NORA AND I. "We were two daughters of one race; ПHERE were only two of us-Nora and I. we must be educated. When we were through school, father said, he would begin to lay up money and make provision for old age; but in the. mean while we must be well taught. So, when we were old enough, he sent us to the best schools. I liked study, and progressed rapidly enough in all solid acquirements. But Nora was the family genius. She learned music and drawing almost by instinct. Of course such gifts must be cultivated, and my father spent all the money he could spare to procure her the best masters. He felt paid when she returned to him at eighteen. we had been living all that time with our mother, on the farm—in the house which had been our home ever since we could remember. But life there had been such a different thing when father was alive. He was a lawyer, and, as country lawyers go, a successful one. Of course his profession, and not the farm, had supported us. When he was first married he had come to I had been at home for a year before, and Eastbrook after having seen an advertisement had fallen into the habit of relieving my moof the farm for sale in the county paper. He ther, who was growing delicate, of much of the had money enough to buy and stock it, to fur- household care. I was the good, solid, practinish his house prettily and substantially, and to cal daughter of the house. My name, Martha, live on, afterward, until he could get established bestowed on me in remembrance of my maternal in his profession. So the only question was grandmother, seemed to have been prophetic. whether they both liked it—he and my mother I was not beautiful, or showy, or fascinating; -for he had meant from the first to settle in though they loved me well at home, and, I bethe country, and he could practice law in East-lieve, saw no lack in me. I had arranged evbrook as well as elsewhere. How ery thing in honor of Nora's coming. I meant He brought his bride with him to look at the her arrival should be a little festival. place, and I like to think about them both, so richly her thanks repaid me! In my life I have young and so happy, walking together in that never seen any thing more lovely than my sissunshine of youth and love, over the grounds ter Nora was that night. I wish some artist which have always been my home-over the could have painted her, and made that lovelihill rising to the west, with the pine-grove on ness immortal. No matter; for me it will live its summit-the pleasant meadow-lands at the always. When I close my eyes I can see her eastward, sloping down to the green and white as she was then, with the bloom on her cheeks, New England village lying below-the farm-the chestnut hair waving in soft richness about lands stretching out northward, at the back of the house-and at the south, across the road, the pretty, pastoral landscape, which did not belong to us, but was none the less pleasant to our eyes. own way. They both liked it. Father was unconsciously the master-spirit, and whatever pleased him was pretty sure to find favor with mother, though he really thought that he always gave her her But, indeed, the place was pretty enough to please any one-was, and is still. Of course there are grander scenes, more elegant grounds, statelier houses; but I think I have never seen a prettier or sunnier spot, or one more emphatically worthy of the name my mother gave it-"Home-nook." There they set up their household gods; and there, as time went on, in their own quiet way they prospered. Father did a good law-business, but neither from farm nor profession did he ever lay up much money. He had scholarly tastes. He loved art in a time when art was not fashionable; and he bought, now and then, a choice picture. He loved books; and he wanted his Coleridge, his Shelley, his gentle Elia, his genial Sir Walter, and the rest of his favorites, fitly clad. To a man not over rich, pictures, carved book-cases, and Russia-leather bindings are expensive luxuries. Yet they paid him good interest, I think, in actual enjoyment; for is not what we do and what we enjoy the sum of our living? Then we came-I first, and two years afterward Nora; and as soon as we were old enough the bright young face, the dark eyes so full of soul, the straight, delicate features, and the short, round chin with its pretty dimple. The best of all was her perfect unconsciousness of her attractions. I do not believe she had ever thought that she was handsomer than I. There was not one particle of vanity about her. She had no longing for a wider theatre in which to display her charms. She could not have been more bewitching in a ball-room than she was in our little home-circle. How well I remember the fond pride with which my father's eyes followed her! How he listened to her singing! how he watched her motions! how he rejoiced over her-as well he might-as over a pearl of great price! That night, I remember, he said, cheerfully, "Now, girls, I have you both educated to my mind. Heaven has surely prospered me. Here is your mother, still by my side, as fair and as loving as when I brought her here first, twentythree years ago. I have this sunny, happy home; my books and pictures; and you my two daughters, so dear and so different, cultivated so to my mind that, with you for companions, I shall envy no man his society. I ought to be contented, for I seem to have nothing left to wish for. Now I am going to turn economist. I shall be fifty next year; and I must provide in advance, for your sakes, against the time when I shall be too old to work." Thus he talked, with my mother sitting on one side of him, myself on the other, and Nora on a stool at his feet, looking