Turns of Fortune by Mrs. S. C. Hall
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Mrs. S. C. Hall >> Turns of Fortune
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10 FRANCIS & CO.'S
LITTLE LIBRARY:
FOR YOUNG PERSONS OF VARIOUS AGES.
* * * * *
TURNS OF FORTUNE:
BY MRS. S.C. HALL.
FRANCIS & CO.'S LITTLE LIBRARY.
C.S. Francis & Co., New York, _have published a uniform Series of
Choice volumes for Young People, by some of the most distinguished
writers for Children. Neatly bound in cloth, and illustrated by
Engravings._
L. MARIA CHILD.--FLOWERS FOR CHILDREN: No. 1, for Children eight or
nine years old.
---- FLOWERS FOR CHILDREN: No. 2, for Children three or four years
old.
---- FLOWERS FOR CHILDREN: No. 3, for Children eleven or twelve years
old.
MARY HOWITT.--FIRESIDE TALES.
---- THE CHRISTMAS TREE: A Book of Stories.
---- THE TURTLE DOVE OF CARMEL; and Other Stories.
---- THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR; LITTLE CHATTERBOX; PERSEVERANCE, and other
Tales. By Mary Howitt, Mrs. S.C. Hall, and others.
MRS. TRIMMER.--THE ROBBINS; OR DOMESTIC LIFE AMONG THE BIRDS. Designed
for the Instruction of Children respecting their Treatment of Animals.
MISS LESLIE.--RUSSEL AND SIDNEY AND CHASE LORING: Tales of the
American Revolution.
MRS. CAROLINE GILMAN.--THE LITTLE WREATH OF STORIES AND POEMS FOR
CHILDREN.
---- STORIES AND POEMS FOR CHILDREN.
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.--A CHRISTMAS GREETING: Thirteen New Stories
from the Danish of Hans Christian Andersen.
---- A PICTURE BOOK WITHOUT PICTURES; and other Stories: by Hans
Christian Andersen. Translated by Mary Howitt, with a Memoir of the
Author.
---- A DANISH STORY BOOK.
CLAUDINE; OR HUMILITY THE BASIS OF ALL THE VIRTUES. A Swiss Tale. By a
Mother; author of "Always Happy," "True Stories from History," &c.
FACTS TO CORRECT FANCIES; or Short Narratives compiled from the
Memoirs of Remarkable Women. By a Mother.
HOLIDAY STORIES. Containing five Moral Tales.
MRS. HOFLAND.--THE HISTORY OF AN OFFICER'S WIDOW, and her Young
Family.
---- THE CLERGYMAN'S WIDOW, and her Young Family.
---- THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW, and her Young Family.
MISS ABBOT.--KATE AND LIZZIE; OR SIX MONTHS OUT OF SCHOOL.
MISS ELIZA ROBBINS.--CLASSIC TALES. Designed for the Instruction
and Amusement of Young Persons. By the author of "American Popular
Lessons," &c.
MRS. S.C. HALL.--TURNS OF FORTUNE; ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS, &C.
---- THE PRIVATE PURSE; CLEVERNESS, and other Tales.
NEW VOLUMES
OF
FRANCIS & CO.'S LITTLE LIBRARY.
_Thirty volumes of this series have been published, including some
of the choicest books for young people, by Mary Howitt; Maria Child;
Mrs. Hofland; Mrs. Hall; Mrs. Gilman; Miss Leslie; Hans Andersen, and
others_.
The Story Teller; TALES FROM THE DANISH of Hans Christian Andersen.
_Containing_ Ole Luckoeie; The Buckwheat: The Wild Swans; The Angel;
The Fellow-Traveler; The Elfin Mound; The Flying Trunk; The Bundle of
Matches.
The Ugly Duck; AND OTHER TALES: by Hans Christian Andersen.
_Containing_ The Ugly Duck; Top and Ball; The Little Mermaid; The
Storks; The Nightingale: The Rose of the Elf; Holger Danske; The
Emperor Frederick Barbarossa; The Dying Child.
