Fern Fanny
Fresh Leaves
CHAPTER XIV
“I like to live here,” said little Fanny, running up to Lucy, with her sun-bonnet hanging at the back of her neck; her cheeks glowing, and her apron full of acorns, pebbles, pine leaves, grasses and flowers; “see here, I tied them up with a blade of grass for you, and here’s a white clover; a great bumble bee wanted it, he buzzed and buzzed, but I ran off with it; won’t you go with me, grandmother, and help me find a four-leaved clover? Don’t sew any more on those old vests. Who taught you to make vests?” asked the little chatterbox.
“O, I learned many – many – years ago,” replied Lucy, with a sigh, as she thought of Jacob; “and now you see, dear, what a good thing it is to learn something useful when one is young. If I did not know how to make these vests, I could not pay for this room we live in, you know; here, thread my needle, darling, either the eye is too small, or my eye is too dim; I can’t see as well as I used.”
“I wish I could do something useful,” said Fanny, as she handed back the needle. “I can only brush up the hearth, and fill the tea-kettle, and pick up your spools, and thread your needle, and – what else, grandma?”
“Make this lonely old heart glad, my darling,” said Lucy, pressing her lips to Fanny’s forehead.
“Why didn’t my papa ever come kiss me?” asked Fanny. “Was I too naughty for my papa to love?”
“No – no, my darling,” said Lucy, turning away her head to restrain her tears, “you are the best little girl that – but run away, Fanny,” said she, fearing to trust herself to speak. “Go find grandma a pretty four-leaved clover.”
The child sprang up and bounded toward the door. Standing poised on one foot on the threshold, with her little neck bending forward, she exclaimed eagerly, “Oh, grandma, I dare not; there’s a man climbing over the stile into the meadow, with a pack on his back; won’t he hurt me?”
“No,” said Lucy, peering over her spectacles at the man, and then resuming her seat, “it is only a peddler, Fanny; shops are scarce in the country, so they go round with tapes, needles, and things, to sell the farmers’ wives. I am glad he has come, for I want some more sewing-silk to make these button-holes.”
“Good day, ma’am,” said the peddler, unlading his pack. “Would you like to buy any thing to-day? Combs – collars – needles – pins – tapes – ribbons – laces? buy any thing to-day, ma’am?”
“May I look?” whispered Fanny to Lucy, attracted by the bright show in the box.
“There’s a ribbon for your hair,” said the peddler, touching her curls caressingly; “and here is a string of beads for your neck. You will let me give them to you, won’t you? because I have no little girl to love;” and his voice trembled slightly.
“May I love him, grandma?” whispered Fanny, for there was something in the peddler’s voice that brought tears into her eyes. “May I give him some milk to drink, and a piece of bread?” and hardly waiting for an answer, she flew to the cupboard, and returned with her simple lunch.
“Thank you,” said the peddler, in a low voice, without raising his eyes.
The sewing-silk was purchased, and the box rearranged, and strapped up, but still the peddler lingered. Lucy, thinking he might be weary, invited him to stop and rest awhile.
“I will sit here on the door-step awhile, if you please, with the little girl,” said the peddler. “Are you fond of flowers?” said he to Fanny, again touching her shining curls.
“Oh, yes,” she replied; “only I don’t like to go alone to get them – the cows stare at me so with their great big eyes, and the little toads hop over my feet, and I am afraid they will bite; they won’t bite, will they?” asked Fanny, looking confidingly up in his face.
“I should not think any thing could harm you,” replied the peddler, drawing his fingers across his eyes.
“What are you crying for?” asked Fanny, “’cause you haven’t any little girl to love you?”
“The dust, dear, in the road, quite blinded me to-day,” replied the peddler.
“I will bring you some water for them, in my little cup,” said Fanny. “Grandma bathes her eyes when they ache, sewing on those tiresome vests.”
