PREPARING FOR THE FAIR.
Young Savage went up those marble steps with a light heart and a
generous purpose. He would befriend this unfortunate family. His mother
should help him. That girl, with the bright, brunette face, was too
beautiful for her friendless condition, and the burden of those three
helpless creatures who depended on her. He could not get her picture, as
she stood by the fireplace, out of his mind.
“Where is my mother?” he inquired of the servant, passing him at the
door with a light step.
“Up in her own room, sir. She has just come in.”
Horace made his way up stairs, and entered one of the most luxurious
rooms of the noble mansion, in which his mother was sitting, or, rather,
lying, with her elbow buried in the satin pillows of a crimson couch,
and her foot pressed hard upon an embroidered ottoman. Horace opened the
door without noise, and walking across a carpet soft as moss, sat down
on the foot of his mother’s couch.
She was a handsome woman, this Mrs. Savage—large, tall, and commanding.
It was easy to see where the young man got those fine, grey eyes, and
brilliant complexion.
“Oh, Horace! I am glad you have come! Such a day as I have gone
through!” cried the lady, fluttering the white ribbons of her pretty
dress cap, by the despairing shake of her head. “Upon my word, I think
those women will be the death of me; such selfishness! such egotism!”
“It must be very tiresome; but then I sometimes think you like to be
tired out on such occasions, mother.”
“But the cause, Horace, the great cause of humanity. These poor soldiers
toiling in the field, suffering, dying—and their families. It is enough
to break one’s heart.”
Horace looked at his mother in her costly dress, trimmed half way up the
skirt with velvet, and lace, and fancy buttons, the cost of which would
have fed old Mrs. Burns for a twelvemonth; and, for the first time in
his life, a faint idea of her inconsistency broke upon his filial
blindness. The very point-lace of her tiny cap would have given a month
of tolerable comfort to the soldier’s orphans. Yet, with all this wanton
finery fluttering about her, the woman really thought herself a most
charitable person, and mourned the dead and wounded over each battle
right regally, under moire antique rippled with light, like a cloud in a
thunderstorm, at a cost of some ten dollars per yard.
“But it is of no use dwelling on that part of the subject; the proper
course is to find a remedy, which we have done in this fair. I tell you,
Horace, the country can produce nothing like it. It will be superb. The
only trouble is about the tableaux. Every lady of the committee has some
commonplace daughter that she insists on crowding into the foreground.
Thank heaven, I have no daughter to push forward after this coarse
fashion. There is Mrs. Pope, now, insists that Amelia shall stand as
Rebecca, in the great Ivanhoe tableau, when her eyes are a
greenish-blue, and her hair a dull brown; and I cannot reasonably
object, for there is not a passable brunette in the whole company. I was
thinking it over when you came in. The whole thing will be spoiled for
want of a proper heroine.”
“Who stands as Beatrice?” asked Horace, with the animation of a new
idea.
“Miss Eustice, of course.”
“Why, of course?”
“Because she is fair as a lily, blue-eyed, and so exquisitely feminine;
and for another reason.”
“What is that, mother?”
“You are to stand as Ivanhoe.”
Horace saw the way open by which his idea might be worked out at once,
and it must be confessed, dealt rather artfully with his mother.
“Not with an ugly Rebecca, though. I could not stand that.”
“But how can it be helped?”
“Mother, I saw by accident, this evening, the very person you want—a
soldier’s daughter, perfectly lady-like, and very beautiful.”
“Of the right type of beauty? Would she make a striking contrast to my
favorite?” inquired Mrs. Savage, eagerly.
“No contrast could be more decided.”
“But who is she?”
“A soldier’s daughter!”
“But is she presentable? Has she style, education?”
“She has everything that goes to form a lovely woman, I should say.”
“Where can I see her?”
“Perhaps she would come to you.”
“It is a bold step; but I can afford that. As my protegé, they will not
dare to ask questions. Where does the girl live? Could I see her
to-night, or early in the morning? I am so weary now. Upon my word,
Horace, you have helped me out of a most annoying dilemma. To-morrow
morning, before breakfast, I must see this person. What is her name?”
“Burns, mother—Anna Burns.”
“Thank you, Horace. Now, another thing. We must have something national,
patriotic, and all that. A soldier’s family, for instance; but the
dresses are so plain and unbecoming, that our young ladies fight shy of
it. Could you manage something of the kind for me?”
Horace thought of the picture he had seen that night, and answered that,
perhaps, it would be possible, only the whole thing must be managed with
great delicacy; and he, as a gentleman, must not be supposed to
interfere with it. His mother could write a little note to the young
person who had already done work for her.
“For me? Anna Burns? It must have been for the committee. I remember no
such person; but that will be an opening. Is she to form part of this
tableau, also?”
