 | The homestead on the hillside, and other tales |  |
The Thanksgiving Party,
AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
1. CHAPTER I.
NIGHT BEFORE THANKSGIVING.
“Oh, I do hope it will be pleasant to-morrow,” said
Lizzie Dayton, as on the night before Thanksgiving she
stood at the parlor window, watching a dense mass of
clouds, behind which the sun had lately gone to his nightly
rest.
“I hope so, too, said Lucy, coming forward, and joining
her sister; but then it is n't likely it will be. There has
been a big circle around the moon these three nights,
and, besides that, I never knew it fail to storm when I
was particularly anxious that it should be pleasant;” and
the indignant beauty pouted very becomingly at the insult
so frequently offered by that most capricious of all
things, the weather.
“Thee should n't talk so, Lucy,” said Grandma Dayton,
who was of Quaker descent, at the same time holding
up between herself and the window the long stocking
which she was knitting. “Does n't thee know that when
thee is finding fault with the weather, thee finds fault
with Him who made the weather?”
“I do wish, grandma, answered Lucy, “that I could
from which to preach me a sermon.”
Grandma did not reply directly to this rather uncivil
speech, but she continued: “I do n't see how the weather
will hurt thee, if it's the party thee is thinking of, for Mr.
Graham's is only ten rods or so from here.”
“I'm not afraid I can't go,” answered Lucy; “but you
know as well as I, that if the wind blows enough to put
out a candle, father is so old-maidish as to think Lizzie
and I must wear thick stockings and dresses, and I
should n't wonder if he insisted on flannel wrappers!”
“Well,” answered grandma, “I think myself it will be
very imprudent for Lizzie, in her present state of health,
to expose her neck and arms. Thy poor marm died with
consumption when she was n't much older than thee is.
Let me see,—she was twenty-three the day she died, and
thee was twenty-two in Sep—”
“For heaven's sake, grandmother,” interrupted Lucy,
“don't continually remind me of my age, and tell me how
much younger mother was when she was married. I can't
help it if I am twenty-two, and not married or engaged
either. But I will be both, before I am a year older.”
So saying, she quitted the apartment, and repaired to
her own room.
Ere we follow her thither, we will introduce both her
and her sister to our readers. Lucy and Lizzie were the
only children of Mr. Dayton, a wealthy, intelligent, and
naturally social man, the early death of whose idolized,
beautiful wife had thrown a deep gloom over his spirits,
which time could never entirely dispel. It was now seventeen
years since, a lonely, desolate widower, at the
dusky twilight hour he had drawn closely to his bosom
his motherless children, and thought that but for them he
would gladly have lain down by her whose home was
grief, saying he would soon get over it and marry again.
They were mistaken, for he remained single, his widowed
mother supplying to his daughters the place of their lost
parent.
In one thing was Mr. Dayton rather peculiar. Owing
to the death of his wife, he had always been in the habit
of dictating to his daughters in various small matters,
such as dress, and so forth, about which fathers seldom
trouble themselves. And even now he seemed to forget
that they were children no longer, and often interfered in
their plans in a way exceedingly annoying to Lucy, the
eldest of the girls, who was now twenty-two, and was as
proud, selfish, and self-willed as she was handsome and
accomplished. Old maids she held in great abhorrence,
and her great object in life was to secure a wealthy and
distinguished husband. Hitherto she had been unsuccessful,
for the right one had not yet appeared. Now, however,
a new star was dawning on her horizon, in the person
of Hugh St. Leon, of New Orleans. His fame had
preceded him, and half the village of S— were ready
to do homage to the proud millionaire, who would make
his first appearance at the thanksgiving party. This, then,
was the reason why Lucy felt so anxious to be becomingly
dressed, for she had resolved upon a conquest, and
she felt sure of success. She knew she was beautiful.
Her companions told her so, her mirror told her so, and
her sweet sister Lizzie told her so, more than twenty
times a day.
Lizzie was four years younger than her sister, and
wholly unlike her, both in personal appearance and disposition.
She had from childhood evinced a predisposition
to the disease which had consigned her mother to an early
grave. On her fair, soft cheek the rose of health had
clear hazel eye, her fond father read, but too clearly,
“passing away,—passing away.”
If there was in Lucy Dayton's selfish nature any redeeming
quality, it was that she possessed for her frail
young sister a love amounting almost to adoration.
Years before, she had trembled as she thought how
soon the time might come when for her sister's merry
voice she would listen in vain; but as month after month
and year after year went by, and still among them Lizzie
staid, Lucy forgot her fears, and dreamed not that ere
long one chair would be vacant,—that Lizzie would be
gone.
Although so much younger than her sister, Lizzie, for
more than a year, had been betrothed to Harry Graham,
whom she had known from childhood. Now, between
herself and him the broad Atlantic rolled, nor would he
return until the coming autumn, when, with her father's
consent, Lizzie would be all his own.
How many hearts were weeping,
For her, who 'neath the willow's shade,
Lay sweetly, calmly sleeping.
2. CHAPTER II.
THANKSGIVING DAY.
Slowly the feeble light of a stormy morning broke
over the village of S—. Lucy's fears had been verified,
for Thanksgiving's dawn was ushered in by a fierce
driving storm. Thickly from the blackened clouds the
was covered by an unbroken mass of white, untrodden
snow.
Lucy had been awake for a long time, listening to the
sad song of the wind, which swept howling by the casement.
At length, with an impatient frown at the snow,
which covered the window-pane, she turned on her pillow,
and tried again to sleep. Her slumbers, however,
were soon disturbed by her sister, who arose, and putting
aside the curtain, looked out upon the storm, saying, half
aloud, “Oh, I am sorry, for Lucy will be disappointed.”
“I disappointed!” repeated Lucy; “now, Lizzie, why
not own it, and say you are as much provoked at the
weather as I am, and wish this horrid storm had staid in
the icy caves of Greenland?”
“Because,” answered Lizzie, “I really care but little
about the party. You know Harry will not be there,
and besides that, the old, ugly pain has come back to
my side this morning;” and even as she spoke, a low,
hacking cough fell on Lucy's ear like the echo of a distant
knell.
Lucy raised herself up, and leaning on her elbow looked
earnestly at her sister, and fancied, ('twas not all fancy,)
that her cheeks had grown thinner and her brow whiter
within a few weeks. Lizzie proceeded with her toilet,
although she was twice obliged to stop on account of “the
ugly pain,” as she called it.
“Hurry, sister,” said Lucy, “and you will feel better
when you get to the warm parlor.”
Lizzie thought so, too, and she accelerated her movements
as much as possible. Just as she was leaving the
room, Lucy detained her a moment by passing her arm
caressingly around her. Lizzie well knew that some favor
What do you wish me to give you?”
“Nothing, nothing,” answered Lucy, “but do not say
anything to father about the pain in your side, for fear
he will keep you at home, and, worse than all, make me
stay, too.”
Lizzie gave the required promise, and then descended
to the breakfast parlor, where she found her grandmother,
and was soon joined by her sister and father. After the
usual salutation of the morning, the latter said, “There
is every prospect of our being alone to-day, for the snow
is at least a foot and a half deep, and is drifting every
moment.”
“But, father,” said Lucy, “that will not prevent Lizzie
and me from going to the party to-night.”
“You mean, if I choose to let you go, of course,” answered
Mr. Dayton.
“Why,” quickly returned Lucy, “you cannot think of
keeping us at home. It is only distant a few rods, and
we will wrap up well.”
“I have no objections to your going,” replied Mr.
Dayton, “provided you dress suitably for such a night.”
“Oh, father,” said Lucy, “you cannot be capricious
enough to wish us to be bundled up in bags.”
“I care but little what dress you wear,” answered Mr.
Dayton, “if it has what I consider necessary appendages,
viz: sleeves and waist.”
The tears glittered in Lucy's bright eyes, as she said,
“Our party dresses are at Miss Carson's, and she is to
send them home this morning.”
“Wear them, then,” answered Mr. Dayton, “provided
they possess the qualities I spoke of, for without those
you cannot go out on such a night as this will be.”
Lucy knew that her dress was minus the sleeves, and
that her father would consider the waist a mere apology
for one, so she burst into tears and said, rather angrily,
“I had rather stay at home than go rigged out as you
would like to have me.”
“Very well; you can stay at home,” was Mr. Dayton's
quiet reply.
In a few moments he left the room, and then Lucy's
wrath burst forth unrestrainedly. She called her father
all sorts of names, such as “an old granny,—an old fidget,”
and finished up her list with what she thought the
most odious appellation of all, “an old maid.”
In the midst of her tirade the door bell rang. It was
the boy from Miss Carson's, and he brought the party
dresses. Lucy's thoughts now took another channel, and
while admiring her beautiful embroidered muslin and rich
white satin skirt, she forgot that she could not wear it.
Grandma was certainly unfortunate in her choice of
words, this morning, for when Lucy for the twentieth
time asked if her dress were not a perfect beauty, the
old Quakeress answered, “why it looks very decent,
but it can do thee no good, for thy pa has said thee cannot
wear it; besides, the holy writ reads, `Let your
adorning —”'
Here Lucy stopped her ears, exclaiming, “I do believe,
grandma, you were manufactured from a chapter in the
bible, for you throw your holy writ into my face on all
occasions.”
The good lady adjusted her spectacles, and replied,
“How thee talks! I never thought of throwing my bible
at thee, Lucy!”
Grandma had understood her literally.