Little Ellie; AND OTHER TALES: by Hans Christian Andersen.
_Containing_ Little Ellie; The Tinder Box; The Wicked King; The
Resolute Leaden Soldier; The Garden of Paradise; The Shepherdess and
Chimney-Sweep; Little Ida's Flowers; The Daisy; New Year's Eve.
The Merchant's Daughter; AND OTHER TALES: by Mrs. S.C. Hall.
How to Win Love; OR, RHODA'S LESSON. A story for the Young.
"A delightful little book, which will not only attract the young, but
minister instruction to the _instructors_ of youth."--_Edin. Witness_.
TURNS OF FORTUNE;
AND OTHER TALES.
BY MRS. S.C. HALL.
NEW-YORK. C.S. FRANCIS & CO., 252 BROADWAY.
BOSTON: J.H. FRANCIS, 128 WASHINGTON-STREET.
1851.
CONTENTS
TURNS OF FORTUNE 9
"ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS" 63
"THERE IS NO HURRY" 143
TURNS OF FORTUNE
CHAPTER I.
"Hush, Sarah!" exclaimed old Jacob Bond, as he sat up in his bed,
while the wind clattered and whistled through the shivering window
frames. "Hush! Is that Brindle's bark?"
"No, father; it is one of the farm dogs near the village. Lie down,
dearest father; it is a cold night, and you are trembling."
"I don't know why I should feel cold, Sarah," he replied, pointing his
shadowy fingers towards the grate, where an abundant fire blazed; "I
am sure you have put down as much wood as would roast an ox."
"It is so very cold, father."
"Still, we must not be wasteful, Sarah," he answered; "wilful waste
makes woful want." Sarah Bond covered the old man carefully over,
while he laid himself stiffly down upon his pallet, re-muttering his
favourite proverb over and over again.
She then drew the curtains more closely, and seated herself in an
old-fashioned chair beside a little table in front of the fire.
The room had been the drawing-room of the old house in which Mr. Bond
and his daughter resided, but for the sake of saving both labour and
expense, he had had his bed removed into it; and though anything but
comfortable, a solitary, impoverished, and yet gorgeous appearance
pervaded the whole, such as those who delineate interiors, loving
small lights and deep shadows, would covet to convey to their canvass.
The bed upon which the old man lay was canopied, and of heavy crimson
damask. In the dim light of that spacious room, it looked to the
worn-out eyes of Sarah Bond more like a hearse than a bed. Near it
was an old spinnet, upon which stood a labelled vial, a tea-cup, and
a spoon. When Sarah seated herself at the table, she placed her elbows
upon it, and pressed her folded hands across her eyes; no sigh or moan
escaped her, but her chest heaved convulsively; and when she removed
her hands, she drew a Bible toward her, trimmed the lamp, and began to
read.
The voice of an old French clock echoed painfully through the chamber.
Sarah longed to stop it, and yet it was a companion in her watchings.
Once, a shy, suspicious, bright-eyed mouse rattled among the cinders,
and ran into the wainscot, and then came out again, and stared at
Sarah Bond, who, accustomed to such visits, did not raise her eyes
to inquire into the cause of the rustling which in a few more moments
took place upon a tray containing the remnants of some bread and
cheese, her frugal supper.
"Sarah," croaked Mr. Bond; "what noise is that?"
"Only the mice, father, as usual; do, father, try to sleep. I watch
carefully; there is nothing to fear."
"Ay, ay, men and mice all the same; nothing but waste. When I am gone,
Sarah, keep what you will have; it won't be much, Sarah, my poor girl,
it won't be much; just enough to need care; but KEEP IT; don't lend
it, or give it, or spend it; you are fond of spending, my poor girl;
see that huge fire, enough for three nights; early bad habits. When
we lived in a small house and were poor, it was then you learned to be
extravagant; I had no money then, so did not know its value."
