“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 favourite 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, Fanny, she loves me every bit as well as Miss Isabel does you,
though it is her way to be so quiet. I dare say she will cry when I say
I must go; but then John would be like to cry too, if I put him off
longer.”
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 Thomas had kept company with her for nearly a
twelvemonth, and had taken and furnished a little cottage, and begged
hard to take her home to it. She was sorry to say, that if Miss Isabel
would give her leave, she wished to give warning and to go from her
service in a month.
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. “And now, Miss,” added she, “he gets quite pale, and
begins to believe I do not love him, and yet I do, better than all the
world, and could not find it in my heart to vex him, and make him look
sad again. Yesterday he seemed so happy, when I promised to be his wife
in a month.” Here Fanny burst into tears. Her sobs softened Isabel, who
consented to let her go; and after talking over her plans, became as
enthusiastic in promoting, as she had at first been, in opposing them.
Thomas was to take Fanny over to see the cottage, that evening, and
Isabel, in the warmth of her heart, promised to accompany them. Fanny
thanked her with a curtsey, and thought how pleased she ought to be at
such condescension in her young mistress, but could not help fearing
that her sweetheart would not half appreciate the favour.
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 answer to her questions
concerning Miss Laura’s way of taking her warning, “I am afraid, Fanny,
you were right in thinking yourself the greatest favourite, for Miss
Laura seemed almost pleased at my news; she shook me by the hand, and
said, ‘I am very glad to hear you are to marry such a good young man as
everyone acknowledges John Maythorn to be, and you may depend upon my
being always ready to help you, if you want assistance.’ She then said a
deal about my having lived with her six years, and not having once
displeased her, and told me that master had promised my mother and yours
too, that his young ladies should see after us all our lives. This was
very kind, to be sure; but then Miss Isabel promised you presents
whether you wanted assistance or not, and is to give you a silk gown and
a white ribbon for the wedding, and is to go over to the cottage with
you: now Miss Laura did not say a word of any such thing.”
Fanny tried to comfort her cousin by saying it was Miss Laura’s quiet
way; but she could not help secretly rejoicing that her own mistress was
so generous and affectionate.
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 foot 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 for
Sally, felt all her fondest wishes were fulfilled as she saw the two
lovers depart.
Fanny and Thomas, who had left them at the cottage door, walked on to
their own future home, quite overwhelmed by the honour 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 apologised 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
your cottage so pretty, Fanny, you shall have a nice china tea set, not
these common little things, and I will give you some curtains for the
window.” Thomas blushed as this deficiency was pointed out. “Why, Miss,”
said he, “I meant to have trained the rose tree over the window, I
thought that would be shady, and sweet in the summer, and in the winter,
why, we should want all the day-light; but then to be sure, curtains
will be much better.”
“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 cottage. She did her utmost to conceal
from Thomas how entirely she agreed with her mistress, and as this
generous young lady finished every remark, by saying “I will get you
one,” or, “I will send you another,” she felt that all would be right
before long.
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
any conclusion, but that John and Sally loved each other and were very,
very happy.
“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 a silk gown that
cost three guineas, a beautiful white bonnet ribbon, a small chimney
glass (for which she kindly went into debt), three left-off muslin
dresses, a painting done by her own hand, in a handsome gilt frame, and
a beautiful knitted purse. Besides all this, she told Fanny it was still
her intention to get the other things she had promised for the cottage,
as soon as she had paid for the chimney glass. “I am very sorry,” she
said, “that just now I am so poor, for unfortunately, as you know, I
have had to pay for those large music volumes I ordered when I was in
London, and which after all I never used. It always happens that I am
poor when I want to make presents.”
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 her sister in the
number and value of her gifts, but she still assured Fanny she had but
made a beginning. Large and generous indeed, were this young lady’s
intentions.
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 thing? Fanny!
Fanny! wake up. I am come to be your maid to day, for you shall be
mistress on your wedding morning and have a lady to dress you. What is
this shawl? It will not do with a silk dress, wait a minute,” and off
she darted, leaving Fanny sitting up and rubbing her eyes trying to
remember what her young mistress had said. Before she was quite
conscious, Isabel returned with a Norfolk shawl of fine texture and
design, but somewhat soiled. “There,” said she, throwing it across the
silk gown, “those go much better together. I will give it you, Fanny.”
“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 another 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, proudly.
Fanny looked sad, but the young mistress did not see this, for she was
examining the white silk gloves, that lay beside the bonnet. “These,”
thought she, “are not quite right, they look servantish, but my kid
gloves would not fit her, besides, I have none clean, and it is well,
perhaps, that she should have a few things to mark her rank. Yes, they
will do.”
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
carry it, to show Thomas that I did not forget his present, or think it
too homely to go to church with me.”
“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
seaside; 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 favours on the interesting
little bride.
