"Teach me to gain hearts as you do!" Ida prayed, on the memorable
evening of the storm, and Carry answered, blithely, "Love, and live for
others!"
To her, natural disposition and practice made the task easy; for her
pupil, it was arduous beyond her worst expectation. Her reputation
was established; the wall she had erected between herself and her
associates, was not to be undermined or scaled in a day. Her overtures
of familiarity and service was unskilfully made; her very timidity
construed into labored condescension. "It is a hopeless endeavor--they
will never care for me!" said she, despondingly--once and again, and
Carry still predicted--"Love will win love. Persevere!" The birth
and growth of their attachment was remarkable. Dissimilar in mind;
made more so in manner, by education and circumstances, there existed
from the earliest stage of their friendship, perfect confidence in
each other's affection. Carry had an infallible perception of genuine
worth, hidden though it might be; and Ida clung drowningly to this last
anchor--the sole tie that connected her with her race. Like most deep
feelings, its current was noiseless. They were much together;--that
was not strange, since their studies were the same. They had separate
compartments of one desk; and none marked how often one book was conned
by both; brown and fair curls mingling; and hands clasped in mute
tenderness. Still less did they dream of the miraculous confluence of
the sun-bright stream with the turbid torrent, and the wondrous music
of their flow.
They were sitting thus one forenoon, when an assistant teacher drew
near, and inquired if there were a vacant seat in their vicinity.
"A new scholar!" buzzed from fifty tongues; and the eyes of our two
students strayed with the rest, to the door.
"Miss Pratt, young ladies!" introduced Mr. Purcell.
The girls arose, in conformance with their custom of reception, and
bowed to the figure that followed him into the room. She was short
and fat--"dumpy," in vulgar parlance; and so homely, as to countenance
Ellen Morris' report to another department--"that the farmers in the
neighborhood where she was 'riz,' had forwarded a petition, beseeching
her to return, their corn having suffered greatly from the depredations
of the crows since her departure; a thing unheard of, previously, in
that part of the country." Her eyes were small and grey; her nose
a ruddy "snub;" her lips curiously puckered up; and her skin might
have owed its dappled red to the drippings of the carroty frizette
overshadowing it. Her dress was showy and outre; a rainbow silk
trebly-flounced; an embroidered lace cape; white kid gloves; a gold
cable of startling dimensions; two bracelets of corresponding size, and
different patterns; a brooch that matched neither, and out-glittered
both; while blue, green, and red stones, with heavy settings, loaded
the thick fingers to the knuckles.
Awe of their preceptor in some, good breeding in others, prevented any
audible outbreak of amusement; but what school girl on the _qui vive_
for diversion could keep from smiling? Mr. Purcell frowned as his
eye travelled from one mirthful face to another, but a twinkle from
Ellen Morris' dancing orbs neutralized the effort; and there was a
perceptible twitch of his risible muscle as he rapped for "order." Ida
and Carry had not escaped the contagion, an indulgence for which they
reproached themselves.
"Poor girl!" whispered Carry. "She knows no better. She is to be pitied
instead of laughed at." And Ida thought of _her_ loneliness, upon her
induction into these strange scenes. "I can lessen her discomfort, and,
uninfluenced by prejudice, she will be thankful, perhaps will become
fond of me."
Carry read her resolve in her thoughtful survey of the stranger; but
while she loved and honoured her for it, her heart misgave her as she
looked more attentively at the object of the purposed charity. Her
physiognomy was not more irregular than unpleasant in its expression.
She had opened a book, to be in the fashion in this as in every thing
else, but her regards were wandering around the room in scared yet
unblushing curiosity, flustered at being in a crowd, without a doubt
as to her ability to cope with the best of them. Before the exercises
of the forenoon were concluded, she was summoned to see a visitor,
and did not reappear before intermission. Then Ida, having occasion to
go into a small room, where bonnets and cloaks were hung, found her
standing at the window, crying. She wheeled about sharply on hearing a
step; her eyes swelled almost out of sight, and her whole appearance
frightful in its disorder.
"What do you want?" she asked, querulously.
"I did not know you were here," said Ida. "What is the matter? Are you
sick? Can I help you?"
"No. My pa's gone away!" A fresh burst.
"Gone! where?"
"Gone home! and I don't want to stay in this nasty, mean place. I don't
want to go to school no more--nowhar!"
To hint at the obvious propriety of the deprecated measure was a
temptation policy bade her resist, and Ida was actually nonplussed in
casting about in her mind for appropriate consolation.
"You will like us better than you expect," she said, rather awkwardly;
"and your father will come soon to see you again--will he not?"
"Yes; he's comin' next week. He is a representative!" mouthing the word
magniloquently.
