Tempest and sunshine :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Now I think of it,” said Mr. Middleton, “I wonder,
Tempest, how you can have the toothache, for you are
always bragging about your handsome, healthy teeth, and
say you hain't a rotten fang in your head.”

Julia colored, for what her father said was true, neither
did she remember of ever having had the toothache in her
life; but quickly recovering herself, she said, “Neither have
I a decayed tooth. It was more of a face-ache, I suppose,
than the genuine toothache.”

“Probably you have taken some cold,” said Mr. Wilmot.

“I think quite likely I have,” returned Julia, and so the
toothache matter was dismissed for the time. Mr. Miller,
however, thought he could see in it a plan of Julia's to
avoid going to school that day, and when he heard Mrs.
Middleton say, “Julia, as it is so cold and chilly, perhaps
you had better not go out,” he was rather surprised to hear
her reply, “Oh no, mother, Mr. Miller is going with us, and
I would not miss of being there for any thing.”

So the party proceeded together to the school-house.
When school commenced, Julia took her books, and going

up to Mr. Wilmot, said, loudly enough for Mr. Miller to hear,
“Mr. Wilmot, do you know that you gave me a very hard
lesson for to-day?”

“Yes, Julia,” said he, “I know it is hard and long, and
as you do not seem well, I will excuse you from as much of
it as you choose, or from the whole of it, if you like.”

“No, no,” said Julia; “Mr. Miller is here, and I would like
to show him that I have improved since last winter, when,
as I fear, I was often sadly remiss in my studies. All I
want to tell you is, that if I do not recite as well as usual,
you mustn't scold a bit; now, will you?”

“Oh, certainly not,” said Mr. Wilmot, and then he
added in a tone so low that no one heard but Julia, “I
could not scold you, dear Julia.”

Thus flattered, the young lady took her seat, and for a
time seemed very intensely occupied with her lessons. At
last she opened her portfolios, and taking from it a sheet of
foolscap, cast an exulting glance towards Fanny and Mr.
Miller, the latter of whom was watching her movements.
She then took her gold pencil and commenced scribbling
something on the paper. By the time her lesson was called
for, she had written one page. When asked to recite, she
laid the paper on the desk, and prepared to do honor to
herself and teacher. The moving of the paper attracted
Mr. Wilmot's notice, and going towards her, he very gently
said, “I presume you have no objection to letting me see
what you have written here.”

She at first put out her hand as if to prevent him from
taking it, but at last she suffered him to do so, but tried to
look interestingly confused. Mr. Wilmot read what was
written, and then smilingly passed it to his friend, who
looked at it, and saw that it was a piece of tolerably good
blank verse.

“Is this your composition, Julia?” said Mr. Miller.

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

“And have your `notes' always been of this nature?”
asked Mr. Wilmot.

“That, or something similar,” said Julia. “I find no
difficulty in learning my lesson by once reading, and as I
am very fond of poetry, I like to employ the rest of my
time in trying my powers at it!”

Mr. Wilmot looked at Mr. Miller, as much as to say, “I
hope you are satisfied,” and then proceeded to hear Julia's
lesson, which was well learned and well recited. Julia's recitation
being over, Fanny's class was called. Fanny came
hesitatingly, for she knew her lesson was but poorly learned.
That morning she had found under her desk a love-letter
from Bill Jeffrey, and she and some of the other girls had
spent so much time in laughing over it, and preparing its
answer, that she had scarcely thought of her lesson. She
got through with it, however, as well as she could, and was
returning to her seat, when Mr. Miller called her to him,
and said, rather reprovingly, “Fanny, why did you not
have a better lesson?”

“Oh, Mr. Miller,” said she, almost crying, “I did intend
to, but I forgot all about your being here;” and then, as a
new thought struck her, she said mischievously, “and besides,
I have spent all the morning in writing an answer to
Billy Jeffrey's love-letter!”

