"FANNY! I've but one word more to say on the subject. If you marrythat fellow, I'll have nothing to do with you. I've said it; and youmay be assured that I'll adhere to my determination."
Thus spoke, with a frowning brow and a stern voice, the father ofFanny Crawford, while the maiden sat with eyes bent upon the floor.
"He's a worthless, good-for-nothing fellow," resumed the father;"And if you marry him, you wed a life of misery. Don't come back tome, for I will disown you the day you take his name. I've said it,and my decision is unalterable."
Still Fanny made no answer, but sat like a statue.
"Lay to heart what I have said, and make your election, girl." Andwith these words, Mr. Crawford retired from the presence of hisdaughter.
On that evening Fanny Crawford left her father's house, and wassecretly married to a young man named Logan, whom, spite of all hisfaults, she tenderly loved.
When this fact became known to Mr. Crawford, he angrily repeated histhreat of utterly disowning his child; and he meant what hesaid--for he was a man of stern purpose and unbending will. Whentrusting to the love she believed him to bear for her, Fannyventured home, she was rudely repulsed, and told that she no longerhad a father. These cruel words fell upon her heart and ever afterrested there, an oppressive weight.
Logan was a young mechanic, with a good trade and the ability toearn a comfortable living. But Mr. Crawford's objection to him waswell founded, and it would have been better for Fanny if she hadpermitted it to influence her; for the young man was idle in hishabits, and Mr. Crawford too clearly saw that idleness would lead todissipation. The father had hoped that his threat to disown hischild would have deterred her from taking the step he so stronglydisapproved. He had, in fact, made this threat as a last effort tosave her from a union that would, inevitably, lead to unhappiness.But having made it, his stubborn and offended pride caused him toadhere with stern inflexibility to his word.
When Fanny went from under her father's roof, the old man was leftalone. The mother of his only child had been many years dead. Forher father's sake, as well as for her own, did Fanny wish to return.She loved her parents with a most earnest affection, and thought ofhim as sitting gloomy and companionless in that home so long madelight and cheerful by her voice and smile. Hours and hours would shelie awake at night, thinking of her father, and weeping for theestrangement of his heart from her. Still there was in her bosom anever living hope that he would relent. And to this she clung, thoughhe passed her in the street without looking at her, and steadilydenied her admission, when, in the hope of some change in his sternpurpose, she would go to his house and seek to gain an entrance.
As the father had predicted, Logan added, in the course of a year ortwo, dissipation to idle habits and neglect of his wife to both.They had gone to housekeeping in a small way, when first married,and had lived comfortably enough for some time. But Logan did notlike work, and made every excuse he could find to take a holiday, orbe absent from the shop. The effect of this was, an insufficientincome. Debt came with its mortifying and harassingaccompaniments, and furniture had to be sold to pay those who werenot disposed to wait. With two little children, Fanny was removed byher husband into a cheap boarding-house, after their things weretaken and sold. The company into which she was here thrown, was farfrom being agreeable; but this would have been no source ofunhappiness in itself. Cheerfully would she have breathed theuncongenial atmosphere, if there had been nothing in the conduct ofher husband to awaken feelings of anxiety. But, alas! there was muchto create unhappiness here. Idle days were more frequent; and theconsequences of idle days more and more serious. From his work, hewould come home sober and cheerful; but after spending a day in idlecompany, or in the woods gunning, a sport of which he was fond, hewould meet his wife with a sullen, dissatisfied aspect, and, toooften, in a state little above intoxication.
"I'm afraid thy son-in-law is not doing very well, friend Crawford,"said a plain-spoken Quaker to the father of Mrs. Logan, after theyoung man's habits began to show themselves too plainly in hisappearance.
Mr. Crawford knit his brows, and drew his lips closely together.
"Has thee seen young Logan lately?"
"I don't know the young man," replied Mr. Crawford, with animpatient motion of his head.
"Don't know thy own son-in-law! The husband of thy daughter!"
"I have no son-in-law! No daughter!" said Crawford, with sternemphasis.
"Frances was the daughter of thy wedded wife, friend Crawford."
"But I have disowned her. I forewarned her of the consequences ifshe married that young man. I told her that I would cast her off forever; and I have done it."
"But, friend Crawford, thee has done wrong."
"I've said it, and I'll stick to it."
"But thee has done wrong, friend Crawford," repeated the Quaker.
"Right or wrong, it is done, and I will not recall the act. I gaveher fair warning; but she took her own course, and now she mustabide the consequences. When I say a thing, I mean it; I never eatmy words."
