The following tale is Fanny Fern's earliest attempt at a long story, now for the first time given to the world within the covers of a book.
"'If you please, ma'am, a young woman in the hall, dressed in mourning, wishes to speak with you.' The lady addressed might have been, (we are aware we are treading on debatable ground,) about thirty-eight years of age. Time, that had spared her the attraction of a graceful, pliant form, had robbed her blue eyes of their lustre, and thinned her flaxen tresses. She still rejoiced, however, in a pair of diminutive feet and ankles, which she considered it a great sin to 'hide under a bushel,' and had a way of her own of exhibiting on all occasions, known only to the ingenuity of a practised coquette, or an ex-belle. She raised her eyes languidly from the last new novel she was perusing, and with the air of a victim closed the book, as John ushered in the intruder.
"Slightly raising her eyebrows, she said, 'So you are the young person who answered my advertisement for a governess?' levelling at the same time a scrutinizing glance upon her that brought the color into her fair cheek. 'In mourning, I see; very becoming, but it always gives me the dismals to see a black dress about; don't cry, child, people will die when their time comes, it's a thing that can't be helped. I suppose you understand French, German, Italian, Spanish, and all that sort of thing, if you are a governess. I desire Meta to be fashionably educated, and if you stay, I hope you will understand your business and be thorough, for it is a great bore to me to look after such things. I shall want you to clear starch my collars and ruffles, and trim my breakfast caps; I see you look as though you would object to this, but you won't find such a place as this every day, and people who are driven to the wall by necessity, and have to get their own living, can't afford to be fastidious. Pity you are so pretty, child; never mind, you must keep close; you'll see no company at my house, and I trust you are no gadder. What is your name? Grace Clifford? very romantic! Well, if you'd like to stay, John will show you to your room—but pray put away that mass of curls and wear it plain, as it looks too childish for a governess. You needn't trouble yourself to dress for dinner, as you will eat with Meta in the nursery. John! Show Miss Clifford to her room.'
"And thither, fair reader, we will follow her. Poor Grace! Left to herself, a sense of her utter loneliness overpowered her, and she wept like a child. Early left an orphan, dependent through her childhood and youth, up to the present time, upon relatives who made her feel each day, each hour, how bitter was that dependence; who grudged the bread she ate; who, envious of her beauty and superior abilities, constantly made them the subject of coarse jests and coarser taunts, Grace gladly answered Mrs. Fay's advertisement, hoping for relief from the fetters of so galling a chain. Sensitive to a fault, she had endeavored to nerve herself with strength to endure much that was annoying and repulsive in the situation she sought; but the total want of delicacy and courtesy displayed by Mrs. Fay, her coarse allusion to her late bereavement, (the death of a sister,) her ill-concealed envy of her personal charms, all combined to depress and dishearten her.
"But Grace Clifford was a Christian. She had been early called to suffer; she knew who had mixed for her the cup of life, and she pushed it not away from her lips because the ingredients were bitter. She knew an ear that was never deaf to the orphan's cry, and that the promise 'When thy father and mother forsake thee,' was all her own to claim; and she rose from her knees with a brow calm as an angel's, a spirit girded for the conflict, and a peace that the world knoweth not of.
"Grace's patroness, Mrs. Fay, was the only daughter of a petty shop-keeper in the village of ——. Worshipped by doating parents for her beauty, of which little now remained, she received from them a showy, superficial education, which she was taught from childhood to consider valuable only as a stepping-stone to an establishment in life. She contemptuously turned the cold shoulder to her rustic admirers, one after the other. How this human butterfly succeeded in entrapping a matter-of-fact man, like Mr. Fay, is quite unaccountable. Be that as it may, the honeymoon saw in its decline the death of his love, and wearied with her doll face and vacant mind, he sought, after the birth of his little daughter, his chief pleasure in the nursery, for which she entertained an unconquerable aversion.
"Reader, have you never in a Summer's day ramble stopped to admire in some secluded spot a sweet flower that had sprung up as if by magic—rich in color, beautiful in form, throwing unconsciously its sweet fragrance to the winds, unappreciated, unnoticed, uncared for, save by His eye who painted its delicate leaves? Such a flower was Meta Fay. Delicate, fragile as Spring's first violet, with a brow and eyes that are seldom seen, save where death's shadow soonest falls; and with a mind that face belied not, earnest, thoughtful and serious.
"Repulsed by her mother, who saw nothing in that little shrinking form but a bar to the enjoyment of her empty pleasures, doted on by a father who was the slave of Mammon, and who, unable to fathom the soul that looked out from the depths of those clear eyes, lavished as a recompense for the many unanswered questions prompted by her restless mind, the costliest toys of childhood. From all these would Meta turn away dissatisfied, to clasp to her bosom the simplest daisy that decked the meadow, or to hail with rapture the first sweet star that came stealing forth at evening.
"Such was Grace Clifford's pupil. All thought of herself was soon lost in the delight of watching her young mind develop; and if a thought of her responsibility as its guardian sometimes startled her, yet it also made her more watchful, more true to her trust. A love almost like that of parent and child grew up between them. Often, when engaged in their studies, when Meta's love-speaking eyes were fixed upon her young teacher, and the flush upon her delicate cheek was coming and vanishing like the shadows of a Summer cloud, would Grace tremble for the frail casket that contained so priceless a gem.
"Meantime, Mrs. Fay continued her treadmill round of visiting, shopping and dressing, occasionally looking into the nursery, quite satisfied that her child was wonderfully improved in beauty, and willing to take it for granted everything else was as it should be. On one of these occasions Meta said,