Everybody called her “pretty Miss Kate.” It was an odd title, and she
had come by it in an odd way. A sort of half-witted nurse, whose one
supreme merit was her faithfulness, had tended Squire Oswald’s baby
daughter all through her early years; and she it was who had first
called the girl “pretty Miss Kate.”
It was a small neighborhood where everybody knew everybody else; and,
by dint of much hearing this title, all the neighbors grew to use it.
And, indeed, at fifteen Kate Oswald deserved it. She was a tall, slight
girl, with a figure very graceful, and what people call stylish.
She had blue eyes; not the meaningless blue of a French doll, but deep
and lustrous, like the tender hue of the summer sky. She had hair like
some Northland princess. It had not a tint of yellow in it, but it
was fine and fair, and so light as to be noticeable anywhere. Her skin
was exquisite, too, as skin needs must be to match such hair. When any
color came to the cheeks it was never crimson, but just the faintest
tint of the blush rose; her lips alone were of rich, vivid bloom. A
prettier creature, truly, seldom crosses this planet; and the few such
girls who have lived among us, and grown to womanhood, have made wild
work generally, using hearts for playthings; and, like other children,
breaking their toys now and then. But pretty Miss Kate was not at the
age yet for that sort of pastime, and her most ardent worshipper was
little Sally Green.
There was a curious friendship between these two, if one may call that
friendship which is made up of blind worship on one side and gentle
pity and kindliness on the other.
Squire Oswald owned the poor little house where Widow Green lived, and
whenever there was an unusual press of work at the great house above,
the family washing used to be sent down to Mrs. Green at the foot of
the hill. Many an hour the widow worked busily, fluting the delicate
ruffles and smoothing the soft muslins, out of which pretty Miss Kate
used to bloom as a flower does out of its calyx. And on these occasions
Sally used to carry the dainty washing home, and she nearly always
contrived to be permitted to take it up to Miss Kate’s room, herself.
Nobody thought much about little Sally Green any way,--least of all did
any one suspect her of any romantic or heroic or poetical qualities.
And yet she had them all; and if you came to a question of soul and
mind, there was something in Sally which entitled her to rank with
the best. She was a plain, dark little thing, with a stubbed, solid,
squarely-built figure; with great black eyes, which nobody thought any
thing about in _her_, but which would have been enough for the whole
stock-in-trade of a fashionable belle; with masses of black hair that
she did not know what to do with; and with a skin somewhat sallow, but
smooth. No one ever thought how she looked, except, perhaps, pretty
Miss Kate.
One day, when the child brought home the washing, Kate had been reading
aloud to a friend, and Sally had shown an evident inclination to
linger. At that time Kate was not more than fourteen, and the interest
or the admiration in Sally’s face struck her, and, moved by a girl’s
quick impulse, she had said,--
“Do you want to hear all of it, Sally? Wait, then, and I will read it
to you.”
The poem was Mrs. Browning’s “Romance of the Swan’s Nest,” and it was
the first glimpse for Sally Green into the enchanted land of poetry
and fiction. Before that she had admired pretty Miss Kate, but now the
feeling grew to worship.
Kate was not slow to perceive it, with that feminine instinct which
somehow scents out and delights in the honest admiration of high or
low, rich or poor. She grew very kind to little Sally. Many a book and
magazine she lent the child; and now and then she gave her a flower, a
bit of bright ribbon, or some little picture. To poor Sally Green these
trifles were as the gifts of a goddess, and no devotee ever treasured
relics from the shrine of his patron saint more tenderly than she
cherished any, even the slightest, token which was associated with the
beautiful young lady whom she adored with all her faithful, reverent,
imaginative heart.
One June evening Sally had been working hard all day. She had washed
dishes, run her mother’s errands, got supper, and now her reward was to
come.
“You may make yourself tidy,” her mother said, “and carry home that
basket of Miss Kate’s things to Squire Oswald’s.”
Sally flew upstairs, and brushed back her black locks, and tied them
with a red ribbon Miss Kate had given her. She put on a clean dress,
and a little straw hat that last year had been Miss Kate’s own; and
really for such a stubbed, dark little thing, she looked very nicely.
