My cousin Annie and I busy unpacking them. Annie to be my bridesmaid. How
brilliant her color is to-day: she looks very lovely, and will grace our
wedding. Of course, dear Edward is charmed with her, for _my sake_. My
wedding-dress is of white lace, gored on the hips, and quite tight down
to the knee, where small flowers, headed with thick wadded rolls of white
satin, commence. The body is just one finger deep in front, and a little
deeper behind. The dress is made low, for the ball on the evening of the
wedding; and with it has come a white flowered satin spencer, covered
with small white tassels on the front, and with a stiff standing collar,
which looks very stylish. My hat is composed of blonde and satin, and has
_six_ full ostrich feathers in it, three at each side, the two end ones
being very long, so as to fall gracefully on the shoulders. Madame Lion
has sent, amongst other things, a blue cloth pelisse, trimmed with sable;
the price of it is thirty-five guineas. Edward made Annie try on some of
my things to see how he liked them. Strange that it was not _me_ he wished
to see them upon! Dear Edward, how thoughtful he is--he made me retire
to my room very early, saying I looked fatigued. Annie did not follow me
until twelve o'clock, and seemed flushed and slightly agitated on entering
the room. She says I look so pale I should wear a little _rouge_. 'Tis a
fashion I never yet adopted.
_Wednesday, Dec. 3._--Papa and dear Edward all day in the study, closeted
with Mr. Grabb, our attorney, arranging about settlements. To-morrow I
shall be the happy bride of him whom I adore. Guests arriving all day.
I saw Annie coming out of the shrubbery with dear Edward, before the
dinner-bell rang. What could they have gone there for? The hour late, too,
for walking, and the evening cold and damp.
_Twelve o'clock._--Just retired to my room for the night. Take one more
peep at my wedding-dress, laid on the sofa, and now retire to dream of the
happy morn fast approaching.
* * * * *
Here the manuscript ceases; for, when morn came--that morn so longed
for--Edward was missing; and, stranger far, Annie was nowhere to be found,
and was sought for in vain. The faithless pair had eloped together, and
the following day were united at Gretna Green. Long did my poor mother
pine and mourn her sad fate. But at length brighter days arose for her;
and in my dear and honored father she found what she had long searched
for--a congenial, loving, and honest heart.
M. E. H.
[Illustration]
A STRANGE INCIDENT.
I HEARD the other day an anecdote which justifies the remark that "truth
is often stranger than fiction." An old woman, a short time ago, on
her death-bed, called her nephew, who was also her heir, and revealed
to him that, eight years before, she had gone to Paris to receive some
money which was due to her--a sum of fourteen thousand francs received
in bank-notes; she wrapped them up in an old newspaper, and placed them,
with different other things, on the mantle-piece of the room of the inn
where she was staying, while she sat down to write to her husband, to
tell him she had received the money. The letter written, she determined
that, instead of trusting it to any one, she would put it herself in the
post; and accordingly left the hotel for the purpose. On going out, she
left her key with her porter, with directions to light a fire in her room
at eight o'clock. Towards half-past seven, whilst at the house of one
of her acquaintances, it suddenly occurred to her that she had left her
bank-notes on the mantle-piece at the hotel. She immediately returned in
search of them, went up to her room, where the fire was lighted according
to her directions; but the packet of bank-notes had disappeared. She rang.
A young girl answered the bell; of whom she demanded who had lighted the
fire. It was the girl herself. The owner of the bank-notes asked if she
had seen them. She answered in the negative. At last the master of the
hotel was called, and the affair related to him. It then was proved that
the only person who entered the room was the girl who lighted the fire.
The master of the house had confidence in the girl's honesty; but, as
appearances were certainly against her, the whole affair was placed in
the hands of the police, and the girl arrested. She was condemned, on her
trial, to three years' imprisonment; but the money was not found after the
expiration of the three years. The girl came to the house of the owner
of the unlucky bank-notes, reproached her as the cause of her ruin and
dishonor. The old lady was touched: it occurred to her, suppose, after
all, the woman was innocent! Her guilt had never been satisfactorily
proved; nor had the strictest searches been able to discover what she had
done with the money she was accused of taking. At the time of her arrest
she had been on the point of marrying an honest workman; and now she
would have the greatest difficulty in placing herself in service again.