up at him with those tender brown eyes, and that face bright with youth and hope. It was long before I saw it so bright again. It was in the gray of the early dawning that something-no noise, but a vague impression of sorrow and terror-awoke me, where I lay with my arm round Nora. My mother stood in the door of our chamber, with a lamp in her hand, her face as white as the white robe she wore. Nora had awaked too, and we both looked at her in wordless apprehension. "Girls," she said, in a voice so calm that its very stillness was unutterably frightful-"Girls, I think your father is dead." Oh, Heaven! what a shriek that was of Nora's! I seem to hear it yet. My mother, as one whom death had frozen, looked at her silently, standing there, lamp in hand, waiting for us. We got up, both of us, and went with her. "I woke," she whispered, as we crossed the hall, in tones as low as if she still feared to disturb him-"I woke, and oh, he was so cold!" rest and her shelter for so many years? Its icy coldness had no terror for her. "Oh, Mark! Mark!" we heard her cry; and then we stole out of the room, Nora and I, and left her alone with him. Her right there was nearer and more sacred than ours. As we stood in the next room, clinging to each other like two children, the September morning rose; the sun broke through the autumn haze, and bathed fields and trees, still glittering with the heavy dew, in prismatic splendor. Yesterday he had rejoiced in the glory of just such a morning, and called me to look. at it with him. Now I turned away from the scene, choking with sudden tears. Should I ever be able to look again on any fair and pleasant sight without remembering him and quivering to the old pain, as a reed bent by the wind? I must not linger over those days when the house was so deathly still-and he lay in the darkened room waiting for his burial. I have not strength even now to speak of them. My mother sat beside him to the last. While he was there we could not persuade her to leave him. She would wet his forehead, brush back his hair, or arrange some fold of the drapery, as if it were a mournful satisfaction to feel herself still of use to him. Sometimes, when she was alone with him, we heard her talking to him as if he could hear her still. Her low voice would steal out to us from the darkness, and holding each other close we would weep to hear her call "Who is it?" he asked, with head out of the him her love, her darling, and tell him how window. "It is I, Sir, Martha Thompson; and we fear years of their life-saying thus to the dead my father is dead." those last words fate had not given her time to utter to the living. We went into the room, and up to the bed. The lamplight flared across his set face. I felt at once that there was no hope. Yet we must try. I called to the girl, who slept in the attic, to come down and build a fire. Then I hurried on some clothes, and in five minutes more I had run down to the village and was knocking on Dr. Greene's door. I think it was not more than two minutes before he joined me; and I hurried him franticly up to the house. The fire was burning brightly now, and more lamps were lit; but they shone upon a pale, dead face, and two women as still, almost as pale, as the form by which they sat so silently. Dr. Greene bent for a few moments over the bed, touched the cold hands, the pulseless breast, the rigid limbs. Then he turned to us with pitying eyes. good and tender he had been to her all the She At last he was buried. We thought then that mother would break down utterly. went alone to her own room when we came back from his grave—the room she had shared with him so many happy years. She would not let either of us go with her. We sat alone all through the twilight mingling our sorrow for our great loss with our anxiety about her. She had been so delicate of late-it had taken so lit"Itle to exhaust her. Then her nature was so think he must have been dead for two hours or clinging and dependent — how could she bear this great blow? Would she not be stricken by it to the earth? At last we lit the lamps and tried to make the room cheerful. We heard Nancy getting tea out in the kitchen. Soon she would bring it in. I thought that I would "There is nothing I can do," he said. more. It was heart disease, probably." We had all known and felt from the first that there was no hope, yet the assurance from Dr. Greene's lips seemed to bring us a new pang. Only the night before and he had been so happy, looking forward so hopefully into the future, planning for the coming years, and rejoicing over the blessings with which he was surrounded. Now he was gone from us. We should never more hear his kindly voice or meet his approving smiles. Three lonely, sorrow-stricken women, we must go on, without our stay, our guide, our strong arm of defense. Did he know it? Was his soul standing by and looking at us with heavenly pity? Did he know it when, after Dr. Greene was gone, my mother crept close to him, and laid her head down on that broad, loving breast, which had been her all my mother. It could do no harm. So I went out into the entry; but I met her on the stairs. "I was coming down, Matty," she said, gently. "I did not mean to leave my children alone." When she came into the sitting-room, and the lamplight shone upon her face, it seemed to me like the face of one who had been holding communion with Heaven. A strange, glorified look it wore, more exalted than sorrow, purer and brighter than joy. Just then tea came in, and she sat down with us to the table and tried to be cheerful. We all drank some tea, and made a pretense of eating; then we sent the things away, and gathered round the