sculptured marble as it lay extended on the couch. The long, shining
hair was parted on the pure brow, and fell around its head like a shower
of gold. Pale tea-roses were on its breast, and in those white, clasped
hands, emblems of its purity and fragility. Lisa and Blanche were
weeping silently over their lost pet, and Minnie’s screams, mingled with
the more subdued cries of Rose, came mournfully through the air. This
was the first sorrow of their womanhood, and the old homestead seemed
desolate indeed, now that the iron had entered one young, fresh heart
with its bleeding wound, its horrid void.
Kate came again to look upon her child. With Paul’s arm around her, she
stood once more beside its still cold form. Raising her hands, she
uttered a low moan that pierced the hearts of those around her.
“Oh, blessed babe!—my darling, my loved one! I see you for the last
time! You that I have borne, that I have watched and cherished with more
than a mother’s care; you that have given me so much happiness, so much
pride; here is all that is left to me, and _that_ must go into the cold
earth to be seen no more! Those little arms that were folded around my
neck; those little hands that clasped mine so lovingly, are mine no
more! Those lips that never refused to kiss me, will meet mine no more!
Oh God, no more! Why, ah why was I thus smitten to the dust? Why was she
so surely mine—so tended and so watched? Why is she torn from the
mother that idolized her?”
“That she might be spared your trials, my dear child,” said a voice; and
they all made room, as a venerable-looking old man came and stood beside
her. “That she might wear that crown of glory which even your care could
not give her, and which she now treasures as you treasured _her_.”
Kate bowed her head and wept. In her grief she could not remember this,
and she listened in silence as holy words were spoken to her, and
promises held out that she might grow strong in faith. Her piety came to
her as a blessing, and she leaned, poor, broken reed, upon the cross her
Saviour bore, until her spirit, fainting from its weight of wo, could
bear to look upward and say, “His will be done.”
The loved and the cherished was laid in her last resting-place, and her
mother left to mourn and miss the care of her life. Affection and
sympathy were given her, and no one seemed ever impatient with her
constant grief. But she made an effort to be cheerful once more, and
mingling in the usual pursuits of the family, found it easier than she
had expected. Her husband’s unvarying gentleness, his watchful kindness
were sources of much comfort to her bruised spirit, and she strove,
poor, grieved one! to struggle _with_ her grief. Time passed, though the
wound was fresh and often bled, Kate had learned, for the sake of
others, to appear happy and composed because she prayed for strength.
But who could tell the fierce strife that was working in her heart? Who
could dream of the hours passed in silent suffering, when sleep refused
to visit her alone of that quiet crowd? When through the darkness she
gazed, her spirit beckoning back the child, whose every look was
treasured, whose very cry came upon her troubled soul; when she tortured
herself into the conviction that it might have been saved; that she
herself, poor, devoted creature, had not been the watchful nurse beside
its sick bed. Oh! if these bitter thoughts _are_ sent us as
temptations—as trials of our faith in the mercy and justice of the
Almighty, how often we are tried, how often in danger of falling!
And Kate struggled with a mighty strength against these terrible
remembrances, going on as usual with her daily occupations, missing at
each moment the beloved object of her care, but walking boldly on, not
daring to look behind, lest her courage should fail her.
And thus she toiled and received her reward, as days went by, and she
was able to look to Heaven alone as the haven for all who were wrecked
upon the world’s wild coast. All seemed grateful to her for her
resignation—all were kind and considerate; and she remembered that
there was between herself and that “better land” a powerful link that
nothing could destroy.
“I do not think that Rose is looking well, father,” said she one day, as
she went into his room with her work, and seated herself at his side. “I
wish you would observe her.”
Mr. de la Croix laid down his book with a look of alarm. Was another one
of his crown of jewels to lose its brightness?
“I do not say that she is positively ill,” said Kate, “but there is a
languor about her—an indifference to her usual enjoyments that I do not
like. She requires change.”
“But what can be the matter with her, my dear child?” said her father,
looking bewildered. “There must be a cause.”
“A cause that she is not probably aware of herself, but we cannot hope
that Rose’s health will continue forever in the same perfect state, and
as her disposition is different from the rest of us, her life has been a
more sedentary one through that very difference. You know she rarely if
ever goes out.”
“True, very true, my dear, I am glad you reminded me of this. Rose must
have a change, and, strange to tell, this very day I received a letter
from your Aunt Bliss, begging that I would let her have one of the girls
this summer to accompany her.”
