1 10 2 https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/4347/archive/files/75f1aeee5faf8d03ae3831627647a2e8.pdf?Expires=1777507200&Signature=GNpcrnIT09fG23Xg4KxQs7ijOmNKWPn6eKv9TOzsESkRlxJe0mQFU5lC6DfMDj2er5T8inQ0I2A0foHRl3czlsPE9iSscF5qyzsxj7zKgov0yfBDSE4i4LBPmR5PeUc6FGuQzex-YSnp74r2mpbfSzOJnlOsBGH%7EP%7EThLgXczFE4%7ETjSSodNS5hT3IhNSd5405N8-puMHuaGLmvtLmDECMz6rkR6mFuAqKwnRloHPOoXdiG4JY7ZQrlo8ubx3mSYz1wW5hBTZIJP-dNe504iHYr6jikTeL%7EeQ83LcVTrjeTvIh7NEG07m6Qa6IKRFUW0gvoslUU6eBt96TDap4ygtg__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM f5fc8c1a0dde7dd3434c62c55e475e4c Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1845 Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Text Any textual data included in the document. “Fanny McDermot.” By Miss C. M. Sedgwick. CHAPTER I. "Then," said she, "I am very dreary, He will not come," she said. She wept. "I am aweary, aweary, Oh, God, that I were dead!" [13] INVENTION need not be taxed for incidents fitted to touch the heart, nor need they to be heightened with the dyes of romance. The daily life of our own cities abounds in events over which, if there be tears in Heaven, surely the angels weep. But it is not to draw tears, which flow too easily from susceptible young readers that the following circumstances are related, but to set forth dangers to which many are exposed, and vices which steep the life God has given as a blessing in dishonour, misery, and remorse. A few years since there lived, on the east side of our city, where cheap and wretched residences abound, one Sara Hyat. Sara was a widow, not young nor pretty, nor delicate, with none of the elements of romantic interest, but old, full seventy, tall, angular, and coarse, with a face roughened by hardship, sharpened by time, and channeled by sorrow. Her voice was harsh, and her manner ungracious. There was one, and but one sign, and that a faint one, that she might once have partaken the weaknesses of her sex. She wore that hideous supplement to the hair which women call "a sprout," and not being very exact in the adjustment of her cap, the juxtaposition of the foxy auburn exotic and the indigenous silver hairs set off this little lingering of vanity rather strikingly. But as all is not gold that glitters, and beauty is but skin deep, and under a rough shell is often found excellent meat, so under Mrs. Hyat's rough exterior, there were strong common sense, a spirit of rectitude, a good conscience, and affections that the rough usage of the world had not abated. These had attached her with devotion and self-sacrifice to one object after another, as the relations of life had changed, first binding her in loving duty to her parents and sisters, then to her husband and children, and finally, when, one after another, they had dropped into the grave, settling on the only one in whose veins a drop of her blood ran, a little orphan grand-niece. "A sweeter thing they could not light upon." Go with us up a crazy staircase at the extremity of Houston street. If you chance to look in at the door of any of the rooms you pass, you will see, it being Sunday, an entire Irish family, father, mother, half a dozen children, more or less, with a due allowance of cousins, all plump, rosy, and thriving (in the teeth of the physical laws,) on plenty of heterogeneous food, and superfluity of dirt. On entering Mrs. Hyat's room, you are in another country; the tenants are obviously Americans, it is so orderly, quiet and cleanly, and rather anti-social. There are only an old woman and a little girl; the bud of spring-time, and the seared leaf of autumn. The table, windows and floor, are all fresh and immaculate from Saturday's scouring. The only dirt in the room (you almost wonder the old woman tolerates it there) is in two flowerpots in the window, whence a white jessamine and a tearose diffused their sweet odours. A table is decently spread for the mongrel meal that our people call supper, which blends the substantial food of dinner, with the aromatic tea, and its sweet accompaniments of pastry, cake, or preserves. The tea-kettle is hissing on the stove, and a pie is warming there. The old woman sits in her rockingchair weaving backwards and forwards, reading a time-discoloured letter, while a little girl (the only thing in harmony with the rose and jessamine in the window) laying aside a tract she is reading, says, "Aunt Sara, don't you know every word in that letter by heart? I do." "Why, do you Fanny? Say it then." "My dear aunt, I am clean discouraged—it seems as if Providence crowded on me. There is black disappointment turn which way I will. I have had an offer to go to Orleans, and part pay beforehand, which same I send you herewith. "Selina's time draws near, and it is the only way I have to provide, so dear aunt Sara, I think it my duty to go. I can't summon courage to bid you good-bye. I can't speak a word to her. I should not be a man again in a month if I tried. You have been a mother to me, Aunt Sara, and if God spares my life, I'll be a dutiful son to you in the place of them that's gone. If any thing happens to my poor wife, you will see to my child, I know. "Your dutiful nephew, "JAMES McDERMOT." "New York, 25th September, 1827." "I declare Fanny, you have said it right, date and [14] all; and what a date it was to me—that 25th of September: that day your father sailed—that very day you were born—and that very day when the tide went out, your mother died—life coming—life going—and the dear life of my last boy launched on the wide sea. My boy, I always called your father—he was like my own sons to me. He lived just one week after he got to Orleans, and the news came, Evacuation Day. We have always been, that is, the Rankin side, a dreadful family for dying young,—all but me; I've lived to follow all my folks to the grave. My three boys I have seen laid in the ground; full grown, six feet men, and here I am, my strength failing, my eyes dim, working—working, shivering, trembling on." Poor little Fanny shivered too, and putting some more wood into the stove, she asked her aunt if it were not time for supper; but Mrs. Hyat, without heeding her, went on, rather talking to herself than the child: "there has always been something notable about times and seasons with our folks. I was born the day the great peace was declared. My oldest was born the day Washington died; my youngest sister, your grandmother, Fanny, died the day of the Total Eclipse; my husband died the day that last pesky little war was declared; your father saw your mother the first time 'lumination night, and as I said, it was 'Evacuation Day,' we got the news of his death; poor Jemmy! what a dutiful boy he was to me! half my life went with his! How that letter is printed on your memory, Fanny! But you have better learning than ever I had, and that makes the difference! learning is not all, though, Fanny; you must have prudence. Did I not hear you talking on the stairs, yesterday, with some of them Irish cattle?" "Yes, aunt, I was thanking Mrs. O'Roorke for bringing up my pail of water for me." "That was not it, 'twas a racket with the children, I heard." Fanny made no reply. "I won't have it, Fanny; you're no company for Irish, and never shall be; the Lord made 'em, to be sure, but that is all; you can scarce call them human creturs." "They are very kind, Aunt Sara." "So are dogs kind, Fanny. I have moved, and moved, and moved to get into a house free of them; but they are varmint, and there is no getting away from them. It's the Lord's will, and must be; but I'll have no right-hand of fellowship with them; there I have set down my foot. Now child, tell me what was all that hurry skurry about?" Mrs. Hyat gave Fanny small encouragement to communicate a scene in which the banned Irish were the principal actors. But after a little struggle her sense of justice to them overcame her dread of the old woman's prejudices, and she told the true story. "The overseer at the new buildings gave me leave to bring my basket again for kindlings. Pat and Ellen O'Roorke were there before me, and they picked out all the best bits, and put them into my basket, and it was pretty heavy, and Pat would bring it home for me; he was so kind, how could I huff him, Aunt Sara? but I was afraid you would see him, that was the truth, and I wanted to take the basket before we got to the house, so I ran across the street after him, and there was a young gentleman driving a beautiful carriage, with a servant beside him, and another behind, and one of the horses just brushed against me and knocked me over. "Pat and Ellen were frightened, and mad too, and Pat swore, and Ellen screamed, and the gentleman stopped, and the man behind jumped off and came to us, and Pat kicked him, and he struck Pat, and the gentleman got out and stopped the fight, and said he was very sorry, and offered Pat money, and Pat would not touch it. The Irish have some high feelings, aunt, for all; and I am sure they are