finished, and little Minnie glided into Blanche’s seat, while the three
grouped around her to comply. Then the chairs were drawn together, and
the five tongues rattled like magpies to the half bewildered Mr. de la
Croix, until he called for his candle and went to his apartment,
followed by Kate, singing,
He called for his fife, he called for his wife,
And he called for his fiddlers three—e-e.
“Minnie!” said Lisa, holding up a dress with a wide rent in it, “is it
‘the weakness of my eyes that shapes this monstrous apparition,’ or is
it a reality?”
“There, now!” cried the girl, snatching the dress from her, “you are on
one of your poking expeditions. I didn’t intend you should see this,
sister Lisa, for Rose promised to mend it for me.”
“And has Rose nothing to do for herself, that she is to waste time on
your carelessness?” returned Lisa, gravely. “It is not two weeks since
we made this for you, and now it is ruined.”
“Give it to me,” said Rose, quietly; “I did promise to mend it, and
would have done so before, but had the house to attend to; and the
keeping it and providing for it is any thing but a sinecure. Get me a
piece out of the scrap basket, Minnie.”
“That is the way you all combine to spoil Minnie,” said Blanche, raising
her head from her book. “She will never be fit for any thing.”
“Ay!” said the other, with an arch look and pointing to the volume, now
closed, “and who makes pretty things for Miss Blanche, while she sits in
her room poring over dull maxims and writing them off?”
“And how am I to teach you if I do not learn something myself?” asked
Blanche, with a serious expression on her fair souvenir-like face.
“Don’t teach me any of your old cynic Rochefoucauld’s scandal. I hate
him, for he never says a good thing of the human heart, and places my
own motives so often before my eyes that I take him for a reflector of
my inward-self, and blush.” And Minnie covered her face in mock
confusion.
“So much the better, then,” said Rose; “for St. Paul tells us to know
ourselves, and I vote that we treat you to a double dose of ‘les
maximes’ every day.”
“Is Daniel come?” said Minnie, bending low and performing a salaam
before her sister, who was seized with a fit of laughter that prevented
her replying.
“I hope that you will keep your absurd ideas to yourself, Minnie,”
observed Lisa, who now began to rip away at the torn skirt. “You are
talking treason when you begin to abuse La Rochefoucauld.”
“Treason or no treason, then,” cried she springing out of her seat, “the
whole world may come and listen to me, if my head were the penalty. So,
I am off to the library. No, I wont go there, either, lest the old
gentleman’s ghost jump at me; but I’ll go and practice the ‘Bamboula,’
and sister Blanche may dance a Congo polka to it.”
“Sister Blanche leaves polkas to giddy girls, but is, nevertheless,
delighted to hear them speak of practicing. You were as lazy as a sloth
over that ‘Sueia’ of Strakosch’s, and do not know it yet.”
“Pshaw! _ça viendra_, as papa says when you all talk gravely over Rose
and me. I am a perfect pattern of industry with regard to my music, am I
not, Lisa?”
“You certainly do pummel away unmercifully at the poor piano,” said
Lisa; “but half the practicing consists of imitations of Mrs. this, or
Miss that, in style, position or banging.”
“And don’t people go about and give imitations of different lions? I’m
sure I only endeavor to carve out a distinguished name for myself.”
“Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?” quoted Lisa, turning with a smile
from the willful thing that would never hear reason.
“Pray, what fame is to arise from your imitation of Mr. Gamut’s elbows?
Or from Lucy Grey’s symphonies?” asked Kate.
“Kate! Kate! did you not laugh yesterday when I played for you until the
tears rolled down your face? And didn’t you vow that Mr. Gamut himself
sat at the piano?” said Minnie.
“Indeed I did. More shame for me!” exclaimed Kate, laughing anew. “But
your imitations, as you call them, are more than human risibilities
could resist. I call Rose to witness in this case!”
“Don’t call me to witness any more of Minnie’s pranks,” said Rose. “I
cannot encourage them.”
“I’ll force you, then,” cried Minnie, seizing Kate around the waist.
“Now look at Mr. and Mrs. Dobbs waltz together.” And round she spun,
pulling Kate after her, until Lisa and Blanche were adding their peals
of laughter to Rose’s hearty amusement. Away they went until Minnie
whirled her sister out of the room, and soon after sat down to the
Bamboula in sober earnest.