“No – no” – said the peddler, catching her by the hand as she sprang up – “don’t go away – sit down – here – close by me – I will make a wreath of flowers for your hair; your eyes are as blue as this violet.”
“They are mamma’s eyes,” said Fanny. “Grandma calls them ‘mamma’s eyes.’ We have a pretty picture of mamma – see – that’s it,” and she bounded across the room and drew aside a calico curtain which screened it. “There, isn’t it pretty? – why don’t you look?”
The peddler slowly turned his head, and replied, in a husky voice, “Yes, dear.”
“Mamma is dead,” said Fanny, re-seating herself by his side. “What makes you shiver? are you cold? – he is sick, grandma,” said Fanny, running up to Lucy.
“A touch of my old enemy, the ague, ma’am,” said the peddler, respectfully – and Lucy returned to her needle.
“Yes, my mamma is dead,” said Fanny. “Are you sorry my mamma is dead? Sometimes I talk to her – grandma likes to have me; but mamma’s picture never speaks back. Don’t you wish my mamma would speak back?” said Fanny, looking up earnestly in his face.
The peddler nodded – bending lower over the wreath he was twining.
“My papa is dead, too,” said Fanny – “are you sorry my papa is dead? Nobody loves me but grandma and God.”
“And I” – said the peddler, touching her curls again with his fingers.
“Why do you keep touching my hair?” asked the little chatterbox.
“Because it is so like – oh, well – I am sure I don’t know,” said the peddler, placing the wreath over her bright face, and touching his lips to her forehead. “Good-by, dear, don’t forget me. I will make you a prettier wreath sometime, shall I?”
“O yes,” said Fanny; “let me tell grandma. Grandma is so deaf she can’t hear us;” and the child ran back into the room to tell the news.
“I like peddlers,” said little Fanny, as she watched her new friend saunter slowly down the road. “He gave me this pretty wreath and this ribbon; I am sorry he didn’t like mamma’s picture; he hardly looked at it at all.”
“The peddler never heard of your mamma, my darling; you must not expect strangers to feel as you and grandma do about it.”
“Yes,” replied Fanny, in a disappointed tone; – “but it is a pity, because I like him. There he goes; now he has climbed the fence, and is crossing the meadow. Good by, Mr. Peddler.”
Yes – across the meadow, down the little grassy lane, over the stile – far into the dim – dim woods, where no human eye could penetrate, prostrate upon the earth, shedding such tears as manhood seldom sheds, lay the peddler. Still in his ears lingered that bird-like voice, still in his veins thrilled the touch of that tiny hand, and those silken curls, in whose every glossy wave shone out Mary’s self. Mary – yet not Mary; Mary’s child – yet not his child! – And Lucy, too; – O, the sorrow written in every furrow of that kindly face, and – O God – by whom?
The stars glimmered through the trees, the night-winds gently rocked the little merry birds to sleep – midnight came on with its solemn spirit-whispers – followed the gray dawn with its misty tears, and still – there lay the peddler, stricken, smitten, on Nature’s kindly breast; for there, too (but all unconscious of his misery – deaf to his penitence), lay pillowed the dear head which had erst drooped so lovingly upon his breast.
CHAPTER XV
“Very well done; button-holes strong and even, lining smooth; stitching, like rows of seed pearl. This is no apprentice work,” said Mr. John Pray, as he held Lucy’s vests up to the light for a more minute inspection. “That’s a vest, now, as is a vest; won’t disgrace John Pray’s shop; it would gladden even the eyes of my old boss, Jacob Ford; and mighty particular he was, too, and mighty small wages the old man paid, as I have occasion to know. Well, I made a vow then, and thank God I have had grace to keep it, that if ever John Pray became a master workman, he would do as he would be done by. So, I don’t ask what wages other tailors give; that don’t matter to me. I don’t want to die with any body’s groans in my ears. So, when a piece of work is finished and handed in, I say, ‘Now, John Pray, what should you think was a fair price for you to receive, if you had done that ’ere job?’ That’s it; no dodging behind that question. ’Specially when a man has been through the operative mill himself. So, there’s your pay, Zekiel, weighed out in that ere pair of Bible scales; and you may tell the old lady, as you call her, that if she had served a regular apprenticeship at the trade, she couldn’t have done better. What did you say her name was? However, that’s no consequence – as long as she does the work well. Here’s some more vests for her.”
