"Sweet-peas and mignonette
In Annie's garden grew."
Her nature was the counterpart of the hill-side grove, where as a child
she had read her fairy tales, and now as a woman turned the first pages
of a more wondrous legend still. Lifted above the many-gabled roof, yet
not cut off from the echo of human speech, the little grove seemed a
green sanctuary, fringed about with violets, and full of summer melody
and bloom. Gentle creatures haunted it, and there was none to make
afraid; wood-pigeons cooed and crickets chirped their shrill
roundelays, anemones and lady-ferns looked up from the moss that kissed
the wanderer's feet. Warm airs were all afloat, full of vernal odors
for the grateful sense, silvery birches shimmered like spirits of the
wood, larches gave their green tassels to the wind, and pines made airy
music sweet and solemn, as they stood looking heavenward through veils
of summer sunshine or shrouds of wintry snow.
Nan never felt alone now in this charmed wood; for when she came into
its precincts, once so full of solitude, all things seemed to wear one
shape, familiar eyes looked at her from the violets in the grass,
familiar words sounded in the whisper of the leaves, grew conscious
that an unseen influence filled the air with new delights, and touched
earth and sky with a beauty never seen before. Slowly these Mayflowers
budded in her maiden heart, rosily they bloomed and silently they
waited till some lover of such lowly herbs should catch their fresh
aroma, should brush away the fallen leaves, and lift them to the sun.
Though the eldest of the three, she had long been overtopped by the
more aspiring maids. But though she meekly yielded the reins of
government, whenever they chose to drive, they were soon restored to
her again; for Di fell into literature, and Laura into love. Thus
engrossed, these two forgot many duties which even bluestockings and
inamoratos are expected to perform, and slowly all the homely humdrum
cares that housewives know became Nan's daily life, and she accepted it
without a thought of discontent. Noiseless and cheerful as the
sunshine, she went to and fro, doing the tasks that mothers do, but
without a mother's sweet reward, holding fast the numberless slight
threads that bind a household tenderly together, and making each day a
beautiful success.
Di, being tired of running, riding, climbing, and boating, decided at
last to let her body rest and put her equally active mind through what
classical collegians term "a course of sprouts." Having undertaken to
read and know everything, she devoted herself to the task with great
energy, going from Sue to Swedenborg with perfect impartiality, and
having different authors as children have sundry distempers, being
fractious while they lasted, but all the better for them when once
over. Carlyle appeared like scarlet-fever, and raged violently for a
time; for, being anything but a "passive bucket," Di became prophetic
with Mahomet, belligerent with Cromwell, and made the French Revolution
a veritable Reign of Terror to her family. Goethe and Schiller
alternated like fever and ague; Mephistopheles became her hero, Joan of
Arc her model, and she turned her black eyes red over Egmont and
Wallenstein. A mild attack of Emerson followed, during which she was
lost in a fog, and her sisters rejoiced inwardly when she emerged
informing them that
"The Sphinx was drowsy,
Her wings were furled."
Poor Di was floundering slowly to her proper place; but she splashed up
a good deal of foam by getting out of her depth, and rather exhausted
herself by trying to drink the ocean dry.
Laura, after the "midsummer night's dream" that often comes to girls of
seventeen, woke up to find that youth and love were no match for age
and common sense. Philip had been flying about the world like a
thistle-down for five-and-twenty years, generous-hearted, frank, and
kind, but with never an idea of the serious side of life in his
handsome head. Great, therefore, were the wrath and dismay of the
enamored thistle-down, when the father of his love mildly objected to
seeing her begin the world in a balloon with a very tender but very
inexperienced aeronaut for a guide.
"Laura is too young to 'play house' yet, and you are too unstable to
assume the part of lord and master, Philip. Go and prove that you have
prudence, patience, energy, and enterprise, and I will give you my
girl,--but not before. I must seem cruel, that I may be truly kind;
believe this, and let a little pain lead you to great happiness, or
show you where you would have made a bitter blunder."
The lovers listened, owned the truth of the old man's words, bewailed
their fate, and yielded,--Laura for love of her father, Philip for love
of her. He went away to build a firm foundation for his castle in the
air, and Laura retired into an invisible convent, where she cast off
the world, and regarded her sympathizing sisters through a grate of
superior knowledge and unsharable grief. Like a devout nun, she
worshipped "St. Philip," and firmly believed in his miraculous powers.
