The Life and Beauties of Fanny Fern Part 6

"'Why do you ask me that question, my pet?'

"'Oh! because mamma told papa yesterday that _you_ was a flirt, and I thought--and (the child hesitated) it meant something _naughty_, because mamma was so angry.'

"Poor Grace! The blood rushed in a torrent over cheek, neck and brow.

Meta, frightened at the effect of her question, began to sob as if her heart would break, when the door opened, and Mr. Fay came in. Grace rushed precipitately past him, and gaining her own room, burst into a pa.s.sionate flood of tears. In vain she taxed her memory to recall an indiscreet word or action, or anything that a jealous wife could construe into an invasion of her matrimonial rights. The sin, if there was any, was not forthcoming. In vain had been all her efforts to propitiate this weak-minded woman, by pulling away the obnoxious ringlets, by clear starching her muslins, or tr.i.m.m.i.n.g with tasteful fingers her dainty little breakfast caps. The serpent had entered Eden; and although no 'forbidden fruit' had been tasted, she none the less clearly saw the flaming sword that was to drive her thence.

Sheltering herself under the plea of a violent headache, she excused herself from appearing again below, and sat until a late hour at night, devising the best mode of leaving, as farther stay was impossible in such a humiliating position. She must go; _that_ was plain;--but _where_?

"Suddenly she was startled from her reverie by the sound of hurrying feet in the hall. A quick rap at the door, and a summons to Meta's room followed. She had been taken suddenly and alarmingly ill. Grace forgot everything in anxiety for her darling, and hastily s.n.a.t.c.hing a dressing gown, she flew to her room. The poor child was tossing restlessly from side to side; her little hands were hot and burning, and her cheeks crimsoned with fever. Mr. Fay hastily resigned her to Grace's care, while he went for a physician.

"With the tenderness of a mother she changed the heated pillows, parted the thick curls from her little forehead, bathed the throbbing temples, and rendered the thousand little nameless services, known only to the soft step, quick eye, and delicate hand of woman.

"Meanwhile the mother slept quietly in an adjoining room, solacing herself that the doctor knew better than she what was best for the child, and fearing the effect of night vigils upon her complexion.

"When Mr. Fay returned with the physician, Meta had sunk into an uneasy slumber. Resigning her post to him, Grace watched his countenance with an anxious eye while he felt the pulse and noted the breathing of her little pupil. Writing his prescriptions, he handed them to Grace, who had signified her intention of spending the night, adding as he did so,

"'It is needless to enjoin quiet upon one who seems so well to understand the duties of a nurse.'

"With a glance at his child, in which all the father was expressed, and a grateful 'G.o.d bless you' to Grace, Mr. Fay left the room.

Shading the small lamp, lest it might waken the child, Grace unhanded her rich tresses, and loosening the girdle of her dressing gown, seated herself beside her.

"Silently, slowly, pa.s.s the night watches, in the chamber of the sick and dying! The dull ticking of the clock, falling upon the sensitive ear of the watcher, strikes to the throbbing heart a nameless terror.

With straining eye, its hours are counted; with nervous hand, at the appointed time, the healing draught is prepared for the sufferer. The measured tread of the watchman, as he pa.s.ses his rounds beneath the windows, the distant rumble of the stage-coach, perchance the disjointed fragment of a song from baccha.n.a.lian lips, alone break the solemn stillness. At such an hour, serious thoughts like unbidden guests rush in. Life appears like the _dream_ it is; _Eternity_ the _waking_; and involuntarily the most thoughtless look up for help to _Him_, by whom 'the hairs of our head are all numbered.'

"The stars, one by one, faded away in the golden light of morning. The sun rose fair to many an eye that should never see its setting. Meta was delirious. In fancy she roved with her dear teacher in green fields, and listened to the sweet song of birds, and was happy.

"'Do not tell me my darling will die,' said the stricken father to the physician; then turning to Grace, he said, almost in the form of a command, 'you know how to pray; you taught her the way to heaven, when I could not; _ask for her life_; G.o.d hears the angels.'

"'While there is life there is hope,' said the sympathizing physician, wiping away a tear; 'all that we can do we will, and leave the event with a higher power.'

"Day after day, night after night, regardless of food or rest, Grace kept tireless watch by the little sufferer; the selfish mother occasionally looking in, declaring her inability to stay in a sick-room, and expressing her satisfaction that others had more nerve than herself for such scenes.

"That day a new harp was strung, a white robe was worn, a new song was heard in heaven. _On earth, 'the child was not!'_

"'Alone _again_ in the world, alone with the _dead_,' faltered Grace, as she sank insensibly by the little corpse.

"Well was it for the grief-stricken father that a new object of solicitude was before him; well for the mother that such devotion to her dead child had at last touched a heart so encrusted with worldliness. All their united efforts, joined with the skill of the friend and physician, were needed to rescue Grace from the grave. To an observing eye, the interest the latter evinced for his fair patient was not entirely professional. He had been touched by her self-sacrificing devotion, and her friendlessness, and each day more and more charmed with her beauty and simplicity.

"Softly fell the moonlight on the countless sleepers in the vast cemetery of ----. Each tiny flower swaying in the night-breeze was gemmed with nature's tears. The solemn stillness was unbroken save by the sweet note of some truant bird returning to his leafy home. How many hearts so lately throbbing with pain or pleasure lay there forever stilled! There, in her unappropriated loveliness, slept the betrothed maiden; there, the bride with her head pillowed on golden tresses whose sunny beauty e'en the great spoiler seemed loth to touch; the dimpled babe that yesterday lay warm and rosy in its mothers breast; the gray-haired sire, weary with life's conflict, the loving wife and mother in life's sweet prime, deaf to the wail of her helpless babe and to the agonized cry of its father; the faithful pastor, gone at last to hear the 'Well done, good and faithful servant;' the reckless youth, who with brow untouched by care, and limbs fashioned for strength and beauty, had rushed unbidden into the presence of his Maker, impatient for the summons of the 'great Reaper.' On his tombstone, partial friends had written, 'he sleeps in Jesus,' while underneath, (in 'the handwriting on the wall') methought I could read, 'no murderer hath eternal life.'

