Fanny stopped her mistress with abundant thanks for the beautiful things she had already given her. “I am sure, Miss,” said she, “I shall scarcely dare wear these dresses, they look so lady-like and fine; Sally will seem quite strange by me. And this purse too, Miss; I never saw anything so smart.”
Isabel was quite satisfied that she had eclipsed her sister in the number and value of her gifts, but she still assured Fanny she had but made a beginning. Large and generous indeed, were this young lady’s intentions.
On the wedding morning Isabel rose early and dressed herself without assistance, then crossing to the room of the two cousins, she entered without knocking. Sally was gone, and Fanny lay sleeping alone.
“How pretty she is!” said Isabel to herself. “She ought to be dressed like a lady to-day. I will see to it;” then glancing proudly at the silk gown, which was laid out with all the other articles of dress, ready for the coming ceremony, her heart swelled with consciousness of her own generosity. “I have done nothing yet,” continued she; “she has been with me nearly six years, and always pleased me entirely, then papa promised her mother that he should befriend her as long as we both lived, and he has charged us both to do our utmost for our brides. Laura has bought Sally a shawl, I ought to give one too—what is this common thing? Fanny! Fanny! wake up. I am come to be your maid to-day, for you shall be mistress on your wedding morning and have a lady to dress you. What is this shawl? It will not do with a silk dress, wait a minute,” and off she darted, leaving Fanny sitting up and rubbing her eyes trying to remember what her young mistress had said. Before she was quite conscious, Isabel returned with a Norfolk shawl of fine texture and design, but somewhat soiled. “There,” said she, throwing it across the silk gown, “those go much better together. I will give it you, Fanny.”
“Thank you, Miss,” said Fanny, in a tone of hesitation; “but—but suppose, Miss, I was to wear Thomas’ shawl just to-day, as he gave it me for the wedding, and John got Sally one like it—I think, Miss—don’t you think, Miss, it might seem unkind to wear any other just to-day?”
“Why, it is just to-day I want to make you look like a lady, Fanny; no, no, you must not put on that white cotton-looking shawl with a silk dress, and this ribbon,” said Isabel, taking up the bonnet, proudly. Fanny looked sad, but the young mistress did not see this, for she was examining the white silk gloves that lay beside the bonnet. “These,” thought she, “are not quite right, they look servantish, but my kid gloves would not fit her, besides, I have none clean, and it is well, perhaps, that she should have a few things to mark her rank. Yes, they will do.”
There was so much confusion between the lady’s offering help, and the maid’s modestly refusing it, that the toilette was long in completing. At last, however, Isabel was in ecstasies. “Look,” said she, “how the bonnet becomes you! and the Norfolk shawl, too, no one would think you were only a lady’s-maid, Fanny. Stop, I will get a ribbon for your throat.” Off she flew, and was back again in five minutes. “But what is that for, Fanny? Are you afraid it will rain this bright morning?”
Fanny had, in Isabel’s absence, folded Thomas’ shawl, and hung it across her arm. “I thought, Miss,” answered she, blushing, “that I might just carry it to show Thomas that I did not forget his present, or think it too homely to go to church with me.”
“Impossible,” said Isabel, who, to do her justice, we must state, was far too much excited to suspect that she was making Fanny uncomfortable; “you will spoil all. There, put the shawl away,—that’s right, you look perfect. Go down to your bridegroom, I hear his voice in the hall, I will not come too, though I should like above all things to see his surprise, but I should spoil your meeting, and I am the last person in the world to do anything so selfish. One thing more, Fanny: I shall give you two guineas, that you may spend three or four days at L——, by the sea-side; no one goes home directly, you would find it very dull to settle down at once in your cottage; tell Thomas so.” Isabel then retired to her room, wishing heartily that she could part with half her prettiest things, that she might heap more favors on the interesting little bride.
Laura’s first thought that morning had also been of the little orphan, who had served her so long and faithfully, and whom her father had commended to her special care. She, too, had risen early, but without dressing herself, she went across to Sally. Sally was asleep, with the traces of tears on her cheeks; Laura looked at her for a few moments, and remembered how, when both were too young to understand the distinction of rank, they had been almost play-mates; she wiped from her own eyes a little moisture that dimmed them, then putting her hand gently on Sally’s shoulder, she said, “Wake, Sally, I call you early that you may have plenty of time to dress me first and yourself afterwards. I know you would not like to miss waiting on me, or to do it hurriedly for the last time. You have been crying, Sally, do not color about it, I should think ill of you if you were not sorry to leave us, you cannot feel the parting more than I do. I dare say I shall have hard work to keep dry eyes all day, but we must do our best, Sally, for it will not for John to think I grudge you to him, or that you like me better than you do him.”