“IT must come some day; and come when it will, it will be hard to do, so we had best go at once, Sally. I shall have more trouble with Miss Isabel than you will with Miss Laura; for I am twice the favorite you are.” So said Fanny to her cousin, who had just turned to descend the staircase of Aldington Hall, where they had both lived since they were almost children, in attendance on the two daughters of the old baronet, who were near their own ages, and had always treated them with great kindness. “I am not sure of that,” replied Sally, “for Miss Laura is so seldom put out, that when once she is vexed, she will be hard to comfort; and I am sure, This consideration restored Sally’s courage, and she proceeded with Fanny to the gallery into which the rooms of their young mistresses opened; but here Fanny’s heart failed her; and, stopping short, she said, “Suppose we tell them to wait awhile longer, as the young ladies are going to travel. We might as well see the world first, and marry in a year or two. But still,” added she, after a pause, “I could not find it in my heart to say so to Thomas; and I promised him to speak to-day.” Each cousin then knocked at the door of her mistress. Laura was not in her room, and Sally went to seek her below stairs; but Isabel called to Fanny to go in. Fanny obeyed, and walking forward a few steps, faltered out, with many blushes, that as young Fanny’s most sanguine wishes or fears, must have been surpassed by the burst of surprise and grief that followed her modest statement. Isabel reproached her; refused to take her warning; declared she would never see her again if she left the Hall, and that rather than be served by any but her dear Fanny, she would wait upon herself all her life. Fanny expostulated, and told her mistress that, foreseeing her unwillingness to lose her, she had already put Thomas off several months; and that at last, to gain further delay, she had run the risk of appearing selfish, by refusing to marry him till he had furnished a whole cottage for her. This, she said he had—by working late and early—accomplished in a surprisingly short time, and had the day before claimed the reward of his industry. After receiving many promises of friendship and assistance, Fanny hastened to report to Sally the success of her negotiation. Sally was sitting in their little bedroom, thoughtful, and almost sad. She listened to Fanny’s account; and replied in Fanny tried to comfort her cousin by saying it was Miss Laura’s quiet way; but she could not In the evening the two sweethearts came to lead their future wives to the cottages, which were near each other, and at about a mile from the Hall. John had a happy walk. He learned from Sally that he was to “take her home” in a month, and was so pleased at the news, that he could scarcely be happier when she bustled about, exclaiming at every new sight in the pretty bright little cottage. The tea-caddy, the cupboard of china, and a large cat, each called forth a fresh burst of joy. Sally thought everything “the prettiest she had ever seen;” and when John made her sit in the arm-chair and put her feet on the fender, as if she were already mistress of the cottage, she burst into sobs of joy. We will not pause to tell how her sobs were stopped, nor what promises of unchanging kindness, were made in that bright little kitchen; but we may safely affirm that Sally and John were happier than they had ever been in their lives, and that old Mrs. Maythorn, who was keeping the cottage Fanny and Thomas, who had left them at the cottage door, walked on to their own future home, quite overwhelmed by the honor Miss Isabel was conferring on them by walking at their side. “You see, Miss,” said Thomas, as he turned the key of his cottage-door, “there is nothing to speak of here, only such things as are necessary, and all of the plainest; but it will do well enough for us poor folks;” and as he threw open the door, he found to his surprise that what had seemed to him yesterday so pretty and neat, now looked indeed “all of the plainest.” The very carpet, and metal teapot, which he had intended as surprises for Fanny, he was now ashamed of pointing out to her, and he apologized to Isabel for the coarse quality of the former, telling her it was only to serve till he could get a better. “Yes,” answered she, “this is not half good enough for my little Fanny, she must have a real Brussels carpet. I will send her one. I will make “Yes, Thomas,” replied the young lady, “and warm in the winter; you could not be comfortable with a few bare rose stalks before your window, when the snow was on the ground.” This had not occurred to Thomas, who now said faintly, “Oh, no, Miss,” and felt that curtains were indispensable to comfort. Similar deficiencies or short-comings were discovered everywhere, so that even Fanny, who would at first be pleased with all she saw, in spite of the numerous defects that seemed to exist everywhere, gradually grew silent and ashamed of her As Thomas closed the door, he wondered how in his wish to please Fanny he could have deceived himself so completely as to the merits of his cottage and furniture; but he too comforted himself by remembering how his kind patroness was to