Laura’s first thought that morning had also been of the little orphan,
who had served her so long and faithfully, and whom her father had
commended to her special care. She, too, had risen early, but without
dressing herself, she went across to Sally. Sally was asleep, with the
traces of tears on her cheeks; Laura looked at her for a few moments,
and remembered how, when both were too young to understand the
distinction of rank, they had been almost playmates; she wiped from her
own eyes a little moisture that dimmed them, then putting her hand
gently on Sally’s shoulder, she said, “Wake, Sally, I call you early
that you may have plenty of time to dress me first and yourself
afterwards. I know you would not like to miss waiting on me, or to do it
hurriedly for the last time. You have been crying, Sally, do not colour
about it, I should think ill of you if you were not sorry to leave us,
you cannot feel the parting more than I do. I dare say I shall have hard
work to keep dry eyes all day, but we must do our best, Sally, for it
will not do for John to think I grudge you to him, or that you like me
better than you do him.”
“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 must 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
would not be able to get them back again three or four years hence, nor
would she, at her age, be able to meet with others; and if you would
find it difficult to keep her now, you would much more when you have a
little family; so we must do nothing hastily. I will consult Papa; he
will tell me directly whether I shall be right in promising you the four
shillings a week. If I do promise it, you may depend on always having
it.”
“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 aside on your
wedding-day, because some one else has given you a shawl worth a few
shillings more.” So Laura put the white shawl on the shoulders of Sally,
who valued it more than the finest Cashmere in the world.
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 will 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 the gaze of the servants; but her good-natured
cousin promising to explain that all her dress was given and chosen by
her mistress, she at last went into the hall. Sally’s explanation was
only heard by a few of the party, and as Fanny, in trying to conceal
herself from the gaze of the astonished villagers, slunk behind old Mrs.
Maythorn, she had the mortification of hearing her say to John, in the
loud whisper peculiar to deaf people, “I am so glad, John, the neat one
is yours; I should be quite frightened to see you take such a fine lady
as Fanny to the altar; it makes me sorry for Thomas to see her begin so
smart.”
When the ceremony was over, the party returned to the Hall, where an
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
delighted at the prospect of spending a few days at L——. He and Fanny
talked of the boat-excursions they would have, the shells they would
gather for a grotto in their garden, and the long rambles they would
take by the seaside, till they wondered how ever they could have been
contented with the prospect of going to their cottage at once.
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 little place as it is.” So the bridal party drove away.
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 was, however,
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.
“Good bye, Fanny,” said she at parting; “I shall often write to you, and
send you money. I will not make any distinct promise, for I daresay I
shall be able to do more than I should like to say now.”
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 it down the evening before he took Fanny to the cottage; and
Fanny could never forget, as she arranged her tea-things, that Miss
Isabel had called them “common little things;” so of all the other
pieces of furniture that the young lady had remarked upon. Sally’s house
was, in reality, more homely than her cousin’s, yet as she had never
entertained a wish that it should be better, and as Laura had been
pleased with all its arrangements, she bustled about it with perfect
satisfaction; and even to Fanny it seemed replete with the comfort her
own had always wanted.
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 set.
“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; but I suppose as Miss Isabel has set
her mind on the carpet and china, I must get them.”
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 sister, surprised every one by the splendour of
her presents, when they did come. As Bella entered her second year, she
received from her godmother a beautiful little carriage, which Thomas
said must have “spoilt a five pound note.” This was Isabel’s last gift,
for it was at about this time that she accepted an offer from a French
count, and became so absorbed in her own affairs, that she forgot Fanny
and Bella too. Poor Bella grew more and more sickly every month; the
apothecary ordered her beef tea, arrowroot, and other strengthening
diet, but work was slack with Thomas, and it was with difficulty that he
could procure her the commonest food. “I am sure,” said Fanny to her
cousin, as little Bella was whining on her knee, “that if only Miss
Isabel were here, she would set us all right. She never could bear to
see even a stranger in distress.”
“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 of French
impostors that cry after her in the street, and yet, when she knows our
child is ill, she never cares, because she can’t see it grow thin, or
hear it cry.”
“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 would ’nt have cared a straw to
give us a little each, that would have served us every bit as well.”
“I never heard you so ungrateful, Thomas. Of course she would ’nt,
because she wished to please us.”
“Or herself, as John said; but may be 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 would ’nt 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 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 Miss Laura, saying how you were expecting every week to be put
to bed again, and how Bella was wasting away, and see, I was right about
her, she has sent you a sovereign, and her sister’s letter, no doubt,
contains a pretty sum.”
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, though Sally and Mrs. Maythorn
devoted themselves to her and Bella, the anxiety she suffered from being
separated from her invalid child, added to her former constant
uneasiness, and want of proper food, brought on a fever that threatened
her life. In a few days she became quite delirious. During this time
Isabel was married, and Laura returned to England.
When Fanny regained her consciousness she was in the dark, but she could
see someone 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 Laura is with you. You
expected me home, did you not?”
“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 could’nt 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. Now Miss
Laura—if I may be so bold to speak, Miss—Miss Laura does not give to
please her own feelings, but to do good. I can’t say it well, but do you
say it for me, Miss; I want Fanny to know the right words, to teach the
little ones by-and-bye. You know what I wish to say, Miss Laura.”
“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.”