WANDERING FANNY.
It was a jocund morning in early summer--some five years after the
events related in the last chapter.
Old Field Cottage was a perfect gem of rural beauty. The Old Fields
themselves no longer deserved the name--the repose of years had restored
them to fertility, and now they were blooming in pristine youth--far as
the eye could reach between the cottage and the forest, and the cottage
and the sea-beach, the fields were covered with a fine growth of sweet
clover, whose verdure was most refreshing to the sight. The young trees
planted by Marian, had grown up, forming a pleasant grove around the
house. The sweet honeysuckle and fragrant white jasmine, and the rich,
aromatic, climbing rose, had run all over the walls and windows of the
house, embowering it in verdure, bloom and perfume.
While Marian stood enjoying for a few moments the morning hour, she was
startled by the sound of rapid footsteps, and then by the sight of a
young woman in wild attire, issuing from the grove at the right of the
cottage, and flying like a hunted hare toward the house.
Marian impulsively opened the gate, and the creature fled in,
frantically clapped to the gate, and stood leaning with her back
against it, and panting with haste and terror.
She was a young and pretty woman--pretty, notwithstanding the wildness
of her staring black eyes and the disorder of her long black hair that
hung in tangled tresses to her waist. Her head and feet were bare, and
her white gown was spotted with green stains of the grass, and torn by
briars, as were also her bleeding feet and arms. Marian felt for her the
deepest compassion; a mere glance had assured her that the poor,
panting, pretty creature was insane. Marian took her hand and gently
pressing it, said:
"You look very tired and faint--come in and rest yourself and take
breakfast with us."
The stranger drew away her hand and looked at Marian from head to foot.
But in the midst of her scrutiny, she suddenly sprang, glanced around,
and trembling violently, grasped the gate for support. It was but the
tramping of a colt through the clover that had startled her.
"Do not be frightened; there is nothing that can hurt you; you are safe
here."
"And won't he come?"
"Who, poor girl?"
"The Destroyer!"
"No, poor one, no destroyer comes near us here; see how quiet and
peaceable everything is here!"
The wanderer slowly shook her head with a cunning, bitter smile, that
looked stranger on her fair face than the madness itself had looked,
and:
"So it was there," she said, "but the Destroyer was at hand, and
the thunder of terror and destruction burst upon our quiet--but I
forgot--the fair spirit said I was not to think of that--such thoughts
would invoke the fiend again," added the poor creature, smoothing her
forehead with both hands, and then flinging them wide, as if to dispel
and cast away some painful concentration there.
"But now come in and lie down on the sofa, and rest, while I make you a
cup of coffee," said Marian.
But the same expression of cunning came again into the poor creature's
face, as she said:
"In the house? No, no--no, no! Fanny has learned something. Fanny knows
better than to go under roofs--they are traps to catch rabbits! 'Twas in
the house the Destroyer found us, and we couldn't get out! No, no! a
fair field and no favor and Fanny will outfly the fleetest of them! But
not in a house, not in a house!"
"Well, then I will bring an easy chair out here for you to rest in--you
can sit under the shade, and have a little stand by your side, to eat
your breakfast. Come; come nearer to the house," said Marian, taking
poor Fanny's hand, and leading her up the walk.
They were at the threshold.
"Are you Marian?" poor Fanny asked, abruptly.
"Yes, that is my name."
"Oh, I oughtn't to have come here! I oughtn't to have come here!"
"Why? What is the matter? Come, be calm! Nothing can hurt you or us
here!"
"Don't love! Marian, don't love! Be a nun, or drown yourself, but
never love!" said the woman, seizing the young girl's hands, gazing on
her beautiful face, and speaking with intense and painful earnestness.
"Why? Love is life. You had as well tell me not to live as not to love.
Poor sister! I have not known you an hour, yet your sorrows so touch me,
that my heart goes out toward you, and I want to bring you in to our
home, and take care of you," said Marian, gently.
"You do?" asked the wanderer, incredulously.