remedy all the defects; “though,” thought he, “I should have liked better to have done it all well myself.” The lady and the two lovers walked homewards, almost without speaking, till they overtook John and Sally, who were whispering and laughing, talking of their cottage, Mrs. Maythorn’s joy at seeing them happy, their future plans for themselves and her, and all in so confused a way, that though twenty new subjects were started and discussed, none came to and conclusion, but that “What ails you, Thomas?” said John. “Has any one robbed your house? I told you it was not safe to leave it,” but seeing Miss Isabel, he touched his hat and fell back to where Fanny was talking to her cousin. Isabel, however, left them that she might take a short cut through the park, while they went round by the road. At the end of the walk, Sally was half inclined to be dissatisfied with her furniture, so much had Fanny boasted of the improvements that were to be made in her own, but she could not get rid of the first impression it had made on her, and in a few days she quite forgot the want of curtains and carpet, and could only remember the happy time when she sat in the arm-chair with her foot on the fender. As the month drew to a close, the two sisters made presents to their maids. Laura gave Sally a merino dress, a large piece of linen, a cellar full of coals, and a five pound note. Isabel gave Fanny Fanny stopped her mistress with abundant thanks for the beautiful things she had already given her. “I am sure, Miss,” said she, “I shall scarcely dare wear these dresses, they look so lady-like and fine; Sally will seem quite strange by me. And this purse too, Miss; I never saw anything so smart.” Isabel was quite satisfied that she had eclipsed On the wedding morning Isabel rose early and dressed herself without assistance, then crossing to the room of the two cousins, she entered without knocking. Sally was gone, and Fanny lay sleeping alone. “How pretty she is!” said Isabel to herself. “She ought to be dressed like a lady to-day. I will see to it;” then glancing proudly at the silk gown, which was laid out with all the other articles of dress, ready for the coming ceremony, her heart swelled with consciousness of her own generosity. “I have done nothing yet,” continued she; “she has been with me nearly six years, and always pleased me entirely, then papa promised her mother that he should befriend her as long as we both lived, and he has charged us both to do our utmost for our brides. Laura has bought Sally a shawl, I ought to give one too—what is this common “Thank you, Miss,” said Fanny, in a tone of hesitation; “but—but suppose, Miss, I was to wear Thomas’ shawl just to-day, as he gave it me for the wedding, and John got Sally one like it—I think, Miss—don’t you think, Miss, it might seem unkind to wear any other just to-day?” “Why, it is just to-day I want to make you look like a lady, Fanny; no, no, you must not put on that white cotton-looking shawl with a silk dress, and this ribbon,” said Isabel, taking up the bonnet, There was so much confusion between the lady’s offering help, and the maid’s modestly refusing it, that the toilette was long in completing. At last, however, Isabel was in ecstasies. “Look,” said she, “how the bonnet becomes you! and the Norfolk shawl, too, no one would think you were only a lady’s-maid, Fanny. Stop, I will get a ribbon for your throat.” Off she flew, and was back again in five minutes. “But what is that for, Fanny? Are you afraid it will rain this bright morning?” Fanny had, in Isabel’s absence, folded Thomas’ shawl, and hung it across her arm. “I thought, Miss,” answered she, blushing, “that I might just “Impossible,” said Isabel, who, to do her justice, we must state, was far too much excited to suspect that she was making Fanny uncomfortable; “you will spoil all. There, put the shawl away,—that’s right, you look perfect. Go down to your bridegroom, I hear his voice in the hall, I will not come too, though I should like above all things to see his surprise, but I should spoil your meeting, and I am the last person in the world to do anything so selfish. One thing more, Fanny: I shall give you two guineas, that you may spend three or four days at L——, by the sea-side; no one goes home directly, you would find it very dull to settle down at once in your cottage; tell Thomas so.” Isabel then retired to her room, wishing heartily that she could part with half her prettiest things, that she might heap more favors on the interesting little bride. Laura’s first thought that morning had also been “Oh, no, Miss!” replied Sally, who felt at that moment that she could scarcely love any one better than her kind mistress. “Still John will not be hard upon me for a few tears,” added she, putting the sheet to her eyes. “Come, come, Sally, this will not do, jump up and dress yourself quickly, that you may be ready to brush my hair when I return from the dressing-room; you must do it well to day, for you know I am not yet suited with a maid, and do it myself to-morrow.” This roused Sally, who dressed in great haste and was soon at her post. Laura asked her many questions about her plans for the future, and found with pleasure that