Fern Leaves from Fanny's Portfolio, series one (Auburn: Derby & Miller, 1853)
-----
p. 149
HOW WOMAN LOVES.
"Walter," said Mrs. Clay, "you have not tasted your coffee this morning; are you ill?" and she leaned across the table, and laid her hand upon his arm.
"No--yes, not quite well. I had a great deal to occupy me yesterday;" and he arose from his seat to avoid the scrutiny of those clear eyes, adding, "If I should n't be home at the dinner-hour, Marion, don't wait for me;--I may be detained by business. And now kiss me before I go."
"If Walter would only leave that odious bank!" said Marion to herself. "Such a tread-mill life for him to lead,--they are killing him with such close application;" and she moved about, busying her little head devising certain pathetic appeals to the "Board of Directors" for a mitigation of his sufferings.
When one is away from a dear friend, 't is a satisfaction to be employed in performing some little service for them, how trifling soever it may be. So Marion passed into the library;--arranging Walter's books and papers, producing order out of confusion from a discouraging and heterogeneous heap of pamphlets and letters; moved
-----
p. 150
his easy-chair round to the most inviting locality; and then her eyes fell upon a little sketch he had drawn. "Poor Walter!" said she; "with his artist eye and poet heart, to be counting up those interminable rows of figures, day after day, that any man who had brains enough for the rule of three could do just as well. To think he must always lead such a tread-mill life!--never feast his eyes on all that is beautiful and glorious beyond the seas, while so many stupid people are galloping over the continent, getting up fits of sham enthusiasm, just as the 'Guide Books' direct! It is too bad." She wished heartily she had brought him other dowry than her pretty face and warm heart.
Well, dinner-hour came, but came not Walter. Marion was not anxious, because he had prepared her for his absence; but she missed his handsome face at the table, and pushed away her food untasted. She was unfashionable enough to love him quite as well--although she had been married many happy years--as on the day when the priest's blessing fell on her maiden ear.
"Come here, Nettie," said she to a noble boy. "Spring into my lap, and let me look at papa's eyes;"--and she pushed back the clustering curls from his broad, white forehead. "Tell me, Nettie, which do you love best, papa or me?"
"Papa said I must love you best, because he does," said the child.
-----
p. 151
"Bless your baby lips for that sweet answer! Where can that dear papa be, I wonder?"
The words had but just escaped her lips when her father entered. Not with his usual beaming smile and extended hand, but with a slow, uncertain step, as if he could with difficulty sustain himself. And such a haggard look!
"Send away the child," said he, huskily; "I want to speak with you, Marion."
"He is not dead?--don't tell me that!" said she, with ashen lips--her thoughts at once reverting to her husband.
"Better so, better so," said the old man, shaking his gray head, "than to live to disgrace us all as he has!"
"Who dare couple 'disgrace' with Walter's name?" said Marion, with a flashing eye. "Not you, O, not you, dear father!" and she looked imploringly in his face.
"He has disgraced us all, I say!" said the proud old man;--"you and I, and that innocent child. He has embezzled money to a large amount, and is now in custody; and I've come to take you home with me,--you and Nettie,--for you must forget him, Marion."
"Never, never, never!" said she, solemnly. "'T is false!--my noble, generous, high-minded husband!--never! There is a conspiracy,--it will all be cleared up. O, father, unsay those dreadful words! I will
-----
p. 152
never leave him, though all the world forsake him. Let me go to him, father!"
"Marion," said the old man, "he will be sentenced to a felon's cell;--there is no escape for him. When that takes place, the law frees you. Would you disgrace your boy? Come back to your childhood's home, and forget him,--'t is your duty. He is unworthy your love or mine. If not," said the old man, marking her compressed lip and heightened color, "if not--"
"What then?" said Marion, calmly.
"You are no child of mine!" said the irritated old man.
"God help me, then!" said Marion; "for I will never leave nor forsake him."
-----
It was a sight to move the stoutest heart, that fair, delicate woman in the prison cell. Walter started to his feet, but he did not advance to meet her. There was little need. Her arms were about his neck, her head upon his breast. Once, twice he essayed to speak, but her hand was laid upon his lips;--she would not hear, even from his own mouth, that he had fallen. The old jailer, stony-hearted as he was, drew his coat-sleeve across his eyes, as he closed the door upon them.