“Well, I really don’t know,” said Zekiel, “I never heern tell her name. She’s a bran new neighbor, and as I was coming into town every day with my cart, she axed me, civil like, if I’d bring these vests to you. So, I brung ’em. I don’t mind doing a good turn for a fellow creetur, now and then, specially when it ’taint no bother,” added Zekiel, with a grin.
“What did you spoil it for by saying that?” said John Pray. “I was just going to clap you on the back for a clever fellow.”
“You might go further, and clap a worse fellow on the back,” answered Zekiel. “But I never boasts, I don’t. ’Tain’t no use. If the ministers tell the truth, we’ve all got to be weighed in the big scales up above, where there ain’t no false weights – bad deeds agin good deeds. Farmer Reed, I’m thinking, will be astonished when the balance on his account is struck. But, good day; my parsnips and cabbages ought to be in the market, instead of wilting at your door – even though you city folks don’t know the taste of a fresh vegetable. Good day.”
CHAPTER XVI
Rain – rain – rain; patter, patter. No sunshine to help Lucy’s purblind eyes in stitching the dark vests; no sunshine to kiss open the buttercups for Fanny. The birds took short and hasty flights from tree to tree; the farmers slouched their hats over their faces, and whipped up their teams; the little school children hurried back and forth with their satchels, without stopping to look for chipmunks or for ground-birds’ nests; the bells on the baker’s cart lost their usual merry tinkle, and the old fishman’s horn, as he went his Friday round, gave forth a discordant, spiritless whine.
Little Fanny had righted her grandmother’s work-basket, read “Jack and his Bean-Stalk,” made houses on the slate, put the black kitten to sleep in the old barrel, blown soap bubbles, till she was tired, in the tin bowl, and had finally crept up on the little cot bed and fallen asleep.
Lucy sat back in her chair, and began counting over the money Zekiel had brought her. It would relieve their present necessities. Fanny should have some new clothes out of it, when farmer Smith’s rent was paid. But the future? Lucy’s eyes were growing dimmer every day, and her limbs more feeble. She might drop off suddenly, and then who would befriend poor little Fanny? What lessons of sorrow had that loving little heart to learn? By what thorny path would she thread life’s toilsome journey?
Dear little Fanny! She could no more live without love than flowers without sunshine. That she should ever weep tears, that no kindly hand should wipe away; that she should hunger or thirst – shiver with winter’s cold – faint under summer heat; that a harsh voice should ever drive the blood from her lip or cheek – that her round limbs should bend with premature toil – that sin should tempt her helplessness – that sorrow should invite despair – that wrong should ever seem right to Mary’s child! Poor Lucy bowed her head and wept.
The peddler looked in through the little casement window. He saw the falling tears, he saw Lucy’s sorrowful gaze at the rosy little dreamer. He needed no explanation of the tableau. He knocked at the door; Lucy’s tones were tremulous, as she bade him come in.
“I thought you might be wanting some more silk,” said he, respectfully, with his eyes fixed upon little Fanny.
“Sit down – sit down,” said Lucy; for the tones of his voice were kindly, and her heart in its loneliness craved sympathy. “It is dull weather we have, sir; one don’t mind it when all is right here,” and she laid her hand on her heart.
“True,” said the peddler, in a low voice, still gazing at Fanny.
“The child sleeps,” said Lucy. “It was of her I was thinking when you came in; it would be very bitter to die and leave her alone, sir;” and Lucy’s tears flowed again.