She fancied that her woes set her apart from common cares, and slowly
fell into a dreamy state, professing no interest in any mundane matter,
but the art that first attracted Philip. Crayons, bread-crusts, and
gray paper became glorified in Laura's eyes; and her one pleasure was
to sit pale and still before her easel, day after day, filling her
portfolios with the faces he had once admired. Her sisters observed
that every Bacchus, Piping Faun, or Dying Gladiator bore some likeness
to a comely countenance that heathen god or hero never owned; and
seeing this, they privately rejoiced that she had found such solace for
her grief.
Mrs. Lord's keen eye had read a certain newly written page in her son's
heart,--his first chapter of that romance, begun in paradise, whose
interest never flags, whose beauty never fades, whose end can never
come till Love lies dead. With womanly skill she divined the secret,
with motherly discretion she counselled patience, and her son accepted
her advice, feeling that, like many a healthful herb, its worth lay in
its bitterness.
"Love like a man, John, not like a boy, and learn to know yourself
before you take a woman's happiness into your keeping. You and Nan
have known each other all your lives; yet, till this last visit, you
never thought you loved her more than any other childish friend. It is
too soon to say the words so often spoken hastily,--so hard to be
recalled. Go back to your work, dear, for another year; think of Nan in
the light of this new hope: compare her with comelier, gayer girls; and
by absence prove the truth of your belief. Then, if distance only
makes her dearer, if time only strengthens your affection, and no doubt
of your own worthiness disturbs you, come back and offer her what any
woman should be glad to take,--my boy's true heart."
John smiled at the motherly pride of her words, but answered with a
wistful look.
"It seems very long to wait, mother. If I could just ask her for a
word of hope, I could be very patient then."
"Ah, my dear, better bear one year of impatience now than a lifetime of
regret hereafter. Nan is happy; why disturb her by a word which will
bring the tender cares and troubles that come soon enough to such
conscientious creatures as herself? If she loves you, time will prove
it; therefore, let the new affection spring and ripen as your early
friendship has done, and it will be all the stronger for a summer's
growth. Philip was rash, and has to bear his trial now, and Laura
shares it with him. Be more generous, John; make your trial, bear your
doubts alone, and give Nan the happiness without the pain. Promise me
this, dear,--promise me to hope and wait."
The young man's eye kindled, and in his heart there rose a better
chivalry, a truer valor, than any Di's knights had ever known.
"I'll try, mother," was all he said; but she was satisfied, for John
seldom tried in vain.
"Oh, girls, how splendid you are! It does my heart good to see my
handsome sisters in their best array," cried Nan, one mild October
night, as she put the last touches to certain airy raiment fashioned by
her own skilful hands, and then fell back to survey the grand effect.
"Di and Laura were preparing to assist at an event of the season," and
Nan, with her own locks fallen on her shoulders, for want of sundry
combs promoted to her sisters' heads and her dress in unwonted
disorder, for lack of the many pins extracted in exciting crises of the
toilet, hovered like an affectionate bee about two very full-blown
flowers.
"Laura looks like a cool Undine, with the ivy-wreaths in her shining
hair; and Di has illuminated herself to such an extent with those
scarlet leaves that I don't know what great creature she resembles
most," said Nan, beaming with sisterly admiration.
"Like Juno, Zenobia, and Cleopatra simmered into one, with a touch of
Xantippe by way of spice. But, to my eye, the finest woman of the three
is the dishevelled young person embracing the bed-post: for she stays
at home herself, and gives her time and taste to making homely people
fine,--which is a waste of good material, and an imposition on the
public."
As Di spoke, both the fashion-plates looked affectionately at the
gray-gowned figure; but, being works of art, they were obliged to nip
their feelings in the bud, and reserve their caresses till they
returned to common life.
"Put on your bonnet, and we'll leave you at Mrs. Lord's on our way. It
will do you good, Nan; and perhaps there may be news from John," added
Di, as she bore down upon the door like a man-of-war under full sail.