Thus ended all attempts at controlling Minnie, and her task seemed that
of creating merriment wherever she went and turning all reproof into a
mockery. Indeed, she laughed too constantly, and there were times when
Lisa shook her head gravely at this perpetual merriment. A woman’s
duties begin so sternly and so positively from the hour she marries—the
bridal wreath so quickly withers into one of cares and fears, that the
sight of a creature like Minnie, full of thoughtlessness and glee,
saddened the heart that knew something of them all; and poor Lisa, with
her responsibilities, vainly warned her young sister to laugh less and
reflect more.
“I wish that you were married, Blanche,” said she one day, as they sat
together. “We see so few strangers at home, and seem so much like
equals, that Minnie will fly into the face of every thing and every body
without ever being curbed into tranquillity.”
“And what good would my marrying do, in the name of wonder?” said
Blanche with a stare.
“A vast deal, particularly if you were to bestow yourself upon a man
like Mr. Stuart, for instance.”
Lisa went on with her work, and the deep blush that suffused her
sister’s fair face was unperceived.
“Lisa!” said Blanche, after a pause, and her voice faltered; “Lisa!
would you wish me marry?”
“Not unless you are confident of being happy, dear Blanche,” was her
reply, and she looked up.
Once more the bright color mounted over the cheeks of her companion, and
the tears stood in her eyes. She held out her hand, and Lisa pressed it
affectionately as she remarked her unusual emotion.
“My dear sister! what is it that affects you thus?”
“Because, Lisa—I _have_ had thoughts of marrying, not for Minnie’s
sake—but—for my own.” She covered her face and burst into tears. Lisa
rose and clasped her in her arms, soothing her with pet names and kind
words.
“Dear Blanche—sweet dove! tell me all about it? Is it really so? and
have you promised—”
“I have promised nothing, Lisa,” replied Blanche, raising her head and
leading her to a _causeuse_. “Sit down; and now that I can speak, listen
and advise me.” Lisa obeyed, and turned her earnest sympathizing eyes
upon her sister with a look that invited confidence, such as Blanche was
about to give,—a pure and unrestrained avowal of her feelings.
“You know, Lisa, that I met Mr. Stuart frequently at my aunt’s last
winter. He is a great favorite with her, and the only one among her
young men acquaintances whose actual intimacy she solicits. Whenever he
came we were left together, naturally enough, while my aunt and uncle
busied themselves, one with her housekeeping and the other with his
papers. There was always a congeniality of tastes between us that led to
an absence of any thing like ceremony, and something like confidence
arose in our intercourse. There were books discussed that both had read,
and many that I had never seen, which I was to like because he did.
Wherever we went in the evenings he went. He was always there to draw my
arm through his, and offer me the conventional attentions that became so
delightful at length. We never spoke of love, Lisa; we never talked
sentiment _at_ one another, but it was impossible to deny that—that—”
“You loved one another,” said Lisa, seriously. She put on no arch looks,
affected no jests—this was a grave subject to her.
“But we never said so, Lisa,” said Blanche, quickly. “We never said so;
it was enough for us to be together. One morning I received a note from
Helen Clarke, begging me go to her as she was very ill. My aunt’s
carriage took me to Evergreen, and I remained a week absent. On my
return I found that _he_ had been summoned to his mother’s dying bed,
and had hurried off an hour after the letter came, taking time only to
see my aunt and bid her adieu. ‘He asked earnestly after you, Blanche,’
said she, smiling; ‘and your absence grieved him deeply, my love. But he
left a message expressive of it all, and ended it with, Tell her, my
dear Mrs. Bliss, that I will return as soon as I can, and she must not
forget me.’ I could not forget him, Lisa; but I despise a love-sick girl
as I do the plague; so I came home, determined to be happy again among
you all. I would have been ungrateful, indeed, to mope at home where we
all love one another—to pine for a stranger, while I had still all that
made life so dear. Of course, he never wrote to me—my aunt heard
occasionally from him, and the letter announcing his return, affected me
deeply. Would he still be the same, or was there a change?”
“And there was none,” said Lisa, in a low voice. “I know that now,
Blanche, though I did not dream of this before. Blind creature that I
was, not to have felt that we must part after all!”
“I have read in his looks that there is no change, Lisa,” said her
sister, growing pale. “I know that he will tell me so this very day, for
he begged me to remain at home this evening to see him. But, Lisa, if
you do not like him—if it grieves you too much to have me give up my
home for his, say so at once, and I will never leave you.” Her lips
quivered and her hand shook, but the voice was steady, and she looked at
Lisa with her calm, clear eyes until she felt those fond arms once more
thrown around her.
