Books: A Modern Cinderella
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Louisa May Alcott >> A Modern Cinderella
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"Bless and save us! here's a flock of people
coming; my hair is in a toss, and Nan's without
her shoe; run! fly, girls! or the Philistines will be
upon us!" cried Di, tumbling off her perch in
sudden alarm.
Three agitated young ladies, with flying draperies
and countenances of mingled mirth and dismay,
might have been seen precipitating themselves into
a respectable mansion with unbecoming haste; but
the squirrels were the only witnesses of this "vision
of sudden flight," and, being used to ground-and-lofty
tumbling, didn't mind it.
When the pedestrians passed, the door was
decorously closed, and no one visible but a young
man, who snatched something out of the road,
and marched away again, whistling with more
vigor of tone than accuracy of tune, "Only that,
and nothing more."
HOW IT WAS FOUND.
Summer ripened into autumn, and something
fairer than
"Sweet-peas and mignonette
In Annie's garden grew."
Her nature was the counterpart of the hill-side
grove, where as a child she had read her fairy
tales, and now as a woman turned the first pages
of a more wondrous legend still. Lifted above
the many-gabled roof, yet not cut off from the
echo of human speech, the little grove seemed a
green sanctuary, fringed about with violets, and
full of summer melody and bloom. Gentle creatures
haunted it, and there was none to make
afraid; wood-pigeons cooed and crickets chirped
their shrill roundelays, anemones and lady-ferns
looked up from the moss that kissed the wanderer's
feet. Warm airs were all afloat, full of vernal
odors for the grateful sense, silvery birches
shimmered like spirits of the wood, larches gave their
green tassels to the wind, and pines made airy
music sweet and solemn, as they stood looking
heavenward through veils of summer sunshine or
shrouds of wintry snow.
Nan never felt alone now in this charmed wood;
for when she came into its precincts, once so full of
solitude, all things seemed to wear one shape,
familiar eyes looked at her from the violets in the
grass, familiar words sounded in the whisper of
the leaves, grew conscious that an unseen
influence filled the air with new delights, and
touched earth and sky with a beauty never seen
before. Slowly these Mayflowers budded in her
maiden heart, rosily they bloomed and silently they
waited till some lover of such lowly herbs should
catch their fresh aroma, should brush away the
fallen leaves, and lift them to the sun.
Though the eldest of the three, she had long
been overtopped by the more aspiring maids. But
though she meekly yielded the reins of government,
whenever they chose to drive, they were soon restored
to her again; for Di fell into literature, and
Laura into love. Thus engrossed, these two forgot
many duties which even bluestockings and inamoratos
are expected to perform, and slowly all the
homely humdrum cares that housewives know
became Nan's daily life, and she accepted it without
a thought of discontent. Noiseless and cheerful
as the sunshine, she went to and fro, doing the
tasks that mothers do, but without a mother's sweet
reward, holding fast the numberless slight threads
that bind a household tenderly together, and
making each day a beautiful success.
Di, being tired of running, riding, climbing, and
boating, decided at last to let her body rest and
put her equally active mind through what classical
collegians term "a course of sprouts." Having
undertaken to read and know everything, she devoted
herself to the task with great energy, going
from Sue to Swedenborg with perfect impartiality,
and having different authors as children have sundry
distempers, being fractious while they lasted,
but all the better for them when once over. Carlyle
appeared like scarlet-fever, and raged violently
for a time; for, being anything but a "passive
bucket," Di became prophetic with Mahomet,
belligerent with Cromwell, and made the French
Revolution a veritable Reign of Terror to her
family. Goethe and Schiller alternated like fever
and ague; Mephistopheles became her hero, Joan
of Arc her model, and she turned her black eyes
red over Egmont and Wallenstein. A mild attack of
Emerson followed, during which she was lost in a
fog, and her sisters rejoiced inwardly when she
emerged informing them that
"The Sphinx was drowsy,
Her wings were furled."
Poor Di was floundering slowly to her proper
place; but she splashed up a good deal of foam by
getting out of her depth, and rather exhausted
herself by trying to drink the ocean dry.
Laura, after the "midsummer night's dream "
that often comes to girls of seventeen, woke up to
find that youth and love were no match for age and
common sense. Philip had been flying about the
world like a thistle-down for five-and-twenty years,
generous-hearted. frank, and kind, but with never
an idea of the serious side of life in his handsome
head. Great, therefore, were the wrath and dismay
of the enamored thistle-down, when the father
of his love mildly objected to seeing her begin the
world in a balloon with a very tender but very
inexperienced aeronaut for a guide.
