Lo! they muster—lord and lady—Brow of pride and cheek of bloom,Pointed beard and tresses shady—Velvet robe and waving plume.Henry William Herbert.
Lo! they muster—lord and lady—Brow of pride and cheek of bloom,Pointed beard and tresses shady—Velvet robe and waving plume.Henry William Herbert.
Lo! they muster—lord and lady—
Brow of pride and cheek of bloom,
Pointed beard and tresses shady—
Velvet robe and waving plume.
Henry William Herbert.
Weeks passed on, and a round of festive entertainments took place in the mansion of Gen. Lincoln. In all these Charles Lincoln mingled with a discontented and gloomy air of abstraction.
Georgiana’s natural gayety seemed somewhat dimmed by this change in her brother. Their society consisted of theofficers of the fort, but it was nevertheless of a kind to be grateful and pleasing to one of her temperament; and her predilections had furthermore been awakened in favor of a gallant young general in the service—so that there was still a source of interest to her unconnected with the brother, whose strange moodiness still gave her pain.
The fair colonist continued to decline mingling with the family, though with a gentle steadfastness that her friend might not at any time have found it difficult to disarm; but she did not insist, lest she should give pain to the sensitive nature of the timid and heart-sick stranger.
It was on a pleasant evening in June that, by the open window of Georgiana Lincoln’s apartment, Grace Bartlett was sitting languidly. Her thoughts were evidently of the past—for at intervals the faint color would fade from her cheeks, and an expression of deep mental pain pass over her countenance—her soft eyes assuming a fixed look, as if her remembrances were fraught with agony. As she sat in the dim twilight in that state, her thoughts broke forth into pensive song, and she almost unconsciously chanted the words,
Oh, the home of my childhood! my desolate heart!Its merciless loss bids the warm tears to start.
Oh, the home of my childhood! my desolate heart!Its merciless loss bids the warm tears to start.
Oh, the home of my childhood! my desolate heart!Its merciless loss bids the warm tears to start.
Oh, the home of my childhood! my desolate heart!
Its merciless loss bids the warm tears to start.
Her voice gradually died away, and by degrees she closed her eyes and slumbered. And now naught was heard save the gentle breeze waving the branches outside the window near which she reclined. But ere her tones ceased, they had reached other ears.
Charles Lincoln had stretched his lazy length on one of the couches in the balcony below; and those musical tones came to him laden with associations of other days—of a brief but transient period of bliss. With a magic power they arrested his attention, and he continued to ponder on them long after they had ceased, until he was filled with an ardent curiosity to behold once more the young stranger of whom he had caught a glimpse on the evening of his return, and whose position in his father’s house had afterward been described to him by his sister.
Whilst his curiosity was thus at work, his sister approached him, accompanied by the young officer above referred to, with whom she had been enjoying an evening stroll.
“Georgiana,” said her brother, starting up to meet her, and drawing her aside, “can you not prevail on your fair colonial guest to appear at the masquerade this evening? I am dying to see her, for the melody of her voice, just now wafted to my ears on the air, has reminded me of one who was dear to me, and is lost forever. I would fain hear its tones in conversation.”
“I have heretofore refrained from urging it on poor Grace to appear in the drawing-room,” replied the young lady; “she seemed so averse to the mentionof such a thing. But I have do doubt that I could bring her yielding nature to comply, if I were to put the effort in the light of a favor toward me, whom she loves as a sister. It might do her good, too, poor thing, if she could only be induced to make the exertion. It shall be as you wish, dear brother; you may depend upon me.”
A few hours afterward more than ordinary excitement was passing in the mansion. A masquerade was given to the officers—and the scene was gay and picturesque. The main wing was lighted up, and gay with the festivities. The sounds of merriment and laughter were heard.
Grace Bartlett had at length yielded to the request of her hostess that she would be present, and had quietly submitted to be attired in a graceful robe of India Muslin, so transparent in its texture as to look like gauze. Her beautiful hair received a new grace from the single whitecamellia with its drooping bud, which gleamed like a star amid those golden tresses, so purely, so freshly beautiful, that it seemed a fit emblem of her it adorned.
Georgiana Lincoln appeared a fairy vision of beauty and brightness; the diamonds sparkling among her shining braids, and the graceful folds of her lace robe falling around her like drapery around a Grecian statue.
The masqueraders were intent on their amusement as the two females entered. Then, for a few moments, all merriment ceased, and murmurs of undisguised admiration went round. The Puritan was seated at once by her friend in a recess upon a couch raised a little above the floor, and immediately after Miss Lincoln proceeded to mix among the company. In a moment, a gentleman of elegant figure and handsome face pressed forward, and saluted her with markedempressement. “My dear Miss Lincoln, to-night carries me back to London refinement and fashion—dress— scenery—company—beauty—fascination. This evening will be impressed on our English hearts indelibly, to the utter forgetfulness of our rusticated state in these American forests.”
“Do be grateful, then,” the lady answered, “to me for giving you some taste of London and its fashion. Papa is much too solemn for any thing but those great, pompous dinners, which Idetest.”
“But tell me,” rejoined her companion, “how did you induce that lovely flower” (and he turned his masked visage toward Grace Bartlett) “to shed its perfume on our scentless hearts?”
“By exhausting all that irresistible eloquence of which you speak so highly,” she replied; “for I recognize my complimentary acquaintance, Lieut. R——.”
“Indeed! Well, she is perfectly lovely, and with a touch of sadness so interesting,” said the gentleman. “I’ll exert myself to flirt with her.”
“I am not quite sure you will find that task so easy as you imagine,” was the laughing rejoinder.
“Very likely,” responded Lieut. R. “But in a good cause I am prepared to go great lengths, and as she is very pretty I’ll take my chance at any rate.”
At that moment, another individual approached, and after the ordinary civilities of the evening, said to her gently, “Miss Lincoln, will you not walk on the gallery by moonlight?”
The words, as they were pronounced in a somewhat tremulous tone, sounded musically in her ear, and taking the arm of the speaker she proceeded with him to the place alluded to.
For one or two turns they promenaded in silence. The gentleman seemed strangely agitated. He tried to say something indifferent, but it would not do, and he plunged at once into the subject near his heart.
“I thought,” he said, hurriedly and timidly, “that I could have waited calmly the answer which I requested in the early part of this evening; but I overrated my own powers of endurance, and I come now to hear my doom from your lips. Speak to me, Georgiana; I have dared to hope that the regard I feel for you is not wholly unreturned, and that you prefer me above some others around you. Is this so, dear girl, or must I teach my heart to forego all its hopes of happiness, all those blissful feelings of which, until I knew you, I was ignorant. Oh! do not condemn me to disappointment,” he exclaimed, passionately. “Give me at least hope. Georgiana, dearest Georgiana, am I too presumptuous?”
He spoke with strong emotion, and his was a voice, when in deep persuasion, difficult to resist: his arm was still encircling his companion, and she had not removed it, as she heard that the happiness or misery of a life depended on her decision.