fire-we three, so sorrowful and bereft, and so united in our woe. Mother was the first to speak. "We have got to begin a new life, girls," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "Your father has always taken such care of us that we have not known hitherto any of the sorrows or privations of life. But he is gone now, and we must learn to depend on ourselves. There is very little property besides the farm. When your educations were finished we meant to have laid up something; but it has been expensive living hitherto :"-this with a deprecating air, as if she feared we might possibly blame him. Then with a pitiful sort of smile-"If my two girls now were two boys, they could carry on the farm and perhaps make a nice living from it. As it is, I see no way but to let out the land on shares, and live as well as we can on the part we receive. Of course Nancy must go: we must be our own servants now, and we must do our best to bear little privations cheerfully." She was right, of course. We began at once to follow her plans. Contrary to our expectations she did not give way. She seemed determined to live for our sakes. What she suffered in the long nights, during which she would never let either of us bear her company, we could not know; but through the daytimes she was cheerful, and bore every little inconvenience and deprivation with a fortitude that would have shamed us if we had ever been tempted to complain. That was the beginning; and after that five years went on-five years of experimenting on the capacities of a very little money to make three full-grown human beings comfortable. There would be something ludicrous, if it were not pathetic, in the very memory of those years. Our income was barely enough to keep us warmed and fed. When things wore out we had no money with which to renew them. We darned our table-cloths carefully, and when china broke we stuck the pieces together with white cement and tender care. We turned our dresses, and made them over; and after a year's wear turned them back, and made them over again. At last it seemed as if five years had brought things to a crisis-as if some new resource must be discovered, or, indeed, we could keep up appearances no longer. We said so to each other one day when the dear mother was up stairs taking her after-dinner nap. It began with Nora's saying that she must have a new dress this winter: she had made over, and made over, to the uttermost limit of possibility. "And I am twenty-five," I said, "and you are twenty-three, and neither of us ever yet earned a dollar. If I had been John instead of Martha, and you had been James instead of Nora, we should have been nicely in business by this time, and there would have been no lack of comforts at home." "I wonder," Nora answered, thoughtfully, "why we never have done any thing as it is." "We have-you know-woman's work. We have kept the house and made our clothes-" "Made over," she interrupted; "you know there hasn't been any thing to make this many a year. But all this has never brought a dollar into the exchequer. Now I think of it, Mat, I am ashamed. We must go to work." "Yes, beyond a doubt we must; at least one of us. I have been coming to that conclusion myself. One of us, you know, would have to stay at home and manage affairs here. That, I think, should be you. You have never had much experience of the world's rough paths. Yes, you must be the one to stay at home, and I will go out into the world and seek our fortune." "Don't make your plans so positively, Mat. I am just as capable of going out into the world as you. I could teach as well-for that is what it comes to-it is all either of us could do for a living. I am not sure that I should be good for as much here. You have always been housekeeper, you know. Still I won't be hard on you-you shall have your chance. We will draw lots, and that will be a fair way to decide it." "The fact is, It will be "And so pretty," I went on. Nora, I don't want to have you go. no such pleasant thing as you seem to imagine for a girl used, as we are, to home love, and home retirement, to make her way among strangers." "The fact is, Mat, we will, as I said, draw lots. It's the only fair way. Let fate settle it. Then I shall be satisfied, and you can't complain." As usual she had her way. We drew lots, and it fell to her lot to go. She laughed, with a pretty air of triumph, and asked me if I had any more faith in her wisdom, now fate had indorsed it. She looked so young, and bright, and winsome that I felt more than ever vexed at the idea of letting her go alone into untried paths. But she called me Mother Hubbard, and teased me about being fussy and frumpy, and envying her her chance to see the world, until she made me laugh, and then I had to give up my point. When mother came down we told her our intentions, or rather Nora did. She remonstrated at first, but Nora brought out what she called her best gown, and exhibited its deficiencies at seams and elbows in such a moving way that by-and-by mother was won over to her views, and admitted that, since old things would not last forever, and there was no money to buy new ones, she did not see what other course there was than to try and earn some. We all sat for a few moments after this conclusion in the grave silence of a Quaker meeting; each of us, I suppose, ruminating about ways and means. I suit myself, and I have offered the situation to At last mother said, rather disconsolately, "I don't see how you are going to make a beginning. You have no influential friends. How are you to get a situation if you are ever so willing to take it ?" "I am going to make a beginning to-day," Nora answered, nothing daunted, "by