Fashion and Famine. Ann S. Stephens
out was beckoning to her.
"I will take the violets!" she said, reaching forth her hand, that trembled as the simple blossoms were placed in it.—"Heaven forbid that I should cast the sweet omen from me. Thank you child—thank you."
The lady drew back into the carriage. Her face was clouded by the veil, but tears trembled in her voice, and that voice lingered upon Julia Warren's ear many a long month afterward. It had unlocked the deepest well-spring of her life.
The strawberry girl stood upon the wharf motionless and lost in thought minutes after the carriage drove away. She had forgotten the basket on her arm, everything in the strange regret that lay upon her young heart. Never, never would she meet that beautiful woman again. The thought filled her soul with unutterable loneliness. She was unconscious that another carriage had driven up, and that a Southern vessel, arrived that morning, was pouring forth luggage and passengers on the opposite side of the pier. She took no heed of anything that was passing around her, till a sweet, low voice close by, exclaimed—
"Oh! see those flowers—those beautiful, beautiful moss rose-buds!"
Julia looked up. A young girl with soft, dark eyes, and lips dewy and red as the buds she coveted, stood a few paces off, with her hand grasped by a tall and stately looking man, approaching middle age, if not a year or two on the other side, who seemed anxious to hurry his companion into the carriage.
"Step in, Florence, the girl can come to us!" said the man, restraining the eager girl, who had withdrawn her foot from the carriage steps. "Come, come, lady-bird, this is no place for us: see, half the crowd are looking this way."
The young lady blushed and entered the carriage, followed by her impatient companion, who beckoned Julia towards him.
"Here," he said, tossing a silver coin into her basket, "give me those buds, quick, and then get out of the way, or you will be trampled down."
Julia held up her basket, half terrified by the impatience that broke from the dark eyes bent upon her.
"There, sweet one, these might have ripened on your own smile: kiss them for my sake!" said the man, gently bending with his fragrant gift toward his lovely companion.
His voice, soft, sweet and harmonious, fell upon the child's heart also; and while the tones melted into her memory, she shuddered as the flower may be supposed to shrink when a serpent creeps by.
CHAPTER II. THE OLD COUPLE.
There is no spot so dark on earth,
But love can shed bright glimmers there,
Nor anguish known, of human birth,
That yieldeth not to faith and prayer.
In the basement of a rear building in one of those cross streets that grow more and more squalid as they stretch down to the water's edge, sat an aged couple, at nightfall, on the day when our humble heroine was presented to the reader. The room was damp, low and dark; a couple of rude chairs, a deal table, and a long wooden chest were all the furniture it contained. A rough shelf ran over the mantel-piece, on which were arranged a half dozen unmatched cups and saucers, and a broken plate or two, and a teapot, minus half its spout, all scrupulously washed, and piled together with some appearance of ostentation.
A brown platter, which stood on the table, contained the only approach to food that the humble dwelling afforded. A bone of bacon thrice picked, and preserved probably from a wretched desire to possess something in the shape of food, though that something was but a mockery, this and a fragment of bread lay upon the platter, covered with a neat crash towel.
A straw bed made up on one corner of the floor partook of the general neatness everywhere visible in the wretched dwelling; the sheets were of homespun linen, such as our Down East house-wives loved to manufacture years ago, and the covering a patch-work quilt, formed of rich, old-fashioned chintz, was neatly turned under the edges. One might have known how more than precious was that fine old quilt, by the great care taken to preserve it. The whole apartment bespoke extreme poverty in its most respectable form. Perfect destitution and scrupulous neatness were so blended, that it made the heart ache with compassion.
The old couple drew their seats closer together on the hearth-stone, and looked wistfully in each other's faces as the darkness of coming night gathered around them. The bright morning had been succeeded by a chill, uncomfortable rain, and this increased tenfold the gloomy and dark atmosphere of the basement. Thus they sat gazing at each other, and listening moodily to the rain as it beat heavier and heavier upon the sidewalks.
"Come, come!" said the old woman, with a smile that she intended to be cheerful, but which was only a wan reflection of what she wished. "This is all very wrong; once to-day the Lord has sent us food, and here we are desponding again. Julia will be cold and wet, poor thing; don't let her find us looking so hungry when she comes in."
"I was thinking of her," muttered the old man, in a sad voice. "Yes, the poor thing will be cold and wet and wretched enough, but that is nothing to the disappointment; she had built up such hopes this morning."
"Well, who knows after all; something may have happened!" said the old woman, with an effort at hopefulness.
"No, no," replied the man, in a voice of touching despondency, "if she had done anything, the child would have been home long ago. She has no heart to come back."
The old man passed his hand over his eyes, and then flung a handful of chips and shavings on the fire from a scant pile that lay in a corner. The blaze flamed up, revealing the desolate room for a moment, and then died away, flashing over the pale and haggard faces that bent over it, with a wan brilliancy that made them look absolutely corpse-like.
Those two wrinkled faces were meagre and wrinkled from lack of sustenance; still, in the faded lineaments there was nothing to revolt the heart. Patience, sweet and troubled affection, were blended with every grief-written line. But the wants of the body had stamped themselves sharply there. The thin lips were pale and fixed in an expression of habitual endurance. Their eyes were sharp and eager, dark arches lay around them, and these were broken by wrinkles that were not all of age.
As the flame blazed up, the old man turned and looked earnestly on his wife, a look of keen want, of newly whetted hunger broke from her eyes, naturally so meek and tranquil, and the poor old man turned his glance another way with a faint groan. It was a picture of terrible famine. Yet patience and affection flung a thrilling beauty over it.
One more furtive glance that old man cast on his wife, as the flame went down, and then he clasped his withered fingers, wringing them together.
"You are starving—you are more hungry than ever," he said, "and I have nothing to give you."
The poor woman lifted up her head and tried to smile, but the effort was heart-rending.
"It is strange," she said, "but the food we had this morning only seems to make me more hungry. Is it so with you, Benjamin? I keep thinking of it all the time. The rain as it plashes on the pavement seems like that warm coffee boiling over on the hearth; those shavings as they lie in the corner are constantly shifting before my eyes, and seem like rolls and twists of bread, which I have only to stoop forward and take."
The old man smiled wanly, and a tear started to his eyes, gliding down his cheek in the dim light.
"Let us try the bone once more," he said, after a brief silence, "there may be a morsel left yet."
"Yes, the bone! there may be something on the bone yet! In our good fortune this morning we must have forgotten to scrape it quite clean!" cried the old woman, starting up with eager haste, and bringing the platter from the table.
The husband took it from her hands, and setting it down before the fire, knelt on one knee, and began to scrape the bone eagerly with a knife. "See, see!" he said, with a