At this unlooked for speech, all the scholars burst into
a laugh, and directed their eyes towards the crest-fallen Bill,
who seemed so painfully embarrassed, that Fanny regretted
what she had said, and as soon as school was out for the
morning, she went to him and told him she was sorry for so
thoughtlessly exposing him to ridicule; “but,” added she,
“Billy, I'll tell you what, you mustn't write me any more
love-letters, for 'tis not right to do such things at school;
neither need you bring me any more candy or raisins. I

don't object to your giving me a nice big apple occasionally,
but candy and raisins you had better give to the little
children. And now to prove that I am really your friend,
if you will get that old dog's-eared arithmetic of yours, I
will show you how to do some of those hard sums, which
trouble you so.”

Billy was surprised. The butt of the school, he was accustomed
to the jeers of his companions, but such kindness,
and from Fanny, too, was unexpected. He, however, drew
from his desk his old slate and arithmetic, and he and Fanny
were soon deep in the mysteries of compound fractions. A
half hour passed away, and at the end of that time Billy's
sums were done.

“Now, Billy,” said Fanny, rising, “see that you do not
send me any more letters, and mind too, and not wink at
me so often; will you remember?”

Bill gave the required promise, and Fanny bounded
away in quest of her schoolmates, who laughed at her for
taking so much pains with such a dolt as Bill Jeffrey. That
afternoon Fanny resolved to retrieve her character as a
scholar; so she applied herself closely to her task, and before
recitation hour arrived, she had learned every word of
her lesson. But alas for poor Fanny! She was always
stumbling into some new difficulty, and fate, this afternoon,
seemed resolved to play a sorry trick upon her.

The school-house stood at the foot of a long, steep hill,
which would have been chosen for a capital sliding place by
New-York boys; but in Kentucky the winters are, comparatively
speaking, so mild, that the boys know but little of
that rare fun, “sliding down hill.” The winter of which we
are speaking was, however, unusually severe, and the schoolboys
had persevered until they had succeeded in making a
tolerably nice sliding place, and they had also furnished
themselves with a goodly number of rather rough-looking

sleds, of which Bill Jeffrey owned the largest. The girls
were all anxious to try a ride down the hill, and none more
so than Fanny; but the boys would not lend their sleds, and
the girls would not ride with the boys, and as the latter
always hid their precious sleighs, the girls had as yet never
succeeded in their wishes. But on this day, Bill Jeffrey,
touched by Fanny's unlooked for kindness, whispered to her,
just as school was commencing, that she might take his big
sled, at recess.

This was a treat indeed, and when recess came, Fanny,
with half a dozen other girls, climbed to the top of the hill,
and began piling on to Bill's old sled. It was settled that
Fanny should guide the craft, and numerous were the
cautions of the girls that she should “mind and steer
straight.”

“Oh yes, I'll do that,” said Fanny; “but wouldn't it be
funny,” added she, “if we should make a mistake, and go
plump into the school-house!”

At last all was ready, and the vehicle got under way.
At first it moved slowly, and the loud, merry laugh of the
girls rang out on the clear, cold air; but each moment it
increased in swiftness, and by the time it was half way down
the hill, it was moving at an astonishingly rapid rate.
Fanny lost her presence of mind, and with it her ability to
guide the sled, so that they passed the point where they
should have turned, and made directly for the school-house
door, which flew open, as once did the gates for the famous
John Gilpin. There was no entry way to the building, but
as the sled struck the door, the jolt threw off all the girls
except Fanny, who manfully kept her seat, and so made
her grand entrance into the school-room, stopping not till
she reached the stove, and partially upsetting it, to the
great astonishment of the teacher, visitor, and boys, the
latter of whom set up a loud huzza. Poor Fanny! 'Twas

her first sled ride, and she felt sure 'twould be her last; but
she resolved to make the best of it, so she looked up from
under her long curls, and said very demurely, “Please, Mr.
Wilmot, may I stop at this station? I do not like being so
near the engine!” meaning the stove, whose proximity made
her quarters a little uncomfortable.

Mr. Wilmot gave her permission to take her seat, which
she readily did, wondering why it was that she always managed
to do something which made her appear ridiculous,
just when she wanted to appear the best. Her mishap gave
secret pleasure to Julia, who delighted to have Fanny appear
as badly as possible, and she felt particularly pleased when
she saw that Fanny's strange ride had scattered all the ideas
from her head, for the afternoon's lessons were but little
better recited than the morning's, and at its close Julia gave
her a look of malicious triumph, which Mr. Miller observing,
said, as if apologizing for Fanny, that he was sure she had
every word of her lesson before recess, but 'twas no wonder
she was somewhat disconcerted at the unexpected termination
of her ride. Fanny smiled gratefully upon him through
her tears, which she could not restrain; but her tears were
like April showers—they did not last long, and that night,
at the supper table, when Mr. Miller related her adventure
to her father, she joined as gayly as any one in the laugh
which followed.