“Dear, generous Blanche!” murmured the sister; “did you think I could be
so selfish? Love on, dear girl, and be happy; God knows you deserve it!”
And soon after there was a wedding and a departure. Forth from the
bird’s-nest went the first fledgling, and the rest sorrowed at home
until Time with its kind hand closed the wound at their hearts. There
were gleams of sunshine in the sweet, fond letters that came with their
tales of happiness and renewed assurances that Blanche loved her old
homestead better than ever; with playful threats of jealousy from
Kenneth himself, as he added his postscript now to one, and now to the
other.
They were a long time gone, but all was repaid when Blanche returned and
placed her first born in his grandsire’s arms. Poor baby! he was
well-nigh crushed to death as the four aunts flew at him, but he grew
used to the danger in time, and thus spared his mother a world of
nursing and petting.
It was impossible not to love Kenneth Stuart—impossible not to admire
him. He had all that high integrity, that unflinching honesty that a
woman loves to lean on. Nothing could be more gentle in manner or more
firm in purpose. He could be grave or gay whenever he was called upon;
and his affection for his wife made him court that of her family that he
might further minister to her happiness, so they all learned to love as
well as reverence him, calling on him for advice or sympathy as on one
another. He had none of that childish jealousy of their mutual
fondness—none of that selfish longing to have her forget old ties for
him. It pleased him to see that same unrestrained intercourse pervade
their family meetings, to know that he had not stepped in to shadow the
light of “days gone by;” and thus they dared once more to boast of their
sunny hours and eternal spring. Mr. de la Croix sat in the old
arm-chair, and listened to the pleasant voices of his children as of
yore. Lisa went about her household duties with a firmer tread, Rose
went from one to the other with her gentle cares, Kate flitted here and
there, her merry eyes wandering around to read the wants of each and
all, while Minnie skipped about and played tricks as usual, as
incorrigible as ever, in spite of Blanche’s matronly admonitions.
“Brother Ken, may I have the dark-haired, dark-eyed cousin that Blanche
talks so much about?” said she, seating herself at his feet. “I am
thinking very seriously of the married state. I look at you and sister
and conjugate the verb, _j’aime_, _tu aimes_, _nous aimons_, _etc._ I
walk about with little Ernest, and practice baby songs, besides helping
Lisa to fuss about house, and darned a most unnatural and unfatherly
hole in papa’s socks this morning. I am perfectly recommendable, I
assure you,” and she turned up her saucy face and looked at him with an
attempt at gravity that was, as Kate said, “too absurd.”
“Young ladies of fourteen must not think of marriage,” replied Kenneth,
with one of his peculiar smiles. “I have destined Paul to Kate, as Lisa
and Rose eschew yokes, etc.”
“To Kate!” exclaimed Minnie, with a pout. “And am I to be sacrificed
because I am fourteen? Unhappy me!”
“Don’t rave, Minnie,” cried Kate, with a gay laugh. “I’ll resign in your
favor if you say so. My time has not come yet, nor my hero.”
“But he _may_ come with this Louis le Desire, Kate, and in spite of your
Arcadian dreams of shepherds and piping swains, you may succumb,” said
Minnie, shaking her little hand at her sister.
“Have I lived to be told this?” cried Kate. “Of all people in the world,
do _I_ love piping swains?”
“To be sure you do, or you wouldn’t admire all those little china
monsters under green trees and reclining on rocks that Miss Bobson
crowds upon her tables. I’ve seen you gaze at them with an eye of love
and inspiration, ten minutes at a time.”
“Yes, to keep serious while you sympathized with her about the tarnished
officer that hangs over the mantle-piece.”
“Unnatural girl!” cried Minnie. “Is it possible that you laugh at the
sorrows of others? While I listen with ready tears to the account of his
loss at sea, you are making light of this sacred wo. You shall never
deceive Miss Bobson again, Kate, for I shall warn her against the deceit
of young ladies who have a passion for her porcelain, and draw her in a
retired place the very next time she unbosoms the locket containing
curls of ancient hair.”
“Minnie! Minnie!” cried Blanche, reproachfully, “is nothing sacred to
you?”
“Nothing about Miss Bobson, of course,” was the reply of the heedless
girl. “Do you wish to impose on me to pity her mawkishness?”
“To pity her age, Minnie, and her loneliness, if nothing else,” said
Kenneth, gravely. “And also to _respect_ her years.”