“Speak, dearest, but one little word,” urged her lover, in a whispered voice of intense suspense.
Georgiana did not speak that word, little as it was, but she lifted up her truthful face, and fixed her clear, dark orbs for one brief moment fully upon his, and the next instant that lovely head was bent down, and the rich, mantling blushes hidden on his bosom.
“It is enough, my own one,” murmured the enraptured suitor, in all the ecstasy of that instant of first accepted love.
At length, remembering that they had deserted the drawing-room very unceremoniously, they returned to find the company in some surprise at their absence, but their excuses soon proved satisfactory, and they at once mingled separately amongst the various guests.
Shortly after, Charles Lincoln sauntered languidly into the apartment, closely masked. On first entering, he had for a moment fixed an almost startled gaze of admiration upon the Puritan. To a close observer, deep emotion would have been discernible beneath that mask. But a powerful will struggled against the display of it, as, half concealed behind a pillar, he retreated to look more intently, and without being observed. He wished to discover whether or no his sense of vision had deceived him. But no—it must be she whom he beheld—the same grace in the drooping form, but how fragile did it appear; how painfully changed in the character of its loveliness were the faultless features of that face—when the hair, combed carelessly back from her brow, displayed their delicate outlines. Her countenancespoke with truth of the ravages sorrow had occasioned.
Lincoln gazed until he had convinced himself, rushed forward and reached the astonished girl: then tearing off his mask, he exclaimed, “Grace! dearest Grace, you live yet, and I find you in my father’s halls!”
The astonished and bewildered girl gave one cry, and fell fainting at his feet.
——
Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.The web is wove. The work is done.Gray.
Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.The web is wove. The work is done.Gray.
Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.
The web is wove. The work is done.
Gray.
It was on a lovely summer’s evening, rather more than ten years after the events last recorded, that two persons were sitting in the spacious drawing-room of a noble mansion in Canada, opening on a park. They had, it appeared by the lady’s attire, been walking, but as their conversation deepened in interest, the repose of home had again been unconsciously sought. She had thrown aside her bonnet, and as she sat, her face upturned to her male companion, her features disclosed a loveliness that would have irresistibly attracted attention. The repose of her features was so soft and gentle that the eye would have fallen there with the same delight, and turned away with the same regret which it experiences in regard to other things which are found to harmonize with its vision. In her the period of girlhood had merged into the epoch of woman’s maturity, when, nearer her prime than her bloom, she unites all the truth and freshness of early youth with those calm and more finished graces which come not to pass away, but to deepen and endure.
But one glance at the sweet Madonna countenance, the unequaled expression of the placid features, the golden hair, shaded now to something of a chestnut, will suffice for her recognition by all those whose interest in Grace Bartlett has sketched her image in their minds.
To the Grace Bartlett of our opening chapter, she bore indeed only the outward resemblance that the opening flower does to the early bud. But even as the full blown rose reveals the luscious scent and glowing beauty which the blossom contained, so did her character, as it now shone forth beneath the bright and dazzling sun of affluence, confirm and strengthen the promise of its dawn.
The gay, playful child of our first chapter, the timid, shrinking Puritan girl of our after history, was now the modestly dignified, though still retiring, wife of the Governor General of Canada. The pure and holy sentiments of religion which had formerly been spoken timidly, as hardly daring to find expression lest the high-born should mock or pity, were now avowed calmly, unostentatiously as they had been acted upon in the deep trials of her girlhood.
Her love for her husband was intense and absorbing, but it came not between herself and heaven. The fruits of her holy life were gentleness and self-denial, meekness and charity—plainly showing at whose feet she laid the offering of her heart.
In the polished circle in which she now moved, she had preserved within her that pure light which, when the sun is growing dim and waxing faint, alone can guide through the dark valley of the shadow of death. The heart of that lovely flower of a Puritan village—a heart that had throbbed and quivered at the faintest touch of kindness, and which a silken thread could lead in all other matters, had stood firm where her religion was concerned, and this very firmness had won her husband to her faith.
The importance which Frank Winthrop had acquired as the son of Gen. Lincoln, added to his personal merit—under the name of his adopted father, which he always retained, ignorant of his real origin, had attracted the attention of the government. He was soon employed in various situations of responsibility and importance. By the same progression in fortune which first elevated him, another and a later change had brought him in Canada to the rank of Governor General.
The conversation between the two had been continued for some time, when the voice of a young child was heard on the stair-case.
“Oh, there is my little bird singing,” exclaimed Grace Lincoln. She sprang to the door and returned, bearing in her arms a lovely boy, exquisitely fair, with deep blue eyes, and clustering curls of gold. The bright complexion and golden hair were hers, but his features were the miniature likeness of his handsome father at her side.
Over them we now drop the curtain, and in so doing, let them take their farewell of the reader.
———
BY CAROLINE F. ORNE.
———
Hid in the bosom of life-giving earth,In darkness and in silence deep and still,The buried seed to springing roots gives birth,That fix them in the mold with firmest will;Strong hold have they below there in the soilBefore the leaves upshoot them to the light,And beauty crowns the deep and hidden toilWith blossomed boughs that charm the gazer’s sight.So thou, oh soul, obscure and hidden long,Uncared for and unknown must bide thy time,And like the aspiring seed strike, deep and strong,Roots that shall bear thee upward in thy prime,So firm sustained, thou shalt the worthier beFor life’s fair flower that all men honor thee.
Hid in the bosom of life-giving earth,In darkness and in silence deep and still,The buried seed to springing roots gives birth,That fix them in the mold with firmest will;Strong hold have they below there in the soilBefore the leaves upshoot them to the light,And beauty crowns the deep and hidden toilWith blossomed boughs that charm the gazer’s sight.So thou, oh soul, obscure and hidden long,Uncared for and unknown must bide thy time,And like the aspiring seed strike, deep and strong,Roots that shall bear thee upward in thy prime,So firm sustained, thou shalt the worthier beFor life’s fair flower that all men honor thee.
Hid in the bosom of life-giving earth,
In darkness and in silence deep and still,
The buried seed to springing roots gives birth,
That fix them in the mold with firmest will;
Strong hold have they below there in the soil
Before the leaves upshoot them to the light,
And beauty crowns the deep and hidden toil
With blossomed boughs that charm the gazer’s sight.
So thou, oh soul, obscure and hidden long,
Uncared for and unknown must bide thy time,
And like the aspiring seed strike, deep and strong,
Roots that shall bear thee upward in thy prime,
So firm sustained, thou shalt the worthier be
For life’s fair flower that all men honor thee.
UPS AND DOWNS.
“I trust Mrs. Davidson is at last satisfied.”
“In what?”
“Why, have you not heard the news of the engagement of Maria with Henry Dawson?”
“No, I have not before. But when did it occur, and are you positive it is so?”
“As to the when, sometime within a day or two; and as to the positive, the lady herself is my authority.”
“She is certainly very fortunate with her daughters.”