"Friend Crawford," said the Quaker, in a steady voice and with hiscalm eyes fixed upon the face of the man he addressed. "Thee waswrong to say what thee did. Thee had no right to cast off thy child.I saw her to-day, passing slowly along the street. Her dress wasthin and faded; but not so thin and faded as her pale, young face.Ah! if thee could have seen the sadness of that countenance. FriendCrawford! she is thy child still. Thee cannot disown her."
"I never change," replied the resolute father.
"She is the child of thy beloved wife, now in heaven, friendCrawford."
"Good morning!" and Crawford turned and walked away.
"Rash words are bad enough," said the Quaker to himself, "but howmuch worse is it to abide by rash words, after there has been timefor reflection and repentance!"
Crawford was troubled by what the Quaker said; but more troubled bywhat he saw a few minutes afterwards, as he walked along the street,in the person of his daughter's husband. He met the young man,supported by two others--so much intoxicated that he could not standalone. And in this state he was going home to his wife--to Fanny!
The father clenched his hands, set his teeth firmly together,muttered an imprecation upon the head of Logan, and quickened hispace homeward. Try as he would, he could not shut out from his mindthe pale, faded countenance of his child, as described by theQuaker, nor help feeling an inward shudder at the thought of whatshe must suffer on meeting her husband in such a state.
"She has only herself to blame," he said, as he struggled with hisfeelings. "I forewarned her; I gave her to understand clearly whatshe had to expect. My word is passed. I have said it; and that endsthe matter. I am no childish trifler. What I say, I mean."
Logan had been from home all day, and, what was worse, had not been,as his wife was well aware, at the shop for a week. The woman withwhom they were boarding, came into her room during the afternoon,and, after some hesitation and embarrassment, said--
"I am sorry to tell you, Mrs. Logan that I shall want you to give upyour room, after this week. You know I have had no money from youfor nearly a month, and, from the way your husband goes on, I seelittle prospect of being paid any thing more. If I was able, foryour sake, I would not say a word. But I am not, Mrs. Logan, andtherefore must, in justice to myself and family, require you to getanother boarding-house."
Mrs. Logan answered only with tears. The woman tried to soften whatshe had said, and then went away.
Not long after this, Logan came stumbling up the stairs, and openingthe door of his room, staggered in and threw himself heavily uponthe bed. Fanny looked at him a few moments, and then crouching down,and covering her face with her hands, wept long and bitterly. Shefelt crushed and powerless. Cast off by her father, wronged by herhusband, destitute and about to be thrust from the poor home intowhich she had shrunk: faint and weary, it seemed as if hope weregone forever. While she suffered thus, Logan lay in a drunken sleep.Arousing herself at last, she removed his boots and coat, drew apillow under his head, and threw a coverlet over him. She then satdown and wept again. The tea bell rung, but she did not go to thetable. Half an hour afterwards, the landlady came to the door andkindly inquired if she would not have some food sent up to her room.
"Only a little bread and milk for Henry," was replied.
"Let me send you a cup of tea," urged the woman.
"No, thank you. I don't wish any thing to night."
The woman went away, feeling troubled. From her heart she pitied thesuffering young creature, and it had cost her a painful struggle todo what she had done. But the pressing nature of her owncircumstances required her to be rigidly just. Notwithstanding Mrs.Logan had declined having any thing, she sent her a cup of tea andsomething to eat. But they remained untasted.
On the next morning Logan was sober, and his wife informed him ofthe notice which their landlady had given. He was angry, and usedharsh language towards the woman. Fanny defended her, and had theharsh language transferred to her own head.
The young man appeared as usual at the breakfast table, but Fannyhad no appetite for food, and did not go down. After breakfast,Logan went to the shop, intending to go to work; but found his placesupplied by another journeyman, and himself thrown out ofemployment, with but a single dollar in his pocket, a monthsboarding due, and his family in need of almost every comfort. Fromthe shop he went to a tavern, took a glass of liquor, and sat downto look over the newspapers, and think what he should do. There hemet an idle journeyman, who, like himself, had lost his situation. Afellow feeling made them communicative and confidential.
"If I was only a single man," said Logan, "I wouldn't care, I couldeasily shift for myself."
"Wife and children! Yes, there's the rub," returned the companion."A journeyman mechanic is a fool to get married."
"Then you and I are both fools," said Logan.
