Eighteen months later, and again Madame Duvant’s rooms were crowded to overflowing, but this time Arabella Greenleaf was not there, though George Clayton was, eagerly watching each word and movement of Mildred Graham, whose uncle had insisted upon her remaining at school until she, too, should graduate, and who now, justly, received the highest honours of her class. Very beautiful looked the young girl, and as she modestly received the compliments of her friends, George Clayton’s was not the only admiring eye which rested upon her, for many now paid her homage.
That night George asked to see her alone. His request was granted, and when next she parted from him it was as his betrothed. Immediately after George’s return from Europe, he had heard the story of Arabella’s perfidy, and if no other circumstances had interposed to wean him from her entirely, this alone would have done it, for he could not respect a woman who would thus meanly stoop to deception. He had lingered in G—— for the purpose of renewing his former acquaintance with Mildred, the result of which we have seen.
Mortified beyond measure, Arabella heard of her cousin’s engagement, and when George came at last to claim his bride, she refused to see him, wilfully absenting herself from home that she should not witness the bridal, which took place one bright October morning, when the forest trees, as if in honour of the occasion, were dressed in their most gorgeous robes, and the birds were singing their farewell songs.
New misfortunes, however, awaited poor Arabella, for scarcely was Mildred gone to her southern home when the red flag of the auctioneer waved from the windows of Mr. Greenleaf’s luxurious house, which, with its costly furniture, was sold to the highest bidder, and the family were left dependent upon their own exertions for support. When the first shock was over, Mr. Greenleaf proposed that his daughter should teach, and thus bring into use her boasted accomplishments. For a time Arabella refused, but hearing at last a situation which she thought might please her, she applied for it by letter. But alas, the mistake she made when she abandoned the spelling book for the piano, again stood in the way, for no one would employ a teacher so lamentably ignorant of orthography. Nor is it at all probable she will ever rise higher than her present position—that of a plain sewer—until she goes back to first principles, and commences again the despised column beginning with ‘baker!’
THE END.
DIAMONDS.
‘The boys mustn’t look at the girls, and the girls must look on their books,’ was said at least a dozen times by the village schoolmaster, on that stormy morning when Cora Blanchard and I—she in her brother’s boots, and I in my father’s socks—waded through drift after drift of snow to the old brown school-house at the foot of the long, steep hill.
We were the only girls who had dared to brave that wintry storm, and we felt amply repaid for our trouble, when we saw how much attention we received from the ten tall boys who had come—some for fun—some because they saw Cora Blanchard go by—and one, Walter Beaumont, because he did not wish to lose the lesson of the day. Our teacher, Mr. Grannis, was fitting him for college, and every moment was precious to the white-browed, intellectual student, who was quite a lion among us girls, partly because he never noticed us as much as did the other boys. On this occasion, however, he was quite attentive to Cora, at least, pulling off her boots, removing her hood, and brushing the large snow-flakes from her soft wavy hair, while her dark brown eyes smiled gratefully upon him, as he gave her his warm seat by the stove.
That morning Cora wrote to me slily on her slate:—‘I don’t care if mother does say Walter Beaumont is poor as poverty—I like him best of anybody in the world—don’t you?’
I thought of the big red apple in my pocket, and of the boy who had so carefully shaken the snow from off my father’s socks, and answered, ‘no’—thinking, the while, that I should say yes, if Walter had ever treated me as he did my playmate and friend Cora Blanchard. She was a beautiful young girl, a favourite with all, and possessing, as it seemed, but one glaring fault—a proneness to estimate people for their wealth rather than their worth. This in a measure was the result of her home-training, for her family, though far from being rich, were very aristocratic, and strove to keep their children as much as possible from associating with the ‘vulgar herd,’ as they styled the labouring class of the community. In her secret heart Cora had long cherished a preference for Walter, though never, until the morning of which I write, had it been so openly avowed. And Walter, too, while knowing how far above him she was in point of position, had dared to dream of a time when a bright-haired-woman, with a face much like that of the girlish Cora, would gladden his home, wherever it might be.