Part 17

For a few weeks he did labor with what little skill was left him, at his old trade; but his was not the will, nor the mind, nor the heart to pursue the good because it was right, and just, and his duty. His recent excesses had shattered his constitution—his hands trembled, and his feet went tottering, and ere long these evil inclinations quite overcame him again. Poor Delle! she had no more hope for him when she saw that the death of her mother was a thing so feebly remembered and cared for by him. How strange it seemed to her that he could _ever_ forget the words of entreaty the dying woman addressed to him. To the mind of the innocent child it was wonderful that he should ever seek to drown those words of pleading and warning that _she_ had spoken to him in the horrible forgetfulness that is bought by intoxication.

But aside from this great sorrow, there was another and a different kind of care that weighed heavily on Delle’s mind. Her only sister was ten years old at the time of her mother’s death. She had been always a puny, sickly little thing—the object of that mother’s unceasing and peculiar care. It is said that the heart of the parent is always filled with a deeper and tenderer sympathy and love for an unfortunate child. Most true was this in the case of Jane. She had never been much at school, and rarely had left her mother’s side. A sober little creature she was, always seeking to make herself useful, and quite unlike in all respects the romping boys who filled the house with their noise. When Mrs. Hogg died, Jane, to use Mrs. Jones’ expressive words, “wilted right down, just like a cabbage-leaf;” and the scrofula, which had afflicted her for many years, manifested itself in a fearful form. It seemed to Delle that the cup of bitterness was running over when the village doctor, who was called to the child’s aid, told her, for she _would_ know the truth, that he could do nothing for her—that her spine would be inevitably curved. It might be, he said, that constant care and watching would in a measure restore her health, and her life _might_ be spared for years, but she could never wholly recover.

All the tenderness and affection her mother had borne toward little Jane, seemed to have centered itself in the bosom of Delle. A most patient and untiring nurse was she, doing every thing so cheerfully, sacrificing all her own wants that she might procure comforts for the invalid, and never giving the child reason to suppose for a moment that her, I mean Delle’s, constitution was not made of iron. Often and often, after a day of exertion, would she sit for half the night by the side of the little sufferer, who was writhing in agony, watching her and supporting her with the fondest care; and to all poor Jane’s anxious fears that she would weary out, the gentle voice of Delle assured her it was not possible to weary in doing for _her_.

Three years from the spring when the weeping children had gathered around their mother’s grave, they stood together in the church-yard again, and saw the dust and the sod heaped over the dead body of their father. I would not say that it was not with much sorrowing, with many tears, that Delle had nursed him through his death-sickness; that it was not with love and a martyr’s patient endurance she had ministered to his numberless wants; but I should be _far_ wrong (and you will not impute it to her sin) were I to say that it was the same great sorrow which had bowed and well-nigh crushed her gentle spirit when her mother died, that brought forth those tears when she stood by her father’s death-bed. He was her father; she remembered with affectionate gratitude the days of old, when he was to his children a parent indeed, when he had been the tender and devoted husband of his wife; but even _that_ remembrance was not strong enough to obliterate all recollection of the recent past; and I say it was not in her nature, nor, indeed, in human nature at all, to mourn _very_ deeply over _such_ a man. It was _not_ with such a dreadful sense of bereavement that she followed him to the grave, as had once before swept over her. The “cloud had spent its fury” upon her, the bolt had fallen the day her worshiped mother died.

The children returned to their home, orphaned—four of them dependent on the exertions of that frail young creature on whom only the sun of sixteen years was beaming. There were no friends on whom they might depend, for their mother’s relatives lived somewhere in the far South; and had Delle even known _where_ they lived, there was far too much independence and self-reliance in her nature to impose on them the maintenance of five strange children, which she felt could not be a very agreeable accession to any family; and her heart was so filled with almost _parental_ affection for those young beings, that she could not bear to think of subjecting them to the possible hard treatment of unsympathizing relatives.

Delle’s next-door neighbor was an old woman, who, though poor as the children themselves, and dependent upon her own feeble exertions for support, had taken the deepest interest in this parentless family. She it was who proposed to Delle that she should go to her father’s brother, who lived in a town further to the west, and pray that he would help them in their need. This was the day after Mr. Hogg’s funeral, and the old “lady” had dropped in to console the children, bringing with her provisions for them which she could ill spare from her own little store. I was gone from home that year, but many times since I have heard Delle speak with tears of gratitude of the kindness of the good old Mrs. Jones at that crisis of their lives. She came to advise with Delle, as I have said, and even went so far in her Christian charity (by the way, though in the very act of constructing a fit and proper sentence, I must pause to say the ever-to-be-lamented Hood erred when he wrote so musically,

“Alas! for the rarity Of Christian Charity Under the sun;”

because there _is_ plenty of charity and sympathy in the world, if people were only so wise as to know where to look for it. Do you think to find fragrance in the dahlia, and the bright-hued tulip-flowers? Vain will be your seeking. Go into the woods and fields, along the banks of the little stream—search in _such_ places, you will not return successless, you will come back with your hands _filled_ with fragrant violets and wild-roses!) as to offer to take charge of the younger member of the family during her necessary absence, and also to endeavor to gather from the neighbors sufficient funds to carry her to those friends. But to all these kind proposals, greatly astonished was the good woman by Delle’s firm refusal.