"Laura is too young to 'play house' yet, and
you are too unstable to assume the part of lord
and master, Philip. Go and prove that you have
prudence, patience, energy, and enterprise, and I
will give you my girl,--but not before. I must
seem cruel, that I may be truly kind; believe this,
and let a little pain lead you to great happiness,
or show you where you would have made a bitter
blunder."
The lovers listened, owned the truth of the old
man's words, bewailed their fate, and yielded,--
Laura for love of her father, Philip for love of her.
He went away to build a firm foundation for his
castle in the air, and Laura retired into an invisible
convent, where she cast off the world, and regarded
her sympathizing sisters throug a grate of superior
knowledge and unsharable grief. Like a devout nun, she
worshipped "St. Philip," and firmly believed in his
miraculous powers. She fancied that her woes set her
apart from common cares, and slowly fell into a dreamy
state, professing no interest in any mundane matter, but
the art that first attacted Philip. Crayons, bread-crusts,
and gray paper became glorified in Laura's eyes; and
her one pleasure was to sit pale and still before
her easel, day after day, filling her portfolios with
the faces he had once admired. Her sisters observed
that every Bacchus, Piping Faun, or Dying
Gladiator bore some likeness to a comely countenance
that heathen god or hero never owned;
and seeing this, they privately rejoiced that she
had found such solace for her grief.
Mrs. Lord's keen eye had read a certain newly
written page in her son's heart,--his first chapter
of that romance, begun in paradise, whose interest
never flags, whose beauty never fades, whose end
can never come till Love lies dead. With
womanly skill she divined the secret, with motherly
discretion she counselled patience, and her son
accepted her advice, feeling that, like many a
healthful herb, its worth lay in its bitterness.
"Love like a man, John, not like a boy, and
learn to know yourself before you take a woman's
happiness into your keeping. You and Nan have
known each other all your lives; yet, till this last
visit, you never thought you loved her more than
any other childish friend. It is too soon to say the
words so often spoken hastily,--so hard to be recalled.
Go back to your work, dear, for another year; think
of Nan in the light of this new hope:
compare her with comelier, gayer girls; and by
absence prove the truth of your belief. Then,
if distance only makes her dearer, if time only
strengthens your affection, and no doubt of your
own worthiness disturbs you, come back and offer
her what any woman should be glad to take,--
my boy's true heart."
John smiled at the motherly pride of her words,
but answered with a wistful look.
"It seems very long to wait, mother. If I could
just ask her for a word of hope, I could be very
patient then."
"Ah, my dear, better bear one year of impatience
now than a lifetime of regret hereafter. Nan
is happy; why disturb her by a word which will
bring the tender cares and troubles that come soon
enough to such conscientious creatures as herself?
If she loves you, time will prove it; therefore, let
the new affection spring and ripen as your early
friendship has done, and it will be all the stronger
for a summer's growth. Philip was rash, and has
to bear his trial now, and Laura shares it with him.
Be more generous, John; make your trial, bear
your doubts alone, and give Nan the happiness
without the pain. Promise me this, dear,--promise
me to hope and wait."
The young man's eye kindled, and in his heart
there rose a better chivalry, a truer valor, than any
Di's knights had ever known.
"I'll try, mother," was all he said; but she was
satisfied, for John seldom tried in vain.
"Oh, girls, how splendid you are! It does
my heart good to see my handsome sisters in their
best array," cried Nan, one mild October night,
as she put the last touches to certain airy raiment
fashioned by her own skilful hands, and then fell
back to survey the grand effect.
"Di and Laura were preparing to assist at an
event of the season," and Nan, with her own
locks fallen on her shoulders, for want of sundry
combs promoted to her sisters' heads and her dress
in unwonted disorder, for lack of the many pins
extracted in exciting crises of the toilet, hovered
like an affectionate bee about two very full-blown
flowers.
"Laura looks like a cool Undine, with the ivy-
wreaths in her shining hair; and Di has illuminated
herself to such an extent with those scarlet leaves.
that I don't know what great creature she resembles
most," said Nan, beaming with sisterly admiration.
"Like Juno, Zenobia, and Cleopatra simmered
into one, with a touch of Xantippe by way of
spice. But, to my eye, the finest woman of the
three is the dishevelled young person embracing
the bed-post: for she stays at home herself, and
gives her time and taste to making homely people
fine,--which is a waste of good material, and an
imposition on the public."