going over to Squire Roscoe's." We listened, mother and I, in profoundest wonder. Squire Roscoe was the great man of the town. No one knew how rich he was-we imagined it to be a sum past computation. In my father's day, however, he had come to see us not infrequently. He was a man past forty, and I suppose my sister and I had always seemed to him like children. He could remember us in our days of pantalets and pinafores, himself a rich man of business even then. He had never married, and rumor accounted for this in a dozen different ways. He was considered haughty; still every one gave him credit for being kindhearted, and he was certainly influential. After all, Nora's plan of consulting him was not so bad. She went up stairs, and came down presently in her well-preserved black silk, her sole dress for state occasions. She wore a brightcolored, fall-like shawl, and a simple straw-hat, with a black lace veil, through which dark eyes and bright cheeks shone bewitchingly. If she had had unlimited milliner's bills she could have looked no prettier. We watched her proudly, mother and I, as she walked down the path. She was the joy and grace of our lives, and no wonder. her. The pay is not large, but a small salary at home may be better than a larger one away. She thinks she will accept the post. I have also a proposition to make to you. The new preceptor is a connection of my own, and has commissioned me to procure him a boarding-place. I thought you might possibly be willing to take him. He would pay six dollars a week. That is what Mr. Gibson has been paying at the hotel. The new-comer, Mr. Aytoun, much prefers to become an inmate of some private family. I will leave you to consider the matter, and call again to-morrow to ascertain your decision." After he was gone we discussed it pro and con. Mother was the con, and both of us girls were decidedly pro. We thought it would be pleasant. It would enable us to have a servant again-it would help us in so many ways. We should scarcely feel the difference in providing, so much of our living came from the farm. We brought mother round to our way of thinking after a while, and the next day when Squire Roscoe called we made the bargain. There were only a few days in which to get ready. Next week the term would begin-Mr. Aytoun would make his appearance-Nora would commence her new work. She was in a flutter of excitement. She had never been more charming, however. She made light of all difficulties and discouragements, and displayed a capacity to make old things look new quite beyond belief. Squire Roscoe seemed to take a real interest in our arrangements, for he came over almost every day. He got to be on such friendly Squire Roscoe's great, stately house was quite and familiar footing that we did not mind when the other side of the village from ours. It also he caught us darning, and we even asked him to stood upon a hill, overlooking the village be- stay to tea, which he did, and moreover seeined tween us. It was built of gray stone, with a to enjoy it. We began to like him very much, tower and high-arched windows-a gem of archi- all of us. He was so thoroughly good and senstectural beauty. It might have had a some-ible, so truly a gentleman. To be sure he was what sombre effect, perhaps, but for the brilliant no longer young. At twenty-five, perhaps, I autumn flowers with which the lawn was gay. was not youthful enough to have a right to conNora was cool enough to pause and admire the sider a man of forty-two as altogether beyond vivid tints of the geraniums and verbenas as she the hopes and ambitions of youth-but I confess walked up the avenue. She rang the bell, and he did seem so to me. There was something, inquired for Mr. Roscoe with as much self-pos- I thought, really paternal in his bland manner; session as if her visit were a matter of everyday and I admired the condescension with which he listened to and answered Nora's gay sallies, while I wondered at her audacity in talking to him so familiarly. Occurrence. Fortunately he was at home, and she had not long to wait. He entered with interest into all her plans; and when they had discussed matters thoroughly, and she started to go, he walked back with her through the village to Homenook. He came into the sitting-room, with the cordial air of an old friend, without making any apologies for the length of time since he had been there before. "I have been telling Miss Nora," he said, addressing mother, "that it seems to me quite unnecessary for her to leave home. We are to have a new teacher in the academy next term, and there is a prospect of a number of new pupils; so many, in fact, that an assistant will be needed, and I undertook, several weeks since, to procure one. I had not as yet been able to Punctually with the appointed day came Mr. Ralph Aytoun, the new teacher. As Squire Roscoe was an old friend of his we had invited him to accompany our new inmate and help us to make his acquaintance. I remember well the contrast between the two men as they sat that evening in our little parlor. Mr. Aytoun was about twenty-six, perhaps; of medium height, with form slender but well-knit, and full of muscular fibre and strength. His head was well-set, and cast in a mould of power and grace. He had dark eyes, full of a kindly brightness; clearly-cut features; and a heavy brown beard. He was certainly fine-looking, if not altogether handsome, with a certain bright charm of buoyant life and ambitious youth, which made me think at the moment how well he would suit Nora, and wonder what would be the consequence of his coming to Home-nook. From him I glanced to Squire Roscoe. I saw a strongly-built man, no longer