"I never was a favourite; My mother never smiled On me with half the tenderness That blessed her fairer child."
"CHRISTINE, do be obliging for once, and sew this button on myglove, won't you?" cried Ann Lambert, impatiently, throwing a whitekid glove in her sister's lap. "I am in such a flurry! I won't beready to go to the concert in two or three hours. Mr. Darcet hasbeen waiting in the parlour an age. I don't know what the reason is,but I never can find anything I want, when I look for it; whenever Idon't want a thing, it is always in the way. Have you sewed it onyet?" she asked, looking around from the bureau, where she wasturning everything topsy turvy, in the most vigorous manner.Christine was quietly looking out of the window, yawning and gazinglistlessly up at the moon and stars.
"O no matter if you have no button on," was her reply; "I reallydon't feel like moving my fingers just now. You must wait onyourself. I always do."
"I shouldn't have expected anything but your usual idle selfishness,even when I most need your assistance," replied Ann, in a cool,bitter tone; the curve of her beautiful lip, and the calm scorn ofthe look she bent on Christine, betrayed her haughty, passionatecharacter, and it also told that she was conscious of a certainpower and strength of mind, which when roused, could and would bendothers to her will. A slight, contemptuous smile was on her lip, asshe picked up the glove which had fallen on the floor.
"I'll sew the button on, Ann," said Christine, taking it from her,and looking up seriously, but with a compressed expression about herface. Her cheeks burned; there was a reproof in her steady gaze,before which Ann's scornful smile vanished. "No, Christine, I willwait on myself," she answered in a rigid tone.
"Very well," and Christine turned to the window again. She had notquailed before her sister's look, but its bitter contempt rankled inher heart, and poisoned the current of her thoughts. Not a word wasspoken, when Ann with her bonnet on, left their apartment. The frontdoor closed; Christine listened to the sound of her sister's voicein the street a moment, then rose from her chair, and threw herselfupon the bed, sobbing violently.
"Oh! why has God made me as I am?" she murmured. "No one loves me.They do not know me; they know how bad I am--but, oh! they neverdream how often I weep, and pray for the affection that is deniedme. How Ann is caressed by everybody, and how indifferently am Igreeted! There is no one in the wide world who takes a deep interestin me. I am only secondary with father and mother; they are so proudof Ann's beauty and talent, they do not think to see whether I ampossessed of talent or not. They think I am cold and heartless,because they have taught me to restrain my warmest feelings; theyhave turned me back upon myself, they have forced me to shut up inmy own heart, its bitterness, its prayers for affection, its pride,its sorrow. They have made me selfish, disobliging, anddisagreeable, because I am too proud to act as if I would beg thelove they are so careless of bestowing. And yet, why am I so proudand so bitter? I was not so at school; then I was gentle and gay;then I too was a favourite; they called me amiable. I am not so now.Then I dwelt in an atmosphere of love, only the best impulses of mynature were called out. Now--oh! I did not know I could so change; Idid not know that there was room in my heart for envy and jealousy.I did not know myself!"
Christine wept, until her head ached, and her forehead felt as if itwas swelled almost to bursting. "After a storm, there comes a calm,"is a truism well known. In about half an hour, she was sleepingprofoundly, from mere exhaustion of feeling. But her face was pale,and sad to look upon, even in her sleep.
When Ann returned home, at a late hour, she glanced hastily at thebed, to see if she had retired, and was sleeping. More than onceduring the evening her heart had reproached her for the part she hadacted. With a noiseless step she approached Christine, and bent overher. The tear-drop upon her pale cheek, revealed the unconsciousgirl to her in a new character. How her conscience smote her, forthe grief upon that countenance, now so subdued by the spirit ofsleep! Its meek sadness and tenderness stirred in her bosom feelingsshe had seldom experienced. She felt and understood better than everbefore, her sister's proud reserve with herself, as well as everyone else. She kissed away the tear, and knelt at the bedside inprayer, a thing she had not done for years. A flood of tender andself-reproachful feelings came over her; the spring was touched, andshe wept aloud. Christine started up, and murmured a few brokensentences, before she was fully conscious of the meaning of thescene.
