FANNY DAY’S PRESENTIMENT.

———

BY MARIE ROSEAU.

———

(My dear Rose, you ask me to write something which Mr. Graham will print, for your sake; because it is the best Magazine extant, and because you subscribe for it. I will try.)

Do you believe in presentiments?

Two summers ago Fanny Day and myself visited Caroline Alden in her country home, about one hundred miles from Philadelphia.

The morning previous to that fixed upon for our departure, after vainly using all the ingenuity and strength of which I was capable, to stow away in the top of my trunk three dresses, one large shawl, nine bound books, a portfolio, and the four last numbers of “Graham,” I was forced to the conclusion that one-half the articles named must be left behind. Then came the serious business of deciding which of them should be rejected.

“Couldn’t I leave one of the dresses?”

No, that was out of the question. If I meant to ramble over rocks and hills the five (two were already deposited in the lower part of the trunk,) would be barely sufficient to last me through the visit.

“Suppose you leave some of the books—those two large ones, for instance?” suggested one of my sisters, called upon to aid me in the dilemma.

“Oh no, indeed! I could not think of taking fewer books. Those two volumes of Waldie in particular must go, for Caroline was so anxious to read ‘Modern Societies’ and ‘Home.’ ”

“But the others?”

I picked them up one at a time. There were “The Cricket on the Hearth, &c.;” “Sketches of Married Life;” Mrs. Stowe’s “May Flower,” Willis and Longfellow, and three of the Abbott series, for Sunday reading. Each pleaded so eloquently to be taken, that I thought that to leave either would be an insult to the author, and so, after a little hesitation, I felt that all of them must go.

“Couldn’t you do without the portfolio and magazines?” was then asked.

“That would be impossible!” I exclaimed.

“Then you must take that small portmantua, too.”

“But I hate to take so much baggage with me,” I said.

“Then I can’t think of any other mode of freeing you from the difficulty.”

In the midst of this dilemma Fanny Day was announced.

“Tell her to come up here,” I said.

“What, in this disordered room?”

I hastily glanced at the books and dresses strewn around me, and then replied:

“The room don’t look very well, I know; but I can’t leave my packing just now: besides Fanny may be able to assist me in this difficulty.”

I had expected to find Fanny full of joy and enthusiasm in the near prospect of our visit, for so she had always been when we talked about it previously; but she looked sad and dispirited, and it was not until I had made many repeated and eloquent exclamations upon the subject, that she would take any interest in my packing. Then she said quietly —

“Never mind, Marie, there is plenty of room in my trunk for more than half those things.”

I thanked her with delight; yet could not but be surprised that she should be satisfied with fewer “positively necessary” articles than myself.

“Now, that you have this matter satisfactorily arranged, will you go out with me?” she asked.

“Where?” I inquired with slight hesitation, for I had already planned engagements of some sort for every hour in the day.

“Down Chestnut street,” she replied.

“Will you keep me long?” I asked.

“I will tell you all about it when we get into the street,” she answered.

I hesitated.

“Come, Marie, do go with me; that’s a dear, good girl,” Fanny continued, looking coaxingly in my face all the time.

I had not the heart to resist her pleading, and very soon we were on our way to Chestnut street.

“I am going to Mr. Root’s to have my daguerreotype taken,” Fanny said, when we were about a square from home.

“But you had three taken last week,” I said.

“Yes, but my mother did not like those very well. They were not taken by Root, and now I am determined to have a good one for her.”

“Had you not better wait till we return?” I asked.

“No; I cannot,” she replied, in a serious tone.

I looked at her inquiringly.

“I know you will laugh at me, Marie, and think me very foolish,” she said, “but I have a presentiment that I shall never live to return.”

“I have had a dozen such in my life-time,” I answered, “yet they all proved untrue; and so may yours, Fanny dear.”

“I fear not,” she replied in a sad tone.

Knowing that all reasoning would be ineffectual in my friend’s present mood, I simply tried to relieve her sadness by talking upon other subjects on the way.

The likeness was a perfect one. It might have presented a gloomy countenance, but fortunately, I whispered to her, as she seated herself —

“Now, Fanny, do let your mother have a pleasant smile, or she will not like the picture.”

I wish you could see the likeness; the position was so natural and the work so beautifully executed! But you cannot—Fanny gave it into my hands to be faithfully delivered to her mother at some future time; and now—but my story must develop its present hiding-place.

Shall I tell you of our long rail-road journey, and of the dark tunnels through which we passed, reminding one of the “valley of death,” where, as I carelessly alluded to this resemblance, Fanny’s hand grasped, mine with a touch so cold as to send a sympathetic chill of horror through my veins? Or shall I tell you of the shorter stage-ride, and the close companionship of its occupants? No, I will not weary you with either of these in detail; for there was nothing to vary the usual monotony of such journeys we being allowed the customary number of crying babies, and troublesome older children, and the same amount of agreeable and disagreeable strangers.

We found Caroline delighted to see us, (as who would not be,) and I was pleased to notice that much of Fanny’s sadness had disappeared during the first evening. The next morning, however, it was again observable in a listless demeanor, or deep sigh in the midst of a witty remark, or gay laugh.