Nothing more was said of the party, until dinner time,
although there was a determined look in Lucy's flashing
storm, Mr. Dayton's country cousins did not, as was their
usual custom, come into town to dine with him, and for
this Lucy was thankful, for she thought nothing could be
more disagreeable than to be compelled to sit all day and
ask Cousin Peter how much his fatting hogs weighed;
or his wife, Elizabeth Betsey, how many teeth the baby
had got; or, worse than all the rest, if the old maid,
Cousin Berintha, were present, to be obliged to be asked
at least three times, whether it's twenty-four or twenty-five
she'd be next September, and on saying it was only
twenty-three, have her word disputed and the family bible
brought in question. Even then Miss Berintha would
demur, until she had taken the bible to the window, and
squinted to see if the year had not been scratched out
and rewritten! Then closing the book with a profound
sigh, she would say, “I never, now! it beats all how
much older you look!”
All these annoyances Lucy was spared on this day, for
neither Cousin Peter, Elizabeth Betsey, or Miss Berintha
made their appearance. At the dinner table, Mr. Dayton
remarked, quietly, to his daughters, “I believe you
have given up attending the party!”
“Oh, no, father,” said Lucy, “we are going, Lizzie
and I.”
“And what about your dress?” sasked Mr. Dayton.
Lucy bit her lip as she replied, “Why, of course, we
must dress to suit you, or stay at home.'
Lizzie looked quickly at her sister, as if asking how
long since she had come to this conclusion; but Lucy's
face was calm and unruffled, betraying no secrets, although
her tongue did when, after dinner, she found herself
alone with Lizzie in their dressing-room. A long conversation
followed, in which Lucy seemed trying to persuade
stronger mind, Lucy's influence over her sister was great,
and sometimes a bad one, but never before had she proposed
an open act of disobedience toward their father,
and Lizzie constantly replied, “No, no, Lucy, I can't do
it; besides, I really think I ought not to go, for that pain
in my side is no better.”
“Nonsense, Lizzie,” said Lucy. “If you are going to
be as whimsical as Miss Berintha, you had better begin
at once to dose yourself with burdock or catnip tea.”
Then, again recurring to the dress, she continued, “Father
did not say we must not wear them after we got
there. I shall take mine, any way, and I wish you would
do the same; and then, if he ever knows it, he will not
be as much displeased when he finds that you, too, are
guilty.”
After a time, Lizzie was persuaded, but her happiness
for that day was destroyed, and when at tea time her father
asked if she felt quite well, she could scarcely keep
from bursting into tears. Lucy, however, came to her
relief, and said she was feeling blue because Harry would
not be present! Just before the hour for the party, Lucy
descended to the parlor, where her father was reading, in
order, as she said, to let him see whether her dress were
fussy enough to suit him. He approved her taste, and
after asking if Lizzie, too, were dressed in the same manner,
resumed his paper. Ere long, the covered sleigh
stood at the door, and in a few moments Lucy and Lizzie
were in Anna Graham's dressing-room, undergoing the
process of a second toilet.
Nothing could be more beautiful than was Lucy Dayton,
after party dress, bracelets, curls, and flowers had all
been adjusted. She probably thought so, too, for a smile
of satisfaction curled her lip as she saw the radiant vision
heart swelled with pride as she thought, “Yes, there 's
no help for it, I shall win him, sure;” then turning to
Anna Graham, she asked, “Is that Mr. St. Leon to be
here to-night?”
“Yes, you know he is,” answered Anna, “and I pity
him, for I see you are all equipped for an attack; but,”
continued she, glancing at Lizzie, “were not little Lizzie's
heart so hedged up by brother Hal, I should say your
chance was small.”
Lucy looked at her sister, and a chill struck her heart
as she observed a spasm of pain which for an instant contracted
Lizzie's fair, sweet face. Anna noticed it, too,
and springing toward her, said, “What is it, Lizzie? are
you ill?”
“No,” answered Lizzie, laying her hand on her side;
“nothing but a sharp pain. It will soon be better;”
but while she spoke, her teeth almost chattered with the
cold.
Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie!
For a short time, now, we will leave the young ladies in
Miss Graham's dressing-room, and transport our readers
to another part of the village.
3. CHAPTER III.
ADA HARCOURT.
In a small and neat, but scantily furnished chamber, a
poor widow was preparing her only child, Ada, for the
party. The plain, white muslin dress of two years old
had been washed and ironed so carefully, that Ada said
well on Ada Harcourt, who was highly gifted, both with
intellect and beauty. After her dress was arranged, she
went to the table for her old white gloves, the cleaning
of which had cost her much trouble, for her mother did
not seem to be at all interested in them, so Ada did as
well as she could. As she was about to put them on, her
mother returned from a drawer, into the recesses of which
she had been diving, and from which she brought a paper,
carefully folded.
“Here, Ada,” said she, “you need not wear those
gloves; see here—” and she held up a pair of handsome
mitts a fine linen handkerchief, and a neat little gold pin.
“Oh, mother, mother!” said Ada, joyfully, “where
did you get them?”
“I know,” answered Mrs. Harcourt, “and that is
enough.”
After a moment's thought, Ada knew, too. The little
hoard of money her mother had laid by for a warm winter
shawl, had been spent for her. From Ada's lustrous
blue eyes the tears were dropping, as, twining her arm
around her mother's neck, she said, “Naughty, naughty
mother!” but there was a knock at the door. The
sleigh which Anna Graham had promised to send for
Ada, had come; so dashing away her tears, and adjusting
her new mitts and pin, she was soon warmly wrapped
up, and on her way to Mr. Graham's.
“In the name of the people, who is that?” said Lucy
Dayton, as Anna Graham entered the dressing-room, accompanied
by a bundle of something securely shielded
from the cold.
The removal of the hood soon showed Lucy who it was,
and, with an exclamation of surprise, she turned inquiringly
to a young lady who was standing near. To her
look, the young lady replied, “A freak of Anna's I suppose.
She thinks a great deal of those Harcourts.”
An impatient “pshaw!” burst from Lucy lips, accompanied
with the words, “I wonder who she thinks wants
to associate with that plebeian!”
The words, the look, and the tone caught Ada's eye
and ear, and instantly blighted her happiness. In the
joy and surprise of receiving an invitation to the party,
it had never occurred to her that she might be slighted
there, and she was not prepared for Lucy's unkind remark.
For an instant the tears moistened her long silken
eyelashes, and a deeper glow mantled her usually bright
cheek; but this only increased her beauty, which tended
to increase Lucy's vexation. Lucy knew that in her own
circle there was none to dispute her claim; but she knew,
too, that in a low-roofed house, in the outskirts of the
town, there dwelt a poor sewing woman, whose only
daughter was famed for her wondrous beauty. Lucy had
frequently seen Ada in the streets, but never before had
she met her, and she now determined to treat her with
the utmost disdain.
Not so was Lizzie affected by the presence of “the plebeian.”
Mrs. Harcourt had done plain sewing for her
father, and Lizzie had frequently called there for the work.
In this way an acquaintance had been commenced between
herself and Ada, which had ripened into friendship.
Lizzie, too, had heard the remark of her sister, and, anxious
to atone, as far as possible, for the unkindness, she
went up to Ada, expressed her pleasure at seeing her
there, and then, as the young ladies were about descending
to the parlors, she offered her arm, saying, “I will
will quickly take you off my hands.”
The parlors were nearly filled when our party reached
them, and Ada, half tremblingly, clung to Lizzie's arm,
while, with queen-like grace and dignity, Lucy Dayton
moved through the crowded drawing-rooms. Her quick
eye had scanned each gentleman, but her search was fruitless.
He was not there, and during the next half hour
she listened rather impatiently to the tide of flattery
poured into her ear by some one of her admirers. Suddenly
there was a stir at the door, and Mr. St. Leon was
announced. He was a tall, fine looking man, probably
about twenty-five years of age. The expression of his
face was remarkably pleasing, and such as would lead an
entire stranger to trust him, sure that his confidence
would not be misplaced. His manners were highly polished,
and in his dignified, self-possessed bearing, there
was something which some called pride, but in all the
wide world there was not a more generous heart than
that of Hugh St. Leon.
Lucy for a moment watched him narrowly, and then
her feelings became perfectly calm, for she felt sure that
now, for the first time, she looked upon her future husband!
Ere long, Anna Graham approached, accompanied
by the gentleman, whom she introduced, and then
turning, left them alone. Lucy would have given almost
anything to have known whether St. Leon had requested
an introduction, but no means of information were at
hand, so she bent all her energies to be as agreeable as
possible to the handsome stranger at her side, who each
moment seemed more and more pleased with her.
Meantime, in another part of the room Lizzie and Ada
were the center of attraction. The same kindness which
prompted Anna Graham to invite Ada, was careful to see
brother, Charlie, a youth of sixteen, had been instructed
to pay her particular attention. This he was not unwilling
to do, for he knew no reason why she should not be
treated politely, even if she were a sewing woman's daughter.
Others of the company, observing how attentive
Charlie and Lizzie were to the beautiful girl, felt disposed
to treat her graciously, so that to her the evening was
passing very happily.
When St. Leon entered the room, the hum of voices
prevented Ada from hearing his name; neither was she
aware of his presence until he had been full fifteen minutes
conversing with Lucy. Then her attention was directed
toward him by Lizzie. For a moment, Ada gazed
as if spell-bound; then a dizziness crept over her, and she
nervously grasped the little plain gold ring which encircled
the third finger of her left hand!
Turning to Lizzie, who, fortunately, had not noticed
her agitation, she said, “What did you say his name
was?”
“St. Leon, from New Orleans,” replied Lizzie.
“Then I'm not mistaken,” Ada said, inaudibly.
At that moment Anna Graham approached, and whispered
something to Ada, who gave a startled look, saying,
“Oh, no, Miss Anna; you would not have me make
myself ridiculous.”
“Certainly not,” answered Anna; “neither will you do
so, for some of your songs you sing most beautifully. Do
come; I wish to surprise my friends.”
Ada consented rather unwillingly, and Anna led her
toward the music-room, followed by a dozen or more, all
of whom wondered what a sewing woman's daughter
knew about music. On their way to the piano, they
started as his eye fell upon Ada.
