winter night, leaving all the good times behind her, Jessie stood
waiting for a car on the windy street-corner, with the ragged
slippers under her arm, tears of weariness and vexation in her eyes,
and a resentful feeling against an unjust fate lying heavy at her
heart. The glimpses of her old gay, easy life, which these
rehearsals had given her, made the real hardship and loneliness of
her present life all the more irksome, and that night she felt as if
she could not bear it much longer. She longed with all a girl's love
of gayety to go to the Kirmess, and no one thought to invite her.
She could not go alone even if she yielded to temptation and spent
her own money. Laura would have to hire a carriage if she ventured
to try it; so it was impossible, for six or seven dollars was a
fortune to the poor girls now. To have been one of the happy
creatures who were to take part in it, to dance on the green in a
dainty costume to the music of a full band,--to see and do and enjoy
all the delights of those two enchanting evenings, would have filled
Jessie's cup to overflowing. But since she might as well cry for the
moon she tried to get some comfort out of imagining it all as she
rumbled home in a snowstorm, and cried herself to sleep after giving
Laura a cheerful account of the rehearsal, omitting the catastrophe.
The sun shone next morning, hope woke again, and as she dressed
Jessie sung to keep her heart up, still trusting that some one would
remember her before the day was over. As she opened her windows the
sparrows welcomed her with shrill chirpings, and the sun turned the
snow-covered vine to a glittering network very beautiful to see as
it hung like a veil of lace over the dingy wall. Jessie smiled as
she saw it, while taking a long breath of the keen air, feeling
cheered and refreshed by these familiar comforters; then with a
brave, bright glance up at the clear blue sky she went away to the
day's duties, little guessing what pleasant surprises were on their
way to reward her for the little sacrifices which were teaching her
strength, patience, and courage for greater ones by-and-by.
All the morning she listened eagerly for the bell, but nothing came;
and at two o'clock she went away to the dancing-class, saying to
herself with a sigh,--
“Every one is so busy, it is no wonder I'm forgotten. I shall hear
about the fun in the papers, and try to be contented with that.”
Though she never felt less like dancing, she was very patient with
her little pupils, and when the lesson was over sat resting a
moment, with her head still full of the glories of the Kirmess.
Suddenly Mademoiselle came to her, and in a few kind words gave her
the first of the pleasant surprises by offering her a larger salary,
an older class, and many commendations for her skill and
faithfulness. Of course she gratefully accepted the welcome offer,
and hurried home to tell Laura, forgetting her heavy heart, tired
feet, and disappointed hopes.
At her own door the second surprise stood waiting for her, in the
person of Mrs. Fletcher's servant with a large box and a note from
Miss Fanny. How she ever got herself and her parcel up the long
stairs Jessie never knew, she was in such a frantic hurry to see
what that vast box could contain. She startled her sister by
bursting into the room breathless, flushed, and beaming, with the
mysterious cry of,--
“Scissors! quick, the scissors!”
Off went cords and papers, up flew the cover, and with a shriek of
rapture Jessie saw the well-known Hungarian costume lying there
before her. What it all meant she could not guess, till she tore
open the note and read these delightful words:--
DEAR JESS,--My cold is worse, and the doctor won't let me go
to-night. Isn't it dreadful? Our dance will be ruined unless you
will take my place. I know you will to oblige us, and have a lovely
time. Every one will be glad, you do it so much better than I can.
My dress will fit you, with tucks and reefs here and there; and the
boots won't be much too large, for though I'm fat I have small feet,
thank goodness! Mamma will call for you at seven, and bring you
safely home; and you must come early to-morrow and tell me all about
it.
In the small box you will find a little token of our gratitude to
you for your kindness in helping us all so much. Yours ever,
FAN.
As soon as Jessie could get her breath and recover from this first
delightful shock, she opened the dainty parcel carefully tied up
with pink ribbons. It proved to be a crystal slipper, apparently
full of rosebuds; but under the flowers lay five-and-twenty shining
gold dollars. A little card with these words was tucked in one
corner, as if, with all their devices to make the offering as
delicate and pretty as possible, the givers feared to offend:--
“We return to our dear Princess the glass slipper which she lost at
the ball, full of thanks and good wishes.”