"Or from Philip," sighed Laura, with a wistful look.
Whereupon Nan persuaded herself that her strong inclination to sit down
was owing to want of exercise, and the heaviness of her eyelids a freak
of imagination; so, speedily smoothing her ruffled plumage, she ran
down to tell her father of the new arrangement.
"Go, my dear, by all means. I shall be writing; and you will be lonely
if you stay. But I must see my girls; for I caught glimpses of certain
surprising phantoms flitting by the door."
Nan led the way, and the two pyramids revolved before him with the
rapidity of lay-figures, much to the good man's edification: for with
his fatherly pleasure there was mingled much mild wonderment at the
amplitude of array.
"Yes, I see my geese are really swans, though there is such a cloud
between us that I feel a long way off, and hardly know them. But this
little daughter is always available, always my 'cricket on the hearth.'"
As he spoke, her father drew Nan closer, kissed her tranquil face, and
smiled content.
"Well, if ever I see picters, I see 'em now, and I declare to goodness
it's as interestin' as playactin', every bit. Miss Di with all them
boughs in her head, looks like the Queen of Sheby, when she went
a-visitin' What's-his-name; and if Miss Laura ain't as sweet as a
lally-barster figger, I should like to know what is."
In her enthusiasm, Sally gambolled about the girls, flourishing her
milk-pan like a modern Miriam about to sound her timbrel for excess of
joy.
Laughing merrily, the two Mont Blancs bestowed themselves in the family
ark, Nan hopped up beside Patrick, and Solon, roused from his lawful
slumbers, morosely trundled them away. But, looking backward with a
last "Good-night!" Nan saw her father still standing at the door with
smiling countenance, and the moonlight falling like a benediction on
his silver hair.
"Betsey shall go up the hill with you, my dear, and here's a basket of
eggs for your father. Give him my love, and be sure you let me know
the next time he is poorly," Mrs. Lord said, when her guest rose to
depart, after an hour of pleasant chat.
But Nan never got the gift; for, to her great dismay, her hostess
dropped the basket with a crash, and flew across the room to meet a
tall shape pausing in the shadow of the door. There was no need to ask
who the new-comer was; for, even in his mother's arms, John looked over
her shoulder with an eager nod to Nan, who stood among the ruins with
never a sign of weariness in her face, nor the memory of a care at her
heart.--for they all went out when John came in.
"Now tell us how and why and when you came. Take off your coat, my
dear! And here are the old slippers. Why didn't you let us know you
were coming so soon? How have you been? and what makes you so late
to-night? Betsey, you needn't put on your bonnet. And--oh, my dear
boy, have you been to supper yet?"
Mrs. Lord was a quiet soul, and her flood of questions was purred
softly in her son's ear; for, being a woman, she must talk, and, being
a mother, must pet the one delight of her life, and make a little
festival when the lord of the manor came home. A whole drove of fatted
calves were metaphorically killed, and a banquet appeared with speed.
John was not one of those romantic heroes who can go through three
volumes of hair-breadth escapes without the faintest hint of that
blessed institution, dinner; therefore, like "Lady Letherbridge," he
partook, copiously of everything, while the two women beamed over each
mouthful with an interest that enhanced its flavor, and urged upon him
cold meat and cheese, pickles and pie, as if dyspepsia and nightmare
were among the lost arts.
Then he opened his budget of news and fed them.
"I was coming next month, according to custom; but Philip fell upon and
so tempted me, that I was driven to sacrifice myself to the cause of
friendship, and up we came to-night. He would not let me come here
till we had seen your father, Nan; for the poor lad was pining for
Laura, and hoped his good behavior for the past year would satisfy his
judge and secure his recall. We had a fine talk with your father; and,
upon my life, Philip seemed to have received the gift of tongues, for
he made a most eloquent plea, which I've stored away for future use, I
assure you. The dear old gentleman was very kind, told Phil he was
satisfied with the success of his probation, that he should see Laura
when he liked, and, if all went well, should receive his reward in the
spring. It must be a delightful sensation to know you have made a
fellow-creature as happy as those words made Phil to-night."
John paused, and looked musingly at the matronly tea-pot, as if he saw
a wondrous future in its shine.