“I did not think there was another such face in the
world,” said he, apparently to himself; then turning to
Lucy, he asked who that beautiful girl was.
“Which one?” asked Lucy; “there are many beauties
here to-night.”
“I mean the one with the white muslin, and dark auburn
curls,” said St. Leon.
Lucy's brow darkened, but she answered, “That?
oh, that is Ada Harcourt. Her mother is a poor sewing
woman. I never met Ada before, and cannot conceive
how she came to be here; but then the Grahams are peculiar
in their notions, and I suppose it was a whim of
Anna's.”
Without knowing it, St. Leon had advanced some steps
toward the door through which Ada had disappeared.
Lucy followed him, vexed beyond measure, that the despised
Ada Harcourt should even have attracted his attention.
“Is she as accomplished as handsome?” asked he.
“Why, of course not,” answered Lucy, with a forced
laugh. “Poverty, ignorance, and vulgarity go together,
usually, I believe.”
St. Leon gave her a rapid, searching glance, in which
disappointment was mingled, but before he could reply,
there was the sound of music. It was a sweet, bird-like
voice which floated through the rooms, and the song it
sang was a favorite one of St. Leon's, who was passionately
fond of music.
“Let us go nearer,” said he to Lucy, who, nothing
loth, accompanied him, for she, too, was anxious to
know who it was that thus chained each listener into
silence.
St. Leon at length got a sight of the singer, and said,
with evident pleasure, “Why, it's Miss Harcourt!”
“Miss Harcourt! Ada Harcourt!” exclaimed Lucy.
“Impossible! Why, her mother daily toils for the bread
they eat!”
But if St. Leon heard her, he answered not. His
senses were locked in those strains of music which recalled
memories of something, he scarcely knew what,
and Lucy found herself standing alone, her heart swelling
with anger toward Ada, who from that time was her
hated rival. The music ceased, but scores of voices were
loud in their call for another song; and again Ada sang,
but this time there were in the tones of her voice a thrilling
power, for which those who listened could not account.
To Ada, the atmosphere about her seemed
changed, and though she never for a moment raised her
eyes, she well knew who it was that leaned upon the piano,
and looked intently upon her. Again the song was
finished, and then, at St. Leon's request, he was introduced
to the singer, who returned his salutation with perfect
self-possession, although her heart beat quickly, as
she hoped, yet half feared, that he would recognize her.
But he did not, and as they passed together into the next
room, he wondered much why the hand which lay upon
his arm trembled so violently, while Ada said to herself,
“'Tis not strange he does n't know me by this name.”
Whether St. Leon knew her or not, there seemed about
her some strong attraction, which kept him at her side
the remainder of the evening, greatly to Lucy Dayton's
mortification and displeasure.
“I'll be revenged on her yet,” she muttered. “The
upstart! I wonder where she learned to play.”
This last sentence was said aloud; and Lizzie, who was
standing near, replied, “Her father was once wealthy,
S—, she has occasionally practiced on Anna's piano.”
“I think I'd keep a piano for paupers to play on, “was
Lucy's contemptuous reply, uttered with no small degree
of bitterness, for at that moment St. Leon approached her
with the object of her dislike leaning upon his arm.
Ada introduced Lizzie to St. Leon, who offered her his
other arm, and the three kept together until Lizzie, uttering
a low, sharp cry of pain, leaned heavily as if for support
against St. Leon. In an instant Lucy was at her side;
but to all her anxious inquiries Lizzie could only reply, as
she clasped her thin, white hand over her side, “The
pain, — the pain, — take me home.”
“Our sleigh has not yet come,” said Lucy. “Oh, what
shall we do?”
“Mine is here, and at your command, Miss Dayton,”
said St. Leon.
Lucy thanked him, and then proceeded to prepare Lizzie,
who, chilled through and through by the exposure of
her chest and arms, had borne the racking pain in her
side as long as possible, and now lay upon the sofa as
helpless as an infant. When all was ready St. Leon lifted
her in his arms, and bearing her to the sleigh, stepped
lightly in with her, and took his seat.
“It is hardly necessary for you to accompany us home,”
said Lucy, overjoyed beyond measure, though, to find
that he was going.
“Allow me to be the judge,” answered St. Leon; and
other than that, not a word was spoken until they reached
Mr. Dayton's door. Then, carefully carrying Lizzie into
the house, he was about to leave, when Lucy detained
him to thank him for his kindness, adding that she hoped
to see him again.
“Certainly, I shall call to-morrow,” was his reply, as
driven back to Mr. Graham's.
He found the company about dispersing, and meeting
Ada in the hall, asked to accompany her home. Ada's
pride for a moment hesitated, and then she answered in
the affirmative. When St. Leon had seated her in his
sleigh, he turned back, on pretext of looking for something,
but in reality to ask Anna Graham where Ada
lived, as he did not wish to question her on the subject.
When they were nearly home, St. Leon said, “Miss
Harcourt, have you always lived in S —?”
“We have lived here but two years,” answered Ada;
and St. Leon continued: “I cannot rid myself of the impression
that somewhere I have met you before.”
“Indeed,” said Ada, “when, and where?”
But his reply was prevented by the sleigh's stopping at
Mrs. Harcourt's door. As St. Leon bade Ada good night,
he whispered, “I shall see you again.”
Ada made no answer, but going into the house where
her mother was waiting for her, she exclaimed, “Oh,
mother, mother, I've seen him! — he was there! — he
brought me home!”
“Seen whom?” asked Mrs. Harcourt, alarmed at her
daughter's agitation.
“Why, Hugh St. Leon!” replied Ada.
“St. Leon in town!” repeated Mrs. Harcourt, her eye
lighting up with joy.
'Twas only for a moment, however, for the remembrance
of what she was when she knew St. Leon, and what she
now was, recurred to her, and she said calmly, “I thought
you had forgotten that childish fancy.
“Forgotten!” said Ada bitterly; and then as she recalled
the unkind remark of Lucy Dayton, she burst into
a passionate fit of weeping.
After a time, Mrs. Harcourt succeeded in soothing her,
and then drew from her all the particulars of the party,
St. Leon and all. When Ada had finished, her mother
kissed her fair cheek, saying, “I fancy St. Leon thinks as
much of little Ada now as he did six years ago;” but Ada
could not think so, though that night, in dreams, she was
again happy in her old home in the distant city, while at
her side was St. Leon, who even then was dreaming of
a childish face which had haunted him six long years.
4. CHAPTER IV.
LUCY.
We left Lizzie lying upon the sofa, where St. Leon had
laid her. After he was gone, Lucy proposed calling their
father and sending for a physician, but Lizzie objected,
saying she should be better when she got warm. During
the remainder of that night, Lucy sat by her sister's bedside,
while each cry of pain which came from Lizzie's lips
fell heavily upon her heart, for conscience accused her of
being the cause of all this suffering. At length the weary
night watches were finished, but the morning light showed
more distinctly Lizzie's white brow and burning cheeks.
She had taken a severe cold, which had settled upon her
lungs, and now she was paying the penalty of her first act
of disobedience.
Mr. Dayton had sent for the old family physician, who
understood Lizzie's constitution perfectly. He shook his
she go the party?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Mr. Dayton.
“And not half dressed, I'll warrant,” said the gruff old
doctor.
Lucy turned pale as her father answered, quickly and
truthfully, as he thought, “No, sir, she was properly
dressed.”
Lizzie heard it, and though speaking was painful, she
said, “Forgive me, father, forgive me; I disobeyed you.
I wore the dress you said I must not wear!”
An exclamation of surprise escaped Mr. Dayton, who,
glancing at Lucy, read in her guilty face what Lizzie generously
would not betray.
“Oh, Lucy, Lucy,” said he, “how could you do so?”
Lucy could only reply through her tears. She was sincerely
sorry that by her means Lizzie had been brought
into danger; but when the doctor said that by careful
management she might soon be better, all feelings of
regret vanished, and she again began to think of St. Leon
and his promise to call. A look at herself in the mirror
showed her that she was looking pale and jaded, and she
half hoped he would not come. However, as the day
wore on, she grew nervous as she thought he possibly
might be spending his time with the hated Ada. But he
was not, and at about four o'clock there was a ring at the
door. From an upper window Lucy saw St. Leon, and
when Bridget came up for her, she asked if the parlor was
well darkened.
“An' sure it's darker nor a pocket,” said Bridget,” “an'
he couldn't see a haporth was ye twice as sorry lookin'.”
So bathing her face in cologne, in order to force a glow,
Lucy descended to the parlor, which she found to be as
dark as Bridget had said it was. St. Leon received her
shown for her sister, had partially counterbalanced the
spitefulness he had observed in her manner when speaking
of Ada at the party. Notwithstanding Bridget's precautions,
he saw, too, that she was pale and spiritless, but he
attributed it to her anxiety for her sister, and this raised
her in his estimation. Lucy divined his thoughts, and in
her efforts to appear amiable and agreeable, a half hour
passed quickly away. At the end of that time she unfortunately
asked, in a very sneering tone, “how long since
he had seen the sewing girl?”
“If you mean Miss Harcourt,” said St. Leon, coolly,
“I've not seen her since I left her last night at her mother's
door.”
“You must have been in danger of upsetting if you attempted
to turn round in Mrs. Harcourt's spacious yard,”
was Lucy's next remark.
“I did not attempt it,” said St. Leon. “I carried Miss
Ada in my arms from the street to the door.”
The tone and manner were changed. Lucy knew it,
and it exasperated her to say something more, but she
was prevented by St. Leon's rising to go. As Lucy accompanied
him to the door, she asked “how long he intended
to remain in S —.”
“I leave this evening, in the cars for New Haven,”
said he.