"Heaven knows I do! I wish to nurse you back to health and calmness."
"Then I would not for the world bring so much evil to you! Yet it is a
lovelier place to die in, with loving faces around."
"But it is a better place to live in! I do not let people die where I
am, unless the Lord has especially called them. I wish to make you well!
Come, drive away all these evil fancies and let me take you into the
cottage," said Marian, taking her hand.
Yielding to the influence of the young girl, poor Fanny suffered herself
to be led a few steps toward the cottage; then, with a piercing shriek,
she suddenly snatched her hand away, crying:
"I should draw the lightning down upon your head! I am doomed! I must
not enter!" And she turned and fled out of the gate.
Marian gazed after her in the deepest compassion, the tears filling her
kind blue eyes.
"Weep not for me, beautiful and loving Marian, but for
yourself--yourself!"
Marian hesitated. It were vain to follow and try to draw the wanderer
into the house; yet she could not bear the thought of leaving her. In
the meantime the sound of the shriek had brought Edith out. She came,
leading her little daughter Miriam, now five years old, by the hand.
Edith was scarcely changed in these five years--a life without
excitement or privation or toil--a life of moderation and regularity--of
easy household duties, and quiet family affections, had restored and
preserved her maiden beauty. And now her pretty hair had its own will,
and fell in slight, flossy black ringlets down each side the pearly brow
and cheeks; and nothing could have been more in keeping with the style
of her beauty than the simple, close-fitting black gown, her habitual
dress.
But lovely as the young mother was, you would scarcely have looked at
her a second time while she held that child by her hand--so marvelous
was the fascination of that little creature's countenance. It was a face
to attract, to charm, to delight, to draw you in, and rivet your whole
attention, until you became absorbed and lost in the study of its
mysterious spell--a witching face, whose nameless charm it were
impossible to tell, I might describe the fine dark Jewish features, the
glorious eyes, the brilliant complexion, and the fall of long, glossy,
black ringlets that veiled the proud little head; but the spell lay not
in them, any more than in the perfect symmetry of her form, or the
harmonious grace of her motion, or the melodious intonations of her
voice.
Edith, still leading the little girl, advanced to Marian's side, where
the latter stood at the yard gate.
"I heard a scream, Marian, dear--what was it?"
Marian pointed to the old elm tree outside the cottage fence, under the
shade of which stood the poor stroller, pressing her side, and panting
for breath.
"Edith, do you see that young woman? She it was."
"Good heaven!" exclaimed Edith, turning a shade paler, and beginning,
with trembling fingers, to unfasten the gate.
"Why, do you know her, Edith?"
"Yes! yes! My soul, it is Fanny Laurie! I thought she was in some asylum
at the North!" said Edith, passing the gate, and going up to the
wanderer. "Fanny! Fanny! Dearest Fanny!" she said, taking her thin hand,
and looking in her crazed eyes and lastly, putting both arms around her
neck and kissing her.
"Do you kiss me?" asked the poor creature, in amazement.
"Yes, dear Fanny! Don't you know me?"
"Yes, yes, you are--I know you--you are--let's see, now--"
"Edith Lance, you know--your old playmate!"
"Ah! yes, I know--you had another name."
"Edith Shields, since I was married, but I am widowed now, Fanny."
"Yes, I know--Fanny has heard them talk!"
She swept her hands across her brow several times, as if to clear her
mental vision, and gazing upon Edith, said:
"Ah! old playmate! Did the palms lie? The ravaged tome, the
blood-stained hearth, and the burning roof for me--the fated nuptials,
the murdered bridegroom, and the fatherless child for you. Did the palms
lie, Edith? You were ever incredulous! Answer, did the palms lie?"
"The prediction was partly fulfilled, as it was very likely to be at the
time our neighborhood was overrun by a ruthless foe. It happened so,
poor Fanny! You did not know the future, any more than I did--no one on
earth knows the mysteries of the future, 'not the angels in heaven, nor
the Son, but the Father only.'"