"But we were happier then, father," said Sarah Bond; "we were so
cheerful and happy then, and so many poor people blessed my dear
mother, and Mary"--
"Hiss--ss," uttered the dying miser; "don't dare mention your sister,
who disgraced me by marrying a pauper; a pauper who threatened my
life, because I would not give him my money to save him from starving;
but he _did not_ get the old father-in-law's gold; no; he _starved,
and_"--
The words thus uttered by her father, who she knew had not many hours
to live--uttered, too, with such demoniac bitterness--forced the
gentle, patient woman to start from her seal, and pass rapidly across
the room to the side of his bed, where she sank upon her knees, and
seized his shrunken hands in hers. "Father!" she exclaimed, "I have
been your child for forty years, and you have said, that during that
period, by no act of my own, have I _ever_ angered you. Is it not so?"
The old man withdrew one hand gently, turned himself round, and looked
in her face: "Forty years! Is it forty years?" he repeated; "but it
must be; the fair brow is wrinkled, and the abundant hair grown thin
and gray. You were a pretty baby, Sarah, and a merry child; a cheerful
girl, too, until that foolish fancy. Well, dear, I'll say no more
about it; good, dutiful girl. You gave it up to please your father
full twenty years ago, and when he dies, you shall have _all_ his
gold--there's a good father! You must _keep_ it, Sarah, and not give
it, nor lend it. I know you won't marry, as _he_ is dead; nor see your
sister--mind that; if you see _her_, or serve her, the bitterest curse
that ever rose from a father's grave will compass you in on every
side."
"My father!" she said, "oh! in mercy to yourself, revoke these words.
She knew nothing of her husband's conduct; he used her even worse than
he used you. Oh! for my sake say you will forgive Mary. It is all I
ask. Do what you please with your wealth, but forgive my sister."
"You were always a fool, Sarah," he replied faintly and peevishly. "If
I could do as I please, I would take my property with me, for you will
surely spend it. But there is another condition, another promise you
must give me. Now, don't interrupt me again. We will talk of _her_
by-and-bye, perhaps. As long as you live, Sarah, _as you value my
blessing_, you must not part with anything in this room. You will live
on in the old house, or perhaps sell it, and have a smaller; yet don't
spend money in new furnishing--don't; but never part with anything in
_this room_; never so much as a stick."
This promise was willingly given; for, independently of her love for
her father, Sarah Bond had become attached to the inanimate objects
which had so long been before her. Again she endeavoured to lead
her father away from that avarice which had corrupted his soul, and
driven happiness and peace from their dwelling. She urged the duty of
forgiveness, and pleaded hard for her sister; but, though the hours
wore away, she made no impression upon him. Utterly unmindful of
her words, he did not either interrupt her or fall into his former
violence. On the contrary, he seemed involved in some intricate
calculation--counting on his fingers, or casting up lines of imaginary
figures upon the coverlit.
Sarah, heart-broken, and silently weeping, retreated to the table, and
again, after turning the fire, betook her to her solace--the precious
volume that never fails to afford consolation to the afflicted. She
read a few passages, and then, though she looked upon the book, her
mind wandered. She recalled the happy days of her childhood, before
her father, by the extraordinary and most unexpected bequest of a
distant relative, became possessed of property to what extent she
could form no idea. She knew that this relative had quarrelled with
the heir-at-law, and left all to one he had never seen. This bequest
had closed up her father's heart; instead of being a blessing, so
perfectly avaricious had he grown, that it was a curse. Previously, he
had been an industrious farmer; and though a thrifty one, had evinced
none of the bitterness of avarice, none of its hardness or tyranny.
He could then sleep at nights, permit his wife and children to share
their frugal stores with those who needed, troll "Ere around the huge
oak," while his wife accompanied him on the spinnet, and encourage
his daughters to wed men in what was their then sphere of life, rather
than those who might not consider the gentle blood they inherited, and
their superior education, a sufficient set-off to their limited means
and humble station. Suddenly, riches poured in upon him: his eldest
daughter, true to the faith she plighted, would marry her humble
lover, and her father's subsequent harshness to her favourite
child broke the mother's heart. Sarah not only had less firmness of
character than her sister, but loved her father more devotedly, and
gave up the affection of her young heart to please him. His narrow
nature could not understand the sacrifice: and when her cheek faded,
and her really beautiful face contracted into the painful expression
of that pining melancholy which has neither words nor tears--to lull
his sympathy, he muttered to himself, "good girl, _she_ shall have
_all_ I have."