"Some fiend from hell tempted me!" said the wretched man, at last; "but the law frees you from me, Marion," said he, bitterly.
-----
p. 153
"Yours till death!" whispered the weeping wife.
"God bless your noble heart, Marion! Now I can bear my punishment."
If "death loves a shining mark," so does malice. Every petty underling, who owed Walter Clay a grudge, took this opportunity to pay the debt. The past was ransacked for all the little minutiae of his history; dark hints and innuendoes were thrown out, to prejudice still more the public mind. There were cowardly stabs in the dark, from the pusillanimous villains, who would have been livid with fear had their victim been free to face them. Reporters nibbed their pens with an appetite; and the "extras" teemed with exaggerated accounts of the prisoner and the trial. Even the sacredness of the wife's sorrow was intruded upon by those ravenous, must-have-a-paragraph gentry. Then there were the usual number of sagacious people, who shook their empty heads, and "always expected he would turn out so, because those who held their heads so high generally did." First and foremost were these "Good Samaritans" at the trial; noting every flitting expression of the agonized prisoner's face, and only wishing it were in their power to prolong his acute suffering and their exquisite enjoyment months instead of hours. "Good enough for him!" was their final doxology, when the verdict of "Guilty" was rendered. "It will take his pride down a peg." O, most Pharisaical censors! who shall say, that, with equal
-----
p. 154
opportunity and temptation, your vaunted virtue would have better stood the test?
"The worst is over now," said Walter, as Marion bathed his temples. "I will struggle to bear the rest, since you do not desert me, Marion; but Nettie, poor, innocent Nettie!" and the strong man bowed his head, and wept at the heritage of shame for that brave boy.
And so days, and weeks, and months, dragged their slow length along to the divided pair. He, in the livery of ignominy, bearing his sentence as best he might among the desperate and degraded; experiencing every moment a refinement of torture of which their dull intellects and deadened sensibilities knew nothing. She, pointed out as the "felon's wife" by the rude crowd; shrinking nervously from notice; trembling at the apprehension of insult, as she toiled on heroically, day by day, for daily bread.
Whence came that quiet dignity with which Walter Clay exacted respect even from his jailers? Ah! there was a true heart throbbing for him outside those prison walls. Nightly was he remembered in her prayers. Daily she taught their boy to lisp, even now, his father's name. Like music to his ear was that light footstep echoing through the gloomy corridor to his cell. Tenderly those loving arms twined about his neck; sacred and true were the holy words with which she cheered his sinking spirit. Hopefully she painted the future--this trial past--when, in some home beyond the seas, he should
-----
p. 155
yet be the happier for being so chastened by sorrow, and where no malicious tongue should remind him of his temptation or his fall. Sweetly upon his ear fell those soothing words--first uttered by sacred lips--"Go and sin no more."
No, Walter Clay was not deserted quite! He was not degraded, even there and thus, while he could hold up his head and boast of a love so devoted, so pure, so holy!
The hour of emancipation came at last, and Walter Clay stepped forth under the broad, blue sky, once more a free man; and in the little room where the heroic wife had suffered and toiled, she once more clasped her husband to her breast.
"And Nettie, where is he? Let me kiss my boy," said the joyful father. "Where's Nettie?"
"On the Saviour's bosom!" said Marion, with a choking voice.
"Dead? And you have buried this sad secret in your breast, and borne this great grief unshared, lest you should add to my sorrow!" and he knelt at her feet reverently.
"God knows you had enough to bear!" said Marion, as they mingled their tears together, and gazed at the long, bright, golden tress, all that remained to them of little Nettie.
-----
-----
p. 156
"What an interesting couple!" said a travelling artist in Italy to his companion. "That woman's face reminds one of a Madonna,--so pensive, sweet and touching. If she would but sit to me. Who are they, Pietro?"
"They came here about a year since,--live in the greatest seclusion, and seem anxiously to avoid all contact with their own countrymen. All the poor peasantry bless them; and Father Giovanni says they are the best people, for heretics, he ever saw."
-----
p. 157
A MOTHER'S SOLILOQUY.