generous ones." "Well, well, go on; did the gentleman say any thing to you?" "Yes, aunt he saw there was a little blood on my cheek, and he took off my bonnet and turned off my hair; it was but a little bruised—and—and—" " And, and, and what, child?" "Nothing aunt, only he wiped off the place with his handkerchief and—kissed it." "It's the last time you shall stir outside the door, Fanny, without me." "Aunt Sara! I am sure he meant no harm; he was a beautiful gentleman." "Beautiful, indeed! Did he say any thing more to you?" "He said something about my hair being—looking—pretty, and he cut off a lock with my scissors that you hung at my side yesterday, and he—he put it in his bosom." As Fanny finished, there was a tap at the door, and on opening it, she recognized the liveried footman of her admirer. In one hand he held a highly ornamented bird-cage containing a canary, and in the other a paper parcel. "The gentleman as had the misfortune to knock you down yesterday, sends you these," he said, smiling at Fanny, and setting them down on the table, he withdrew. Fanny was enchanted. "The very thing I always wanted," she exclaimed; and the little singing bird did the very thing to cheer her solitude, to break with its sweet notes the heavy monotony of her day, to chime in harmony with the happy voice of her childhood. While Fanny, forgetting her supper and the paper parcel, was trying to quiet the frightened fluttering of the timid little stranger, Mrs. Hyat, lost in a reverie of perplexity and anxiety, was revolving Fanny's adventure and its consequences; a world of dangers that must beset the poor girl, when, as in the course of nature it must soon be, her protection was withdrawn, were all at once revealed to her. Fanny was just thirteen, and the extreme beauty that had marked her childhood, instead of passing away with it, was every day developing and ripening. Her features were symmetrical, and of that order which is called aristocratic, and so they were [15] of nature's aristocracy; if that be so which is reserved for her rarest productions. Her complexion was fair and soft as the rose leaf, and the colour, ever varying on her cheek, ever mounting and subsiding with the flow and ebb of feeling; her hair was singularly beautiful, rich and curling, and though quite dark, reflecting to the light a ruddy glow. "If she looked like other children," thought Sara Hyat, as her eye rested on Fanny, she might have been thrown down, and had both her legs broken, and that young spark would never have troubled himself about her. If it had but pleased God to give her her grandfather's bottle nose; or her father's little gray twinkling eye; or if she had favoured any of the Floods, or looked like any of the Rankins—except her poor mother. But what a picture of a face to throw a poor girl with, alone, among the wolves and foxes of this wicked city. Oh! that men were men, and not beasts of prey! Fanny—Fanny, child"—the old woman's voice trembled, but there was an earnestness in it that impressed each word as she uttered it—"mark my words, and one of these days, when I am dead and gone, you will remember them; God gives beauty, Fanny, for a trial to some, and a temptation to others. That's all the use I could ever see in it; to be sure its a pretty thing to look upon, but it’s just like a rose; by the time it is blowed out, it begins to fade. Now do leave that bird-cage one minute and listen to me; This is what I want you to remember," proceeded the old woman, with more earnestness and stronger emphasis, "when men follow you, and flatter you, turn a deaf ear, Fanny; pay no kind of attention to them, and if they persevere, fly away from them as you would from rats." "Aunt Sara! I don't know what you mean?" "The time will come when I can make my meaning plainer; for the present, it is enough for you to know, that you must not listen to fine-dressded men; that you must not take presents from them, that you must go straight to school, and come straight home from it, and say nothing to nobody. If ever I get the money that good for nothing Martin owes me for work done five years ago, I'll buy you a bird, Fanny, but if you can get a chance, you must send this back where it came from." "Oh, Aunt Sara! must I?" "Yes. What is in that paper? Untie it." Fanny untied it. It enveloped a quantity of bird seed, and a dainty basket filled with French bonbons. Fanny involuntarily smiled, and then looked towards her aunt, as if to ask her if she might. The cloud on the old lady's brow lowered more and more heavily, and Fanny said timidly— "Must I send these back too, aunt? or may I give them to Pat and Ellen? I won't eat any myself." "You are a good child, Fanny, and docile. Yes, you may go down and hand them in, and don't stay talking with them; and mind again, if ever an opportunity comes, the bird goes back." Fanny could not, for her life, see the harm of keeping the bird; it seemed to her that the gentleman was very kind, but the possibility of disobedience to her aunt, or of contending with her, did not occur to her. She knew, and that was enough to know, that her aunt indulged her whenever she thought indulgence right, and that she strained every nerve for her. Her wishes were not as easily subdued as her will, and each day as she grew more in love with her Canary, they became stronger and stronger that the opportunity might never come to send him away. But come it did. The following Thursday was Christmas day; a holiday of course to Fanny, but none to Mrs. Hyat, who, having been strictly bred a Presbyterian, held in sectarian disdain even this dearest and noblest of holidays. She was doing the daily task by which she earned her bread, making coarse garments for a neighbouring slop-shop. Fanny had done up the housework, and put the room into that holiday order which is to the poor what fine furniture and fancy decorations are to the rich. She had fed her Canary bird, and talked to it, and read through the last tract left at the door, and she was sitting gazing out of the window, thinking how happy the people must be who rode by in their carriages, and wondering as she saw dolls, baby-houses and hobby-horses, carried by, where all the children could live who got these fine presents. There is nobody to send me one, she thought. As if in answer to her thought, there was a tap at the door, and the well-known liveried footman appeared with a huge paper parcel. Fanny's rose-coloured cheek deepened to crimson. Mrs. Hyat surveyed the lad from head to heel, and nodding to Fanny, asked, "Is it he?" "Yes, aunt." "It's something for you, miss," said the footman, advancing, and about to deposit a parcel on the table before Mrs. Hyat; "it's Christmas day, old lady," he added pertly; "a nice day for young people as has red cheeks and bright eyes." "Hum! you need not take the trouble to set that thing down here." "We'll, ma'am, here will do just as well," he said, placing it on the bureau. "Nor there, either, young man, " but he, without heeding her, had already untied the parcel, and disclosed to Fanny's enraptured eye a rose-wood work-box with brilliant fittings of crimson velvet and fittings of steel and silver utensils. It was but a single glance that Fanny gave them, for she remembered the goods were contraband, and she averted her eye, and cast it down. "Tie the thing up, and take it where it came from," said Mrs. Hyat. "What is your master's name?" "The gentleman as employs me is Mr. Nugent Stafford, Esquire." "Where does he live?" "At the Astor House." "Give him the bird, Fanny." Poor little Fanny obeyed, but with a trembling hand and tearful eye. The little bird had been a bright spirit in her dead, daily life. "Take them all back," continued Mrs. Hyat, "and tell Mr.—[16] What's his name? that such fine things are for fine people; that we are poor and honest, and plain spoken, and if he is a real friend to us, he'll leave us to eat the bread of our own earning without disturbing our minds with things that's no way suited to us." The footman and Fanny stood a little behind Mrs. Hyat, and he, taking advantage of her deafness, shrugged his shoulders, saying, "crusty, crusty," and adding, with a diabolical prescience fitting the school in which his master bred him, "if ever you hear a whistle under your window, three times repeated, come down." "What are you waiting for? you've got your message, man." "I was waiting for your second thoughts, old lady." "I've not given you my first, nor my second thoughts; so you may go to Mr.