bustle in the house, and both the younger girls were as busy as bees,
helping everywhere. Dressmakers ripped and stitched upstairs, visitors
gossiped in the parlor, and cooks simmered and scolded in the kitchen;
while notable Madam Lyon presided over the household, keeping the peace
and gently bringing order out of chaos.
Abby had a new sprigged muslin frock, with a white sash, and her first
pair of silk stockings, a present from her father. A bunch of pink
roses gave the finishing touch, and she turned up her hair with a
tortoise-shell comb in honor of the occasion.
All the relations--and there were many of them--came to the wedding, and
the hospitable mansion was crowded with old and young. A fine breakfast
was prepared, a line of carriages filled the quiet street, and troops of
stately ladies and gentlemen came marching in; for the Lyons were a
much-honored family.
The interesting moment arrived at last, the minister opened his book,
the lovely bride entered with her groom, and a solemn silence fell upon
the rustling crowd. Abby was much excited, and felt that she was about
to disgrace herself by crying. Fortunately she stood near the door, and
finding that a sob _would_ come at thought of her dear sister going away
forever, she slipped out and ran upstairs to hide her tears in the back
bedroom, where she was put to accommodate guests.
As she opened the door, a puff of smoke made her catch her breath, then
run to throw open the window before she turned to look for the fallen
brand. A fire had been kindled in this room a short time before, and, to
Abby's dismay, the sudden draught fanned the smouldering sparks which
had crept from a fallen log to the mop-board and thence around the
wooden mantel-piece. A suspicious crackling was heard, little tongues of
flame darted from the cracks, and the air was full of smoke.
Abby's first impulse was to fly downstairs, screaming "Fire!" at the top
of her voice; her second was to stand still and think what to do,--for
an instant's recollection showed her what terror and confusion such a
cry would produce in the crowded house, and how unseemly a panic would
be at such a time.
"If I could only get at father! But I can't without scaring every one.
What would he do? I've heard him tell about fires, and how to put them
out; I know,--stop the draught first," and Abby shut the window. "Now
water and wet blankets," and away she ran to the bath-room, and filling
a pail, dashed the water over the burning wood. Then, pulling the
blankets from off the bed, she wet them as well as she could, and hung
them up before the fire-place, going to and fro for more water till the
smoke ceased to pour out and the crackling stopped.
These energetic measures were taken just in time to prevent a serious
fire, and when Abby dared to rest a moment, with her eyes on the
chimney, fearing the treacherous blaze might burst out in a new place,
she discovered that her clothes were wet, her face blackened, her hands
blistered, and her breath gone.
"No matter," she thought, still too much elated with her success to feel
the pain. "Father will be pleased, I know; for this is what he would
call an emergency, and I've had my wits about me. I wish mother would
come. Oh, dear! how queerly I feel--" and in the midst of her
self-congratulation, poor little Abby fainted away,--slipping to the
floor and lying there, like a new sort of Casabianca, faithful at her
post.
Lucy found her very soon, having missed her and come to look for her the
minute the service was over. Much frightened, she ran down again and
tried to tell Mr. and Mrs. Lyon quietly. But her pale face alarmed every
one, and when Abby came to herself, she was in her father's arms, being
carried from the scene of devastation to her mother's room, where a
crowd of anxious relatives received her like a conquering hero.
"Well done, my brave little fire-warden! I'm proud of you!" were the
first words she heard; and they were more reviving than the burnt
feathers under her nose, or the lavender-water plentifully sprinkled
over her by her mother and sister.
With that hearty commendation, her father left her, to see that all was
safe, and Abby found that another sort of courage was needed to support
her through the next half-hour of trial; for her hands were badly
burned, and each of the excellent relatives suggested a different
remedy.
"Flour them!" cried Aunt Sally, fanning her violently.
"Goose-oil and cotton-batting," suggested Aunt Patty.
"Nothing so good as lard," pronounced Aunt Nabby.
"I always use dry starch or a piece of salt pork," added cousin
Lucretia.
"Butter them!" commanded grandma. "That's what I did when my Joseph fell
into the boiler and came out with his blessed little legs the color of
lobsters. Butter them, Dolly."
