Soon after Fanny's funeral, Miss Mehitable told me she had found out who
the lady was that wished for my painting at the fair. Her niece had
pointed her out as she drove by in a barouche; and it was Miss Dudley.
My second copy was begun in the last fortnight of Fanny's life, as she
slept and I sat beside her. I had not then had time, nor since had
heart, to go on with it. But now, seeing an opportunity to do something
more to fulfil her wishes and to "do anything for Miss Dudley," I took
up my task again, and quickly finished it. Then, still unsatisfied, I
roamed through the woods, and along the shore, to gather specimens of
the native plants, insects, and shells that seemed to me most like the
foreign ones that I had copied, and grouped and painted and framed them
like the first. The Doctor left both for me at Miss Dudley's gate, with
this inscription on the envelope: "A little offering of great gratitude,
from a sister of Fanny Morne." I suppose, by the way, this is one source
of the satisfaction that some real mourners find in wearing mourning, as
they say, "_for_ the dead,"--a vague longing, like mine, after they have
passed beyond human care, to do or sacrifice still something more for
them.
After that, there seemed to be nothing more that I could do for Fanny,
nor anything that, for myself, I cared to do. From habit only, I
employed myself. Julia, as she begged that I would call her, had a large
basket of baby-clothes cut out. At that I seated myself after breakfast;
and at that I often worked till bedtime, like a machine,--startled
sometimes from my revery, indeed, by seeing how much was done, but
saying nothing, hearing little, and shedding not a tear.
Julia would have remonstrated; but the Doctor said to her: "Let her
alone for the present, my dear; she has had a great shock. Trust to
nature. This cannot last long with a girl like Katy. It is half of it
over-fatigue, carried on from her school-keeping to add to the present
account." To me he said: "Katy, you may sew, if you like, but not
in-doors, I will carry your basket out for you into the arbor; and in
the afternoon I am going to take you to ride in the woods."
Our past selves are often a riddle that our present selves cannot read;
but I suspect the real state of the case was, partly that, as the Doctor
believed, I was for the time being exhausted in body and stunned in
mind, and partly that, in those young, impetuous days, grief was such an
all-convulsing passion with me, when I yielded to it, that to the utmost
of my strength I resisted it at the outset, and seldom dared suffer
myself to suffer at all. But, as he also believed, "this could not last
long"; and it did not.
One afternoon, as I sewed in the arbor, a sweet little girl, who had
been in Fanny's class in her Sunday school, stole into the garden and up
to me, looked wistfully into my face as if seeking some likeness there,
kissed my cheek timidly, laid a large nosegay of delicate flowers upon
my knee, and crept away as gently as she came. The flowers were all
white; and I saw at once that they were meant for Fanny's grave. I might
go there for the first time now, as well as at any other time. The
Doctor and his wife were out together, and no one was at home to
question me.
Fanny had been laid, I need scarcely say, just where she wished. My
guardian had driven me there early one morning to point out the place;
and we found the withered clovers in the grass. It had rained often
since. The swollen turf was nearly healed. I untied the flowers, and
slowly, and with minute precision, arranged them in a cross above her
breast. At last, when there was no blossom more to add or alter, I sat
down again in my solitude where I sat with her so lately, with the same
leaves fluttering on the same trees, the same grass waving on the same
graves, and her beneath instead of upon it.
At first I could not think,--I could only cry. For now at length I had
to cry; and cry I did, in a tornado and deluge of grief that by degrees
swept and washed away the accumulated vapors from my mind, and brought
it to a clearer, healthier calm. I believe God in His mercy has
appointed that those who are capable of the strongest, shall not in
general be capable of the _longest_ anguish. At least, I am sure that it
is so, not only with myself, but with one better and dearer than myself;
so that the experience of life has taught me to see in the sharpest of
pangs the happiest augury of their brevity.
Thus it could not have been very long before I was able to raise my
head, and wipe my eyes, and look once more upon my two dear graves. The
setting sun glowed over them. They looked soft and bright. From one of
them the echo of an angel's voice seemed still to say, "Here, by mamma,
is where I _like_ to lie"; from both in unison I heard, "It is good and
brave to look things in the face and on all sides; but then among the
sides, never forget the bright side, little Katy."
Could I refuse? I looked for the bright side. It was not far to seek. In
the first place, the worst was over. Never again could I lose what I had
lost, nor--so at least I thought then--could I feel what I had felt.
