Rose's only reply was a low shuddering sob, as she drew closer to Gertrude.

"Just as good as new," said Miss Anne, looking complacently at herself in the brown silk. "Anne, you should be prime minister; you have a talent for diplomacy; femininity is too circ.u.mscribed a sphere for the exercise of your talents. You did that well, Anne--Madame Vincent thrown completely off the track, Rose crushed and out of your way forever; the baby ditto. Madame Macque is very careful of her reputation in _this_ country, because she never had any in France. Ha--ha, Anne, you are a genius--and this brown silk is a proof of it. Now, look out for presents about this time, for your star is at its culminating point. Rose has beauty--has she? Vincent fancied her--did he? A rose's doom is to fade and wither--to be plucked, then trodden under foot;" and Miss Anne laughed one of her Satanic laughs.

CHAPTER XLIX.

Sally came into the kitchen just as the clock was striking seven. The Maltese cat heard the old clock, jumped up, and shook herself, just as if her dream of a ducking at the hands of the grocer-boy were true.

Three stray c.o.c.kroaches--c.o.c.kroaches, like poor relatives, will intrude into the best-regulated families--scampered before Sally's footsteps to their hiding-places, and the little thieving brown mouse on the dresser took temporary refuge in the sugar-bowl.

Sally had been up stairs performing her afternoon toilet by the aid of a cracked looking-gla.s.s, which had a way of multiplying Sally's very suggestive to her crushed hopes. Sally, I am sorry to say, had been jilted. Milkmen do not always carry the milk of human kindness in their flinty bosoms. Time was when Jack Short never came into the kitchen with his can, without tossing Sally a bunch of caraway, or fennel, a nosegay of Bouncing Bettys, or a big apple or pear. Time was when his whip-lash always wanted mending, and it took two to find a string in the closet to do it, and two pair of hands to tie it on when found.

"Poor old thing!" the faithless John would now say to the rosy little plumpt.i.tude who had won his heart away from the angular Sally; "Poor old thing! I was only fooling a little, just to keep my hand in, and she thought I was in love."

Sally had as much spirit as the rest of her s.e.x, and so to show John that she was quite indifferent about the new turn in their affairs, she set the milk-pan, into which he was to pour his morning's milk, out into the porch, and closed the kitchen-door in his false face, that he might have nothing upon which to hinge an idea that she wanted to see him. And more; she tied the yellow neck-ribbon he gave her on the last fourth of July round the pump-handle, and if John Short had not been blind as well as "short," he must have seen that "when a woman will--she will, you may depend on't," and "when a woman won't--she won't, and there's an end on't."

Poor Sally, before she saw John, had lived along contentedly in her underground habitations, year after year, peeling potatoes, making puddings, washing, ironing, baking, and brewing; n.o.body had ever made love to her; she had not the remotest idea what a Champagne draught love was. She could have torn her hair out by the roots, when she did find out, to think she had so misspent her past time. It really _did_ seem to her, although she was squint-eyed, that there was nothing else in this world of any account at all. She had thought herself happy when her bonnet was trimmed to suit her, or her gown a good fit; but a love-fit!

ah, that was a very different matter. Poor Sally! mischievous John!--the long and short of it was, if Bouncing Bettys have any floral significance, Sally should have been Mrs. Short.

Of course, she had no motive on the afternoon we speak of, to look long in the cracked looking-gla.s.s; it made no difference now whether she wore her brown calico with the little white dots, or her plaid delaine with the bishop sleeves; there was no use in braiding her hair, or in putting on her three-shilling collar; she had resigned herself to her fate. She even threw a pitcher of hot water at the innocent organ-grinder, because he played Love's young Dream.

Still you see, she goes on mechanically with her work, putting the tea-kettle over the fire, setting the six bra.s.s lamps in a regular row on the mantle, and tucking the ends of some clean towels, out of sight, in the half-open bureau-drawers. Sally is neat; but John Short's little Patty is plump and rosy.

Ah! now she has some company--there is Miss Harriet Place, who has the misfortune to have so stiff a neck that when she turns it, her whole body must follow. Miss Harriet has black eyes, affects the genteel, and speaks of "my poor neck" in a little mincing way, as if its stiffness were only a pretty little affectation on her part. Her cronies wink at this weakness, for Miss Harriet has a gift at tr.i.m.m.i.n.g their bonnets, and putting finishing touches to all sorts of feminine knicknacks; then, here comes Alvah Kittridge, who is a rabid Free-will Baptist, and who lives at Mayor Treadwell's! where they have such fine dinners; at which the Mayor drinks a great deal, and "finds fault very bad," with every thing the next morning. Miss Alvah pays her way as she goes, both in stories, and maccaroons; the former her own, the latter Mayor Treadwell's.