"What is the matter, Ann, are you crying?" she at length asked, asher sister lifted up her face. Ann arose from her knees; shehesitated, she felt as if she could throw herself into Christine'sarms, and weep freely as she asked forgiveness for her conduct. Shefelt that she would be affectionately pardoned. And yet she stoodsilent; her heart brimming with tenderness all the while--somethingheld her back; a something that too often chills a pure impulse, agush of holy feeling. It was pride. She could not bring herself tospeak words of penitence and humility. But she did not turn awayfrom the anxious gaze riveted upon her; she drooped her eyes, andthe tears rolled slowly down her face.
"Oh, Ann, dear Ann, this does not seem like you!" said Christine,tenderly approaching her. "I am your sister; if you have any sorrow,why may I not sympathize with you? How can you be sorrowful? younever meet with neglect, and--" the young girl paused hastily, witha suddenly flushed face; she had inadvertently betrayed what she hadpreviously so carefully concealed under the mask of callousindifference--she had shown that she felt keenly her own position,and that of her sister as a favourite. Ann was proud of herintellect and fascinating beauty; she was selfishly fond ofadmiration. She knew that her sister was really as gifted asherself, if not more so; she had heard her converse at times, whenher cheek glowed, and her eye kindled with enthusiasm. She had seenher, very rarely, but still she had seen her, when expression hadlit up her face with a positive beauty--when the soul, the life ofbeauty beamed forth, and went to the heart with a thrill thatacknowledged its power. She knew that she would have been brilliantand fascinating, if she had not been repressed; with all her faults,there was a more feminine yieldingness about her, than aboutherself. There was an affectionate pathos in her voice, a tendergrace in her air, when she asked to sympathize in her sorrow. Annfelt for the first time fully, that she was one to love, and bebeloved in the social circle. She felt that she had been mostungenerous to absorb all the attention of her friends, instead ofbringing forward the reserved, sensitive Christine. The sisters hadnever been much together; they had never made confidants of eachother;--Ann was the eldest, and all in all with her parents, whileChristine was a sort of appendage. Ann felt the unintentionalreproach conveyed in her last words; she marked how quickly shestopped, and seemed to retire within herself again; she scanned herface closely, and generous feelings triumphed.
"Dear Christine!" she said in a low voice, passing her arm aroundher. "We have never been to each other what sisters ought to be. Ihave been too thoughtless and careless; I have not remembered as Ishould have done, that you returned from school, a stranger to themajority of our friends and acquaintances. You are so reserved, evenhere at home; you never talk and laugh with father and mother as Ido."
"Do you know why I appear cold, Ann? I am not so by nature. They donot seem to care when I speak, and I am not yet humble enough tohave what I say treated with perfect indifference."
"Why, Christine, you are too sensitive," said Ann, half impatiently."Be as noisy and lively as I am; entertain father, and say what willplease mother; then you will be as great a pet as I."