If the kind young persons who sent the fanciful gift could have seen
how it was received, their doubts would soon have been set at rest;
for Jessie laughed and cried as she told the story, counted the
precious coins, and filled the pretty shoe with water that the buds
might keep fresh for Laura. Then, while the needles flew and the gay
garments were fitted, the happy voices talked and the sisters
rejoiced together over this unexpected pleasure as only loving girls
could do.
“The sweetest part of all the splendid surprise is that they
remembered me just at the busiest time, and thanked me in such a
lovely way. I shall keep that glass slipper all my life, if I can,
to remind me not to despair; for just when everything seemed
darkest, all this good luck came,” said Jessie, with ecstatic skips
as she clanked the brass heels of her boots and thought of the proud
moment when she would join in the tzardas before all Boston.
Gentle Laura rejoiced and sympathized heartily, sewed like a busy
bee, and sent her happy sister away at seven o'clock with her
sweetest smile, never letting her suspect what tender hopes and
fears were hidden in her own heart, what longing and disappointment
made her days doubly sad and lonely, or how very poor a consolation
all the glories of the Kirmess would be for the loss of a friend who
had grown very near and dear to her.
No need to tell the raptures of that evening to little Jessie, who
enjoyed every moment, played her part well, and was brought home at
midnight ready to begin all over again, so inexhaustible is youth's
appetite for pleasure.
To her great surprise, Laura was up and waiting to welcome her, with
a face so full of a new and lovely happiness that Jessie guessed at
once some good fortune had come to her also. Yes, Laura's
well-earned reward and beautiful surprise had arrived at last; and
she told it all in a few words as she held out her arms
exclaiming,--
“He has come back! He loves me, and I am so happy! Dear little
sister, all your hard times are over now, and you shall have a home
again.”
So the dreams came true, as they sometimes do even in this
work-a-day world of ours, when the dreamers strive as well as hope,
and earn their rewards.
Laura had a restful summer at the seaside, with a stronger arm than
Jessie's to lean upon, and more magical medicine to help her back to
health than any mortal doctor could prescribe. Jessie danced again
with a light heart,--for pleasure, not for pay,--and found the new
life all the sweeter for the trials of the old one. In the autumn
there was a quiet wedding, before three very happy people sailed
away to Italy, the artist's heaven on earth.
“No roses for me,” said Jessie, smiling at herself in the mirror as
she fastened a spray of rosy ivy-leaves in the bosom of her fresh
white gown that October morning. “I'll be true to my old friend; for
it helped me in my dark days, and now it shall rejoice with me in my
bright ones, and go on teaching me to climb bravely and patiently
toward the light.”
PANSIES
They are never alone that are accompanied with noble thoughts.--SIR
PHILIP SIDNEY.
“I'VE finished my book, and now what CAN I do till this tiresome
rain is over?” exclaimed Carrie, as she lay back on the couch with a
yawn of weariness.
“Take another and a better book; the house is full of them, and this
is a rare chance for a feast on the best,” answered Alice, looking
over the pile of volumes in her lap, as she sat on the floor before
one of the tall book-cases that lined the room.
“Not being a book-worm like you, I can't read forever, and you
needn't sniff at 'Wanda,' for it's perfectly thrilling!” cried
Carrie, regretfully turning the crumpled leaves of the Seaside
Library copy of that interminable and impossible tale.
“We should read to improve our minds, and that rubbish is only a
waste of time,” began Alice, in a warning tone, as she looked up
from “Romola,” over which she had been poring with the delight one
feels in meeting an old friend.
“I don't WISH to improve my mind, thank you: I read for amusement in
vacation time, and don't want to see any moral works till next
autumn. I get enough of them in school. This isn't 'rubbish'! It's
full of fine descriptions of scenery--”
“Which you skip by the page, I've seen you do it,” said Eva, the
third young girl in the library, as she shut up the stout book on
her knee and began to knit as if this sudden outburst of chat
disturbed her enjoyment of “The Dove in the Eagle's Nest.”
“I do at first, being carried away by my interest in the people, but
I almost always go back and read them afterward,” protested Carrie.
“You know YOU like to hear about nice clothes, Eva, and Wanda's were
simply gorgeous; white velvet and a rope of pearls is one costume;
gray velvet and a silver girdle another; and Idalia was all a
'shower of perfumed laces,' and scarlet and gold satin mask dresses,
or primrose silk with violets, so lovely! I do revel in 'em!”