“No,” said she, “Mrs. Jones, I remember when our misfortunes overtook us three years ago; father wrote to uncle, and told him of our necessities, begging him to assist us, but uncle made such answer, that _I_ will never repeat those requests; no, Mrs. Jones, though I should starve! But we shall not starve, neither shall my little ones come on the town. You know that after I left school, for some time I taught Charley and Georgy, and Jane, and I have learned them a great deal, beside improving myself, and this is what I’ll do. I’ll open a small school for children, and the neighbors—will they patronize me for my poor dear mother’s sake—oh, I will try, and teach so well!”

Poor Delle’s voice was not quite firm as she disclosed these projects to the kind-hearted old woman, but she did not cry; there was not a tear in her soft, down-cast eyes—but Mrs. Jones did weep outright when she looked on the excited young girl, and saw the flashes of color which betrayed her emotion, deeply tinging her cheek one moment, and the next leaving it colorless. _She_ did weep, I say, and for some minutes made no answer to Delle’s inquiry; this sympathy which the old woman evinced, emboldened the maiden to speak again, for she felt _she_ had no time to weep then—she must _act_.

“Do you think, dear Mrs. Jones, I shall succeed? Will the people be afraid to send their children to me because I am so young? Oh, if you will but speak to a few, just a few people, and tell them how I will try to do justice to their little ones. And tell them, yes, tell them, Mrs. Jones, that I do it to give bread to _my_ children; they have always known me, they need not fear I will neglect theirs.”

“Yes, yes,” cried the old woman, hurriedly, starting up and wiping her eyes, “I’ll go this minute; bless your noble heart! they _shall_ send their children to your school. I’ll be bound you’ll do justice to ’em—when shall I tell ’em you’ll open?”

“To-day—to-morrow—any day; let them come here, I shall be ready for them, I have no time to wait or to waste.”

And in a moment old Mrs. Jones (blessed be her memory!) was gone on her errand of mercy; and then, yes, as a true historian, I _must_ say, Delle’s tears did burst forth, resisted no longer. The children left their broken toys and their play, when they saw their sister weeping, and came softly and stood beside her—every little face that had a moment before been covered with smiles, wore a most touching, solemn expression, when they saw how grieved she was; Jane laid her head on Delle’s knee and wept too, scarcely knowing why; and little Willy crept into her arms, and while he nestled there so lovingly, he brushed away her tears with his tiny hand, saying, “Dear, dear Delle, don’t cry, we all love you so dearly.”

But the words and sympathy of the children only brought the tears faster to her eyes, even while they fell like balm on her heart. Was she not _rich_ in the love of those children? What a pleasure would it be to labor for them, and to see them guided by her hand, growing up in goodness and knowledge; and again, in that home, before God she vowed she would be unceasingly faithful to her dead mother’s charge.

Two years passed away, and Delle’s school was continued with the greatest success; indeed, it had become _the_ child’s school of our village. You should have seen her in the school-room of her now comfortable home, amid the multitudes of youth who gathered around her, whose “young ideas” she was teaching to “shoot” in the right direction. You should have seen her in the hours when she was alone in her home with her brothers and invalid sister. How unabated was her tender and watchful care of the fragile Jane; how unceasing her efforts to secure the comfort and happiness of the poor girl; how happy she herself was when a smile and visible contentment on the part of the sufferer was returned for all her pains. You should have seen her encouraging, or mildly reproving, or joining the three light-hearted boys in their sports, who regarded her with the deference and affection they would have shown toward a parent. You should have seen her on the Sabbaths when she went with the children, whom _her_ diligence and perseverance fed and clothed, to the village church, teaching them by her example to “remember their Creator in their youth.” You should have watched her when she went with them to the church-yard, to the place where their parents were buried—a little spot which their hands had made beautiful as a garden. You should have seen Delle at such times to have rightly and fully estimated her worth. Those only who saw her and knew her in all these lights, _could_ know her truly; for as she grew nigh to womanhood, there was a dignity and reserve in her manners, resulting from the manifold trials to which she had been exposed, which made her not readily understandable to those who had not known her from childhood.