"Even if I should value love, based upon my powers of pleasing,instead of the intrinsic worth of my character, I could not gain it,Ann. I came home, after my long absence, as merry and light-hearted,as full of hope, of love towards you all, as ever a happy schoolgirldid. Then I was seventeen; it seems as if long years had elapsedsince the day I sprang into your arms so joyfully--since father andmother kissed me. Home, sweet home, how musical those words were tome! how often I had dreamed of nestling at father's side, your handlocked in mine, and mother's smile upon us both. It was not longbefore I was awakened from the dream I had cherished so long. Ithought my heart would break when the reality that I was unloved,came upon me. Then I learned how deep were the fountains oftenderness within me. My heart overflowed with an intense desire foraffection, when I saw that I did not possess it. Oh! how often Ilooked upon mother's face, unobserved, and felt that my love for herwas but a wasted shower. At that time of bitterness, how sad was therevelation that came up from the very depths of my soul, teaching mea truth fraught with suffering--that affection is life itself! Ifelt that it was my destiny never to be cheered by its blessed lightand warmth. Months passed away, and I closed up my heart; acoldness, a stoic apathy came over me, which was sometimes broken bya slight thing; the flood-gates of feeling gave way, and I wept witha passionate sorrow--over my own sinfulness--over my own lonelyheart, without one joy to shed a glow on its rude desolation. Oh!then, when I was softened, when I could pray, and feel that the Lordlistened to me, I would have been a different being, if mother'shand had been laid fondly upon my head, if her eyes had filled withtears, and I could have leaned upon her bosom and wept. But I wasunloved, and my heart grew hard again."
"Don't say that you are unloved," interrupted Ann, pressingChristine to her heart, and sobbing with an abandonment of feeling."Forgive me, dear, dear sister! my heart shall be your home--we willlove each other always; I will never again be as I have been. Don'tweep so, Christine, can't you believe me? I am selfish, I amheartless sometimes, but a change has come over me to-night; toyou I can never be heartless again!"
At that moment, few would have recognised the haughty Miss Lambertin the tearful girl, whose head drooped on Christine's shoulder,while her white hand was clasped and held in meek affection to herlips. If we could read the private history of many an apparentlycold, heartless being, we would be more charitable in our opinionsof others. We would see that there are times when the betterfeelings, which God has given as a pure inheritance, are touched. Wewould see the inner life from Him, flowing down from its home in thehidden recesses of the soul, breaking and scattering the clouds ofevil, which had impeded its descent--we would see the hard heartmelted, though perhaps briefly, beneath angel influences. We wouldsee that all alike are the beloved creations of the Almighty's hand,and we would weep over ourselves, as well as others, to feel howseldom we yield to the voice that would ever lead us aright. AnnLambert, as her heart overflowed with pure affection, thoughtsincerely that no selfish action of hers should ever saddenChristine. She felt that she was unworthy, that she had been crueland selfish, but she imagined her strong emotions of repentance haduprooted the evils, which had only been shaken.
Christine dried her tears, and looked earnestly and inquiringly inher sister's face, as if she suspected there was some hidden sorrowwith which she was unacquainted. Ann answered her look by saying,
"You wonder what I was weeping for, when you awoke, Christine. I hadmet with no sorrow; but when I looked at you, the course of conductI had pursued towards you came up before me vividly: I felt howunsisterly I had been--"
"Say nothing about it," interrupted Christine, with delicategenerosity, "let the past be forgotten, the future shall be allbrightness, dearest Ann. We will pour out our hearts to each other,and each will strengthen the other in better purposes. I am nolonger alone, you love me and I am happy."
That night, the dreams of the sisters were pure and peaceful. Onehappy week passed away with Christine; Ann was affectionate andgentle, and only went out when accompanied by her. They wereinseparable; they read, wrote, studied, and sewed together. For thetime, Ann seemed to have laid aside her usual character; she yieldedto her purest feelings; no incident had yet occurred to mar hertranquillity. One evening, when she was reading aloud to Christinein their own apartment, a servant girl threw open the door andexclaimed,
"Miss Ann, there are two gentlemen waiting in the parlour to seeyou; Mr. Darcet and Mr. Burns!"
"Very well," replied Ann, rising, and giving the book to Christine;but she took it away in the instant, and said,
"Come, Crissy, go down with me!"
"Oh, no matter," replied her sister, "I am not acquainted with them,and I would rather stay up here, and read. Mother will be in theparlour."
"Suit yourself," returned Ann, half carelessly, as she smoothed herhair. "When you get tired of reading, come down."
"I'll see about it," said Christine, as the door closed.