"A--what?"
"He belongs to the legislater. Lor! didn't you know that?"
"No," replied Ida, humbly; "I am so little conversant with State
affairs. You will be glad to have him so near."
"I don't care much about it; I want to go home and stay with ma!"
beginning to sob. Neither her unpolished manners, nor her accent,
combining, as it did, the most vicious of Virginia provincialisms,
with the gutturals of the African; nor her noisy grief, could make Ida
forget that she was a home-sick child--weeping for her mother! _She_
too had mourned, and "refused to be comforted, because hers was not."
Miss Pratt's sorrow, however, was very garrulous.
"Now, at home," she continued, "I did jest as I pleased; I lay down
most all day. Ma said reading was bad for my head; and so 'tis; it
makes me as stupid as I don't know what; and ain't no use besides. I
can play on the pianny; gentle_men_ don't care for nothing else when
they go to see the ladies. You all don't have no beaux while you're at
school, do you?"
Ida smiled at this unlooked for query. "We do not have much leisure for
amusements," she rejoined.
"And can't you go to the theatre, and to shows and parties?" asked Miss
Pratt, alarmed.
"There are no rules on the subject; but it is thought that a young lady
is better fitted to go into society, when her mind and manners are
formed by time and study."
"Mine are enough formed, I know," complacently glancing from her attire
to Ida's plain merino, and black silk apron. "How awful ugly all the
girls dress! Ain't none of 'em rich?"
"I believe so; but the school-girls here dress simply."
"_I_ shan't! My pa's able to give me decent clothes, and I mean to have
'em. I don't like Richmond a single bit. Nobody don't take no more
notice of me than if I wan't nobody--no better than other folks."
"You are not acquainted yet. There are some pleasant girls amongst us;
and you will love Mr. Purcell."
"Is he strict, much? Does he make you get hard lessons?"
"He is very kind and considerate."
"I despise teachers and books. Thank patience! I am going to turn
out after this session. Ma was married at fifteen, and I'm going on
seventeen."
"I am quite seventeen, but I am not tired of books. When I leave
school, I shall adopt a regular plan of study and reading."
"_Good_ gracious! Why, don't you expect to get married? What are you
going to learn so much for? I reckon you're going to teach school."
"No; I study because I like to do it."
"Pshaw! you talk like your teacher was in the room. I don't believe
_that_."
"The school-bell!" interrupted Ida, happy to be released.
Miss Pratt hung back. "I don't want to go where all them girls are.
Will Mr. What's-his-name be mad if I stay here?"
"He will probably send for you."
"Then I might's well go now. I don't care--I'm as good as any of 'em."
"What, and who is she?" inquired Carry, when school was out.
"A silly, neglected child," responded her friend. "Shamefully
ignorant, when we consider her father's station. He is a member of the
legislature."
"Ah! can it be the delegate from A----? I have heard of him. He is a
clever politician, and an educated man. I am astonished!"
So were all who made the acquaintance of his daughter. Mr. Pratt had
done his best to serve his country and increase his fortune. The
rearing of his children was confided to a weak and foolishly fond
mother. The only girl was alternately stuffed and dosed, until the
modicum of intellectual strength nature might have granted her, was
nearly destroyed; the arable soil exhausted by the rank weed growth. It
was just after his election to the House of Representatives, that the
father made simultaneously two astounding discoveries--that physically,
his daughter was no longer a child, and that she was a dunce. He had
paid a teacher to superintend her education, and supposed she had done
her duty; whereas, the prudent governess, having little more sense than
her pupil, and loving her ease fully as well, had enjoyed her sinecure
of a situation with no compunctious visitings of conscience. She acted
"according to Mrs. Pratt's instructions." It was a thunderbolt to the
feminine trio when the Representative introduced a bill of amendment,
paid the soi-disant instructress for the work she had not performed,
informing her that her services were at an end; and ordered the mother
to resign her spoiled child to him, "he would see what could be done
towards redeeming the time." He carried his point in the teeth of a
windy and watery tempest, and "Miss Celestia Pratt" was duly entered
on the roll-book of Mr. Purcell's justly celebrated institution. She
soon ceased to complain that she was not noticed. The second day of
her attendance she fell in with Ellen Morris and her coterie. By the
time the half hour's recess was over, they were enlightened as to her
past life, and future aspirations, and supplied with the material of a
year's fun-making; while she was reinstated in her self-consequence,
and ready to strike hands with them in any scheme they chalked out.
"It is a shame," said Ida, who, with Carry kept aloof, silent
spectators. "Cannot she see what they are doing?"
"It will be a severe, but perhaps a salutary lesson," replied Carry.
