Part 10

“‘Ah, indeed! I am very glad to have customers from Tarry-town; I have made dresses to be sent there several times.’ We could not help looking at each other, for we had known every dress in Tarry-town for years, and not one of them had ever touched her hands. ‘I make dresses for ladies in all parts of the country,’ she kept on; ‘my establishment is very popular with strangers, because it is known that I make it a point to accommodate them even at the risk of making sacrifices among my city customers. Of course, you ought to have your dresses in two or three days, and I’ll try what can be done. The silk is for you, ma’am, I perceive,’ and she tore open the bundles; ‘very appropriate, indeed, for an elderly lady, and the balzarines will make up quite dressy for your daughters. Look at the plates, ladies—this will suit you, ma’am, quite plain, but very genteel; the sleeve is particularly proper for a stout lady; and you, ma’am,’ to Easter Ann, ‘would look best in this, with flounces pretty high up, as you are tall and not fleshy. You, miss,’ to Jane Louyza, ‘ought to have front trimming, as you are rather low;’ and she actually slipped a tape measure round my waist. I was on thorns, for she hadn’t given us a word of satisfaction about her prices, and I told her we hadn’t made up our minds yet how we would have them made, ‘and, beside,’ says I, ‘we must first know what they are to cost.’

“‘Certainly, ma’am, that’s all very reasonable,’ says she; ‘and I know you wont find fault with my charges—I can perceive at a glance that you are a lady of property; are you certain that you have enough of the material?—ladies of your size require a very full skirt;’ and before I could have said ‘no,’ she had actually gathered up my silk and clipped a nick in it for a breadth of the skirt.

“‘I don’t think, ma’am, we have time to wait for the dresses to be cut out,’ says I, ‘we haven’t, neither, got the linings nor the sewing-silk, nor the other trimmings.’

“‘It will take me but a few minutes,’ says she, making another nick in the silk, ‘for I cut by a patent measure; and I always find the trimmings myself—I can then have them to suit me, and, you know, it all amounts to the same thing in the end;’ and she snatched up a piece of Holland from the table, and began measuring off a pair of backs. ‘Stop, if you please, ma’am,’ says I, ‘we’ve made no bargain yet, and it’s nothing but what I have a right to expect, to know what you are to charge me.’

“‘It will be difficult to tell,’ says she, ‘before the dresses are finished—it is not our custom to settle the prices until we have seen how the work is done.’

“‘But, ma’am,’ says I, ‘I insist upon a rough guess.’

“‘Then let me see,’ says she, ‘supposing we say something like five or six dollars each, trimmings included, for the young ladies’ dresses, and four for yours.’

“‘Why, bless my soul!’ says I, ‘I could get cord, and hooks and eyes, and sewing-silk, and linings enough for all three, for a dollar; and as to paying five or six dollars for making a dress, I’ll never do it in the world; it’s outrageous—it’s an imposition,’ and I snatched my silk out of her hands in short order.

“‘It’s too late, now,’ says she, pert enough, ‘to talk about that, as soon as the scissors are put in the work, it is considered as taken in.’

“‘It’s we that are taken in, or we came pretty near it,’ says I; and I bundled the silk under my arm, and the girls took up their balzarines; but such a tongue-lashing as we got, I never heard the like of it in my life before; and you may be sure I didn’t take it all quietly—I’m not very mealy-mouthed; and if it hadn’t been for Easter Ann telling me loud enough for her to hear, ‘Come along, maw, it’s not dignified to be disputing with a mantua-maker,’ she’d likely have got the worst of it.

“The girls were so put out that they didn’t want to try any more; but I’m not one to be brow-beat; I had got my spirit up, and I made them go on to the next. When we came to the house, there stood two splendid carriages, with black fellows about them that had gold bands on their hats, and velvet on their coats, and what not. ‘Don’t let’s go in,’ says Jane Louyza; ‘I dare say the house is full of customers already;’ and just then another coach and pair drives up, and two or three girls, dressed to death, jumps out, and orders their niggers to bring in their parcels—a whole carriage load, pretty near—so, thinks I, there’s not much encouragement for us to go in there, sure enough. We came away, and there hasn’t been a stitch put in our dresses yet.”