Ann looked beautiful indeed, as she entered the parlour, herfeatures lit up with a smile of graceful welcome. After a littleeasy trifling, the conversation turned upon subjects which she knewChristine would be interested in. Under a kind impulse, she left theroom, and hastened to her.
"Come down into the parlour, Christine," she exclaimed, laying herhand affectionately upon her shoulder, as she approached. "Mr.Darcet is telling about his travels in Europe, and I am sure youwill be interested. There is no need of your being sounsociable. Come, dear!"
Christine raised her face with an eloquent smile; she went with Annwithout speaking, but her heart was filled with a sweet happiness,from this proof of thoughtful affection. When she was introduced toAnn's friends, there was a most lovely expression on her face,breathing forth from a pure joyfulness within.
"I was not aware that you had a sister, Miss Lambert," said Mr.Darcet, turning to Ann, when they were quietly seated after a briefadmiring gaze at Christine.
"Perhaps I have been too much of a recluse," replied Christinequickly, in order to relieve the embarrassment of Ann, which wasmanifested by a deep blush. "I have yielded to sister Ann'spersuasions this time to be a little sociable, and I think I shallmake this a beginning of sociabilities."
"I hope so," returned Darcet; "do you think being much secluded, hasa beneficial effect upon the mind and feelings?"
"I do not," was the young girl's brief answer. The colour came toher cheek, and a painful expression crossed her brow, an instant."But sometimes--" the sentence was left unfinished. Darcet'scuriosity was awakened by the sudden quiver of Christine's lip, andforgetful of what he was about, he perused her countenance longer,and more eagerly, than was perfectly polite or delicate. She felthis scrutiny, and was vexed with her tell-tale face. There was asilence which Mrs. Lambert interrupted by saying, with a smile,
"We should like to hear more of your adventures, Mr. Darcet, if itis agreeable to you."
"Oh! certainly!" he replied. And he whiled an hour quickly away. Annwas then urged to play and sing, which she did, but there was alittle haughtiness mingled with her usual grace.
"Don't you sing, Miss Christine?" asked Darcet, leaving the piano,and approaching the window where she sat, listening attentively toAnn.
"I do sometimes," answered Christine, smiling, "but Ann sings farbetter."
"Let others judge of that. Isn't that fair?"
"We often err in thinking we do better than other people, but Ithink we generally hit the truth, when we discover that in somethings, at least, we are not quite as perfect as others."
"Certainly, but it is the custom to speak of ourselves, as if wewere inferior to those whom we really regard as beneath us in manyrespects. There is no true humility in that; we depart from thetruth."
"Custom sanctions many falsehoods; to speak the truth always, wouldmake us many enemies. But we might better have them, than tocontradict the truth; what do you think?" Christine looked up withan earnest seriousness.
"Truth, and truth alone, should govern us in every situation, letthe consequences be what they may," said Darcet, in a tone thatsounded almost stern; then more gently he added, "Before all thingsI prize a frank spirit; for heaven may be reflected there. With all,this upright candour must in a measure be acquired. Yet, I thinkfrankness to our own souls is acquired with far more labour. Weshrink from a severe scrutiny into our tangled motives."
"And when these motives are forced upon our notice, we endeavour topalliate and excuse them. I am sure it is so," exclaimed Christineearnestly, for her own young heart's history came up before her, andshe remembered that she had excused herself for acting and feelingwrong, on the plea that others had not done right, by her."But"--she continued after a pause, "you cannot think it is wellalways to express the sentiments which circumstances may give riseto. Such a course might prevent us from doing a great deal of good."
"Certainly it might. The end in view should be regarded. Good sense,and a pure heart, will show us the best way in most cases."