"There lay the miser, who only in death's agony loosened his hold of his golden G.o.d. The widow he has made houseless, and her shivering orphans, read the mocking falsehood on the splendid marble that covers him, and murmur in words that are G.o.d's own truth, 'It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of G.o.d.'

"With a saddened heart I turn to inhale the sweet breath of the flowers planted by the hand of affection, or strewn in garlands with falling tears over the loved and lost. Before me, shining in the moonlight, is a marble tablet; on it I read, '_Our little Meta_.' I advance toward it; suddenly I see a female figure approaching, looking so spiritual in the moonlight--with her snowy robe and shining hair--that I could almost fancy her an angel guarding the child's grave. She advanced toward it, and kneeling, presses her lips to the fragrant sod, saying in a voice of anguish,

"'Would to G.o.d I had died for thee, my child, my child!'

"A kind friend had followed Grace's footsteps. A rich, manly voice is borne upon the air. It shall fall like dew upon the stricken flower.

Listen to the chant!

'There is a Reaper whose name is Death, And with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath; And the flowers that grow between.

'He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He raised their drooping leaves, It was for the _Lord of Paradise_ He bound them in his sheaves.

'Oh not in cruelty, not in wrath, The Reaper came that day; 'Twas an angel visited the green earth And took those flowers away.'

"A holy calm has settled upon the face of the mourner. Noiselessly she retraces her steps, and as she glides away, I hear her murmur, in a voice of submission:

'Oh! _not_ in cruelty, _not_ in wrath The Reaper came that day, 'Twas an _angel_ visited the green earth And took _my flower_ away.'

"The splendid mansion of the physician had for its mistress the orphan governess. The world, with its sycophantic smile, now flatters, where it once frowned. Both are alike to Grace, who has given her warm heart, 'till death do us part,' to one who knows well how to prize the gift."

XIX.

ALL ABOUT SATAN.

f.a.n.n.y says herself, she "knows _all_ about him." Now who in the world so fit to deliver a discourse on the subject, as so intimate an acquaintance? Beside, we have seen already that f.a.n.n.y is in the habit of writing about her friends. Satan _might_ think it a little unjust to be held responsible for babies and women's rights movements, but f.a.n.n.y knows best, so here follows her sermon, text and all:--

"Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do."

"_To be sure he does! I know all about him!_ There's no knowing what _would_ happen, if the houses now-a-days were not filled up, one half with babies and the other half with old stockings! Then a man can tell pretty near, what his wife is about!--sure to find her, year in and year out, in that old calico wrapper, in that old ricketty rocking-chair, with the last new twins in her arms, when he wants a b.u.t.ton sewed on his coat to go to the opera. _No other way, you see!_

"Women are getting _altogether_ too smart now-a-days; there _must_ be a stop put to it! people are beginning to get alarmed! I don't suppose there has been such a universal crowing since the roosters in Noah's ark were let out, as there was among the editors when that '_Swisshelm_' _baby_ was born! It's none of _my_ business, but it _did_ seem to me _rather_ a _circular singumstance_, that she should be cut short in her editorial career that way! I suppose, however, that baby will grow out of her arms one of these days, spite of fate; and then, if there's no _providential interposition_, she may resume her pen again. Well, I hope it will be a _warning_! the fact is, _women_ have no business to be crowding into the editorial chair.

Supposing they _know_ enough to fill it (which I _doubt_! hem!) they oughter 'hide their light under a b'--aby!

"I tell you, editors _won't stand_ it, to have their masculine toes trod on that way. They'll have to sign a 'quit claim' to their 'd.i.c.keys' by and by! I wonder what the world's coming to! What do you suppose our fore_fathers_ and _foremothers_ would say, to see a woman sitting up in the editorial chair, as pert as a piper, with a pen stuck behind her little ears? phew! I hope _I_ never shall see such a horrid sight!"

XX.

WELL-KNOWN CHARACTERS.--BY f.a.n.n.y FERN.

Miss Charity Crackbone was a spinster; not that she ever 'spun street yarn.' Oh no! but she spun tremendous long 'yarns' with her _tongue_, and had spun out forty years of her life in single blessedness, in a shop at the corner of Pin Alley, where you could purchase, for a consideration, gingerbread and shoe-blacking, hooks-and-eyes and cholera pills, razors and sugar candy, crackers and castor-oil, head-brushes and b.u.t.ter, small tooth combs and mola.s.ses.

"Not having sufficient employment in superintending her own affairs, she very philanthropically undertook to manage those of her neighbors; and, like all persons of weak intellect, had an astonishing memory for _little_ things; could tell you the very hour, of the very day, of the very week, and month, and year, you were born; how long you were employed in cutting your first tooth, what tailoress had the honor of introducing you into jacket and trowsers, and when you put on your first long-tail coat.

"Miss Charity's 'outward man' was not remarkably felicitous; her figure much resembling a barber's pole in its proportions. She generally preferred dresses of the flabbiest possible material, and a very tight fit; so that her projecting bones were no mystery, and as the skirt lacked two or three inches of reaching the ground, it revealed a pair of feet and ankles evidently intended more for _use_ than _ornament_. Her hair was the color of a dirty blanket, and her eyes bore a strong resemblance to a drop of indigo in a pan of b.u.t.termilk.

"'Good morning, Charity,' said a fellow gossip; '_such_ a budget of news!'