That settled the vexed question, and Abby's hands were well buttered,
while a hearty laugh composed the spirits of the agitated party; for the
contrast between grandma's words and her splendid appearance, as she sat
erect in the big arm-chair issuing commands like a general, in
silver-gray satin and an imposing turban, was very funny.
Then Abby was left to repose, with Lucy and old Nurse beside her, while
the rest went down to eat the wedding feast and see the happy pair off
in a chaise, with the portmanteau slung underneath, on their quiet
honey-moon trip to Pomfret.
When the bustle was all over, Abby found herself a heroine in her small
circle of admiring friends and neighbors, who praised and petted her as
if she had saved the city from destruction. She needed comfort very
much; for one hand was so seriously injured that it never entirely
recovered from the deep burn, which contracted two of her finger-tips.
This was a great sorrow to the poor girl; for she could no longer play
on her piano, and was forced to content herself with singing like a lark
when all joined in the sweet old ballads forgotten now.
It was a misfortune, but it had its happy side; for, during the long
months when she was partially helpless, books were her solace, and she
studied many things which other duties or pleasures would have crowded
out, if "Abby's poor hand" had not been an excuse for such liberty and
indulgence. It did not make her selfish, however, for while regretting
her uselessness, she unexpectedly found work to do that made her own
life happy by cheering that of another.
Lucy proved to be a most intelligent child; and when Abby asked what
return she could make for all the little girl's loving service during
her trouble, she discovered that help about lessons would be the favor
most desired. Lucy's too early cares had kept her from learning much,
and now that she had leisure, weak eyes forbade study, and she longed
vainly to get on as her new friend did; for Abby was her model in all
things,--looked up to with admiration, love, and wonder.
"Father, I've been thinking that I might read Lucy's lessons to her and
hear her recite. Then she wouldn't grieve about being backward, and I
can be eyes to her as she is hands to me. I can't sew or work now, but I
can teach the little I know. May I, sir?" asked Abby, one morning, after
reading a paper in the _Spectator_, and having a pleasant talk about it
during the happy half-hour.
"A capital plan, daughter, if you are sure you can keep on. To begin and
then fail would leave the child worse off for the hope and
disappointment. It will be tiresome to go on day after day, so think
well before you propose it," answered her father, much pleased with the
idea.
"I _can_ do it, and I _will_! If I get tired, I'll look at you and
mother,--always so faithful to what you undertake,--and remember my
motto," cried Abby, anxious to follow the example set her in the daily
life of these good parents.
A hearty hand-shake rewarded her, and she set about the new task with a
resolute purpose to succeed. It was hard at first to go back to her
early lessons and read them over and over again to eager Lucy, who did
her best to understand, remember, and recite. But good-will and
gratitude worked wonders; and day after day, week after week, month
after month, the teaching went on, to the great surprise and
satisfaction of those who watched this labor of love. Both learned much,
and a very strong, sweet friendship grew up, which lasted till the young
girls became old women.
For nearly two years the daily lessons were continued; then Lucy was
ready and able to go to school, and Abby free from the duty that had
grown a pleasure. Sister Catherine being gone, she was the young lady of
the house now, and began to go to a few parties, where she distinguished
herself by her graceful dancing, and sprightly though modest manners.
She had grown strong and rosy with the exercise her sensible mother
prescribed and her energetic father encouraged, taking long walks with
her to Roxbury and Dorchester on holidays, over bridges and around the
common before breakfast each morning, till the pale little girl was a
tall and blooming creature, full of life and spirit,--not exactly
beautiful, but with a sweet, intelligent face, and the frank, cordial
ways that are so charming. Her brother Sam was very proud of her, and
liked to see her surrounded by his friends at the merry-makings to which
he escorted her; for she talked as well as she danced, and the older
gentlemen enjoyed a good chat with Miss Abby as much as the younger
ones did the elaborate pigeon-wings and pirouettes then in vogue.
Among the older men was one whom Abby much admired; for he had fought,
travelled, and studied more than most men of his age, and earned the
honors he wore so modestly. She was never tired of asking him questions
when they met, and he never seemed tired of giving long, interesting
replies; so they often sat and talked while others danced, and Abby
never guessed that he was studying her bright face and innocent heart as
eagerly as she listened to his agreeable conversation and stirring
adventures.