There is a power deep and silent, exerted by good persons; thefolded blossoms of the heart slowly open in their presence, and arerefreshed. A new impulse, a pure aspiration for a higher life, ayearning after the perfecting of our nature, may be sown as a seedin hearts that are young in the work of self-conquest. Thus it waswith Christine. The influence of Darcet strengthened all that wasgood within her; and as they remained long engaged in deep andearnest conversation, the elevation and purity of his sentimentsgave clearness and strength to ideas that had been obscure to herbefore, because unexpressed. Her peculiar situation had made her farmore thoughtful than many of her years. She thought she had lost thegay buoyancy of her childhood, but she was mistaken. She was one toprofit by lessons that pressed down the bounding lightness of herspirit; she was yet to learn that she could grow young in gladfeelings, as years rolled over her head. There was a subdued joy inher heart, that was new to her, and gave a sweetness to her manner,as she poured forth the guileless thoughts that first rose to herlips. It seemed strange to meet with the ardent sympathy whichDarcet manifested by every look of his intelligent face; she couldscarcely realize that it was herself, that anybody really feltinterested in the thoughts and imaginings that had clustered aroundher solitary hours. At parting, he said with warm interest, as heslightly pressed her hand, "I hope, Miss Christine, we may have manyconversations on the subjects we have touched upon to-night."
"Oh! I hope so," replied Christine, with a frank, bright smile.After the gentlemen had gone, Christine threw her arm around hersister, and said gayly, "Hav'n't we had a pleasant evening, Ann, mydear?"
"Pleasant enough," said Ann, trying to yawn, "but I felt ratherstupid, as I often do."
"Stupid! Is it possible?" exclaimed the astonished girl. "You weretalking with Mr. Burns; well, he didn't look as if he would ever setthe North River afire with his energies, it is true."
Ann smiled very slightly, then rather pettishly disengaged herselffrom the detaining hand of Christine, and taking a light, retiredwithout saying anything, but a brief good-night to her mother.Christine soon followed, wondering what made Ann so mute and sharpin her actions. "Why, Ann, are you angry with me?" she asked, goingup to her, as soon as she entered the apartment.
"I don't know what I should be angry for," was the impatient reply."Can't a person be a little short when sleepy, without beingtormented with questions about it?"
"Oh, yes, I won't trouble you any more." And making due allowancefor Ann's quick temper, Christine occupied herself good-humouredlywith her own thoughts. The secret of Ann's shortness and sleepinesslay here. Her vanity was wounded to think, that Christine was moreinteresting than her own beautiful self.
"Well, he is a sort of a puritan, and now I begin to understandChristine, better, I think she is too," thought Ann, after she hadmused her irritation away a little. "He is very polite andagreeable, and it was very pleasant to have him always ready to takeme out when I wanted to go, but I never felt perfectly easy in hiscompany; I was always afraid I might say something dreadful;something that would shock his wonderful goodness. But Christineseemed perfectly at home. How bright and lovely she looked! I willnot allow evil thoughts to triumph over me. I will not be vexedsimply because she eclipsed me, where no one ever did before. She isa dear, affectionate girl, and I made a vow before God to love heralways, never to be to her as I was once."
A fervent prayer brought back to Ann all her former tranquillity,and she pressed a kiss upon Christine's forehead, full of repentantaffection. Just before she went to sleep, she thought to herself,
"Well, if I may trust my woman's perception, Darcet will beexclaiming, after he has seen Christine a few times more,
"Oh! love, young love, bound in thy rosy bands."
Ann's perception proved correct. About a year after thesecogitations, Christine became Mrs. Darcet. The sisters were muchchanged, but Christine the most so. There was a child-likesimplicity and sweetness beaming from her young face, which Annneeded. Yet had much haughtiness faded from the brow of thatbeautiful girl; she had grown better; but as yet her heart had notbeen schooled in suffering as Christine's had. There was deepaffection in the warm tears that fell upon the bride's cheek, aspoor Ann felt that she had indeed gone to bless another with hertender goodness. Christine's warm heart grew yet more sunny in herown happy little home, and her feelings more open and expansive,beneath the genial influence of friendly eyes.
THE END.
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