'T is mine! Bound to me by a tie that death itself cannot sever. That little heart shall never thrill with pleasure, or throb with pain, without a quick response from mine. I am the centre of its little world; its very life depends on my faithful care. It is my sweet duty to deck those dimpled limbs,--to poise that tiny, trembling foot. Yet stay,--my duty ends not here! A soul looks forth from those blue eyes,--an undying spirit, that shall plume its wing for a ceaseless flight, guided by my erring hand.
The hot blood of anger may not poison the fount whence it draws its life, or the hasty word escape my lip, in that pure presence. Wayward, passionate, impulsive,--how shall I approach it, but with a hush upon my spirit, and a silent prayer!
O, careless sentinel! slumber not at thy post over its trusting innocence!
O, reckless "sower of the seed!" let not "the tares" spring up!
O, unskilful helmsman! how shalt thou pilot that
-----
p. 158
little bark, o'er life's tempestuous sea, safely to the eternal shore?
"'Tis ours!"
A father bends proudly over that little cradle! A father's love, how strong, how true! But O, not so warm, not so tender, as hers whose heart that babe hath lain beneath!
Fit me for the holy trust, O good Shepherd, or fold it early to thy loving bosom!
-----
p. 159
THE INVALID WIFE.
"Every wife needs a good stock of love to start with."
Don't she?--You are upon a sick bed; a little, feeble thing lies upon your arm, that you might crush with one hand. You take those little velvet fingers in yours, close your eyes, and turn your head languidly to the pillow. Little brothers and sisters,--Carry, and Harry, and Fanny, and Frank, and Willy, and Mary, and Kitty,--half a score,--come tiptoeing into the room, "to see the new baby." It is quite an old story to "nurse," who sits there like an automaton, while they give vent to their enthusiastic admiration of its wee toes and fingers, and make profound inquiries, which nobody thinks best to hear. You look on with a languid smile, and they pass out, asking, "Why they can't stay with dear mamma, and why they must n't play puss in the corner," as usual? You wonder if your little croupy boy tied his tippet on when he went to school, and whether Betty will see that your husband's flannel is aired, and if Peggy has cleaned the silver, and washed off the front-door steps, and what your blessed husband
-----
p. 160
is about, that he don't come home to dinner. There sits old nurse, keeping up that dreadful tread-mill trotting, "to quiet the baby," till you could fly through the key-hole in desperation. The odor of dinner begins to creep up stairs. You wonder if your husband's pudding will be made right, and if Betty will remember to put wine in the sauce, as he likes it; and then the perspiration starts out on your forehead, as you hear a thumping on the stairs, and a child's suppressed scream; and nurse swathes the baby up in flannel to the tip of its nose, dumps it down in the easy-chair, and tells you to "leave the family to her, and go to sleep." By and by she comes in,--after staying down long enough to get a refreshing cup of coffee,--and walks up to the bed with a bowl of gruel, tasting it, and then putting the spoon back into the bowl. In the first place, you hate gruel; in the next, you could n't eat it, if she held a pistol to your head, after that spoon has been in her mouth; so you meekly suggest that it be set on the table to cool--hoping, by some providential interposition, it may get tipped over. Well, she moves round your room with a pair of creaking shoes, and a bran-new gingham gown, that rattles like a paper window-curtain, at every step; and smooths her hair with your nice little head-brush, and opens a drawer by mistake (?), "thinking it was the baby's drawer." Then you hear little nails scratching on the door; and Charley whispers through the key-
-----
p. 161
hole, "Mamma, Charley's tired; please let Charley come in." Nurse scowls, and says no; but you intercede--poor Charley, he's only a baby himself. Well, he leans his little head wearily against the pillow, and looks suspiciously at that little, moving bundle of flannel in nurse's lap. It's clear he's had a hard time of it, what with tears and molasses! The little shining curls, that you have so often rolled over your fingers, are a tangled mass; and you long to take him, and make him comfortable, and cosset him a little and, then, the baby cries again, and you turn your head to the pillow with a smothered sigh. Nurse hears it, and Charley is taken struggling from the room. You take your watch from under the pillow, to see if husband won't be home soon, and then look at nurse, who takes a pinch of snuff over your bowl of gruel, and sits down nodding drowsily, with the baby in alarming proximity to the fire. Now you hear a dear step on the stairs. It's your Charley! How bright he looks! and what nice fresh air he brings with him from out doors! He parts the bed-curtains, looks in, and pats you on the cheek. You just want to lay hour head on his shoulder, and have such a splendid cry! but there sits that old Gorgon of a nurse,--she don't believe in husbands, she don't! You make Charley a free-mason sign to send her down stairs for something. He says,--right out loud,--men are so stupid!--"What did you say, dear?" Of course, you protest