Julia was much displeased to think that Fanny's “ridiculous
conduct,” as she called it, should be told of and
laughed at, as though it were something amusing. She was
anxious, too, that Mr. Miller should draw his visit to a close;
but as he did not seem inclined to do so, she resolved to
make the most of it, and give him a few new ideas. She
knew that Fanny had ever been his favorite, and she very
naturally supposed that the reason of his preference was,
because he thought she possessed a very lovely, amiable disposition.

She determined to make him think otherwise, and
set herself at work to execute a plan, which fully showed the
heartless deception which almost always characterized her
actions.

Fortune seemed to favor her, for after supper, her father
and mother announced their intention of spending the evening
at one of the neighbors', and soon after they left Mr.
Wilmot, who had letters to write, retired to his room,
together with Mr. Miller. As soon as they were gone, Julia
repaired to the negro quarters, and by dint of threats, flattery,
and promises of reward, finally prevailed upon Luce
to join with her in her dark plot. They then went to
Julia's sleeping room, and carefully opened the closet door,
so that every word of their conversation could be heard in
the adjoining room.

Julia's voice was strangely like her sister's, and by
means of imitating her, she hoped to deceive both Mr.
Wilmot and Mr. Miller, who were startled by a loud, angry
voice, exclaiming, “Come, you black imp, no more lies, you
know you've stolen it, so just confess, and tell me where it
is.”

The young gentlemen looked at each other in surprise,
for the voice was like Fanny's, and yet it was so unnatural
for her to be in such a passion, that they thought it impossible.
Their fears were, however, soon confirmed by Luce,
who said, “Oh Miss Fanny, Lor' knows I never tached it.
Now sartin, I knows nothing' 'bout it.”

“Hold your jaw, or I'll slap your mouth for you, you
lying thief!” said Julia (alias Fanny). “Of course you've
got it, for no one else has been in here; so tell where you
hid it.”

“Lordy massy! how can I tell, when I dun know nothin'
whar 'tis,” said Luce.

“There, take that, to brighten up your ideas,” said

Fanny, and at the same time there was the sound of a blow,
which was followed by an outcry from Luce, who exclaimed,
“Oh—oh—oh—Miss Fanny, don't go for to whip me, case
I haint nothin' to tell; if I had, I'd tell right off. I haint
seed your hankercher 'tall. Mebby you've done drapped it
somewhar.”

Just then the door opened, and Julia, again speaking
naturally, was heard to say, “Why, Fanny, what are
you doing just as soon as mother is gone? Luce, what is
the matter?”

“Oh, Miss Julia,” replied Luce, “Miss Fanny done lost
her fine hankercher, and she say how I stole it, but I
haint.”

“What makes you think Luce has got your handkerchief,
Fanny?” asked Julia.

“Becausue I left it on the table, and 'tisn't there now;
and no one has been in the room except Luce,” replied
Fanny.

“Very likely you have put it in your drawer and forgotten
it; let me look,” said Julia.

There was a moment's silence, and then Julia was heard
to exclaim, “There it is—just as I thought. Here it is,
safe in your box. I do wish, sister, you would not be quite
so hasty, but stop a little before you condemn others.” So
saying, the party left the room.

While this scene was taking place, Fanny was quietly
seated by the fire in the sitting-room, getting her lesson for
the next day. At last her eye chanced to fall upon a purse
which Julia was knitting for her father, and which she had
promised to finish that night.

“I wonder,” said Fanny to herself—“I wonder where
Julia is gone so long? She told father she would finish his
purse this evening, and he will scold so, if 'tis not done, that
I believe I'll knit on it till she returns.”

Suiting the action to the word, she caught up the purse,
and when Julia returned to the sitting-room, she found her
sister busily engaged in knitting for her.