As Di spoke, both the fashion-plates looked
affectionately at the gray-gowned figure; but, being
works of art, they were obliged to nip their feelings
in the bud, and reserve their caresses till they
returned to common life.
"Put on your bonnet, and we'll leave you at
Mrs. Lord's on our way. It will do you good,
Nan; and perhaps there may be news from John,"
added Di, as she bore down upon the door like a
man-of-war under full sail.
"Or from Philip," sighed Laura, with a wistful
look.
Whereupon Nan persuaded herself that her
strong inclination to sit down was owing to want
of exercise, and the heaviness of her eyelids a freak
of imagination; so, speedily smoothing her ruffled
plumage, she ran down to tell her father of the new
arrangement.
"Go, my dear, by alll means. I shall be writing;
and you will be lonely if you stay. But I
must see my girls; for I caught glimpses of certain
surprising phantoms flitting by the door."
Nan led the way, and the two pyramids revolved
before him with the rapidity of lay-figures,
much to the good man's edification: for with his
fatherly pleasure there was mingled much mild
wonderment at the amplitude of array.
"Yes, I see my geese are really swans, though
there is such a cloud between us that I feel a long
way off, and hardly know them. But this little
daughter is always available, always my 'cricket
on the hearth.'
As he spoke, her father drew Nan closer, kissed
her tranquil face, and smiled content.
"Well, if ever I see picters, I see 'em now, and
I declare to goodness it's as interestin' as
playactin', every bit. Miss Di with all them boughs
in her head, looks like the Queen of Sheby, when
she went a-visitin' What's-his-name; and if Miss
Laura ain't as sweet as a lally-barster figger, I
should like to know what is."
In her enthusiasm, Sally gambolled about the
girls, flourishing her milk-pan like a modern
Miriam about to sound her timbrel for excess of
joy.
Laughing merrily, the two Mont Blancs bestowed
themselves in the family ark, Nan hopped
up beside Patrick, and Solon, roused from his
lawful slumbers, morosely trundled them away.
But, looking backward with a last "Good-
night!" Nan saw her father still standing at the
door with smiling countenance, and the moonlight
falling like a benediction on his silver hair.
"Betsey shall go up the hill with you, my dear,
and here's a basket of eggs for your father. Give
him my love, and be sure you let me know the
next time he is poorly," Mrs. Lord said, when her
guest rose to depart, after an hour of pleasant chat.
But Nan never got the gift; for, to her great
dismay, her hostess dropped the basket with a
crash, and flew across the room to meet a tall
shape pausing in the shadow of the door. There
was no need to ask who the new-comer was; for,
even in his mother's arms, John looked over her
shoulder with an eager nod to Nan, who stood
among the ruins with never a sign of weariness in
her face, nor the memory of a care at her heart.--
for they all went out when John came in.
"Now tell us how and why and when you came.
Take off your coat, my dear! And here are the
old slippers. Why didn't you let us know
you were coming so soon? How have you been?
and what makes you so late to-night? Betsey,
you needn't put on your bonnet. And--oh, my
dear boy, have you been to supper yet?
Mrs. Lord was a quiet soul, and her flood of
questions was purred softly in her son's ear; for,
being a woman, she must talk, and, being a mother,
must pet the one delight of her life, and make a
little festival when the lord of the manor came
home. A whole drove of fatted calves were
metaphorically killed, and a banquet appeared
with speed.
John was not one of those romantic heroes who
can go through three volumes of hair-breadth
escapes without the faintest hint of that blessed
institution, dinner; therefore, like "Lady Letherbridge,"
he partook, copiously of everything."
while the two women beamed over each mouthful
with an interest that enhanced its flavor, and urged
upon him cold meat and cheese, pickles and pie, as
if dyspepsia and nightmare were among the lost
arts.
Then he opened his budget of news and fed
them.
"I was coming next month, according to custom;
but Philip fell upon and so tempted me, that
I was driven to sacrifice myself to the cause of
friendship, and up we came to-night. He would
not let me come here till we had seen your father,
Nan; for the poor lad was pining for Laura, and
hoped his good behavior for the past year would
satisfy his judge and secure his recall. We had a
fine talk with your father; and, upon my life, Philip
seemed to have received the gift of tongues, for he
made a most eloquent plea, which I've stored away
for future use, I assure you. The dear old gentleman
was very kind, told Phil he was satisfied with
the success of his probation, that he should see
Laura when he liked, and, if all went well, should
receive his reward in the spring. It must be a
delightful sensation to know you have made a
fellow-creature as happy as those words made Phil
to-night."