Presently he came to the house with brother Sam, who shared Abby's
regard for him; and there, while the young men amused themselves, or
paid their respects to the elders, one of them was still watching the
tall girl with the crown of brown hair, as she sat by her father, poured
the tea for Madam, laughed with her brother, or made bashful Lucy share
their pleasures; always so busy, dutiful, and winning, that the visitor
pronounced Mr. Lyon's the most delightful house in Boston. He heard all
the little tales of Abby's youth from Sam, and Lucy added her tribute
with the eloquence of a grateful heart; he saw how loved and trusted she
was, and he soon longed to know how she would answer the question he
desired to ask her. Having received permission from Papa, in the
decorous old style, he only waited for an opportunity to discover if
charming Abigail would consent to change her name from Lyon to Lamb;
and, as if her lesson was to be quite complete, a little thing decided
her fate and made a very happy woman of the good girl.
On Abby's seventeenth birthday, there was to be a party in her honor, at
the hospitable family mansion, to which all her friends were invited;
and, when she came down early to see that all was in order, she found
one impatient guest had already arrived.
It was not alone the consciousness that the new pink taffeta gown and
the wreath of white roses were very becoming which made her blush so
prettily as she thanked her friend for the fine nosegay he brought her,
but something in his face, though he only wished her many happy returns
in a hearty way, and then added, laughing, as the last button flew off
the glove he was awkwardly trying to fasten,--
"It is evident that you didn't sew on these buttons, Miss Abby. I've
observed that Sam's never come off, and he says you always keep them in
order."
"Let me put one on for you. It will take but a moment, and you'll be so
uncomfortable without it," said Abby, glad to find employment for her
eyes.
A minute afterward she was sorry she had offered; for he accepted the
little service with thanks, and stood watching while she sat down at her
work-table and began to sew. She was very sensitive about her hand, yet
ashamed of being so; for the scar was inside and the drawn fingers
showed very little, as it is natural to half close them. She hoped he
had never seen it, and tried to hide it as she worked. But this, or
some new consciousness, made her usually nimble fingers lose their
skill, and she knotted the silk, split the button, and dropped her
thimble, growing angry with herself for being so silly and getting so
red and flurried.
"I'm afraid I'm giving you a deal of trouble," said the gentleman, who
was watching the white hand with great interest.
"No; it is I who am foolish about my burnt hands," answered Abby, in her
frank, impetuous way. "See how ugly it is!" And she held it out, as if
to punish herself for the girlish feeling she despised.
The answer to this little outburst made her forget everything but the
sweetest pleasure and surprise; for, kissing the scarred palm with
tender respect, her lover said:--
"To me it is the finest and the dearest hand in the world. I know the
brave story, and I've seen the good this generous hand is never tired of
doing. I want it for my own. Will you give it to me, dear?"
Abby must have answered, "Yes;" for she wore a new ring under her glove
that night, and danced as if there were wings on the heels of her pink
shoes.
Whether the button ever got sewed on or not, no one knows; but that bit
of needlework was even more successful than the other small job; for in
due time there was a second wedding, without a fire, and Abby went away
to a happy home of her own, leaving sister Lucy to fill her place and be
the most loving and faithful of daughters to her benefactors while they
lived.
Long years afterward, when she had children and grandchildren about her,
listening to the true old stories that are the best, Abby used to say,
with her own cheerful laugh:--
"My father and mother taught me many useful lessons, but none more
valuable than those I learned that year; and I may honestly say that
patience, perseverance, courage, friendship, and love, came out of that
silk stocking. So let me give you this bit of advice: Don't despise
little things, my dears!"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The Banner of Beaumanior
Larks were singing in the clear sky over Dinan, the hill-sides were
white with hosts of blooming cherry-trees, and the valley golden with
willow blossoms. The gray tower of the good Duchess Anne was hung with
garlands of ivy and gay with tufts of fragrant wallflowers, and along
the fosse the shadows deepened daily as the young leaves thickened on
the interlacing branches overhead. Women sang while they beat their
clothes by the pool; wooden shoes clattered to and fro as the girls
brought water from the fountain in Place St. Louis; men, with their long
hair, embroidered jackets, and baggy breeches, drank cider at the inn
doors; and the great Breton horses shook their high collars till the
bells rang again, as they passed along the roads that wound between wide
fields of colza, buckwheat, and clover.