Both girls laughed as Carrie reeled off this list of elegances, with
the relish of a French modiste.
“Well, I'm poor and can't have as many pretty things as I want, so
it IS delightful to read about women who wear white quilted satin
dressing-gowns and olive velvet trains with Mechlin lace sweepers to
them. Diamonds as large as nuts, and rivers of opals and sapphires,
and rubies and pearls, are great fun to read of, if you never even
get a look at real ones. I don't believe the love part does me a bit
of harm, for we never see such languid swells in America, nor such
lovely, naughty ladies; and Ouida scolds them all, so of course she
doesn't approve of them, and that's moral, I'm sure.”
But Alice shook her head again, as Carrie paused out of breath, and
said in her serious way: “That's the harm of it all. False and
foolish things are made interesting, and we read for that, not for
any lesson there may be hidden under the velvet and jewels and fine
words of your splendid men and women. Now, THIS book is a wonderful
picture of Florence in old times, and the famous people who really
lived are painted in it, and it has a true and clean moral that we
can all see, and one feels wiser and better for reading it. I do
wish you'd leave those trashy things and try something really good.”
“I hate George Eliot,--so awfully wise and preachy and dismal! I
really couldn't wade through 'Daniel Deronda,' though 'The Mill on
the Floss' wasn't bad,” answered Carrie, with another yawn, as she
recalled the Jew Mordecai's long speeches, and Daniel's meditations.
“I know you'd like this,” said Eva, patting her book with an air of
calm content; for she was a modest, common-sense little body, full
of innocent fancies and the mildest sort of romance. “I love dear
Miss Yonge, with her nice, large families, and their trials, and
their pious ways, and pleasant homes full of brothers and sisters,
and good fathers and mothers. I'm never tired of them, and have read
'Daisy Chain' nine times at least.”
“I used to like them, and still think them good for young girls,
with our own 'Queechy' and 'Wide, Wide World,' and books of that
kind. Now I'm eighteen I prefer stronger novels, and books by great
men and women, because these are always talked about by cultivated
people, and when I go into society next winter I wish to be able to
listen intelligently, and know what to admire.”
“That's all very well for you, Alice; you were always poking over
books, and I dare say you will write them some day, or be a
blue-stocking. But I've got another year to study and fuss over my
education, and I'm going to enjoy myself all I can, and leave the
wise books till I come out.”
“But, Carrie, there won't be any time to read them; you'll be so
busy with parties, and beaux, and travelling, and such things. I
WOULD take Alice's advice and read up a little now; it's so nice to
know useful things, and be able to find help and comfort in good
books when trouble comes, as Ellen Montgomery and Fleda did, and
Ethel, and the other girls in Miss Yonge's stories,” said Eva,
earnestly, remembering how much the efforts of those natural little
heroines had helped her in her own struggles tor self-control and
the cheerful bearing of the burdens which come to all.
“I don't want to be a priggish Ellen, or a moral Fleda, and I do
detest bothering about self-improvement all the time. I know I
ought, but I'd rather wait another year or two, and enjoy my
vanities in peace just a LITTLE longer.” And Carrie tucked Wanda
under the sofa pillow, as if a trifle ashamed of her society, with
Eva's innocent eyes upon her own, and Alice sadly regarding her over
the rampart of wise books, which kept growing higher as the eager
girl found more and more treasures in this richly stored library.
A little silence followed, broken only by the patter of the rain
without, the crackle of the wood fire within, and the scratch of a
busy pen from a curtained recess at the end of the long room. In the
sudden hush the girls heard it and remembered that they were not
alone.
“She must have heard every word we said!” and Carrie sat up with a
dismayed face as she spoke in a whisper.
Eva laughed, but Alice shrugged her shoulders, and said tranquilly,
“I don't mind. She wouldn't expect much wisdom from school-girls.”
This was cold comfort to Carrie, who was painfully conscious of
having been a particularly silly school-girl just then. So she gave
a groan and lay down again, wishing she had not expressed her
views quite so freely, and had kept Wanda for the privacy of her own
room.