“Have you no relatives – no friends, to whom you could intrust her?” asked the peddler, with his eyes bent on the ground.
“None, God help us,” replied Lucy.
“Sir,” and Lucy drew her chair nearer to the peddler, “a great sorrow may sometimes be in the heart, when smiles are on the face.”
The peddler nodded, without trusting himself to speak.
“This poor heart has borne up until now, with what strength it might; but now” – and she glanced at little Fanny – “O, sir – if I could but take her with me.”
“God will care for her,” said the peddler, stooping to remove his hat, that Lucy might not see his emotion.
“Sometimes I feel that,” replied Lucy; “and then again – O, sir, trouble makes the heart so fearful. My poor daughter – she was our idol, sir – the sunbeam in our home; so good – so beautiful – so light-hearted, till the trouble came. It was like a lightning bolt, sir – it scathed and withered in one moment what was before so fresh and fair; it blighted all our hopes, it blackened our hearth-stone, it killed my husband – poor Jacob. Pardon me, sir, I talk as if you had known our history. It was Mary’s lover, sir; he was taken up for swindling, at our very door; – and yet I loved the lad – for the ground she walked on he loved – for Mary’s sake.”
“She forgave him?” asked the peddler, in a voice scarcely audible.
“She? – poor dear – she? All the world could not have made her believe ill of him. She? Why, sir, she would sit at the window for hours, watching the way he used to come. It crazed her, poor thing; and then she would come and go just as she was bid. Her father saw her fade, day by day, and cursed him; – he forgot business – every thing went wrong – one way and another our money went, and then Jacob died.”
“He forgave him– your daughter’s lover, before he died?” asked the peddler, tremulously.
“You have a kind heart, sir,” said Lucy. “Yes, Jacob’s heart softened at the last; – he said we all needed God’s mercy. His last words were ‘Peace.’”
“God be thanked,” murmured the peddler; then adding, quickly, “it must have made you so much happier; you say you loved the lad.”
“Yes,” said Lucy, “even now. We all err, sir. He was only nineteen – young to marry; but Mary’s heart was bound up in him. He didn’t mean it, sir – I don’t know how it was. God help us all.
“Well, we buried Jacob; then we had none to look to – Mary and I. We were poor. I was feeble. Then Mary’s lover came – the rich Mr. Shaw. You are ill, sir?”
“No – no,” replied the peddler; “go on – your story interests me.”
“Well, he wanted to marry Mary, although he saw how it was. It was all one to her, you know, sir. She was crazed like – though so sweet and gentle. I did it for the best, sir,” said Lucy, mournfully. “I thought when I died Mary would have a home.”
“Go on,” said the peddler. “He treated her kindly?” he asked, with a dark frown.
“For a little,” answered Lucy. “He wearied after a while. I might have known it – I was to blame, sir – her heart was broken. When the babe opened its eyes, she closed her’s, and I alone mourned for her.”
“O, God!” groaned the peddler.
“It moves you, sir,” said Lucy; “perhaps you, too, have known trouble.”
The peddler bowed his head without replying.
“Then, sir, he brought a gay young thing into the house – his mistress – not his wife. He never looked upon his child; he cursed me and it. I gave it our name; I called it Fanny Ford; and we crept away, the babe and I, up in the attic; – then all was confusion – extravagance – ruin; – then he died, sir – and since – you see us here – you know now, sir, why I, leaning over the grave’s brink, yet shrink back and cling to life for her sake,” and she looked at Fanny.
“Would you trust her with me?” asked the peddler, with his eyes bent upon the ground. “I am all alone in the world – I have none to love – none who love me – I am poor, but while I have a crust, she shall never want.”
“It is a great charge,” replied Lucy. “If you should weary, sir?”
“Then may God forget me,” said the peddler, earnestly, kneeling at Lucy’s feet.