Up at the chateau, which stood near the ruins of the ancient castle, the
great banner streamed in the wind, showing, as its folds blew out, the
device and motto of the Beaumanoir--two clasped hands and the legend,
"_En tout chemin loyaute_."[1] In the courtyard, hounds brayed, horses
pranced, and servants hurried about; for the count was going to hunt the
wild boar. Presently, away they went, with the merry music of horns, the
clatter of hoofs, and the blithe ring of voices, till the pleasant
clamor died away in the distant woods, where mistletoe clung to the
great oaks, and menhirs and dolmens, mysterious relics of the Druids,
were to be seen.
[1] Always loyal.
From one of the windows of the chateau-tower a boy's face looked out,
full of eager longing,--a fine, strong face, but sullen now, with black
brows, dark, restless eyes, and lips set, as if rebellious thoughts were
stirring in his mind. He watched the gay cavalcade disappear, until a
sunny silence settled over the landscape, broken only by the larks and
the sound of a girl's voice singing. As he listened, the frown smoothed
itself from his brow, and his eye brightened when it rested on a
blue-gowned, white-capped figure, sprinkling webs of linen, spread to
bleach in the green meadow by the river Rance.
"If I may not hunt, I'll away to Yvonne[2] and take a holiday. She can
tell better tales than any in this weary book, the bane of my life!"
[2] Pronounced Evone.
As he spoke, the boy struck a volume that lay on the wide ledge, with a
petulant energy that sent it fluttering down into the court-yard below.
Half-ashamed and half-amused, young Gaston peeped to see if this random
shot had hit any one. But all was quiet and deserted now; so, with a
boyish laugh and a daring glance at the dangerous descent, he said to
the doves cooing on the roof overhead: "Here's a fine pretext for
escape. Being locked in, how can I get my lesson unless I fetch the
book? Tell no tales of the time I linger, and you shall be well fed, my
pretty birds."
Then swinging himself out as if it were no new feat, he climbed boldly
down through the ivy that half hid the carved flowers and figures which
made a ladder for his agile feet.
The moment he touched ground, he raced away like a hound in full scent
to the meadow, where he was welcomed by a rosy, brown-eyed lass, whose
white teeth shone as she laughed to see him leap the moat, dodge behind
the wall, and come bounding toward her, his hair streaming in the wind,
and his face full of boyish satisfaction in this escapade.
"The old tale," he panted, as he threw himself down upon the grass and
flung the recovered book beside him. "This dreary Latin drives me mad,
and I will _not_ waste such days as this poring over dull pages like a
priest, when I should be hunting like a knight and gentleman."
"Nay, dear Gaston, but you ought, for obedience is the first duty of the
knight, and honor of the gentleman," answered the girl, in a soft,
reproachful tone, which seemed to touch the lad, as the voice of a
master tames a high-mettled horse.
"Had Father Nevin trusted to my honor, I would not have run away; but he
locked me in, like a monk in a cell, and that I will not bear. Just one
hour, Yvonne, one little hour of freedom, then I will go back, else
there will be no sport for me to-morrow," said the lad, recklessly
pulling up the bluets that starred the grass about him.
"Ah, if I were set to such a task, I would so gladly learn it, that I
might be a fitter friend for you," said the girl, reverently turning the
pages of the book she could not read.
"No need of that; I like you as you are, and by my faith, I doubt your
great willingness, for when I last played tutor and left you to spell
out the pretty legend of St. Coventin and his little fish, I found you
fast asleep with the blessed book upon the floor," laughed Gaston,
turning the tables on his mentor, with great satisfaction.
The girl laughed also as she retorted, "My tutor should not have left me
to play with his dogs. I bore my penance better than you, and did not
run away. Come now, we'll be merry. Will you talk, or shall I sing,
while you rest this hot head, and dream of horse and hound and spearing
the wild boar?" added Yvonne, smoothing the locks of hair scattered on
the grass, with a touch as gentle as if the hand were that of a lady,
and not that of a peasant, rough with hard work.
"Since I may not play a man's part yet, amuse me like a boy, with the
old tales your mother used to tell, when we watched the fagots blaze in
the winter nights. It is long since I have heard one, and I am never
tired hearing of the deeds I mean to match, if not outdo, some day.