Secondly, my sorrow was only mine, and no one's else. Those whom I loved
were happy, every one of them;--mamma and Fanny,--I could not doubt
it,--happier far than I ever could have made them, even if I had always
tried as hard as I did after they began to leave me,--safer than they
could ever have been in this world, and safe forever; and Jim,--I would
not begin now to think about him again, but just so much I must,--he was
happy with Emma. Even thus much brought a fresh gush of tears, though
not for him,--I could still truly say that I had never shed one for him,
and that was some comfort to my pride at least;--but for Fanny; because
I had sometimes thought that, when she was well and I had time to think
of anything besides her, if I ever _did_ tell anybody of the mistake and
trouble I had fallen into, I would tell her,--and now, however much I
might need advice and assistance, _that_ could never be. My guardian and
his wife were happy in each other, and would be happier still after I
roused myself, as I must and ought, and ceased to sadden their home. The
world in which I still must live was, whatever people might say of it,
not all sin, sickness, or sorrow. Even where I sat, in one of those
spots which most persons accounted the dreariest in it, I could hear the
laughter of light-hearted children at their play, the soft lowing of
cattle grazing in the pleasant fields, and shouts of strong men at their
wholesome, useful work. I knew there must be sickness, sin, and sorrow
in it; but could not I do some little to help them, with my free hands
and the health and strength which were almost always mine? Very good I
was not myself, but I had been watchfully brought up in an innocent
home; there was no crime upon my conscience, and, even as I cast a
rueful glance upon its blemishes, I heard a well-remembered voice say
from a grave once more: "Have patience with my little daughter. Some of
the richest fruits and souls are not the first to ripen. The chief thing
that she wants is time to mellow."
And one of the brightest points in all the bright side was, that, in
living so constantly through her illness with Fanny, who lived with God,
I had been perforce brought nearer to Him, and therefore naturally
learned to dread Him less and love Him more than I had done; so that I
hoped, as I know my mother did, that the sunshine of His grace would
help to mellow me.
Another bright point was, that I need not go back to Greenville. The
present mistress was glad to keep the school, and the committee willing
to keep her.
My desultory thoughts still growing calmer, I began to form plans for my
way of living, as I used to do aloud, when I could talk them over with
my mother and Fanny. I did not plan anything great, however, because I
was conscious of no great powers.--I already, I think, began to divine
the truth of what a wise woman afterwards said to me, "Your own nature
must settle your work," or rather of what she implied, though she did
not say it: In laying out your work, you should do your best to take the
diagonal between your nature and your circumstances.--But I resolved,
such as I was, to try to make the most of myself in every way, for
myself, my neighbors, and my God.
I was to stay at my guardian's for the present. He forbade my trying to
teach again, for some months at least. It was my duty, as well as my
pleasure, to obey him. In the mean time, I could prepare myself to teach
better when I began again. I would draw and paint at odd times. Two
hours a day I would try to divide between history and the English
classic poets, of both of which I knew sadly little. Julia often drove
out with her husband; and then I could study by myself. When she was at
home, if I could not always chat with her as formerly, I could read to
her in French, which she liked to hear; and that would be much more
sociable and cheerful for her than my sitting mute. I would now exert
myself to walk out every day for exercise, so that there would be no
reason for her giving up her place in the Doctor's chaise to me. I
blushed to think how often I had suffered myself to be foisted into it
by her already. By my walks, I would earn leave to sit with her
in-doors; and then I could save her many steps and little household
cares. Then what should I do for her husband? Sing to him in the
evening, and begin, if he liked it, to-night. It might be a little hard
the first time; but if so, there was all the more reason for having the
first time over. There was no need of my choosing sad songs, or any that
Fanny was fond of.
But it was growing late. They would be anxious. I must get up and go
home. Go _home_!--without my home-mates?--leave them here?--with no
kiss,--no good-night? I stood up, and sat down again. The blinding,
choking passion, that had seemed over, swelled up into my eyes and
throat once more. O that lonely, empty life! Must I go back to it? How
long would it last? This was my only real home. When might I come here
to sleep?
In an instant it would have been all over again with my hardly-won calm;
but in that instant a white and gray fluttering between the green graves
caught my tear-blurred sight. I thought it that of a living dove, but,
going nearer, found only a piece of torn newspaper, which had been
wrapped around the stems of the flowers, playing in the wind; and on it
my attention was caught by these quaint and pithy lines, printed in one
corner in double columns:--
"THE CONDITIONS.
"Sad soul, long harboring fears and woes
Within a haunted breast.
Haste but to meet your lowly Lord,
And he shall give you rest.
"Into his commonwealth alike
Are ills and blessings thrown.
Bear you your neighbors' loads; and
* * * * *
"Yield only up His price, your heart,
Into God's loving hold,--
He turns with heavenly alchemy
Your lead of life to gold.
"Some needful pangs endure in peace,
Nor yet for freedom pant,--
He cuts the bane you cleave to off,
Then ..."
The rest was torn away. "'And,'" repeated I, impatiently,--"'Then'!
'_And_--_then_'--what?" There was no answer, or at least I heard none;
but the verses, so far as they went, struck my excited fancy as a kind
of preternatural confirmation of the faint outline of life and duty
which I had been sketching. I marked the date of the day upon the white
margin with my pencil, and took the paper with me as a memento of the
time and place, trimmed its torn edges carefully, and laid it in Fanny's
little Bible.