Do you abominate parties? So do I. But follow me this once, ’tis a beautiful moonlight night, to yonder well-lighted mansion. I have trod through it oftentimes, and with me for your guide, there is no possible danger of losing your way. Here we are in the midst of the gay assemblage; what profusion of flowers, what pleasant voices and bright smiles, and happy hearts; and, hark! there are sounds of music and of dancing feet. Let us wander, now, through the rooms, _in spirit_, and amuse ourselves for a moment with “seeing what is to be seen,” and hearing what is to be heard; and if there be any malice in our remarks, we can keep our own secret, and not expose those “modern belles” to more ridicule than very naturally they draw forth from common, ordinary observers; nor will we say any thing _aloud_ about that nondescript sort of personage yclept a fashionable beau, whose culminated faculties emerge before the public in the shape of unmitigated _non_sense.

Ah, what an unexpected relief—the belabored piano is resting now; the incessant battering and twisting of the keys, which, alas! rarely open the real gates of glorious music, is stilled—the harp is twanged no more—the guitar is silenced, yet the music-room is filled, and every sound is hushed, and they await in expectancy a somewhat—there it is! Heard you ever the like. That _is music_! keep silent, it will not do to criticise _such_ singing. How melodiously the words gush forth; they are new, but how distinctly they are pronounced! The song is finished. What, not one concluding, prolonged trill of approved flourish? No—for it is finished.

See how they crowd round the pale, sweet-faced girl who has filled the room with such melody, and all, excepting the performers who have so prodigiously exerted themselves on the musical instruments, entreat for _one_ more song. And while she stands silently for a moment, see the delighted countenance of the tall, well-formed gentleman who stands near her; listen, he is saying in the lowest possible tone, “pray, lady, sing once more.” And the lady heard his words, and as she raises her eyes to the stranger, a scarcely perceptible flush is on her pale face. Again her eyes are drooping, and the rich voice is doing ample justice to Mrs. Heman’s splendid poem, “The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.” Is not the wild, drear scene before you—can you not see it all as she sings, how

“The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky, Their giant branches tossed.”

And again they are beseeching for but one more song; but see how mildly, yet so firmly, that they cannot doubt she means to sing no more, does she decline. No one essays to charm the ear now after _such_ singing—and already they are beginning to pour out of the music-room, whither _her_ voice had drawn them. But, see! there is one who remains standing, as spell-bound, beside the lady. Who is this stranger? A city gent, but to-day arrived from the East, at the residence of his relative, _our_ hostess. How refined he is in manner and dress, and apparently not tinged with coxcombry at all, yet this may be the effect of an education conducted solely with the intent to please and catch the world’s eye, as well as of good sound common sense. At all events, if he _is_ puffed up with inordinate vanity because Heaven has suffered him to attain the ordinary stature of manhood, in the possession of a fine, intelligent face, he conceals it with consummate skill, does he not? That is one thing in his favor, for a proper appreciation of the rarity of such an instance _vide_ the Book of Human Life. They are in the midst of a most agreeable conversation; happily, the gentleman touches on the right topics to interest the maiden; you can tell that by her manifest attention, and pleasure, as well as by the spirit with which she carries on her part of the conversation. Suddenly and abruptly he has left her. Ah! the hostess has entered the room, and he is speaking with her rapidly. Now, leaning on his arm, she approaches the pale little lady standing beside the piano, and makes Mr. Alfred Livingstone, whose most unreserved admiration she had won, acquainted with Miss Delleparetta Hogg! Do but see that sudden lifting of the gentleman’s eyebrows, the half frown on his forehead, and the ill-concealed smile of his lips, which even his “good breeding” cannot wholly banish, as he listens to her name; fortunate for Delle is it that her eyes are just now cast down; but never seemed she more fair, graceful and lovable than now, while she stands confessing to that outrageous name!

Despite this little drawback, the city gentleman seems in a fair way of falling desperately in love with Delle. Not for a moment since her first song has he left her side; and now she has gone so early from the gay company, because she thinks of the dear ones at home, waiting to hear all about the party—and he accompanies her. Delle seldom appears in such scenes—but the heart beating beneath those eyes which never shone so brightly before is not weary; she feels no fatigue because of the unwonted excitement. And to-morrow, when she sits in her pleasant school-room again, initiating her pupils in the mysteries of common-sense, which no teacher ever knew how to teach more successfully, _perhaps_ those words which Alfred Livingstone has spoken to her, will not be _quite_ forgotten.