“This evening?” repeated Lucy in a disappointed tone,
“and will you not return?”
“Yes, if the business on which I go is successful,” answered
St. Leon.
“A lady in question, perchance,” remarked Lucy playfully.
“You interpret the truth accurately,” said St. Leon,
and with a cold, polite bow, he was gone.
“Why was he going to New Haven?” This was the
thought which now tortured Lucy. He had confessed
that a lady was concerned in his going, but who was she,
and what was she to him? Any way, there was a comfort
in knowing that Ada Harcourt had nothing to do
with it!
Mistaken Lucy! Ada Harcourt had everything to do
with it!
5. CHAPTER V.
UNCLE ISRAEL.
The lamps were lighted in the cars, and on through the
valley of the Connecticut, the New Haven train was
speeding its way. In one corner of the car sat St. Leon,
closely wrapped in cloak and thoughts, the latter of which
occasionally suggested to him the possibility that his was
a Tomfool's errand; “but then,” thought he, “no one
will know it if I fail, and if I do not, it is worth the
trouble.”
When the train reached Hartford, a number of passengers
entered, all bound for New Haven. Among them
was a comical-looking, middle aged man, whom St. Leon
instantly recognized as a person whom he had known
when in college, in New Haven, and whom the students
familiarly called “Uncle Israel.” The recognition was
mutual, for Uncle Israel prided himself on never forgetting
a person he had once seen. In a few moments St.
Leon was overwhelming him with scores of questions, but
Uncle Israel was a genuine Yankee, and never felt happier
than when engaged in giving or guessing information.
At length St. Leon asked, “Does Ada Linwood fulfill
the promise of beauty which she gave as a child?”
“Ada who?” said Uncle Israel.
“Linwood,” repeated St. Leon, arguing from the jog
in Uncle Israel's memory that all was not right.
“Do you mean the daughter of Harcourt Linwood, he
that was said to be so rich?”
“The same,” returned St. Leon. “Where are they?”
Uncle Israel settled himself with the air of a man who
has a long story on hand, and intends to tell it at his leisure.
Filling his mouth with an enormous quid of tobacco,
he commenced: “Better than four years ago Linwood
smashed up, smack and clean; lost everything he had,
and the rest had to be sold at vandue. But what was
worse than all, seein' he was a fine feller in the main, and
I guess didn't mean to fail, he took sick, and in about a
month died.”
“And what became of his widow and orphan?” asked
St. Leon, eagerly.
“Why, it wasn't nateral,” said Uncle Israel, “that they
should keep the same company they did before, and they's
too plaguy stuck up to keep any other; so they moved
out of town and supported themselves by takin' in sewin'
or ironin', I forgot which.”
“But where are they now?” asked St. Leon.
Uncle Israel looked at him for a moment, and then replied,
“The Lord knows, I suppose, but Israel don't.”
“Did they suffer at all?” asked St. Leon.
“Not as long as I stuck to them, but they sarved me
real mean,” answered Uncle Israel.
“In what way?”
“Why, you see,” said Uncle Israel, “I don't know why,
but somehow I never thought of matrimony till I got a
seen her before, but then she was mighty big feelin', and
I couldn't ha' touched her with a hoe-handle, but now
't was different. I bought their house. I was rich and
they was poor.”
Involuntarily St. Leon clenched his fist, as Uncle Israel
continued: “I seen to getting them a place in the country,
and then tended to 'em generally for more than six
months, when I one day hinted to Mrs. Linwood that I
would like to be her son-in-law. Christopher! how quick
her back was up, and she gave me to understand that I
was lookin' too high! 'Twas no go with Ada, and after
a while I proposed to the mother. Then you ought to
seen her! She didn't exactly turn me out o'door, but she
coolly told me I wasn't wanted there. But I stuck to
her, and kept kind o' offerin' myself, till at last they cut
stick and cleared out, and I couldn't find them, high nor
low. I hunted for more than a year, and at last found
them in Hartford. Thinkin' may be, they had come to, I
proposed again, and kept hangin' on till they gave me the
slip again; and now I don't know where they be, but I
guess they've changed their name.”
At this point, the cars stopped, until the upward train
should pass them, and St. Leon, rising, bade his companion
good evening, saying “he had changed his mind, and
should return to Hartford on the other train.”
6. CHAPTER VI.
EXPLANATION.
Six years prior to the commencement of our story, New
Haven boasted not a better or wealthier citizen than Harcourt
Linwood, of whose subsequent failure and death we
have heard from Uncle Israel. The great beauty of his
only child, Ada, then a girl of nearly thirteen, was the
subject of frequent comment among the circle in which he
moved. No pains were spared with her education, and
many were the conjectures as to what she would be when
time had matured her mind and beauty.
Hugh St. Leon, of New Orleans, then nineteen years
of age, and a student at Yale, had frequently met Ada at
the house of his sister, Mrs. Durant, whose eldest daughter,
Jenny, was about her own age. The uncommon
beauty of the child greatly interested the young southerner,
and once, in speaking of his future prospects to his
sister, he playfully remarked, “Suppose I wait for Ada
Linwood.”
“You cannot do better,” was the reply, and the conversation
terminated.
The next evening there was to be a child's party at the
house of Mrs Durant, and as Hugh was leaving the house,
Jenny bounded after him, saying, “Oh, Uncle Hugh,
you'll come to-morrow night, won't you? No matter if
you are a grown up man, in the junior class, trying to
raise some whiskers! You will be a sort of restraint, and
keep us from getting too rude. Besides, we are going to
have tableaux, and I want you to act the part of bridegroom
in one of the scenes.”
“Who is to be the bride?” asked Hugh.
“Ada Linwood. Now I know you'll come, won't you?”
“I'll see,” was Hugh's answer, as he walked away.
Jenny well knew that “I'll see” meant “yes,” and tying
on her bonnet, she hastened off to tell Ada that Uncle
Hugh would be present, and would act the part of bridegroom
in the scene where she was to be bride.
“What! that big man?” said Ada. “How funny!”
Before seven the next evening Mrs. Durant's parlors
were filled, for the guests were not old enough or fashionable
enough to delay making their appearance until morning.
Hugh was the last to arrive, for which Jenny scolded
him soundly, saying they were all ready for tableaux.
“But come, now,” said she, “and let me introduce you to
the bride.”
In ten minutes more the curtain rose, and Hugh St.
Leon appeared with Ada on his arm, standing before a
gentleman in clerical robes, who seemed performing the
marriage ceremony. Placing a ring on Ada's third finger,
St. Leon, when the whole was finished, took advantage
of his new relationship, and kissed the lips of the
bride. Amid a storm of applause the curtain dropped,
and as he led the blushing Ada away, he bent down, and
pointing to the ring, whispered, “Wear it until some future
day, when, by replacing it, I shall make you really
my little wife.”
The words were few and lightly spoken, but they touched
the heart of the young Ada, awakening within her thoughts
and feelings of which she never before had dreamed.
Frequently, after that, she met St. Leon, who sometimes
teased her about being his wife; but when he saw how
painfully embarrassed she seemed on such occasions, he
desisted.
The next year he was graduated, and the same day on
which he received the highest honors of his class was long
tolled the hour of midnight, he stood with his orphan
niece, Jenny, weeping over the inanimate form of his sister,
Mrs. Durant, who had died suddenly in a fit of apoplexy.
Mr. Durant had been dead some years, and as
Jenny had now no relatives in New Haven, she accompanied
her uncle to his southern home. Long and passionately
she wept on Ada's bosom, as she bade her farewell,
promising never to forget her, but to write her three
pages of foolscap every week. To do Jenny justice, we
must say that this promise was faithfully kept for a whole
month, and then, with thousands of its sisterhood, it disappeared
into the vale of broken promises and resolutions.
She still wrote occasionally, and at the end of each epistle
there was always a long postscript from Hugh, which
Ada prized almost as much as she did Jenny's whole letter;
and when at last matters changed, the letter becoming
Hugh's and the postscript Jenny's, she made no objection,
even if she felt any. At the time of her father's
failure and death, a long unanswered letter was lying in
her port-folio, which was entirely forgotten until weeks
after, when, in the home which Uncle Israel so disinterestedly
helped them to procure, she and her mother were
sewing for the food which they ate. Then a dozen times
was an answer commenced, blotted with tears, and finally
destroyed, until Ada, burrying her face in her mother's
lap, sobbed out, “Oh, mother, I cannot do it. I cannot
write to tell them how poor we are, for I remember that
Jenny was proud, and laughed at the school-girls whose
fathers were not rich.”
So the letter was never answered, and as St. Leon about
that time started on a tour through Europe, he knew nothing
of their change of circumstances. On his way home,
he had in Paris met with Harry Graham, who had been
on his return to America he would visit his parents, in
S —. He did so, and there, as we have seen, met with
Ada Harcourt, whose face, voice, and manner reminded
him so strangely of the Ada he had known years before,
and whom he had never forgotten.
As the reader will have supposed, the sewing woman,
whose daughter Lucy Dayton so heartily despised, was
none other than Mrs. Linwood, of New Haven, who had
taken her husband's first name in order to avoid the persecutions
of Uncle Israel. The day following the party,
St. Leon spent in making inquiries concerning Mrs Harcourt,
and the information thus obtained determined him
to start at once for New Haven, in order to ascertain if
his suspicions were correct.
The result of his journey we already know. Still he resolved
not to make himself known, immediately, but to
wait until he satisfied himself that Ada was as good as
beautiful. And then?
A few more chapters will tell us what then.
7. CHAPTER VII.
A MANEUVER.
The grey twilight of a cold December afternoon was
creeping over the village of S—, when Ada Harcourt
left her seat by the window, where, the live-long day, she
had sat stitching till her heart was sick and her eyes were
dim. On the faded calico lounge near the fire, lay Mrs.