Last, but by no means least, comes Mrs. Becky Saffron, all cap-border and eyes, the only other noticeable thing about her being her mouth, which displays, in her facetious moods, two enormous yellow tusks, one upper and one under, reminding the observer of a hungry catamount; this resemblance scarce diminishes on acquaintance, as Mrs. Becky, like all the skinny skeleton-ish tribe, is capable of most inordinate guzzling and gorging.

"Glad to see you, Miss Place," said Mrs. Becky (giving her cap-border a twitch), and getting on the right side of that stiff-necked individual, "I have not set eyes on you these six months."

"No," minced Miss Place; "I called at your boarding-house, and they said you had gone somewhere, they could not tell where."

"Oh, I'm n.o.body; of course they wouldn't know; I'm n.o.body. I'm down in the world, as one may say. I'm n.o.body but 'Becky.' I come and go; n.o.body cares, especially when I _go_," and Mrs. Becky gave her two yellow tusks an airing.

"I left my old place some time ago. I'm to _broth_-er's now." Mrs. Becky always p.r.o.nounced the first syllable of this word like the liquid commonly designated by that syllable. "Yes, I'm to _broth_-ers now. His wife never wanted me in the house. She's dreadful pert and stuck-up, for all she was n.o.body; so I have always been boarded out, and been given to understand that my room was better than my company. But something queer has happened. I can't find out what, only that _broth_-er has got the whip-rein of his wife now, and has it all his own way; so he came and told me that it would cost less for him to keep me at St. John's Square than to board me out; so there I am.

"It is no use for _broth_-er's wife to teach me about silver forks and finger-bowls, about not doing this, or that, or t'other thing; can't teach an old dog new tricks. But I let her fret. I am not afraid of her now, for whenever she gets on her high horse, _broth_-er fetches her right off with the word "damages." I can't tell for the life of me what it means. I've seen her change right round when he whispered it, as quick as a weather-c.o.c.k, and it would be all fair weather in one minute.

It's curious. How do you like your new place, Alvah?"

"Places are all about alike," said Alvah, dejectedly. "See one, you see all. Damask and satin in the parlor; French bedsteads and mirrors in my lady's chamber, and broken panes of gla.s.s up in the attic; lumpy straw beds, coa.r.s.e, narrow sheets, torn coverlets, and one broken table and chair, will do for the servants' room. Always fretting and fault-finding too, just as if we had heart to work, when we are treated so like dogs; worse than dogs, for young master's Bruno has a dog-house all to himself, and a nice soft bed in it; which is more than I can say. I declare it is discouraging," said Alvah. "It fetches out all the bad in me, and chokes off all the good. Mistress came down the other day and scolded because I washed myself at the kitchen sink. Well, where should I wash? There is neither bowl, pitcher, wash-stand, or towels furnished in my attic, and, after cooking over the fire all day, it isn't reason to ask any body not to wash wherever they can get a chance. It don't follow that I like dirt, because I have to do dirty work. I can't put clean clothes over a soiled skin. I feel better-natured when I am clean--better-tempered and more human like. When I first went out to live, I was conscientious like; but now, I know it is wicked, but I get ugly and discouraged, and then I don't care. I say if they treat me like a dog, I shall s.n.a.t.c.h a bone when I can get it. Mistress, now, wants breakfast at just such a time. She is too stingy to find me in proper kindling for my fire, so in course it keeps going out as fast as I light it, and _henders_ me; and then she gets in a fury 'cause breakfast don't come up. Well, I stood it as long as I could; now I pour lamp-oil on the wood to make it kindle; that does the business. I reckon it isn't no saving to her not to buy kindling. I know it isn't right; but I get aggravated to think they don't have no bowels for us poor servants."

Mrs. Becky Saffron paid little attention to this narrative. There was more attractive metal for her on the tea-table, upon which Sally had just placed some smoking hot cakes, and a fragrant pot of tea. Mrs.

Becky's great yellow black eyes rolled salaciously round in her head, and her two tusks commenced whetting themselves against each other, preparatory to a vigorous attack on the edibles.

"Green tea!" exclaimed Mrs. Becky, after the first satisfactory gulp--"not a bit of black in it--that's something like;" and untying her cap-strings, she spread her white handkerchief over her lap, and gave herself up to the gratification of her ruling pa.s.sion, next to gossip.

