Rensselaer Union, Volume 9, Number 36, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 May 1877 — WHAT HE LOST. [ARTICLE]

WHAT HE LOST.

Tint evening was warmand’still, and all the doors and windo ws in George street were set open, and everybody who could escape from indoor occupation was out for a stroll. The people living here were dec&Ht, hardworking men and women, earning enough to keep their families in comfort, and taking an honest pride in themselves and their dwellings. M ost of the windows could boast of clean muslin curtains, and the doorsteps were as white as hard sconring eould make them. There waaone house, however, whose doorstep could ill bear a comparison with its neighbors ; and, as to its curtains, they were drab and dingy, and had been up all the winter. “ Mias Kennaway don’t regard appearances, that’s certain,” said one matron to another, as they took their evening walk together. “If I were her, I should be sick of the sight of those frightful drab curtains. Ana she with a smart young man coming often to the house!” “ Poor tlimg!” sighed the other woman —acgood-natured sotil, always ready to find excuses for those the world was hard upon—” poor thing! she can’t have a minute to call Her own. What with her dressmaking and her mother’s long illshe must be pretty nearly at her wits,’Apo.” < “ Wei!, if young Parr don’t mind the curtains, and that disgraceful doorstep of hers, I’m Sure I don’t,’,’ responded the first speakdr, sharply. “And here he comes,* looking as natty as you please, anq walking as if the ground wasn’t good enough for his feet!” William Parr, the promised husband of Fanny Kennaway, was ope of those men who aie said take above their station, and are sometimes so .very much above it that there is no keeping them in it. William, however, was industrious enough to find favor with the merchant who employed him. Out of the counting-house he held his head high, and looked down upon his fellow-clerks, who never ceased to wonder why such a lofty fellow should have courted a humble little dressmaker in George street. But very few men of taste would have been surprised at Parr's choice if they had seen Fanny Kennaway in her seat by the window that evening. After a long day’s work, she was resting eyes and hands for a few minutes, and watching for William’s coming. Hers whs a delicate, clearly-cut face, pale as a lily, and serious almost to sadness—a face that seemed lo have little in common with the needles and pins and gay stuffs around her. And yet, In a general way, Fanny worked cheerfully enough at her trade. It was ouly when’nursing as well as dressmaking fell to her lot, and a heavy doctor’s bill was added to ordinary expenses, that her,, little body felt itself aweary of this great world. But there was no weariness in the smile that greeted William, as he entered the humble room. Like a wise woman as she was. Fanny al ways met her lover with a bright look and a cheery voice. ” Come, Fanny,” he Said, “ wbn’t you go for a walk this evening ? Your mother is better, so that youcansurely bespared.” “ Oh, yes; mother can spare me; Mrs. Marks is sitting with her. But there'is a dress that must be finished to-night, William.” „ “ I wonder why we can never enjoy ourselves as other people do,” muttered Parr crossly. “ You are making a regular slave of yourself, Fanny.” “Well, then. I'll go," she answered after a little pause, “ and I won’t be five minutes getting »ady.” She tripped off, and soon returned, look-’ ing so neat in her walking garb that only an ill-humored man could have found a fault in her. But as they walked away together down the street, there was a cloud on William’s face; and presently he spoke grievance.- * ‘Why don’t you get a stylish hat, Tahny, instead of wearing that everlasting bonnet? I can’t think now it is your things last so long; one never sees you in anything fresh and new. For my sake to be a little smarter in your Fanny did not tell him that every sixpence she earned wag spent on the common necessaries of life, and that all her savings had gone to pay that terrible doctor’s bill: but she looked up lovingly into his handsome gloomy face. William was her. first love; she could not wish him changed, even when his magnificent notions caused her some inconvenience. The ornament of a meek and quiet spirit is not always duly valued; and many people might have blamed Fanny for her tameness. But she was one of those women who would rather hear harsh words than speak them. Instead, of chiding, she patiently set heroelf to bring her companion into a better frame, of mind, and she succeeced so well that William almost forgot the old bonnet. And yet, when he had left her at her own door, and was going back to his lodging, he begdnto thfak of ft again.