Instigated by the desire to repair, as far as in her lay, the injury she
might have caused this young woman, the old lady determined to take her
into her service, and try her; and never had she cause to regret having
done so. She now revealed all to the nephew, and expressed her full belief
in the innocence of her servant, and desired them always to retain her in
the family, and not to reveal her secret. The next day the old lady died,
leaving about two hundred thousand francs to her nephew.
The nephew came a short time ago to Paris, to pass a few months of
the winter season; he went to an hotel in the Rue du Helder, where he
established himself very comfortably. One evening, after returning home,
he heard, in the room adjoining that in which he was, the sound of voices
and laughter; evidently his neighbors were in high glee. Overhearing some
words, his curiosity was piqued, and he approached the partition, in
order to hear more distinctly; (and yet there are some men who pretend
to say that it is only women who are curious!) In this laudable attempt,
our hero discovered that there had formerly been a door of communication
between the room he occupied and that in which his gay neighbors were
enjoying themselves. The hole where the lock had been was filled up with
sealing-wax, so that there was no chance of seeing through that: but his
curiosity was excited, and in looking about he saw that there had been
a space at the top of the door, which was stuffed up with old paper.
He pulled it out, and his curiosity was gratified with a view of his
next-door neighbors. His efforts being thus crowned with success, he went
to bed, and fell asleep.
The next morning, wishing to remove the proofs of his curiosity, he took
the packet of old newspapers, with the intention of replacing them, when,
in so doing, out fell the fourteen _billet de mille_ francs, evidently
those of his aunt. The master of the house was called. He remembered
perfectly the circumstance. The servant was sent for; she recognized the
room. The young man offered to make public reparation, and establish her
innocence; but the poor woman preferred letting all the affair rest in
oblivion. The story was forgotten, she said: why revive it? The young man
handed her over the _billets_, which had been the cause of so much sorrow
to her. After all, they were hardly earned.
[Illustration]
THE NEEDLE IN THE HAYMOW.
A STORY FOR HOUSEKEEPERS.
BY H. D. R.
"YOU must have help, that is certain," said Mr. Harding, as he laid a
letter which he had been reading upon the breakfast-table, and began to
sip his coffee. "With all this company upon your hands, and warm weather
coming on, it would be madness for you to try to get along alone."
"That is true," sighed Mrs. Harding; "but the question is, where to get
it. The whole vicinity has been searched over and over, and there is not a
girl to be had."
"One must be had," replied her husband, in a determined tone. "Eight or
ten visitors, more or less, for the summer, will kill you outright." And
he cast a troubled glance at the pale face and slender form of his wife.
"Well, how shall we get help, then?" asked Mrs. Harding, half laughing
in the midst of her vexation. "The days are gone by when girls apply for
places."
"Yes, there is no way but to go after them. If my troublesome rheumatism
would just leave me for a few days, you should have two girls. But as it
is, wife, I see no way but for you to go yourself with Walter for driver."
Mrs. Harding laughed to think how she would look driving about the country
for "help," and would almost have preferred to try her hand alone; but her
husband's troubled countenance and the necessities of the case decided
her, and she said--
"I have almost no faith in the undertaking, but am willing to try, and if
I fail I shall be no worse off than now. But where shall I go?"
Mr. Harding thought a moment, and then said--
"I have heard that there are girls enough on Seccombe Plains."
"How far is that?"
"Only twelve or fifteen miles. It is only four or five miles from Cousin
Harriman's."
"Oh, that will be nice!" exclaimed Mrs. Harding, well pleased with the
suggestion. "I will spend the night with Cousin Clarissa, and start from
there in the morning."
After dinner, the same day, Walter brought the carriage round to the door,
and Mrs. Harding started off, infinitely amused with her errand, though
with no very sanguine hopes of success.
The next morning, Mrs. Harriman gave her guests an early breakfast, and
by seven o'clock they were ready to commence their search. It was a
lovely morning in early June. The sun had not been up long enough to kiss
the glistening dew from the grass, and the thousand songsters of grove
and forest had not quite finished their matin song. Everything looked
bright with hope; and hope beat higher, a great deal higher in Mrs.
Harding's breast than it had done the day before. The whole world looked
so beautiful that it seemed almost wicked to doubt, and they rode on over
the retired hills towards Seccombe Plains, feeling almost as sure of the
"bird" as though they had her "in hand."
After riding two or three miles, they approached a small unpainted cottage
which stood upon a very high bank upon the right. A single glance showed
them that two or three men were at the back door, evidently just starting
for the fields.