Harcourt, who for several days had been unable to work,
in her face and eyes.
“There,” said Ada, as she brushed from her gingham
apron the bits of thread and shreds of cotton, “There, it
is done at last, and now before it is quite dark I will take
it home.”
“No, not to-night, child,” said Mrs. Harcourt; “to-morrow
will do just as well.”
“But, mother, answered Ada,” you know Mrs. Dayton
always pays as soon as the work is delivered, and what I
have finished will come to two dollars and a half, which
will last a long time, and we shall not be obliged to take
any from the sum laid by to pay our rent; besides, you
have had nothing nourishing for a long time; so let me
go, and on my way home I will buy you something nice
for supper.”
Mrs. Harcourt said no more, but the tears fell from her
aching eyes as she thought how hard her daughter was
obliged to labor, now that she was unable to assist her.
In a moment Ada was in the street. The little alley in
which she lived was soon traversed, and she was about
turning into Main street, when rapid footsteps approached
her, and St. Leon appeared at her side, saying, “Good
evening, Miss Harcourt; allow me to relieve you of that
bundle.”
And before she could prevent it, he took from her
hands the package, while he continued, “May I ask how
far you are walking to-night?”
Ada hesitated a moment, but quickly forcing down her
pride, she answered, “Only as far as Mr. Dayton's. I am
carrying home some work.”
“Indeed!” said he, “then I can have your company
all the way, for I am going to inquire after Lizzie.”
They soon reached their destination, and their ring at
Lucy herself, whose sweet smile, as she greeted St. Leon,
changed into an angry scowl when she recognized his
companion.
“Ada Harcourt!” said she, and Ada, blushing scarlet,
began: “I have brought —,” but she was interrupted
by St. Leon, who handed Lucy the bundle, saying, “Here
is your work, Miss Dayton, and I hope it will suit you,
for we took a great deal of pains with it.”
Lucy tried to smile as she took the work, and then opening
the parlor door she with one hand motioned St. Leon
to enter, while with the other she held the hall door ajar,
as if for Ada to depart. A tear trembled on Ada's long
eyelashes, as she timidly asked, “Can I see your grandmother?”
“Mrs. Dayton, I presume you mean,” said Lucy,
haughtily.
Ada bowed, and Lucy continued: “She is not at home
just at present.”
“Perhaps, then, you can pay me for the work,” said
Ada.
The scowl on Lucy's face grew darker, as she replied,
“I have nothing to do with grandma's hired help. Come
to-morrow and she will be here. (How horridly cold
this open door makes the hall!”)
Ada thought of the empty cupboard at home, and of
her pale, sick mother. Love for her conquered all other
feelings, and in a choking voice she said, “Oh, Miss Dayton,
if you will pay it you will confer a great favor on
me, for mother is sick, and we need it so much!”
There was a movement in the parlor. St. Leon was
approaching, and with an impatient gesture, Lucy opened
the opposite door, saying to Ada, “Come in here.”
The tone was so angry that, under any other circumstances,
she entered, and Lucy, taking out her purse, said, “How
much is the sum about which you make so much fuss?”
“Two dollars and a half,” answered Ada.
“Two dollars and a half,” repeated Lucy; and then, as
a tear fell from Ada's eye, she added, contemptuously,
“It is a small amount to cry about.”
Ada made no reply, and was about leaving the room,
when Lucy detained her, by saying, “Pray, did you ask
Mr. St. Leon to accompany you here and bring your
bundle?”
“Miss Dayton, you know better,—you know I did not,”
answered Ada, as the fire of insulted pride flashed from
her dark blue eyes, which became almost black, while her
cheek grew pale as marble.
Instantly Lucy's manner changed, and in a softened
tone she said, “I am glad to know that you did not;
and now, as a friend, I warn you against receiving any
marks of favor from St. Leon.”
“What do you mean?” asked Ada, and Lucy continued:
“You have sense enough to know, that when a
man of St. Leon's standing shows any preference for a
girl in your circumstances, it can be from no good design.”
“You judge him wrongfully—you do not know him,”
said Ada; and Lucy answered, “Pray, where did you
learn so much about him?”
Ada only answered by rising to go.
“Here, this way,” said Lucy, and leading her through
an outer passage to the back door, she added, “I do it to
save your good name. St. Leon is undoubtedly waiting
for you, and I would not trust my own sister with him,
were she a poor sewing girl!”
The door was shut in Ada's face, and Lucy returned to
the parlor, where she found her father entertaining her
to do the agreeable, when St. Leon rising, said,
“Excuse my short call, for I must be going. Where have
you left Miss Harcourt?”
“I left her at the door,” answered Lucy, “and she is
probably half way to `Dirt Alley' by this time, so do not
be in haste.”
But he was in haste, for when he looked on the fast
gathering darkness without, and thought of the by streets
and lonely alleys through which Ada must pass on her
way home, he felt uneasy, and bidding Miss Dayton good-night,
he hurried away.
Meantime, Ada had procured the articles she wished
for, and proceeded home, with a heart which would have
been light as a bird, had not the remembrance of Lucy's
insulting language rung in her ears. Mrs. Harcourt saw
that all was not right, but she forbore making any inquiries
until supper was over. Then Ada, bringing a stool
to her mother's side, and laying her head on her lap, told
everything which had transpired between herself, St. Leon,
and Lucy.
Scarcely was her story finished, when there was a rap at
the door, and St. Leon himself entered the room. He had
failed in overtaking Ada, and anxious to know of her safe
return, had determined to call. The recognition between
himself and Mrs. Harcourt was mutual, but for reasons
of their own, neither chose to make it apparent, and Ada
introduced him to her mother as she would have done
any stranger. St. Leon possessed in an unusual degree
the art of making himself agreeable, and in the animated
conversation which ensued, Mrs. Harcourt forgot that she
was poor,—forgot her aching eyes; while Ada forgot everything
save that St. Leon was present, and that she was
more than in the olden time.
During the evening, St. Leon managed, in various
ways, to draw Ada out on all the prominent topics of the
day, and he felt pleased to find, that amid all her poverty
she did not neglect the cultivation of her mind. A part
of each day was devoted to study, which Mrs. Harcourt,
who was a fine scholar, superintended.
It was fast merging toward the hour when phantoms walk
abroad, ere St. Leon remembered that he must go. As
he was leaving, he said to Ada, “I have a niece, Jenny,
about your age, whom I think you would like very much.”
Oh how Ada longed to ask for her old playmate, but a
look from her mother kept her silent, and in a moment
St. Leon was gone.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
COUSIN BERINTHA AND LUCY'S PARTY.
Cousin Berintha, whom Lucy Dayton so much disliked
and dreaded, was a cousin of Mr. Dayton, and was
a prim, matter-of-fact maiden of fifty, or thereabouts.
That she was still in a state of single blessedness, was
partially her own fault, for at twenty she was engaged to
the son of a wealthy farmer who lived near her father.
But, alas! ere the wedding day arrived, there came to
the neighborhood a young lady from Boston, in whose
presence the beauty of the country girl grew dim, as do
the stars in the rays of the morning sun.
Berintha had a plain face, but a strong heart, and when
hand and unflinching nerve, she wrote to her recreant
lover that he was free. And now Amy, to whom the
false knight turned, took it into her capricious head that
she could not marry a farmer,—she had always fancied a
physician; and if young B— would win her, he must
first secure the title of M. D. He complied with her request,
and one week from the day on which he received
his diploma, Berintha read, with a slightly blanched
cheek, the notice of his marriage with the Boston
beauty. Three years from that day she read the announcement
of Amy's death, and in two years more
she refused the doctor's offer to give her a home by his
lonely fireside, and a place in his widowed heart. All
this had the effect of making Berintha rather cross,
but she seldom manifested her spite toward any one except
Lucy, whom she seemed to take peculiar delight in
teasing, and whose treatment of herself was not such as
would warrant much kindness in return.
Lizzie she had always loved, and when Harry Graham
went away, it was on Berintha's lap that the young girl
sobbed out her grief, wondering, when with her tears Berintha's
were mingled, how one apparently so cold and passionless
could sympathize with her. To no one had Berintha
ever confided the story of her early love. Mr.
Dayton was a school-boy then, and as but little was said
of it at the time, it faded entirely from memory; and
when Lucy called her a “crabbed old maid,” she knew
not of the disappointment which had clouded every joy,
and embittered a whole lifetime.
At the first intelligence of Lizzie's illness, Berintha
came, and though her prescriptions of every kind of herb
tea in the known world were rather numerous, and her
doses of the same were rather large, and though her stiff
were exceedingly annoying to Lucy, she proved
herself an invaluable nurse, warming up old Dr. Benton's
heart into a glow of admiration of her wonderful skill!
Hour after hour she sat by Lizzie, bathing her burning
brow, or smoothing her tumbled pillow. Night after
night she kept her tireless watch, treading softly around
the sick-room, and lowering her loud, harsh voice to a
whisper, lest she should disturb the uneasy slumbers of
the sick girl, who, under her skillful nursing, gradually
grew better.
“Was there ever such a dear, good cousin,” said Lizzie,
one day, when a nervous headache had been coaxed
away by what Berintha called her “mesmeric passes;”
and “Was there ever such a horrid bore,” said Lucy, on
the same day, when Cousin Berintha “thought she saw a
white hair in Lucy's raven curls!” adding, by way of
consolation, “It wouldn't be anything strange, for I began
to grow gray before I was as old as you.”
“And that accounts for your head being just the color
of wool,” angrily retorted Lucy, little dreaming of the
bitter tears and sleepless nights which had early blanched
her cousin's hair to its present whiteness.
For several winters Lucy had been in the habit of giving
a large party, and as she had heard that St. Leon was soon
going south, she felt anxious to have it take place ere he
left town. But what should she do with Berintha, who
showed no indications of leaving, though Lizzie was much
better.