“Why, Julia,” said Fanny, “where have you been so
long? I thought you were never coming back, so I have
been knitting on your purse, for I was afraid you would not
get it done, and then father would scold, you know.”

As Julia looked into her sister's bright, innocent face,
and thought of all her kindness, her conscience smote her
for the wrong she had done, but quickly hushing the faithful
monitor, she thought, “Never mind, 'tis natural for me to
be bad. I cannot help it.”

Meantime the gentlemen above were discussing the conversation
which they had overheard.

“Is it possible,” said Mr. Miller, “that I have been so
deceived in Fanny, and that, after all, she is as passionate as
her sister?”

“As passionate as her sister,” repeated Mr. Wilmot; “I
think we have had good proof that she is much more so. I
hope you are now convinced that Fanny is not infallible,
though I will confess that I am surprised and disappointed,
for I thought she was really of a very gentle nature.”

Mr. Miller did not reply directly, but went on, as if
speaking to himself, “Oh, Fanny, Fanny, how has my idol
fallen! I never would have believed it, but for such convincing
evidence.”

He was indeed sorely disappointed. He had always
thought of Fanny, as the embodiment of almost every
female virtue, and although she was so young, hope had
often whispered to him of a joyous future, when she, whom
her father designated as his “Sunshine,” should also shed
a halo of sunlight around another fireside. But now the
illusion was painfully dispelled, for sooner would he have
taken the Egyptian asp to his bosom, than chosen for a companion

one whom he knew to possess a hasty, violent
temper.

Next morning he took leave of Mr. Middleton's family.
When it came Fanny's turn to bid him good-bye, she noticed
the absence of his accustomed cordiality, and wondered
much what she had done to displease him. That night she
wept herself to sleep thinking of it, while Julia, secretly exulting
in her sister's uneasiness, laughed at her for her foolishness,
and said, “It was probably a mere fancy; and even
if it were not, what matter was it? What did she care for
Mr. Miller's good or bad opinion? She mustn't expect every
body to pet and caress her just as father did, who was an
old fool any way, and petted her and his dogs alternately.”
This kind of reasoning did not convince Fanny, and for
many days her face wore a sad, troubled expression.

Thus the winter passed away. Spring came, and with
it came an offer to Mr. Wilmot of a very lucrative situation
as teacher in a school in Frankfort. At first he hesitated
about accepting it, for there was, in the old rough stone
house, an attraction far greater than the mere consideration
of dollars and cents. Julia at last settled the matter, by requesting
him to accept the offer, and then urge her father to
let her go to Frankfort to school also.

“And why do you wish to go there, Julia?” said Mr.
Wilmot, laying his hand affectionately on her dark, glossy
hair.

“Because,” she answered, “it will be so lonely here when
you are gone.”

“And why will it be lonely, dearest Julia?” continued he.

“Oh,” said she, looking up very innocently in his face,
“you are the only person who understands me; by all
others, whatever I do or say is construed into something
bad. I wish you were my brother, for then I might have
been better than I am.”

“Oh, I do not wish I was your brother,” said Mr. Wilmot,
“for then I could never have claimed a dearer title,
which I hope now to do at some future time.”

Then followed a declaration of love, which Julia had
long waited most anxiously for. Most eloquently did Mr.
Wilmot pour out the whole tide of his affection for the
beautiful but sinful girl, who, in a very becoming and appropriate
manner, murmured an acknowledgment of requited
love. Thus the two were betrothed.

And truly 'twas a fitting time for such a betrothal. The
air had been hot and sultry all day, and now the sky was
overspread with dark clouds, while every thing indicated an
approaching storm. While Mr. Wilmot was yet speaking,
it burst upon them with great violence. Peal after peal of
thunder followed each other in rapid succession, and just as
Julia whispered a promise to be Mr. Wilmot's for ever, a
blinding sheet of lightning lit up for a moment her dark
features, and was instantly succeeded by a crash, which
shook the whole house from its foundation, and drew from
Julia a cry of terror, which brought Fanny to see what was
the matter, and made Mr. Middleton swear, “Thar was
noise enough from the tempest out doors, without the
`Tempest' in the house, raising such a devil of a fuss!”