It was quite humiliating, he said to himself, for a man in his position to have been seen .If,, the company of such a bonnet as that. ,“How are yon. Parr?” cried a loud voice. " Splendid evening, isn’tlt? Come home and have supper, will you ?” The speaker was a dashing young fellow, son of an auctioneer who was reputed to be making a fortune. It was the first invitation that William had ever had from Tom “?hanks,” he answered promptly. “ I shall be very happy to come.” And then the two set off together, and William was by no means ill pleased to walk with a well-dressed acquaintance, who nodded familiarly to one or two men in a sphere above him. The Denys lived in a pleasant villa, with coaca house, stables and greenhouses. Voices anti laughter were heard in the garden as the young men approached the gate: William caught sight of light dresses fluttering abont on the lawn, and remembered certain rumors of the beauty of the Derry girls. . * After George street, and Fanny’s little work-room, it was no wonder, perhaps, that Gloucester Lodge seemed almost an earthly Paradise. Julia Derry, the youngest and prettiest of the sisters, was disposed to be very gracious to William. She wore plenty of jewelry, and her costume was made in the latest style. After supper she sang and played-several fashionable songs, with William standing beside her to turn over the music leaves. It was very pleasant, he thought, to see a girl with rings on her white hands, and without the tell-tale roughness on the left fore-finger. It was the old, old story. After that evening, spent at Gloucester Ledge, William’s visit to'George street grew rarer and rarer; and little Fanny drooped visibly. It is not so very hard for a woman to bear up under life’s burdens while she has the strong prop of a man’s love to lean upon. But if the prop breaks, it is well for her if the burden do not crush her altogether. Fanny, however, was not without a certain quiet fortitude. She felt that her prop was giving away, and nerved herself to do without it. “Fanny,” said Mrs. Kennaway, one evening as the young dressmaker sat sewing in her old window-seat. “ you are not looking well, my child; I wish William woulacome and take you out. He hasn’t been here very often lately, has he?”

“ No, mother, not very often.” " I think you are working to hard,” continued the poor woman, sighing. “ I get well very slowly, Fanny; and the beef tea and port wine cost a great deal. I’ve made up my mind, child, to write to my brother at last.” “ But, mother, you’ll be dreadfully distressed if he doesn’t answer. Anavou have often said that he would never torgive you for marrying poor father.” “I’ve been a widow for nearly five years, Fanny. Surely Stephen can bury the old grievance in my husband’s grave!” “ You know best, mother. But father always spoae of him as a hard man.” “ Well, at any rate, I shall make an attempt to soften him. Don’t try to talk me out of it, Fanny. I believe it is the right thing to do.” Fanny held her peace, but she had little hope that her Uncle Fenwick would reply to his sister’s letter. She knew that he W’us a rich city merchant several years older than her mother, but she had never seen him, and had founded her opinion of his character solely on her father’s dislike to him. The "late Mr. Kennaway had been one of those men who have a natural turn for borrowing money, and are generally severe on the friends who refuse to lend. Perhaps Mrs. Kennaway had taken some pains to hide the father’s faults from the child’s eyes, for Fanny had never discovered them. “Now, Fanny,” said honest Mrs. Marks, bouncing into the little room, “tomorrow’s Saturday, and you are going to have a whole holiday. Everything’s planned, so you may leave off shaking your head. Martßaker has promised to come and sit witlryour mother. My man and I have arranged to take you right off to Durrant Farm, where my sister fives.” Mrs. Marks and her husband were the Kennaway’s next-door neighbors. They were a childless couple, and, instead of wasting their affections on dogs and parrots, they looked out for young people who needed love and sympathy. Fanny had no idea they knew all about her sor. row. She did not realize how easy it is for shrewd eyes to read the signs of a sick heart. Early the next morning a hired chaise rattled out of George street, containing Fanny and her two friends. Of course it could not be quite a perfect holiday without William; but the girl enjoyed fresh air and rest, and was grateful for kindness. It was a long drive, and when they reached the farm-house, Mrs. Marks declared that Fanny had picked up wonderfully. A day or two in the country, she said, would put a little color into those pate cheeks, and brighten the eyes that were dull with watching and working. Ah, poor Fanny! Durrant Farm stands upon the outskirts of a wood, which has always been a favorite haunt with picnic parties. The Fates had decreed that the Derrys should give a picnic that day; it was early in Septem-, ber, and townsfolk wanted to make the most of the waning summer. Miss Julia Derry wore an entirely new costume, bought for the occasion, and a charming rustio hat adorned with poppies, ana wheat-ears. It was very agreeable to be admired, even by a mere merchant’s clerk, and she lavished her sweetest smiles on William Parr.