most things had been well considered and arranged. “There is only one thing, Miss,” said Sally, in conclusion, “that we are sorry for, and it is that we cannot offer old Mrs. Maythorn a home. She has no child but John, and will sadly feel his leaving her.” “But why cannot she live with you and work as she does now, so as to pay you for what she costs?” “Why, Miss, where she is she works about the house for her board, and does a trifle outdoors besides, that gets her clothing. John says it makes him feel quite cowardly, as it were, to see his old mother working at scrubbing and scouring, making her poor back ache, when he is so young and strong; yet we scarcely know if we could undertake for her altogether. I wish we could.” “How much would it cost you?” “A matter of four shillings a week; besides, we must get a bed and bedding. That we could put up in the kitchen, if we bought it to shut up in the day-time, and, as John says, Mrs. Maythorn would help us nicely when we get some little ones. But it would cost a deal of money to begin and go on with.” “I will think of this for you, Sally. It would be easy for me to give you four shillings a week now, but I may not always be able to do it. I may marry a poor man, or one who will not allow me to spend my money as I please, and were Mrs. Maythorn to give up her present employments, she “Oh, thank you, thank you, Miss, for the thought: I will tell John directly I see him; the very hope will fill him with joy.” “No,” said Laura, “do not tell him yet, Sally, for you would be sorry to disappoint him afterwards, if I could not undertake it. Wait a day or two, and I will give you an answer; or, if possible, it shall be sooner. Now, thank you for the nice brushing: I will put up my hair while you go and dress; it is getting late. If you require assistance, and Fanny is not in your room, tap at my door, for I shall be pleased to help you to-day.” Laura was not called in; but when she thought the toilette must be nearly completed, went to Sally with the shawl which she had bought for her the day before. As she entered, Sally was folding the white one John had given her. “I have brought you a shawl,” said Laura, “which I want you to wear to-day; it is much handsomer than that you are folding. See, do you like it?” “Yes, Miss,” said Sally, “it is a very good one, I see,” and she began to re-fold the other; but Laura noticed the expression of disappointment with which she made the change, and taking up the plain shawl, said, “I do not know whether this does not suit your neat muslin dress better than mine. Did you buy it yourself, Sally?” “No, Miss, it was John’s present; but I will put on yours this morning, if you please, Miss, and I can wear John’s any day.” “No, no,” replied Laura, “you must put on John’s to-day. It matters but little to me when you wear mine, so long as it does you good service; but John will feel hurt if you cast his present As Sally went down stairs, she saw Fanny in tears on the landing. “I cannot think how it is,” answered she, in reply to Sally’s questioning, “but just on this day, when I thought to feel so happy, I am quite low. Miss Isabel has been so kind, she has dressed me, and quite flustered me with her attentions. See what nice things she has given me—this shawl—though for that matter, I’d rather have worn Thomas’s. Oh, how nice you look. Dear, so neat and becoming your station, and with John’s shawl, too, but then Miss Laura has made you no present.” “Yes, a good shawl and a promise besides, but I well tell you about that another time. Let us go in now, they must be waiting for us.” Fanny felt so awkward in her fine clothes, that she could scarcely be prevailed on to encounter When the ceremony was over, the party returned to the Hall, where a hospitable meal had been provided for all the villagers of good character who chose to partake of it. It was a merry party, for even Fanny, when every one had seen her finery long enough to forget it, forgot it herself. Thomas was very good-natured about the shawl, and As the pony-chaise which the good baronet had lent for the day, drove up to take the bridal party to L——, for John and Sally were also to spend one day there, the two young ladies came to take leave of their protÉgÉes. Laura said, “Good-bye, Sally, I have consulted papa, and will undertake to allow you four shillings a week as long as Mrs. Maythorn lives. Here is a sovereign towards expenses; you will not, I am sure, mind changing your five pound note for the rest.” Isabel said, “Good-bye, Fanny. I am very, very sorry to disappoint you of your treat at L——, but I intended to have borrowed the two pounds of Miss Laura, and I find she cannot lend them to me. Never mind, I am sure you will be happy enough in your little cottage. I never saw such a sweet In less than a week the cousins were established in their new abode. Sally settled and happy; but Fanny, unsettled, always expected the new carpet, the china tea-set, and the various other alterations that Isabel had suggested and promised to make. The young lady, however, was unfortunate with her money. At one time she lost a bank-note; at another, just as she was counting out money for the Brussels carpet, the new maid entered