This seemed to annoy the poor creature--soothsaying, by palmistry, had
been her weakness in her brighter days, and now the strange propensity
clung to her through the dark night of her sorrows, and received
strength from her insanity.
"Come in, dear Fanny," said Edith, "come in and stay with us."
"No, no!" she almost shrieked again. "I should bring a curse upon your
house! Oh! I could tell you if you would hear! I could warn you, if you
would be warned! But you will not! you will not!" she continued,
wringing her hands in great trouble.
"You shall predict my fate and Miriam's," said Marian, smiling, as she
opened the gate, and came out leading the child. "And I know," she
continued, holding out her palm, "that it will be such a fair fate, as
to brighten up your spirits for sympathy with it."
"No! I will not look at your hand!" cried Fanny, turning away. Then,
suddenly changing her mood, she snatched Marian's palm, and gazed upon
it long and intently; gradually her features became disturbed--dark
shadows seemed to sweep, as a funereal train, across her face--her bosom
heaved--she dropped the maiden's hand.
"Why, Fanny, you have told me nothing! What do you see in my future?"
asked Marian.
The maniac looked up, and breaking, as she sometimes did, into
improvisation, chanted, in the most mournful of tones, these words:
"Darkly, deadly, lowers the shadow,
Quickly, thickly, comes the crowd--
From death's bosom creeps the adder,
Trailing slime upon the shroud!"
Marian grew pale, so much, at the moment, was she infected with the
words and manner of this sybil; but then, "Nonsense!" she thought, and,
with a smile, roused herself to shake off the chill that was creeping
upon her.
"Feel! the air! the air!" said Fanny, lifting her hand.
"Yes, it is going to rain," said Edith. "Come in, dear Fanny."
But Fanny did not hear--the fitful, uncertain creature had seized the
hand of the child Miriam, and was gazing alternately upon the lines in
the palm and upon her fervid, eloquent face.
"What is this? Oh! what is this?" she said, sweeping the black tresses
back from her bending brow, and fastening her eyes upon Miriam's palm.
"What can it mean? A deep cross from the Mount of Venus crosses the line
of life, and forks into the line of death! a great sun in the plain of
Mars--a cloud in the vale of Mercury! and where the lines of life and
death meet, a sanguine spot and a great star! I cannot read it! In a
boy's hand, that would betoken a hero's career, and a glorious death in
a victorious field; but in a girl's! What can it mean when found in a
girl's? Stop!" And she peered into the hand for a few moments in deep
silence, and then her face lighted up, her eyes burned intensely, and
once more she broke forth in improvisation:
"Thou shalt be bless'd as maiden fair was never bless'd before,
And the heart of thy belov'd shall be most gentle, kind and pure;
But thy red hand shall be lifted at duty's stern behest,
And give to fell destruction the head thou lov'st the best.
"Feel! the air! the air!" she exclaimed, suddenly dropping the child's
hand, and lifting her own toward the sky.
"Yes, I told you it was going to rain, but there will not be much, only
a light shower from the cloud just over our heads."
"It is going to weep! Nature mourns for her darling child! Hark! I hear
the step of him that cometh! Fly, fair one! fly! Stay not here to listen
to the voice of the charmer, charm he never so wisely!" cried the wild
creature, as she dashed off toward the forest.
Marian and Edith looked after her, in the utmost compassion.
"Who is the poor, dear creature, Edith, and what has reduced her to this
state?"
"She was an old playmate of my own, Marian. I never mentioned her to
you--I never could bear to do so. She was one of the victims of the war.
She was the child of Colonel Fairlie and the bride of Henry Laurie, one
of the most accomplished and promising young men in the State. In one
night their house was attacked, and Fanny saw her father and her husband
massacred, and her home burned before her face! She--fell into the hands
of the soldiers! She went mad from that night!"
"Most horrible!" ejaculated Marian.
"She was sent to one of the best Northern asylums, and the property she
inherited was placed in the hands of a trustee--old Mr. Hughes, who died
last week, you know; and now that he is dead and she is out, I don't
know what will be done, I don't understand it at all."