"How _did_ you come by green tea in the kitchen?" asked the delighted Mrs. Becky.

"Oh, I laid in with the housekeeper," answered Sally; "she has dreadful low wages, and has hard work enough to get even that. I iron all her muslins, and she finds me in green tea. 'Live, and let live,' you know."

"That reminds me," minced Miss Place, who sometimes set up for a wit, "that's what I read on the side of a baker's cart the other day, 'Live, and let live;' but, unfortunately, right under it was written 'Pisin cakes!'"

About half an hour after this, Mrs. Becky choked over her sixth cup of tea; Miss Place's pun had just penetrated her obtuse intellect.

CHAPTER L.

MR. FINCH FINELS TO TOM CORDIS.

"Dear Tom,--

"The next best thing to seeing you, you witty dog, is reading one of your letters; but accept a little advice from one who has had experience, and don't throw away so many good things on one individual; economise your bon-mots, my dear fellow, spread them over your private correspondence as sparingly as they do b.u.t.ter on bread at boarding-schools. Ah! you will grow wiser by and by, when you find out how very rare is an original idea. Why--we literary people, if by chance we improvise one in conversation, always stop short after it, and turning to our friends say, 'Now remember, that's _mine_, don't you use it, for I intend putting it in my next book.'

"What am I doing, hey? Living by my wits, though not in the way of literature, which I find does not pay; for there has been such a surfeit of poor books that even a good one is now eyed with suspicion.

"At present, however, I am, thanks to Mrs. John Howe, in a comfortable state of wardrobe and purse. You should see this Venus!

Who can set bounds to the vanity of woman? (This is in Proverbs, I believe; if it is not it ought to be.) At any rate, woman's vanity is the wire I am now pulling, to keep me in bread and b.u.t.ter.

"Mrs. John Howe is old, ugly, and shrewish; how she _would_ rave, if she saw this! All her married life, she has led her husband by the nose. John is a good-natured, easy fellow, with no brains or education to speak of. Latterly, something has turned up between them, deuce knows what, I don't; but Richard is himself again, smokes when and where he likes, and goes round like the rest of us.

"You will see that he is improving when I tell you that he has bought his wife off to mind her own business, and let him mind his, by an allowance of so much a year; and here's where the interest of my story comes in, my dear boy, for just so long as I can make Mrs.

John believe that she is as young as she ever was, (and as beautiful, as by Jove! she _never_ was), and that I can not exist one minute out of her presence, why so much the more hope there is for my tailor and landlady, confound them! _En pa.s.sant_: I dare say _you_ might wince a little at the idea of being supported by a woman; that only shows that you have not yet learned to recognize 'the sovereignty of the individual.' But the best thing is yet to come. Mrs. John imagines herself a blue-stocking! though she can not spell straight to save her life, and has not the remotest idea whether Paris is in Prussia or Ireland. You should hear her mangle Italian, which she has just begun. It makes my very hair stand on end; I see where it is all tending. She asked me the other day about the divorce law; as if I would _marry_ the old vixen! Never mind, so long as the money holds out I shall hoodwink her even in this.

"Write soon. I saw little Kate last week, fresh as a Hebe, and beautiful as n.o.body else ever was, or can be. Pity she is such a little Puritan! She would be irresistible were it not for that humbug. I live in hope that contact with the world, and intercourse with me, will eradicate this, her only weakness. Bless her sweet mouth, and witching eyes.

"Yours, as usual, FINELS."

CHAPTER LI.

"The dirge-like sound of those rapids," said Rose, as she tossed on her pillow at the public-house, at Niagara, vainly courting sleep; "it oppresses me, Gertrude, with an indescribable gloom."

"Your nerves are sadly out of tune, dear Rose; it will be quite another affair to-morrow, _i. e._, if the sun shines out. Niagara's organ-peal will then be music to you, and the emerald sheen of its rushing waters--the rosy arch, spanning its snowy mist--beautiful beyond your wildest dream! And that lovely island, too. Dear Rose, life, after all, is very beautiful. But how cold your hands are, and how you tremble; let me try my sovereign panacea, music;" and drawing Rose's head to her breast, Gertrude sang--

"Tarry with me, oh, my Saviour!

For the day is pa.s.sing by; See! the shades of evening gather, And the night is drawing nigh.

Tarry with me! tarry with me!

Pa.s.s me not unheeded by.