—What do you call him, as quick as you please." The man departed, bowing and kissing his hand to Fanny, as he shut the door. "What said the fellow to you?" asked her aunt, who had heard as deaf people generally hear, what is meant not to reach their ears. "Oh aunt," replied Fanny, "he said something about your being crusty." Most unfortunately, and for the first time in her life, she dealt unfairly by her aunt. Sincerity is the compass of life; there is no safe sailing without it. The poor child was perplexed; Stafford's gifts had charmed her. She did not see clearly why they were rejected. She was already filled with vague longings for some variation of her dull existence; and she was but thirteen years old! Seldom have thirteen years of human life passed with a more stainless record. To do her duty, to be quiet, industrious and true, from being Fanny's instinct, had become her habit. The fountain of her affections had never yet been unsealed; was that well spring of everlasting life to be poisoned? She had committed her first deceit, poor child! We have gone too much into detail; we must limit ourselves to the most striking particulars of our story. ____________________________________ Christmas came again, and the day wore drearily away. "Mr. Stafford has forgotten me," sighed Fanny in her inmost heart. "That flushy fellow with his yellow cape and cuffs, won't trouble us again, I'm thinking," said Mrs. Hyat. The day deepened into twilight; Fanny heard a whistle—she started; it was repeated, and again repeated. She drew near to her aunt as if for defence, and sat down by her, her heart throbbing. After a few minutes, there were again three whistles—still she sat resolutely still. Mrs. Hyat laid down her slop sewing, wiped her spectacles, and heaving a deep sigh, said, "I grow blinder and blinder, but I won't murmur as long as it pleases God that I may earn honest bread for you and me, Fanny." Fanny looked up, and her aunt saw there were tears in her eyes: "Poor child!" she continued; "it is not a merry Christmas you are having." The whistle was again repeated—"go to the baker's, Fanny, and buy us a mince pie; it won't break us—I can pay for it, if I work till twelve to-night, and it will make it seem more like Christmas to you." Again Fanny heard the whistle, the call went to her heart, the opportunity was too tempting to be resisted, and Fanny threw a shawl over her head, and ran down stairs. A man wrapped in a cloak had just passed the door; he turned back at the sound of her footsteps, threw his arms around her and kissed her cheek. She started back with indignation, and would have sprung up the door step, but he gently detained her, and she, looking up in his face, saw that it was Stafford himself, and not, as she supposed, his servant. "Why do you run away from me?" he said, in a low, sweet voice; "how have I frightened you? Am I not your friend? None can feel a greater interest in you. I will prove it in any way that I can." Fanny's instincts directed aright, and fixing her beautiful eyes on him, she said, "come up then and say to my aunt what you say to me." She did not understand the smile that lurked on Stafford's lips as he replied; "no, your aunt for some reason, I am sure I cannot tell what, has taken a dislike to me; you know she has, for she will not receive the slightest gift from me. Come, you were going out, walk along, and let me walk by you." He slid his arm around her waist, she shrank from him, and he withdrew it. "How old are you, Fanny McDermot? You perceive, I know your name, and much more concerning you, that you would not suspect." "Oh! Mr. Stafford, how should you know? I am fourteen, and a little more." "Only fourteen? Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, will soon come, and each year—each month, you grow more and more beautiful. Fanny, I dream of you every night of my life, and when I wake, my first thought of you is, 'I cannot see her—I cannot speak to her.'" "Mr. Stafford?" "It is true, Fanny, true as that beautiful moon is shining on us. Why should it not be so? It is unnecessary, it is cruel, that you should be shut up in that forlorn old house, with that old woman"—the old woman grated on Fanny's ear, but she did not interrupt Stafford, and he continued, "do you like riding, or sailing?" "I never rode but once, and that was to Uncle Ben's funeral, and I was never in a boat in my life." "Come on Monday, Fanny, at twelve o'clock, to the corner of Essex and Grand streets. I will be there in a hackney coach, and I will take you a ride just as long, or as short as you please; and when Spring comes, you shall go out with me, in my boat, by moonlight. I often pass an evening, by rowing about the harbour, and I should take such pleasure in pleasing you." "But, Mr. Stafford, Aunt Sara would never give me leave." [17] "Do not ask her; how is she to know?" "Why, I must tell her—I tell her every thing, and I never leave her but to go to school." "And how is she to know that you are not at school?" "Mr. Stafford, do you think I would deceive my Aunt Sara? No, never—never." They had arrived at the baker's shop. Fanny turned to enter it, and faltered out a "good night." "Stop and listen to me one moment," he said, detaining her. That one moment he prolonged till he had repeated again and again, his professions of admiration and interest, and his entreaties that she would meet him. She remained true to herself, and to her aunt. She offered to tell her aunt of his kindness, and to ask her leave to take the ride. This he declined, saying, it would be useless, and finally, he was obliged to leave her, with only a promise, that she would not always disregard the whistle. He kissed her hand, and thrust into it a purse. She would have followed him, and returned it, but at that moment two persons crossed the street, and interposed themselves between her and Stafford, and fearing observation, she reluctantly retained it. On examination, she found in it several gold pieces, and a small locket, with a very beautiful little miniature of Stafford on one side, and a lock of his hair on the other. She had the resolution, after examining the features again and again, to tie it up with the purse of untouched money; certainly not without many a pang, as she slowly and hesitatingly did it, and directing the parcel to "Nugent Stafford, Esq.," she secretly gave it to her devoted thrall, Pat O'Roorke, a clever and honest boy, to convey it to that gentleman at the Astor House. Pat returned with the information, that there was no such gentleman there, and Fanny, without having any suspicion of foul play, concluded he was out of town. She hid the parcel from her aunt's eye, thinking it would uselessly disturb her, and still resolving to return it at the first opportunity. She had thus far obeyed her conscience, and it "sat lightly on its throne." Two years glided away. Fanny's beauty, instead of passing with her childhood, had become so brilliant, that it could not be unobserved. She shunned the street where the vultures that are abroad for prey, seeing she was young, and ascertaining that she was unprotected, had more than once beset her. A mine had long been working under her feet. The dreary companionship of the petulant old woman became every day more wearisome to her; still, she was gentle and patient, and for many a heavy month, endured resolutely a life that grew sadder and sadder, as she contrasted it with the world of beauty, indulgence and love that had been painted to her excited imagination. For the last six months, her aunt had been paralytic, moving from her bed to her chair with difficulty, supported by Fanny, whose slight figure tottered under the superincumbent weight of the massive old woman. Her faculties had decayed one after another; still the paramount affection of her being remained; the last lingering of daylight on the darkening night. She fancied herself still capable of earning their daily sustenance, and hour after hour, she would move the only arm she could move, as if she were sewing, and at evening give the same garment, on which she had thus cheated herself for months, to Fanny, and falter out, "take it to Ray's, dear, and bring the pay." Fanny favoured the illusion, took the garment, and always brought the pay. The O'Roorke's were still tenants of a room below, and since the old woman's illness, Fanny had often accepted the kind offers of their services. Ellen went on her errands, and Pat brought up her wood and water, and whenever she had occasion to go out (and such occasions recently came often, and lasted long,) Mrs. O'Roorke would bring her baby, to tend in the "ould lady's room." Though Fanny, without any visible means of subsistence, was supplied with every comfort she could desire for her aunt or herself, Mrs. O'Roorke, from stupidity or humanity, or a marvellous want of curiosity, asked no questions. On some points, she certainly was not blind. One day Mrs. Hyat, after an ill turn, had fallen asleep, Mrs. O'Roorke was sitting by her, and Fanny appeared deeply engaged in reading. Ellen O'Roorke looked at the volume, and exclaimed— "Why, your book, Fanny, is bottom side up." Fanny burst into tears, and flung it from her. "God help the child, what is it!" said Mrs. O'Roorke; "take the baby down stairs," she added to Ellen, "and stay by it till I come. Now Fanny, darlant, spake out; what vexes you. The mother that bore