"No doubt of it. I came to that conclusion, in regard to myself,long and long ago. Sick wife, hungry children, and four or fivebacks to cover; no wonder a poor man's nose is ever on thegrindstone. For my part, I am sick of it. When I was a single man, Icould go where I pleased, and do what I pleased; and I always hadmoney in my pocket. Now I am tied down to one place, and grumbled ateternally; and if you were to shake me from here to the Navy Yard,you wouldn't get a sixpence out of me. The fact is, I'm sick of it."
"So am I. But what is to be done? I don't believe I can get work intown."
"I know you can't. But there is plenty of work and good wages to behad in Charleston or New Orleans."
Logan did not reply; but looked intently into his companion's face.
"I'm sure my wife would be a great deal better off if I were toclear out and leave her. She has plenty of friends, and they'll notsee her want."
Logan still looked at his fellow journeyman.
"And your wife would be taken back under her father's roof, wherethere is enough and to spare. Of course she would be happier thanshe is now."
"No doubt of that. The old rascal has treated her shabbily enough.But I am well satisfied that if I were out of the way he wouldgladly receive her back again."
"Of this there can be no question. So, it is clear, that with ourinsufficient incomes, our presence is a curse rather than a blessingto our families."
Logan readily admitted this to be true. His companion then drew anewspaper towards him, and after running his eyes over it for a fewmoments, read:
"This day, at twelve o'clock, the copper fastened brig Emily, forCharleston. For freight or passage, apply on board."
"There's a chance for us," he said, as he finished reading theadvertisement. "Let us go down and see if they won't let us work ourpassage out."
Logan sat thoughtful a moment, and than said, as he arose to hisfeet.
"Agreed. It'll be the best thing for us, as well as for ourfamilies."
When the Emily sailed, at twelve o'clock, the two men were on board.
Days came and passed, until the heart of Mrs. Logan grew sick withanxiety, fear and suspense. No word was received from her absenthusband. She went to his old employer, and learned that he had beendischarged; but she could find no one who had heard of him sincethat time. Left thus alone, with two little children, and noapparent means of support, Mrs. Logan, when she became at lengthclearly satisfied that he for whom she had given up every thing, hadheartlessly abandoned her, felt as if there was no hope for her inthe world.
"Go to your father by all means," urged the woman with whom she wasstill boarding. "Now that your husband has gone, he will receiveyou."
"I cannot," was Fanny's reply.
"But what will you do?" asked the woman.
"Work for my children," she replied, arousing herself and speakingwith some resolution. "I have hands to work, and I am willing towork."
"Much better go home to your father," said the woman.
"That is impossible. He has disowned me. Has ceased to love me orcare for me. I cannot go to him again; for I could not bear, as I amnow, another harsh repulse. No--no--I will work with my own hands.God will help me to provide for my children."
In this spirit the almost heart-broken young woman for whom theboarding-house keeper felt more than a common interest--an interestthat would not let her thrust her out from the only place she couldcall her home--sought for work and was fortunate enough to obtainsewing from two or three families, and was thus enabled to pay alight board for herself and children. But incessant toil with herneedle, continued late at night and resumed early in the morning,gradually undermined her health, which had become delicate, andweariness and pain became the constant companions of her labor.
Sometimes in carrying her work home, the forsaken wife would have topass the old home of her girlhood, and twice she saw her father atthe window. But either she was changed so that he did not know hischild; or he would not bend from his stern resolution to disown her.On these two occasions she was unable, on returning, to resume herwork. Her fingers could not hold or guide the needle; nor could she,from the blinding tears that; filled her eyes have seen to sew, evenif her hands had lost the tremor that ran through every nerve of herbody.
A year had rolled wearily by since Logan went off, and still no wordhad come from the absent husband. Labor beyond her bodily strength,and trouble and grief that were too severe for her spirit to bear,had done sad work upon the forsaken wife and disowned child. She wasbut a shadow of her former self.
Mr. Crawford had been very shy of the old Quaker, who had spoken soplainly to him; but his words made some impression on him, though noone would have supposed so, as there was no change in his conducttowards his daughter. He had forewarned her of the consequences, ifshe acted in opposition to his wishes. He had told her that he woulddisown her forever. She had taken her own way, and, painful as itwas to him, he had to keep his word--his word that had ever beeninviolate. He might forgive her; he might pity her; but she mustremain a stranger. Such a direct and flagrant act of disobedience tohis wishes was not to be forgotten nor forgiven. Thus, in stubbornpride, did his hard heart confirm itself in its cold and cruelestrangement. Was he happy? No! Did he forget his child? No. Hethought of her and dreamed of her, day after day, and night afternight. But-he had said it, and he would stick to it! His pride wasunbending as iron.