Lucy bent on him a gaze searching as truth, but she read nothing in that upturned face to give the lie to those solemn words. Pointing to Fanny, she said,
“Before God – and as you hope for peace at the last?”
The peddler bowed his head upon Lucy’s withered hand, and faltered out, “I promise.”
CHAPTER XVII
“Good morning, Zekiel,” said John Pray. “Glad to see you – you must tell the old lady to go ahead and finish this pile of vests in a twinkling; business is brisk now. Why, what’s this?” said he. “These vests unfinished? How’s that? Don’t the pay suit? What’s the trouble now?”
“Don’t,” said Zekiel – “don’t – stop a bit – I’m as tough as any man – but there’s some things I can’t stand;” and he dashed a tear away.
“What’s the matter now?” asked John. “Is the old lady dissatisfied with her pay?”
“Don’t – I say,” said Zekiel; – “hold up – don’t harrow a man that way – she’s dead – I tell you stone dead. She never’ll make no more vests for nobody. I never shall forget what I saw there this morning, never.
“You see she was old and infirm, and wan’t fit to work for any body any how; but she had a little gran’child, fresh as a rose-bud, and she did it for her, you see. Well, this morning I harnessed the old gray horse – the black one is lame since Sunday – and reined up at her door, as usual, to get the bundle. I knocked, and nobody came; then I knocked again, then little rose-bud came tip-toeing to the door, with her finger on her pretty lip, so – and whispered, ‘grandma is asleep; she has not woke up this great while.’ So I said – ‘You’d better speak to her and say, here’s Zekiel, come for the bundle, cause you know she is partiklar like about sending it.’ So the little rose-bud went up to the bed-side, and said – ‘Grandma, here is Zekiel, come for the vests.’ The old lady didn’t say nothing, and rose-bud asked me to speak to her. I went up, and – John Pray – the old lady was stone dead, and how was I going to tell that to little rose-bud?”
“You don’t mean to tell me that the child was all alone with the corpse – nobody to see to the poor thing?” asked John.
“But I do, though,” said Zekiel; “it was enough to break a body’s heart, and she so innocent like. I never was so put to it in my life, to know what to do. There she had gone and tidied up the kitchen, hung the tea-kettle on the fire as well as she knew how, and sat waiting for her gran’mother to ‘wake up,’ as she called it. How could I tell her she was dead? Blast me if I could, to this minute.”
“But you didn’t come away and leave her so?” asked John.
“No,” replied Zekiel, “for a peddler came in, and little rose-bud ran up, glad-like, to see him; then I beckoned him one side, and told him just how it was, and he turned as white as a turnip, and great big tears rolled down his face, as he took little rose-bud up in his arms and kissed her. Then he told me he was a kind of a relation like, and poor, but that he would take the child and do the best he could by her; and I knew he must be clever, for children are powerful ’cute, and never take to cranky folks, any how – and so I left them, and came blubbering into town. I vow it was enough to make the very stones cry, to see little rose-bud take on so, after the old lady.”
There was no litigious will to be read, no costly effects to quarrel about, in Lucy Ford’s poor cottage, and yet Golconda’s mines were all too poor to buy the priceless treasures to which the peddler fell heir – Mary’s picture and Mary’s child!
With such talismans, what should he fear? what could he not accomplish? He no longer walked with his head bowed upon his breast. The pure love of that sinless little one restored his long-lost self-respect. Life was dear to him. His eye regained its luster; his step its firmness. Even his humble calling, now more than ever necessary, became to him dignified and attractive. Fanny should have an education worthy of Mary’s child. For the present, till he had amassed a little capital, he must find her a home in some quiet farmer’s family, where he could oversee her, in his occasional visits.
Dear little Fanny! with her smiles and tears, she had already twined herself round every fiber of his heart. “Cousin John,” as the peddler taught her to call him, “was to take care of her always, and she was to love him dearly – dearly – better than any body, but mamma and grandma.”