"Stop when you get against the house, Walter; I mean to inquire here,"
said Mrs. Harding, as they drew near. But the next moment two of the
men disappeared round the corner of the shed, while the third, a very
oily-looking man, with an enormous width of collar, came leisurely along
in front of the house.
"Do you know where I could find a girl to do housework, sir?" asked Mrs.
Harding, leaning forward in her carriage, and addressing the man.
"Wal, yes," said he of the broad collar; "I've got a darter'd be glad to
go; but she ain't to home. She went to work to the Falls last week, but
she ain't a gwine to stay but three or four weeks. If she was to home,
she'd be glad to go."
"Do you know of any others who go out?" said Mrs. Harding, who thought
there was but little prospect of getting his daughter Sally.
"Not as I knows on," said Mr. of the broad collar. "You couldn't wait
three or four weeks, I s'pose."
"No," was the reply; and she laid her hand upon Walter's arm, as a signal
to drive on.
"We came pretty near getting a girl that time," said Walter, laughing.
"Quite as near as was best for us. It is well that Sally is gone, I dare
say," replied his mother, with a smile.
Patient toiling brought them at last up a long, rugged hill, upon the
other side of which spread out Seccombe Plains.
"Here is a house; shall we inquire here?" said Walter, pointing to a rude
little house or hovel which stood upon the hill-top, upon a level spot
which was covered with large granite boulders and unsightly brush.
"Yes," said his mother, as she espied a man coming round the corner of the
house. "It can do no harm to inquire."
"Can you tell me of any girls in the vicinity who go out to work?" sang
out Mrs. Harding to the slovenly-looking man, who had no idea of drawing
nearer.
"What? I didn't hear."
The question was repeated, and the sound of a stranger's voice brought
three or four barefooted, uncombed juveniles to the door, and the mother's
head to the window.
"Can you tell this woman where she can find a gal to do housework?" said
the man, addressing his better half.
"Why, yes; there's gals enough, but I can't seem to think on 'em," said
the woman, with a perplexed look. "P'raps she could get one of Smithson's
gals. He has got two that go out to work."
"Would they make good help?" asked Mrs. Harding.
"Fust rate. One on 'em worked for me a spell last winter, and she did
well."
Mrs. Harding thought that was no great recommendation; but she simply
thanked her, and asked if she could tell of any others.
"Wal, I don't think of any; but there's enough on 'em a leetle farther on,
at Mapleton."
"How far is that?"
"Six miles beyond the Plains."
Mrs. Harding thanked her informer, and they drove on down the long steep
hill, at the foot of which lay the insignificant village of Seccombe
Plains.
"We have heard of one girl, mother," said Walter, looking very bright.
"Perhaps she will be just the one for us."
"Perhaps so," said Mrs. Harding, doubtfully.
"We shall feel pretty grand if we can carry back a good girl."
Mrs. Harding laughed, and said something about "counting chickens before
they were hatched;" but just then they found themselves at the foot of the
long hill, and directly opposite a low farm-house, the mistress of which
was out, broom in hand, sweeping the little footpath which led to the road.
Mrs. Harding inquired if she knew of any girls for housework.
"Where do you want 'em to go?" asked the woman, whose curiosity was at
once awakened.
"Only about fifteen miles," was the evasive reply.
"Well, I don't know of any," replied the woman, looking a little
disappointed. "I don't think there's such a thing to be had anywhere round
here."
"I was told that Mr. Smithson has daughters who go out to work."
"Well, you couldn't git 'em, I know. They go a little right round here,
but they wouldn't go off so far. Their folks wouldn't hear a word to 't,"
said the woman, with a flourish of her broom.
"Will you have the kindness to tell me where they live? I think I will try
them."
"Oh, yes, I'll do that! You must go back to the saddler's shop, and then
turn square round to your left, and it is the _first_ house on the right."
"How far is it?"
"I should say about a mile and a half, or such a matter. It's the _third_
house on the right."
Mrs. Harding expressed her thanks, and old Dobbin was whirled round the
corner instanter, and they were in full pursuit of the Smithsons.
"Here's the house, mother; this is the third," said Walter, as they came
in sight of a comfortable-looking farm-house, which stood upon quite a
bluff upon the right. Everything about the premises looked very neat. The
bright green grass grew clear up to the front door of the cottage, which,
with the closed curtains in the "foreroom," gave a particularly staid,
go-to-meeting-like aspect to the front. A narrow footpath wound round to
the back door, which was evidently the only approved mode of entrance.