you is not more tinder to you than Biddy O'Roorke, and have not I seen your eyes this three months always unquiet-like, and red too, and your cheek getting paler and paler." Fanny buried her face in the bed-clothes. "Ah, honey, dear, don't fret so; it's not to vex you, I'm speaking; the words have been burning on my tongue this six weeks, but the ould lady jealoused us; and though I am old enough to be your mother, or grandmother for that, you looked so sweet and innocent-like, I was afeard to spake my thought." "Who dares to say I am not innocent ?" said Fanny, raising her head, and flinging back her curls from her burning cheeks and glowing eyes. "Not I, darlant—not I; it's the desaver, that's the guilty one, and not the poor child that's desaved. Now, open your heart to me; the tongue shall rot out of me before I tell a word you spake." "I have no word to speak," said Fanny, in a changed and faltering voice, and the bed trembled with the ague that shook her. At this moment, Mrs. Hyat threw her arm out of bed, opened her eyes, and for the first time in many days, looked about her intelligently, and spoke distinctly, "Fanny." [18]Fanny sprang to her side, and Mrs. O'Roorke instinctively moved round to the head of the bed, where she could not be seen. "Fanny," continued the old woman, slowly, but with perfect distinctness, "I am going fast, but you will follow soon—you will, dear. Be patient, be good." The blood coloured again her faded and withered cheek as she spoke, and mounting to her brain, gave her a momentary vigour. "Trust in God, Fanny—trust in God, and not in man. I go, but I do not leave you alone, Fanny—not alone—alone— alone." The utterance grew fainter and fainter, a slight convulsion passed over her whole frame, and her features were still and fixed. Fanny gazed in silent fear and horror. Her eye turned from her aunt to Mrs. O'Roorke with that question she could not utter. The honest woman said nothing, but she gently closed the staring, vacant eyes. "Oh then she is dead!" cried Fanny, throwing herself on the bed in a paroxysm of grief. "My last friend; oh! I am alone—alone! God has left me—I have left him. I deceived her. Oh dear—oh dear!" In vain Mrs. O'Roorke tried to calm and comfort her. She wept till she fell asleep from utter exhaustion. Nature did the kind work it does so well to elastic youth, and she awoke in the morning calm, strengthened and refreshed. She seemed, as Mrs. O'Roorke said, changed from a helpless girl to a woman. She sent for her aunt's clergyman, and by his intervention, and the aid of an undertaker, she made provision for burying her beside her husband and children, and followed by the clergyman, she followed her true friend to the grave; and returned to her desolate apartment, with that last word ringing in her ears; " alone—alone—alone." She paid the charges of the funeral; those charges that always come, a sordid and vexing element, with the bereavements of the poor; and late the following evening, Mrs. O'Roorke hearing, as she fancied, a footstep descending the stair, and soon after a carriage rolling away, mounted Fanny’s room to verify or dismiss her suspicions. There was no answer to her knock; the door was not locked—she opened it—a lamp was burning on the table, and a letter, the wafer yet wet, lying by it. "Ellen," she called. Ellen came. "Who is this letter for, Ellen?" "Why for you, mother, and Fanny's writing." "Read it, Ellen; she knows I cannot read, and if there's e'er a secret in it, keep it as if it were your own." Ellen read—"Mrs. O'Roorke,—You have been a kind friend to me, and I thank you, and give you, in token of my gratitude, all that I have in this room. My clothes please give to Ellen, and the purse with the two dollars, in the corner of the drawer, to Pat, with many thanks from me, "Ever your grateful friend, "FANNY MCDERMOT." "The dear darlant! But faith, Ellen, that's not the whole of it; see if there's never a little something of a sacret shoved in betwixt the other words?" "Ne'er a syllable, mother." "Ne'er a what, child? t'was a sacret I asked for." "You've got the whole, mother, every word." "Sure it's not of myself I'm thinking, but the time may come, when she'll wish for as rough a friend as I am. God help her and guide her, poor child!" It was some time before Ellen clearly apprehended that Fanny was gone from them, probably for ever, and it was some time longer before these generous creatures could bear to consider themselves in any way gainers by her departure. They turned the key of Fanny's door, and went to their own room—Ellen to brood over what seemed to her an insolvable mystery, and her mother, to guess and fear. Fifteen months had now passed away since Fanny had looked out from her joyless home in Houston street, to an existence bright with promised love and pleasure. She had seen "The distant gates of Eden gleam, And did not dream it was a dream." Our readers must now follow her to an isolated house, in the upper part of the city. There she had two apartments, furnished with more finery than elegance, or even neatness. The rose-coloured curtains were faded, the gilded furniture tarnished, and from the vases of faded artificial flowers, Fanny's sickening thoughts had of late often turned to the white jessamine and rose, that, types of her purity then, once blossomed in her Aunt Sara's window. Fanny was not the first tenant of these apartments, which, with others in the same house, were kept furnished and supplied by a certain Mrs. Tilden, who, herself occupied the basement rooms. Fanny, now by courtesy, bearing the name of Mrs. Stafford, was but little more than seventeen, just on the threshold of life! That fountain of love which has power to make the wilderness blossom, to fill the desert places of life with flowers and fruits, had been poisoned, and there was no more health in it. The eye, which should have been just opening to the loveliest visions of youth, was dull, and heavily bent, while tear after tear dropped from it, on a sleeping infant, some five months on its pilgrimage "between the cradle and the grave." The beautiful form of Fanny's features remained, but the life of beauty was gone, her once brilliant cheek was pale, and her whole figure shrunken. Health, self-respect, cheerfulness, even hope, the angel of life, were driven away for ever; and memory, so bright and blessed to goodness, bore but a bitter chalice to poor Fanny's lips. She sat, statue-like, till she started at a footstep approach[19]ing the door. A slovenly servant-girl entered, in a pert and noisy manner, that expressed the absence of all deference, and took from a handkerchief, in which it was wrapped, a letter, addressed to "Nugent Stafford," and said—, "I've been to the Astor House, and the American, and the City Hotel, and all them boarding-houses down town, and there's no such person there and nowhere else, I expect." "What do you mean, Caroline?" "Oh, nothing, only them as hangs out false colours must expect others to do the same by them. I suppose, then, no more a Mr. Stafford than a Mrs. Stafford." "Hush, my baby," said Fanny to the infant, stirred by her tremor. "I want to have my wages paid to-day," continued Caroline, "as I am expecting to leave." Fanny took out her purse and paid the girl's demand. Caroline eyed it narrowly; there were but a few shillings left in it, and she changed the assault she had meditated, from the purse to a richer spoil. "It's always rulable," she said, "when a girl lives in such a house as this, and serves the like of you, that she shall have extra pay, for risking character and so forth. I see your purse is rather consumptive, and I am willing to take up with that green silk gown, spot with pink, and trimmed with gimp." "Oh hush, my baby!" cried Fanny to the child, who, opening her eyes on the distressed countenance of her mother, was crying as even such young children will, from the instinct of sympathy. "The gown hangs in the closet," she replied, with a steady voice; "take it, and go." Caroline took it, and while she was deliberately folding it, she said, half consolingly, half impertinently—, "It an't worth while grieving for nothing in this world, for it's a kind of confused place. Why, it always comes to this sooner or later. Your fine gentleman likes variety. You'll be as handsome as ever again if you'll leave off sighing and crying." "Leave me, pray leave me," cried Fanny; and when Caroline shut the door, she threw herself on the bed with her baby, saying amidst tears and shiverings, "oh, has it come to this—deserted—lost—am I such a thing that I cannot even answer that cruel bad girl? Oh God, have mercy! No. He will not hear, for I only come to him when I have none other to go to. Oh. hush, my baby. I wish we were both in the grave together. Come, now, hush." She wiped away her tears, and catching up the child, walked, half distracted, up and down the room, attempting to smile and play to it, and the poor little