"Has she no friends, no relatives? She must not be allowed to wander in
this way," said the kind girl, with the tears swimming in her eyes.
"I shall always be her friend, Marian. She has no others that I know of
now; and no relative, except her young cousin, Thurston Willcoxen, who
has been abroad at a German University these five years past, and who,
in event of Fanny's death, would inherit her property. We must get her
here, if possible. I will go in and send Jenny after her. She will
probably overtake her in the forest, and may be able to persuade her to
come back. At least, I shall tell Jenny to keep her in sight, until she
is in some place of safety."
"Do, dear Edith!"
"Are you not coming?" said Edith, as she led her little girl toward the
house.
"In one moment, dear; I wish only to bind up this morning-glory, that
poor Fanny chanced to pull down as she ran through."
Edith disappeared in the cottage.
Marian stood with both her rosy arms raised, in the act of binding up
the vine, that with its wealth of splendid azure-hued, vase-shaped
flowers, over-canopied her beautiful head like a triumphal arch. She
stood there, as I said, like a radiant, blooming goddess of life and
health, summer sunshine and blushing flowers.
The light tramp of horse's feet fell upon her ear. She looked up, and
with surprise lighting her dark-blue eyes, beheld a gentleman mounted on
a fine black Arabian courser, that curveted gracefully and capriciously
before the cottage gate.
Smilingly the gentleman soothed and subdued the coquettish mood of his
willful steed, and then dismounted and bowing with matchless grace and
much deference, addressed Marian.
The maiden was thinking that she had never seen a gentleman with a
presence and a manner so graceful, courteous and princely in her life.
He was a tall, finely proportioned, handsome man, with a superb head, an
aquiline profile, and fair hair and fair complexion. The great charm,
however, was in the broad, sunny forehead, in the smile of ineffable
sweetness, in the low and singularly mellifluous voice, and the manner,
gentle and graceful as any woman's.
"Pardon me, my name is Willcoxen, young lady, and I have the honor of
addressing--"
"Miss Mayfield," said Marian.
"Thank you," said the gentleman, with one involuntary gaze of
enthusiastic admiration that called all the roses out in full bloom upon
the maiden's cheeks; then governing himself, he bent his eyes to the
ground, and said, with great deference: "You will pardon the liberty I
have taken in calling here, Miss Mayfield, when I tell you that I am in
search of an unhappy young relative, who, I am informed, passed here not
long since."
"She left us not ten minutes ago, sir, much against our wishes. My
sister has just sent a servant to the forest in search of her, to bring
her back, if possible. Will you enter, and wait till she returns?"
With a beaming smile and graceful bend, and in the same sweet tones, he
thanked her, and declined the invitation. Then he remounted his horse,
and bowing deeply, rode off in the direction Fanny had taken.
This was certainly a day of arrivals at Old Fields. Usually weeks would
pass without any one passing to or from the cottage, except Marian,
whose cheerful, kindly, social disposition, was the sole connecting link
between the cottage and the neighborhood around it. But this day seemed
to be an exception.
While yet the little party lingered at the breakfast-table, Edith looked
up, and saw the tall, thin figure of a woman in a nankeen riding-shirt,
and a nankeen corded sun-bonnet, in the act of dismounting from her
great, raw-boned white horse,
"If there isn't Miss Nancy Skamp!" exclaimed Edith, in no very
hospitable tone--"and I wonder how she can leave the post-office."
"Oh! this is not mail day!" replied Marian, laughing, "notwithstanding
which we shall have news enough." And Marian who, for her part, was
really glad to see the old lady, arose to meet and welcome her.