Of the fact that the husband of Fanny had gone off and left her withtwo children to provide for with the labor of her hands, he had beenmade fully aware, but it did not bend him from his stern purpose.
"She is nothing to me," was his impatient reply to the one whoinformed him of the fact. This was all that could be seen. But hisheart trembled at the intelligence. Nevertheless, he stoodcoldly aloof month after month, and even repulsed, angrily, the kindlandlady with whom Fanny boarded, who had attempted, all unknown tothe daughter, to awaken sympathy for her in her father's heart.
One day the old Friend, whose plain words had not pleased Mr.Crawford, met that gentleman near his own door. The Quaker wasleading a little boy by the hand. Mr. Crawford bowed, and evidentlywished to pass on; but the Quaker paused, and said--
"I should like to have a few words with thee, friend Crawford."
"Well, say on."
"Thee is known as a benevolent man, friend Crawford. Thee neverrefuses, it is said, to do a deed of charity."
"I always give something when I am sure the object is deserving."
"So I am aware. Do you see this little boy?"
Mr. Crawford glanced down at the child the Quaker held by the hand.As he did so, the child lifted to him a gentle face, with mildearnest loving eyes.
"It is a sweet little fellow," said Mr. Crawford, reaching his handto the child. He spoke with some feeling, for there was a look aboutthe boy that went to his heart.
"He is, indeed, a sweet child--and the image of his poor, sick,almost heart-broken mother, for whom I am trying to awaken aninterest. She has two children, and this one is the oldest. Herhusband is dead, or what may be as bad, perhaps worse, as far as sheis concerned, dead to her; and she does not seem to have a relativein the world, at least none who thinks about or cares for her. Intrying to provide for her children, she has overtasked her delicateframe, and made herself sick. Unless something is done for her, aworse thing must follow. She must go to the Alms-house, and beseparated from her children. Look into the sweet, innocent face ofthis dear child, and let your heart say whether he ought to be takenfrom his mother. If she have a woman's feelings, must she not lovethis child tenderly; and can any one supply to him his mother'splace?"
"I will do something for her, certainly," Mr. Crawford said.
"I wish thee would go with me to see her."
"There is no use in that. My seeing her can do no good. Get all youcan for her, and then come to me. I will help in the good workcheerfully," replied Mr. Crawford.
"That is thy dwelling, I believe," said the Quaker, looking aroundat a house adjoining the one before which they stood.
"Yes, that is my house," returned Crawford.
"Will thee take this little boy in with thee, and keep him for a fewminutes, while I go to see a friend some squares off?"
"Oh, certainly. Come with me, dear!" And Mr. Crawford held out hishand to the child, who took it without hesitation.
"I will see thee in a little while," said the Quaker, as he turnedaway.
The boy, who was plainly, but very neatly dressed, was about fouryears old. He had a more than usually attractive face; and anearnest look out of his mild eyes, that made every one who saw himhis friend.
"What is your name, my dear?" asked Mr. Crawford, as he sat down inhis parlor, and took the little fellow upon his knee.
"Henry," replied the child. He spoke with distinctness; and, as hespoke, there was a sweet expression of the lips and eyes, that wasparticularly winning.
"It is Henry, is it?"
"Yes, sir,"
"What else besides Henry?"
The boy did not reply, for he had fixed his eyes upon a picture thathung over the mantle, and was looking at it intently. The eyes ofMr. Crawford followed those of the child, that rested, he found, onthe portrait of his daughter.
"What else besides, Henry?" he repeated.
"Henry Logan," replied the child, looking for a moment into the faceof Mr. Crawford, and then turning to gaze at the picture on thewall. Every nerve quivered in the frame of that man of iron will.The falling of a bolt from a sunny sky could not have startled andsurprised him more. He saw in the face of the child, the moment belooked at him, something strangely familiar and attractive. What itwas, he did not, until this instant, comprehend. But it was nolonger a mystery.
"Do you know who I am?" he asked, in a subdued voice, after he hadrecovered, to some extent, his feelings.
The child looked again into his face, but longer and more earnestly.Then, without answering, he turned and looked at the portrait on thewall.
"Do you know who I am, dear?" repeated Mr. Crawford.
"No, sir," replied the child; and then again turned to gaze upon thepicture.
"Who is that?" and Mr. Crawford pointed to the object that so fixedthe little boy's attention.