to tell her that sundry articles of dress were “past mending,” and must be immediately replaced. One thing after another nipped her generous intentions in the bud, and at last she was obliged to set out for her long-expected journey to France without having done more towards the fulfilment of her promises than call frequently on Fanny, to remind her that all her present arrangements were temporary, and that she should shortly have almost everything new. Laura had given Sally a great many useful things for her cottage, but made no promise at parting. She said, “Be sure you write to me, Sally, from time to time, to say how you are going on, and tell me if you want help.” When Isabel was gone, Fanny saw that she must accustom herself to her cottage as it was, and banish from her mind the idea of the long-anticipated improvements. It was, however, no easy task. The window once regarded as bare and comfortless still seemed so, in spite of Fanny’s reasoning that it was no worse than Sally’s, which always looked cheerful and pretty. To be sure, John, who did not think of getting curtains, had trained a honeysuckle over it, still that made but little show at present. The carpet, too, so long regarded as a coarse temporary thing, never regained the beauty it first had to the eye of Thomas, as he laid At the end of three months Isabel enclosed an order for three pounds to Fanny, desiring her to get a Brussels carpet, and if there was a sufficient remainder, to replace the tea seat. “I would rather,” said Fanny to her cousin, “put up with the old carpet and china, and get a roll of fine flannel, some coals, an extra blanket or two, and a cradle for the little one that’s coming, for it will be cold weather when I am put to bed; A week or two after John was invited, with his wife and mother, to drink tea from Fanny’s new china. It was very pretty, so was the carpet, and so was Fanny making tea, elated with showing her new wealth. “Is not Miss Isabel generous?” asked she, as she held the milk-pot to be admired. “I sometimes wish Miss Laura had as much money to spare,” replied Sally; “for she lets me lay it out as I please, and I could get a number of things for three guineas.” “Fie, Sally,” said her husband; “are not three shillings to spend as one pleases, better than three guineas laid out to please some one else?” “Nonsense, John,” said Fanny, pettishly; “how can a carpet for my kitchen be bought to please any one but me?” “John isn’t far wrong either,” answered her husband; “but the carpet is very handsome, and does please you and me too, now it is here.” Time passed on, and Fanny gave birth to a little girl. Isabel stood sponsor for her by proxy, sending her an embroidered cloak and lace cap, and desiring that she should be called by her own name. Little Bella was very sickly, and as her mother had not been able to procure her good warm clothing, or lay in a large stock of firing, she suffered greatly from cold during the severe winter that followed her birth. The spring and summer did not bring her better health; and as Fanny always attributed her delicacy to the want of proper warmth in her infancy, she took a great dislike to the Brussels carpet, which now lay in a roll behind a large chest, having been long ago taken up as a piece of inconvenient luxury in a kitchen. “I wish you could find a corner for it in your cottage, Sally,” said she, “for I never catch a sight of it without worrying myself to think how much flannels and coals I might have bought with the money it cost.” Laura frequently sent Sally small presents of money, but Isabel, though not so regular as her “I wish,” said Thomas, “that great folks would think a little of what they don’t see. I’ll lay anything Miss Isabel gives away a deal of money, more than enough to save our little one, to a set “For shame, Thomas,” said his wife, “do not speak so rudely of the young lady. Have you forgotten the pretty carriage she sent Bella, and how pleased we were when it came?” “I don’t mean any harm,” answered her husband; “only it strikes me that Miss was pleased to buy the carriage because it was pretty, and seemed a great thing to send us, and that she wouldn’t have cared a straw to give us a little cash, that would have served us every bit as well.” “I never heard you so ungrateful, Thomas. Of course she wouldn’t, because she wished to please us.” “Or herself, as John said; but maybe I am wrong; only it goes to my heart to see the child want food while there is a filagree carriage in the yard that cost more than would keep her for six months.” “Well, cheer up,” said Sally; “Miss Laura will be coming home soon, and I’ll lay anything she won’t let Bella die of want.” “I’m afraid she won’t think of giving to me, Sally,” said Fanny despondingly; “I was never her maid, you know.” “You wouldn’t fear, if you knew Miss Laura as I do, Fanny; she never cares who she helps so long as the person is deserving, and in want. She has no pride of that sort.” Isabel’s marriage was put off, and Laura’s return, consequently, postponed. As Bella grew worse every day, and yet no help came, the unselfish Sally wrote to her patroness, telling her of poor Fanny’s distress, and begging her either to send her help, or