صور الصفحة
PDF
النشر الإلكتروني

HANNAH FANTHORN'S SWEETHEART.

NIFTY years ago, and yet I've but to shut

FIFTY

my eyes and there comes Willy over the hill, as I used to see him coming when I sat waiting for him at the farm-house window. Sometimes on horseback, but oftener afoot, for the Hall was not very far away. Nowadays you see the boys and men all alike in black, or with (maybe) a bit of gray or brown. It wasn't so then. Will wore a blue coat with gilt buttons, and knee-breeches, and silk stockings, and buckles in his shoes, and a buff vest; and

on gala days claret eolor and white silk. Handsome in any one's eyes and wonderfully so in mine; for I was half Quakeress, half Methodist, and never had worn any thing gay myself.

Tall? Surely he was tall. Never a Haslet under six feet, and broader in the shoulders than any of his age. Straight-featured and rosy and just twenty-five.

Will's father was rich squire Haslet, and they lived at the Hall, a grand house, we thought it, for we were plain people. Father a Quaker, mother a Methodist, and he kept to the plain dress and language all his life. In those days there never was a Methodist who wore gay colors or new fashions, and mother took to the poke bonnets and grave dresses naturally.

So we were quiet enough, not a picture nor an ornament in the house. Not a fiddle, though brother Barzillia begged to have one. And at dusk Saturday night work put away, and the house clean and not so much as a mouthful cooked the Sabbath through. Every thing cold; and mother put the key in her pocket and took us girls one way to Methodist meeting, and father took the boys to Quaker meeting-for that was the compact, and they never let religion come between them.

It was all so different at the Squire's. The curtains and carpets and Mrs. Haslet's caps all aglow with color. And Sunday a feast-day, with more work for the servants than any other; and guests down from the city, and the pianosuch a wonder to all--and the harp a-playing. They went to church if they chose, and sat in the Squire's high-backed pew with curtains. Mother used to say-she was a bit prejudicedthat what with the organ and altar cloths and fonts and carvings and painted windows and gay bonnets, the Episcopal church was for all the world like a play-house. Sister Ellis used to say to me," For all that I'd like a pink bon

net myself, and to go where there was music in the church."

Ellis hadn't a Quaker bone in her body nor a Methodist drop in her blood. I always wondered Will didn't come a-wooing her instead

of me.

I was a bit of a thing with blue eyes and a skin like wax-not a drop of color in it, and didn't there come an artist who painted miniatures, to our place one summer and tell me my face was "classical," and nearer the "antique” than any thing he ever saw. I was pleased with

the first, but the last worried me, for do what I

could, though it sounded like a compliment. I could make no meaning of "antique" but old, so I asked Willie, and said he,

"Come to my house and I'll show you.”

So mother let me, and I went. There, in the drawing-room, was a stand, and on it a woman in marble-that is, the face and neck of a woman and down to the waist. A "bust," he called it. Says Willie, "That's antique. It is Psyche, and more like you than any pieture could be."

"Never like me," said I; and then I blushed and turned away, for not a tucker nor scarf had she-and I felt ashamed.

It was a splendid house; too grand it seemed to me to live in; and he took me all over it even to the hot-house, where summer flowers grew in the winter time, and he put some in my hair.

66

White," said he; "you look best in white.” One night I heard father and mother talking by the kitchen-fire.

Says mother, "It's wrong to stand in the girl's way, though he's Episcopal. And think of her being mistress of the Hall, and riding in her coach."

"Thee thinks too much of the world, Eunice," says father.

"But remember, Elias," says mother, "it's a chance that comes to few. And she'd be good to Ellis if we died; and the fear would be off of our minds for the children. It's hard to be poor-to pinch and save—and know a bad year for crops or a spell of sickness would swallow all. He loves her, and he'll be good to her; and she can go to our meeting and he to his.”

"Thee'll have thy way at last," says father. But I'd rather see her marry some young friend with but one cow and two or three acres. I misdoubt the ways of world's folk."

But his voice was mild, and I knew he had

yielded. As for the Squire himself-a hand- | the while he told me that it was fashion and some, burly, red-faced gentleman with a loud courtesy, and kept me quiet while he was by. voice he rode over one morning to see father. He wonld have had me at the Hall often also, Mother went into the sitting-room, and I was to but Sabrina sent no message. She was the misstay in the dairy; but how could I, when I knew tress of the house, and I would not go there my father was in the balance? I crept into the without her invitation. So I pined and grew entry and listened, stopping my mouth with my thin, and mother thought me ill. So I was, but white apron lest I should cry out. I heard the of heart, not of body. And when she talked of Squire first. my wedding-day my blood would boil, and I'd say, between my clenched teeth,

"My boy has set his heart on your girl," he said. "He might find a richer mate, but he couldn't find a prettier or a better. If you'll say yes,' neighbor Fanthorn, I will and his mother. Sabrina's to be married soon, and we shall want a daughter at the Hall."

