THE BELLE OF RANK.
BY MRS. C. K. POWNELL.
"Brother," said Isabel Melville, "who was that outlandish creature I saw you with in Main street yesterday? I mean the girl in the plain, white silk bonnet, and drab dress that looked as if it had once been on a mummy."
"Oh! you mean Emily Payne, I suppose, for she does not dress as a fine lady like you would."
"And who is Emily Payne? Your washerwoman or her daughter?" said Isabel, with a toss of her head.
"Neither," replied Alfred, with a quiet smile, looking his sister in the face, "she is the daughter of a reduced family, and lives with her widowed mother. They have heretofore resided in one of the northern counties—lived in a log hut I believe—but have now come to Cincinnati, where they talk of opening a millinery shop. I can promise them your custom, I suppose," continued the brother, with that same provokingly quiet smile, as if he foresaw the horror, which his fashionable sister would entertain at the idea of employing such a person for a milliner. Nor was he disappointed.
"My custom!" replied the indignant Isabel, "indeed, sir, you have odd notions if you think such a fright is capable of making my dresses. The idea is preposterous, and I beg you will never mention it again. She may do to supply the wives and daughters of day-laborers. But how, in the name of common sense, did you become acquainted with her? I am shocked at you for walking with her in the street."
"I met her last year when I was travelling to the lakes. You know I was thrown from my horse, and confined three weeks with the injuries. Through that illness Emily Payne was my nurse, and I think even you will admit that I owe her some gratitude," and he spoke with deep feeling.
"To be sure, to be sure—no one questions it. You ought to get her recommended about, though don't you see how indelicate it is for you to do it personally? I'll mention it to the housekeeper, and tell her to send all the servant girls there. Now that I'll do—no thanks. But, for mercy's sake, don't be seen again walking the streets with such an antediluvian relic of a woman, or I shall be forced not to recognize you," and Isabel sailed from the room, in all the dignity of a lady patroness, imagining that her brother was grateful of course for the customers she had promised to send to Emily Payne.
Alfred stood looking out into the street from the window until her retreating footsteps had died on the hall stairs, when he burst into a hearty laugh.
"My good sis!" he said, "one cannot help smiling at her weakness. She is all for aristocracy, fashion, and the other jargon of the silly portion of her sex. Poor Emily! you will have a hard judge in her, when we are married. But faith! a thought has struck me, and I'll see what can be done. I'll outwit Isabel yet, and make her love her new sister-in-law past all description," and with a face glowing with his new project, he seized his hat and hurried from the house.
Isabel had an excellent heart, but had one weakness—the pride of birth and fashion. She sought no one's acquaintance unless they came recommended by a coat of arms, or the fame of the ball-room. Her brother was totally dissimilar in this respect; regarded no distinctions except those of merit; and was as willing to shake hands with an honest laborer as with a millionaire or the son of a duke. On this subject the brother and sister could never agree; and consequently when Alfred met with the accident to which he alluded, and was carried to the house of Mrs. Payne insensible, where he remained until well, and where he learned to love her daughter, charmed by her thousand good qualities, he said nothing on the subject to Isabel.
Alfred soon reached the humble dwelling of Mrs. Payne, and in a moment was sitting by the side of his betrothed. We will not pause to describe her beauty: it was striking and unrivalled; though half destroyed by the plain, old fashioned dress which she wore, and which certainly did merit a portion of Isabel's anathema. But then Emily had already had to struggle with the world, and poverty and the distance she had lived from the city were sufficient reasons, in the eyes of her lover, for her costume. He had determined, however, that she should no longer do injustice to herself.
"I have a favor to ask of you, dear Emily," he said, taking her small hand in his, and looking fondly into her clear, blue eyes, "you must grant it, before I tell what it is, for I will pledge you there is nothing wrong in my request."
"On that pledge I promise," said Emily, "and now what is it, Alfred?"
"There is to be a ball this night week, where all the belles of the city will be gathered. My boon has relation to this ball and is twofold-first, that you go there with me—secondly, that you wear a dress of which I will select, both the materials and style of making. No objection now—you needn't shake your head—mind, you have promised. It's a whim of mine, and for the reasons, I'll tell them some other time."
Emily would have argued, but Alfred playfully silenced her; and finally she gave him her consent to his plan. The week soon passed away. Isabel and her brother had no more conversation about the milliner; but the sister was anxious to know who he intended taking to the ball, and Alfred determined on a deception which he thought, under the circumstances, innocent.
"One of the most glorious women you ever saw, sis—a perfect goddess. She is a stranger of noble