“I declare,” said she to herself, “that woman is enough
to worry the life out of me. I 'll speak to Liz about it
this very day.”
Accordingly, that afternoon, when alone with her sister,
she said, “Lizzie, is it absolutely necessary that Berintha
feed you sage tea through a straw?”
Lizzie looked inquiringly at her sister, who continued,
“To tell you the truth, I'm tired of having her around,
and must manage some way to get rid of her before next
week, for I mean to have a party Thursday night.”
Lizzie's eyes now opened in astonishment, as she exclaimed,
“A party! oh, Lucy, wait until I get well.”
“You'll be able by that time to come down stairs in
your crimson morning-gown, which becomes you so well,”
answered Lucy.
“But father's away,” rejoined Lizzie; to which Lucy
replied, “So much the better, for now I shan't be obliged
to ask any old things. I told him I meant to have it
while he was gone, for you know he hates parties. But
what shall I do with Berintha?”
“Why, what possible harm can she do?” asked Lizzie.
“She would enjoy it very much, I know; for in spite of
her oddities, she likes society.”
“Well, suppose she does; nobody wants her round,
prating about white hairs and mercy knows what. Come,
you tell her you don't need her services any longer—
that's a good girl.”
There was a look of mischief in Lizzie's eye, and a merry
smile on her lip, as she said, “Why, don't you know that
father has invited her to spend the winter, and she has
accepted the invitation?”
“Invited her to spend the winter!” repeated Lucy,
while the tears glittered in her bright eyes. “What does
he mean?”
“Why,” answered Lizzie, “it is very lonely at Cousin
John's, and his wife makes more of a servant of Berintha
than she does a companion, so father, out of pity, asked
her to stay with us, and she showed her good taste by
accepting.”
“I'll hang myself in the woodshed before spring — see
if I don't!” and burying her face in her hands, Lucy wept
aloud, while Lizzie, lying back upon her pillow, laughed
immoderately at her sister's distress.
“There's a good deal to laugh at, I think,” said Lucy,
more angrily than she usually addressed her sister. “If
you have any pity, do devise some means of getting rid
of her, for a time, at least.”
“Well, then,” answered Lizzie, “she wants to go home
for a few days, in order to make some necessary preparations
for staying with us, and perhaps you can coax her
to go now, though I for one would like to have her stay.
Everybody knows she is your cousin, and no one will
think less of you for having her here.”
“But I won't do it,” said Lucy, “and that settles it.
Your plan is a good one, and I 'll get her off — see if I
don't!”
The next day, which was Saturday, Lucy was unusually
kind to her cousin, giving her a collar, offering to fix her
cap, and doing numerous other little things, which greatly
astonished Berintha. At last, when dinner was over, she
said, “Come, cousin, what do you say to a sleigh ride
this afternoon? I haven't been down to Elizabeth Betsey's
in a good while, so suppose we go to-day.”
Berintha was taken by surprise, but after a moment
she said just what Lucy hoped she would say, viz: that
she was wanting to go home for a few days, and if Lizzie
were only well enough, she would go now.
“Oh she is a great deal better,” said Lucy, “and you
can leave her as well as not. Dr. Benton says I am
almost as good a nurse as you, and I will take good care
of her,—besides, I really think you need rest; so go,
if you wish to, and next Saturday I will come round after
you.”
Accordingly, Berintha, who suspected nothing, was
coaxed into going home, and when at three o'clock the
sleigh was said to be ready, she kissed Lizzie good-by,
and taking her seat by the side of Lucy, was driven rapidly
toward her brother's house.
“There! haven't I managed it capitally!” exclaimed
Lucy, as she reëntered her sister's room, after her ride;
“but the bother of it is, I've promised to go round next
Saturday, and bring not only Berintha, but Elizabeth
Betsey and her twins! Won't it be horrible! However,
the party'll be over, so I don't care.”
Cousin Berintha being gone, there was no longer any
reason why the party should be kept a secret, and before
nightfall every servant in the house was discussing it,
Bridget saying, “Faith, an' I thought it was mighty good
she was gettin' with that woman.”
Mrs. Dayton was highly indignant at the trick which
she plainly saw had been put upon Berintha, but Lucy
only replied, “that she wished it were as easy a matter
to get rid of grandma!”
On Monday cards of invitation to the number of one
hundred and fifty were issued, and when Lizzie, in looking
them over, asked why Ada Harcourt was left out, Lucy
replied, that “she guessed she wasn't going to insult her
guests by inviting a sewing girl with them. Anna Graham
could do so, but nobody was going to imitate her.”
“Invite her, then, for my sake, and in my name,”
pleaded Lizzie, but Lucy only replied, “I shall do no such
thing;” and thus the matter was settled.
Amid the hurry and preparation for the party, days
beautiful, and balmy, almost, as an autumnal day.
“Isn't this delightful!” said Lucy, as she stepped out
upon the piazza, and felt the warm southern breeze upon
her cheek. “It's a wonder, though,” she continued,
“that madam nature didn't conjure up an awful storm for
my benefit, as she usually does!”
Before night, she had occasion to change her mind concerning
the day.
Dinner was over, and she in Lizzie's room was combing
out her long curls, and trying the effect of wearing
them entirely behind her ears. Suddenly there was the
sound of sleigh bells, which came nearer, until they
stopped before the door. Lucy flew to the window, and
in tones of intense anger and surprise, exclaimed, “Now,
heaven defend us! here is Cousin John's old lumber sleigh
and rackabone horse, with Berintha and a hair trunk, a
red trunk, two bandboxes, a carpet-bag, a box full of
herbs, and a pillow-case full of stockings. What does it
all mean?”
She soon found out what it all meant, for Berintha entered
the room in high spirits. Kissing Lizzie, she next
advanced toward Lucy, saying, “You did n't expect me,
I know; but this morning was so warm and thawing,
that John said he knew the sleighing would all be gone
by Saturday, so I concluded to come to-day.”
Lucy was too angry to reply, and rushing from the
room, she closed the door after her, with a force which
fairly made the windows rattle. Berintha looked inquiringly
at Lizzie, who felt inadequate to an explanation;
so Berintha knew nothing of the matter until she descended
to the kitchen, and there learned the whole.
Now, if Lucy had treated her cousin politely and good-naturedly,
she would have saved herself much annoyance,
nor wanted there; that parties were never intended
for “such old things;” and that now she was
there, she hoped she would stay in her own room, unless
she should happen to be wanted to wait on the table!
This speech, of course, exasperated Berintha, but she
made no reply, although there was on her face a look of
quiet determination, which Lucy mistook for tacit acquiescence
in her proposal.
Five—six—seven—eight—struck the little brass clock,
and no one had come except old Dr. Benton, who, being
a widower and an intimate friend of the family, was invited,
as Lucy said, for the purpose of beauing grandma!
Lizzie, in crimson double-gown, and soft, warm shawl, was
reclining on the sofa in the parlor, the old doctor muttering
about carelessness, heated rooms, late hours, &c.
Grandman, in rich black silk and plain Quaker cap, was
hovering near her favorite child, asking continually if she
were too hot, or too cold, or too tired, while Lucy, in
white muslin dress and flowing curls, flitted hither and
thither, fretting at the servants, or ordering grandma, and
occasionally tapping her sister's pale cheek, to see if she
could not coax some color into it.
“You'll live to see it whiter still,” said the doctor, who
was indignant at finding his patient down stairs.
And where all this time was Berintha? The doctor
asked this question, and Lucy asked this question, while
Lizzie replied, that “she was in her room.”
“And I hope to goodness she'll stay there,” said Lucy.
Dr. Benton's gray eyes fastened upon the amiable
young lady, who, by way of explanation, proceeded to relate
her maneuvers for keeping “the old maid” from the
party.
We believe we have omitted to say that Lucy had
her sister, heiress of Dr. Benton's property, which was
considerable. He was a widower, and had no relatives.
He was also very intimate with Mr. Dayton's family, always
evincing a great partiality for Lucy and Lizzie, and
had more than once hinted at the probable disposal of his
wealth. Of course, Lucy, in his presence, was all amiability,
and though he was usually very far sighted, he but
partially understood her real character. Something, however,
in her remarks concerning Berintha, displeased him.
Lucy saw it, but before she had time for any thought on
the subject, the door-bell rang, and a dozen or more of
guests entered.
The parlors now began to fill rapidly. Ere long, St.
Leon came, and after paying his compliments to Lucy, he
took his station between her and the sofa, on which Lizzie
sat. So delighted was Lucy to have him thus near,
that she forgot Berintha, until that lady herself appeared
in the room, bowing to those she knew, and seating herself
on the sofa, very near St. Leon. The angry blood
rushed in torrents to Lucy's face, and St. Leon, who saw
something was wrong, endeavored to divert her mind by
asking her various questions.
At last he said, “I do not see Miss Harcourt. Where
is she?”
“She is not expected,” answered Lucy, carelessly.
“Ah!” said St. Leon; and Berintha, touching his arm,
rejoined, “Of course you could not think Ada Harcourt
would be invited here!”
“Indeed! Why not?” asked St. Leon, and Berintha
continued: “To be sure, Ada is handsome, and Ada is
accomplished, but then Ada is poor, and consequently
can't come!”
“But I see no reason why poverty should debar her
exultant glance at Lucy, who, if possible, would have
paralyzed her tongue, replied, “Why, if Ada were present,
she might rival somebody in somebody's good opinion.
Wasn't that what you said, Cousin Lucy? Please correct
me, if I get wrong.”
Lucy frowned angrily, but made no reply, for Berintha
had quoted her very words. After a moment's pause, she
proceeded: “Yes, Ada is poor; so though she can come
to the front door with a gentleman, she cannot go out
that way, but must be led to a side door or back door;
which was it, Cousin Lucy?”