-----
p. 162
you did n't say a word,--never thought of such a thing!--and cuddle your head down to your ruffled pillows, and cry because you don't know what else to do, and because you are weak and weary, and full of care for your family, and don't want to see anybody but "Charley." Nurse says "she shall have you sick," and tells your husband "he'd better go down, and let you go to sleep." Off he goes, wondering what on earth ails you, to cry!--wishes he had nothing to do but lie still, and be waited upon! After dinner he comes in to bid you good-by before he goes to his office,--whistles "Nelly Bly" loud enough to wake up the baby, whom he calls "a comical little concern,"--and puts his dear, thoughtless head down to your pillow, at a signal from you, to hear what you have to say. Well, there's no help for it, you cry again, and only say "Dear Charley;" and he laughs, and settles his dickey, and says you are "a nervous little puss," gives you a kiss, lights his cigar at the fire, half strangles the new baby with the first whiff, and takes your heart off with him down the street!
And you lie there and eat that gruel! and pick the fuzz all off the blanket, and make faces at the nurse, under the sheet, and wish Eve had never ate that apple,--Genesis 3:16,--or that you were "Abel" to "Cain" her for doing it!
-----
p. 163
THE STRAY LAMB.
I was walking through the streets yesterday, chilled outwardly and inwardly, as one is apt to be, by the first approach of winter,--somewhat out of humor with myself, and indisposed to be pleased with others,--when I noticed before me, on foot, a party of emigrants in a very destitute condition. One of the women was tottering under the weight of a huge chest she carried upon her head; most of them were ragged, and all travel-stained and careworn. Bringing up the rear, with uncertain, faltering steps, somewhat behind the rest of the party, was a little girl of eight years, bonnetless, bare-footed and bare-legged, her scanty frock barely reaching to her little, purpled knees; her tangled brown hair the sport of the winds. She stepped wearily, as if she had neither aim nor object in moving on; showing neither wonder nor childish curiosity at the new sights and scenes before her. It seemed to be a matter of indifference to the rest of the party whether she kept pace with them or not. My heart ached for her, she looked so friendless, so prematurely careworn.
-----
p. 164
What should be her future fate in this great city of snares and temptations? Who should take her by the hand? Ah, look! the Good Shepherd watches over the stray lamb! I hear a shriek of joy! A well-dressed woman before me sees her; with the spring of an antelope she seizes her, presses her lips to those little chilled limbs, then holds her, at arms' length, pushes back the hair from her forehead, strains her again to her breast, while tears of gratitude fall like rain from her eyes; then lifts her far above her head, as if to say, "O God, I thank thee!"
What can this pantomime mean?--for not a word have they spoken, amid all these sobs and caresses. "What does this mean?" said I to a bystander. "O and it's a child come over from the old counthry, ma'am, to find her mother; and sure, she's just met her in the street, and the hearts of 'em are most breaking with the joy, you see." "God be thanked!" said I, as I wept too; "the dove has found the ark, the lamb its fold. Let the chill wind blow, she will heed it not! The little, weary head shall be pillowed, sweetly, to-night, on that loving breast; the chilled limbs be warmed and clothed; the desolate little heart shall beat quick with love and hope." And there I left them,--still caressing, still weeping,--unconscious of the crowd that had gathered about them, forgetting the weary years of the past,
-----
p. 165
pressing a life-time of happiness into the joy of those blissful moments.
"Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones, for I say unto you that in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father."
-----
LENA MAY.
-----
p. 166
LENA MAY;
OR, DARKNESS AND LIGHT.