thing cried and smiled alternately. The following are some extracts from the hapless letter which was lying on the table. "Oh, Nugent Stafford, am I never, never to see you again! It is two months since you were here, two months—it seems two years, and yet when you were last here, and spoke those icy, cruel, insulting words, I thought it would be better never to see you again than to see you so. But come once more, and tell me if I deserved them from you. "Remember, I was thirteen years old, an innocent, loving child—loving, but with little to love, when you first stole my heart. Did you then mean—God knows—you know—I don't. did you plot it then, to steal away my innocence, when I should be no longer a child? You say you never promised to marry me, and that I knew what was before me. No, you never said one word of marrying me, but did you not swear to love and cherish me so long as you lived? Did you not say that I did not love you half as well as you loved me, and again and again reproach me with it. Were you not angry—so angry as to frighten me, because I would not desert my dear, good, old, faithful aunt, to go with you?" " And how have I loved you? I have given up my innocence for you, my good name, and the favour of God. I have loved only you—never have had a thought beyond you. Do married wives love better than this? In those days when you seemed to think nothing too good for me, when every day you brought me something new, I cared only for you. I wore only the fine things to please you; and truly now I hate to look on them, for they were, in your eyes, the price of what I never sold, but gave. "But for my poor baby, I would not send to you again; for her I will do any thing but sin. Mrs. Tilden has twice told me I must leave this house. Six months rent is due. I have ten dollars in my purse. Tell me where I am to go? What am I to do? I would not stay here if I could—the house has become hateful to me. I cannot bear the looks of Mrs. Tilden and Caroline—I cannot endure to have them touch my baby, for it seems to me as if their touch to my little innocent child were like a foul thing on an opening rose-bud. The very sound of their voices disgusts and frightens me—oh! it was not human to put me among such creatures. If you have deserted me, I will earn food, if I can, to keep my baby alive—If I cannot earn, I will beg, but I will live no longer among these bad people—I had rather perish with my baby in the street. Oh, Mr. Stafford, how could you have the heart to put me here—and will you not now give me a decent home?" There was much more in the letter than we have cited, but it was all of the same tenor, and all showed plainly, that though betrayed and deserted, poor Fanny was not corrupted. Bold and hardened, indeed, must have been that human creature who could have cast the first stone at her. For some months after Stafford took her under his protection, (the protection the wolf affords the lamb,) he was passionately devoted to her. He made her world, and made it bright with such excess of light, that she was dazzled, and her moral sense overpowered. There was no true colouring or proportion to her perception; she was like one who, having imprudently gazed at the sun, sees every object for a time in false and fan[20]tastic colouring. But these halos faded by degrees to blackness; and so, as Fanny recovered from the bewilderment of passion, the light became shadow—dark, immovable shadow. She lost her gaiety, and no twilight of cheerfulness succeeded to it. The birth of her child recalled her to herself—the innocent creature was God's minister to her soul—her pure love for it made impure love hateful to her. She became serious, and then sad, and very wearisome to Stafford. He was accustomed to calling forth the blandishments of art. Fanny had no art. Her beauty was an accident, independent of herself. The pure, unappreciable treasure of her immeasurable love she gave him, and for this there is no exchange but faithful pure love—so her drafts fell on an empty treasury. Passion consumes, sensuality rusts out the divine quality of love. Fanny's character was simple and true—elemental. She had little versatility, and nothing of the variety that comes from cultivation and observation of the world, whose brief time in it had been passed between her school and Dame Hyat's room, in Houston street! Stafford was extremely well read in certain departments of romantic literature. He had a standing order with a Paris publisher for such books as George Sand, Paul de Kock, and all their tribe produce. But this was a terra incognita to Fanny. Her reading was confined to the Bible, and the tracts left at her aunt's door. He delighted in those muses who have come down from the holy mount of inspiration and sacrificed to impure gods. Poetry, beyond that of her aunt's hymn-book, was unknown to Fanny, and when Stafford brought her Beppa, and Don Juan, she understood but little of them, and what she understood, she loathed. Stafford loved music. It was to him the natural language and fittest excitement of passion, and poor Fanny had no skill in this divine art beyond a song for her baby. He gave her lascivious engravings; she burst into tears at the sight of them, and would not be moved by his diabolical laugh and derision to look a second time at them. The natural dissimilarity and opposition between them came soon to be felt by both. He was ready to cast her—no matter where—as a burden from him, and she had already turned back, to walk through the fires her sin had kindled to the bosom of infinite love and compassion. Stafford's vices were expensive, and, like most idle and dissipated young men of fortune, he soon found his expenditures exceeding his income. He had no thought of sacrificing his vices to his wants, but only the objects of them. He had of late felt his mode of life to be so vexatious and burdensome, that he resolved on reforming it, or rather, on reducing his pleasures, by marrying a young woman whose large fortunes would be a relief to him, whose beauty and elegance would adorn his establishment, and whose character would fill up certain awkward blanks in his own. A person so gifted, and attainable, as he flattered himself, he had discovered in Augusta Emly. Miss Emly's mother was a leading woman of fashion in the city, and she had received his first demonstrations with unequivocal indications of favour. He deliberately determined to leave Fanny, as he had done others, to shift for herself, quieting his conscience—it was easily pacified—with the reflection that he left her rather better off than he found her. As if simplicity, contentment, and a good name, were marketable articles, to be trafficked away for a few jewels, laces and silks. (To be concluded.) CHAPTER II. [75]FANNY MCDERMOT might have lain down and died in the extremity of her despair at finding herself finally deserted, or, in her self-condemnation she might have done violence to her life; but her child was God's argument to reason, patience, calmness, and exertion. She sat herself to consider what could be done. In all this great city, Mrs. O'Roorke was her only acquaintance, and though poor and ignorant, she was, too, her friend, and Fanny was in a strait to know the worth of that word friend. "She can, perhaps, tell me where to find employment," thought Fanny; "and certainly she will be kind to me." And to her she determined to go. She laid aside all her fine clothes, which were now unfit for her, and had become disgusting to her, and put on a gingham dressing-gown, and over it a black and white plaid cloak, which, with a neat straw bonnet, (her aunt's last gifts,) seemed, as she looked at herself in them, in some degree to restore her self-respect, "Dear, honest old friends," she exclaimed, "would that I had never laid you aside!" It was with a different feeling that she took up and laid down, one after another, the pretty frocks she had delicately made and daintily trimmed for her baby. "She looks so pretty in them," she thought; "and I am sure there is no sin in her looking pretty." But after a little shrinking, she dressed the baby in a cotton night-gown, and took off her coral necklace, bracelets and bells, and she then wrapped her warmly in shawls, left the house, and, after walking two squares, she reached a rail-road car. There were several persons in the car when she entered, and, as usual, they turned their eyes on the new-comer, but not, as usual, turned them away again. Those exquisite features arrested the dullest eye, and there was something in the depth of expression on that young face to awaken interest in the dullest soul. One man touched his neighbour, who was absorbed in his newspaper, and directed his eyes to Fanny. Two young women interchanged expressions of wonder and curiosity with their eyes fixed on her. A good little boy, feeling an instinctive sympathy with something, he knew not what, expressed it by offering her some pea-nuts, and