young, or slender, or particularly graceful; but with a kind, manly face; steadfast, authoritative eyes; a slightly autocratic air-evidently a man of power. I recognized in him the triumph of a resolute will over the difficulties and perplexities of life-over the temptations of his own nature as well. I respected him thoroughly, but he did not seem to me fascinating. When I looked at him his eyes were fixed on Nora, and something in their expression made it occur to me for the first time that it was possible he might not be quite so insensible to her attractions as I thought his forty-two years demanded. "It was very injudicious of you, if you had any such idea, Mr. Roscoe, to bring that young man here by way of contrast," I said to myself. ful as a son or brother. Squire Roscoe, either for our sake or our boarder's, continued to be a frequent visitor, and our long winter evenings, with mother sitting serenely in her corner by the household hearth, the two gentlemen talking, and Nora singing, laughing, jesting, galvanizing us all into new life, passed blithesomely. It was a new experience to me. I took up the broken thread of youth where I had left it, and began to feel like a girl again. At last came holiday-time. Mr. Aytoun was to stay with us through the two weeks' vacation, and we planned to have a merry Christmas-eve. We had a veritable pine-tree from the grove on the hill-top, and we adorned it as gayly as we could. It was the first time for years that we had been able to make presents, and we enjoyed the luxury thoroughly. After the tree had been decorated with candles and bonbons it fell to mother's lot to put on the gifts. We smuggled them in to her by Nancy—our own old Nancy, who had come back to us-and then awaited Nora was bewitching that evening. Her spir- her summons. After a while she called us. its rose with the evening brightness and the two The effect was beautiful. The little parlor was guests she had to entertain. She sang, she all aglow with warmth and brightness, and in talked, she flashed witty little speeches at Mr. one corner stood the tree, with all its candles Roscoe, and made us all, even my mother, lighted and its boughs heavy with promise. merry and happy. What a blessing it was, I Nora looked like a queen, I thought, as she often thought, that the dear child could be so walked in and stood in the bright glow. A cheery always! In our darkest hours she had wreath of holly, shaped like a coronet, with ever been hopeful, and I think her smiling front shining green leaves and bright red berries, in gloomy times had done more to keep up heart crowned her stately head. She wore a crimof grace in us than all other things put together. son skirt, which gave out warm flashes of color At last Squire Roscoe went away; Mr. Ay- where the light struck it, and a black velvet toun took possession of his own room; and we jacket fitting daintily to her slender waist. Of gathered round the fire, which it was our habit course Squire Roscoe was of our party—he was to have kindled for the early September even- too much a habitué to be left out on any festive ings, to talk them over, women fashion. We occasion. I saw him look at Nora with undiswere all agreed in heartily liking Mr. Aytoun, guised admiration. After a while, when most and thinking he would be a pleasant inmate. of the gifts had been distributed, I saw him take Altogether life had begun to look brighter than from some secret repository a little box, a dainty, it had for a long time. Nora's salary, and the sparkling thing of pearl and silver, and hand it weekly stipend for our boarder, would put us to her, under cover of the talking. I felt sure quite in funds. A new merino dress apiece be- neither mother nor Mr. Aytoun observed the gan to come into my calculations, and "yards movement-they were occupied with a set of and yards" of pink and blue ribbons into Nora's. stereoscopic views just then. I watched the byAt last the fire burned out, and mother sent play. As Nora opened the box something glitus to bed. The morrow would be Nora's first tered brilliantly, and I saw a burning flush rise school-day, and she must get well rested in ad- to my sister's cheek. Then I heard Squire Roscoe say, in a low tone, vance. She must have had a natural gift for teaching, or else her natural gift for being agreeable every where stood her in good stead in the school-room, and made all her pupils love her. Quite unused to regular tasks though she was, it did not wear on her in the least. She seemed to grow brighter and more winsome every day. Indeed we were becoming a very cheerful household. For my mother's life, indeed, no sun could ever rise like the one that set above my father's grave; but she cherished her sorrow as an angel visitant, whose only outward token was a fonder love, a care more tender for us who were left her. Her quiet, serene face, with its beauty pale and gracious as moonlight, never saddened or reproached Mr. Aytoun made himself genial and help us. "If you wear it I shall know what it means?" Nora held it a moment thoughtfully-then flashed a sudden look at his face, and with a resolved air put on the jewel. It was a ring, a single diamond, glittering in solitary splendor in a quaint setting of black enamel. For an instant Mr. Roscoe's hand closed over hers with the ring on it; then quietly, as if nothing had happened, he crossed over to the table and began talking about the views. The evening passed away merrily. We had a Christmas cake and some mulled wine. The presents were duly admired, and there was plenty of mirth and music and friendly warmth. But the time seemed long to me until I was in our own room, with Nora to myself. |