“But she goes to Europe, father!” exclaimed Kate.
“And that is the very thing for Rose, hard as it is to send her so far;
but it will improve her in every thing. Send her here, my love, and tell
Lisa to come with her.”
What surprised them all was Rose’s willingness to go; and they all
agreed that she felt the necessity of being roused from her unusual
state, to be thrown more on her own resources. Kate’s clear judgment had
found out the evil, and proposed the remedy; and Rose’s eyes filled as
she thought of her sister’s watchfulness in the midst of her grief.
The preparations for her departure were of great assistance to Kate, who
busied herself diligently, and gave herself no time for thought. She
accompanied her father and Rose to meet her Aunt Bliss, and as the
steamer was detained a few days, remained to see her off.
It was a sad parting, for Rose had never been from home before; but she,
timid bird, must try her wings like the rest, and though her flight was
long, it would be a happy one; and when Kate and her father reached
home, part of the sisters’ grief for Rose was lost in the delight of
seeing her look so well—so much more like her former self.
The old homestead resumed its quiet tone, and its occupants their usual
habits, more reconciled to their changes, more fit to play their part in
the battle of life. No longer looking upon their hoard of bliss as
secure, no longer expecting
Amidst the scene to find,
Some spot to real happiness consigned,
they endeavor to prepare themselves to breast the storm, should sorrow
come again upon the little band.
All but Minnie, her grief was violent and willful, refusing all comfort,
rejecting the means of softening it while it lasted; but there was no
change in her light volatile disposition; and Kate, poor Kate! wise from
sad experience, lectured in vain.
“Where is Blanche?” said Lisa, coming in from the garden with her bonnet
on. “Do you know Minnie?”
“Do I know? Yes; she’s hid in the moon, if you can’t find her; for that
is where Ariosto says every thing is hid that is lost.”
“Pshaw, Minnie! do not be foolish. Where is Blanche?”
“Tell me what you want with her, and I will take a broomstick and ride
after her then?” said the wild girl. “I must be paid for so much trouble
before I undertake it.”
“I would you could promise to stay in the clouds a while and freeze your
spirits into reason. But my wants are no secret or I’d never tell you,
madcap Minnie. Go and find Blanche, and ask her for the key of the
silver closet.”
“And that is all! I’m sorry I promised now, as the contempt I feel for
the errand makes it disgraceful. But here I go, being honor itself about
keeping promises.”
“Excepting those you make to become better and wiser,” rejoined Lisa, as
she ran off. In an instant she was back.
“Lord bless us! She is in the library listening to Kenneth read Cosmos.
I wish he’d put _me_ to sleep sometimes, as I am sure he often does his
wife.”
“I wish he would!” said Lisa, “and he would oblige others besides
myself. Go and ask Kate to come down in the store-room and help me.”
“And what do you want with Kate in the store-room, Miss Lisa?” said
Minnie, as she tied the key she held to the string of her bonnet. “There
must be something going on that I cannot guess.”
“I want her to make an Italian cream for dinner, while I busy myself
with something else that does not concern you.”
“On the principle of ‘_Faut être deux pour avoir du plaisir_,’ I
presume,” said Minnie. “How affecting! But something is in the wind,
Lisa, or you would not fuss over creams, etc. Is any one expected to
dinner?”
“I give you permission to expect as many persons as you like,” replied
she, with provoking gravity. “Tell me their names, and I will prepare
the banquet.”
“I never saw such a mysterious old oracle as you are! Getting out more
plate, more napkins, and steeping gelatin with so much solemnity, as
though we never did have company in our lives before, then preserving
such a dark cloud of silence on the subject! Kate! who is coming here
to-day—tell me, and don’t be foolish about it?” cried Minnie. “Sister
is enveloped in mystery and wont let me know.”
“Kate does not know herself,” said Lisa, smiling; “but may be she can
guess.”
“This is Rose’s birth-day,” said Kate, after a pause, “and—”
“And I forgot it!” exclaimed Minnie, as she burst into a flood of tears.
“The first one she ever passed away from home!”
“And the last, I trust,” said Kate, tenderly. “Poor, dear Rose! I wonder
where she is now!”
“Enjoying herself very much, I suppose,” said Lisa, crushing a lump of
sugar into her bowl of eggs, “and wishing we were all with her. She
would be surprised at the idea of your crying about her, I dare say.”
Minnie made a step forward, and threw down a cup that was too delicate
for such rough usage.