“I don't know what you are talking about,” answered
Lucy; and Berintha, in evident surprise, exclaimed, “Why,
don't you remember when Ada came here with a gentle
man,— let me see, who was it? — well, no matter who
'twas,— she came with a gentleman,— he was ushered into
the parlor, while you took her into a side room, then into a
side passage, and out at the side door, kindly telling her
to beware of the gentleman in the parlor, who could want
nothing good of sewing girls!”
“You are very entertaining to-night,” said Lucy; to
which Berintha replied, “You did not think I could be
so agreeable, did you, when you asked me to keep out of
sight this evening, and said that such old fudges as grandma
and I would appear much better in our rooms, taking
snuff, and nodding at each other over our knitting
work?”
Lucy looked so distressed that Lizzie pitied her, and
touching Berintha, she said, “Please don't talk any
more.”
At that moment supper was announced, and after it
was over, St. Leon departed, notwithstanding Lucy's urgent
request that he would remain longer. As the street
seen every other guest depart, also. A moody fit came
on, and the party would have been voted a failure, had it
not been for the timely interference of Dr. Benton and
Berintha. Together they sought out any who seemed
neglected, entertaining them to the best of their ability,
and leaving with every one the impression that they were
the best natured couple in the world. At eleven o'clock,
Lizzie, wearied out, repaired to her chamber. Her departure
was the signal for others, and before one o'clock
the last good-night was said, the doors locked, the silver
gathered up, the tired servants dismissed, and Lucy, in
her sister's room, was giving vent to her wrath against
Berintha, the party, St. Leon, and all.
Scolding, however, could do her no good, and ere long,
throwing herself undressed upon a lounge, she fell asleep,
and dreamed that grandma was married to the doctor,
that Berintha had become her step-mother, and, worse
than all, that Ada Harcourt was Mrs. St. Leon.
9. CHAPTER IX.
A WEDDING AT ST. LUKE'S.
The day but one following the party, as Lucy was doing
some shopping down street, she stepped for a moment
into her dress-maker's, Miss Carson's, where she found
three or four of her companions, all eagerly discussing
what seemed to be quite an interesting topic. As Lucy
entered, one of them, turning toward her, said, “Oh,
isn't it strange? Or have'nt you heard?”
“Heard what?” asked Lucy; and her companion replied,
“Why, Ada Harcourt is going to be married.
Miss Carson is making her the most beautiful traveling
dress, with silk hat to match—”
“Besides three or four elegant silk dresses,” chimed in
another.
“And the most charming morning-gown you ever saw
— apple green, and dark green, striped — and lined with
pink silk,” rejoined a third.
By this time Lucy had sunk into the nearest chair.
The truth had flashed upon her, as it probably has upon
you; but as she did not wish to betray her real emotions,
she forced a little bitter laugh, and said, “St. Leon, I
suppose, is the bridegroom.”
“Yes; who told you?” asked her companion.
“Oh, I've seen it all along,” answered Lucy, carelessly.
“He called with her once at our house!”
“But you did n't invite her to your party,” said mischievous
Bessie Lee, who loved dearly to tease Lucy Dayton.
“You did n't invite her to your party, and so he
left early, and I dare say went straight to Mrs. Harcourt's
and proposed, if he had n't done so before. Now, don't
you wish you'd been more polite to Ada? They say he's
got a cousin south, as rich and handsome as he is, and if
you'd only behaved as you should, who knows what might
have happened!”
Lucy deigned Bessie no reply, and turning to another
young lady, asked, “When is the wedding to be?”
“Next Thursday morning, in the church,” was the answer;
and Bessie Lee again interposed, saying, “Come,
Lucy, I don't believe you have ever returned Ada's call,
and as I am going to see her, and inquire all about that
Cousin Frank, suppose you accompany me, and learn the
particulars of the wedding.”
“Thank you,” said Lucy; “I don't care enough about
it to take that trouble;” and soon rising, she left the
shop.
If Lucy manifested so much indifference, we wot of
some bright eyes and eager ears, which are willing to
know the particulars, so we will give them, as follows:
When St. Leon left Mr. Dayton's, it was ten o'clock, but
notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, he started for
the small brown house on “Dirt Alley,” where dwelt the
sewing woman and her daughter, who were both busy
on some work which they wished to finish that night.
Ada had stopped for a moment to replenish the fire, when
a knock at the door startled her. Opening it, she saw
St. Leon, and in much surprise said, “Why, I supposed
you were at the party.”
“So I have been,” said he; “but I grew weary, and
left for a more congenial atmosphere;” then advancing
toward Mrs. Harcourt, he took her hand, saying, “Mrs.
Linwood, allow me to address you by your right name
this evening.”
We draw a vail over the explanation which followed —
over the fifty-nine questions asked by Ada concerning
Jenny — and over the one question asked by St. Leon, the
answer to which resulted in the purchase of all those
dresses at Miss Carson's, and the well-founded rumor, that
on Thursday morning a wedding would take place at St.
Luke's church.
Poor Lucy! how disconsolate she felt! St. Leon was
passing from her grasp, and there was no help. On her
way home, she three times heard of the wedding, and of
Ada's real name and former position in life, and each time
her wrath waxed warmer and warmer. Fortunate was it
for Berintha and grandma that neither made her appearance
until tea time, for Lucy was in just the state when
addressed to her!
The next day was the Sabbath, and as Lucy entered
the church, the first object which met her eye was St.
Leon, seated in the sewing woman's pew, and Ada tolerably
though not very near him! “How disgusting!”
she hissed between her teeth, as she entered her own
richly cushioned seat, and opened her velvet-bound prayer
book. Precious little of the sermon heard she that day,
for, turn which way she would, she still saw in fancy the
sweet young face of her rival; and it took but a slight
stretch of imagination to bring to view a costly house in
the far off “sunny south,” a troop of servants, a handsome,
noble husband, and the hated Ada the happy mistress
of them all! Before church was out, Lucy was really
sick, and when at home in her room, she did not refuse
the bowl of herb tea which Berintha kindly brought
her, saying “it had cured her when she felt just so.”
The morning of the wedding came, and though Lucy
had determined not to be present, yet as the hour approached
she felt how utterly impossible it would be for
her to stay away; and when at half past eight the doors
were opened, she was among the first who entered the
church, which in a short time was filled. Nine rang
from the old clock in the belfry, and then up the broad
aisle came the bridal party, consisting of Mr. and Mrs.
Graham, Charlie and Anna, Mrs. Harcourt, or Mrs. Linwood,
as we must now call her, St. Leon, and Ada.
“Was there ever a more beautiful bride?” whispered
Bessie Lee; but Lucy made no answer, and as soon as
almost in need of some more catnip tea!
In the eleven o'clock train St. Leon with his bride and
her mother started for New Haven, where they spent a
delightful week, and then returned to S—. A few
days were passed at the house of Mr. Graham, and then
they departed for their southern home. As we shall not
again have occasion to speak of them in this story, we will
here say that the following summer they came north, together
with Jenny and Cousin Frank, the latter of whom
was so much pleased with the rosy cheeks, laughing eyes,
and playful manners of Bessie Lee, that when he returned
home, he coaxed her to accompany him; and again was
there a wedding in St. Luke's, and again did Miss Carson
make the bridal outfit, wishing that all New Orleans gentlemen
would come to S— for their wives.
10. CHAPTER X.
A SURPRISE.
“Reuben,” said Grandma Dayton to her son, one evening
after she had listened to the reading of a political
article for which she did not care one fig, “Reuben, does
thee suppose Dr. Benton makes a charge every time he
calls?”
“I don't know,” said Mr. Dayton; “what made you
ask that question?”
“Because,” answered grandma,—and her knitting needles
rattled loud enough to be heard in the next room—
“because, I think he calls mighty often, considering that
that he and Berintha have a good many private talks!”
The paper dropped from Mr. Dayton's hand, and “what
can you mean?” dropped from his lips.
“Why,” resumed grandma, “every time he comes, he
manages to see Berintha alone; and hain't thee noticed
that she has colored her hair lately, and left off caps?”
“Yes; and she looks fifteen years younger for it; but
what of that?”
Grandma, whose remarks had all been preparatory to
the mighty secret she was about to divulge, coughed,
and then informed her son that Berintha was going to be
married, and wished to have the wedding there.
“Berintha and the doctor! Good!” exclaimed Mr.
Dayton. “To be sure, I'll give her a wedding, and a
wedding dress, too.”
Here grandma left the room, and after reporting her
success to Berintha, she sought her grand-daughters, and
communicated to them the expected event. When Lucy
learned of her cousin's intended marriage, she was nearly
as much surprised and provoked as she had been when
first she heard of Ada's.
Turning to Lizzie, she said, “It's too bad! for of
course we shall have to give up all hopes of the doctor's
money.”
“And perhaps thee'll be the only old maid in the family,
after all,” suggested grandma, who knew Lucy's weak
point, and sometimes loved to touch it.
“And if I am,” retorted Lucy, angrily, “I hope I
shall have sense enough to mind my own business, and
not interfere with that of my grandchildren!”
Grandma made no answer, but secretly she felt some conscientious
scruples with regard to Lucy's grandchildren!
As for Berintha, she seemed entirely changed, and flitted
“an old fool, trying to ape sixteen.” With a change of feelings,
her personal appearance also changed, and when she
one day returned from the dentist's with an entire set of
new teeth, and came down to tea in a dark, fashionably
made merino, the metamorphose was complete, and grandma
declared that she looked better than she ever had before
in her life. The doctor, too, was improved, and though
he did not color his hair, he ordered six new shirts, a
new coat, a new horse, and a pair of gold spectacles!