“So she thinks, at least this time. But I am not clear that the three former connections with Law, Physic and Divinity were exactly to her mind.”
“Certainly no three men occupy more respectable positions for their age in the community than her three sons-in-law, and as she had no fortune to give with her daughters, she should be thankful.”
“I imagine few will be inclined to differ from you; but that very want of fortune causes her to be peculiarly alive to its advantages, and hence her delight at her daughter’s engagement to young Dawson.”
“Is he so very rich?”
“Not having any marriageable daughters of my own to dispose of, I never asked him for a schedule of his effects. But I supposed you to have been well posted on that point.”
“Me! Bless you, my dear—I never trouble myself about such matters. Why should you think so?”
“Oh, I know not. A mere random remark of mine. I thought I had some faint recollection of his flirtation with Laura last winter, and knowing your prudence, supposed you had made the necessary inquiries.”
“You are much mistaken. There never was any thing between them. He is music-mad, and used frequently to come to listen to Laura’s harp. I suppose he thought it but right therefore to show her some attention in public, and hence the world interpreted it into something else. But, I assure you, there was never any thing in it.”
“I never supposed there was. I always thought Laura was merely amusing herself. But how remarkably well she is looking to-night. Who is that distinguished looking man who is paying her such marked attention?”
“That is a Mr. Ernest, who has recently returned from abroad, and has come home a perfect virtuoso, and you know that Laura’s taste lies in the same way.”
“Yes, she certainly admires a mustache, for I notice that of late she encourages no one without that fashionable appendage.”
Whilst Miss Laura Bridgeman was listening complacently to the remarks of the mustached beau by her side, and her mother and Mrs. Grayson, a fashionable widow of no particular age, and childless, were discussing things as above, in another part of the room, where lights and music added to the witchery which bright eyes and lovely forms make, young Dawson was hanging over his newly betrothed.
In the meantime her mother was receiving the congratulations of troops of friends, for Henry Dawson was, in the phrase matrimonial, “the catch of the season.” He had long been an orphan—his fortune was large, his intellect fair and well cultivated, his person and address good, and his whole appearance decidedly gentlemanly and prepossessing. That he should have “fallen in love,” as the phrase goes, with his lively fiancée, none wondered, and save a few anxious mothers, who, like Mrs. Bridgeman, had marriageable daughters, all heartily congratulated him.
The family connection of Mrs. Davidson was most respectable; but left a widow, with limited means and a family of young daughters, she had been condemned to much and close economy to maintain appearances and give her daughters an education to fit them for their proper positions in the world. The three eldest were, as we have seen above, respectably married, and now it is not to be wondered that she rejoiced that her youngest was to be transferred from the narrow economy of her house to the comforts and luxuries which a wealthy husband could bestow.
Did our fair heroine entertain like views? They may have crossed her mind in some of her reveries, but they were but shadows. She had given a young, pure heart with all its rich, unworked mine of virgin gold, without one thought of earthly dross about it. She loved with all the ardent devotion of young love, the handsome, intelligent youth who wooed her with soft words and pleading looks. She loved him for what he was, or what she thought he was, and not for what he had. She knew that his love for her must be most disinterested, for she had naught but herself to give, and she was happy in the feeling of loving and of being beloved.
Oh, this love! what a strange power it exercises over the actions and the minds of the human race. What blindness it produces in our mental visions—how it changes defects into beauties, and magnifies ant-hillocks to mountains—what floods of blood and floods of ink it has shed in this world, and is doomed still to shed—how it makes virtue vice and vice virtue—how it lights the torch of discord, and yet throws around the soft and beaming light of harmony—how it makes wise men idiots, and converts brave men into cowards. In a word, how it agitates, distracts, soothes, but generally succeeds best in causing men to stultify themselves, at any rate for a given time.
The evening sped joyously on. Few envied, more rejoiced in the apparent future happiness, and, as it wastermed, rare good fortune of the bride elect, whose cheeks maintained a constant rivalry with the rich roses of the fragrant boquet, as time and again some sly inuendo or more open remark reached her ear. Her mother received the more direct congratulations which were lavished upon her, with a quiet ease, in which she endeavored to veil the entire satisfaction which the prospective nuptials afforded her. Thus almost all were pleased. The mother, that her maternal cares were so soon to cease, and the gay pleasure-seekers were satisfied that a new and splendid establishment would in another season be opened to them, and if a feeling of any kind crossed the heart of Laura Bridgeman, that the prize which she once thought within her grasp had fallen to another, she turned to her new admirer, and in the contemplation of his superb mustache forgot, or tried to do so, the vision of the beautiful establishment which had once flitted through her imagination.
Shift we the scene. A few months have passed—the gay festivities of the winter are over—summer now usurps her sway, and nature, decked in her holiday attire, woos to contemplation and quiet enjoyment. The magic words which were to fix for life the destinies of the fair Maria had been spoken; the nuptial benediction pronounced, and in a beautiful villa, a few miles removed from the city, she was passing the first weeks of her bridal life, a loved and loving wife. There are few things in the world more touching than the love of a young, pure wife. The feelings which she entertained for the lover were constrained by a sense of propriety, but now they may pour themselves forth unchecked, in one o’ergushing flood of tenderness. Then she must await his approach, now she may go forth to meet him—then she must check her feelings as they rose, lest, forsooth, she might be thought forward, indelicate. Now she may take the initiative, and her soft hand may push back the locks from the brow on which she may implant a kiss of pure, almost unearthly love. Now she may watch to gratify those little tastes or fancies which then were passed unnoticed.
And never were the gushings of a warm, devoted heart poured forth more tenderly than they were by Maria Dawson for her husband. Nor on his part was the devotion less entire. The villa had been fitted up in every way to gratify her taste and fancy; and between the ride, or the drive, or the wandering about the grounds or in the garden, or music and reading and conversation, the summer passed all too rapidly away, and she almost sighed when the frosts of autumn notified her to prepare to take possession of her luxurious mansion in the city.
Marriage seems to be necessary, as a general rule, to the full development of the characters of women. Circumstances of course have a large share in it, but still it seems almost necessary to the full development of the perfect character of woman that she should be seen in her double position of wife and mother. Germs which have lain dormant are then brought into life; new faculties are called into play; the disposition is fully unfolded, and she exhibits herself frequently in a new and entirely different light from what she was regarded in the days of her girlhood. The timid girl becomes self-reliant; far from being dependent on the views and wishes of those to whom she has been accustomed to look for counsel and guidance, she finds herself called upon to act and decide for others now dependent on her—this gives a vigor to her mind, a firmness to her views, a decision to her actions, which, without some such cause for their development, they would in all probability never have attained.
——
“Things look blue.”
“Yes; never saw such unpromising appearances.”
“The best paper in town was done yesterday at 2 per cent. per month,” pursued Mr. John Sharp to his brother broker Mr. Growlem, as they cogitated over their morning’s correspondence. “My letters throw out some inuendoes about certain houses heretofore considered undoubted,” pursued that gentleman, as with a keen glance he peered over his spectacles at his companion.
