need not say how much it behooves you to economize in everything you
possibly can; now for instance, I would suggest to you all to drink rye
coffee. And then as to tea, if you _must_ have tea of an evening, I know
a place where you can get it as low as half a dollar a pound--to be sure
it is only Hyson Skin. In _your_ family a pound of tea ought to go a
great way, for now, of course, you do not make it strong. And then, I
would advise you all to accustom yourselves to brown sugar in your tea;
it is nothing when you are used to it. Of course you always take it in
your coffee. And there is a baker not far off, that makes large loaves
of rye and Indian mixed. You will find it much cheaper than wheat. Of
course you are not so extravagant as to eat fresh bread. And as to
butter, if you cannot dispense with it altogether, I would suggest that
you should use the potted butter from the grocery stores. Some of it is
excellent. I suppose that of course you have entirely given up all
kinds of desserts, but if you should wish for anything of the kind on
Sundays, or after a cold dinner, you will find plain boiled rice
sweetened with a very little molasses, almost as good as a pudding. No
doubt the children will like it quite as well. You know, I suppose, that
if you defer going to market till near twelve o'clock you will always
get things much cheaper than if you go in the early part of the day; as
towards noon the market people are impatient to get home, and in their
hurry to be off, will sell for almost nothing whatever they may chance
to have left. In buying wood, let me recommend to you always to get it
as green as possible. To be sure green wood does not always make so good
a fire as that which is dry, neither does it kindle so well; but then
the slower it burns the longer it lasts, and it is therefore the
cheapest. And always get gum back-logs, for they scarcely burn at all. I
see you still keep your black woman Lucy. Now you will find it much
better to dismiss her, and take a bound girl about twelve or thirteen.
Then you know you would have no wages to pay, and your daughters, of
course, would not mind helping her with the work."
During this harangue, the colour came into Mrs. Allerton's face, and she
was about to answer in a manner that showed how acutely she was wounded
by the unfeeling impertinence of the speaker: but glancing at Constance
she saw something in her countenance that resembled a smile, and
perceived that she seemed rather amused than angry. Therefore Mrs.
Allerton suppressed her resentment, and made no reply.
When Mrs. Craycroft had departed, the mother and daughters warmly
deprecated her rudeness and insolence; but Constance, being by nature
very susceptible of the ridiculous, was much more inclined to laugh, and
succeeded in inducing her sister and the girls to regard it in the same
light that she did.
"After all," said Mrs. Allerton, "I think we will take Mrs. Craycroft's
advice about the dyeing. The olive coats may thus be turned to very good
account, and so may several other things of which we cannot now make use
because of their colour. It is true, that we can ill afford even the
expense of dyeing them; but still we are really very much in want of
such coats as we may wear in mourning."
Next day, the olive pelisses, which were very pretty and extremely well
made, were carefully ripped apart, and the silk was conveyed to the
dyer's, together with a small scarlet Canton crape shawl of Mrs.
Allerton's, which she thought would be convenient in cold weather to
wear over her shoulders when at home. The _materiel_ of the dismembered
coats was rolled up in as small a compass as possible, wrapped in
papers, and carried one afternoon by Isabella and Helen. Mr. Copperas
informed them that he only dyed on Thursdays, and as this was Friday
afternoon, they had come a day too late to have the things done that
week. Therefore the articles could not be put into the dye before next
Thursday, and then it would be another week before they could be
dressed. Dressing, in the dyer's phraseology, means stiffening and
ironing; and very frequently ironing only.
This delay was extremely inconvenient, as Mrs. Allerton and her
daughters were absolutely very much in need of the coats; yet there was
no remedy but patience. At the appointed time, two of the girls went to
bring home the silk, but were told by a small-featured, mild-spoken
Quaker woman, employed to attend the customers, that "the things were
dyed but not yet dressed."
"Will they be finished by to-morrow afternoon?" asked Isabella.
"I rather think they will not."
"By Saturday, then?"
"It's likely they will."
On Saturday, the girls went again. Still the articles, though dyed, were
not yet dressed: but they were promised for Tuesday--if nothing happened
to prevent.
Every few days, for near a fortnight, some of the Allerton family
repaired to the dyer's (and it was a very long walk) but without any
success--the things, though always dyed, were never dressed. And when
they expressed their disappointment, the Quaker woman regularly told
them: "Thee knows I did not say positive--we should never be too certain
of anything."
Finally, the silk was acknowledged to be dressed, and it was produced
and paid for; but the crape shawl was missing. A search was made for it,
but in vain; still the woman assured them that it could not be lost, as
nothing ever _was_ lost in James Copperas's house, adding: "I partly
promise thee, that if I live, I will find it for thee by to-morrow."
Next day, when she had done sewing, little Louisa went again for the
shawl. The woman now confessed that she had not been able to find it,
and said to Louisa: "I think, child, I would not advise thee to trouble
thyself to come after it again. It seems a pity to wear out thy shoes
too much. One should not be too certain of anything in this life, and
therefore I am not free to say that thy shawl is lost; but it seems to
me likely that it will never be found."