I gave my visiters a very early tea, and having no excuse for billeting themselves on me for another night, they made their departure before dark. They did not, however, forget to invite themselves for the following day.

The next morning, greatly to my relief, proved to be very rainy, and feeling secure from the premeditated inroad, I seated myself cosily at my sewing. But, alas! a vehicle stopping at the door drew me to the front windows. I had some expectation of my husband’s return, and instead of his carriage was a hackney-coach, which had already discharged its living cargo, and from which two large hair-trunks were unloading; at the same time the bell-wire cracked to the point of doom, and the Dilberrys rushed in.

“Here we come, bag and baggage, Mrs. Allanby, to make our home with you,” cried the old lady, “we have had a grand blow up at the hotel, and I’m determined, as long as I live, to keep exposing your city landlords for taking advantage of unprotected females.”

“I hope nothing very unpleasant has happened?” said I, my heart sinking at the prospect before me.

“I wonder if there hasn’t! What do you think, Mrs. Allanby, of our being charged twelve dollars a piece for six days’ board?”

“That, I believe, is the regular charge,” said I.

“Well, they’re not coming their regular charges over me again, I can tell them. Last night we were talking our bargains over in bed, and we made up our minds that as we could get things so low at auction, we might as well keep on till we had furniture enough for the spare bed-room, as well as for the parlors—people in Tarry-town expect something a little extra from us. We calculated how far our money would go, and it struck us that we had never found out what we were living up to at the hotel. So the next morning I told the waiter to bring us our bill, and what should it be but thirty-six dollars—two dollars a piece a day, and no allowance for the four meals we had eaten with you, and the night we had slept here. I sent for the landlord, and spoke my mind about the bill pretty plainly, letting him know that charging us for what we had not got was down-right imposition; and I told him he seemed to suppose we had no friends to see us righted, but that he was mistaken, for we had brought a letter of introduction to Mrs. Allanby, and her husband would soon be at home to speak up for us. He cut me short by telling me that he made no deductions, and that as long as we hadn’t given up our rooms we must expect to pay as their occupants; and he walked off as cool as a cucumber. So I sent out for a hack, knowing you would be glad to have us with you for company, as Mr. Allanby is not at home, particularly as you have house-room plenty, and servants enough to wait on your friends. Six dollars a-day, indeed! why we didn’t cost him one!”

“We are all very small eaters, as you may have observed, Mrs. Allanby,” said Jane Louisa.

“And though they gave us two chambers with a door between them, we all slept in one of them,” rejoined Esther Ann.

The visitation now began to have a serious aspect, but what was to be done? I could not, with truth, make any excuse to get rid of my obtrusive guests, except that of my want of inclination to entertain them, and to hint at that would have required more philosophy than I could command. My only hope now was in the speedy return of Mr. Allanby, on whose resolution or ingenuity I knew I might rely.

This was Saturday, and the weather remaining inclement, I had to endure for the rest of the day, and the whole of the next, the uninterrupted flow of their loquacity, which was a continuous exposition of ignorance, vulgarity, selfishness and meanness. On Monday morning the old lady, after some whispering and winking with her daughters, assailed me with,

“We told you, Mrs. Allanby, what a pucker we were in about getting our dresses made. Before we left the tavern, we went to Mrs. Scrooge’s room—the old lady, you remember, that took us to the auction; and she let us know how we might snap our fingers at the mantua-makers. She said there were women that go out sewing by the day, and that by hiring one of them, and helping along with the easy parts ourselves, we might have our dresses made for little or nothing. At the hotel we couldn’t have done it, for paying board for a seamstress would have been but a poor speculation; but now that we are in a private family visiting, there would be some sense in it. I dare say she could sit in one of our sleeping-rooms, and the little one woman would eat couldn’t be of much consequence to you.”