John paused, and looked musingly at the matronly
tea-pot, as if he saw a wondrous future in
its shine.
Nan twinkled off the drops that rose at the
thought of Laura's joy, and said, with grateful
warmth,--
"You say nothing of your own share in the
making of that happiness, John; but we know it,
for Philip has told Laura in his letters all that you
have been to him, and I am sure there was other
eloquence beside his own before father granted all
you say he has. Oh, John, I thank you very much
for this!
Mrs. Lord beamed a whole midsummer of delight
upon her son, as she saw the pleasure these
words gave him, though he answered simply,--
"I only tried to be a brother to him, Nan; for
he has been most kind to me. Yes, I said my little
say to-night, and gave my testimony in behalf of
the prisoner at the bar; a most merciful judge
pronounced his sentence, and he rushed straight
to Mrs. Leigh's to tell Laura the blissful news.
Just imagine the scene when he appears, and how
Di will open her wicked eyes and enjoy the spectacle
of the dishevelled lover, the bride-elect's tears,
the stir, and the romance of the thing. She'll
cry over it to-night, and caricature it to-morrow.
And John led the laugh at the picture he had
conjured up, to turn the thoughts of Di's dangerous
sister from himself.
At ten Nan retired into the depths of her old
bonnet with a far different face from the one she
brought out of it, and John, resuming his hat,
mounted guard.
"Don't stay late, remember, John!" And in
Mrs. Lord's voice there was a warning tone that
her son interpreted aright.
"I'll not forget, mother."
And he kept his word; for though Philip's happiness
floated temptingly before him, and the little
figure at his side had never seemed so dear, he
ignored the bland winds, the tender night, and set
a seal upon his lips, thinking manfully within himself.
"I see many signs of promise in her happy
face; but I will wait and hope a little longer for
her sake."
"Where is father, Sally?" asked Nan, as that
functionary appeared, blinking owlishly, but utterly
repudiating the idea of sleep.
"He went down the garding, miss, when the
gentlemen cleared, bein' a little flustered by the
goin's on. Shall I fetch him in?" asked Sally, as
irreverently as if her master were a bag of meal.
"No, we will go ourselves." And slowly the
two paced down the leaf-strewn walk.
Fields of yellow grain were waving on the
hill-side, and sere corn blades rustled in the wind,
from the orchard came the scent of ripening fruit,
and all the garden-plots lay ready to yield up their
humble offerings to their master's hand. But in
the silence of the night a greater Reaper had
passed by, gathering in the harvest of a righteous
life, and leaving only tender memories for the
gleaners who had come so late.
The old man sat in the shadow of the tree his
own hands planted; its fruit boughs shone ruddily,
and its leaves still whispered the low lullaby
that hushed him to his rest.
"How fast he sleeps! Poor father! I should
have come before and made it pleasant for
him."
As she spoke, Nan lifted up the head bent down
upon his breast, and kissed his pallid cheek.
"Oh, John, this is not sleep."
"Yes, dear, the happiest he will ever
know."
For a moment the shadows flickered over three
white faces and the silence deepened solemnly.
Then John reverently bore the pale shape in, and
Nan dropped down beside it, saying, with a rain
of grateful tears,--
"He kissed me when I went, and said a last
good-night!'"
For an hour steps went to and fro about her,
many voices whispered near her, and skilful hands
touched the beloved clay she held so fast; but one
by one the busy feet passed out, one by one the
voices died away, and human skill proved vain.
Then Mrs. Lord drew the orphan to the shelter of
her arms, soothing her with the mute solace of that
motherly embrace.
"Nan, Nan! here's Philip! come and see!"
The happy call re-echoed through the house,
and Nan sprang up as if her time for grief were
past.
"I must tell them. Oh, my poor girls, how
will they bear it?--they have known so little
sorrow!"
But there was no need for her to speak; other
lips had spared her the hard task. For, as she
stirred to meet them, a sharp cry rent the air, steps
rang upon the stairs, and two wild-eyed creatures
came into the hush of that familiar room, for the
first time meeting with no welcome from their
father's voice.
With one impulse, Di and Laura fled to Nan.
and the sisters clung together in a silent embrace,
more eloquent than words. John took his
mother by the hand, and led her from the room,
closing the door upon the sacredness of grief.
"Yes, we are poorer than we thought; but
when everything is settled, we shall get on very
well. We can let a part of this great house, and
live quietly together until spring; then Laura will
be married, and Di can go on their travels with
them, as Philip wishes her to do. We shall be
cared for; so never fear for us, John."