Nan twinkled off the drops that rose at the thought of Laura's joy, and
said, with grateful warmth,--
"You say nothing of your own share in the making of that happiness,
John; but we know it, for Philip has told Laura in his letters all that
you have been to him, and I am sure there was other eloquence beside
his own before father granted all you say he has. Oh, John, I thank
you very much for this!"
Mrs. Lord beamed a whole midsummer of delight upon her son, as she saw
the pleasure these words gave him, though he answered simply,--
"I only tried to be a brother to him, Nan; for he has been most kind to
me. Yes, I said my little say to-night, and gave my testimony in
behalf of the prisoner at the bar; a most merciful judge pronounced his
sentence, and he rushed straight to Mrs. Leigh's to tell Laura the
blissful news. Just imagine the scene when he appears, and how Di will
open her wicked eyes and enjoy the spectacle of the dishevelled lover,
the bride-elect's tears, the stir, and the romance of the thing.
She'll cry over it to-night, and caricature it to-morrow."
And John led the laugh at the picture he had conjured up, to turn the
thoughts of Di's dangerous sister from himself.
At ten Nan retired into the depths of her old bonnet with a far
different face from the one she brought out of it, and John, resuming
his hat, mounted guard.
"Don't stay late, remember, John!" And in Mrs. Lord's voice there was a
warning tone that her son interpreted aright.
"I'll not forget, mother."
And he kept his word; for though Philip's happiness floated temptingly
before him, and the little figure at his side had never seemed so dear,
he ignored the bland winds, the tender night, and set a seal upon his
lips, thinking manfully within himself. "I see many signs of promise in
her happy face; but I will wait and hope a little longer for her sake."
"Where is father, Sally?" asked Nan, as that functionary appeared,
blinking owlishly, but utterly repudiating the idea of sleep.
"He went down the garding, miss, when the gentlemen cleared, bein' a
little flustered by the goin's on. Shall I fetch him in?" asked Sally,
as irreverently as if her master were a bag of meal.
"No, we will go ourselves." And slowly the two paced down the
leaf-strewn walk.
Fields of yellow grain were waving on the hill-side, and sere corn
blades rustled in the wind, from the orchard came the scent of ripening
fruit, and all the garden-plots lay ready to yield up their humble
offerings to their master's hand. But in the silence of the night a
greater Reaper had passed by, gathering in the harvest of a righteous
life, and leaving only tender memories for the gleaners who had come so
late.
The old man sat in the shadow of the tree his own hands planted; its
fruit boughs shone ruddily, and its leaves still whispered the low
lullaby that hushed him to his rest.
"How fast he sleeps! Poor father! I should have come before and made it
pleasant for him."
As she spoke, Nan lifted up the head bent down upon his breast, and
kissed his pallid cheek.
"Oh, John, this is not sleep."
"Yes, dear, the happiest he will ever know."
For a moment the shadows flickered over three white faces and the
silence deepened solemnly. Then John reverently bore the pale shape in,
and Nan dropped down beside it, saying, with a rain of grateful tears,--
"He kissed me when I went, and said a last good-night!'"
For an hour steps went to and fro about her, many voices whispered near
her, and skilful hands touched the beloved clay she held so fast; but
one by one the busy feet passed out, one by one the voices died away,
and human skill proved vain.
Then Mrs. Lord drew the orphan to the shelter of her arms, soothing her
with the mute solace of that motherly embrace.
"Nan, Nan! here's Philip! come and see!" The happy call re-echoed
through the house, and Nan sprang up as if her time for grief were past.
"I must tell them. Oh, my poor girls, how will they bear it?--they have
known so little sorrow!"
But there was no need for her to speak; other lips had spared her the
hard task. For, as she stirred to meet them, a sharp cry rent the air,
steps rang upon the stairs, and two wild-eyed creatures came into the
hush of that familiar room, for the first time meeting with no welcome
from their father's voice.
With one impulse, Di and Laura fled to Nan, and the sisters clung
together in a silent embrace, more eloquent than words. John took his
mother by the hand, and led her from the room, closing the door upon
the sacredness of grief.