when she looked up to thank him, she became, for the first time, conscious of the general gaze; and thankful she was, when, at the intersection of Houston street, the car stopped to let her out. "Have a care," said a Quaker woman at her side, as she rose; "thee art young, child, to be trusted with a baby." Fanny, overcome with emotion and fatigue—for it was long since she walked out—was ready to sink, when, after having walked nearly a mile down Houston street, she came to her former home. The O'Roorke's were not there. "They had moved many months since," her informer said, "down into Broome street, near the North River." "Was it far?" Fanny asked. "A tedious way." "Might she come in and rest herself?" "Indeed was she welcome; and a shame was it for any lady to send such a delicate child out with a baby in her arms." And when Fanny came in and saw the stairs she had so often in her childhood trodden, the tears started from her eyes, and when her baby waked and would not be quieted without food from her breast, she perceived the women exchanging significant looks and nods, and overcome by weakness and a gush of emotion, she burst into hysterical sobbings. "Poor young crater—poor young crater! God help you!" exclaimed the woman, with a true Irish gush of feeling; "and what is't you're wanting? Here's a drink of milk; take it, honey dear; it will strengthen you better than whiskey. We've done with that, thank God and Father Matthew." Fanny made a violent effort, calmed herself, drank the milk, and asked if a cab could not be got for her. There was one passing, and, at the next instant she was in it, and driving to Broome street. She found the house, but the O'Roorkes had moved; and in another and distant quarter of the city she found the second dwelling to which she was directed. Again they had moved, and whither no one could tell; and feeling as if the last plank had gone from under her feet, she returned to her home. Home! —alas, that sacred word had now no meaning to poor Fanny. She had scarcely entered her room and thrown herself on the sofa with her baby, when Mrs. Tilden, her remarkably red-faced landlady, glanced in and said— "Are you back? I did not expect you again." "Not expect me? What do you mean?" "Why, it's customary for some kind of folks you know, when they lose one husband, to take another." Fanny looked up; a sickening feeling came over her; the words she would have answered died away on her lips. "I suppose you are sensible," continued Mrs. Tilden, "that honest folks must be paid just debts, [76]and as there's no finding that Mr. Stafford of yours, I have 'strained upon your wearing apparel, that being answerable for rent as well as furniture; and all the furniture belonging to me already, except the sofa and the Psyche, and the vases and the dressing-case—them things will help out, but the whole quarter's rent and eight days over is due." Fanny said nothing. "I am never ungenerous to nobody, so I have taken out enough baby-linen to serve you, and a change for yourself—the rest is under my lock and key, and I shall keep it, maybe, a month or more before I sell it; and if Mr. Stafford pays me in that time—and I don't misdoubt he will, sooner or later; but them kind of fine gentlemen are slow in paying, you know: but I don't question his honor; he has always been highly honourable to him; he is a real gentleman, there's no mistake—as I was saying, as soon as he pays me you shall have your things—or—or—the worth of them again; you shall have it all, bating some little reward for my trouble—the Psyche, or dressing-case, or so." "Well?" said Fanny, perceiving Mrs. Tilden had paused for an answer. "Well, that's all—only, if you and I can agree, you can stay down stairs as a boarder till ——" "No, not a moment—only let me remain in this room to-night, and to-morrow I will try to find a service-place." "A service-place! My service to you," said Mrs. Tilden, with a sort of ogress-grin. "Oh, don't look so at me. Mrs. Tilden, do you think that, after all, I have any pride?" "Pride, pride! Why, you foolish child, don't you know that, ' after all, ' as you call it, there is but one kind of service left for you? Ladies won't take the like of us into their houses." "The like of us," thought Fanny, and shuddered. "They are dreadful particular about any little false step of one of their own sex. If you but dampen the soles of your feet, it is as bad as if you were up to your neck in the mire; but men may plunge in over their head and ears, and they are just as welcome to their houses and as good husbands for their daughters as your Josephs——" "Is it so? Can it be? I do not know, then, what will become of me. But may I stay here to-night?" "Why, yes; but you must be off pretty early, for there's a lady coming to look at the rooms at ten." Poor Fanny, left alone, sank on her knees, with one arm round her sleeping baby, and sent out from her penitent and humble heart a cry for forgiveness and pity, that we doubt not was heard by Him whose compassions fail not. She then threw herself on the bed and fell asleep. Thank God, no degree of misery can drive sleep away from a wearied, young creature. The next morning she laid her plans, and strengthening her good resolutions by prayer, she went forth feeling a new strength; and having paid the fee with two of the only four shillings left to her* to the master of an intelligence office, who stared curiously at her, she received references to three ladies—"the very first-rate of places, all," as the man assured her. She first went to a lady who wanted a wet-nurse as a supplement to her own scanty supplies. She met a young lady in the hall, whom she heard say to her mother, "Oh, mamma! such a pretty young creature has come for wet-nurse to sis—do take her." Fanny was called in, and having given satisfactory answers as to her supplies, she was asked for references. She immediately did what she had before purposed, and confessing she had no references to give, told truly so much of her sad story as explained her present position. The lady heard her through, possibly not believing a word she said but the fact of her transgression; and when she had finished, she said to her—"Did you really expect that such a person as you could get a place in a respectable family?" She rung the bell, and added coolly, "Thomas, show this person out. This is the last time I go to an intelligence office." Poor Fanny sighed as she left the door, but pressing her baby to her bosom, she said, softly—"We'll not be discouraged with one failure, will we, baby?" The child smiled on her, and she went on with a lighter step. Her next application was to a milliner, whom the master of the intelligence-office had told her was a "very strict, religious lady, who says she is very particular about the reputation of her girls." "It is close by," thought Fanny; "I have but little hope, but I must save my steps, and I will go to her." Again, bravely and simply she told the truth. The milliner heard her with raised brows. "I am sorry for you, if you tell the truth, young woman," she said. "I know this city is a dreadful place for unprincipled girls, and I make it a rule never to take any such into my establishment. I hope you do mean to reform, I advise you to apply to the Magdalen Society." Again Fanny went on. She had now to go from William street to the upper part of the city, and precious as her sixpences had become, she felt that it was utterly impossible for her to walk, and on reaching Broadway, she got into an omnibus, and was soon at the door of Mrs. Emly’s very elegant house in Waverly Place, and was shown into a room where that lady was sitting in her peignior, looking over, with her sister, some dresses that were to be trimmed for a party the following evening. A very elegant young woman, who seemed to have been just designing an unfinished head lying on a table before her, was reading. [77] "A sempstress, ma'am, from the intelligence office," said the servant, announcing her. "A sempstress, with a child!" exclaimed Mrs. Emly. The young lady looked up at Fanny as she entered; she was struck with her beauty, her excessive delicacy, and with the gushing of the blood to her pale cheek at Mrs. Emly’s exclamation. She rose, handed Fanny a chair, and saying most kindly, ‘‘ What a very pretty child, mamma,” she offered to take it. The little creature stretched out its little hands in obedience to the magnetic influence of youth, beauty, and a voice most expressive of cheerful kindness. If, as is sometimes said, a voice may be “full of tears,” this lovely young creature’s was full of smiles. Fanny looked up most gratefully, as the young lady took her infant, saying to her— "You must be very tired. "Is it not very tiresome carrying a baby ?" "The baby does not seem to tire me; but I am not very strong,” replied Fanny, wiping away the tears that were gathering at the gentleness addressed to her. "You do not look strong nor well,’ said