“Hum—don’t know. In such cases caution is desirable, and so don’t say much; but if stocks continue to fall as they have done for a few weeks past, shan’t consider any man undoubted unless I know him to be short of the whole list, and even then he may be caught.”
“As how, pray?” suggested his companion.
“By buying in before delivery day, and then finding his man smashed, gone, and he himself likely to be in the same pleasant position.”
“You always look at the bright side of things.”
“Certainly I do; especially when the prospect is so charming all round as it is now. Thank God I am pretty well up. I haven’t a contract that has not security up. ‘My man,’ you know, always required it. And as for any stocks I hold, why they are all paid for and I may as well hold on for better times, as I don’t see how I can better myself by putting them in some fellow’s note, who will, in all probability, pay just five cents in the dollar.”
“I am a good deal of your way of thinking. But if this crash goes on when will the revival come?”
“Just as soon as the banks break, and not before.”
“But how can their breakage benefit the matter? I confess my ignorance.”
“My dear fellow, considering your name and experience, I consider you very flat this morning. Are you so green as to think I mean them to stop, as you and I would if we could not meet our engagements. By no means. They will do no such vulgar thing as fail—they will merely suspend; and then, you know, as paper is cheap and engraving not very expensive, we shall have money as plenty as dirt; that is, as soon as presidents and cashiers can sign their names to pieces of paper promising to pay—in what? I don’t know. Do you? Certainly not in the ‘current coin of the realm.’ And yet, by the way, these promises will be the current coin. Mark what Isay. He that can hold on until this time will get through—plucked, ringed, well battered—but still he will get through. He that can’t must go to the wall, there to be ground between the upper and the nether mill-stone.”
The brokers parted. It was a time to make the stoutest heart quail. The commercial world was then going through one of those dreadful convulsions which so frequently happen to it, aggravated on this occasion by the most reckless, improvident and profligate expansion of the paper currency known for a century. The consequence was, that the fury of the storm fell upon the heads not of a portion only of the community, but upon the whole. Persons dependent upon the incomes arising from stock investments were suddenly cut off; and all classes, from the laborer deprived of the work which afforded him his daily pittance for the support of his family, upward, felt the blow. Stocks were tumbling down at from one to five per cent. a day; money was not to be had on securities which in ordinary times would have been more than ample, and universal distrust and dismay abounded.
How fared it in all this commotion with the personages of our story? They had been several years wedded, and heaven seemed to smile most benignantly on their union. Three lovely children were grouped around them. Every comfort, every luxury that wealth could procure were lavished by Henry Dawson on his young wife, whose loveliness appeared, in his eyes at least, to increase with each succeeding year. The girlish beauty had passed away, but the matronly grace and elegance and beauty which had succeeded, were only as yet the first full developments of the lovely bud of promise. Nothing had however occurred to test in any way the young mother’s character, and except when occupied with the young family in the nursery at home, she was to all outward appearance the polished, elegant woman of the world, one of fortune’s spoiled children. The richer qualities of head and heart, if indeed she possessed any, had never yet seen the light. Her husband was proud of her in every way—proud of the fine mind which her rich conversational powers showed; proud of the faultless taste which governed all the arrangements of her drawing-rooms and her a own personal appearance—but beyond these he knew nothing of her—nor perhaps did she of herself. The world flocked in crowds to her splendid balls, and gave her the tribute of admiration which her personal graces and loveliness demanded as their right. But this was all that the husband of her choice or the world in which she dwelt knew of Maria Dawson. Her full character was not yet developed, the circumstances had not arisen.
It was about the time of the conversation that we have recorded above, that Henry Dawson one day returned home rather earlier than was his habit. Maria was in the drawing-room when he entered. She noted that his brow was clouded, but this had been the case for several days; and when, on a former occasion, she had spoken to him of it, he had put her off with what she felt was but a pretext, and she determined to abstain from questioning until he was ready to give her his confidence. It had however worried her. Between them, since their marriage, confidence had been entire. They had no secrets from each other, and hence she argued this could not concern Henry alone or he would have communicated with her; the affairs of some friend which he was not at liberty to disclose even to her must be preying upon him, and she would wait until the cloud had been removed, or he was ready of his own accord to disclose it to her.
He had been standing by a table with his back turned to her for a few minutes, engaged apparently in an attentive examination of something on it, when he turned suddenly to her—
“Maria,” and his voice was wanting in all the softness with which he usually addressed her, and was pitched in the key-note of one who has some desperate communication to make—“Maria, you must nerve yourself for ill news. I am a ruined man,” he rather jerked out than said, and as he spoke the strong man sank into a chair by his side.
Not one word did she speak. She sat for a moment as one stunned by a sudden blow; then rising she passed softly to his side, and resting one hand on his shoulder, with the other she drew gently from his face the hands in which he strove to hide it, then stooping down pressed her lips upon his forehead.
“Cheer up, dear husband,” was her first words. “Poor though we may be in earth’s substances, yet in one thing are we still rich—our mutual love. Think not, dearest Henry, that for myself I care for all the glittering baubles around me, so that I still retain your love.” And again were those soft lips pressed upon his forehead, and a flood of tears relieved the anguish of his mind.
Think him not unmanly because he thus wept. This proud man who thus gave way, was in all probability one who on the field of strife could with curling lip, and flashing eye, and with sword or bat waving wildly o’er his head, have led a band of the most reckless and daring who ever trod a battle-field “to do or die;” could have again, as he had done that morning, met his fellow men with cheek unblanched and eye unwandering, and with a ready smile upon his lip, whilst the vulture was gnawing at his heart. But this conduct of his wife, so pure, so heavenly, so devoted—it was too much for his manhood—it touched the inmost chords of deepest sensibility within him, and the strong man wept.
Maria, for a few moments, did not attempt to assuage or interrupt him. She knew that nature was thus affording a relief to his pent-up and restrained feelings, but as soon as the paroxysm began to subside again she leaned over him, and said softly to him—
“Cheer up, dearest Henry. Be not so cast down, love. The worst cannot be so bad as your imagination paints; or let the worst be as bad as may be, it is light to me compared with your distress. Cheer up then, dearest—remember we have others beside ourselves to care for, and if you allow yourself to be so overcome you will be unable to do aught for them.”
He raised an arm, passed it round her waist, and drawing her toward him pressed her to his heart.
“Perhaps, Maria, I should rejoice in my calamities, as it has served to show me what an angel I posses in you.”
“Oh no,” she replied, anxious to divert his thoughts; “not an angel, only a loving, trusting wife. Remember, dearest, I took you for worse as well as better, for poorer as well as richer, and would you have me break my promise? Fie on you, Henry, I thought you had more confidence in my veracity.”
“Nay, Maria, speak not thus to me; treat me not thus. Had you met my avowal with a cold look, or with words ofworldly wisdom have arraigned me for my conduct, I could have borne all like a man; but now—thus—such conduct has unmanned me—and our children, too, dearest! When I think of them and of you—and of what my madness—my folly has deprived them and you—it almost distracts me.”