“I do not know where such a person could be found,” said I.

“Oh, that is all settled already. Mrs. Scrooge is to call for us to go to a second-hand furniture store this morning, and she promised that she would take us to a seamstress that goes out for thirty-one cents a-day.”

Again I succumbed to my inability to say “no.” Mrs. Scrooge did call—a vinegar-faced old lady, with a voice sharp enough to have given one an ear-ache; and I learned that the seamstress was engaged, though she could not come until the latter end of the week. The next day Mrs. Scrooge came again, and my trio departed to a second auction. The result of this expedition was another load of furniture, driven up to the door in the middle of the day. The first article discharged was a sideboard, capacious enough, almost, to serve as a pantry, with broken locks and an impaired foot, which fell off in the difficult descent of the main body from the wagon; then came a dressing-bureau, of scarcely smaller dimensions, with defective knobs and a low, distorted glass; and, lastly, a wash-stand, with a cracked marble slab. Mrs. Dilberry stood on the front steps, superintending their passage into the house, and giving orders at the top of her voice, when I ran out to protest against their being carried up stairs, which she was directing—the broken wall of the entry serving as a warning to me—and to propose their being stored in the wash-house. Whilst I was endeavoring to make myself heard, my husband, with a wondering countenance, presented himself before me. In my joy I dragged him into the first room, and shut the door.

“My dear Mary,” said he, “I was not right certain whether it was proper for me to come into my own house—what is the meaning of this commotion?”

I gave him a hurried narration of my trials, at which he laughed immoderately, as I thought, and at once he opened to me a prospect of relief. “I have made arrangements with one of my friends,” said he, “to send you on an excursion of several weeks among the mountains, to matronize his daughters. The young ladies are now, I suppose, on their way to meet you with carriage and servants, and, as soon as possible, you must be off. I shall lose no time to make the announcement to your visiters. As they have attached themselves to you merely for their own convenience, there will be nothing unfair in getting rid of them for ours.”

In half an hour my guests were on flatteringly familiar terms with Mr. Allanby, to whom they confessed that they had dreaded his return, as they were afraid they could not feel so “free and easy” if there was a gentleman in the house. “Now that we have seen you,” observed the old lady, “we would rather have you here than not; you appear to suit us exactly, and we will be all the better off for having some one to beau us about.”

I own I could not myself have had courage to lower them from such a height of contentment, but my husband was less qualmish, and Mrs. Dilberry soon afforded him a desirable opportunity to approach the unexpected topic, by saying, “I suppose if you had known your wife had found such good company to cheer her up, you’d have been in no hurry to come back.”

“At least,” returned Mr. Allanby, “I should not have made a positive promise to send her from home as soon as her trunk could be packed.” He explained the arrangements he had made, and with all proper courtesy regretted that they should be peremptory.

“And what do you say, Mrs. Allanby, to your husband taking so much upon himself without leave or license from you?” asked the old lady, winking at me.

“That I always consider myself in duty bound to fulfill any engagement he may make for me, whether agreeable or not,” replied I, taking courage.

“Indeed!” exclaimed both Mrs. Dilberry and Esther Ann, in a tone of surprise and pique.

“If I did not know how fastidious you ladies are upon such points,” resumed Mr. Allanby, “I should beg you to share my bachelor establishment with me. As it is I must be content to render myself as useful to you as possible. If you commission me, I shall make exertions to find a boarding-house where you can be accommodated as comfortably as with us.”

“You needn’t concern yourself,” said Mrs. Dilberry, tartly; “if I had wanted to go to a boarding-house, I dare say I could have found one where we could have lived a great deal cheaper than at any you would be likely to pitch upon. I got enough of living on expense at the tavern, and I’ve not made up my mind to pay boarding for the little pleasure we’re likely to have. We’ve been to the theatre only once, and never were taken any where else, and there seems to be but precious little pains spent upon having attentions showed us. I’m one of them that always speak their minds; and I must say I can’t see where the politeness is in people, when they have company, running off and leaving them in the lurch, particularly when they haven’t got their dresses made or any thing. I shall be careful who I take a letter of introduction to again.”

