Part 11 (1/2)
”I _can_ do it, and I _will_! If I get tired, I'll look at you and mother,--always so faithful to what you undertake,--and remember my motto,” cried Abby, anxious to follow the example set her in the daily life of these good parents.
A hearty hand-shake rewarded her, and she set about the new task with a resolute purpose to succeed. It was hard at first to go back to her early lessons and read them over and over again to eager Lucy, who did her best to understand, remember, and recite. But good-will and grat.i.tude worked wonders; and day after day, week after week, month after month, the teaching went on, to the great surprise and satisfaction of those who watched this labor of love. Both learned much, and a very strong, sweet friends.h.i.+p grew up, which lasted till the young girls became old women.
For nearly two years the daily lessons were continued; then Lucy was ready and able to go to school, and Abby free from the duty that had grown a pleasure. Sister Catherine being gone, she was the young lady of the house now, and began to go to a few parties, where she distinguished herself by her graceful dancing, and sprightly though modest manners.
She had grown strong and rosy with the exercise her sensible mother prescribed and her energetic father encouraged, taking long walks with her to Roxbury and Dorchester on holidays, over bridges and around the common before breakfast each morning, till the pale little girl was a tall and blooming creature, full of life and spirit,--not exactly beautiful, but with a sweet, intelligent face, and the frank, cordial ways that are so charming. Her brother Sam was very proud of her, and liked to see her surrounded by his friends at the merry-makings to which he escorted her; for she talked as well as she danced, and the older gentlemen enjoyed a good chat with Miss Abby as much as the younger ones did the elaborate pigeon-wings and pirouettes then in vogue.
Among the older men was one whom Abby much admired; for he had fought, travelled, and studied more than most men of his age, and earned the honors he wore so modestly. She was never tired of asking him questions when they met, and he never seemed tired of giving long, interesting replies; so they often sat and talked while others danced, and Abby never guessed that he was studying her bright face and innocent heart as eagerly as she listened to his agreeable conversation and stirring adventures.
Presently he came to the house with brother Sam, who shared Abby's regard for him; and there, while the young men amused themselves, or paid their respects to the elders, one of them was still watching the tall girl with the crown of brown hair, as she sat by her father, poured the tea for Madam, laughed with her brother, or made bashful Lucy share their pleasures; always so busy, dutiful, and winning, that the visitor p.r.o.nounced Mr. Lyon's the most delightful house in Boston. He heard all the little tales of Abby's youth from Sam, and Lucy added her tribute with the eloquence of a grateful heart; he saw how loved and trusted she was, and he soon longed to know how she would answer the question he desired to ask her. Having received permission from Papa, in the decorous old style, he only waited for an opportunity to discover if charming Abigail would consent to change her name from Lyon to Lamb; and, as if her lesson was to be quite complete, a little thing decided her fate and made a very happy woman of the good girl.
On Abby's seventeenth birthday, there was to be a party in her honor, at the hospitable family mansion, to which all her friends were invited; and, when she came down early to see that all was in order, she found one impatient guest had already arrived.
It was not alone the consciousness that the new pink taffeta gown and the wreath of white roses were very becoming which made her blush so prettily as she thanked her friend for the fine nosegay he brought her, but something in his face, though he only wished her many happy returns in a hearty way, and then added, laughing, as the last b.u.t.ton flew off the glove he was awkwardly trying to fasten,--
”It is evident that you didn't sew on these b.u.t.tons, Miss Abby. I've observed that Sam's never come off, and he says you always keep them in order.”
”Let me put one on for you. It will take but a moment, and you'll be so uncomfortable without it,” said Abby, glad to find employment for her eyes.
A minute afterward she was sorry she had offered; for he accepted the little service with thanks, and stood watching while she sat down at her work-table and began to sew. She was very sensitive about her hand, yet ashamed of being so; for the scar was inside and the drawn fingers showed very little, as it is natural to half close them. She hoped he had never seen it, and tried to hide it as she worked. But this, or some new consciousness, made her usually nimble fingers lose their skill, and she knotted the silk, split the b.u.t.ton, and dropped her thimble, growing angry with herself for being so silly and getting so red and flurried.
”I'm afraid I'm giving you a deal of trouble,” said the gentleman, who was watching the white hand with great interest.
”No; it is I who am foolish about my burnt hands,” answered Abby, in her frank, impetuous way. ”See how ugly it is!” And she held it out, as if to punish herself for the girlish feeling she despised.
The answer to this little outburst made her forget everything but the sweetest pleasure and surprise; for, kissing the scarred palm with tender respect, her lover said:--
”To me it is the finest and the dearest hand in the world. I know the brave story, and I've seen the good this generous hand is never tired of doing. I want it for my own. Will you give it to me, dear?”
Abby must have answered, ”Yes;” for she wore a new ring under her glove that night, and danced as if there were wings on the heels of her pink shoes.
Whether the b.u.t.ton ever got sewed on or not, no one knows; but that bit of needlework was even more successful than the other small job; for in due time there was a second wedding, without a fire, and Abby went away to a happy home of her own, leaving sister Lucy to fill her place and be the most loving and faithful of daughters to her benefactors while they lived.
Long years afterward, when she had children and grandchildren about her, listening to the true old stories that are the best, Abby used to say, with her own cheerful laugh:--
”My father and mother taught me many useful lessons, but none more valuable than those I learned that year; and I may honestly say that patience, perseverance, courage, friends.h.i.+p, and love, came out of that silk stocking. So let me give you this bit of advice: Don't despise little things, my dears!”
[Ill.u.s.tration]
[Ill.u.s.tration]
The Banner of Beaumanior
Larks were singing in the clear sky over Dinan, the hill-sides were white with hosts of blooming cherry-trees, and the valley golden with willow blossoms. The gray tower of the good d.u.c.h.ess Anne was hung with garlands of ivy and gay with tufts of fragrant wallflowers, and along the fosse the shadows deepened daily as the young leaves thickened on the interlacing branches overhead. Women sang while they beat their clothes by the pool; wooden shoes clattered to and fro as the girls brought water from the fountain in Place St. Louis; men, with their long hair, embroidered jackets, and baggy breeches, drank cider at the inn doors; and the great Breton horses shook their high collars till the bells rang again, as they pa.s.sed along the roads that wound between wide fields of colza, buckwheat, and clover.
Up at the chateau, which stood near the ruins of the ancient castle, the great banner streamed in the wind, showing, as its folds blew out, the device and motto of the Beaumanoir--two clasped hands and the legend, ”_En tout chemin loyaute_.”[1] In the courtyard, hounds brayed, horses pranced, and servants hurried about; for the count was going to hunt the wild boar. Presently, away they went, with the merry music of horns, the clatter of hoofs, and the blithe ring of voices, till the pleasant clamor died away in the distant woods, where mistletoe clung to the great oaks, and menhirs and dolmens, mysterious relics of the Druids, were to be seen.
[1] Always loyal.