THE SICK GIRL.
The last part of the interview between Fanny and Mr. O'Shane had been
witnessed by Mrs. Kent, who came out of the house when she had attended
to the wants of her sick child. The dark cloud which menaced her a few
moments before had rolled away, and, if the sunshine did not beam upon
her, she was comparatively happy in having one trouble less to weigh
her down. She was calm now, but the tears--they were tears of
relief--still rolled down her wan and furrowed cheek.
"I have prayed for help, and help has come," said she to her deliverer,
as the harsh landlord walked away.
Fanny could not make any reply to a statement of this kind. She was a
fugitive and a wanderer; she was a thief, shunning the gaze of men, and
she could not conceive of such a thing as that she had been sent as an
angel of relief to the poor woman in answer to her prayers. As she
thought what she was and what she had been doing, a blush of shame
suffused her cheek. She was silent; there was nothing which she could
say at such a moment.
"Heaven will bless you for your good, kind heart. You are an angel,"
continued Mrs. Kent.
Fanny knew how far she was from being an angel, and she had no heart
for deceiving the poor woman. It might be fun and excitement to deceive
the people at Woodville, but Mrs. Kent seemed to be sanctified by her
sorrows.
"I hope you haven't robbed yourself by your good deed, miss," added the
poor woman, wondering why Fanny did not speak.
"O, no! I have some more money."
Perhaps Mrs. Kent thought it singular that a young girl, like Fanny,
should happen to have so much money about her, but she did not ask any
questions; and perhaps she did not think that one who had been so kind
to her could do anything wrong.
"Now, you will come into the house and see poor Jenny. She will want to
thank you for what you have done," said Mrs. Kent, leading the way to
the door.
Fanny could not refuse this reasonable request, but she felt very
strangely. She found herself commended and reverenced for what she had
done, and she could not help feeling how unworthy she was. Conscious
that she had performed a really good deed, she could not reconcile it
with her past conduct. It was utterly inconsistent with the base act
she had done in the morning; and in the light of one deed the other
seemed so monstrous that she almost loathed herself.
She followed Mrs. Kent into the room where the sick girl was reclining
upon the bed. There was no carpet on the floor, and the apartment was
very meagerly furnished with the rudest and coarsest articles. Jenny
was pale and emaciated; the hand of death seemed to be already upon
her; but in spite of her paleness and her emaciation, there was
something beautiful in her face; something in the expression of her
languid eyes which riveted the attention and challenged the interest of
the visitor.
"Jenny, this is the young lady whom God has sent to be our friend,"
said Mrs. Kent, as they approached the bedside.
Fanny shuddered. "Whom God had sent"--she, a thief! She wanted to cry;
she wanted to shrink back into herself.
"May I take your hand?" asked Jenny, in feeble tones.
Fanny complied with the request in silence, and with her eyes fixed on
the floor. The sick girl took the offered hand in her own, which was
almost as cold as marble.
"Mother has prayed to Our Good Father, and I have prayed to Him all the
time for help," said Jenny, whose accents were hardly above a whisper.
"He has sent you to us, and you have saved us. Will you tell me your
name?"
"Fanny Grant."
"Fanny, I am going to heaven soon, and I will bear your name in my
heart when I go. I will bless you for your good deed while I have
breath, and I will bless you when I get to heaven. You are a good girl,
and I know that God will bless you too."
Poor Fanny! How mean she felt! As she stood in the presence of that
pure-minded child, already an angel in simple trust and confiding hope,
she realized her own wickedness. The burden of her sins seemed to be
settling down upon her with a weight that would crush her.
"I love you, Fanny," continued the invalid, "and I will pray for you to
the last moment of my life. Won't you speak to me?"
"I was very glad to do what I did," stammered Fanny, almost suffocated
by the weight which pressed down upon her.
"I know you are; for it is more blessed to give than to receive."
"I am very sorry you are so sick. Can I do anything to help you?"
"You have done all that could be done, Fanny. I like to speak your
name. It sounds like music to me. After what you have done, _Fanny_
will always mean _goodness_ to me. You cannot do anything more; you
have already done enough."
"Don't you want anything?"
"No; I am happy now. I shall soon pass away, and go to my Saviour."
Mrs. Kent sobbed.
"Don't cry, mother," continued Jenny. "God will take care of you, and
we shall meet again."
"Can't I get anything for you, Jenny? Isn't there anything you want?"
asked Fanny, who felt that she must do something, or she would soon be
overwhelmed by the emotions which agitated her soul.
"Nothing, Fanny. I don't think much of the things around me now. I feel
just as though I didn't belong here. This is not my home. Can you sing,
Fanny?"
"I do sing, sometimes," replied she.
"Will you sing to me?"
"I will; what shall I sing?"
"Something about heaven?" answered Jenny, as she sank back upon the
pillow, and fixed her gaze upon the ceiling, as though beyond it she
could see the happy home which, was ever in her thoughts.
Fanny, as we have said before, was a remarkable singer, not in the
artistic sense, though, with proper cultivation of her talent, she
might have been all this also. She had a fine voice, and sang as
naturally as the birds sing. But this was not an occasion for artistic
effects. Never before had the soul of the wayward girl been so stirred.
She was a Sunday-school scholar, and familiar with most of the
beautiful and touching melodies contained in children's song-books.
She was asked to sing "something about heaven;" and she began at once,
as though it had been selected by some invisible agency and impressed
upon her mind, with the beautiful hymn:--
"There's a home for the poor on that beautiful shore
When life and its sorrows are ended;
And sweetly they'll rest in that home of the blest,
By the presence of angels attended.