“There!” said her sister, “you have your day’s work before you. I never
saw such a careless girl.”
“Never mind,” said Minnie, collecting the fragments, and smiling through
her tears, “this will do to place among
The broken teacups,
Wisely kept for show,
that _you_ keep on the shelf there. I’ll cement it for you.”
“Thank you! I wish you could mend some of your bad habits as easily as
you promise to patch broken china. It would keep you busy for life.”
“Alas, poor Minnie!” said the girl, “how unjust the world is! What can I
do?”
“Go and see that Sampson puts the dining-room in extra trim, and fill
the finger-bowls,” said Lisa.
“Dear sister! I am not Dalilah, and cannot manage the strong hero of
antiquity,” said Minnie, with affected humility. “But I will crown the
bowls with orange leaves, and perform any other lowly task with much
pleasure.” And she left the room singing a light song, that ever and
anon fell sweetly on the ears of that united household as they paused to
catch the tones of the young, rich voice.
“Mr. Selby and his nephew dine with us,” said Lisa, as she and Kate
compounded their dessert together, “and as the latter is about to sail
for Europe, papa has promised him letters for Uncle Bliss and Rose.”
“Indeed!” said Kate. “That will be very pleasant for them to see any one
that can give such direct news of us. Do you remember to have seen young
Mr. Selby, Lisa?”
“When he was a little boy, I saw him once at his uncle’s, but he has
been at college for years past. He is now on a farewell visit, and will
not return for some time, of course. I hope he will be like old Mr.
Selby, for he is one of the kindest and most agreeable men I ever knew.”
“Yes, he is universally beloved. Paul esteems him highly, and often goes
to him for advice.”
And Kate thought Paul’s opinion sufficient to determine the importance
of the universe.
Minnie had her own ideas, and very soon found herself in merry
conversation with Harry Selby, who devoted himself to his pretty
neighbor at dinner with a zeal that made his uncle laugh.
“What is that, Miss Minnie? What did you say then?” asked he across the
table.
“I was wondering, sir, if Mr. Selby will return a true hearted American,
after seeing all the splendor and beauty of the old world,” replied
Minnie, glancing at him with her bright eyes.
“Of course he will,” said the uncle. “Do you think now that any of the
English blondes, the French brunettes, or the Italian signoras, will
ever drive your saucy face out of his mind?”
Minnie blushed—so did Harry; but she parried the attack.
“Oh, he can easily forget _me_, for this is our first meeting, and will
be the last; but there must be many persons whom he could not under any
circumstances so wrong—yourself, for instance.”
Mr. Selby laughed. “And so you think that my ugly phiz will be the one
to haunt a young fellow on his travels. Do him justice, Minnie, and give
him credit for a dash of sentiment at least. Do you think him insensible
to the charm of dark eyes and all that?”
“By no means, sir; but it would be impertinent on so short an
acquaintance to attempt to fathom so mysterious a thing as a human
heart, such as I suppose belongs to Mr. Selby.” And Minnie blushed again
as a pair of large, brown eyes met hers with an unequivocal glance of
admiration.
The owner of said orbs began something like a compliment; but there was
an unnecessary tinkling of the ice in Minnie’s glass, and she did not
appear to hear it. Besides, at that particular moment, Paul leant
forward, and asked for some information about a planing machine; and the
conversation turning on inch-boards, weather-boards, and thousands of
feet of lumber, the ladies rose and left the table to adjourn to the
parlor.
Harry soon followed them—what cared he for planing-mills? And Blanche
made room for him by Minnie, the place he evidently wanted, for he never
left it until his uncle called to her for some music, and a “good old
song.”
Unfortunately for him, young ladies play too well now-a-days to require
a book before them, and as there were no leaves to be turned, Harry
stood at a distance, admiring the rapid little fingers as they flew over
the ivory.
“Who taught you?” exclaimed he, as she ended Rosellen’s pretty
variations from Don Pasquale, “who taught you?”
She pointed to Kate, who nodded her head with a proud smile.
“Is it possible! When I get to Paris, I shall boast of my countrywoman,
Mrs. Linden, for I am confident—”
“But the song of Minnie, the song!” interrupted Mr. Selby senior. “I
asked for a song, young lady.”
“I know it, sir, but I will leave that to the rest, as I can only boast
of a few notes as yet.” And Minnie rose and gave her place to Blanche.