No human passion grows with so steady, so imperceptible, yet so
rampant a growth as avarice. It takes as many shapes as Proteus,
and may be called, above all others, the vice of middle life, that
soddens into the gangrene of old age; gaining strength by vanquishing
all virtues and generous emotions, it is a creeping, sly, keen,
persevering, insidious sin, assuming various forms, to cheat even
itself; for it shames to name itself unto itself; a cowardly,
darkness-loving sin, never daring to look human nature in the face;
full of lean excuses for self-imposed starvation, only revelling
in the impurity and duskiness of its own shut-up heart. At last the
joy-bells ring its knell, while it crawls into eternity like a vile
reptile, leaving a slimy track upon the world.
The inmates of the mansion enclosed in its old court-yard had long
ceased to attract the observation of their neighbours. Sometimes
Sarah called at the butcher's, but she exchanged smiles or greetings
with few; and the baker rang the rusty bell twice a-week, which was
answered by their only servant. When Mr. Bond first took possession
of the manor-house, he hired five domestics, and everybody said they
could not do with so few; and there were two men to look after the
gardens; but after his daughter's elopement and his wife's death,
three were discharged, and he let the lands and gardens; and then
another went, and Sarah felt the loneliness so great, that she made
the remaining one sleep in her own room. The house had been frequently
attacked; once, in a fit of despair, her brother-in-law had forced
his way in the night to the old man's side, and but for her prompt
interference, murder would have been done. No wonder, then, that her
shattered nerves trembled as she watched the shortening candle, and
heard the raving of the wind, saw the spectral shadows the broken
plumes that ornamented the canopy of the bed cast upon the fantastic
walls, _felt_ that _his_ hour was at hand, and feared that "he would
die and make no sign;" still, while those waving fantasies passing
to and fro through her active but weakened mind, made her tremble
in every limb, and ooze at every pore; and though unable to read
on steadily, her eyes continued fixed upon the book which her hand
grasped, with the same feeling that made those of old cling to the
altar of their God for sanctuary. Suddenly her father called--and she
started as from a dream--"Sarah!"
She hastened to his side; "Dear father, what do you want?"
"Child, the room is dark; and you had so much light just now. All
is dark. Where are you? But it was better, after all, to put out the
light; wilful waste makes"--
Before the miser had concluded his proverb, the light of _his_
existence was extinguished for ever!
CHAPTER II.
Several weeks elapsed before Sarah Bond recovered sufficiently from
the shock, ay, and genuine grief, occasioned by her father's death,
so as to investigate her affairs; the hardness and the tyranny she
had borne for so many years had become habitual, and her own will was
absolutely paralysed by inaction. Jacob Bond had always treated his
daughter as if she were a baby, and it was some time before she could
collect herself sufficiently to calculate upon her future plans. She
had no friends; and the sister to whom, despite her father's cruel
words, her heart clung so fondly, was far from her, she knew not
where. The mourning for herself and her servant was ordered from a
neighbouring shop, with a carelessness as to expense which made people
say that Sarah was of habits different from her father.
The rector and curate of the parish both called, but she shrunk
from strangers. The very first act, however, of her liberty, was to
take a pew at church, a whole pew, to herself, which she ordered to
be curtained all round. Some said this indicated pride, some said
ostentation; but it was simply shyness. And soon after she placed in
the aisle a white marble tablet, "To the memory of Jacob Bond, who
died in the seventy-eighth year of his age, deeply lamented by his
sorrowing daughter."
