A Modern Cinderella
by
HOW IT WAS LOST
Among green New England hills stood an ancient house, many-gabled, mossy-roofed, and quaintly built, but picturesque and pleasant to the eye; for a brook ran babbling through the orchard that encompassed it about, a garden-plot stretched upward to the whispering birches on the slope, and patriarchal elms stood sentinel upon the lawn, as they had stood almost a century ago, when the Revolution rolled that way and found them young.
One summer morning, when the air was full of country sounds, of mowers in the meadow, blackbirds by the brook, and the low of the kine upon the hill-side, the old house wore its cheeriest aspect, and a certain humble history began.
“Nan!”
“Yes, Di.”
And a head, brown-locked, blue-eyed, soft-featured, looked in at the open door in answer to the call.
“Just bring me the third volume of ‘Wilhelm Meister,’–there’s a dear. It’s hardly worth while to rouse such a restless ghost as I, when I’m once fairly laid.”
As she spoke, Di pushed up her black braids, thumped the pillow of the couch where she was lying, and with eager eyes went down the last page of her book.
“Nan!”
“Yes, Laura,” replied the girl, coming back with the third volume for the literary cormorant, who took it with a nod, still too intent upon the “Confessions of a Fair Saint” to remember the failings of a certain plain sinner.
“Don’t forget the Italian cream for dinner. I depend upon it; for it’s the only thing fit for me this hot weather.”
And Laura, the cool blonde, disposed the folds of her white gown more gracefully about her, and touched up the eyebrow of the Minerva she was drawing.
“Little daughter!”
“Yes, father.”
“Let me have plenty of clean collars in my bag, for I must go at three; and some of you bring me a glass of cider in about an hour;–I shall be in the lower garden.”
The old man went away into his imaginary paradise, and Nan into that domestic purgatory on a summer day,–the kitchen. There were vines about the windows, sunshine on the floor, and order everywhere; but it was haunted by a cooking-stove, that family altar whence such varied incense rises to appease the appetite of household gods, before which such dire incantations are pronounced to ease the wrath and woe of the priestess of the fire, and about which often linger saddest memories of wasted temper, time, and toil.
Nan was tired, having risen with the birds,–hurried, having many cares those happy little housewives never know,–and disappointed in a hope that hourly “dwindled, peaked, and pined.” She was too young to make the anxious lines upon her forehead seem at home there, too patient to be burdened with the labor others should have shared, too light of heart to be pent up when earth and sky were keeping a blithe holiday. But she was one of that meek sisterhood who, thinking humbly of themselves, believe they are honored by being spent in the service of less conscientious souls, whose careless thanks seem quite reward enough.
To and fro she went, silent and diligent, giving the grace of willingness to every humble or distasteful task the day had brought her; but some malignant sprite seemed to have taken possession of her kingdom, for rebellion broke out everywhere. The kettles would boil over most obstreperously,–the mutton refused to cook with the meek alacrity to be expected from the nature of a sheep,–the stove, with unnecessary warmth of temper, would glow like a fiery furnace,–the irons would scorch,–the linens would dry,–and spirits would fail, though patience never.
Nan tugged on, growing hotter and wearier, more hurried and more hopeless, till at last the crisis came; for in one fell moment she tore her gown, burnt her hand, and smutched the collar she was preparing to finish in the most unexceptionable style. Then, if she had been a nervous woman, she would have scolded; being a gentle girl, she only “lifted up her voice and wept.”
“Behold, she watereth her linen with salt tears, and bewaileth herself because of much tribulation. But, lo! help cometh from afar: a strong man bringeth lettuce wherewith to stay her, plucketh berries to comfort her withal, and clasheth cymbals that she may dance for joy.”