Miss Nancy was little changed; the small, tall, thin, narrow-chested,
stooping figure--the same long, fair, freckled, sharp set face--the
same prim cap, and clean, scant, faded gown, or one of the same
sort--made up her personal individuality. Miss Nancy now had charge of
the village post-office; and her early and accurate information
respecting all neighborhood affairs, was obtained, it was whispered, by
an official breach of trust; if so, however, no creature except Miss
Nancy, her black boy, and her white cat, knew it. She was a great news
carrier, it is true, yet she was not especially addicted to scandal. To
her, news was news, whether good or bad, and so she took almost as much
pleasure in exciting the wonder of her listeners by recounting the good
action or good fortune of her neighbors or the reverse.
And so, after having dropped her riding-skirt, and given that and her
bonnet to Marian to carry up-stairs, and seated herself in the chair
that Edith offered her at the table, she said, sipping her coffee, and
glancing between the white curtains and the green vines of the open
window out upon the bay:
"You have the sweetest place, and the finest sea view here, my dear Mrs.
Shields; but that is not what I was a-going to say. I was going to tell
you that I hadn't hearn from you so long, that I thought I must take an
early ride this morning, and spend the day with you. And I thought you'd
like to hear about your old partner at the dancing-school, young Mr.
Thurston Willcoxen, a-coming back--la, yes! to be sure! we had almost
all of us forgotten him, leastwise I had. And then, Miss Marian," she
said, as our blooming girl returned to her place at the table, "I just
thought I would bring over that muslin for the collars and caps you were
so good as to say you'd make for me."
"Yes, I am glad you brought them, Miss Nancy," said Marian, in her
cheerful tone, as she helped herself to another roll.
"I hope you are not busy now, my dear."
"Oh, I'm always busy, thank Heaven! but that makes no difference, Miss
Nancy; I shall find time to do your work this week and next."
"I am sure it is very good of you, Miss Marian, to sew for me for
nothing; when--"
"Oh, pray, don't speak of it, Miss Nancy."
"But indeed, my dear, I must say I never saw anybody like you! If
anybody's too old to sew, and too poor to put it out, it is 'Miss
Marian' who will do it for kindness; and if anybody is sick, it is 'Miss
Marian' who is sent for to nurse them; and if any poor negro, or
ignorant white person, has friends off at a distance they want to hear
from, it is 'Miss Marian' who writes all their letters!"
When they arose from breakfast, and the room was tidied up, and Edith,
and Marian, and their guest, were seated at their work, with all the
cottage windows open to admit the fresh and fragrant air, and the rural
landscape on one side, and the sea view on the other, and while little
Miriam sat at their feet dressing a nun doll, and old Jenny betook
herself to the garden to gather vegetables for the day, Miss Nancy
opened her budget, and gave them all the news of the month. But in that
which concerned Thurston Willcoxen alone was Edith interested, and of
him she learned the following facts: Of the five years which Mr.
Willcoxen had been absent in the eastern hemisphere, three had been
spent at the German University, where he graduated with the highest
honors; eighteen months had been passed in travel through Europe, Asia,
and Africa; and the last year had been spent in the best circles in the
city of Paris. He had been back to his native place about three weeks.
Since the death of Fanny Laurie's old guardian, the judge of the
Orphans' Court had appointed him sole trustee of her property, and
guardian of her person. As soon as he had received this power, he had
gone to the asylum, where the poor creature was confined, and hearing
her pronounced incurable, though harmless, he had set her at liberty,
brought her home to his own house, and had hired a skillful, attentive
nurse to wait upon her.
"And you never saw such kindness and compassion, Miss Marian, except in
yourself. I do declare to you, that his manner to that poor unfortunate
is as delicate and reverential and devoted as if she were the most
accomplished and enviable lady in the land, and more so, Miss Marian,
more so!"
"I can well believe it! He looks like that!" said the beautiful girl,
her face flushing and her eyes filling with generous sympathy. But
Marian was rather averse to sentimentality, so dashing the sparkling
drops from her blushing cheeks, she looked up and said: "Miss Nancy, we
are going to have chickens for dinner. How do you like them cooked? It
don't matter a bit to Edith and me."
"Stewed, then, if you please, Miss Marian! or stop--no--I think baked in
a pie!"