We were a sad and silent little company when the clock struck eight that night, and when we met for the last time to hear the last story.The shadow of the approaching farewell--itself the shade of the long farewell--rested heavily on our guest's spirits.The gay dresses which she had hitherto put on to honor our little ceremony were all packed up, and the plain gown she wore kept the journey of the morrow cruelly before her eyes and ours.A quiet melancholy shed its tenderness over her bright young face as she drew the last number, for form's sake, out of the bowl, and handed it to Owen with a faint smile.Even our positions at the table were altered now.Under the pretense that the light hurt my eyes, I moved back into a dim corner, to keep my anxious face out of view.Morgan, looking at me hard, and muttering under his breath, "Thank Heaven, I never married!"stole his chair by degrees, with rough, silent kindness, nearer and nearer to mine.Jessie, after a moment's hesitation, vacated her place next, and, saying that she wanted to sit close to one of us on the farewell night, took a chair at Owen's side.Sad!
sad! we had instinctively broken up already, so far as our places at the table were concerned, before the reading of the last story had so much as begun.
It was a relief when Owen' s quiet voice stole over the weary silence, and pleaded for our attention to the occupation of the night.
"Number Six," he said, "is the number that chance has left to remain till the last.The manuscript to which it refers is not, as you may see, in my handw riting.It consists entirely of passages from the Diary of a poor hard-working girl--passages which tell an artless story of love and friendship in humble life.When that story has come to an end, I may inform you how Ibecame possessed of it.If I did so now, I should only forestall one important part of the interest of the narrative.I have made no attempt to find a striking title for it.It is called, simply and plainly, after the name of the writer of the Diary--the Story of Anne Rodway."In the short pause that Owen made before he began to read, Ilistened anxiously for the sound of a traveler's approach outside.At short intervals, all through the story, I listened and listened again.Still, nothing caught my ear but the trickle of the rain and the rush of the sweeping wind through the valley, sinking gradually lower and lower as the night advanced.
BROTHER OWEN'S STORY
of ANNE RODWAY.
[TAKEN FROM HER DIARY.]
* * * MARCH 3d, 1840.A long letter today from Robert, which surprised and vexed me so that I have been sadly behindhand with my work ever since.He writes in worse spirits than last time, and absolutely declares that he is poorer even than when he went to America, and that he has made up his mind to come home to London.
How happy I should be at this news, if he only returned to me a prosperous man! As it is, though I love him dearly, I cannot look forward to the meeting him again, disappointed and broken down, and poorer than ever, without a feeling almost of dread for both of us.I was twenty-six last birthday and he was thirty-three, and there seems less chance now than ever of our being married.
It is all I can do to keep myself by my needle; and his prospects, since he failed in the small stationery business three years ago, are worse, if possible, than mine.
Not that I mind so much for myself; women, in all ways of life, and especially in my dressmaking way, learn, I think, to be more patient than men.What I dread is Robert's despondency, and the hard struggle he will have in this cruel city to get his bread, let alone making money enough to marry me.So little as poor people want to set up in housekeeping and be happy together, it seems hard that they can't get it when they are honest and hearty, and willing to work.The clergyman said in his sermon last Sunday evening that all things were ordered for the best, and we are all put into the stations in life that are properest for us.I suppose he was right, being a very clever gentleman who fills the church to crowding; but I think I should have understood him better if I had not been very hungry at the time, in consequence of my own station in life being nothing but plain needlewoman.
March 4th.Mary Mallinson came down to my room to take a cup of tea with me.I read her bits of Robert's letter, to show her that, if she has her troubles, I have mine too; but I could not succeed in cheering her.She says she is born to misfortune, and that, as long back as she can remember, she has never had the least morsel of luck to be thankful for.I told her to go and look in my glass, and to say if she had nothing to be thankful for then; for Mary is a very pretty girl, and would look still prettier if she could be more cheerful and dress neater.However, my compliment did no good.She rattled her spoon impatiently in her tea-cup, and said, "If I was only as good a hand at needle-work as you are, Anne, I would change faces with the ugliest girl in London." "Not you!" says I, laughing.She looked at me for a moment, and shook her head, and was out of the room before I could get up and stop her.She always runs off in that way when she is going to cry, having a kind of pride about letting other people see her in tears.
March 5th.A fright about Mary.I had not seen her all day, as she does not work at the same place where I do; and in the evening she never came down to have tea with me, or sent me word to go to her; so, just before I went to bed, I ran upstairs to say good-night.