"My mother will be sorry," said Louisa, "for she really wants the shawl,
and will regret to lose it."
The little girl then turned to depart, and had reached the front door
when the woman called her back, saying: "But thee'll pay for the
dyeing?"[86]
[Footnote 86: Fact.]
"What!" exclaimed Louisa, "after you have lost the shawl?"
"But I can assure thee it _was_ dyed," replied the woman. "It actually
_was_ dyed, I can speak positive to that, and we cannot afford to lose
the dyeing."
Louisa, child as she was, had acuteness enough to perceive the intended
imposition, and, without making an answer, she slipped out of the door:
though the woman caught her by the skirt, and attempted to stop her,
repeating: "But we can't afford to lose the dyeing."
Louisa, however, disengaged herself from her grasp, and ran down the
street, for some distance, as fast as possible--afraid to look back lest
the Quaker woman should be coming after her for the money she had
brought to pay for the shawl, and which she took care to hold tightly in
her hand.
In attempting to make up the coats, it was found impossible to put the
different pieces together to the same advantage as before. Also, the
silk did not look well, being dyed of a dull brownish black, and
stiffened to the consistence of paper. The skirts and sleeves had shrunk
much in dyeing, and the pieces that composed the bodies had been
ravelled, frayed, and pulled so crooked in dressing, that they had lost
nearly all shape. It was impossible to make up the deficiencies by
matching the silk with new, as none was to be found that bore sufficient
resemblance to it. "Ah!" thought Constance, "how well these coats looked
when in their original state! The shade of olive was so beautiful, the
silk so soft and glossy, and they fitted so perfectly well."
When put together under all these disadvantages, the coats looked so
badly that the girls were at first unwilling to wear them, except in
extreme cold weather--particularly as in coming out of church they
overheard whispers among the ladies in the crowd, of "That's a dyed
silk"--"Any one may see that those coats have been dyed."
They trimmed them with crape, in hopes of making them look better; but
the crape wore out almost immediately, and in fact it had to be taken
off before the final close of the cold weather.
Spring came at last, and the Allerton family, having struggled through a
melancholy and comfortless winter, had taken a larger house in a better
part of the town, and made arrangements for commencing their school, in
which Constance was to be chief instructress. Isabella and Helen, whose
ages were sixteen and fourteen, were to assist in teaching some
branches, but to continue receiving lessons in others. Louisa was to be
one of the pupils.
About a fortnight before their intended removal to their new residence,
one afternoon when none of the family were at home, except Constance,
she was surprised by the visit of a friend from New Bedford, a young
gentleman who had been absent three years on a whaling voyage, in a ship
in which he had the chief interest, his father being owner of several
vessels in that line.
Edmund Lessingham was an admirer of ladies generally: but during his
long voyage he found by his thinking incessantly of Constance, and not
at all of any other female, that he was undoubtedly in love with her; a
fact which he had not suspected till the last point of Massachusetts
faded from his view. He resolved to improve his intimacy with our
heroine, should he find her still at liberty, on his return to New
Bedford; and if he perceived a probability of success, to make her at
once an offer of his hand. When Lessingham came home, he was much
disappointed to hear that Constance Allerton had been living for more
than a twelvemonth in Philadelphia. However, he lost no time in coming
on to see her.
When he was shown into the parlour, she was sitting with her head bent
over her work. She started up on being accosted by his well-remembered
voice. Not having heard of the death of her brother, and not seeing her
in mourning, Edmund Lessingham was at a loss to account for the tears
that filled her eyes, and for the emotion that suffocated her voice when
she attempted to reply to his warm expressions of delight at seeing her
again. He perceived that she was thinner and paler than when he had last
seen her, and he feared that all was not right. She signed to him to sit
down, and was endeavouring to compose herself, when Mrs. Craycroft was
shown into the room. That lady stared with surprise at seeing a very
handsome young gentleman with Constance, who hastily wiped her eyes and
introduced Mr. Lessingham.
Mrs. Craycroft took a seat, and producing two or three morning caps from
her reticule, she said in her usual loud voice, "Miss Allerton, I have
brought these caps for you to alter--I wish you to do them immediately,
that they may be washed next week. I find the borders rather too broad,
and the headpieces too large (though to be sure I did cut them out
myself), so I want you to rip them apart, and make the headpieces
smaller, and the borders narrower, and then whip them and sew them on
again. I was out the other day when you sent home my husband's shirts
with the bill, but when you have done the caps I will pay you for all
together. What will you charge for making a dozen aprons of bird's eye
diaper for my little Anna? You must not ask much, for I want them quite
plain--mere bibs--they are always the best for babies. Unless you will
do them very cheap, I may as well make them myself."
The face of Lessingham became scarlet, and, starting from his chair, he
traversed the room in manifest perturbation; sympathizing with what he
supposed to be the confusion and mortification of Constance, and
regretting that the sex of Mrs. Craycroft prevented him from knocking
her down.
Constance, however, rallied, replying with apparent composure to Mrs.