“Minnie does not like to show off unless she is sure of creating a
sensation,” said Mr. Linden, laughing as she took her seat beside him.
“If you did but know, Mr. Selby, what a wonderful debut she is prepared
to make; all the young ladies will hide their diminished heads next year
at her first Mazourka, and never dance again. Wont they, Minnie?”
“You flatter me,” said she, smiling good humoredly. “I only intend to be
_one_ of the stars—not the bright particular one, for I have only my
wits to help me out.”
“And they will be all sufficient,” said old Mr. Selby, patting her
cheek. “I’m sure of my little pet’s entire success in the great world of
fashion. How many ball-dresses is Rose to bring across the wide ocean?”
“Oh, she has carte blanche,” returned she, “and I will send for you as
soon as they are unpacked, that you may determine my first costume.”
But the evening wore away, and the family separated at an early hour, as
the letters must be written to Rose for the next morning. Each had a
volume to say, and Minnie’s exceeded the third page, as she had promised
such faithful accounts of home to the wanderer, even the dogs were
immortalized that night, for an affecting account of Ponto’s regret for
his mistress drew tears from the writer’s own eyes.
“Lord bless us! what a correspondence,” exclaimed Mr. de la Croix, as
the letters were thrown on the table. “Poor Rose will never get through
it.”
“There’s a postscript from Kenneth, and myself, of course,” said Paul,
as he threw down a pretty envelope. “An endless communication from
Minnie, six pages between Blanche and Kate, two from Lisa, she being too
sensible to waste time, and a well filled sheet from you, sir. Rose will
have work and instruction for a week when all this reaches her. Did you
have a good pen, Minnie?”
“To be sure I did,” replied she, looking up.
“Then I rejoice, for Rose’s sake, your calligraphy being at times very
Egyptian. However, Harry Selby will take great pleasure in assisting her
to decipher it, I dare say; and I feel much relieved on her account.”
Minnie pulled his hair for him at this declaration, and vowed revenge.
Rose could read her writing very well, though others might be dull
enough to suspect the contrary.
There was a charm about Minnie that was irresistible—it was her
unvarying good humor, her sweet, even temper. Even while asserting her
willful but childish dislike of reproof it was impossible to be angry
with her. Nothing like an angry retort ever passed her lips; as
ineffectual as a reprimand was to her wild spirit, she took it
smilingly, and disarmed displeasure with her winning ways. No wonder
that her sisters loved her; no wonder they feared for her as years
passed, and she was yet untamed. Impulsive, obedient to these impulses,
and inconstant in her tastes, Minnie de la Croix, at the age of
seventeen, was no wiser than a child of ten. If she offended she was
wretched until she had been forgiven, and as ready to pardon as she was
averse to wound. Her life had been one of sunshine and love; but she was
growing up to womanhood, and dreamed not of its perils and its
pains—saw nothing but smiles and fair promises in the world before her.
Rose’s account of young Selby’s arrival in Paris was satisfactory to all
parties. “He came to see us,” wrote she, “as soon as he arrived, taking
time only, as I suppose, to make himself look remarkably handsome under
a French valet’s hands. He greeted me most affectionately, and I verily
believe would have kissed me upon slight encouragement. He gave me news
of my dear home, of my dearest father and sisters; and if he had been as
ugly as a Chinese, I should have thought him an Adonis. He tells me that
you are all in perfect health, and describes my Minnie as something very
lovely. Very bewitching, he said, and so very pretty. My resemblance to
her seemed to delight him; but as I am neither of the two epithets
bestowed upon her, I am afraid it will wear off. We were at the Opera
last evening, and, of course, he joined us; but there was no time to
talk when Jenny Lind was singing, and I could not have heard him if he
had attempted it, I was so absorbed; but he had too much taste for such
a mistake. We spend this evening at the American Minister’s, where I am
to see a whole cage of French lions; and what is better, some of my own
dear countrymen. I am delighted with the grace and ease of the Parisian
ladies—it is impossible to resist their fascination of manner, the very
lifting of their veils is a tableau in itself. Minnie’s numberless
dresses for next winter I shall choose under the surveillance of one of
our new acquaintances, one of the presiding goddesses of fashion, whose
taste is so infallible, that, if she were to have her bonnet bent by
accident, bent bonnets would suddenly become the rage.”