“Mercy on me! what have I done? Laughed at a ridiculous old maid, and
drawn Kate into the snare. This is a mountain and a mole-hill, indeed.”
“Well, leave her out then, Minnie,” said Blanche, “and let us reprove
you a little for laughing at everybody and every thing. I heard you this
morning crying like Mrs. Simms, and you are too old now—”
“Too old!” cried Minnie, passionately. “Would to God that I might remain
a child then, if I am to cease laughing as I grow older.”
“Laugh as long as you can, dear girl, but not so much at others. I want
you to think more, Minnie; the world is not a paradise, and you must
grow more reasonable to bear a further knowledge of it.”
“Pshaw! you have all thought for me until now, continue to do so until I
get Paul, the expected, to do it forever. Come, Rose, for a race down
the avenue in this lovely moonlight. I want some animation after these
severe lectures.” And off they ran together, while the rest shook their
heads in concert.
“She is too volatile,” said Kenneth, gently, “but she will be tamed down
in time. You must not scold her for venialities like Miss Bobson again.
Now please, dear Lisa, spoil me a little and get my candle, for I must
write a letter to this very Cousin Paul of mine, before I sleep.”
And Paul Linden came. He was, as Blanche said, a handsome fellow, with
dark eyes, and hair like the raven’s wing, a beautiful mouth and teeth,
and the finest whiskers in the world. He was a frank, open,
generous-hearted creature, full of kindly impulses, but impetuous and
excitable, and much beloved by Mr. and Mrs. Stuart. This visit was one
they had long wished for, as more than probably it was preparatory to
his permanent settlement near them.
It was impossible not to feel flattered at the welcome extended him on
his arrival at Mr. de la Croix’s, and before night, he was as much at
home as though he had known them for years.
“I am bewildered with this paradise of houris, Kenneth,” said he, as
they paced the long piazza. “Since my poor mother’s death, which took
place, as you know, before I left college, I have never felt so
completely domesticated among women, and the charm their society affords
me is perfectly indescribable. How happy you are to have so pleasant a
home.”
“Happy, indeed, Paul! They are a lovely group, and I consider myself
peculiarly fortunate in being able to keep my Blanche here and preserve
it entire. It would be a shame to break it up.”
“Blanche is a jewel in herself,” said Paul, affectionately. “I had no
idea that there could be four more like her. What a lovely girl her
sister Kate is! I think she is _my_ favorite, Kenneth, if I may have
one.”
And Kenneth thought the preference reciprocal, but kept his counsel
until a better time, for Minnie’s voice was heard in the hall singing to
the baby, and he smiled as he remembered how she pretended to practice
nursery songs.
“Very well done, Minnie,” said he, as they paused at the door, and
watched her graceful frolicks with Ernest. “You are really growing quite
recommendable.”
“Now, brother Kenneth, if you do tell that!” cried she, blushing, “I
never will speak to you again!”
“I shall not tell, then,” was the reply; “but in return for my
discretion, you must go and ask Kate if she sewed the tassel on my
smoking-cap as she promised.”
“To be sure I did,” said a pleasant voice, and Kate, tripping out of the
parlor with the cap in hand, looked prettier than ever.
“Ah, thank you, dear Kate! now do keep Paul in a good humor while I go
off to smoke my cigar. It would be ill-mannered to leave him alone.”
Kate smiled, and the walk on the piazza was changed for one down the
avenue. It must have been a pleasant one, for the bell rang for tea, and
they were still there watching the pale moon rise, and wondering within
themselves how often they would enjoy the same exercise with the same
pleasure.
They did not wonder long. Every evening there was a challenge from Paul
Linden to some one, for a walk, and somehow or other they were all tired
but Kate, and all too busy but Kate. It was not very long, then, before
the silent leaves were witnesses to a plighting of faith between those
two, and heard (if leaves _can_ hear,) what Paul Linden thought, the
softest music on earth—the low tones that told him the loss of sweet
Kate de la Croix’s heart of hearts.
The leaves saw a strange ring glitter on her fair hand, and they were
discreet—but not so the sisters. Minnie spied the little symbol of
their united faith, and poor Kate told her secret amid tears and sobs.
Even _she_ was unhappy that night, as she remembered the burst of grief
that followed its disclosure, and another bird went from the nest almost
as soon as the wedding was over.