After a due lapse of time, the appointed day came, and
with it, at an early hour, came Cousin John and Elizabeth
Betsey, bringing with them the few herbs which Berintha,
at the time of her removal, had overlooked.
These Bridget demurely proposed should be given to
Miss Lucy, “who of late was much given to drinking
catnip.” Perfectly indignant, Lucy threw the herbs, bag
and all, into the fire, thereby filling the house with an
odor which made the asthmatic old doctor wheeze and
blow wonderfully, during the evening.
A few of the villagers were invited, and when all was
ready, Mr. Dayton brought down in his arms his white-faced
Lizzie, who imperceptibly had grown paler and
weaker every day, while those who looked at her as she
reclined upon the sofa, sighed, and thought of a different
occasion when they probably would assemble there. For
once Lucy was very amiable, and with the utmost politeness
and good nature, waited upon the guests. There was a
softened light in her eye, and a heightened bloom on her
cheek, occasioned by a story which Berintha, two hours
before, had told her, of a heart all crushed in its youth,
and aching on through long years of loneliness, but which
was about to be made happy by a union with the only object
it had ever loved! Do you start and wonder?
for the second time breathed the marriage vow, was the
same who, years before, won the girlish love of Berintha
Dayton, and then turned from her to the more beautiful
Amy Holbrook, finding, too late, that all is not gold that
glitters? It is even so, and could you have seen how
tightly he clasped the hand of his new wife, and how
fondly his eye rested upon her, you would have said that,
however long his affections might have wandered, they
had at last returned to her, his first, best love.
11. CHAPTER XI.
LIZZIE.
Stand a mourning, funeral train,
While for her, redeemed thus early,
Tears are falling now like rain.
Hopes are crushed and hearts are bleeding;
Drear the fireside now, and lone;
She, the best loved and the dearest,
Far away to heaven hath flown.
Long, long, will they miss thee, Lizzie,
Long, long days for thee they'll weep;
And through many nights of sorrow
Memory will her vigils keep.
In the chapter just finished, we casually mentioned that
Lizzie, instead of growing stronger, had drooped day by
day, until to all, save the fond hearts which watched her,
she seemed surely passing away. But they to whom her
presence was as sunlight to the flowers, shut their eyes to
them. Oftentimes, during the long winter nights,
would Mr. Dayton steal softly to her chamber, and kneeling
by her bedside, gaze in mute anguish upon the wasted
face of his darling. And when from her transparent
brow and marble cheek he wiped the deadly night-sweats,
a chill, colder far than the chill of death, crept over his
heart, and burying his face in his hands he would cry,
“Oh, Father, let this cup pass from me!”
As spring approached, she seemed better, and the father's
heart grew stronger, and Lucy's step was lighter, and
grandma's words more cheerful, as hope whispered, “she
will live.” But when the snow was melted from off the
hillside, and over the earth the warm spring sun was shining,
when the buds began to swell and the trees to put
forth their young leaves, there came over her a change so
fearful, that with one bitter cry of sorrow, hope fled forever;
and again, in the lonely night season, the weeping
father knelt and asked for strength to bear it when his
best loved child was gone.
“Poor Harry!” said Lizzie one day to Anna, who was
sitting by her, “Poor Harry, if I could see him again;
but I never shall.”
“Perhaps you will,” answered Anna. “I wrote to
him three weeks ago, telling him to come quickly.”
“Then he will,” said Lizzie; “but if I should be dead
when he comes, tell him how I loved him to the last, and
that the thought of leaving him was the sharpest pang I
suffered.”
There were tears in Anna's eyes as she kissed the cheek
of the sick girl, and promised to do her bidding. After
a moment's pause, Lizzie added, “I am afraid Harry is
not a christian, and you must promise not to leave him
shall see him.”
Anna promised all, and then as Lizzie seemed exhausted,
she left her and returned home. One week from that day
she stood once more in Lizzie's sick-room, listening, for
the last time, to the tones of the dying girl, as she bade
her friends adieu. Convulsed with grief, Lucy knelt by
the bedside, pressing to her lips one little clammy hand,
and accusing herself of destroying her sister's life. In
the farthest corner of the room sat Mr. Dayton. He
could not stand by and see stealing over his daughter's
face the dark shadow which falls but once on all. He
could not look upon her, when o'er her soft, brown eyes
the white lids closed forever. Like a naked branch in
the autumn wind, his whole frame shook with agony, and
though each fibre of grandma's heart was throbbing with
anguish, yet, for the sake of her son, she strove to be
calm, and soothed him as she would a little child. Berintha,
too, was there, and while her tears were dropping
fast, she supported Lizzie in her arms, pushing back from
her pale brow the soft curls, which, damp with the moisture
of death, lay in thick rings upon her forehead.
“Has Harry come?” said Lizzie.
The answer was in the negative, and a moan of disappointment
came from her lips.
Again she spoke: “Give him my bible,—and my curls;
—when I am dead let Lucy arrange them,—she knows
how,—then cut them off, and the best, the longest, the
brightest is for Harry, the others for you all. And tell
—tell—tell him to meet—me in heaven—where I'm—going—going.”
A stifled shriek from Lucy, as she fell back, fainting,
told that with the last word, “going,” Lizzie had gone to
heaven!
An hour after the tolling bell arrested the attention of
many, and of the few who asked for whom it tolled,
nearly all involuntarily sighed and said, “Poor Harry!
Died before he came home!”
It was the night before the burial, and in the back parlor
stood a narrow coffin containing all that was mortal
of Lizzie Dayton. In the front parlor Bridget and another
domestic kept watch over the body of their young
mistress. Twelve o'clock rang from the belfry of St.
Luke's church, and then the midnight silence was broken
by the shrill scream of the locomotive, as the
eastern train thundered into the depot. But the senses
of the Irish girls were too profoundly locked in sleep
to heed that common sound; neither did they hear the
outer door, which by accident had been left unlocked,
swing softly open, nor saw they the tall figure which
passed by them into the next room,—the room where
stood the coffin.
Suddenly through the house there echoed a cry, so
long, so loud, so despairing, that every sleeper started
from their rest, and hurried with nervous haste to the
parlor, where they saw Harry Graham, bending in wild
agony over the body of his darling Lizzie, who never before
had turned a deaf ear to his impassioned words of
endearment. He had received his sister's letter, and
started immediately for home, but owing to some delay,
did not reach there in time to see her alive. Anxious to
know the worst, he had not stopped at his father's house,
but seeing a light in Mr. Dayton's parlors, hastened
thither. Finding the door unlocked, he entered, and on
seeing the two servant girls asleep, his heart beat quickly
shock which awaited him, when on the coffin and her
who slept within it his eye first rested. He did not faint,
nor even weep, but when his friends came about him with
words of sympathy, he only answered, '`Lizzie, Lizzie,
she is dead!”
During the remainder of that sad night, he sat by the
coffin pressing his hand upon the icy forehead until its
coldness seemed to benumb his faculties, for when in the
morning his parents and sister came, he scarcely noticed
them; and still the world, misjudging ever, looked upon
his calm face and tearless eye, and said that all too lightly
had he loved the gentle girl, whose last thoughts and
words had been of him. Ah, they knew not the utter
wreck the death of that young girl had made, of the bitter
grief, deeper and more painful because no tear-drop
fell to moisten its feverish agony. They buried her, and
then back from the grave came the two heart-broken men,
the father and Harry Graham, each going to his own
desolate home, the one to commune with the God who
had given and taken away, and the other to question the
dealings of that providence which had taken from him
his all.
Days passed, and nothing proved of any avail to win
Harry from the deep despair which seemed to have settled
upon him. At length, Anna bethought her of the
soft, silken curl which had been reserved for him. Quickly
she found it, and taking with her the bible, repaired to
her brother's room. Twining her arms around his neck,
she told him of the death-scene, of which he before had
refused to hear. She finished her story by suddenly holding
to view the long, bright ringlet, which once adorned
the fair head now resting in the grave. Her plan was
successful, for bursting into tears, Harry wept nearly two
found bathed in tears, and bending over Lizzie's
bible, which now was his daily companion.
Lucy, too, seemed greatly changed. She had loved her
sister as devotedly as one of her nature could love, and for
her death she mourned sincerely. Lizzie's words of love
and gentle persuasion had not been without their effect,
and when Mr. Dayton saw how kind, how affectionate and
considerate of other people's feelings his daughter had become,
he felt that Lizzie had not died in vain.
Seven times have the spring violets blossomed, seven
times the flowers of summer bloomed, seven times have the
autumnal stores been gathered in, and seven times have the
winds of winter sighed over the New England hills, since
Lizzie was laid to rest. In her home there have been few
changes. Mr. Dayton's hair is whiter than it was of old,
and the furrows on his brow deeper and more marked.
Grandma, quiet and gentle as ever, knits on, day after
day, ever and anon speaking of “our dear little Lizzie,
who died years ago.”
Lucy is still unmarried, and satisfied, too, that it should
be so. A patient, self-sacrificing christian, she strives to
make up to her father for the loss of one over whose
memory she daily weeps, and to whose death she accuses
herself of being accessory. Dr. Benton and his rather
fashionable wife live in their great house, ride in their
handsome carriage, give large dinner parties, play chess
after supper, and then the old doctor nods over his evening
paper, while Berintha nods over a piece of embroidery,
intended to represent a little dog chasing a butterfly,
else, and for anything else as that.
Two years ago a pale young missionary departed to
carry the news of salvation to the heathen land. Some
one suggested that he should take with him a wife, but
he shook his head mournfully, saying, “I have one wife
in heaven.” The night before he left home, he might
have been seen, long after midnight, seated upon a grassy
grave, where the flowers of summer were growing.
Around the stone which marks the spot, rose bushes have
clustered so thickly as to hide from view the words there
written, but push them aside and you will read, “Our
darling Lizzie.”
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