“The principal figure.”
“And the rest?”
“Two children, for instance, barefooted, hungry, and in clothes only
held together with constant mending.”
“Excellent.”
“And an old woman?”
“Better and better! Nice and picturesque, of course.”
“Neat and dainty, with the sweetest old face.”
“It will be perfect! Oh, Horace! what a treasure you are to me. Now,
turn down the gas, dear. You have set my mind at rest, and I mean to go
to sleep till your father comes home. Here, just put my cap on that
marble Sappho, and don’t crush it. Doesn’t she look lovely, the darling!
like the ghost of a poetess coming back to life? Now draw the curtains;
give me a quiet kiss, and go away to your club, or the opera, or
anywhere. Only be sure to have the girl here in time.”
Early the next morning, while Anna was dividing her little store of
money, and apportioning it toward the payment of various small debts,
she received a note, asking her to call on Mrs. Savage at once, if quite
convenient. Anna was too grateful for delay. So, putting on her shawl
and a straw bonnet, kept neatly for great occasions, she was on the
marble steps, almost as soon as the messenger who brought her note.
Mrs. Savage was taking a solitary breakfast in her own room. The
sunlight came in softly through the lace curtains, as if trembling
through flakes of snow, and turned the waves of maize-colored damask,
that half enfolded them in, to a rich gold color.
Mrs. Savage was seated in a Turkish easy-chair, cushioned with delicate
blue, and spotted with the gold-work of Damascus. She wore a morning
dress of dove-colored merino, and knots of pink ribbon gave lightness
and bloom to her morning-cap of frost-like tulle. She looked up as Anna
entered the room, and her whole face brightened. No peach ever had so
rich a bloom as that which broke over the girl’s cheek; no statue in her
boudoir could boast more perfect symmetry than that form. Walter Scott
had no finer ideal when he drew that masterpiece of all his women,
Rebecca.
“Come here, my child, and sit down close by me; I want to look at you,”
said the lady, beaming with satisfaction. “You have been doing work for
us, I hear.”
“Yes, madam,” answered Anna, with a grateful outburst, “yes, madam;
thank you for it.”
“Oh! it is nothing but our duty!” replied the lady, forgetting to ask if
the work had been paid for. “All our efforts are in behalf of the poor
soldiers’ families. Now I want you to help us in another way.”
“I will—I will in any way!”
“We shall open the fair with tableaux—a room has been built on purpose.
Of course, the charge will be extra; the pictures will be beautiful—you
must stand for two of them.”
“I, madam?”
“Certainly; for you are really beautiful. By the way, have you
breakfasted? Here is a cup of coffee; drink it, while I talk to you.”
Anna took the cup of delicate Sevres china, and drank its contents,
standing by the table.
“You have a grandmother, or something of that sort, I hear?” observed
the lady.
“Oh, yes! the dearest in the world.”
“And some brothers?”
“Yes, madam!”
“Picturesque, I am told; something like boys in the pictures of that
delicious old Spanish painter. We must have them, too.”
“What! my brothers?”
“Yes, yes; and the old lady. That will be our grand effort, and our
secret, too. Not wanting outside help, we can keep it for a surprise. Be
ready when you are called. I think they will come off on Monday. Never
mind the costumes; that dress will do very well for the family tableau.
As for Rebecca, I will take care of her. My son says the boys and that
old woman are perfect. Don’t change them in the least; it would spoil
every thing. Oh! Mrs. Leeds, I am so glad to see you. Late am I—the
committee waiting?”
This last speech was made to a little dumpty lady, who came fluttering
into the room unannounced, with both her hands held out, and an
important look of business in her face. The ladies kissed each other
impressively; then Mrs. Savage glided up to Anna and whispered,
“Run away now. She mustn’t get a good look at you on any account. Don’t
mind turning your back on us. Good-morning. Remember, I depend on you as
a soldier’s daughter; it is your duty.”
Anna went out in some confusion, hardly knowing whether she had been
well received or not. Coming up the broad staircase, she met young
Savage, and he stopped to speak with her.
“You have seen my mother?” he said, gently.
“Yes.”
“And will oblige her, I hope?”
“How can I refuse?”
“That is generous. I thank you.”
“It is I who should give the thanks,” answered Anna with a tremble of
gratitude in her voice.
Horace smiled, and shook his head.
“I am afraid you will not let us do enough for any claim to thanks,” he
said. “But do not forget to send that fine little fellow after my
handkerchiefs. I shall want them.”
Anna promised that Robert should be punctual, and went away so happy,
that the very air seemed to carry her forward.