Mr. de la Croix smoked an unusual number of cigars the evening his
daughter left, and the sisters tried to be cheerful; but there was not
one that went to bed that night without going into Kate’s empty room to
weep afresh. Lisa had to threaten to turn it into a rag-chamber before
they could accustom themselves to pass it without entering and mourning
its occupant as one never to return.
“Don’t be forever crying over Kate,” she would say; “she is coming back,
and you had better wait till then and be happy.”
“But we miss her so, Lisa,” said Rose, as her large eyes filled.
“So do I, but you do not see me going about crying over an old glove or
a scrap of writing as you do. And you cannot say that I love her less
than the rest of her sisters.”
“Moreover, my dear girls,” said Kenneth, taking his seat among them, and
lifting little Ernest on his knee, “your spirits affect your father’s.
He feels the loss of his child, and you must all try to speak of her
return and not of her departure. I know how much you feel Kate’s
absence, but you must begin to look upon your separation as a thing that
is to come one day. It is in the course of nature. There are three more
to leave their home; how can you expect that all can be as fortunate as
Blanche and Kate, who remain with you, as of yore. Paul’s business will
probably detain him a year, but he will return to settle here with us,
and we must look at the bright side of things as long as we can. I have
been saying all this to Blanche who ought to be as reasonable as Lisa;
and now I am come to beg you for your own sakes to bear inevitable
trials with the fortitude that is so precious when you once attain it.
Minnie wants scolding, I am afraid,” continued he, as he stroked her
head fondly. “Why do you not play on the piano and sing as usual? The
sound of music will enliven us all, and the mechanical exercise of those
little fingers will occupy your mind after a while, particularly if you
set to work with those _études_ of Moschelles, of whose difficulty I
have heard so much.” And he smiled so encouragingly that Minnie flew off
to mind him, and soon after Mr. de la Croix come out of his room, saying
he was glad to hear the piano going again. Minnie was rewarded fully
when she saw him take his old seat and doze while she played; and she
told Kenneth in confidence, that she was much obliged to him for the
scolding, but he must not tell Lisa, because she might take advantage of
it. And there came that night a long letter from Kate, that helped to
comfort them all. Poor Kate! her return was destined to be a sad one,
for on the route, her beautiful little girl, her darling Blanche, was
taken sick, and drooped so rapidly, that when she reached home, there
was no longer any hope.
Silently they folded her in their arms, and noiselessly they bent their
steps to her own old room, and placed the little sufferer upon its bed.
Its soft eyes turned lovingly to its stricken mother, who sat beside it
in mute agony, as once more they all stood together and mourned over
her. Poor, wretched mother! so young to be so sorrowed! How full of
anguish was the appealing look she cast upon her father, as he gazed
with all a parent’s suffering upon his bright, merry-hearted Kate.
All that human skill could do was done—all that tender watchfulness
could effect; but the angels had gathered round, and were beckoning that
little spirit away. Paler grew the pale cheek—dim the sweet, loving
eyes; and the young mother bent over her beautiful child, in misery such
as they know only who have laid these treasures in the grave.
“Oh God of heaven!” was her mournful cry, “thou hast taken the sunshine
of my life! Darker and darker grows the world to me, as those loved eyes
grow dim. Thou hast crushed me to the earth, oh God! raise me with faith
in thy unerring wisdom, that I may not doubt thy justice! Oh, my
treasured one! Oh, my more than life—what is life to me?”
Her husband turned and placed his hand in hers. She bowed her head upon
it, as though to seek forgiveness, and once more raised it to look upon
her darling. To the last those eyes had turned to her with a long,
lingering look, but now Lisa was closing them in their eternal sleep,
and the angels were bearing that pure, sinless one in triumph to their
home.
With a loud, piercing cry, the childless mother fell back, and the
sisters no longer restraining their grief, filled the house with their
cries. Kenneth bore her out of the room, and returned for Paul, who
stood gazing at his dead infant as one stupefied.
“Go to your wife, Paul,” said he; “go to poor Kate; your love alone can
soften this heavy blow;” and he remained to bend and kiss the now
stiffening form of the lovely little creature. “I will send Blanche to
you, Lisa; you must not perform the last sad task alone. Alas! poor
Kate! how my heart bleeds for you!”
He then sought Mr. de la Croix, who was wildly walking about the garden,
muttering to himself in his grief for the grandchild he had never known,
and the mother—his darling Kate. Kenneth remained to soothe him, and
after persuading him to take some rest, returned to the house.