* * * * *

A fortnight passed away, and three weeks, and a month, still young Livingstone tarried in our dull village; and every night his tall figure might be seen wending its way up our beautiful street to the tasteful, cheerful home of Delle. And it grew at last to be not the most wonderful sight in the world to see the poor school-teacher taking the walk she so much needed, after the close confinement of the day, not with her usual companion, her oldest brother, but with the stately youth already named. It was a happy month to Delle, if we might judge from appearance. One could not but see there was a certain lightness in her step, and a general joyousness in her whole appearance, that was alone wanting in former times to make her beautiful. But at the end of the month it became necessary that Livingstone should return to his city home; and the last we to the opposite saw of him, he was emerging from the cottage-home of Delle, as the whistle of the approaching cars was heard—and he was gone; and the children had a holyday!

They who prided themselves on being learned in such matters, said that every week brought with it regularly a letter from —— to Delle, and that _very_ often the western mail bore a most lady-like (in its outward garb) epistle to the eastern city. Then, when all this was currently reported and believed, some wise head, judging from appearances, added to the story the information, that early in the spring Delle was to discontinue her school altogether.

How near “they” came to the right of the story, let us try and find out, which I think having earnestly set ourselves about it, we shall do suddenly.

Just imagine Alfred Livingstone, two or three months after his return from his country sojourning, seated, alone, in his exquisitely furnished apartment at the Astor, before a table covered with writing materials. The paper over which his pen is hovering is unstained yet by the ink—for he is arrested by voices speaking in the adjoining room, which are neither hushed nor moderate, they are speaking with all the freedom of tone one is wont to indulge in at home. Do but hear them and watch him!

“Where in all the world did you hear that?” asked one.

“What?” responded the other, carelessly.

“That you were speaking about at Howard’s, that Fred Livingstone, prince of beaux and gentlemen, is going to marry a dowdy little country Miss?”

“Hear it!” ejaculated the other, “why it’s the town talk.”

“But who is she—is she rich, or beautiful? Something she must be beyond the common to win him. Who are her relations? What—”

“Stop, stop—how shall I wade through all these questions. What an inquisitor you’d make! but I acknowledge that for once your curiosity is laudable. First, as to _who_ she is? She is the daughter of some miserable low family, remarkable for nothing but their poverty. Second, _what_ is she? A country school-teacher, who spends her days in teaching a set of insufferable children their ab-abs. Is she a beauty? Don’t know, deponent saith not. She sings well though, and you know music was always Fred’s hobby—he says he abominates this fashionable singing.”

“Well, but you haven’t told me her name.”

“Ah, that’s the horrible part of the thing. Listen while I try to pronounce it, and then say wonders will never cease. The name of this captivator, this charmer of ‘the greatest match in town,’ is—Delleparetta Hogg! Do but think of _his_ asking, in his bland voice, _Miss Hogg_, to favor him with a song!”

“Heaven and earth!” exclaimed the other, after a moment’s silence, for he had seemed struck dumb with amazement; and then the hopeful conversationists burst into such a roar of laughter as quite drowned the noise of the crash with which Alfred Livingstone’s hand was brought down on his writing-desk, making in its descending progress the most dreadful marks on his paper, which, in their confusion and blackness, perhaps resembled closely the color and confusion of his thoughts at that present moment.

Now be it known that this unfortunate name of his lady-love had been the sorest of all points with Alfred Livingstone, Esq. Indeed, it had instituted a series of doubts in his mind which were there agitated for a long time, before he arrived at the brave conclusion that he _would_ marry her, name and all—that is, supposing he could win her consent. But to be jested with by his city friends, and in _his_ circle, on _such_ a subject, the very thought was insupportable. He had hoped with all his heart that her name would never elapse till he introduced her, to the envy of all the town, as Mrs. Livingstone.

But now it was all over; his love was not proof against such a trial—such a mortification _he_ thought it—for her name was a most indisputable fact, a tangible thing on which his friends and enemies might harp to his continual agony. There was but one remedy—a desperate one it was—but there was _no other_ remedy, or way of escape. It took him not long to concoct and despatch that letter which he had _meant_ to fill with kind and loving words. Poor Delle, she never quite understood that cruel epistle; but there was one thing about it she could sufficiently comprehend, that all was passed that ever could pass between her and Alfred Livingstone.

The next morning the elegant Mr. Livingstone laid his hand, and _heart_,(?) and fortune, and _name_, at the feet of the most accomplished and brilliant “belle of the season,” which, I scarcely need say, when it was held in consideration, that he was “the greatest match in town,” was without hesitation accepted.

* * * * *

Delle’s school was carried on as usual; there was no cessation or holyday when that letter of renouncement came to her. She had lived through and borne nobly sharper griefs than was hers when she read _his_ strange, cold words. With renewed diligence she turned to her occupation—that was not “gone”—but it was a hope that struggled long in her heart, that the recreant would at least write to explain—that he would tell her _there was no meaning to his words_. Such an explanation never came, however. The school continued, I said, and it continues still; and one would scarcely think, to look on the self-possessed, noble young lady at its head, that she had had _such_ an experience in love matters.