Some ladies connected with a society for clothing the poor, called
upon and explained to her their object; she poked five old guineas
into the hands of the spokeswoman, but forbade the insertion of her
donation in the visitor's book. During the following week she had
numerous applications from various charitable bodies, to whom she gave
generously, they said, while she reproached herself with narrowness;
to all, however, she positively refused to become a yearly subscriber;
and when closely urged by the rector to be one of the patrons of his
school, she answered, "Sir, my father received his property suddenly,
and I may be as suddenly deprived of it. I will give, but I will not
promise." Her impulse was to give, her habit to withhold.
She added one more servant to her establishment; and as she did not
send out cards returning thanks for the 'inquiries,' which increased
daily, Sarah Bond was a very lonely woman; for though some, from
curiosity, others from want of occupation, others, again, from the
unfortunately universal desire to form acquaintance with the rich,
would have been glad, now the solitary old miser was gone, to make
fellowship with his gentle-looking and wealthy daughter, yet her
reserve and quietness prevented the fulfilment of their wishes. Weeks
and months rolled on; the old house had been repaired and beautified.
Mr. Cramp, Sarah's law agent and 'man of business,' advised her to let
the house, of which she occupied about as much as a wren could fill of
the nest of an eagle; and, strangely enough, finding that the house
of her childhood was to let, she took it, removing thither all the
furniture which her father made her promise never to part with.
The ceiling of the best bed-room was obliged to be raised to admit
the lofty bed with its plumes, and the spinnet was assigned a very
comfortable corner in a parlour, where the faded stately chairs
and gorgeous furniture formed a curious contrast to the bright
neatly-papered walls and drugget-covered floor; for in all matters
connected with her own personal expenses, Sarah Bond was exceedingly
frugal.
_After_ her removal, though shy and strange as ever, still she
_looked_ kind things to her rich, and _did_ kind things to her poor
neighbours, only in a strange, unusual way; and her charity was given
by fits mid starts--not continuously. She moved silently about her
garden, and evinced much care for her plants and flowers. Closely
economical from long habit, rather than inclination, her domestic
arrangements were strangely at variance with what could not be called
public gifts, because she used every effort in her power to conceal
her munificence. She did not, it is true, think and calculate, how the
greatest good could be accomplished. She knew but one path to charity,
and that was paved with gold. She did not know how to offer sympathy,
or to enhance a gift by the manner of giving. Her father had
sacrificed everything to multiply and keep his wealth; all earthly
happiness had been given up for it; and unsatisfying as it had been
to her own heart, it had satisfied his. Inclination prompted to give,
habit to withhold; and certainly Sarah Bond felt far more enjoyment in
obeying inclination than in following habit; though sometimes what she
believed a duty triumphed over inclination.
If Sarah Bond ministered to her sister's necessities, she did so
secretly, hardly venturing to confess she did so, but shielding
herself from her father's curse, by sending to her sister's child, and
not her sister. Receiving few letters, the village postman grumbled
far more at having to walk out to Greenfield, than if he was
accustomed to do so every day; and one morning in particular; when
he was obliged to do so while the rain poured, he exhibited a letter,
sealed with a large black seal, to the parish-clerk, saying he wished
with all his heart Miss Bond had remained at the old manor-house up
street, instead of changing; and where was the good of taking her
a mourning letter such a gloomy day? it would be very unkind, and
he would keep it "till the rain stopped;" and so he did, until the
next morning; then taking back word to the village postmaster that
Miss Bond wanted a post-chaise and four horses instantly, which
intelligence set not only the inn, but the whole village in commotion.
She, who had never wanted a post-chaise before, to want four horses to
it now, was really wonderful.
"Which road shall I take, Miss?" inquired the post-boy, turning round
in his saddle, and touching his cap.
"On straight," was the answer. Such a thrill of disappointment as
ran through the little crowd, who stood at the door to witness her
departure. "On straight!" Why, they must wait the post-boy's return
before they could possibly know which way she went. Such provoking
suspense was enough to drive the entire village demented.
Miss Bond remained away a month, and then returned, bringing with her
her niece, a girl of about eight years old--her deceased sister's only
child, Mabel Graham.