Aria in arm the pair strolled away from the rest of the party. He talked nonsense, and she laughed and listened, and led him on, without a thought beyond the hour’s unusement. She was wiser in the world’! ways than foolish William, whose vanity I ad been tickled until he really believed t«at he had made a conquest. He was bendingdown to his companion, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, when a turn in the path suddenly brought them face to face with Mrs. Marks ana Fanny Kennaway. Even then things might have turned out well, if William had only been true to himself. But’ there was Fanny in her shabby, evety-day gown, and the bonnet that had gone completely oat of fashion; and there was the superb Julia, hanging on Parr’s arm, and quizzing his betrothed with haugh’y eyes. The worst part of the young man's nature came uppermost at that moment. He gave one quick glance at Fanny, and then swepton, without besto wingeven a how of recognition on the little dressmaker. “ Well,” said Mrs. Marks, drawing a long breath, “ I only wonderthatthe earth don’t open and swallow him up!” Fanny took her lover’s desertion in a very quiet way. She knew that the end had come, and did not try to get any comfort out of a dead hope. When the fire has gone out, die is r. wise woman who sets herself to rake away the ashes, and clean out the grate, even when she

knows her hearth-stone will be cold for many a year afterward. Our little dreaamaker went on sewing and snipping as usual, saying never » want about ter trouble. Meanwhile the household burdens were lightened. Mr. Fenwick wrote a kind reply to his sister’s letter, and Inclosed a sum large enough to supply her with all that she required. “ You can get yourself a new gown now, Fanny,’’said her mother, cheerfully. “It has made my heartache to ape you wearing that oil. gray thing. I like my girl to be well dressed.” Brave Fanny! If a sick heart whispered that it didn’t matter what she wore nowadays, she never heeded the voice. She chose the material with as much care as if it had been the stuff for her wedding dress, and set about making it up in her best stvle. When it was finished, Mrs. Marks came in, and resolutely cleared away the signa of work, and then sent Fanny up-stairs to put on the new gown and go out walking In it. It was getting late in the afternoon when Fanny returned from her stroll. It seemqd to her, as she entered the little parlor, that it was full of people; her mother sat by the window, looking nervous and tearful, yet happy withal; and by her side was an elderly gentleman, talking earnestly. A little apart from these two was a young man, sitting at the table and turning over the pages or a little volume of poems which had been a gift from William Parr to his affianced wife. Both gentlemen rose quickly as Fanny came in, and the elder introduced himself at once.

“ I am your uncle, Stephen Fenwick, Fanny,” he said, taking her hands. “ Give me a Kiss, my dear. You are like the daughter I have lost. This is my son, your cousin, Walter.” The young man came forward, and asked if Fanny were willing to make friends with an unknown relative. His manner was natural, his voice very gentle, and Fanny felt at once that he treated her with as much deference as if she had been a peeress instead of a poor little dressmaker. What be thought of her she did not learn till long afterward; but certain it is that the image of a sweet, pale girl, in a brown dress, haunted Walter Fenwick’s mind for tnanv a day. “ Your uncle wants us to go and live with him, Fanny,” said Mrs. Kennaway, tremulously. He is a widower, and has only a housekeeper to take care of him. Shall we go?” “ Will you come and be my child, Fanny?” asked Mr.' Fenwick. She turned and looked steadfastly at him for a moment with her eyes full of tears. And then, slowly and gratefully, she answered yes. Only a fortnight after Mr. Fenwick’s visit, the inhabitants of George street ran to their doors to catch a last glimpse of the Kennaways. The two women came very quietly out of the little house, and entered the fly that waited for them and their luggage. Mrs. Marks waved a tearful farewell; her husband stood on the pavement, smiling broadly to hide his real feelings, and then the vehicle rattled away, and the folks went indoors again, saying that they supposed the rich uncle was going to make a lady of little Fanny. And how was it meanwhile with William Parr? His intimacy with those gay friends, the Derrys, had come to an end with the summer. Julia got tired of his attentions and snubbed him; her elders said to each other that young Parr’s frequent visits were becoming quite a nuisance ; even Tom at last gave him the cold shoulder. They were a heartless set, he said to himself, feeling abominably illused. And then it suddenly occurred to him that he was only getting the very same measure that he had meted to another.