The third day after this I was prepared to commence my trip, and my guests having taken passage for their homeward journey, were to leave the house at the same time, it having been decided that their furniture was to be boxed and sent after them. They had comported themselves, in the meantime, as if under a strong sense of injury, Miss Esther Ann being frigid and lofty, her sister sullen, and the old lady snappish and uncivil. The carriage was waiting for my conveyance, when the stage-coach, well-loaded with passengers, drove up to the door for them. I had wished them a safe and pleasant journey, offering them my hand, which they pretended not to observe, and was standing on the door-step to see them off, when Mrs. Dilberry paused, with one foot on the floor of the coach, as my husband was assisting her to climb in, and winking at her daughters, called back to me, “Good by to you, ma’am, and I hope you may have a merrier time of your trip than we have had of ours. I’ll not forget to give your love to the doctor’s wife, and let her know how you honored her letter of introduction.”

A chuckling laugh, which reached me in spite of the grinding of the wheels as they rolled away, was the last I heard of my wind-fall from Tarry-town.

* * * * *

DIRGE,

The beautiful is vanished, and returns not.—_Coleridge’s Wallenstein._

Thou art gone! We shall miss thee when the flowers Come again with vernal hours, Brightly though thy roses bloom, They will whisper of the tomb! And thy voice will linger still In the gurgle of the rill, In the murmurs, low and sweet, Where the silver waters meet, In the summer even’s gale, Sporting with the violets pale. Meekly will their blue eyes weep O’er thy still and solemn sleep; And the wild-bird’s gentle moan Murmur o’er thy slumbers lone, Like a viewless spirit’s lay, Asking of thee Far Away! Fare thee well!

Thou art gone! On thy brow, so pale and fair, On thy dark and glossy hair, Wreathed in many a shining braid, Sad, autumnal flowers were laid. Slowly to thy tomb they bore thee, Tender farewells murmured o’er thee, Veiled thee in its silence deep, In thy last and dreamless sleep. Where thou liest, soft and low, Winter spreads his sheet of snow, Pure and spotless as thy form. Thou hearest not the surly storm Sweeping o’er the dazzling wold; Stars are gleaming, pale and cold, On thee from the vault above, Like the watchful eyes of Love. Fare thee well!

* * * * *

THE FUGITIVE.

BY THE VISCOUNTESS D’AULNAY.

[Most of our readers are familiar with “Claire d’Albe,” the work spoken of in the following pages, either in the original or as translated, and will recollect the pleasure its perusal gave them. Its author is better known in America, however, by one of her subsequent works, which has been translated into almost every written language, admired wherever it has been read, and which has been justly ranked among the first productions in that department of French literature to which it belongs. We refer to that affecting story, over which so many tears have been shed, “Elizabeth, Or The Exiles of Siberia.” In translating the following account we have been obliged, from its great length, to condense from the original—leaving out nothing, however, which was essential to the interest of the story. It will be recollected that the incidents of our tale took place in 1793, when France was convulsed by political revolutions.]

“Madam, this is beautifully written,” said an old nurse, looking up with the familiarity of an ancient and privileged servant.

The person thus addressed was a young woman, clothed in black, so small and so frail, that at first sight, without doubt, one would have taken her for a child. She was seated before a table of dark wood, drawn up in front of a good fire, upon which burned two wax candles, shining upon a heap of loose leaves, one of which she had just finished writing, and was then reading. Laughing at the admiration of her nurse, she asked,

“And do you, then, find it so beautiful?”

