Susan made no reply, and Adeline, having succeeded
in making her uncomfortable, began to feel
very much so herself, from the effect of Susan's
quiet dignity; and, much to Susan's satisfaction,
she cut short her visit and disappeared. When

Charlotte entered a few moments after, she found
Susan's work had dropped on the floor, and she
was leaning her head on the chair and sobbing.
This was a strange sight; for, let the clouds be
ever so heavy, there was always a glimmering of
blue sky where Susan was.

Inquiries and explanations followed. Susan's
heart was turned inside out; not a thought, feeling,
prostrate hope, or piercing regret, was concealed
from Charlotte, who, though in a more subdued
manner, was scarcely less grieved than Susan.

When they could talk calmly about it, Susan
said, “Come what will, I never shall blame Harry
in the least. You know how many times he has
said we were just like sisters to him; and it was
perfectly natural, when he went to live in New
York, he should like people that had New-York
ways.”

“But, Susan, it does seem to me strange that
Harry should ever fancy Paulina; she has not his
ways of thinking, or acting, or feeling.”

“Oh, Lottie, Paulina is handsome—they say
the best of men are carried away with beauty.”

“Not Harry, I am sure; and, besides, I have
heard him say—I never told you, because I did
not want to flatter you—but I heard him say, when
we went to hear Squire Willard's fourth of July
oration—the day Paulina wore that new pink satin
bonnet—and somebody said Squire Willard never
took his eyes from her all the time he was speaking—”

“What did Harry say, Charlotte?”

“Harry whispered to me, and said he liked
your looks a thousand times better than Paulina's.'

“Did he? did he?—he would not say so now!”

“Maybe not. I shall always think, if he had
not gone to New-York, that would have come to
pass that we expected; but I believe, Susy, it is
very hard to keep from being worldly-minded in a
city. When I was in New-York, as I have often
told you, the chief conversation was about dress
and making money. Oh how I did long to hear
something about something profitable. You know
I never was in favour of Harry's going there—I
never liked his going into partnership with Morris
Finley—he'd better have sat over his lapstone the
rest of his life.”

“But, Lottie, you forget the weakness in his
breast.”

“I do—that was a good reason for giving up his
trade, but not for going to New-York.”

“Yes, but you forget what flattering prospects
he had; and,” she added, with a sigh, “after his
parents' death, he had not much to keep him here;
and, having all his portion of the estate in money,
he thought it would enable him to carry on business
to the greatest advantage in New-York. He
explained all this to our satisfaction then.”

“Yes; and when he told us about his plans, and
seemed to be in such a hurry to get ahead, I was
sure he was hinting at sharing with you, though
he did not seem to think it best to speak out.”

“I thought so too, Lottie; but I know I was
very much to blame for setting my heart that way,
when I had no more reason; and then, his always
writing and sending something by every opportunity—to
be sure, the letters were directed to you,
but somehow they always seemed written to me;

and then he was sure to send some present that he
knew I should like better than any thing else in
the world; but it's now a long, long time since we
have heard from him, and yet we never suspected
any thing.”

“No, Susy, because we never in our lives suspected
Harry could do any but the right thing. It
will be very hard to make up our minds to see him
Paulina's husband.”

“Harry Paulina's husband! Oh, it's awful to
think of! But, if she were only worthy of him—if
she could make him happy, I could be as—happy,
I was going to say, but that would not be true—
but I could be contented for myself and thankful
for him.”

Both sisters were silent for a few moments, when
Charlotte said—

“If we can't have things right in this world, we
can have right feelings; let us kneel down and
pray together, Susan.”

“Oh, yes, Lottie, that is always a comfort.”

The sisters knelt, locked in each other's arms.
Charlotte was the organ of both their hearts, and
most earnestly did she pray that they might walk
together in integrity and thankfulness in whatsoever
path it should please the Almighty to mark out
for them, even were it through a solitary wilderness;
that they might remember that their Lord
and Master did not promise his followers their portion
in this world; that they might humbly and
faithfully do the duty appointed them, and not repine
because they could not choose what that duty
should be.

She poured forth an earnest petition for their

best friend; that he might be directed aright; that
he might be delivered from the many evils and
temptations that surrounded him; and that she with
whom his heart was knit might have the grace as
well as the gifts of God.

When their heart-service was over, Susan said
she felt as if a load were taken from her. “He,”
she said to Charlotte, “who commanded us to
pray for our enemies, certainly knew what was in
us: how differently we feel towards any one we
earnestly pray for!”

From this time there was no apparent change
in the sisters, except that Susan pursued her labours
with even more than usual avidity, and
sometimes a remark would escape from her that
showed the course of her thoughts; such as, “I
am sure, Charlotte, of having enough to do in this
world, and that's a real comfort; for one can't be
very unhappy while there is enough to do.”

That Adeline's prophecy was verified, was obvious;
a portion of her lightheartedness was
gone, and even Uncle Phil remarked that “she
did not sing as she used to;” he “wished she
would; he had rather hear her than a bird.” Meanwhile
Charlotte watched her with a blending of the
sister's sympathy, and the mother's tenderness;
and daily, as she saw that Susan's resolution was
carrying her serenely through the storm, did she
offer her humble thanksgiving to Him who she
knew was the source of her strength and peace.