There's a home for the sad, and their hearts will be glad
When they've crossed over Jordan so dreary;
For bright is the dome of that radiant home
Where so softly repose all the weary."
The "home for the poor on that beautiful shore" seemed to be almost in
sight of the singer, for the pale, dying girl spread heaven around her;
and Fanny sang as she had never sung before. She could hardly keep down
the tears which struggled for birth in her dim eyes, and her sweet
voice was attuned to the sentiment of the words she sang, which were
wedded to a melody so touching as to suggest the heaven it spoke of.
There was a seraphic smile on the wan face of Jenny as the singer
finished the first verse, and she clasped her thin white hands above
her breast in the ecstasy of her bliss. Fanny sang the four verses of
the hymn, and every moment of the time seemed to be a moment of rapture
to the dying girl.
"How beautiful!" cried Jenny, after a period of silence at the
conclusion of the hymn. "I have never been so happy, Fanny. Let me take
your hand in mine again."
"Can I do anything more for you?" asked Fanny, as she gave her hand to
the invalid.
"No, nothing. It will make you tired to sing any more now."
"O, no! I could sing all day."
"But the sweet strains you have just sung still linger in my soul. Let
me hold your hand a moment, and then I will go to sleep if I can. I
like to hold your hand--you are so good."
Fanny despised herself. She wanted to tell Jenny what a monster of
wickedness she felt herself to be, and she would have done so if it had
not been for giving pain to the gentle sufferer.
"I would like to go to heaven now, holding your hand, and mother's, and
Eddy's; for it seems to me I could carry you up to the Saviour with me
then, and give you all to him; and he would love you for my sake, and
because you are so good. But I shall never forget you; I shall bear
your name to heaven with me, Fanny."
The wicked girl shuddered. "Depart from me," seemed to be the only
message the Saviour had for her.
"Let me do something more for you," said Fanny, who could not endure to
be called good by one who was so near heaven that there could be no
hypocrisy or shadow of deceit in her heart.
"You may sing me one more hymn, if you are not too tired," replied
Jenny.
"O, no! I am never tired of singing;" and she sang the song containing
the refrain, "There is sweet rest in heaven," with exquisite taste and
feeling.
Mrs. Kent whispered that Jenny must be weary now, and Fanny took the
hand of the sick girl, to bid her good by.
"Good by, Fanny. I shall never see you again; but we shall meet in
heaven," said Jenny, with her sweetest smile.
"I will come and see you again, if I can."
"How happy it would make me!"
"Perhaps I will come again to-day."
"I'm afraid if you don't, I shall never see you in this world again."
"I will come to-day."
"Good by," added Jenny, languidly, as Fanny followed Mrs. Kent out of
the room.
"Isn't there anything I can bring to her?" asked Fanny, when they had
passed into the other room.
"I don't know. Poor child! she knows how little I can do for her, and
she never says she wants anything. She is very fond of flowers, and
Eddy used to bring her dandelion blossoms, but these are all gone now."
"I will bring her some flowers," replied Fanny, who could not help
wishing for some of the beautiful flowers which grew in such profusion
at Woodville.
But to her Woodville now seemed as far off as the heaven of which she
had been singing to the dying girl; but she thought she could obtain
some flowers in the city; and she felt as though she would give all the
rest of her ill-gotten treasure for a single bouquet.
Fanny begged Mrs. Kent to tell her if there was anything she could do
for the sick daughter, or for the family; and the poor woman confessed
that she had nothing in the house to eat except half a loaf of bread,
which was to be their dinner. Lest her visitor should think her
destitution was caused by her own fault, she related the story of
hardships she had undergone since her husband departed with his
regiment.
Mr. Kent was a mechanic, and having been thrown out of employment by
the dull times at the commencement of the war, he had enlisted in one
of the regiments that departed earliest for the scene of hostilities.
He had left his family with only a small sum of money, and had promised
to send all his pay to his wife, as soon as it was received. Mr. Kent's
regiment had been engaged in the disastrous battle of Bull Run, since
which he had not been heard from. It was known that he had been taken
prisoner, but when exchanges were made he did not appear. His wife was
unwilling to believe that he was dead, and still hoped for tidings of
him.
Jenny was sick when her father departed, but it was not supposed to be
a dangerous illness; perhaps it would not have been if she had been
supplied with the comforts of life. The family had been driven from the
more comfortable abode, in which Mr. Kent had left them, to Mr.
O'Shane's miserable hovel. The poor woman had gone out to work until
Jenny's condition demanded her constant attention. She had then
obtained what sewing she could; but with all her exertions she was
hardly able to obtain food for her family, to say nothing of procuring
clothes, and paying the rent.
Mrs. Kent lived by herself, having little or no communication with the
world around her. She had heard of the provision for soldiers'
families, and had made an effort to obtain this aid; but she was unable
to prove that she was a soldier's wife, and being delicate and
sensitive, she had not the courage to face the rebuffs of the officials
a second time.
Fanny listened to this story with but little interest. She was thinking
of Jenny, whose sweet smile of holy rapture still lingered in her mind.
Promising to do something for the family, she took leave of Mrs. Kent,
who had no words to express the gratitude she felt towards her
benefactor. Fanny went to the nearest store, and purchased a liberal
supply of provisions and groceries, which she sent back to the house.
She felt better then, and walked down the street till she came to a
horse car, in which she rode down to the Park.