Democratic Sentinel, Volume 6, Number 9, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 31 March 1882 — A FAIRY GODMOTHER. [ARTICLE]

A FAIRY GODMOTHER.

Madame Dupont, wrappod in a loose robe of some gray material, a faded cashmere shawl partly covering her, lay on the lounge before tho bay-window that formed almost the entire front of her tiny cottage. Her large black eyes, their brightness somewhat dimmed by her long sickness, dwelt with dreamy Eleasure on the landscape spread before er.

It was a very common landscape, such as can be seen in any country place on any summer day—only a broad field, white with daisies, among which two or three brown cows patiently sought for tender blades of grass, with one tall, stout tree standing midway, solitary and sione, and a background of dense, tangled brushwood. To oareless eyes, scarce werth a careless glance; but to hers, so long shut out from sight of earth and sky, a scene most beautiful. The slender, white, wrinkled hands folded upon her breast were yet too weak to hold even one of her beloved bo«ks, and the small feet still lacked sufficient strength to sustain the frail body. But—thank Heaven—the cruel pain had gone, and in its stead had come a blissful rest.

All through the fickle months of spring, taking no heed whether they smil dor wept, she had never raised her weary head from the pillow. And the snow-drops and crocuses and scillse and hyacinths and tulips had grown and budded and bloomed in her little garden, and she, who had hoped to watch them grow from the first green leaf to the perfeot blossom, had only seen the few Viola had plu-ked and brought to her bedside, where, seen through a cloud of suffering, a shadow had fallen upon their beauty, And now it was the heart of June and the ros s, gay in every shade of pink, olimbing about the window, looked in, and entreated her to come out. But no ; she could not hope to walk again among her flowers until the roses had faded and the lilies had begun to reign. And perhaps even this hope would not have been hers had it not been for the love and care and cheering words of Viola, the eldest daughter of the many daughters at the big farm house. Kite, the strong, rough, Irish servant maid, was kind and faithful in her way ; but hers was money service, and, left to it alone, she might have died ; but Viola served for love (she h id loved the pretty old madame since first they met), and love brings faith and hope and patience, and many other beautiful things For weeks the young girl came morn, noon and eve, to Btay an hour each time, and her visits were the only gleams of brightness that lighted that dark room. And many the wee loaf of whitest bread, and golden pat of butter an l drink of sw’et rich milk, and fresh-laid, pinktinted egg, she brought to tempt the languid appetite; and many the song she sang, soft and low, to woo for the sick woman the angel of sleep. And yet not only were they neither kith nor kin, but she knew naught of Madame Dupont save that she had built the fourroomed cottage the preceding spring, aud had lived there since the last Juiy in the humblest way There was a large family at the farm house, and much work to be done—hard, unlovely work, the very thought of which often male the young girl, waking in the gray morning from pleasant dreams, clasp her hands and cry out, “Is Ibis to be my life forever?” Aid had it not been for the glimpse of beauty she caught about her home —the far-off river gleaming in the sunlight or moonlight, the orchard trees white with blossoms in spring, and laden with fruit m summer and autumn, the shady woods where countless shy wild flowers hid from the glare of the world, the songs of the happy birds, and the grand sunset behind the distant hills —she would have been heart-weary indeed. For she loved everything beautiful. And especially did she love music with all the tenderness of a creator, as Madame discovered one day—the day they fi st saw each other, in fact, when Viola, coming on an errand to the cott ige, stopped entranced on the threshold of the door to listen to the plaintive melody in a minor key, feeble but beautifully played on the old-fashioned upright piano. “You love music?” said madame, turning slowly and confronting her. “With all my heart,” answered the girl, the vivid blush that was ever ready to appear flushing her sweet young face.