"Yes, we are poorer than we thought; but when everything is settled, we
shall get on very well. We can let a part of this great house, and
live quietly together until spring; then Laura will be married, and Di
can go on their travels with them, as Philip wishes her to do. We
shall be cared for; so never fear for us, John."
Nan said this, as her friend parted from her a week later, after the
saddest holiday he had ever known.
"And what becomes of you, Nan?" he asked, watching the patient eyes
that smiled when others would have wept.
"I shall stay in the dear old house; for no other place would seem like
home to me. I shall find some little child to love and care for, and
be quite happy till the girls come back and want me."
John nodded wisely, as he listened, and went away prophesying within
himself,--
"She shall find something more than a child to love; and, God willing,
shall be very happy till the girls come home and--cannot have her."
Nan's plan was carried into effect. Slowly the divided waters closed
again, and the three fell back into their old life. But the touch of
sorrow drew them closer; and, though invisible, a beloved presence
still moved among them, a familiar voice still spoke to them in the
silence of their softened hearts. Thus the soil was made ready, and in
the depth of winter the good seed was sown, was watered with many
tears, and soon sprang up green with a promise of a harvest for their
after years.
Di and Laura consoled themselves with their favorite employments,
unconscious that Nan was growing paler, thinner, and more silent, as
the weeks went by, till one day she dropped quietly before them, and it
suddenly became manifest that she was utterly worn out with many cares
and the secret suffering of a tender heart bereft of the paternal love
which had been its strength and stay.
"I'm only tired, dear girls. Don't be troubled, for I shall be up
to-morrow," she said cheerily, as she looked into the anxious faces
bending over her.
But the weariness was of many months' growth, and it was weeks before
that "to-morrow" came.
Laura installed herself as nurse, and her devotion was repaid
four-fold; for, sitting at her sister's bedside, she learned a finer
art than that she had left. Her eye grew clear to see the beauty of a
self-denying life, and in the depths of Nan's meek nature she found the
strong, sweet virtues that made her what she was.
Then remembering that these womanly attributes were a bride's best
dowry, Laura gave herself to their attainment, that she might become to
another household the blessing Nan had been to her own; and turning
from the worship of the goddess Beauty, she gave her hand to that
humbler and more human teacher, Duty,--learning her lessons with a
willing heart, for Philip's sake.
Di corked her inkstand, locked her bookcase, and went at housework as
if it were a five-barred gate; of course she missed the leap, but
scrambled bravely through, and appeared much sobered by the exercise.
Sally had departed to sit under a vine and fig-tree of her own, so Di
had undisputed sway; but if dish-pans and dusters had tongues, direful
would have been the history of that crusade against frost and fire,
indolence and inexperience. But they were dumb, and Di scorned to
complain, though her struggles were pathetic to behold, and her sisters
went through a series of messes equal to a course of "Prince
Benreddin's" peppery tarts. Reality turned Romance out of doors; for,
unlike her favorite heroines in satin and tears, or helmet and shield,
Di met her fate in a big checked apron and dust-cap, wonderful to see;
yet she wielded her broom as stoutly as "Moll Pitcher" shouldered her
gun, and marched to her daily martyrdom in the kitchen with as heroic a
heart as the "Maid of Orleans" took to her stake.
Mind won the victory over matter in the end, and Di was better all her
days for the tribulations and the triumphs of that time; for she
drowned her idle fancies in her wash-tub, made burnt-offerings of
selfishness and pride, and learned the worth of self-denial, as she
sang with happy voice among the pots and kettles of her conquered realm.
Nan thought of John, and in the stillness of her sleepless nights
prayed Heaven to keep him safe, and make her worthy to receive and
strong enough to bear the blessedness or pain of love.
Snow fell without, and keen winds howled among the leafless elms, but
"herbs of grace" were blooming beautifully in the sunshine of sincere
endeavor, and this dreariest season proved the most fruitful of the
year; for love taught Laura, labor chastened Di, and patience fitted
Nan for the blessing of her life.
Nature, that stillest, yet most diligent of housewives, began at last
that "spring cleaning" which she makes so pleasant that none find the
heart to grumble as they do when other matrons set their premises
a-dust. Her hand-maids, wind and rain and sun, swept, washed, and
garnished busily, green carpets were unrolled, apple-boughs were hung
with draperies of bloom, and dandelions, pet nurslings of the year,
came out to play upon the sward.