Father said not a word for a while. He folded his hands and sat looking at the floor. At last he said, "Have thy own way, Eunice; she's a girl."

Oh, but it's sweet to have the first love crowned by a parent's blessing. Well, well, with joy comes sorrow. A month after that day Willie's mother died. She dropped from her chair at the dinner-table, and when the servant had sped across the country and back with the doctor she was dead. I wept as I stood near the grave and saw Willie so sad, dressed for the first time in his mourning, and I had more reason to weep than I knew; for Sabrina Haslet was mistress at the Hall, and all along in secret she had set her heart against her brother's match with me.

As soon as she could she began to fill the house with company-young ladies nearly all: handsome, fashionable, dressed in finery and jewels; and Will must play the part of host

and make them welcome. He told me SO. "Though I'd rather be with my Quaker beauty by the river-side," he said. "But Sabrina wants company to keep her spirits up."

[blocks in formation]

Said she: "What I want to know is this Are you the person to hold my brother to a foolish bond, or to let him free when he begins to struggle. You caught him cleverly; and though his heart has slipped through your fingers you may be mistress of the Hall yet, I suppose. Will you?"

"With his heart gone from me!" I cried. "Has he told you it is gone?"

"He'd die first," said Miss Sabrina. "His honor would not let him break troth with you. But to see how he loves Miss Dorcas Oakley, and she is a match for him in rank and wealth and beauty. People are talking of it and pitying him."

"They shall pity him no more," I said. "What is the Hall to me? It was my Willie's

I had a guess that she hoped to wean him love I cared for. Tell him he is free."

True love

from me, but I never told him so.
needs no chain, I thought, and for a while he
was my own Willie all the same. But at last
there came to the Hall the handsomest lady of
all-Miss Dorcas Oakley. She staid a long,
long while; and there was dancing in the even-
ings and riding all day; and she rode beauti-
fully, and always with Willie. I thought to
myself, over and over again, “Does she know it
is my love she rides away with as though he
were hers?"

Then the jealousy began to grow in my heart, and I was not the same girl at times. Yet all

"You must tell him yourself," she said. "If you care to see him happy open his cage ;" and she tied on her hood and sped away.

That night there went a note to Willie :

"MASTER WILLIAM HASLET,-I've thought a long, long while that the bond between us was best broke. I feel sure of it now. It will be better that we should not meet again; and in this I send you back your ring. May good fortune and happiness attend you! And with this wish I sign myself

HANNAH FANTHORN."

This I wrote with a heart torn and rent as never flesh could be; and it was sent; and

though he came to the farm I would not see him; and all was over between us.

I went back to get a shawl and hood, and tel my mother where I was going, and then came out. The night was bleak, and snow was fall ing and lay deep upon the ground, and there stood a sleigh with buffalo robes in it ready for me. I stepped in, and was whirled away to

I waited only to hear that he was betrothed to Miss Dorcas Oakley. Instead of that, I heard, a week after, that he had left the country. Where he had gone and why, no one knew. When I felt sure that Miss Dorcas Oak-ward the Hall. It was like a dream. I could ley could be nothing to him, or that at least they were not to be married, my heart smote me a little, and I wondered whether I should not have put my pride down a bit, and have heard him speak for himself.

The

Miss Sabrina Haslet did not marry. wedding was put off first by her mother's death, and then by her father's, six months after; and then folk said there was a quarrel. But be it as it may, he who was to have been her husband married instead that same Miss Dorcas Oakley.

Other suitors came, no doubt, for Miss Sabrina was handsome and rich; but she liked none of them, and lived on in the Hall quite alone but for the servants. By-and-by she saw no company, and shut up half the house, and seemed more lonely and wretched than many a poor woman. All her beauty left her too, and she grew to be a sharp, sour spinster, always dressed in black-she who had been both belle and beauty.

scarcely believe myself awake. It was still a dream when we stopped at the Hall, and I only realized that all was true when I stood in Miss Sabrina's room, and saw her lying wan and pale upon the pillow. Oh, what a change had come over her!

"You've come, Hannah Fanthorn," she said: "thank you for that. I thought you'd refuse, perhaps. It's a long while since we spoke together."

"A long while,” I replied.

"Yet you haven't changed much,” said she. "You look as you did when you stood by the hedge in the moonlight, and said, 'What is the Hall to me? 'Twas Willie's love I cared for." I remember the words, Hannah Fanthorn. They've stung my soul often since. Do you know I lied then?"