“ Yon play? ” “A little—a very little; bnt I have had no piano for three years—since my own mother died.” “ Let me hear you.” "Oh, madame, I dare not try after you.” But the old lady rose and gently led her to the instrument. There were two or three keys entirely dumb, and the rest were not in pe feet tune; but the spirit of music so guided the long slen der fingers that they reproduced the minor melody madame had played, so daintily enwrapped in bird-like trills and rippling ruus that she, in turn, stood entranced. “ After me, indeed !” she sad, as the f'irl struck the last chord. “I had to earn, bat you—i*, is part of you. And you have no piano ? Ah, that is sad. Could I give yon mine, it should be yours. But it belonged to my dear husband, who died twenty years ago, and I could not bear to part with it. He was a Frenchman and a professor of music. I was an American girl and one of his pupils. When I married him I helped him teach others, and so came to be called * madame. ’ We loved each other very much._ But I’shall be glad, my dear—Very glad—to have you come here and play as often as you will.” “Could I come as often as I would,” said the girl, with a bright smile, “ I’m afraid I should soon tire you. But I will come as often as X can. And oh, madame*—suddenly kissing the soft,

wrinkled cheek—'“ I cannot tell you how much I thank yon »” But the “often” proved very seldom, (or some of the summer boarders staid until the end of October; and the butter had to be churned, and the fruit canned, and the younger sisters to be prepared each day for school, and the twin boys—nothing to speak of in point of years, but perfect Methuselahs m mischief—to be looked after from morning until night, and winter wardrobes to be made, and a thousand and one other things to be done. And then madame fell sick, and all the time Viola oould spare she spent at her bedside. *'Time that had much better be spent at home,” scolded her step mother; “ for there’s a servant there, and one servant’s enough to take care of two such houses as that, and their mistresses, too, sick or well. I have no servant.” “ You have me,” Viola might have replied, “and no servant ever worked harder or for less wages;” bnt «h« set her lips firmly together and said nothing. Bnt she rose earner than ever thereafter, that she might not leave undone the slightest of her tasks, and thus merit no reproach for the few hours each day she gave her dear old friend. And now madame was getting well, and, with the help of her strong servant-maid, could go from room to room; but she was best satisfied as yet to he in the wee parlor on the lounge before the big window.

