Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland

by Abigail Stanley Hanna

Matters were satisfactorily arranged, and she commenced immediately. A willing hand and active mind made the task easier than she had anticipated. It was soon a matter of conversation through all the village, when it became known that the haughty Henriette Clinton was going to be a dress maker, and many were the remarks that were made upon her everlasting gingham dress, for her nice sense of propriety prevented her from wearing the rich articles of apparel contained in her wardrobe; and at present she could procure no other. She formed the resolution sometimes of disposing of some of her costly garments to relieve her present necessity, but they had been selected by her dear father, and were all that remained to her as a link of her past intercourse with him, and so she clung to them as dear remembrances of the past, the happy past.

She sat through the long weary hours with her eyes bent upon her work, and made rapid proficiency in the art she was acquiring.

Mr. Norcross, who purchased the Clinton estate, was a man of a low sordid mind not at all calculated to appreciate the elegance of his domicile. He was a merchant, and had rapidly come into possession of great wealth, and wishing to climb a little higher upon the ladder of aristocracy, he thought a purchase of the lawyer's splendid establishment would forward his progress. Therefore, selling his own place at a very high price, and purchasing that at an equally low one, did not much diminish his hoarded gold. But after all they were not the Clintons. It was only Mr. Norcross the store-keeper, and they had many steps to climb before they could reach that position in society they were so desirous of attaining. They bowed to one, scraped to another, parties were made, and many means devised, all of which were accompanied with disappointment, as the least desired would come, and those for whom the party was made would just as surely stay away.

Mrs. Norcross was a large coarse woman, with red hair, light blue eyes, and freckled face, but with a good humored expression of countenance. Her two daughters, Araminta and Clarinda, were not very refined in their manners, owing to a deficiency in their education, but were good hearted, cheerful girls. Araminta was much pleased with Henriette's horse, but did not appreciate the name, and declared he should be called Selim, for she knew she had read of some great man who had a horse by that name, and who ever heard of one named Sullensifadda, ugly name. She mounted him one day, gaily caparisoned, but he being equally unaccostomed to his new name and rider, soon convinced her he had a light pair of heels.

Henriette sat busily at work by the window, when the clatter of the well known hoofs sounded upon her ear, and she raised her eyes just in time to see her well remembered steed flying toward the mountain pass with the speed of lightning, while the frightened Araminta was clinging to his mane to prevent falling to the ground, her long riding dress and veil were streaming behind her their full length in the wind, which was blowing pretty briskly, and her small riding-cap was drawn a little farther upon one side than the rules of gentility seemed to require. Henriette pitied the poor girl, but she could not help smiling at her ludicrous appearance. She turned pale when she saw the horse turn suddenly down a narrow path that led to the river, plunge into its dashing waves, and swimming round a circuitous route, spring back upon the shore, and setting his face towards home, bore back the mortified girl all wet and dripping through the streets at too rapid a rate for any one to interfere with his arrangements, arriving at home apparently well satisfied with his performance.

Months passed away, such months as Henriette had never known before. She could have borne her toil, her simple fare, and the ten thousand deprivations she was subjected to, had this been all; but the averted looks of her friends were more than all these. She used to sit a little while in the twilight hour upon her parents' graves, and recall their loved forms and tender words, and people her imagination with by-gone scenes, and then, as she contrasted the present, her cherished text would come to illuminate her mind and calm her troubled spirit, "all things work together for good to them that fear God," and she was comforted and strengthened to go on her weary way, for this took in life with all its little incidents, its every day trials, and she returned to the active duties of life, realizing that "this is not our home."

Ere the spring returned she had accomplished her wish, and entered into many families as dress maker where she used to be admitted as an equal, if not superior. She maintained her dignity of deportment, for now she well knew poverty did not deteriorate from worth, a lesson perhaps she too might have been slow to learn under some circumstances, but which now had been taught her by stern necessity, and her rigid lessons are never soon forgotten.

She had taken the rich trimming from some of her plainest dresses, and wore them when she could not possibly avoid it. She did her work with great neatness and dispatch, and was supplied with all she could possibly do, so that she remunerated the kind hearted woman who had boarded her through her apprenticeship, and been very attentive to her in many ways, for she truly pitied the poor orphan.

In the spring Mr. Clinton's vacant office was again occupied by a young lawyer, who came into the village, from New York, named Henry Lorton, and half the young ladies' heads were turned, by the beauty and elegance of the young northerner. Parties were formed, walks projected up the mountains, moonlight sails upon the silvery bosom of the Juniata, and every means devised to draw the young lawyer into company, and love with the southern beauties; but they declared his heart was as cold as the region he came from.

All these things Henriette heard, as she sat plying her needle, or stood fitting a dress to the forms of some of her gay companions; but now her interests were separate from theirs, and she toiled on, through the weary day. There were some who appreciated her motives, and spoke kindly to the poor orphan, and the sweet consciousness of well doing sweetened her cup of toil.