the young lady, and she poured out a glass of wine and water, and insisted on Fanny taking that and some more solid refreshment from the waiter, on which a servant had just served lunch. It was well for poor Fanny that she accepted the hospitality, for she needed to be fortified for what followed. Fanny had been so thoroughly drilled in sewing by her aunt, who, it may be remembered, was a tailoress, that she answered very confidently as to her abilities as a sempstress. She should be content, she said, with any wages, or no wages for the present, if Mrs. Emly would put up with the inconvenience of her child. "Oh, the child will not be in my way," said Mrs. Emly; "you will be up in the attic, and I sha’n’t hear it—so, if you will give me a satisfactory reference, I will try you." "I have never lived out," answered Fanny. Discouraged by her former rebuffs, she shrunk from a direct communication of her position. "Well, where does your mother live? If I find you have decent parents, that will be enough. "My parents died—long ago. I lived with my aunt, and she is dead, and I—I am—friendless." "Aha!" said Mrs. Emly, with an emphatic nod of her head to her sister, who screwed up her mouth and nodded back again. The young lady walked up to her mother, and said, in a low voice, and with an imploring look— "Mamma, for Heaven's sake don't say any more to her; I am sure she is good." "Ridiculous, Augusta; you know nothing about it,” replied Mrs. Emly, aloud; and turning to Fanny, she said—“How comes it that you are friendless and alone in the world? Have you not a husband?" "No," answered Fanny, some little spirit mounting with her mounting colour; "I never had a husband, I have been betrayed and forsaken. I am no farther guilty—no more innocent." "Quite enough—quite enough. I can't, of course, take any such person into my house." "Then my baby and I must die, for nobody will take us in," said Fanny, bursting into tears, and gathering her cloak around her. "Oh, mamma," said Augusta Emly, "for pity's sake, let her stay. I will answer for her." "Pshaw! Augusta, how very absurd you are. No respectable lady would take a person of that kind into her house." "Then what is their respectability worth, mamma, if it cannot give help to a weak fellow-creature?" "Miss Augusta," said a servant, opening the door, "Mr. Sydney is below." "Tell Mr. Sydney I am engaged, Daniel." "Augusta," said her mother, "you are not going to send away Russel Sydney in that nonchalant manner. What do you mean? Give the child to its mother and go down; you have such a beautiful glow on your cheek.” It was a beautiful glow—the glow of indignant humanity. "I cannot, mamma. Daniel, say I am engaged." In another instant, Daniel returned with a request from Mr. Sydney that Miss Emly would ride with him the following day—he had purchased a charming lady’s horse and begged she would try it. "Oh, what shall I say, mamma? I cannot go." Mrs. Emly, without replying to Augusta, opened the door, and brushing by Fanny, who had risen to go, she called from the head of the stairs—‘‘ Mr. Sydney, excuse me; I am in my peignior, and cannot come down. Will you come to the staircase? We are so up to our eyes arranging with the dressmaker for Mrs. Davis’s, that you must excuse Augusta this morning. She is a little timid since her accident about riding. Are you sure of your horse?" "Perfectly. Lord bless me, would I ask Miss Emly if I were not?" At the first sound of the responding voice, Fanny sprang forward, and then staggering back again, leaned against the door. "Oh! very well, then; she will be ready for you at twelve. Good morning." Good morning," was answered, and Mrs. Emly turned towards her apartment, elated with having settled the matter according to her own wishes. Fanny grasped her arms. "For God's sake, tell me," she said, in a voice scarcely audible, "where does Mr. Sydney live? He it is that has deserted me. Where can I find him?" Mrs. Emly's spirit quailed before Fanny's earnestness—strong, apparent truth; but after a single moment's hesitation, she discreetly said— "I don't know; he lives somewhere at lodgings. You have probably mistaken the person." [78] "Mistaken—oh Heaven!" exclaimed Fanny, and glided down stairs as if there were wings to her feet, but before she could reach the pavement, Sydney had mounted into his very handsome new phaeton, and was driving proudly up the street, gallantly bowing to some ladies at their balcony-windows, and poor Fanny crept on, she knew not why nor whither. "What did that poor girl say to you, mamma? Did she mention Sydney's name?" asked Augusta Emly. "Sydney's name? Why should she mention it? I did not hear her. She might—she muttered something. She is a little beside herself, I think." "Do you, mamma?" There could not be a stranger contrast than Miss Emly's earnest tone and her mother's flippant one. "Poor—poor girl, how very beautiful she is! She reminded me of Ophelia. She has her senses now, but with that deep dejectedness, I should not wonder if she soon lost them. May God be more merciful to her than we have been." "But, mamma, how could you say to Russel Sydney that I would ride with him to-morrow?" "Why, are you going to stay at home and sigh over this lost damsel? You will ride with Sydney unless you prefer to hurt my feelings and displease me seriously." "That I should be very sorry to do, but I cannot ride with Mr. Sydney." "Cannot! And why?" "How can you ask, mamma? How can you wish me to associate intimately with the sort of man he is?" "What windmills are you fighting now, Augusta? For a sensible girl, you are the silliest I ever met with. What do you mean?" "You surely know what I mean, mamma! You know that Russel Sydney has been one of the most dissipated men in the city." "So have forty other men been who are very good husbands now, or whose wives are too prudent to make a fuss about it if they are not. Really, Augusta, I do not think it very creditable to a young lady to be seeking information of this sort about young men." "I have not sought it. I never dreamed,"—Augusta looked steadfastly in her mother’s face—"that my mother would introduce a man to me who, as we have both heard, on good authority, has kept a mistress since he was eighteen, and changed her as often as suited his caprice;—but having heard this, I surely will not disregard it." "You are unjust, my dear. Sydney has entirely given up all this sort of thing—he assured me he had." "And you relyingly took his assurance, mamma, and would not listen for one moment to that poor penitent girl's assurance." "Oh that's quite a different thing." "I see no difference, excepting that the one is the strong party, the other the weak—the one the betrayer, the other the betrayed. The fact of the girl seeking honest employment is prima facie evidence in favour of her truth." "You talk absurdly, Augusta; and, to speak plainly, I do not think it over-delicate"—continued Mrs. Emly, with a pharisaical curl of her lip—"for an unmarried lady of nineteen to be discussing subjects of this nature—though it may be quite often your Aunt Emily’s fashion to do so." "It is very much my Aunt Emily's fashion to strip off the husk and grasp the kernel—to throw away the world’s current counterfeit and keep the real gold. Probably she would think it far more indelicate to receive a notoriously licentious man into her society than to express her opinion of his vices; and I know she thinks it not only indelicate, but irrational and unchristian, to tolerate certain vices in men for which you proscribe and hunt down women.” "Mercy on us, what an oration for nothing! Truly, you and your Aunt Emily, with your country-evening morals, are very competent judges of town society. It seems to my poor common-sense perceptions, that you are rather a partial distributor of your charities. You are quite willing to receive this equivocal young woman with her confessedly illegitimate child, and you would doubly bar and bolt the door against a very charming young man who has sown his wild oats." "Oh, surely, mamma, this is not the true state of the case. The one party is a man of fashion, received and current, the other a poor young outcast, who seems more sinned against than sinning—probably the victim of some such ‘charming young man’ as Sydney. As women, as professed followers of Christ, my dear mother, ought we not to help her out of the pit into which she has fallen? May we not guard her from future danger and misery?" Mrs. Emly stood for a moment, silent and rebuked, before the gentle earnestness of her daughter; but after a moment she rallied, and said, with a forced laugh—"You had best join the Magdalen Society at once, Augusta; they will give you plenty of this fancy-missionary work to do. I confess it is not quite to my taste." Augusta made no reply; she was too much pained by her mother's levity, and she took refuge in writing the incidents of the morning to that "Aunt Emily," in whose pure atmosphere