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.”