On the afternoon of the third day from that, close upon evening, she
stood in Mrs. Savage’s boudoir, again contrasting its luxurious
belongings with her simple dress. Mrs. Savage was benign as ever. She
had driven her enemy out of the Ivanhoe tableau; and the triumph filled
her with exultation. From the boudoir Anna was swept off to the
temporary buildings erected for the great fair, hurried through a
labyrinth of festooned arches, loaded tables, lemonade fountains, and
segar stands, into a dressing-room swarming with young ladies, who took
no more heed of her than if she had been a lay-figure. Mrs. Savage was
ubiquitous that evening. She posed characters, arranged draperies,
grouped historical events, and exhibited wonderful generalship; while
Anna stood in a remote part of the room, looking on anxious for the
coming of her grandmother, and the two boys, who were to find their own
way to the fair at a later hour.
The old lady came in at last with her hood on, and wrapped in a soft,
warm blanket-shawl, which some one, she hadn’t the least idea who, had
sent to her just before she started. Alone? no, indeed; she did not come
alone. Young Mr. Savage had happened to call in just as she was ready,
and offered to show her the way. He had admired her shawl so much, and
didn’t think the little scarlet stripe at all too much for her, which
she was glad of; for it would be so much brighter for Anna when they
took turn and turn about wearing it. No, no, it could _not_ have been
Mr. Savage who sent it, he was so much surprised. The boys, oh! they
were on the way. Robert would take care of his brother, no fear about
that. But the fair, wasn’t it lovely? She was so grateful to Mrs. Savage
for thinking of her and the boys; the very sight would drive them wild.
Here Anna was carried away from her grandmother, and seized upon by two
dressing-maids, who transformed her into the most lovely Jewess that
eyes ever beheld in less than no time. Young Savage was called out from
a neighboring dressing-room, by his mother, to admire her; and his
superb dress seemed, like her own, a miracle. The surprise and glory of
it all gave her cheeks the richness of ripe peaches, and her eyes were
full of shy joy. It seemed like fairy-land.
But the children, where were they? Amid all the excitement, she found
this question uppermost in her heart. Poor little fellows! What if they
got lost, or failed to find an entrance to the fair? She whispered these
anxieties to Savage, who promptly took off his costume and went in
search of them, blaming himself a little for having left them behind.
The little fellows were, indeed, rather in want of a friend. They had
been for days in a whirl of excitement about the fair. More than once
Robert had wandered off toward the building, and reconnoitered it on all
sides; he had caught glimpses of evergreens wreathed with a world of
flowers; had seen whole loads of toys carried in, and made himself
generally familiar with the place. He had been very mournful when Mr.
Savage went off with his grandmother, and protested stoutly that he
could find the way for Joseph anywhere, and would be on hand for the
picture in plenty of time; and to this end he set off about dusk,
leading his little brother by the hand, resolved to give him a wonderful
treat in the fair before the pictures came on, which he could not
understand, and was rather afraid of. So the two hurried along, shabby
and ill-clad as children could be, but happy as lords, notwithstanding
their naked feet. It seemed to them as if they were going direct to
Paradise, where Anna and the old grandmother were expecting them. They
reached the entrance of the fair, and were eagerly pressing in, when a
man caught Robert rudely by the shoulder, gave him a slightly vicious
shake, and demanded his ticket.
The ticket? mercy upon him! he had left it at home, lying on the table.
He wrung himself away from the harsh hand pressed on his shoulder, and
darted off, calling on little Joseph to follow him. Joseph obeyed,
crying all the way with such sharp disappointment as only a sensitive
child can feel. Robert darted up stairs, and met Joseph half way up with
the ticket in his hand.
“Come,” he cried, brandishing it above his head; “never say die! We’re
time enough yet.”
But Joseph had been sorely disappointed once, and was down-hearted
enough. He had no hopes of getting in, and one rebuff had frightened him
so much that he longed to run home and hide himself. But Robert was not
to be daunted. He threw one arm over his brother’s shoulder and struck
into a run, carrying the timid child with him like a whirlwind. At last
they came to the entrance-door of the fair again, and then a panic
seized on Robert, also. What if it were too late? What if the ticket was
not good? What if the man drove him away again? Joseph, more timid
still, drew close to him and hung back, afraid to advance, and equally
afraid to leave Robert and go back.
“Let’s go ahead,” cried Robert, all at once, holding out his ticket and
making ready to advance. “Who’s afraid! Keep close to me, Josey, and
never mind if the fellow is cross.”
Still Joseph hung back.
“Hurra!”
This came in a low shout from Robert, who saw young Savage coming toward
them. He had been a little way up the street watching for their
approach. “All right, my boys,” he said, in a clear, ringing voice, that
made little Joseph’s heart leap with joy; “grandmother is waiting for
you. Come along!”
The next moment Robert and his little brother believed themselves
absolutely in Paradise.