speak on her behalf to her sister. Isabel was dressing for a party when Laura showed her Sally’s letter. “Poor Fanny,” said she, “I wish I had known it before I bought this wreath. I have, absolutely, not a half-franc in the world. Will you buy the wreath of me at half-price, it has not even been taken from its box.” “I do not want it,” said Laura, “but I will lend you some money.” “No, I cannot borrow more,” said her sister despondingly. “I owe you already for the flowers, the brooch, the bill you paid yesterday, and I know not what else besides; but I will tell EugÈne there is a poor Englishwoman in distress, I am sure he will send her something.” EugÈne gave her a five-franc piece. It was late one frosty evening when Sally ran across to her cousin’s cottage, delighted to be the bearer of the long hoped-for letter. Fanny was sitting on the fender before a small fire, hugging her darling to her breast, and breathing on its little face to make the air warmer. “I’m afraid,” said she, in answer to Sally’s inquiries, “that the child won’t be here long;” and she wiped away a few hot tears that had forced their way as she sat listening to the low moans of the little sufferer. “But I have good news for you,” said her cousin, cheerfully. “Here is a letter from Miss Isabel at last. I would not tell you before, but I wrote to Fanny started up, and could scarcely breathe as she broke the seal. What was her disappointment on seeing an order for five shillings! “I am very sorry, my good Fanny,” said Isabel, “that just now I have no money. A charitable gentleman sends you five shillings, and as soon as I possibly can, I will let you have a large sum. I have not yet paid for the carriage I sent you, and as the bill has been given me several times, I must discharge it before I send away more money. I hope that by this time, little Bella is better.” Fanny laid her child upon the bed, and putting her face by its side, shed bitter tears. Sally did not speak, and so both remained till Thomas came in from his work. Fanny would have hidden the letter from him, but he saw and seized it in a moment. “Five guineas for a carriage, and five shillings for a child’s life,” said he with a sneer, as he laid it down. “Do not look for the large sum, Fanny, you won’t get it; but I will work hard, and bury the child decently.” Fanny felt no inclination to defend her mistress. For the first time, it occurred to her that Thomas and John might be right in their judgment of her. She raised Bella, as Thomas, who had been twisting up the money order, was about to throw it in the fire. He caught a sight of the child’s wan face, and, advancing to the bed, said, in a softened tone, “Do you know father, pretty one?” and as Bella smiled faintly, he added, “I will do anything for your sake. Here, Fanny, take the money, and get the child something nourishing.” Bella seemed to revive from getting better food; and the apothecary held out great hope of her ultimate recovery, if the improved diet could be continued; but expenses fell heavily on Thomas, Fanny was put to bed with a fine strong little boy, and, although Sally and Mrs. Maythorn devoted When Fanny regained her consciousness she was in the dark, but she could see some one standing by the window. On her speaking the person advanced to her side. “Do not be startled to find me here,” said a sweet soft voice. “Sally has watched by your side for three nights, and when I came this evening she looked so ill that I insisted on her going to bed; then, as we could find no one on whose care and watchfulness we could depend, I took her place. You have been in a sound sleep. Dr. Hart said you would wake up much better. Are you better?” “Yes, ma’am, a deal better; but where am I, and who is it with me?” “You are in your own pretty cottage, and Miss “Oh, thank God; who sent you, dear Miss Laura? How is—but may-be I had best not ask just while I am so weak. Is the dear boy well?” “Yes, quite well; and Bella is much better. I have sent her for a few days to L——, with Mrs. Maythorn; the sea air will do her good.” “Oh, thank you—thank you—dear young lady, for the thought. I seem so bound up in that dear child, that nothing could comfort me for her loss. How good and kind you are, Miss—you do all so well and so quietly!” “Yes, Fanny, dear,” said Thomas, coming from behind the curtain and stooping to kiss his wife. “Miss Laura has saved you and Bella, and me, too, for I couldn’t have lived if you had died; and has found me work; and all without making one great present, or doing anything one could speak about. I’ll tell you what it is, wife, dear, Miss Isabel does all for the best, but it is just as she feels at the moment. “Yes, Thomas,” said Laura, blushing, “but I do not say you are right. You mean, I think, that my sister acts from impulse, and I from principle. Is that it?” “I suppose that’s it, Miss,” said Thomas, considering, and apparently not quite satisfied. “You have no harder meaning, I am sure,” said Laura, quietly, “because I love my sister very much.” “Certainly not, Miss,” returned Thomas. “But, myself, if I may take the liberty of gratefully saying so, I prefer to be acted to on principle, and think it a good deal better than impulse.” |