“It serves me right for treating Fanny badly,” he mused. “She was worth a hundred Julias. And she is such a good, forgiving little thing, that I almost think she’d make it up with me if I went back to her again.” It was a chilly evening in late autumn when William Parr once more took his way to George street. A host of old recollections came crowding around him as he drew near Fanny’s home; he began to wonder how he could have stayed away from her so long, and to be eager for the first glimpse of her sweet face. He knew just how she would look; his fancy pictured the glow and brightness that would welcome him. There wae light m her parlor—a warm, cheery beam, that told him he should find her sitting as usual at her sewing. “1 won’t make a doien wretched excuses,” thought the young man. “ I’ll just ask her to forgive me, and tell her that I could not live without her.” He knocked at the door, and stood waiting with a throbbing heart for Fanny to open it. A few seconds passed away, and then he heard the inside latch lifted, and stood face to face with a ta|l, hard-featured woman, in a widow’s cap. “Is Miss Kennaway within?” he faltered. “ She doesn’t live here!” responded the woman shortly. “Not live here!” said William. “ Then where is she? Can you give me any information?”

“ I don’t know anything* about her. I’ve beard that some people named Kennaway lived here before I came, but that’s all I can tell you.” William turned away from the door like one half stunned. It was all so different from the pleasant end pathetic little scene he had been picturing, that he could hardly believe in this stern reality. And then as he still stood dreaming on the pavement, he bethought him of Mrs. Marks. She had been the Kennaways’ familiar friend, and would surely know something about their change of residence. Alas! Mrs. Marks’ house was quiet and dark. The shutters were closed; not a gleam of light could be seen within; and William’s knock remained unanswered. “ That house is empty,” said a girl’s voice at his elbow; and looking round he saw a decently-clad lassie with a parcel under her arm. “ The Markses are gone away to live somewhere in the country,” she added. “ Can you tell me what has become of Mrs. Kennaway and her daughter?” William asked eagerly. “ They're gone to London. Some rich gentleman found out that they were his near relations, and he has taken them to live with him.” Without another word William walked away, hardly knowing what direction he was taking. Until that moment he had never realized how strong was the tie that had bound him to little Fanny. He had neglectrd her—trifled with himself and his best feelings—and weil nigh broken her heart; but bad he ever really ceased to love her? She wasgone; she had quietly vanished out of his way, and made no sign. Three years passed away. William Parr had stepped into the place left vacant by the death of a senior clerk; his salary had been raised, and be had moved into

better lodgings. Perhaps if he had sought to renew his intimacy with tho Derrys, he mighthot have been repulsed, b»t ha was w a sadder and a wiser man. The sense of loss had never entirely left him; nor had he asyet found anyone who could be what Fanny had been. No tidings of her had ever come to her old lover; in the days of their intercourse she had been silent about her Uncle Fenwick, and William had not even heard his name. z One day it happened that William Parr was dispatched to London to transact some business for his employer. It was winter, but the weather was clear and sunshiny, and when he arrived at the great metropolitan station it wanted an hour to noon. Among the numbers waiting on the platform, one figure attracted William’s eye at once. It was that of a lady, richly dressed In velvet and sable, who was evidently looking out eagerly for seme one in the train. As she cattght a glimpse of the face she was watching for, her own brightened and flushed jn a way that William well remembered. Just so had she greeted him, when hehad been wont to pay his evening visits to the little house In George street, long ago. A quiet-looking, gentlemanlike man stepped out of a first-class carriage and was about to draw her hand through his oil: But William, yielding to a powerful impulse, approached and spoke. • “Fanny—Miss Kennaway,” he said, nervously, She gave a very slight start; for an instant her color deepened, and then she frankly extended her hand. “Not Miss Kennaway now,” she answered, smiling. “ This is my husband, Mr. Fenwick—Mr. Parr.” William scarcely knew how he returned the gentleman’s salutation. A Soment more and Walter Fenwick and s wife had passed on, leaving himstanding on the platform, tiying to collect his scattered senses. Both had seen plainly that he was far too confused to enter into conversation. “Poor fellow!” said Walter, looking down tenderly into his wife’s face, “ I do not wonder that he was agitated by this sudden meeting with his lost love. He is a greau loser; and I am a great gainer, Fanny.”— Cowell's Magazine.