“But, my dear husband, you still can give to your children the bright legacy of an untarnished name, and your wife will bear it more proudly for your sake, than in the days of your greatest prosperity.”
“Yes, Maria, I have, thank Heaven, that consolation. Poor though we are, our name is untarnished by any act of mine. Madman, fool, I may have been, but not a knave.”
“Unburthen yourself to me, Henry, and tell me all, I am a child in matters of business, I know. Your kindness has never let me suspect that any thing was wrong, or that you were at all embarrassed for money, since I have been your wife. Nay, I did not even know that you were engaged in business at all, but thought the income from your property supported us.”
“So it did for a time, and so it should and would have continued to have done but for my own folly—I always lived up to the extreme limit of my income—but extravagance begets extravagance. I was proud of you, your beauty, your accomplishments, your acquirements, and I determined that no money should be spared to place you in possession of every thing your fancy or your taste might dictate. It gratified my vanity to see you arrayed in the richest robes and glittering in the most costly gems. It also gratified the same mean passion, for such I now admit it to be, that your balls and parties should be the most elegant, the dinners and suppers of the house the mostrecherchéin all respects our society could boast. You appeared to take pleasure in them, and hence I rushed madly on until I found my fortune seriously impaired. What should I have done? Prudence and propriety now tell me, have retrenched at once and have gone to you and told you all. In fact they told me so then, and the struggle between them and false pride might have resulted in their favor and spared us this, but for one thing—I never was a gambler. I mean by that, I never ventured at games of chance any sum whose loss would have been worth a passing thought. But whilst I was thus hesitating, I heard among the men with whom I associated, how much this one and that one had cleared in a short time by ”operations“ in certain stocks. This was not gambling. It was the result of an observation of the probable rise and fall of the stock-market. It is unnecessary to my tale, love, to enter into the minute particulars, or to explain at length what is meant by the phrase ‘bulls and bears;’ suffice it to say, I saw the best men in the community, men esteemed in all the various relations of society, vestrymen of churches, elders, trustees, church members, all deeply embarked in these transactions, and of their morality then there could be no doubt, nor do I now mean to impugn it. I heard of the gains of different individuals—Iheard nothing of any man’s losses. I consulted a broker, a man of keen business habits, and like almost all the members of the broker’s board, of highly honorable character in his avocation. I pointed out to him what I wanted. For the first time I heard of something beside profits. He pointed out to me clearly all the dangers of the business, and how immeasurably greater they were to one who, like myself, had been educated to spend money, not to make it. Few, he told me, were in the long run successful speculators, and they were usually men of cool, calculating temperament, sagacious and far-seeing in watching the signs of the times, and of an iron-nerve that nothing could shake; and yet, he said, such were the uncertainties, that at times even the most experienced of such men were deceived. I left him fully intending to avoid the dangerous experiment—come to you, and tell you all. Unfortunately, I fell in with a friend who had just embarked in an operation. We had talked the matter over before, we did so again, and before we parted I had given an order to another broker to operate for me. I was successful. This was sufficient. Several other small operations followed, in which I had continued success. I soon formed an exalted opinion of my own judgment; voted the broker who had advised me ‘an old granny’ and embarked much more deeply. Losses now began to accrue—the embarrassments of the times thickened; I fancied them only temporary and that they would soon pass away—I plunged in more deeply and madly than ever, and the result has been, that having to-day settled all my contracts, save the furniture of our houses, our plate, and your jewels, we have not a thousand dollars upon earth.”
He went through his tale firmly, almost calmly. When it was finished, he looked into his wife’s face with a smile so ghastly, so unnatural, that an ice chill fell upon her heart. Rallying in a moment, she again bent to caress him, and then said to him,
“Thank you, dearest Henry, that I now know all. It is a melancholy tale; and how much pain might you have spared yourself, had you known me better. Think you that I cared so much for the splendor with which you have surrounded me or the glittering baubles with which you have decked me, as to have enjoyed the one or worn the other, had I known all I now do. Oh! why, Henry, was not confidence in me so entire as to have advised with me concerning these things. If husbands would only counselin such matters freely with their wives; if the situation of their affairs was always freely and fully laid before them, much might be spared. I rejoiced in the splendor, I decked myself in costly robes and rich jewels, more from the pleasure I saw that my doing so gave you, than from any positive pleasure they afforded me; though,” she added, with a faint attempt at a smile, “jewels and velvets are things which, in common with most women, I do not affect to despise. But the jewel which I value above all others, is my husband’s love—to see him happy, is to me a source of more exquisite enjoyment than all the splendor earth can give. But, I repeat, cheer up, dear Henry; the past is gone beyond recall, leaving behind it but the lessons of experience which it gives—from them we can derive wisdom. The future is all before us—we are young—trustful in each other—blessed with those objects which will call forth all our energies. There must be no more false pride. My jewels, all, save one or two tokens of your young love, our plate and rich furniture will give us something on which to start afresh in life. Our experience of the past must be our beacon for the future. Compose yourself, dearest. Leave the management of these trifles to me. You must let me have a beginning,” she continued, seconding her appeal with a kiss that was irresistible, as she saw a refusal gathering on his brow. “Keep yourself quiet and contented for a few days, and see how well I will manage. Add now, dearest, let us go see the children.”
Our heroine had not yet fully developed—the process was but commencing.
——
Pass we by the scenes of the few succeeding days. In them, however, Maria was all efficiency. Her cheerfulness and the buoyancy of her spirits seemed never to forsake her, at least in her husband’s presence. She had determined that no act, nor look, nor word of her’s should add to the poignancy of the regret, almost remorse, which agitated him. When alone, the serenity of that young brow might be clouded; but it was more from anxious thought for the future, than from regret for the past; or a tear might dim the brightness of her eye, as she bent over her sleeping children, and thought of their altered prospects.
Fortunately there were no debts, and, best of all, no small debts. No tradesman, no mechanic suffered from this mishap. There was enough left to settle all these accounts, and the stock contracts had all been “met;” but there was nothing left, save the furniture of the two mansions. How rapid was her decision on this point. All, every thing, save the most necessary articles, were to go—satin, damask, and velvet, were to be replaced by chintz; rosewood by pine; lounges, and ottomans, and presentation chairs were to be as if they never had been; and if a few good engravings were laid aside with a few cherished family portraits to humanize their new home, wherever it might be, costly paintings were parted with without a sigh. The rich China and costly plate—“Why, certainly, my dear; I am sure things will eat just as well off of Liverpool ware; and as for all that glass, I shall be glad to be rid of the constant dread I had of having it broken, and the set ruined.”
And thus did Maria meet all the objections of her husband as they rose one by one. Two things, however, she determined to keep to the last—one, her husband’s books—the other, her own piano. She knew that be where they might, they would be a constant source of comfort to him; and in time, when, perhaps, they could not be conveniently replaced, they would be needed for the children.
