Ernest Linwood | Page 7

the fever of
imagination subsided. I saw the triumph of reason and principle in her
own self-control,--for, when I was describing the scene, her mild eye
flashed, and her pale cheek colored with an unwonted depth of hue. She
had to struggle with her own emotions, that she might subdue mine.
"May I ask him to pardon Richard Clyde, mother?"
"The act would become your gratitude, but I fear it would avail nothing.
If he has required submission of him, he will hardly accept yours as a
substitute."
"Must I ask him to forgive me? Must I return?"
I hung breathlessly on her reply.
"Wait till morning, my daughter. We shall both feel differently then. I
would not have you yield to the dictates of passion, neither would I
have you forfeit your self-respect. I must not rashly counsel."
"I would not let her go back at all," exclaimed a firm, decided voice.
"They ain't fit to hold the water to wash her hands."
"Peggy," said my mother, rebukingly, "you forget yourself."
"I always try to do that," she replied, while she placed on the table my
customary supper of bread and milk.
"Yes, indeed you do," answered my mother, gratefully,--"kind and
faithful friend. But humility becometh my child better than pride."
Peggy looked hard at my mother, with a mixture of reverence, pity, and
admiration in her clear, honest eye, then taking a coarse towel, she
rubbed a large silver spoon, till it shone brighter and brighter, and laid
it by the side of my bowl. She had first spread a white napkin under it,
to give my simple repast an appearance of neatness and gentility. The
bowl itself was white, with a wreath of roses round the rim, both inside
and out. Those rosy garlands had been for years the delight of my eyes.

I always hailed the appearance of the glowing leaves, when the milky
fluid sunk below them, with a fresh appreciation of their beauty. They
gave an added relish to the Arcadian meal. They fed my love of the
beautiful and the pure. That large, bright silver spoon,--I was never
weary of admiring that also. It was massive--it was grand--and
whispered a tale of former grandeur. Indeed, though the furniture of our
cottage was of the simplest, plainest kind, there were many things
indicative of an earlier state of luxury and elegance. My mother always
used a golden thimble,--she had a toilet case inlaid with pearl, and
many little articles appropriate only to wealth, and which wealth only
purchases. These were never displayed, but I had seen them, and made
them the corner-stones of many an airy castle.
CHAPTER IV.
And who was Peggy?
She was one of the best and noblest women God ever made. She was a
treasury of heaven's own influences.
And yet she wore the form of a servant, and like her divine Master,
there was "no beauty" in her that one should desire to look upon her.
She had followed my mother through good report and ill report. She
had clung to her in her fallen fortunes as something sacred, almost
divine. As the Hebrew to the ark of the covenant,--as the Greek to his
country's palladium,--as the children of Freedom to the star-spangled
banner,--so she clung in adversity to her whom in prosperity she almost
worshipped. I learned in after years, all that we owed this humble,
self-sacrificing, devoted friend. I did not know it then--at least not
all--not half. I knew that she labored most abundantly for us,--that she
ministered to my mother with as much deference as if she were an
empress, anticipating her slightest wants and wishes, deprecating her
gratitude, and seeming ashamed of her own goodness and industry. I
knew that her plain sewing, assisted by my mother's elegant
needle-work, furnished us the means of support; but I had always
known it so, and it seemed all natural and right. Peggy was strong and

robust. The burden of toil rested lightly on her sturdy shoulders. It
seemed to me that she was born with us and for us,--that she belonged
to us as rightfully as the air we breathed, and the light that illumined us.
It never entered my mind that we could live without Peggy, or that
Peggy could live without us.
My mother's health was very delicate. She could not sew long without
pressing her hand on her aching side, and then Peggy would draw her
work gently from her with her large, kind hand, make her lie down and
rest, or walk out in the fresh air, till the waxen hue was enlivened on
her pallid cheek. She would urge her to go into the garden and gather
flowers for Gabriella, "because the poor child loved so to see them in
the room." We