"My mother." And as he said these words, he laid his head down uponthe bosom of his unknown relative, and shrunk close to him, as ifhalf afraid because of the mystery that, in his infantile mind, hungaround the picture on the wall.
Moved by an impulse that he could not restrain, Mr. Crawford drewhis arms around the child and hugged him to his bosom. Pride gaveway; the iron will was bent; the sternly uttered vow was forgotten.There is power for good in the presence of a little child. Itssphere of innocence subdues and renders impotent the evil spiritsthat rule in the hearts of selfish men. It was so in this case. Mr.Crawford might have withstood the moving appeal of even hisdaughter's presence, changed by grief, labor, and suffering, as shewas. But his anger, upon which he had suffered the sun to go down,fled before her artless, confiding, innocent child. He thought notof Fanny--as the wilful woman, acting from the dictate of her ownpassions or feelings; but as a little child, lying upon hisbosom--as a little child, singing and dancing around him--as alittle child, with, to him, the face of a cherub; and the saintedmother of that innocent one by her side.
When the Friend came for the little boy; Mr. Crawford said to him,in a low voice--made low to hide his emotion--
"I will keep the child."
"From its mother?"
"No. Bring the mother, and the other child. I have room for themall."
A sunny smile passed over the benevolent countenance of the Friendas he hastily left the room.
Mrs. Logan, worn down by exhausting labor, had at last been forcedto give up. When she did give up, every long strained nerve of mindand body instantly relaxed; and she became almost as weak andhelpless as an infant. While in this state, she was accidentallydiscovered by the kind-hearted old Friend, who, without her beingaware of what he was going to do, made his successful attack uponher father's feelings. He trusted to nature and a good cause, anddid not trust in vain.
"Come, Mrs. Logan," said the kind woman, with whom Fariny was stillboarding, an hour or so after little Henry had been dressed up totake a walk--where, the mother did not know orthink,--"the good Friend, who was here this morning, says you mustride out. He has brought a carriage for you, It will do you good, Iknow. He is very kind. Come, get yourself ready."
Mrs. Logan was lying upon her bed.
"I do not feel able to get up," she replied. "I do not wish to rideout."
"Oh, yes, you must go. The pure, fresh air, and the change, will doyou more good than medicine. Come, Mrs. Logan; I will dress littleJulia for you. She needs the change as much as you do."
"Where is Henry?" asked the mother.
"He has not returned yet. But, come! The carriage is waiting at thedoor."
"Won't you go with me?"
"I would with pleasure--but I cannot leave home. I have so much todo."
After a good deal of persuasion, Fanny at length made the effort toget herself ready to go out. She was so weak, that she totteredabout the floor like one intoxicated. But the woman with whom shelived, assisted and encouraged her, until she was at length ready togo. Then the Quaker came up to her room, and with the tenderness andcare of a father, supported her down stairs, and when she had takenher place in the vehicle, entered, with her youngest child in hisarms, and sat by her side, speaking to her, as he did so, kind andencouraging words.
The carriage was driven slowly, for a few squares, and then stopped.Scarcely had the motion ceased, when the door was suddenly opened,and Mr. Crawford stood before his daughter.
"My poor child!" he said, in a tender, broken voice, as Fanny,overcome by his unexpected appearance, sunk forward into his arms.
When the suffering young creature opened her eyes again, she wasupon her own bed, in her own room, in her old home. Her father satby her side, and held one of her hands tightly. There were tears inhis eyes, and he tried to speak; but, though his lips moved, therecame from them no articulate sound.
"Do you forgive me, father? Do you love me, father?" said Fanny, ina tremulous whisper, half rising from her pillow, and lookingeagerly, almost agonizingly, into her father's face.
"I have nothing to forgive," murmured the father, as he drew hisdaughter towards him, so that her head could lie against his bosom.
"But do you love me, father? Do you love me as of old?" said thedaughter.
He bent down and kissed her; and now the tears fell from his eyesand lay warm and glistening upon her face.
"As of old," he murmured, laying his cheek down upon that of hischild, and clasping her more tightly in his arms. The long pent upwaters of affection were rushing over his soul and obliterating themarks of pride, anger, and the iron will that sustained them intheir cruel dominion. He was no longer a strong man, stern and rigidin his purpose; but a child, with a loving and tender heart.
There was light again in his dwelling; not the bright light of othertimes; for now the rays were mellowed. But it was light. And therewas music again; not so joyful; but it was music, and its spell overhis heart was deeper and its influence more elevating.
The man with the iron will and stern purpose was subdued, and thepower that subdued him, was the presence of a little child.
THE END.
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