But after all these things had been parted with, how were they to live. To live on the proceeds would be madness, as that would in a short time exhaust every thing; they neither of them had any expectations of future fortune, save from their own exertions. Dawson had been educated to no business, nor any profession; and that he had escaped being a mere profligate “about town” was regarded almost as a wonder by all. His refined native taste had alone saved him. Mere dissipation in its unrefined, undraperied vulgarity, had no charms for him; and he had sought refuge when very young in female society, and the indulgence of an unrestrained taste for general literature. He had never been a student—rather a literary epicure—tasting a mouthful here, and sipping a few drops there—but nowhere sitting down to that hearty meal of solid food by which alone true students are made.
It was, however, necessary that a decision of some kind should be made. On one thing he was resolved, and with a determination which nothing could shake. It was to leave the place where his former life had been passed. His pride was yet unbroken; he could not endure the thought of sinking back from that position in society which he had formerly filled. He could not endure the thought that his bright, his beautiful wife should be exposed to mortifications which always fall to the lot of those from whose side fortune has departed. He knew full well that the before concealed envy of many would now show itself at her expense—that she should be an object of affected pity and compassion from those who had greeted her appearance with applause, and had been followers in her train. Were they to seek a new home, they would be spared a thousand and one of those petty annoyances which none but those who have experienced them can appreciate. In a new sphere, they would start in an humble way, but then there would be no by-gones connected with their history. Come what else might, do what else they would, on this point he was unalterably determined; the what that was to be done, and the where it was to be, could not, however, be definitely determined upon until the results of the sale were known. He inclined for the west. To this his wife, backed by the influence of her own family, opposed a decided negative. The iron horse did not then course its way over the lofty mountains and through the dense forests and across the almost boundless prairies on which it now pursues its daily career. She dreadedthe deadly sickness to which all settlers in new countries are subject—the isolation from all society, which she knew must fall with such crushing weight upon one so long accustomed to it as was her husband—the want of schools, at which her young family could receive proper instruction—and, we must confess, she shrunk somewhat from the thought of being her own sole “help.” She did not count upon having about her, go where she might, a train of servants, but she knew herself physically incapable of being the sole servant to her family. She would, she knew, have to work, literally and physically, with her own hands—be, in all probability, her own nurse, seamstress, chamber-woman, arrange and manage all within doors—take care of the children, set out the table, keep the house in order, and superintend the cooking; but beyond this she knew herself unable to the task, and she was unwilling to undertake what she felt she could not accomplish. And then, too, should the dreaded sickness come on—but here the dismal prospect fancy conjured up before her did not assume so distinct a form—it was a dark, confused picture, like those of some of the so called “old masters,” in which the dark shadows are so deep, that they throw into complete obscurity all the light—if, indeed, there ever was any. And so two things were determined on. First, they would leave their former place of residence. And, secondly, that they would not go to the west.
But what was to be the pursuit? That was the rub. As we have said, Dawson had neither a professional nor a business education. The universal refuge for man, that of a tiller of the soil, was open to him; but then what knew he of farming pursuits? It is true he knew the difference between wheat and rye when he saw them in full head, but it is doubtful if he could distinguish either of them from grass or oats before they had reached that state. He could tell a scythe from a cradle, or a plough from a harrow; but how to use one or the other was to him a most profound mystery. What kind of a hand could he make at farming? There seemed, however, no other resource. He must make up his mind to do something; and no matter at what he went, he must be a beginner—a student. He was sickened of what is termed business, and he did not think it would be more difficult to learn to be a farmer, than it would be to become a lawyer or a doctor. Then, too, whilst the process of acquiring knowledge was going on, he would be acquiring something for the support of his family. It was true that whilst studying the law, the paths of literature were open to him, and he might do something with his pen. But then he was entirely a novice at writing for the public, and he had judgment sufficient to know that to succeed either as a lawyer or a literary man, he must devote himself exclusively to one or the other. The only resource, or at least the most available, seemed to be to await the issue of the sale, and invest the proceeds thereof in purchasing and stocking a moderate farm.
The day at last came; the fashionable world, and the unfashionable, too, flocked in crowds to those halls where taste and elegance had so long reigned. The examination of the various articles was over, and the stentorian lungs of the auctioneer were heard announcing,
“Ladies and gentlemen, the sale is about to commence, and we will begin, if you please, with the chamber furniture, and finish with the drawing-rooms and the glass and china.”
His skillful experience had taught him to reserve the more costly and rarer articles until the excitement of competition had warmed the bidders up to the necessary pitch. Dawson and Maria were neither of them present; but the watchful eye of her legal brother-in-law saw to every thing. There was much competition to obtain many articles; by some, as mementoes of the pleasant hours passed within those walls; by others, as anxious to exhibit them in their pretending but less fashionable saloons as articles of decided taste and elegance, from their having once belonged to the fashionable leader, Mrs. Dawson.
The sale was over—the sum total footed up—commissions and expenses deducted, and a very comfortable sum deposited in bank to the credit of Mr. Dawson. To this was to be added the amount derived from Maria’s jewels, which she actually succeeded in selling at about one half their original cost. This he wished her to keep as her own—but she refused; a common purse must be theirs—all, she said, but just a little, which she had, and which she intended to keep for “shoe and stocking” money, so she told him, adding playfully,
“You must let me have one secret from you, dear; and so don’t ask me, I beseech you, where my shoe and stocking money comes from.”
As she has no secrets with us, courteous reader, we may as well know. She rightly argued that satins, and brocades, and velvets, and such like, would be worse than useless to a farmer’s wife—and so she quietly disposed of them at a considerable sacrifice, but still for a very comfortable sum. She also argued that a suit of common fur would keep her quite as warm as her splendid set of marten, the envy of one half the town, and much more appropriate—and so the martens followed the brocades, and the velvets, and the jewels. From these resources she was enabled to realise enough to keep herself and her children not only in shoes and stockings, but also in all other clothing for a considerable time after the stock at present on hand was exhausted, without drawing on the resources of the farm.
The next thing was to purchase the farm. There were certain requisites which it might perhaps be difficult to find. At last, however, a place was hit upon. It was not exactly in its appearance what either our hero or heroine would have selected with an eye to picturesque beauty. There was no varied hill or dale—no high hillherefrom which such a beautiful view of such a lovely valley could be seenthere. It was in a flat country, without the slightest claims to beauty; but then it was healthy, the water good and pure—the fields well fenced and well watered—the soil of a fair natural character, in a verytolerable state of cultivation. A landing-place where a steamboat touched daily, affording ready communication with the city—a village at the landing, where a store, a good doctor, and a church were to be found. These were considered as a most excellent substitute for the want of the picturesque. The house was in the prevailing style of the neighborhood—without, plain clap-boards, from which the white-wash in many places had worn or washed off, leaving the dark boards below visible in their native beauty. The windows of a small size, with close wooden shutters, which had been, years since, painted of a color intended to be green, but which now was decidedly nondescript. A low porch covered the two or three steps that led to the front door. The court-yard was a small inclosure, through which a path led from a gateway in the fence by one side of the house, and which opened into a lane which led into the high-road. Within, a hall ran through the middle of the house. On either side were doors, leading on one hand into two rooms, called the front and back parlor; and on the other, into a room called the dining-room, and also into the kitchen. From the door of the kitchen the stairs ascended, leading to two or three tolerably comfortable rooms above, and to as many as intolerably uncomfortable, at least in the eyes of the new occupants. Beyond the kitchen was a shed, which was intended to be shut in by large wooden shutters, in which was the pump, and where the washing and other heavy kitchen-work could be transacted. This was certainly a change for both from their splendid town-mansion and luxurious villa.
