Part 18 (1/2)
”Then if Zebedee goes a-fis.h.i.+ng, he wouldn't dare to put on a linen coat for the price of his reputation. No indeed! Why, he never goes to the barn-yard without drawing on his white kids. Then he orders the most ruinous wines at dinner, and fees those white jackets, till his purse is as empty as an egg-sh.e.l.l. I declare it is _abominably_ expensive. I don't believe _rich people_ have the least idea how much it costs _poor people_ to live!”
LVIII.
INTERESTING TO BASHFUL MEN.
”'Faint heart ne'er won fair lady.'
”Didn't _it though_! I FAN-cy it _does_! If there's anything in the world that is _quite entirely_ interesting, it's a man who daresn't _say_ 'I love you,' though _his_ eyes told the story long ago! Of course you don't _know_ anything about it. Oh, no! Can't, for the soul of you, tell why he never comes near you without a tremor, or what possesses him to say 'yes,' instead of 'no,' or to kiss your little brother so often, and give him so much sugar-candy! Have no idea _why_ he looks so '_distrait_'and embarra.s.sed, when you take another gentleman's arm or smile at him. Never see that bright magnetic sparkle in his eye when you call him _Harry_, instead of _Mr._ Fay.
Don't see him pick up a rosebud that you dropped from your girdle, and hide it in his vest! (_don't like it, either!!_) You don't notice what a _long job_ he makes of it, putting your shawl on. You haven't the slightest suspicion _where_ the _mate_ of your little kid glove went, the last time you went to walk; you are _not at all magnetically affected yourself_! Oh, no, _not a bit of it_! Just as cool as a fur--_refrigerator_!
”Don't feel a bit _nervous_ when your mother gets up and leaves the room! Always have a topic at your tongue's end to dash off on. Never pick your ribbons all to pieces because you daresn't look him in the face. Never _refuse_ to go to ride with him, when you are just _dying_ to go. Never blush as red as a pulpit cus.h.i.+on, when your brother teases you about him, or say 'you don't care a fig for him.' When HIS ring at the door sends your heart to your mouth, you never s.n.a.t.c.h up a book and get so _entirely_ absorbed in it, that he is obliged to touch your arm, before you can find out that he's in your presence! _You never read his notes, when you could say them all off with your eyes shut!_ You never _hide them_ where anybody can find them--without you should be taken with a fainting fit! You take precious good care to keep _all that_ from _Mr._ Fay!
”All right, dear; don't hold out a _single straw to help him ash.o.r.e_!
Make him come _every step_ of the way _without a guide-board_! but when be GETS THERE--hem!--if you _own_ a soul--_tell him so_!
”'_Faint heart never won fair lady_,' hey! _I differ!_ If there's anything that's a _regular shower-bath to love_, it's your _'veni, vidi, vici' man_, who considers himself so _excruciatingly_ omnipotent! Softly, sir! _Forewarned, forearmed!_ You rouse all the antagonism in our nature! The more you _are sure you'll win, the more you won't_! You've to earn your laurels,--to _win_ your battle; (if you _ever noticed it_!)
”Do _you_ suppose we are going to lose all those interesting, half-broken sentences, and all those pretty little blunders you make when we come near you? If you only _knew_ how interesting it was for us to see the color rush to your forehead, at such times, or to see you look _so_ 'triste' when some old maid comes in to spend the evening, and you have to leave your little Paradise to go _creeping_ home with her! or to see you manoeuvre one whole evening with a diplomacy (deserving a reward) for a seat next to us! Goodness gracious! I tell you 'faint hearts' _never win anything else_ but 'fair ladies!'”
LIX.
THE ANGEL CHILD.
Little Mabel had no mother. She was slight, and sweet, and fragile, like her type, the lily of the valley. Her little hand, as you took it in yours, seemed almost to melt in your clasp. She had large, dark eyes, whose depths, with all your searching, you might fail to fathom.
Her cheek was very pale, save when some powerful emotion lent it a pa.s.sing flush; her fair, open brow might have defied an angel's scrutiny; her little footfall was noiseless as a falling snow-flake; and her voice was sweet and low as the last note of the bird ere it folds its head under its wing for its nightly slumber.
”The house in which Mabel lived, was large and splendid. You would have hesitated to crush with your foot the bright flowers on the thick, rich carpet. The rare old pictures on the walls were marred by no envious cross-lights; light and shade were artistically disposed.
Beautiful statues, which the sculptor (dream-inspired) had risen from a feverish couch to finish, lay bathed in the rosy light that streamed through the silken curtains. Obsequious servants glided in and out, as if taught by instinct to divine the unspoken wants of their mistress.
”I said the little Mabel had no mother; and yet there was a lady, fair and bright, of whose beautiful lip, and large dark eyes, and graceful limbs, little Mabel's were the mimic counterpart. Poets, artists, and sculptors, had sung, and sketched, and modelled her charms. Nature had been most prodigal of adornment--there was only one little thing she had forgotten--the Lady Mabel had no soul.
”She did not forget to deck little Mabel's limbs with costliest fabrics of most unique fas.h.i.+oning; not that every s.h.i.+ning ringlet on that graceful little head was not arranged by Mademoiselle Jennet, in strict obedience to orders; not that a large nursery was not fitted up luxuriously at the top of the house, filled with toys which its little owner never cared to look at; not that the Lady Mabel's silken robe did not sweep, once a week, with a queenly grace through the apartment, to see if the mimic wardrobe provided for its little mistress fitted becomingly, or needed replenis.h.i.+ng, or was kept in order by the smart French maid. Still, as I said before, _the little Mabel had no mother_!
”See her, as she stands there by the nursery window, crus.h.i.+ng her bright ringlets in the palm of her tiny hand. Her large eyes glow, her cheek flushes, then pales; now the little breast heaves! for the gorgeous west is one sea of molten gold. Each bright tint thrills her with strange rapture. She almost holds her breath, as they deepen, then, fade and die away; and now the last bright beam disappears behind the hills; and the soft, grey twilight comes creeping on. Amid its deepening shadows, _one bright star_ springs suddenly to its place in the heavens! Little Mabel cannot tell why the warm tears are coursing down her sweet face, or why her limbs tremble, and her heart beats so fast, or why she dreads lest the shrill voice of Mademoiselle Jennet should break the spell. She longs to soar, like a bird, or a bright angel. She had a nurse once who told her 'there was a G.o.d.' She wants to know if _He_ holds that bright star in its place. She wants to know if Heaven is a long way off, and if _she_ shall ever be a bright angel; and she would like to say a little prayer, her heart is so full, if she only _knew how_; but poor, sweet little Mabel--_she has no mother_.”
LX.
UNCLE BEN'S ATTACK OF SPRING-FEVER.
”'Tisn't possible you have been insane enough to go to housekeeping in the country for the summer? Oh, you ought to hear my experience,' and Uncle Ben wiped the perspiration from his forehead at the very thought.
”Yes, I tried it once, with city habits and a city wife; got rabid with the dog-days, and nothing could cure me but a nibble of green gra.s.s. There was Susan, you know, who never was off a brick pavement in her life, and didn't know the difference between a cheese and a grindstone.