Mrs. Harding alighted and took the well-worn path to the back door, and
knocked. "Come in," called out a shrill voice within. Obeying the summons,
she saw before her a very tidy-looking matron, with a very white bleached
cotton cap upon her head, holding in her hand a lace or muslin article
of the same sort, which she was spatting and pulling, evidently with the
intention of "doing it up." The aspect of the kitchen was very inviting.
The morning work was all out of the way, and the polished stove and very
white unpainted floor were really charming.
"I have called to see if one of your daughters would go out to work," said
Mrs. Harding, with hope fast rising in her breast, for she felt that she
had at last come to the right place.
"Well, I don't know; they go out sometimes. Where do you want them to go?"
asked the woman, with a glance of curiosity at the stranger.
Mrs. Harding mentioned the name of the town and the distance, adding that
she should have a large family through the season, and wished some one to
cook and do general work.
"I don't know what they'd say to it. They can do as they've a mind to. But
they ain't good for much, nohow," said the mother, who continued to spat
and pull her muslin vigorously.
"How old are they?"
"The oldest is seventeen this month, and t'other is two years younger."
At this moment the door opened, and in walked a coarse overgrown girl,
munching a piece of pie, and staring boldly at the stranger.
"Do you want to go out to work, Emmeline? Here's a woman that wants you,"
said the mother, the moment she made her appearance.
"Yes," said the girl, in coarse tones, without relaxing her stare.
Mrs. Harding's heart sank within her. She saw, at a glance, that the
great, coarse, unmannered girl would be more care than help. She hardly
knew how to make an honorable retreat in the case; but after a slight
cross-examination of the capabilities of the girl, she expressed her
belief that she was too young for her hard work, and bowed herself out,
leaving both mother and daughter looking quite disconcerted.
"Is she going?" whispered Walter, as his mother approached the carriage.
A shake of the head answered him.
"Oh, dear, where shall we go now?"
"Straight before us, Walter; you must not give up for trifles," said his
mother, laughing good-humoredly, notwithstanding the uneasiness that was
creeping upon her own heart.
"Where?" said Walter, still desponding.
"I don't know; we'll see. Don't you know that we are out seeking our
fortunes, Wally?"
They drove on, and soon met an elderly-looking man in a rickety old wagon,
drawn by a limping gray horse.
"Can you tell me, sir," said Mrs. Harding, laying her hand upon Walter's
arm as a sign to stop, "can you tell me where I can find a girl to do
housework?"
"That is a pretty difficult thing to find, ma'am," replied the old man,
in a respectful tone. "Let me see," and he looked down for a moment,
thoughtfully. "Yes, there's Susan Lovejoy you might get, and she would
make good help. She is a first rate girl."
"How old is she?" inquired Mrs. Harding, as the vision of the coarse girl
munching her pie flitted before her.
"Oh, she's old enough," replied the man, with a smile, "she's old enough.
I should think she might be thirty or thereabouts. They call her one of
the best."
Away they went over the hills, some three or four miles, and at
length old Dobbin was reined up before Mr. Lovejoy's door. It was a
substantial-looking farm-house set in the midst of a green field,
surrounded by a stone wall, its only opening being a formidable farm-yard
gate, fastened to a post by a piece of rope. The premises were guarded by
a noisy dog, who rushed out the moment he heard the sound of wheels, and
ran barking towards the carriage. Mrs. Harding, however, pushed open the
gate, and quickly made her way to the house. A pale, fresh-looking matron
was bustling about the kitchen; and standing at a spinning-wheel, near
the door, was a girl in a tidy-looking dark calico, whom she knew, at a
glance, was the object of her search.
She at once made known her errand.
"Oh, no," was the response of the girl; "I couldn't possibly go. I don't
see who ever thought I would."
"I was recommended to come here," replied Mrs. Harding, who liked the
looks of the girl, and was determined to plead her cause with all her
might. "I was told that you went out, and very likely would go now."
"Who told you so?"
"An old gentleman whom I met three or four miles back."
"With a gray limping horse?"
"Yes, I should think so."
"It must have been old Mr. Cartwright, mother; I don't see what made him
think so."
"Could I not induce you to go?" asked Mrs. Harding, bringing her back
to the main point, and entering very fully into the circumstances of the
family. "I will give you good wages. Two dollars a week, if you say so."