The interior of the mansion was no more prepossessing than its exterior; and Maria shrugged her shoulders and looked round with a face of dismay as she contemplated the dreary prospect before her when she arrived to take possession of her new home. There was no time, however, to waste in repining. Boxes were to be opened, trunks unpacked, and places prepared in which to sit, eat, and sleep for the next few days, until things could be got somewhat to right. As for Dawson, he muttered some not very inaudible imprecations on the madness and folly which had brought them to this.
“Now, Henry, do, dear, just take a hatchet and pry off the top of that box. It has the matresses in it, and I’ll just get them out and you shall fix up the children’sbedstead, and let them and the baby have some place to lie down upon. I do declare,” she added, laughing, “nature must have intended you for a carpenter, you have gotten it off so nicely,” as, after some desperate struggles with the nails, he at last succeeded in prying off the top of the box.
“And there,” she added, “are the bedsteads tied up yonder; no fear of their being damaged by exposure, which is a great advantage. Do, dear, just carry them up stairs, whilst I get the bed-linen out of this great trunk in which it is packed up”—and Dawson, stimulated by the example of his wife, gave up something which sounded very like an occasional objurgation of a certain fool, meaning thereby himself, and took to working. The bedsteads were soon carried to their sleeping chamber and set up—the matresses laid on them, and the nimble fingers of our heroine soon covered them with their snowy linen. All was in readiness for the time when the “Sandman” would come round among the children. In the meantime, with the aid of the assistants on the farm, the rest of the things had been unpacked, and chairs and tables stood in a confused medley about. They were all of the simplest and least costly kind, and formed a strong contrast to the splendid piano which, in all the glory of its rich rosewood case, now occupied its destined position in the front parlor.
Maria looked with a wistful eye on the scene of confusion. To attempt to reduce it was, she thought, like producing order out of chaos. It was unnecessary to attempt it to-day; and so she determined to rest for the residue of it, and take a view of the exterior. As she passed out of the front door for this purpose, holding little Maria by the hand and carrying the baby in her arms, she was met by Master Harry, as he was termed, to distinguish him from his father. His cap was gone, his nicely combed curls were in a glorious state of dishevelment, his clothes evinced a most intimate acquaintance with mother earth, as did his face and hands.
“Oh, mamma!” he exclaimed, his whole face glowing with excitement, “oh, mamma, do come and see what a nice pond there is out here to sail boats in. And see, mamma,” holding up a “mud-cake” as he spoke, “see what a nice cake I have made!” Although vexed that her darling, of whose locks, and clean complexion, and trim dress she had always been so proud, should present such an appearance, she yielded to his entreaties, and followed the child without the gate into the lane, where a mud-puddle of formidable dimensions at once explained the mystery of the pond and the beautiful cakes he had been engaged in concocting.
“And see, mamma,” he added, clapping his hand, and pointing to a swarm of yellow butterflies which were settling round the edge of the puddle, “see what bootiful birds, and whenever I get close up to them to catch them, they just fly away.”
“Happy child!” thought his mother; “to you the cares of life are unknown. Happier, doubtless, will you for some time be here, chasing your butterflies, careless of all else. But your time, too, must come”—and our heroine found herself almost sighing.
“But, Harry, my boy, listen to me. Mamma would rather you should not play out in this lane, and by this dirty puddle. See how dirty your hands, and face, and clothes all are; and it will give mamma a great deal of trouble to keep you clean if you do so.”
“But, mamma, I don’t care about being clean. I am sure it’s a great deal nicer to be dirty and play about this nice pond, than to be dressed up to go out and walk with Mrs. Harris, and Janey, and Maria, and the baby.”
“Yes, my dear, but you wont have Mrs. Harris and Janey to dress you, and keep you clean, and take you to walk any more.”
“Wont I? Oh, I’m so glad! Then I can run out here and get as dirty as I please—can’t I mamma?”
“I hope you will not—for you have nobody else now to wash you and keep you clean but mamma; and you don’t want to give her so much trouble, do you?”
“No, mamma; but I’m so glad you’re going to wash me, for you wont scrub so hard as Mrs. Harris did—she used to hurt so, sometimes.”
“I am afraid, my dear, I shall have to scrub a great deal harder than Mrs. Harris did, if you play out here and get so dirty.”
“Well, mamma, I’ll try not to; but say, mamma, I may come out and play here sometimes; it’s so nice.”
“I will see about it some other time; but come in with me and get ready for supper.”
——
The next few days were those of considerable physical toil to our friends. The care of the younger children had to be resigned to a young girl who had been taken to assist her maid of all work; and Harry found himself straying occasionally to his favorite puddle, which, much to his regret, became gradually smaller, until at last it entirely disappeared.
Those few days had, however, wrought a wonderful change in the appearance of things within the house; and it is astonishing what marvels a few dollars will effect in producing these results when directed by taste. A little paint, some neat but low priced wall-paper, a little white dimity, chintz, and a few yards of white muslin, with some matting on the floor, had effected true wonders. The family portraits and engravings relieved the nakedness of the walls; curtains of thin white muslin, tied up with some tasteful ribbon, gave an air of refinement to the otherwise decidedly vulgar windows, whilst the chintz and dimity covered with graceful folds many an otherwise plain and homely deal plank.
“I declare,” mused Maria to herself, “we are becoming quitepresentable, almost ready to receive company. Yet something seems wanting—I have it; there’s enough of that blue and fawn-colored chintz still left; I will get Henry to saw me off a couple of boxes of the right size—Sam shall bring me some wool to stuff them with, and I will have a pair of ottomans.”
No sooner thought than done. The boxes were hunted up, and found to suit exactly, except that they were a few inches too high.
“Henry, dear,” she said to her husband, when they had finished dinner, “wont you just take a saw and come and saw me off a piece from each of these boxes that are lying out there?”
“Yes—but what on earth do you want to do with them, Maria?”
“Never you mind, sir; you shall know all in good time. There now, dear—there—just saw six inches off from the length of each of them. Had not you better take a rule to measure them carefully? for I want them just of a heighth, and sawed off very smoothly.”