Craycroft on the points in question, and calmly settling the bargain for
the bird's-eye aprons--she knew that it is only in the eyes of the
vulgar-minded and the foolish that a woman is degraded by exerting her
ingenuity or her talents as a means of support.
"Well," said Mrs. Craycroft, "you may send for the aprons to-morrow, and
I wish you to hurry with them as fast as you can--when I give out work,
I never like it to be kept long on hand. I will pay you for the other
things when the aprons are done."
Mrs. Craycroft then took her leave, and Constance turned to the window
to conceal from Lessingham the tears that in spite of her self-command
were now stealing down her cheeks.
Lessingham hastily went up to her, and taking her hand, he said, with
much feeling: "Dear Constance--Miss Allerton I mean--what has happened
during my absence? Why do I see you thus? But I fear that I distress you
by inquiring. I perceive that you are not happy--that you have suffered
much, and that your circumstances are changed. Can I do nothing to
console you or to improve your situation? Let me at once have a right to
do so--let me persuade you to unite your fate with mine, and put an end,
I hope for ever, to these unmerited, these intolerable humiliations."
"No, Mr. Lessingham," said Constance, deeply affected, "I will not take
advantage of the generous impulse that has led you thus suddenly to make
an offer, which, perhaps, in a calmer moment, and on cooler
consideration, you may think of with regret."
"Regret!" exclaimed Lessingham, pressing her hand between both of his,
and surveying her with a look of the fondest admiration, "dearest
Constance, how little you know your own value--how little you suppose
that during our long separation--"
Here he was interrupted in his impassioned address by the entrance of
Mrs. Allerton and her daughters. Constance hastily withdrew her hand and
presented him as Mr. Lessingham, a friend of hers from New Bedford.
Being much agitated, she in a few minutes retired to compose herself in
her own apartment. The girls soon after withdrew, and Lessingham,
frankly informing Mrs. Allerton that he was much and seriously
interested in her sister-in-law, begged to know some particulars of her
present condition.
Mrs. Allerton, who felt it impossible to regard Mr. Lessingham as a
stranger, gave him a brief outline of the circumstances of Constance's
residence with them, and spoke of her as the guardian-angel of the
family. "She is not only," said her sister-in-law, "one of the most
amiable and affectionate, but also one of the most sensible and
judicious of women. Never, never have we in any instance acted contrary
to her advice, without eventually finding cause to regret that we did
so." And Mrs. Allerton could not forbear casting her eyes over her
mourning dress.
Lessingham, though the praises of Constance were music in his ears, had
tact enough to take his leave, fearing that his visit was interfering
with the tea-hour of the family.
Next morning, the weather was so mild as to enable them to sit up stairs
with their sewing; for latterly, the state of their fuel had not allowed
them to keep fire except in the parlour and kitchen. Lessingham called
and inquired for Constance. She came down, and saw him alone. He
renewed, in explicit terms, the offer he had so abruptly made her on
the preceding afternoon. Constance, whose heart had been with Lessingham
during the whole of his long absence, had a severe struggle before she
could bring herself to insist on their union being postponed for at
least two years: during which time she wished, for the sake of the
family, to remain with them, and get the school firmly established; her
nieces, meanwhile, completing their education, and acquiring, under her
guidance, a proficiency in the routine of teaching.
"But surely," said Lessingham, "you understand that I wish you to make
over to your sister-in-law the whole of your aunt Ilford's legacy? You
shall bring me nothing but your invaluable self."
Though grateful for the generosity and disinterestedness of her lover,
Constance knew that the interest of her ten thousand dollars was, of
course, not sufficient to support Mrs. Allerton and her children without
some other source of income; and she was convinced that they would never
consent to become pensioners on Lessingham's bounty, kind and liberal as
he was. She therefore adhered to her determination of remaining with her
sister and nieces till she had seen them fairly afloat, and till she
could leave them in a prosperous condition. And Lessingham was obliged
to yield to her conviction that she was acting rightly, and to consent
that the completion of his happiness should accordingly be deferred for
two years.
He remained in Philadelphia till he had seen the Allerton family
established in their new habitation, and he managed with much delicacy
to aid them in the expenses of fitting it up.
The school was commenced with a much larger number of pupils than had
been anticipated. It increased rapidly under the judicious
superintendence of Constance: and in the course of two years she had
rendered Isabella and Helen so capable of filling her place, that all
the parents were perfectly satisfied to continue their children with
them. At the end of that time, Lessingham (who, in the interval, had
made frequent visits to Philadelphia) came to claim the promised hand of
his Constance. They were married--she having first transferred the whole
of her little property to her brother's widow.
At the earnest desire of Lessingham, Mrs. Allerton consented that Louisa
should live in future with her beloved aunt Constance; and consequently
the little girl accompanied them to New Bedford.
Mrs. Allerton and her family went on and prospered--her son was
everything that a parent could wish--her children all married
advantageously--and happily she has not yet had occasion to put in
practice her resolution of never again wearing mourning: though
principle, and not necessity, is the motive which will henceforward
deter her from complying with that custom.
THE END.