"Lied!"

"Yes, lied. Willie's heart never belonged to any one but you. He was true as Heaven. It I lived on at home. Ellis married, and so did was I who wanted him to wed Dorcas Oakley. Barzillai. The years did not seem to give a I thought a poor girl like you beneath him. I gray hair to my mother, nor a wrinkle to my told him you loved that cousin who came to your father. They were too placid to grow old fast. home so often; and when your letter came he No one wondered I did not marry. They seemed believed it. I thought he would marry Dorcas to think that having been so nearly mistress of then. I never meant to drive him from home the Hall, it was not likely I should be willing to and kin; but he went, and the last words he wed for less. said were, 'Sabrina, my heart is broken.' And The Hall! Bah! It was Willie I loved, and all these years he has wandered over the world not his house or lands.

a lonely, sorrowing man; and I, his sister, the cause. And she-Dorcas-oh, you know my lover jilted me for her; all the place knows that."

One winter night, Christmas time was nearly come, and I sat by the fire dressing dolls and tying up sugar-plums in paper horns with bits of ribbon for my nieces' and nephews' stockings, when there came a loud rapping at the door. I opened it, and there stood an old man-servanting harshly. from the Hall.

"I'm sent by Miss Sabrina, Miss," said he "She is very ill, and desires you to come alone. She has something particular to say to you."

"Sabrina Haslet send for me!" I thought, and then my heart beat fast, and I fancied I hardly knew what.

“Ill, did you say?" I asked.

66

I looked at the poor dying woman. I was trying to forgive her, but I could not help speak

"What I

"I am only a stranger," I said. have suffered is nothing to you. But had you no mercy on your brother? You have had time to repent."

"Time!" she said. "Yes, Hannah Fanthorn, it seems like eternity; but I have sought for him in vain; for years I thought him dead; Yesterday I learned that he is alive, and not Old, before his time, they Look," she continued, draw

Very ill," said the man. "The doctors give many miles distant. her over." say, but he lives.

ing a packet from under her pillow, “in this I
have written the truth. It shall be sent to-
morrow. It is directed plainly. If I die in the
night it can go all the same.
Will and you may
meet again, and be happy when I am under
the turf."

Then she began to wail-" Don't leave me; don't leave me to die alone!"

I sat down by her.

"Do not fear," I said, " and try to think of other things. Forget earth-look to heaven." I never left her. Sitting by her side on the third night I saw a change come over her face, and bent over her.

now, in the winter twilight-for at five the day was nearly done, and the clouds lowered heavy with coming snows-now, how dark and cold it was! And yonder in the grave-yard lay, in their grim vault, master and mistress, and she who had been the pride of their hearts, the toast and beauty of the region-Sabrina Haslet. And Willie-where was he?

The gloom, the scene I had just witnessed, the memories, were all too much for me. I bowed my head upon the cold stone of the gateway and wept. "Gone, gone, gone!" I cried, and the sobbing wind among the branches overhead seemed to repeat these words, "Gone,

"Hannah Fanthorn," she whispered, "have gone, gone!" you forgiven me?”

"As I pray God to forgive me,” I answered. Then fainter still she spoke:

"Be kind to Will. He loved you. Oh, to think that I should have lost my soul that you might not be my sister-you who seem so like one now!"

And with those words there came a look into her eyes I never shall forget; and in the Christmas dawn she lay on my arm dead.

On Sunday they buried her. The grave-yard was full. Every one came to see Squire Haslet's daughter laid in the great vault. I stood near it; but though the solemn words of the preacher rang in my ear, and the coffin was before my eyes, and I should have thought of nothing else, my mind would wander away to the past-and I saw Will as I used to see him, and myself, as in a mirror, young and blithe leaning on his arm. Then I found myself praying for the dead woman, and murmuring, “God forgive her, for she knew not what she did!"

I came back to the present with a start and a thrill. They were closing the vault. And beside the clergyman, speaking to him in a whisper, stood a tall man, with a foreign look about him and a heavy hat slouched over his eyes: a man all in black, with hair as dark as night, but wtih here and there a silver thread. Why did my heart beat so as I looked at him? Surely I had never seen that man before!

[blocks in formation]

I had heard no step on the soft snow; I had seen no shadow. I never guessed any one was near me until a hand came down upon my shoulder-a hand large and strong, but trembling like an aspen leaf.

I looked up. Beside me stood the tall, dark man I had seen in the grave-yard. When I turned he removed his hat, and I saw the face of Willie Haslet. A face altered and aged, bronzed and sad, but his, with love in it.

[ocr errors]

Hannah," he said, "Hannah!"