"Well, I couldn't go nohow. They can't spare me."
"Could not you go for a few weeks?" asked Mrs. Harding, anxiously. "Six or
eight weeks would do me a great deal of good. You shall be well paid, if
you will go. You may set your own price."
"No, I couldn't possibly go," said the girl, with a tantalizing smile. "I
ain't obliged to work out, and I can't go."
Mrs. Harding looked and felt disappointed, but she made her way out, not
knowing where to go. She felt that she was on a hopeless errand, and was
half disposed to turn her face homeward. But, on second thought, she
concluded to try a little longer, and they rode on, making fruitless
inquiries here and there. At length she recollected that some one had told
her that there were plenty of girls in Mapleton. In an instant, old Dobbin
was headed that way, despite Walter's sinking spirits, and they rode along
drinking in the perfume of a thousand flowers, and charmed into something
like hope by the harmonies which float upon the breezes of early summer.
"I will inquire here," said Mrs. Harding, as they neared an old-fashioned
house some two or three miles beyond the Plains; and, suiting the action
to the word, she sprang lightly from the carriage and ran up to the door
and knocked. After knocking till her fingers were sore, for neither
bell nor knocker graced the panel, she heard steps of some one who came
stubbing leisurely along to the door. The face which presented itself was
coarse and greasy, and the untidy dress of the owner strongly suggestive
of yellow snuff.
"Do you know of any girls for housework?" said Mrs. Harding, hardly
expecting any available information.
"Don't b'l'eve there's such a thing to be found in ten mile. Folks can't
git gals when they're sick, and _dun no_ where well folks can find 'em.
S'pect they'll have to do their own work; at any rate, they orto."
"But well people sometimes have more work than they can do, and then they
need help," returned Mrs. Harding, in a tone of remonstrance.
"Wal, gals round here won't go where they're looked down on. They'd rather
do sunthin' else than work for folks that's too grand to eat with them,"
said the woman, with a look which indicated that she thought the stranger
one of the _aristocracy_.
"Then you cannot tell me of any one?" interrupted Mrs. Harding, intending
to cut short the uncivil harangue.
"No; not unless Betty Symonds would go; but, then, she wouldn't, I know,"
replied the woman, who seemed a little softened, now that she had given
vent to her spleen against the "grand folks."
"And where does she live?" asked Mrs. Harding, who, like a "drowning man,
caught at every straw."
"Up't the next housen; but she won't go; I know as well as I want to,
eanamost."
Mrs. Harding was soon ushered into Betty Symonds's best parlor. It was a
long narrow room, with two small windows, and partially carpeted with bits
of rag carpeting and large braided mats of domestic manufacture. A white
homespun towel covered the stand between the windows, upon which stood a
cracked tea-pot, over which straggled long branches of petunia, which were
under the necessity of lying down, because there was nothing to hold them
up.
Betty was soon heard approaching, and she came in dressed in quite a
striking manner. Her gay, large-figured calico was decorated with three
deep flounces. Large gold ear-rings were in her ears, and rings, which
glowed with great yellow and red stones, adorned the hands which were damp
with dish-water. To Mrs. Harding's inquiry she replied, in loud tones--
"I don't kalkilate to work out. I ain't obleeged teu. And I mean to go to
Boston a visiting soon as haying is over."
Great as were Mrs. Harding's necessities, she felt little inclined to urge
Betty Symonds to live with her, and on they were soon jogging towards
Mapleton.
"Where are you going now, mother?" asked Walter, looking quite blue.
"Oh, I don't know, Wally. I am almost discouraged."
"Do let us go home, mother; we shall not find a good girl."
"We may; we will try a little longer," said Mrs. Harding, trying to be
cheerful.
As they rode into Mapleton village, they met a man of whom Mrs. Harding
ventured to inquire.
"Oh, there is girls enough," he replied, cheerfully. "You've just come by
a house where there are three."
"How far back is it?" asked Mrs. Harding, eagerly.
"Oh, a mile or so. You can see it from here, just beyond that hemlock
grove," said the man, pointing back.
Dobbin was again turned, and put in rapid motion towards the house. There
she found a great corpulent woman knitting quietly by the window; but the
girls were nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Harding stated her errand briefly, but
earnestly.
"My gals are gone," said the woman, coldly. "One's gone to Lowell, and
t'other went yesterday to work at the Meadows."
"Have you not another that would go?"
"No," was the gruff reply of the woman, who did not even deign to look up.