Such a gloomy room as it was! You may sometimes have seen one just like it. The walls were dingy, the windows small, the furniture scanty and shabby. In one corner was a small bed, and on it a boy of about nine years; so pallid, so emaciated, that, as he lay there with his long lashes sweeping his pale cheek, you could scarce tell if he were living. At the foot of the bed sat a lady, whose locks sorrow, not time, had silvered. Her hands were clasped hopelessly in her lap, and her lips moved as if in silent prayer.
"Good morning, Mrs. May," said the doctor, as he laid aside his gold-headed cane, very pompously. "I have but a minute to spare. General Clay has another attack of the gout, and can't get along without me. How's the boy?" and he glanced carelessly at the bed.
"He seems more than usually feeble," said the mother, dejectedly, as the doctor examined his pulse.
"Well, all he wants is something strengthening, in the way of nourishment, to set him on his feet. Wine and
-----
p. 167
jellies, Mrs. May,--that's the thing for him,--that will do it. Good morning, ma'am."
"Wine and jellies!" said the poor widow; and the tears started to her eyes, for she remembered sunnier days, when those now unattainable luxuries were sent away untasted from her well-furnished table, rejected by a capricious appetite; and she rose and laid her hand lovingly on the little sufferer's head, and prisoned the warm tears 'neath her closed eyelids.
Little Charley was blind. He had never seen the face that was bending over him; but he knew, by the tone of her voice, whether she was glad or grieving; and there was a heart-quiver in it now, as she said, "Dear, patient boy," that made his little heart beat faster; and he pressed his pale lips to her hand, as if he would convey all he felt in that kiss; for love and sorrow had taught Charley a lesson--many of his seniors were more slow to learn--to endure silently, rather than add to the sorrow of a heart so tried and grief-stricken. And so, through those tedious days, and long, wearisome nights, the little sufferer uttered no word of complaint, though the outer and inner world was all darkness to him.
-----
Gently, noiselessly, a young, fair girl glided into the room. She passed to the bedside; then, stooping so low
-----
p. 168
that her raven ringlets floated on the pillow, she lightly pressed her dewy lips to the blind boy's forehead.
"That's your kiss, Lena," said he, tenderly. "I'm so glad you are come!" and he threw his wasted arms about her neck. "Put your face down here,--close, Lena, close. The doctor has been here, and mamma thought me sleeping; but I heard all. He said I must have wine and jellies to make me well, and dear mamma so poor, too! O, you should have heard her sigh so heavily! And, Lena, though I cannot see, I was sure her eyes were brimming, for her voice had tears in it. Now, Lena, I want you to tell her not to grieve, because Charley is going to heaven. I dreamed about it last night, Lena. I was n't a blind boy any longer; and I saw such glorious things."
"Don't, don't, Charley!" said the young girl, sobbing. "Take your arms from my neck. You shall live, Charley,--you shall have everything you need. Let me go, now, there's a darling;" and she tied on her little bonnet, and passed through the dark, narrow court, and gained the street.
"Wine and jellies!"--yes, Charley must have them; but how? Her little purse was quite empty, and the doctor's bill was a perfect night-mare to think of. O, how many tables were loaded with the luxuries that were strength, health, life, to poor Charley!--and she walked on despairingly. The bright blue sky seemed to mock
-----
p. 169
her; the well-clad forms and happy faces to taunt her. O, throbbed there on the wide earth one heart of pity? Poor Lena!--excitement lent a deeper glow to her cheek, and a brighter lustre to her eye; and the cold wind blew her long tresses wildly about. One could scarce see a lovelier face than Lena's then,--so full of love, so full of sorrow.
At least so thought Ernest Clay; for he stopped and looked, and passed, and looked again. It was the embodiment of all his artist dreams. "I must sketch it," said he to himself. "She is poor,--that is evident from her dress; that she is pure and innocent, one may see in the holy expression of her face." And low and musical was the voice which expressed his request to Lena. His tone was respectful; but his ardent look embarrassed her, and she veiled her bright eyes with their long lashes, without replying.
"If your time is precious, you shall be well paid;--it will not take you long. Will money be any object to you?"
"O, yes, yes!" said Lena, despair giving her courage. "O, sir, I have a brother, sick, dying for necessaries beyond our reach! Give me some wine to keep him from sinking--now, if you please, sir!"--and she blushed at her own earnestness,--"then I will come to you tomorrow. My name is Lena May."