He did as he was required—placed the boxes in the designated place, and went out to superintend his men, and continue his lessons in the practical details of his new employment. As soon as he was gone, she brought her chintz, and was soon deep in all the mysteries of measuring and fitting. The side pieces were soon cut off to the desired sizes—the ready needle prepared them for fastening on; but she could do nothing with the seat until she had procured the wool. That was done by the farm-hand that evening; and as soon as her husband had gone out after breakfast, she was busily engaged in fitting the top and stuffing it. The upholstery work was completed to her entire satisfaction, and when her husband came in to tea, she said quietly to him,
“I want you to come into the parlor and listen to my music for a little time.”
This was always irresistible—he followed her in and prepared for his treat, when she said to him, “I have a great notion not to play a note for you, as you have not taken the slightest notice of my new ottomans.”
He looked his surprise, but following the direction of her eye, the new articles of furniture met his view.
“I suppose I am now enlightened as to what you wanted with those boxes, and to be sawed so carefully yesterday. But when, in Heaven’s name, Maria, do you find time to do all you do! Here are you, a delicately nurtured woman, attending to most of the details of the dairy—arranging chambers and sitting-rooms—nursing, making beds, sweeping, dusting, sewing, and what not; and now, to crown all, you must needs take to upholstering, as if you had not enough already to do.”
“I am sure,” she said, looking up at her curtaining “that latter is no new business. Learn, Henry, in regard to the time, the truth of the old adage, ‘when there’s a will, there’s a way.’I thought the room did not look quite furnished, and so I determined on them. They certainly are a great improvement to the room—andaren’t they sweet, dear?”
“They certainly are very creditable to your taste and handiwork. But,” stooping over, and pressing a kiss on her rich rosy lips, “you must take more care of yourself, dearest, or you will overdo the matter.”
“Don’t I look like a tender, delicate creature, that requires careful nursing? Oh, fie on you! I am afraid you have lost all your gallantry. I am very certain Maria Davidson’s cheek was never half so blooming when you used to pay it so many compliments. I am certainly at least five pounds heavier than I was when I came up here. The sun, too, is giving my complexion that darker hue you so much admire.”
“I admire brown complexions! When did you ever hear me say so?”
“I don’t know that I ever did. But then, you know, dear, Laura Bridgeman was a decided brunette.”
“Pshaw!” said Dawson, laughing; “not jealous,I trust, Maria, of the remembrance of my old flirtation with Laura.”
“Not very, sir,” she added, looking down demurely, “for, you know, when it happened I was a little girl that had not yet come out.”
“What a fortunate escape Laura, and her mamma would think she had made, if they could only see me now busily engaged in my shirt-sleeves, planting, digging, weeding, raking, learning to mow, in fine, learning to earn my own bread and that of those dearer to me than life.”
“I don’t feel at all sentimental in connection with Laura Bridgeman; and so,” she added, turning to the piano and striking up a gallope, “here’s something that lady would prefer at any time to sentiment.”
The piece finished, she at once changed the measure, and in a few moments her rich, full voice was heard in a song which was a peculiar favorite of her husband’s. The sound of the music attracted the children, who now came in, the youngest in his young nurse’s arms, to kiss papa good-night, whilst Maria prepared her baby for bed.
Whilst our heroine was thus active within doors, it must not be supposed that her husband was supine without. He was industriously learning the practical parts of his new vocation. He was engaged, the dandy of the pavé, the saloons and the clubs, learning, in his shirt-sleeves, to plough, to harrow, to mow, to dig, and, in fine, to do all that a hard-working farmer is compelled to do. He was aware that the head as well as the hand is necessary to direct aright the art of tillage, as any other art, and that a man may learn every thing concerning the rotation of crops, and all the rest of the art, and yet be deficient in the skill of an ordinary hand in the manual operations; but he thought it best to learn all, in order that in future he might direct all; and so he worked away under the tuition of one of his hired men, and was rapidly becoming a proficient. The hands had lost the softness and whiteness of the city dandy, and had put on that covering of brown which he condemned on the cheek of his wife, only that the shade was darker, and the hardening process had been so gone through with that blisters no longer troubled him.
There was much to do, too, to the exterior of the place, in order to make it harmonize with the now refined interior; so the garden was enlarged, and fruit of various kinds set out at the proper time, and in another year or so they had reason to calculate upon a great improvement in every thing. Time never flew more rapidly with the subjects of our story, not even during the ever-memorable first summer after their wedding. It is true they had but little society, but the active discharge of their duties required the greater portion of their time, and the few occasional half hours of idleness in the day-time, were moments which required no foreign assistance to render them pleasant. After the children were dispatched for the night, and the supper things washed up, and the breakfast-table all set out to be ready for the morning, they would indulge themselves in some music, and then Dawson would read aloud, whilst Maria’s nimble fingers repaired some rent which the clothes of the children might have suffered, or prepared some necessary habiliment.
The neighborhood was thickly settled with a class of comfortable well-to-do farmers, almost exclusively the owners of the farms they occupied, whilst the village of Euston was only a little more than a mile distant. The good people had not, however, called much upon them. Some were restrained by one cause or another, although since rumors of their former position in life having got afloat, curiosity was largely on the tiptoe to see how they could bear their change and get along. The men formed a good opinion of him, when they saw him take off his coat and go to work, as they said, “like a man who wasn’t ashamed of his business;” and they prophesied he would get along. What the females thought may be judged by the following conversation.
“Well, I do declare this is very nice, comfortable,” said Miss Maggie Chatterton, as she undid her bonnet-strings and threw off her shawl amidst a female group of neighbors who were assembled in the best parlor of a certain Mrs. Holmes.
“Oh, Miss Maggie,” shouted two or three juveniles, starting from their various posts about the room, “do tell us that story you promised us last week.”
“Presently, dears, but I want to have a little chat with your mothers first. Seen the newcomers yet, any of you? I mean those city people the Dawsons.”
“Yes,” said Miss Susan Bitterly, a staid single lady of no particular age. “I saw them both as I passed by their place yesterday, and can’t say I saw any thing particularly desirable about either of them. They say she has a piano. I wonder what she expects to do with it here?”
“Well, for my part,” said Mrs. Hardmoney, the portly wife of a well-to-do farmer in the neighborhood, “I don’t see what farmers’ wives have to do with them there sort of things. When I was a girl, we were taught another guess matter than to sit thumping pianys all day.”
“I think you’re rather hard on the poor young thing,” said kind, motherly Mrs. Holmes, as she smoothed down carefully her best dress, which she wore in honor of the occasion; “it must certainly be a hard thing for her to come to such a change, after having had every thing so comfortable about her all her life.”
“Well, for my part,” said Miss Chatterton, “I quite pity her. And they say she’s such a dear, sweet little thing—yes, children, I’ll be with you presently—and all the fault of her husband. Not that I ever heard she complained of him. By the way, Mrs. Holmes, how’s your husband’s rheumatism to-day? I’ve heard of a new remedy for it. Ah! my dear Mrs. Brown,” she added, turning to another of the party, “I saw Henry Cole only yesterday, and he told me they were all well at his father’s. But, as I was saying, they say it was all his fault—”