She was thirteen--two years younger than her idol--and while Miss Kate
was tall, and looked older than her years, Sally looked even younger
than she was. Her heart beat as she hurried up the hill. She thought
of the fable of the mouse and the lion, which she had read in one of
the books Miss Kate had lent her. It made her think of herself and her
idol. Not that Miss Kate was like a lion at all,--no, she was like a
beautiful princess,--but she herself was such a poor, humble, helpless
little mouse; and yet there might be a time, if she only watched and
waited, when she, even she, could do pretty Miss Kate some good. And
if the time ever came, wouldn’t she _do_ it, just, at no matter _what_
cost to herself? Poor little Sally! The time was on its way, and nearer
than she thought.
She found Miss Kate in her own pretty room,--a room all blue and white
and silver, as befitted such a fair-haired beauty. The bedstead and
wardrobe were of polished chestnut, lightly and gracefully carved.
The carpet was pale gray, with impossible blue roses. The blue chintz
curtains were looped back with silver cords; there were silver frames,
with narrow blue edges, to the few graceful pictures; and on the mantel
were a clock and vases with silver ornaments.
Pretty Miss Kate looked as if she had been dressed on purpose to stay
in that room. She wore a blue dress, and round her neck was a silver
necklace which her father had brought her last year from far-off Genoa.
Silver ornaments were in her little ears, and a silver clasp fastened
the belt at her waist. She welcomed Sally with a sweet graciousness, a
little conscious, perhaps, of the fact that she was Miss Oswald, and
Sally was Sally Green; but to the child her manner, like every thing
else about her, seemed perfection.
“Sit down and stay a little, Sally,” she said, “I have something to
tell you. Do you remember what you heard me read that first time, when
your eyes got so big with listening, and I made you stay and hear it
all?”
“Yes, indeed,” Sally cried eagerly. “I never forgot any thing I ever
heard you read. That first time it was ‘The Romance of the Swan’s
Nest.’”
“Yes, you are right, and I know I was surprised to find how much you
cared about it. I began to be interested in you then, for you know I am
interested in you, don’t you, Sally?”
Sally blushed with pleasure till her face glowed like the June roses in
Miss Kate’s silver vases, but she did not know what to say, and so,
very wisely, she did not say any thing. Miss Kate went on,--
“Well, that very same poem I am going to read, next Wednesday night,
at the evening exercises in the academy. The academy hall won’t hold
everybody, and so they are going to be admitted by tickets. Each of
us girls has a certain number to give away, and I have one for you.
I thought you would like to go and see me there among the rest in my
white gown, and hear me read the old verses again.”
You would not have believed so small a thing could so have moved
anybody; but Sally’s face turned from red to white, and from white to
red again, and her big black eyes were as full of tears as an April
cloud is of rain-drops.
“Do you mean it, truly?” she asked.
“Yes, truly, child. Here is your ticket. Why, don’t cry, foolish girl.
It’s nothing. I wanted to be sure of one person there who would think
I read well, whether any one else did or not. And I’ve a gown for you,
too--that pink muslin, don’t you know, that I wore last year? I’ve
shot up right out of it, and it’s of no use to me, now, and mamma said
I might give it to you. This is Saturday; you can get it ready by
Wednesday, can’t you?”
What a happy girl went home that night, just as the rosy June
sunset was fading away, and ran, bright and glad and full of joyful
expectation, into the Widow Green’s humble little house! Widow Green
wasn’t much of a woman, in the neighbors’ estimation. She was honest
and civil, and she washed well; but that was all they saw in her. Sally
saw much more. She saw a mother who always tried to make her happy;
who shared her enthusiasms, or at least sympathized with them; who was
never cross or jealous, or any thing but motherly. She was as pleased,
now, at the prospect of Sally’s pleasure as Sally herself was; and just
as proud of this attention from pretty Miss Kate. Together they made
over the pink muslin dress; and when Wednesday night came the widow
felt sure that her daughter was as well worth having, and as much to be
proud of, as any other mother’s daughter that would be at the academy.
“You must go very early,” she said, “to get a good seat; and you need
not be afraid to go right up to the front. You’ve just as good right to
get close up there as anybody.”
When Sally was going out, her mother called her back.
“Here, dear,” she said, “just take the shawl. Do it to please me, for
there’s no knowing how cold it might be when you get out.”