Nan said this, as her friend parted from her a
week later, after the saddest holiday he had ever
known.
"And what becomes of you, Nan?" he asked,
watching the patient eyes that smiled when
others would have wept.
"I shall stay in the dear old house; for no other
place would seem like home to me. I shall find
some little child to love and care for, and be quite
happy till the girls come back and want me."
John nodded wisely, as he listened, and went
away prophesying within himself,--
"She shall find something more than a child to
love; and, God willing, shall be very happy till
the girls come home and--cannot have her."
Nan's plan was carried into effect. Slowly the
divided waters closed again, and the three fell
back into their old life. But the touch of sorrow
drew them closer; and, though invisible, a beloved
presence still moved among them, a familiar voice
still spoke to them in the silence of their softened
hearts. Thus the soil was made ready, and in the
depth of winter the good seed was sown, was
watered with many tears, and soon sprang up
green with a promise of a harvest for their after
years.
Di and Laura consoled themselves with their
favorite employments, unconscious that Nan was
growing paler, thinner, and more silent, as the
weeks went by, till one day she dropped quietly
before them, and it suddenly became manifest that
she was utterly worn out with many cares and the
secret suffering of a tender heart bereft of the
paternal love which had been its strength and stay.
"I'm only tired, dear girls. Don't be troubled!,
for I shall be up to-morrow," she said cheerily, as
she looked into the anxious faces bending over
her.
But the weariness was of many months' growth,
and it was weeks before that "to-morrow " came.
Laura installed herself as nurse, and her devotion
was repaid four-fold; for, sitting at her sister's
bedside, she learned a finer art than that she had
left. Her eye grew clear to see the beauty of a
self-denying life, and in the depths of Nan's meek
nature she found the strong, sweet virtues that
made her what she was.
Then remembering that these womanly attributes were
a bride's best dowry, Laura gave herself to their
attainment, that she might become to another household
the blessing Nan had been to her own; and turning
from the worship of the goddess Beauty, she gave
her hand to that humbler and more human teacher,
Duty,--learning her lessons with a willing heart,
for Philip's sake.
Di corked her inkstand, locked her bookcase,
and went at housework as if it were a five-barred
gate; of course she missed the leap, but scrambled
bravely through, and appeared much sobered by
the exercise. Sally had departed to sit under a
vine and fig-tree of her own, so Di had undisputed
sway; but if dish-pans and dusters had tongues,
direful would have been the history of that crusade
against frost and fire, indolence and inexperience.
But they were dumb, and Di scorned to complain,
though her struggles were pathetic to behold, and
her sisters went through a series of messes equal to
a course of "Prince Benreddin's" peppery tarts.
Reality turned Romance out of doors; for, unlike
her favorite heroines in satin and tears, or helmet
and shield, Di met her fate in a big checked apron
and dust-cap, wonderful to see; yet she wielded
her broom as stoutly as "Moll Pitcher" shouldered
her gun, and marched to her daily martyrdom in the
kitchen with as heroic a heart as the "Maid of Orleans"
took to her stake.
Mind won the victory over matter in the end,
and Di was better all her days for the tribulations
and the triumphs of that time; for she drowned her
idle fancies in her wash-tub, made burnt-offerings
of selfishness and pride, and learned the worth of
self-denial, as she sang with happy voice among
the pots and kettles of her conquered realm.
Nan thought of John, and in the stillness of her
sleepless nights prayed Heaven to keep him safe,
and make her worthy to receive and strong enough
to bear the blessedness or pain of love.
Snow fell without, and keen winds howled
among the leafless elms, but "herbs of grace"
were blooming beautifully in the sunshine of
sincere endeavor, and this dreariest season proved the
most fruitful of the year; for love taught Laura,
labor chastened Di, and patience fitted Nan for the
blessing of her life.
Nature, that stillest, yet most diligent of housewives,
began at last that "spring cleaning" which
she makes so pleasant that none find the heart to
grumble as they do when other matrons set their
premises a-dust. Her hand-maids, wind and rain
and sun, swept, washed, and garnished busily,
green carpets were unrolled, apple-boughs were
hung with draperies of bloom, and dandelions, pet
nurslings of the year, came out to play upon the
sward.
From the South returned that opera troupe
whose manager is never in despair, whose tenor
never sulks, whose prima donna never fails, and
in the orchard bona fide matinees were held, to
which buttercups and clovers crowded in their
prettiest spring hats, and verdant young blades
twinkled their dewy lorgnettes, as they bowed and
made way for the floral belles.
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