“Do I find it beautiful?” replied Marianne; “never since the world began have I read any thing so affecting. What an interesting creature that Claire was! and what a pity that she died! Ah, her death grieved me much; one might say that it frightened me; but that would not be astonishing in such a great lonely room as this. I hate these great rooms, I do;” added the nurse, looking cautiously around her, and gazing with a look of affright at the window the most distant from where she and her mistress were sitting.

“Oh how the curtain moves! did you not leave the shutters badly closed, madam?”

“It was not I who shut them,” tranquilly replied Madam Cottin, for it was of her old Marianne asked the question.

“Not you?” cried Marianne, in a frightened voice. “Who then could have shut them?”

“You, most probably, Marianne.”

“Me! I tell you, madam, I swear to you, as true as I am a good and sincere Christian, I swear to you, upon my soul—”

“Do not swear at all, Marianne; there is no one here but we two; if it were not me, it could have been no one else but you, and it was not me—”

“I am not a fool, out of my senses!” replied the Bordelaise. “I believe, rather,” she added in a solemn tone, “that there is some mystery behind the curtain—”

“We will admit that it was I who closed the shutters,” interrupted Madam Cottin, impatiently again taking up the papers, and reading them.

“But was it _really_ you?” importuned the nurse.

“Why do you wish me to tell a lie? Shall I read you another page of my romance?”

“Oh yes, I love to hear you read,” replied the old woman. “But what are you going to do with that romance, as you call it?”

“Ah, Marianne, if I dared, if I did not fear the ridicule attached to the name of a female author, I would have it published, and the money that it would bring would ameliorate our condition. I would buy some articles of furniture—a piano, for instance—lonely and sad as I now am, music would charm my retreat.”

“Ah yes, Sophie, buy a piano; that will enliven you a little—may I call you Sophie?—for what else should I call you? It always seems as if I saw you as you looked when you were a child. I see now the house at Tonniens—the two steps you had to ascend on entering, then the little green gate, opening upon a lawn; then the garden to the right; upon the ground-floor was the kitchen, the dining-room and the parlor; on the first floor, the chamber of your mother, Madame Ristaud, that of your father, and yours, which was also mine. O, yes, I see it all! and your little bed with the figured coverlet! And the day you were born, it seems to me as yesterday! It was the fifteenth of August, 1773—that was twenty years ago. And then the day of your wedding at Bordeaux, (we lived then at Bordeaux;) didn’t your marriage make a noise?—you recollect it?—the little Ristaud, who married a rich banker of the capital, Monsieur Cottin. ‘Well, what is there astonishing about that?’ said I, ‘the little Ristaud is worth a banker of the capital two or three times over!’ I had only one fear, which I kept to myself, and that was, that when you should once be married and in Paris, you would not want your old nurse any longer. ‘Leave my nurse!’ you said, when you saw me weeping, and found why, ‘leave my nurse! no, no, I couldn’t do without her; I should feel lost if I should lose her.’ And you were right, my dear little one; your mother died, and your father, and then, in three years and six months after your wedding, your husband died; and now your fortune is gone, no one knows where, and not one is left but your nurse, your old nurse, who would give her blood, her life, every thing, that she might see you more happy. Yes, if you had a piano here, you could sing; you have such a sweet voice, and that would do well for us both. If by selling my cross of gold we might have one—what do you say?”

“It would need twelve hundred francs to purchase a piano, and the cross would not procure them; _these_” she added, striking her hand upon the papers scattered upon the table, “these would give them to me if I had the courage to go and sell them; but I dare not, I would only get a refusal.”

“Do you wish me to go, Sophie?” replied the nurse, “only tell me where, and it shall be done quickly—there!—what was that? This chamber is very gloomy, and that curtain is always moving!”

“I will go myself to-morrow,” said Madam Cottin, looking at her watch. “It is eleven o’clock—I must work a little longer; leave me, Marianne, and go to your rest.”

“Ah! now you are quite sure it was you who closed the shutters and drew down the curtains?” asked Marianne, reluctantly complying with her mistress’s command—“you are not afraid?”