“The shawl” was an immense Rob Roy plaid,--a ridiculous wrap, truly,
for a June night; but summer shawls they had none, and Sally was too
dutiful, as well as too happy, not to want to please her mother even in
such a trifle. How differently two lives would have come out if she had
not taken it!
She was the very first one to enter the academy. Dare she go and sit
in the front row so as to be close to pretty Miss Kate? Ordinarily she
would have shrunk into some far corner, for she was almost painfully
shy; but now something outside herself seemed to urge her on. She
would not take up much room,--this something whispered,--and nobody,
no, nobody at all, could love Miss Kate better than she did. So she
went into the very front row, close up to the little stage on which
the young performers were to appear,--a veritable stage, with real
foot-lights.
Soon the people began to come in, and after a while the lights were
turned up, and the exercises commenced. There were dialogues and music,
and at last the master of ceremonies announced the reading of “The
Romance of the Swan’s Nest,” by Miss Kate Oswald.
Other people had been interested in what went before, no doubt; but
to Sally Green the whole evening had been but a prelude to this one
triumphant moment for which she waited.
Pretty Miss Kate came forward like a little queen,--tall and slight,
with her coronet of fair, braided hair, in which a shy, sweet rosebud
nestled. She wore a dress of white muslin, as light and fleecy as a
summer cloud, with a sash that might, as far as its hue went, have
been cut from the deep blue sky over which that summer cloud floated.
A little bunch of flowers was on her bosom, and other ornament she had
none. She looked like one of the pretty creatures, half angel and half
woman of fashion, which some of the modern French artists paint.
As she stepped forward she was greeted with a burst of irrepressible
applause, and then the house was very still as she began to read. How
her soft eyes glowed, and the blushes burned on her dainty cheeks, when
she came to the lines:--
“Little Ellie in her smile
Chooseth: ‘I will have a lover,
Riding on a steed of steeds!
He shall love me without guile,
And to _him_ I will discover
That swan’s nest among the reeds.
“‘And the steed shall be red-roan,
And the lover shall be noble,
With an eye that takes the breath,
And the lute he plays upon
Shall strike ladies into trouble,
As his sword strikes men to death.’”
She had the whole audience for her lovers before she was through with
the poem, and the last verse was followed with a perfect storm of
applause. Was she not young and beautiful, with a voice as sweet as her
smile? And then she was Squire Oswald’s daughter, and he was the great
man of the village.
She stepped off the stage; and then the applause recalled her, and she
came back, pink with pleasure. A bow, a smile, and then a step too near
the poorly protected foot-lights, and the fleecy white muslin dress was
a sheet of flame.
How Sally Green sprang over those foot-lights she never knew; but there
she was, on the stage, and “the shawl” was wrapped round pretty Miss
Kate before any one else had done any thing but scream. Close, close,
close, Sally hugged its heavy woollen folds. She burned her own fingers
to the bone; but what cared she? The time of the poor little mouse had
come at last.
And so pretty Miss Kate was saved, and not so much as a scar marred the
pink and white of her fair girl’s face. Her arms were burned rather
badly, but they would heal, and no permanent harm had come to her.
Sally was burned much more severely, but she hardly felt the pain of it
in her joy that she had saved her idol, for whom she would have been so
willing even to die. They took her home very tenderly, and the first
words she said, as they led her inside her mother’s door, were,--
“Now, mother, I know what I took the shawl for!”
I said how differently two lives would have ended if she had not
taken that shawl. Pretty Miss Kate’s would have burned out then and
there, no doubt; for if any one else were there with presence of
mind enough to have saved her, certainly there was no other wrap
there like “the shawl.” And then Sally might have grown up to the
humblest kind of toil, instead of being what she is to-day; for Squire
Oswald’s gratitude for his daughter’s saved life did not exhaust
itself in words. From that moment he charged himself with Sally
Green’s education, and gave her every advantage which his own daughter
received. And, truth to tell, Sally, with her wonderful temperament,
the wealth of poetry and devotion and hero-worship that was in her,
soon outstripped pretty Miss Kate in her progress.
But no rivalry or jealousy ever came between them. As Sally had adored
Kate’s loveliness, so, in time, Kate came to do homage to Sally’s
genius; and the two were friends in the most complete sense of the
word.