The three girls were the guests of a delightful old lady, who had
known their mothers and was fond of renewing her acquaintance with
them through their daughters. She loved young people, and each
summer invited parties of them to enjoy the delights of her
beautiful country house, where she lived alone now, being the
childless widow of a somewhat celebrated man. She made it very
pleasant for her guests, leaving them free to employ a part of the
day as they liked, providing the best of company at dinner, gay
revels in the evening, and a large house full of curious and
interesting things to examine at their leisure.
The rain had spoiled a pleasant plan, and business letters had made
it necessary for Mrs. Warburton to leave the three to their own
devices after lunch. They had read quietly for several hours, and
their hostess was just finishing her last letter when fragments of
the conversation reached her ear. She listened with amusement,
unconscious that they had forgotten her presence, finding the
different views very characteristic, and easily explained by the
difference of the homes out of which the three friends came.
Alice was the only daughter of a scholarly man and a brilliant
woman; therefore her love of books and desire to cultivate her mind
was very natural, but the danger in her case would be in the neglect
of other things equally important, too varied reading, and a
superficial knowledge of many authors rather than a true
appreciation of a few of the best and greatest. Eva was one of many
children in a happy home, with a busy father, a pious mother, and
many domestic cares, as well as joys, already falling to the dutiful
girl's lot. Her instincts were sweet and unspoiled, and she only
needed to be shown where to find new and better helpers for the real
trials of life, when the childish heroines she loved could no longer
serve her in the years to come.
Carrie was one of the ambitious yet commonplace girls who wish to
shine, without knowing the difference between the glitter of a
candle which attracts moths, and the serene light of a star, or the
cheery glow of a fire round which all love to gather. Her mother's
aims were not high, and the two pretty daughters knew that she
desired good matches for them, educated them for that end, and
expected them to do their parts when the time came. The elder sister
was now at a watering-place with her mother, and Carrie hoped that a
letter would soon come telling her that Mary was settled. During her
stay with Mrs. Warburton she had learned a good deal, and was
unconsciously contrasting the life here with the frivolous one at
home, made up of public show and private sacrifice of comfort,
dignity, and peace. Here were people who dressed simply, enjoyed
conversation, kept up their accomplishments even when old, and were
so busy, lovable, and charming, that poor Carrie often felt vulgar,
ignorant, and mortified among them, in spite of their fine breeding
and kindliness. The society Mrs. Warburton drew about her was the
best, and old and young, rich and poor, wise and simple, all seemed
genuine,---glad to give or receive, enjoy and rest, and then go out
to their work refreshed by the influences of the place and the sweet
old lady who made it what it was. The girls would soon begin life
for themselves, and it was well that they had this little glimpse of
really good society before they left the shelter of home to choose
friends, pleasures, and pursuits for themselves, as all young women
do when once launched.
The sudden silence and then the whispers suggested to the listener
that she had perhaps heard something not meant for her ears; so she
presently emerged with her letters, and said, as she came smiling
toward the group about the fire,--
“How are you getting through this long, dull afternoon, my dears?
Quiet as mice till just now. What woke you up? A battle of the
books? Alice looks as if she had laid in plenty of ammunition, and
you were preparing to besiege her.”
The girls laughed, and all rose, for Madam Warburton was a stately
old lady, and people involuntarily treated her with great respect,
even in this mannerless age.
“We were only talking about books,” began Carrie, deeply grateful
that Wanda was safely out of sight.
“And we couldn't agree,” added Eva, running to ring the bell for the
man to take the letters, for she was used to these little offices at
home, and loved to wait on Madam.
“Thanks, my love. Now let us talk a little, if you are tired of
reading, and if you like to let me share the discussion. Comparing
tastes in literature is always a pleasure, and I used to enjoy
talking over books with my girl friends more than anything else.”
As she spoke, Mrs. Warburton sat down in the chair which Alice
rolled up, drew Eva to the cushion at her feet, and nodded to the
others as they settled again, with interested faces, one at the
table where the pile of chosen volumes now lay, the other erect upon
the couch where she had been practising the poses “full of languid
grace,” so much affected by her favorite heroines.
“Carrie was laughing at me for liking wise books and wanting to
improve my mind. Is it foolish and a waste of time?” asked Alice,
eager to convince her friend and secure so powerful an ally.