The following Sunday Sarah Bond went to church, leading her young
companion by the hand; both were in deep mourning, and yet the very
least observant of the congregation remarked, that they had never seen
Miss Bond look so happy as when, coming out after service, and finding
that the wind had changed to the north-east, she took off her scarf
in the church porch, and put it round the neck of the lovely girl, who
strongly remonstrated against the act. It was evident that Mabel had
been accustomed to have her own way; for when she found her aunt was
resolved her throat should be protected, she turned round, and in
a moment tore the silk into halves. "Now, dear aunt, neither of our
throats will suffer," she exclaimed; while Sarah Bond did not know
whether she ought to combat her wilfulness or applaud the tender
care of herself. It was soon talked of throughout the village, how
wonderfully Sarah Bond was changed; how cheerful and even gay she had
become. Instead of avoiding society, how willingly, yet how awkwardly,
she entered into it; how eagerly she sought to learn and to make
herself acquainted with every source and system of education. No
traveller in the parchy desert ever thirsted more for water than she
did for knowledge, and her desire seemed to increase with what it fed
upon. The more she had the more she required; and all this was for the
sake of imparting all she learned to Mabel. She fancied that teachers
might not be kind to this new-found idol; that she could transfer
information more gently and continuously; that the relative was the
best instructress; in short, the pent-up tenderness of her nature, the
restrained torrent of affections that had so long lain dormant, were
poured forth upon the little heiress, as she was already called; and
captious and determined she was, as ever heiress could be; but withal
of so loving a nature, and so guileless a heart, so confiding, so
generous, and so playful, and overflowing with mirth and mischief,
that it would have been impossible to fancy any living creature who
had felt the sunshine of fourteen summers more charming or tormenting.
"I wish, dear aunt," exclaimed Mabel, one morning, as she sat at her
embroidery, the sun shining through the open window upon the abundant
glories of her hair, while her aunt sat, as she always did, opposite
to her, that she might, when she raised her eyes from off the
Italian lesson she was conning for her especial edification, have the
happiness of seeing her without an effort; "I wish, dear aunt, you
would send that old spinnet out of the room; it looks so odd by the
side of my beautiful piano."
"My dear Mabel," replied her aunt, "I have put as much _new_ furniture
as you wished into this room, but I cannot part with the old"--
"Rubbish!" added Mabel, snapping her worsted with the impatience of
the movement.
"It may be rubbish in _your_ eyes, Mabel, but I have told you before
that my dear father desired I should never part with the furniture of
the room he died in."
Mabel _looked_ the truth--"that she was not more inclined toward the
old furniture on that account;" but she did not say so. "Have you got
the key of the old spinnet, aunt? I should like to hear its tone."
"I have never found the key, my dear, though I have often looked for
it; I suppose my father lost it. I have danced to its music before now
to my mother's playing; but I am sure it has not a tone left."
"I wish you would dance now, dear aunt," exclaimed Mabel, jumping up
at the idea; "you never told me you could dance; I never, somehow,
fancied you could dance, and I have been obliged to practise my
quadrilles with two high-backed chairs and my embroidery frame. Do,
dear aunt; put by that book, and dance." It would be impossible to
fancy a greater contrast than aunt and niece. Sarah Bond's erect and
perfectly flat figure was surmounted by a long head and face, round
which an abundance of gray hair was folded; for by no other term can
I describe its peculiar dress; her cap plain, but white as snow; and a
black silk gown, that had seen its best days, was pinned and _primmed_
on, so as to sit as close as possible to a figure which would have
been greatly improved by heavy and abundant drapery. Mabel, lithe and
restless, buoyant and energetic, unable even to wish for more luxury
or more happiness than she possessed, so that her active mind was
_forced_ to employ its longings on trifles, as it really had nothing
else to desire; her face was round as those faces are which become
oval in time; and her bright laughing eyes sparkled like sunbeams
at the bare notion of making "aunt Sarah" take either the place of a
high-backed chair, or the embroidery frame in a quadrille. "Do dance,"
she repeated.
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