"But the poor creature will be the butt of the school."
"And of the community," said Carry. "I have reasoned with Ellen;--she
is not evil disposed, but would compass sea and land for as rich a joke
as this promises to be. My influence can effect nothing."
"What if I warn the girl?" said Ida. "Must she pay the penalty of her
parent's fault?"
"My darling," returned Carry, affectionately, "I am learning prudence
from you, and I verily believe I have imparted to you some of my
inconsiderateness. What hold have you on this Miss Pratt's confidence?
Ellen and her clique are as likely to be in the right as yourself. In
her estimation they are more entitled to credence. They play upon the
string of self--you will utter a distasteful truth. Let her and them
alone, except so far as your individual self is concerned. Attract each
one to you, and you may be the means of bringing them together."
Ellen Morris burst into the school-room one morning in a gale of
excitement.
It was early, and none of the teachers were present, the girls were
gathered in knots about the stove and desks.
"Oh girls!" she cried, "I hurried to get here before my angel Celestia.
I have the best thing to tell you. You must know she and I were
invited, with several others, to take tea at Uncle James' last evening.
We had not been there long before aunt said that Mr. Dermott was
expected. 'I have it,' thought I. I gave Celestia a nudge, 'Do you hear
that?'
"'What?' said she.
"'The great traveller, Mr. Dermott, is to be here presently. Ain't you
glad?'
"'Who is he? I never heard of him.'
"'Oh Celestia! and you a representative's daughter! and he invited
expressly to meet you--it is well no one overheard you--and you have
not composed your conversation either? What will you do? He is one of
the famous authors you hear so much of. They will make a statue of him
when he dies, like Washington in the capitol, you know.'
"'You don't say so!'
"'Yes, and he has seen the seven wonders of the world, and elephants,
and rhinoceros, and polypi, and hippopotami, and Dawalageri, and
anthropophagi.'
"'_Good_ gracious!' said she, looking wild, 'You reckon he will speak
to me? _do_ tell me something to say!'
"'Could you repeat those names?'
"'_That_ I couldn't, to save my life!'
"'Well,--let me see,--you must be very sober and wise; only saying
'yes' and 'no,' till he gets to talking of books. Then is the time to
show off. Literary people never inquire what you remember in a book, if
you say you have read it.'
"'Yes,' she struck in, with a grin. 'So when he asks me if I've read
them he's talking about, I'm a-going to say 'yes'--(you know she is
always 'going, going, gone.') 'He ain't a-going to catch me, I'll show
him!'
"'Right,' said I; 'and question him about two or three, which you name
yourself; that will finish the business.'
"'I don't know none.'
"'Don't you? Then I will write off a short list. Keep the paper in
your hand; and when he is fairly under way talking, you steal a sly
peep at it.' Oh! it was enrapturing to see how she held on to that
slip of paper! poring over it every five minutes before Mr. Dermott's
arrival, and once in two minutes afterwards. She would study it for
a second, then her lips would move, until the time for another peep;
she was getting it by heart, staring at him all the while. By and by
he happened to be near her; and said something about the Panorama. She
had been on tiptoe for the last hour, lest her trouble should be thrown
away; and resolved not to lose this opportunity, she spoke out as
loudly as addressing a deaf person--
"'Mr. _Dermarck!_ have you ever read Plutarch-es Liv-es, Homer's
Eyelids, Dance's Diving Comedy and Campbell's Gratitude of Wimming?' I
wish you could have seen him!"
"O Ellen! Ellen!" chorussed twenty voices; and the crowd rocked in
uncontrollable merriment. Carry, and one or two more were grave; and
an indignant voice said, "How wickedly heartless!"
There was no mistaking the meaning and emphasis of the interjection.
Ellen crimsoned to the roots of her hair. She retorted with a spirit
entirely opposite to her usual sportive gaiety.
"One, whose lowest thoughts soar so far above the common herd, as Miss
Ross, cannot be expected to understand a piece of harmless pleasantry."
Ida had unluckily employed the oft-quoted words, "the common herd of
mankind," in a written composition; and this was not the first time it
had been used as an offensive missile.
"One must stoop low indeed, Miss Morris," was the instant rejoinder,
"to see harmless pleasantry in a plot for the disgrace of an
unoffending school-mate."
"Ida! Ellen!" exclaimed Carry, laying her hand upon Ellen's mouth, and
stifling her reply. "For my sake, girls--if not for your own--say no
more! Ida! what have you to do with this miserable affair?"
"I have done!" said Ida, bitterly; "Defence of right and truth is
better left unattempted _here_!"