-----
-----
p. 170
"Dear, dear mother!--wine for Charley, and more when this is gone."
"Lena!" said her mother, alarmed at her wild, excited manner.
"An artist, mother, gave me this, if I would let him make a sketch of me. Dear Charley!"--and she held the tempting luxury to his fever-parched lip,--"drink, Charley. Now you'll be strong and well, and all for this foolish face;" and she laughed hysterically; then her hands fell at her side, her head drooped; the excitement was too much for her,--she had fainted.
-----
"There, that will do; thank you. Now turn your head a trifle to the left, so;" and the young artist's eye brightened as his hand moved over the canvas. In truth it were hard to find a lovelier model. That full, dark eye and Grecian profile; that wealth of raven hair, those dimpled shoulders. Yes, Lena was the realization of all his artist dreams;--and then, she was so pure, so innocent. Practiced flatterer as he was, professionally, praise seemed out of place now,--it died upon his lip. He had transferred many a lovely face to canvas, but never one so holy in its expression.
And little Charley, day by day, grew stronger; and rare flowers lay upon his bed; and he inhaled their fra-
-----
p. 171
grance, and passed his slender fingers over them caressingly, as if their beauty could be conveyed by the touch. And then he would listen for Lena's light footstep, and ask her, on her return, a thousand questions about the picture, and sigh as he said, "I can never know, dear sister, if it is like you;" and then he would say, "You will not love this artist better than me, Lena?" and then Lena would blush, and say, "No, you foolish boy!"
-----
"Well, Lena," said Ernest, "your picture will be finished to-day. I suppose you are quite glad it is over with?"
"Charley misses me so much!" was love's quick evasion.
"There are still many comforts you would get for Charley, were you able, Lena?"
"O, yes, yes!" said the young girl, eagerly.
"And your mother, she is too delicate to toil so unremittingly?"
"Yes," said Lena, dejectedly.
"Dear, good, lovely Lena! they shall both have such a happy home, only say you will be mine."
Dear reader, you should have peeped into that artist's home. You should have seen the proud, happy husband. You should have seen with what a sweet grace the little
-----
p. 172
child-wife performed her duty as its mistress. You should have seen Charley with his birds and his flowers, and heard his merry laugh, as he said to his mother, that "if he was blind, he always saw that Ernest would steal away our Lena."
-----
p. 173
THOUGHTS BORN OF A CARESS.
"O, what a nice place to cry!" said a laughing little girl, as she nestled her head lovingly on her mother's breast.
The words were spoken playfully, and the little fairy was all unconscious how much meaning lay hid in them; but they brought tears to my eyes, for I looked forward to the time when care and trial should throw their shadows over that laughing face,--when adversity should overpower,--when summer friends should fall off like autumn leaves before the rough blast of misfortune,--when the faithful breast she leaned upon should be no longer warm with love and life,--when, in all the wide earth, there should be for that little one "no nice place to cry."
God shield the motherless! A father may be left,--kind, affectionate, considerate, perhaps,--but a man's affections form but a small fraction of his existence. His thoughts are far away, even while his child clambers on his knee. The distant ship with its rich freight, the state of the money-market, the fluctuations of trade, the office, the shop, the bench; and he answers at random the little
-----
p. 174
lisping immortal, and gives the child a toy, and passes on. The little, sensitive heart has borne its childish griefs through the day unshared. She don't understand the reason for anything, and nobody stops to tell her. Nurse "don't know," the cook is "busy," and so she wanders restlessly about, through poor mamma's empty room. Something is wanting. Ah, there is no "nice place to cry!"
Childhood passes; blooming maidenhood comes on; lovers woo; the mother's quick instinct, timely word of caution, and omnipresent watchfulness, are not there. She gives her heart, with all its yearning sympathies, into unworthy keeping. A fleeting honeymoon, then the dawning of a long day of misery; wearisome days of sickness; the feeble moan of the first-born; no mother's arm in which to place, with girlish pride, the little wailing stranger; lover and friend afar; no "nice place to cry!"
Thank God!--not unheard by Him, who "wipeth all tears away," goeth up that troubled heart-plaint from the despairing lips of the motherless!