“What is the matter with you, Fanny?” Caroline asked, after some very marked signs of abstractedness on the part of the former.

“Oh, nothing at all!” Fanny answered quickly, and for a while she endeavored to take more interest in our conversation, but this soon subsided.

“Fanny, if you can give no better explanation of your conduct this morning, I must be under the necessity of attributing it to the usual cause of sighs and absent-mindedness, and believe you to be in love,” Caroline said.

Fanny colored, and exclaimed—

“Oh, no indeed, I am not!”

“Then don’t look so confused and mortified, my dear; for even if you were, you need not be ashamed of it,” Caroline answered composedly.

Fanny left the room soon after this, and I produced the daguerreotype from a corner in my work-box, and showed it to Caroline. She pronounced it the very best likeness she had ever seen, and laid it on the sofa-table. Just then a visiter was announced, proving to be Mr. Harry Lambert, who had spent the previous winter in Philadelphia.

After a mutual recognition, and a few of the common-place inquiries usually made upon such occasions, had passed, he carelessly opened the case containing Fanny’s likeness. As the face met his eye, I thought he changed color, but this may have been mere fancy; for he said, in a perfectly calm and indifferent tone,

“This face looks familiar to me. I must certainly have met the original before.”

“Of course you have, it is Fanny Day. You were quite well acquainted with her in Philadelphia, and I trust you cannot so soon have forgotten an old friend,” I said; and scarcely was the remark made, when the object of it entered the room. This time there was no mistaking the glow upon the gentleman’s face; but Fanny’s cheek was quite colorless as she returned his greeting.

Unfortunately for me, on this very evening, a young gentleman of prepossessing appearance, and a stranger to me, called. Unfortunately in the dénouement, I mean. I was very much pleased with him, and thought him quite like Harry Lambert; although I wondered in what this likeness consisted, for there were no general points of resemblance either in person or manners between them. Very soon, however, I found it to consist in the fact that they were both lovers.

It is unpleasant to find one’s self completely thrown upon the back-ground. I know that I am not naturally envious; but I could not help feeling akin to chagrin and disappointment upon perceiving the state of things; yet it was not envy. I am sure I did not care one bit that Fanny and Caroline should each have some one so completely absorbed in their interests, as to be indifferent to every thing else, for it made them happy; and I like to see people enjoy themselves. But I did think it looked stupid, or narrow-minded, or something of the sort, of any persons to be so intent upon themselves, as to take no notice of others, and so I told the ladies after their visiters were gone, I said —

“Caroline, are the people here in the habit of giving invitations to tea?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied; “you will be overwhelmed with them, Marie, in a little time: but why do you ask?”

“Because I shall be very glad, in the words of the song,

‘——if any one invites me out to tea,

For ’tis very dull to stay at home with no one courting me,’ ”

I replied, poutingly.

Caroline looked at Fanny, and both laughed.

“Poor Mae,” the former said, in a coaxing tone, putting her arm around me, “it was too bad of us; but never mind, the next time we will behave better.”

“I do hope you will,” I answered, “for it is extremely annoying when you are playing your best pieces, and think you have succeeded in charming the company, upon taking a sly peep to observe the effect, to find them coupled off, and each enjoying a quiet tête-à-tête; evidently regarding the music only as a happy means of getting rid of one who would otherwise be very much in the way.”

“You are not jealous, of course,” said Caroline, with a comic laugh.

“Certainly I am not,” I replied. “I think beaux extremely disagreeable.”

“Messieurs Russell and Lambert particularly so, I presume,” Caroline remarked.

“Perhaps they may be,” I replied; “but I cannot answer to a certainty, for my means of ascertaining their endowments were very limited: they did not either of them direct a half-dozen words to me.”

From this time there was a marked change visible in Fanny. There was no unusual gayety in her manner, but a habitual look of quiet happiness. She talked no more of her presentiment, and, though strongly tempted to do so, I could not bear to annoy her by reminding her of it.

Harry Lambert was our constant visiter. No, not our, for his visits were evidently only meant for Fanny’s benefit. They walked, and rode, and played, and sang together; always preferring a duet to a trio, or quartette.

His appearance in Mr. Alden’s neighborhood was entirely unexpected to both of us. We did not know where he had settled. During his visit to Philadelphia he had been very attentive to Fanny; yet we all regarded this as a mere flirtation, or rather as the attentive kindness of a friend, who had had no thought of becoming a lover, as he left the city without having made any profession of attachment to her. This, I ascertained since, was owing to his having been led to believe, just before the termination of his visit, that she loved another. Afterward he learned that these suspicions were unfounded, and deeply regretted that they had ever existed.

Howard Russell performed the same part toward Caroline that Harry Lambert did to Fanny, during the remainder of our stay: but after the few first days had passed, I was not left companionless; for I formed some pleasant acquaintances there, the thoughts of which will be always dear to my memory.

Before Fanny returned to Philadelphia, with the full consent of her parents, she had entered into an engagement with Harry Lambert, and the daguerreotype was left as her parting gift to him.

Thus ended Fanny Day’s presentiment.