And I, as though I spoke in a dream, murmured, "He has come back again! He has come back again!"

"Yes, Hannah, back again," said the low, sweet voice that had been in my memory so many years. "Her letter brought me back. She was my sister and is dead. Hannah, you know all ?"

"All," I said.

He looked at me, I felt that though I dared not look at him. We were silent for a moment. Then he spoke,

"I have not crossed that threshold. It rests with you whether I ever shall. I will not be master of the Hall unless you will be my wife and its mistress."

"The Hall, the Hall!" I cried, "Did the Hall woo me? Did I love the Hall? You speak of it first as all do. Oh, Will Haslet, you had been a poor farmer's son all might have been so different! I never thought of any thing your love."

but

"I forgot," he said, "'tis not young Will Haslet now. My hair is gray, the time for wooing is past."

"And I am old also," I said. "This is not Hannah Fanthorn, I sometimes think, but another woman with her name."

[merged small][ocr errors][merged small]

He opened his arms. I took one step forward, and my head was against his breast as it had been ten years before, and I was his again.

Thirty years ago, but I remember. How the bells rang when we were wed, and how the people crowded to the church to see! And who so proud as mother? for her girl was the Squire's lady and mistress of the Hall, where they sat by the fire many a long day, and died in peace and hope almost together at last.

So may we die-Will and I; for we love each other still, though both our heads are white as snow to-day. But amidst the changes that have come in all these years we have never changed to each other.

ADVICE ON DRESS.

If you are a young lady, and employ a certain number of sempstresses for a given time, in making a given number of simple and serviceable dresses-suppose seven, of which you can wear one yourself for half the winter, and give away six to poor girls who have none-you are spending your money unselfishly. But if you employ the same number of sempstresses for the same number of days in making four, or five, or six beautiful flounces for your own ball dress-flounces which will clothe no one but yourself, and which you yourself will be unable to wear at more than one ball-you are employing your money selfishly. . . . I say further, that as long as there are cold and nakedness in the land around you, so long can there be no question at all but that splendor of dress is a crime. In due time, when we have nothing better to set people to work at, it may be right to let them make lace and cut jewels; but, as long as there are any who have no blankets for their beds, and no rags for their bodies, so long it is blanket-making and tailoring we must set people to work at-not lace.-Ruskin.

THE expenses of the funeral of Mr. Lincoln, at Washington, were $23,436 27. Notwithstanding the high price of everything, this sum is ten thousand dollars less than that expended on the funeral of General Taylor, and eight thousand less than in the case of President Harrison.

PRAYER.

O Father, I am sore of strife,
My heart, my soul is sadly sore.—
Pray tell me what thou hast in store,
To crown the relics of mp life.
Much have I said, thy love to pain,
Much thought, thy goodness to offend,
Much done, if to an earthly friend,
Had severed all our ties in twain !

An earthly friend! and what art thou?
A friend, whom time nor space confine,—
Thee have I wronged, my Lord divine,
But O I am repentant now.

Pour on me thy righteous wrath,

I nor deserve, nor beg decrease;
Through suffering lead me out to peace,
That peace the tried believer hath.

Thou hast not made my life for nought,
But called me in creation's plan,
To do some good to creature man,
By love, by labor, or by thought.

O, can it be, some heart shall prove,
More faithful for that I believed?
Then, Father, hath my life received
A sweet memorial of thy love.

And shall I, too, be made aware

Of hearts by whom my life has grown,
Of friends, a rapture to have known,
Thine agents who have answered prayer?
Why is it sorrow's cloud should fling

Across the heart its sable shade?
My faith is queen-thou art my aid-
I'm growing happy while I sing!
For I have much yet left to me,-
Though of my earthly friend bereft,
O, I have much to gladden left,
O, I have much for I have thee!

Then take me, Father, mould my mind,
And shape its thoughts as seemeth good,—
Thine imprint will be understood,
As it shall benefit mankind.

Take me, make me what Thou wilt-
A kindly friend, a Christian man,
Or use my blood as His that ran,
To wash away a brother's guilt.
To serve Thee, be my chiefest care,

To love Thee, my supreme delight,
Unswerving faith, by day and night,
Outshining in perpetual prayer.

Words fail to speak-eyes can not see-
I grope my feeble, childish way,

I only lift my heart and pray-
I leave the future all to Thee.
Mt. Pleasant, Iowa, July 81, 1865.

E. A. V.

Ir a lady in a red cloak was to cross a field in which was a goat, what wonderful transformation would take place? The goat would

THE Temple of salvation was not made in turn to butter, and the lady into a scarlet

[blocks in formation]
« السابقةمتابعة »