And here Viola made her appearance the day the roses were beckoning, with a merry greeting and a dish of luscious red strawberries smothered in cream; but in spite of the merry greeting there was a hint of a shadow on her bonny face that did not escape madame’s keen black eyes. “ Tell me about it, my dear,” she said, in her sweet, trembling voice. Viola knelt beside her. “ You must be a fairy, madame,” she said; “for none but a fairy could have guessed that I was a little sorry to-day. And for such a trifling cause I’m ashamed to speak of it.” But, the old lady insisting with gentle persistence, she began: “It is a ball I would like to go to, but cannot. I have never been to a ball, and this one—you remember the young lady who boarded at our house last summer, with her father and sister—” “And brother,” suggested madame. “And brother,” repeated Violv, never lowering her frank blue eyes, but blushing from the tip of her round chin to the curls shading her low fair brow. “Well, she and I were good friends then, but I never dreamed sue would remember me after she went away, for be —she, I mean—is rich, and I am poor, and our ways in life lie very, very far apart. But she has not forgotten me. See, madame, here is an invitation to a ball to be given on her 19th birthday at her aunt’s house, only a few miles away. And —and her brother signs it too. He writes a handsome haud, does he not, madame ? ” “A strong, handsome hand, my dear, and he is a handsome, manly fellow. I do not forget the messages he used to bring me from you and deliver with such oourtly grace. You must go to the ball.” “Oh, madame, it is impossible. I could not go if it was the simplest of parties, and it is to be a fancy dress. I nave nothing to wear. You know the crops failed last year on account of the drought? But what folly for me to let so slight a thing distress me for a moment, when all at home have strength and you are fast getting well. ” “For which we should be—and no doubt wo are—devoutly thankful,” said the old lady, “aud all the more reason why you should go to the ball. You said just how I must be a fairy. I’ll prove my right to the title by being a fairy god-mother. You did not kuow that my name was Violet. Take the key that yon will find under the clock on the mantel, and open the ottoman standing yonder.” “ Open the ottoman, madame? ” “ Yes; it is simply a chest in disguise, and in it lies your bail dress.” The lid of tho disguised chest was raised, a long box lifted out and opened. An exclamation of delight burst from Viola’s lips. There lay a satin dress of creamy whiteness. It unfolded into a miracle of old-fashioned loveliness. Purple violets were scattered here and there upon the scant skirt, as though dropped from some careless hand, and the puffed sleeves and shorl waist were made of a wealth of amber-hued lace. And then came a large, quaint fan of sandal-wood and peacock feathers, a necklace of pearls, a high tortoise-shell comb and a pair of satin shoes with low, flat heels and queer pointed toes. "But you never mean that I should wear these, madame ? ” said Viola. “That Ido, most surely,”said madame gayly. “I wore them, child, many years ago. And now another Violet needs them. There is fate in it. And I will put a spell upon them ; and—who knows ?—they may help you win a true lover, as they did me.” “ But the shoes, madame—they are too small I’m sure.” “ Try them, my dear.” Viola slipped one on. “It binds across the instep,” said she “Just take the scissors and cut it, then.” “ Oh, madame, I know it would spoil it.” “Doas I bid you. Fairy godmother must be obeyed. Now take the rosettes still remaining in the box, and fasten one over each shoe to hide the damage done.” And, with the beautiful rosettes of satin and lace, with a “ V " encircled in seed-pearl in the center of each, hiding the gaps the scissors had made, the toilet was complete. And so Viola went to the ball, not in a fine carriage drawn by prancing steeds, but in her father’s covered wagon, behind the old farm horse. But when she appeared in the brilliantly-lighted room it was rather late, for the old horse traveled slowly—the creamy-white satin dress clinging to her slight, graceful figure, her pearls clustering around her smooth throat, her golden hair wound about the tortoise-shell comb, her dimpled arms and shoulders just showing through the ancient lace, her innocent blue eyes looking shyly over the quaint fan, ayd her feet clad in the pointed shoes, half hidden by the gay rosettes—the gay crowd felt, some of them (the fair maidens these), with bitter envy,that an unknown Princess of beauty was among them. And the Prince of the reigning house quickly followed his sister to welcome her, leaving a Night with diamond stars to sparkle for some more faithful worshiper. And again and again he and the unknown Princess danced together until nearly daybreak, when, a servant summoning her hastily—foi* the farmer father was tired of waiting—she flew to the dressing-room, and, one of the rosettes bursting from its fastening on the way, away went the shoe it had helped to hold in its place, down, down through the well of the winding stair-case, to regions far below.

And Viola, hawing the enohantment of the night still strong upon her, never missed it, but, hastily drawing on her stoat boots, ran to the old wagon, jumped in and drove away in the dim first of moruing from the Prince and fairy land. But when she awoke from the deep sleep into which she sank as soon as she reached her home—the sun was then on its westward way—she discovered her loss, and, while she was bewailing it, the Prince rang at the door. “I have found a slipper, or shoe, or something of the bind, ’ he said, taking it from the breast pocket of his furtrimmed coat; “and as it will not fit either of my sisters, or my cousins, or auy of my lady friends who with them bide, I thought it might fit you/’ “it does not really/’ said truthful

Viola, with her lovely blush. “ I could Hot have worn it had it not been oat open at the instep—l have not an aristocratic foot—and that is how, the stitches that held the friendly rosette giving way, I came to lose it.” “ That I—thank fortune I—might find it And now, Viola dearest—” Bat what need of saying more ? Yen can all end the story yourselves, I am sure, even to guessing that madame lived to be 100 years old, and that never was fairy godmother so loved and petted as she. —Harpers Weekly.