From the South returned that opera troupe whose manager is never in
despair, whose tenor never sulks, whose prima donna never fails, and in
the orchard bona fide matinees were held, to which buttercups and
clovers crowded in their prettiest spring hats, and verdant young
blades twinkled their dewy lorgnettes, as they bowed and made way for
the floral belles.
May was bidding June good-morrow, and the roses were just dreaming that
it was almost time to wake, when John came again into the quiet room
which now seemed the Eden that contained his Eve. Of course there was a
jubilee; but something seemed to have befallen the whole group, for
never had they appeared in such odd frames of mind. John was restless,
and wore an excited look, most unlike his usual serenity of aspect.
Nan the cheerful had fallen into a well of silence and was not to be
extracted by any Hydraulic power, though she smiled like the June sky
over her head. Di's peculiarities were out in full force, and she
looked as if she would go off like a torpedo at a touch; but through
all her moods there was a half-triumphant, half-remorseful expression
in the glance she fixed on John. And Laura, once so silent, now sang
like a blackbird, as she flitted to and fro; but her fitful song was
always, "Philip, my king."
John felt that there had come a change upon the three, and silently
divined whose unconscious influence had wrought the miracle. The
embargo was off his tongue, and he was in a fever to ask that question
which brings a flutter to the stoutest heart; but though the "man" had
come, the "hour" had not. So, by way of steadying his nerves, he paced
the room, pausing often to take notes of his companions, and each pause
seemed to increase his wonder and content.
He looked at Nan. She was in her usual place, the rigid little chair
she loved, because it once was large enough to hold a curly-headed
playmate and herself. The old work-basket was at her side, and the
battered thimble busily at work; but her lips wore a smile they had
never worn before, the color of the unblown roses touched her cheek,
and her downcast eyes were full of light.
He looked at Di. The inevitable book was on her knee, but its leaves
were uncut; the strong-minded knob of hair still asserted its supremacy
aloft upon her head, and the triangular jacket still adorned her
shoulders in defiance of all fashions, past, present, or to come; but
the expression of her brown countenance had grown softer, her tongue
had found a curb, and in her hand lay a card with "Potts, Kettel & Co."
inscribed thereon, which she regarded with never a scornful word for
the "Co."
He looked at Laura. She was before her easel as of old; but the pale
nun had given place to a blooming girl, who sang at her work, which was
no prim Pallas, but a Clytie turning her human face to meet the sun.
"John, what are you thinking of?"
He stirred as if Di's voice had disturbed his fancy at some pleasant
pastime, but answered with his usual sincerity,--
"I was thinking of a certain dear old fairy tale called 'Cinderella.'"
"Oh!" said Di; and her "Oh" was a most impressive monosyllable. "I see
the meaning of your smile now; and though the application of the story
is not very complimentary to all parties concerned, it is very just and
very true."
She paused a moment, then went on with softened voice and earnest
mien:--
"You think I am a blind and selfish creature. So I am, but not so blind
and selfish as I have been; for many tears have cleared my eyes, and
much sincere regret has made me humbler than I was. I have found a
better book than any father's library can give me, and I have read it
with a love and admiration that grew stronger as I turned the leaves.
Henceforth I take it for my guide and gospel, and, looking back upon
the selfish and neglectful past, can only say, Heaven bless your dear
heart, Nan!"
Laura echoed Di's last words; for, with eyes as full of tenderness, she
looked down upon the sister she had lately learned to know, saying,
warmly,--
"Yes, 'Heaven bless your dear heart, Nan!' I never can forget all you
have been to me; and when I am far away with Philip, there will always
be one countenance more beautiful to me than any pictured face I may
discover, there will be one place more dear to me than Rome. The face
will be yours, Nan, always so patient, always so serene; and the dearer
place will be this home of ours, which you have made so pleasant to me
all these years by kindnesses as numberless and noiseless as the drops
of dew."
"Dear girls, what have I ever done, that you should love me so?" cried
Nan, with happy wonderment, as the tall heads, black and golden, bent
to meet the lowly brown one, and her sisters' mute lips answered her.