We cannot give all Rose’s letter, as it was a long one, but must hurry
over her return, and bring her home in time for Minnie’s ball, as the
whole house called it. The dear absentee arrived in the midst of the
preparations, at the time appointed. Mr. de la Croix wished to celebrate
her happy return among them with Minnie’s debut, and there was no end to
the joy of the sisters as they all met together once more in the room
wherein Rose’s boxes and trunks had been carried. Mr. Linden was there
with a hammer, which he swung over their heads, as he called out where
he was to begin, and the door opened to admit Mr. de la Croix, Kenneth,
and Harry Selby’s uncle. Minnie had promised, he said, that he should
choose her costume upon this great occasion, and here he was, to do his
duty conscientiously.
He was gladly welcomed, and Paul fell to work on a large _caisse_,
according to Rose’s directions. The lid flew off and revealed a very
mysterious covering of white paper, which they proceeded to remove, and
Lisa’s nice hands were called upon to take out the beautiful dresses
that lay so lightly one upon the other.
“Beautiful!” they cried, as a blue tarlatan of the most delicate shade
was held up. “Exquisite! Who is this for?”
“For Lisa,” said Rose, displaying its beauties; “and I have the most
unexceptionable bouquets of pink moss roses for the looping of the
skirt, sleeves, and one for the bosom. Now that white dress is for
Blanche—my Lady Blanche—and the two rose-colored for Minnie and
myself. All have flowers to trim alike. You will find Kate’s in the
other box—there was no room for it in this one.”
“Here is another white one,” said Minnie, who had danced around the room
in a perfect glee. “Whose is it?”
“That is yours also, Minnie,” answered Rose, with an affectionate smile.
“You will want more than one ball-dress, my little debutante. Then—here
Paul! Paul! to your duty—open this box. Mr. Selby! you have something
to do with this, sir.”
All eyes turned to him as he came forward with a queer smile from the
window at which he and Mr. de la Croix sat looking on, and enjoying the
scene of gayety and confusion that passed before them.
“What have I to do with boxes, my pretty Rose,” inquired he. “I sent for
no coats or pantaloons?”
“But you sent for the contents of this box, Mr. Selby,” said she,
nodding her head significantly. “What they are, I know not; but Harry
asked me to let it come on with my baggage, as it was yours, and to be
opened at Oakwood. So here it is, and as _I_ have some curiosity about
it, I call upon this self-constituted carpenter to gratify it.”
Down went Paul’s hammer and chisel, and the nails gave way. More white
paper—and many little tape-strings running across, busied Lisa’s
fingers for some minutes. At length she drew out a dress so beautiful
that even Mr. de la Croix came forward. It was of a most delicate
texture, white, and embroidered around the skirt in palms of silver.
Nothing could be more exquisite, and Lisa drew forth gloves and slippers
to correspond. There was still a small box lying within, but as every
one was exclaiming over the shining robe, she deferred taking it out
until it was time.
“Now, Mr. Selby! Mr. Selby! what did you want with this dress? Tell us
quickly—are you going to be married?”
“Not unless Minnie will have me, for it is hers,” said he, covering her
with the lovely thing, and looking half ashamed as she uttered a scream
of delight.
“I see a letter there for me—hush child! hush! don’t mention it, that’s
a good girl—I’m quite rewarded by your pleasure; let us read Mr.
Harry’s communication.” He broke the seal and began reading it aloud.
“My dear uncle, Madame de Rosiere went to the modiste’s with me, and
chose these articles as you requested; being as perfect in taste and
dress as she is in wit, it must be a gem, almost worthy of the fair
creature for whom it is destined. (Hem! Harry is eloquent.) As I knew
where Miss de la Croix had _her_ dresses made, Madame de R. went with me
there, and arranged it all with the ingenuity of a Frenchwoman—that
this was to be made and packed with the rest, though in a separate box,
and sent to Mr. Bliss’s hotel, when I asked him to take charge of it
according to your orders. It gave me the greatest pleasure to attend to
your commission, I do assure you, and I must thank you for it. How I
long to see your favorite in a costume that seems to my poor eyes, one
that will robe her like an angel of light. (Hurrah for the boy! he is
really a gone case.) In the small box you will find a—” here Mr. Selby
muttered the rest to himself, and ended with “your affectionate nephew,
etc.”
The old gentleman then took out of a satin case a fan so superior to any
Minnie’s unpracticed eyes had ever seen, that her admiration knew no
bounds. On the slender gold ring that passed through the handle was her
name in full, and to a chain of fine workmanship was attached a ruby for
her taper finger.