“No, my dear, it is a very sensible desire, and I wish more girls
had it. Only don't be greedy, and read too much; cramming and
smattering is as bad as promiscuous novel-reading, or no reading at
all. Choose carefully, read intelligently, and digest thoroughly
each book, and then you make it your own,” answered Mrs. Warburton,
quite in her element now, for she loved to give advice, as most old
ladies do.
“But how can we know WHAT to read if we mayn't follow our tastes?”
said Carrie, trying to be interested and “intelligent” in spite of
her fear that a “school-marmy” lecture was in store for her.
“Ask advice, and so cultivate a true and refined taste. I always
judge people's characters a good deal by the books they like, as
well as by the company they keep; so one should be careful, for this
is a pretty good test. Another is, be sure that whatever will not
bear reading aloud is not fit to read to one's self. Many young
girls ignorantly or curiously take up books quite worthless, and
really harmful, because under the fine writing and brilliant color
lurks immorality or the false sentiment which gives wrong ideas of
life and things which should be sacred. They think, perhaps, that no
one knows this taste of theirs; but they are mistaken, for it shows
itself in many ways, and betrays them. Attitudes, looks, careless
words, and a morbid or foolishly romantic view of certain things,
show plainly that the maidenly instincts are blunted, and harm done
that perhaps can never be repaired.”
Mrs. Warburton kept her eyes fixed upon the tall andirons as if
gravely reproving them, which was a great relief to Carrie, whose
cheeks glowed as she stirred uneasily and took up a screen as if to
guard them from the fire. But conscience pricked her sharply, and
memory, like a traitor, recalled many a passage or scene in her
favorite books which she could not have read aloud even to that old
lady, though she enjoyed them in private. Nothing very bad, but
false and foolish, poor food for a lively fancy and young mind to
feed on, as the weariness or excitement which always followed
plainly proved, since one should feel refreshed, not cloyed, with an
intellectual feast.
Alice, with both elbows on the table, listened with wide-awake eyes,
and Eva watched the raindrops trickle clown the pane with an intent
expression, as if asking herself if she had ever done this naughty
thing.
“Then there is another fault,” continued Mrs. Warburton, well
knowing that her first shot had hit its mark, and anxious to be
just. “Some book-loving lassies have a mania for trying to read
everything, and dip into works far beyond their powers, or try too
many different kinds of self-improvement at once. So they get a
muddle of useless things into their heads, instead of well-assorted
ideas and real knowledge. They must learn to wait and select; for
each age has its proper class of books, and what is Greek to us at
eighteen may be just what we need at thirty. One can get mental
dyspepsia on meat and wine as well as on ice-cream and frosted cake,
you know.”
Alice smiled, and pushed away four of the eight books she had
selected, as if afraid she had been greedy, and now felt that it was
best to wait a little.
Eva looked up with some anxiety in her frank eyes as she said, “Now
it is my turn. Must I give up my dear homely books, and take to
Ruskin, Kant, or Plato?”
Mrs. Warburton laughed, as she stroked the pretty brown head at her
knee.
“Not yet, my love, perhaps never, for those are not the masters you
need, I fancy. Since you like stories about every-day people, try
some of the fine biographies of real men and women about whom you
should know something. You will find their lives full of stirring,
helpful, and lovely experiences, and in reading of these you will
get courage and hope and faith to bear your own trials as they come.
True stories suit you, and are the best, for there we get real
tragedy and comedy, and the lessons all must learn.”
“Thank you! I will begin at once if you will kindly give me a list
of such as would be good for me,” cried Eva, with the sweet docility
of one eager to be all that is lovable and wise in woman.
“Give us a list, and we will try to improve in the best way. You
know what we need, and love to help foolish girls, or you wouldn't
be so kind and patient with us,” said Alice, going to sit beside
Carrie, hoping for much discussion of this, to her, very interesting
subject.
“I will, with pleasure; but I read few modern novels, so I may not
be a good judge there. Most of them seem very poor stuff, and I
cannot waste time even to skim them as some people do. I still like
the old-fashioned ones I read as a girl, though you would laugh at
them. Did any of you ever read 'Thaddeus of Warsaw'?”
“I have, and thought it very funny; so were 'Evelina' and 'Cecilia.'
I wanted to try Smollett and Fielding, after reading some fine
essays about them, but Papa told me I must wait,” said Alice.