Night and Morning Part 54

"And," said the stranger, "do you know that man? Has he insulted you before?"

"No--don't talk of him: ce me fait mal!" And she put her hand to her forehead.

The French was spoken with so French an accent, that, in some curiosity, the stranger cast his eye over her plain dress.

"You speak French well."

"Do I? I wish I knew more words--I only recollect a few. When I am very happy or very sad they come into my head. But I am happy now. I like your voice--I like you--Oh! I have dropped my basket!"

"Shall I go back for it, or shall I buy you another?"

"Another!--Oh, no! come back for it. How kind you are!--Ah! I see it!"

and she broke away and ran forward to pick it up.

When she had recovered it, she laughed-she spoke to it--she kissed it.

Her companion smiled as he said: "Some sweetheart has given you that basket--it seems but a common basket too."

"I have had it--oh, ever since--since--I don't know how long! It came with me from France--it was full of little toys. They are gone--I am so sorry!"

"How old are you?"

"I don't know."

"My pretty one," said the stranger, with deep pity in his rich voice, "your mother should not let you go out alone at this hour."

"Mother!--mother!" repeated the girl, in a tone of surprise.

"Have you no mother?"

"No! I had a father once. But he died, they say. I did not see him die.

I sometimes cry when I think that I shall never, never see him again!

But," she said, changing her accent from melancholy almost to joy, "he is to have a grave here like the other girl's fathers--a fine stone upon it--and all to be done with my money!"

"Your money, my child?"

"Yes; the money I make. I sell my work and take the money to my grandfather; but I lay by a little every week for a gravestone for my father."

"Will the gravestone be placed in that churchyard?" They were now in another lane; and, as he spoke, the stranger checked her, and bending down to look into her face, he murmured to himself, "Is it possible?--it must be--it must!"

"Yes! I love that churchyard--my brother told me to put flowers there; and grandfather and I sit there in the summer, without speaking. But I don't talk much, I like singing better:--

"'All things that good and harmless are Are taught, they say, to sing The maiden resting at her work, The bird upon the wing; The little ones at church, in prayer; The angels in the sky The angels less when babes are born Than when the aged die.'"

And unconscious of the latent moral, dark or cheering, according as we estimate the value of this life, couched in the concluding rhyme, f.a.n.n.y turned round to the stranger, and said, "Why should the angels be glad when the aged die?"

"That they are released from a false, unjust, and miserable world, in which the first man was a rebel, and the second a murderer!" muttered the stranger between his teeth, which he gnashed as he spoke.

The girl did not understand him: she shook her head gently, and made no reply. A few moments, and she paused before a small house.

"This is my home."

"It is so," said her companion, examining the exterior of the house with an earnest gaze; "and your name is f.a.n.n.y."

"Yes--every one knows f.a.n.n.y. Come in;" and the girl opened the door with a latch-key.

The stranger bowed his stately height as he crossed the low threshold and followed his guide into a little parlour. Before a table on which burned dimly, and with unheeded wick, a single candle, sat a man of advanced age; and as he turned his face to the door, the stranger saw that he was blind.

The girl bounded to his chair, pa.s.sed her arms round the old man's neck, and kissed his forehead; then nestling herself at his feet, and leaning her clasped hands caressingly on his knee, she said,--

"Grandpapa, I have brought you somebody you must love. He has been so kind to f.a.n.n.y."

"And neither of you can remember me!" said the guest.

The old man, whose dull face seemed to indicate dotage, half raised himself at the sound of the stranger's voice. "Who is that?" said he, with a feeble and querulous voice. "Who wants me?"

"I am the friend of your lost son. I am he who, ten years go, brought f.a.n.n.y to your roof, and gave her to your care--your son's last charge.

And you blessed your son, and forgave him, and vowed to be a father to his f.a.n.n.y." The old man, who had now slowly risen to his feet, trembled violently, and stretched out his hands.

"Come near--near--let me put my hands on your head. I cannot see you; but f.a.n.n.y talks of you, and prays for you; and f.a.n.n.y--she has been an angel to me!"

The stranger approached and half knelt as the old man spread his hands over his head, muttering inaudibly. Meanwhile f.a.n.n.y, pale as death--her lips apart--an eager, painful expression on her face--looked inquiringly on the dark, marked countenance of the visitor, and creeping towards him inch by inch, fearfully touched his dress--his arms--his countenance.

"Brother," she said at last, doubtingly and timidly, "Brother, I thought I could never forget you! But you are not like my brother; you are older;--you are--you are!--no! no! you are not my brother!"

"I am much changed, f.a.n.n.y; and you too!"

He smiled as he spoke; and the smile-sweet and pitying--thoroughly changed the character of his face, which was ordinarily stern, grave, and proud.

"I know you now!" exclaimed f.a.n.n.y, in a tone of wild joy. "And you come back from that grave! My flowers have brought you back at last! I knew they would! Brother! Brother!"

And she threw herself on his breast and burst into pa.s.sionate tears.

Then, suddenly drawing herself back, she laid her finger on his arm, and looked up at him beseechingly.

"Pray, now, is he really dead? He, my father!--he, too, was lost like you. Can't he come back again as you have done?"

"Do you grieve for him still, then? Poor girl!" said the stranger, evasively, and seating himself. f.a.n.n.y continued to listen for an answer to her touching question; but finding that none was given, she stole away to a corner of the room, and leaned her face on her hands, and seemed to think--till at last, as she so sat, the tears began to flow down her cheeks, and she wept, but silently and unnoticed.

"But, sir," said the guest, after a short pause, "how is this? f.a.n.n.y tells me she supports you by her work. Are you so poor, then? Yet I left you your son's bequest; and you, too, I understood, though not rich, were not in want!"

"There was a curse on my gold," said the old man, sternly. "It was stolen from us."

There was another pause. Simon broke it.

"And you, young man--how has it fared with you? You have prospered, I hope."

"I am as I have been for years--alone in the world, without kindred and without friends. But, thanks to Heaven, I am not a beggar!"

"No kindred and no friends!" repeated the old man. "No father--no brother--no wife--no sister!"