The girls fell back as she crossed to her seat. The sentence sank into
every mind; and the expression of each one showed that she appropriated
it. Carry's head dropped upon Ellen's shoulder; and sullenly vindictive
as was the latter, she was not unmoved by the quiver of the slender
frame. Mr. Purcell's entrance put an end to the scene. That was a
wretched day to more than one heart. Ida's was well-nigh bursting.
It mattered not that her prospects of popularity were, for the
present, shipwrecked; that her resolutions of patience and gentleness
had broken, like dry straws, at the breeze of passion;--Carry was
wounded--perhaps offended--perhaps estranged! "Still, what have I
done?" whispered pride, "spoken truth, and defended the absent!" But
conscience answered--"Anger, not justice was the prompter," and again,
every feeling merged in one--"What will Carry think?" She did not
offer her book as usual--did not meet her eye. She would have read
no resentment there; the pale, sad face told of suffering, with no
admixture of baser motives. The intermission was dull. Miss Celestia's
extravagant description of "the party," and "the gentle_men_" she "was
interduced to," hardly excited a smile. A nameless depression was
upon all. Ellen, their ringleader in mischief, and Carry, the willing
participant in their innocent pleasures, were wanting from their band.
They remained at their desks, seemingly engaged in study, until almost
school-time, when Carry went around to the other, whispered a word; and
they left the apartment together. They returned arm in arm, as Ida,
who had gone home in recess, more to be quieted and refreshed by the
cool air, than for luncheon,--entered from the street. She remarked
their affectionate air, and happier faces with goading envy. "Ellen is
worth conciliating. It would be dangerous to break with her. There can
be no hesitancy, with the fair words of the crowd in one scale--and
Ida Ross, unknown and unbeloved, in the other. Be it so!" But awakened
affection had had a taste of its proper nutriment, and was not to be
famished into silence. The afternoon wore heavily away in the unspoken
anguish of love and pride and suspicion. Careless of remarks or
conjectures, she declined dinner, and retired at once to her chamber,
when she reached home. It might have been one hour;--it might have
been three, that she had knelt or laid upon the floor, her head upon a
stool, before the mourner for the dead bird;--weeping and thinking, and
seeming to grow a year older with each flood of grief; when there came
a tap at the door. "Josephine!" was the first thought--to spring to the
mirror, brush the tumbled hair, and dash rosewater over the discolored
cheeks, the work of the next minute; then she said sleepily--"Who is
there?"
"It is I--Carry!"
The bolt was withdrawn, and the intruder lay, sobbing upon her breast.
"Oh, Ida! how could you be angry with me?"
Ida struggled with the answering drops, but they _would_ come.
"I thought you had thrown me off, Carry!"
"You could not--after my note."
"Your note!"
"I slipped it into your French Grammar, as it lay open before your
eyes; and you shut the book and put it aside,--I supposed to read it at
your leisure."
"I did not see it."
She went to her satchel, and brought forth the Grammar. "There it is!"
said Carry, as a folded paper fell from within it. "Do not read it. I
will tell you its contents. I asked your forgiveness for interrupting
you so rudely this morning; but these public disputes lead to so much
evil. Ellen was wrong; she has said so to me; and is ready to be your
friend, if you consent. Her conduct was blameably thoughtless; and her
quick temper could not submit to a rebuke so openly administered. I was
abrupt, but it was not because I was angry with, or did not love you.
Ellen's taunt was extremely provoking"--
"Stop! stop! Carry! It is I, who should sue for pardon, and excuse,
if I can, my unbecoming heat, and after doubts of your friendship. I
cannot tell you what a fearful warfare has waged within me;--how much
incensed I was to see you and Ellen come in so lovingly, at noon;--how
Ishmael-like I felt;--every man's hand against me, and mine against the
universe, and Him who made it," she added, with an intonation of awe.
"Can you love me after hearing this, Carry?"
"Always--always!"
Ellen was amazed, that afternoon, on being summoned to receive
visitors, to find in them her two class-mates, and more astounded to
hear from her antagonist of the morning, a frank and graceful apology
for her hasty strictures upon her conduct and words. Ellen was, as
she phrased it, "great upon high-flown speeches; but this was an
extraordinary occasion, and demanded a deviation from ordinary rules;
so I condescended, for once, to make use of simple language."
If simple, it was satisfactory, and they parted most amicably. It
was past sunset, when the friends arrived at Mr. Read's door. Ida
stood upon the steps, watching Carry, as she tripped away into the
dusk. Others would have seen only a pretty girl, with a smile like
May sunshine;--to the fond eyes that followed her, she was an angel
of love, upon whom nothing of evil could gaze without adoration and
contrition;--and now the light of a new blessing beaming upon her
brow--the blessing of the peace-maker!