"Let me think a bit till I remember your favorites, and do you listen to
the bees above there in the willow, setting you a good example, idle
boy," said Yvonne, spreading a coarse apron for his head, while she sat
beside him racking her brain for tales to beguile this truant hour.
Her father was the count's forester, and when the countess had died some
sixteen years before, leaving a month-old boy, good dame Gillian had
taken the motherless baby, and nursed and reared him with her little
girl, so faithfully and tenderly that the count never could forget the
loyal service. As babies, the two slept in one cradle; as children they
played and quarrelled together; and as boy and girl they defended,
comforted, and amused each other. But time brought inevitable changes,
and both felt that the hour of separation was near; for, while Yvonne
went on leading the peasant life to which she was born, Gaston was
receiving the education befitting a young count. The chaplain taught him
to read and write, with lessons in sacred history, and a little Latin;
of the forester he learned woodcraft; and his father taught him
horsemanship and the use of arms, accomplishments considered
all-important in those days.
Gaston cared nothing for books, except such as told tales of chivalry;
but dearly loved athletic sports, and at sixteen rode the most fiery
horse without a fall, handled a sword admirably, could kill a boar at
the first shot, and longed ardently for war, that he might prove
himself a man. A brave, high-spirited, generous boy, with a very tender
spot in his heart for the good woman who had been a mother to him, and
his little foster-sister, whose idol he was. For days he seemed to
forget these humble friends, and led the gay, active life of his age and
rank; but if wounded in the chase, worried by the chaplain, disappointed
in any plan, or in disgrace for any prank, he turned instinctively to
Dame Gillian and Yvonne, sure of help and comfort for mind and body.
Companionship with him had refined the girl, and given her glimpses of a
world into which she could never enter, yet where she could follow with
eager eyes and high hopes the fortunes of this dear Gaston, who was both
her prince and brother. Her influence over him was great, for she was of
a calm and patient nature, as well as brave and prudent beyond her
years. His will was law; yet in seeming to obey, she often led him, and
he thanked her for the courage with which she helped him to control his
fiery temper and strong will. Now, as she glanced at him she saw that he
was already growing more tranquil, under the soothing influences of the
murmuring river, the soft flicker of the sunshine, and a blessed sense
of freedom.
So, while she twisted her distaff, she told the stirring tales of
warriors, saints, and fairies, whom all Breton peasants honor, love, and
fear. But best of all was the tale of Gaston's own ancestor, Jean de
Beaumanoir, "the hero of Ploermel, where, when sorely wounded and
parched with thirst, he cried for water, and Geoffrey du Bois answered,
like a grim old warrior as he was, 'Drink thy blood, Beaumanoir, and the
thirst will pass;' and he drank, and the battle madness seized him, and
he slew ten men, winning the fight against great odds, to his
everlasting glory."
"Ah, those were the times to live in! If they could only come again, I
would be a second Jean!"
Gaston sprung to his feet as he spoke, all aglow with the warlike ardor
of his race, and Yvonne looked up at him, sure that he would prove
himself a worthy descendant of the great baron and his wife, the
daughter of the brave Du Guesclin.
"But you shall not be treacherously killed, as he was; for I will save
you, as the peasant woman saved poor Giles de Bretagne when starving in
the tower, or fight for you, as Jeanne d'Arc fought for her lord,"
answered Yvonne, dropping her distaff to stretch out her hand to him;
for she, too, was on her feet.
Gaston took the faithful hand, and pointing to the white banner floating
over the ruins of the old castle, said heartily: "We will always stand
by one another, and be true to the motto of our house till death."
"We will!" answered the girl, and both kept the promise loyally, as we
shall see.
Just at that moment the sound of hoofs made the young enthusiasts start
and look toward the road that wound through the valley to the hill. An
old man on a slowly pacing mule was all they saw, but the change that
came over both was comical in its suddenness; for the gallant knight
turned to a truant school-boy, daunted by the sight of his tutor, while
the rival of the Maid of Orleans grew pale with dismay.
"I am lost if he spy me, for my father vowed I should not hunt again
unless I did my task. He will see me if I run, and where can I hide till
he has past?" whispered Gaston, ashamed of his panic, yet unwilling to
pay the penalty of his prank.