she had been reared. Sickening with fatigue and disappointment, Fanny, helped on her way by an omnibus, returned to the intelligence-office, where she had left her bundle. The official gentleman there, on hearing her failure, said—"Well, it’s no fault of mine—you can’t expect a good place without a good reference." "Oh, I expect nothing," replied Fanny; "I hope for nothing but that my baby and I may die soon, if it please God!" "I am sorry for you, I declare I am," said the man, who, though his sensibility was pretty much [79] worn away by daily attention, could not look without pity upon this pale, beautiful young creature, humble and gentle, and trembling in every fibre with exhaustion and despair. "You are tired out," he said, "and your baby wants taking care of. There’s a decent lodging-house in the next street, number 55, where you may get a night’s lodging for a shilling. To-morrow morning you’ll feel better—the world will look brighter after a night’s sleep. Come back to me in the morning, and I will give you some more chances. I won’t go according to rule with you." Fanny thanked him, kissed her baby, and again, with trembling, wavering steps, went forth. She had but just turned the corner, when, overcome by faintness, she sat down on a door-step. As she did so, a woman, coming from the pump, turned to go down into the area of a basement-room. She rested her pail on the step, and cast her eye inquisitively at Fanny. "God save us!" she cried. "Fanny McDermot, darlant, I’ve found you at last—just as I expected. God punish them that’s wronged you! Can’t you spake to me, darlant? Don’t you know Biddy O’Roorke?" "Oh yes," replied Fanny, faintly; "my only friend in this world. Indeed, I do know you." "And, indeed—and, indeed, you’re welcome as if you were my own to every thing I have in the world. Rise up, my darlant; give me the babby. God’s pity on it, poor bird!” and taking the infant in one arm, and supporting and nearly carrying the mother with the other, she conducted Fanny down the steps and laid her on her bed. With discreet and delicate kindness she abstained, for the present, from further inquiries, and contented herself with nursing the baby, and now and then an irrepressible overflow of her heart in expression of pity and love to Fanny, and indignation and wrath against "bad craters, that had neither soul nor heart nor feelings, nor any such thing in them!" In the course of the day, Fanny so far recovered as to tell her friend her short, sad story, and to learn that affairs had mended with the O’Roorke’s; that the drunken husband was dead, Pat and Ellen were out at service, and that the good mother, with a little help from them, and by selling apples and now and then a windfall, got bread for herself and three little, noisy, thriving children. The scantiness of her larder was only betrayed by her repeated assurances to Fanny that she had "plenty—plenty, and to spare—oceans, oceans;? and when Fanny, the next morning, manifested her intention of going out again to seek a place, she said—"Na—na, my darlant; it’s not that ye shall be after. Is not the bit-place big enough for us all? It’s but little ye’re wanting to ate. Wait, any way, till yee’s stronger and the babby is big enough to wane, and lave it here to play with Anny and Peggy." Fanny looked round upon the "bit-place," and it must be confessed that she sickened at the thought of living in it, even with the sunny kindness of its inmates, or leaving her little snow-drop of a baby there. The windows were dim with dirt; the floor was unwashen; a heap of kindlings were in one corner, potatoes in another, and coals under a bed none of the tidiest. Broken earthen and broken victuals stood on the table, and all contrasted too strongly with the glossy neatness of her aunt's apartment. Surely, Fanny was not fastidious. "Oh, no, Mrs. O’Roorke," she said, "I can never—never leave my baby. I am better; and you are so kind to me, I’Il wait till to-morrow." And she did wait another day, but no persuasion of Mrs. O’Roorke could induce her to leave the infant. She insisted that she did not feel its weight, and that "looking on it was all that gave her courage to go among strangers," and "that now she felt easier, knowing she had such a kind friend to come to at night." Finding Fanny resolved, Mrs. O’Roorke said—"Now, don’t be after telling them your misfortunes; just send them to me for your charackter. It’s ten to one they’ll not take the trouble to come; and if they do, I’ll satisfy them complately." "And how?" asked Fanny, with a faint smile. "Why, won't I be after telling ’em just the truth—how the good ould lady brought you up like a nun, out of sunshine and harm’s way; how you were always working with your needle, and quiet-like and dove-like; and how the ould lady doated on you, and that you were the best and beautifullest that ever crossed a door-sill." "But, oh, dear Mrs. O'Roorke, with all this, how will you ever come to the dreadful truth?" "And I'll not be after jist that. If they bother with questions, can’t I answer them civilly, Fanny McDermot? How will it harm a body in all the world just to be tould that yees married your cousin what died with consumption, or the like of that?" Fanny shook her head. "Now what's the use, Fanny McDermot," continued Mrs. O'Roorke, "of a tongue, if we can't serve a frind with it? Lave it all to me, darlant. You know I would not tell a lie to wrong one of God's craters. Would I be after giving you a charackter if you did not deserve it?" "I know how kind and good you are to me, Mrs. O’Roorke," said Fanny, "but I pray you to say nothing for me but the truth. I have asked God’s forgiveness and blessing on me and my baby, and we must try to earn it. Promise me, will you?" "Oh, be aisy, darlant, be aisy, and I’ll be after doing what you wish." She wrapped the baby in its blanket, carried it up the steps and put it in the mother’s arms. "There, God guide you, Fanny McDermot. The truth!" continued Mrs. O’Roorke, as her streaming eyes followed Fanny; "and what's truth good for but to serve the like of her that’s been wronged by a false-hearted villain, bad luck to him?" It would take a very nice casuist to analyze the national moral sense of good Mrs. O'Roorke. The unscrupulous flexibility of the Irish tongue is in [80] curious contrast with the truth of the Irish heart—a heart overflowing with enthusiasm, generosity, gratitude, and all the emotions belonging to the best truth of life. "I am thinking," said the master of the intelligence-office, as he was doling out two or three references to Fanny, to families residing in different and distant parts of the city, "I am thinking you don't know much of the world, young woman?" "I do not," replied Fanny, mournfully. "Well, then, I do; and I’ll give you a hint or two. It’s a world, child, that’s looking out pretty sharp for number one—where each shows their fairest side and looks all round their fellow creturs; where them that have the upper hand—you understand, them what employs others—thinks they have a right to require that they shall be honest and true and faithful, and so on to the end of the chapter, of what they call ‘good character;’ and not only that they be so, but that they have been so all their lives. The man that holds the purse, mind you, my dear, may snap his fingers, and be and do what he likes. Now, there can’t be friendship in this trade, so what are the weak party to do but to make fight the best way they can. But I see you don’t altogether take my ideas," he continued, perceiving Fanny was but half attentive, and replacing his spectacles, which he had taken off in beginning his lecture on the social system; “but you’ll see my meaning in the application. Now, ‘I’ve asked no questions and you’ve told no lies,’ as the saying is, but I know pretty much what’s come and gone by your beauty, by your cast down eye, with the tears standing on the eaves; by the lips that, though they are too pretty for any thing but smiles, look as if they would never smile again; by the—" "Oh, please, sir, give me the papers and let me go." "Wait—I have not come to it. I feel like a father to you, child—I do. Now, my advice is, hold up your head; you’ve as much right, and more, I can tell you, than many a mistress of a fine house. Look straight forward; speak cheery, and say you’re a widow." Fanny looked up, with a glance that came from a conscience yet void of offence; and he added, with a slight stammer— "Why should not you say so? You are left—and that is the main part of being a widow—left to provide for yourself and your young one; and that’s the sorrowfullest part of being one—and every body pities the widow and orphan. And I should like to have any body tell me which is most a widow, a woman whose husband is dead or you?—which the completest orphan, a child whose father lies under ground or yours?" Fanny stretched out her hand for the references and took them in silence, but when she reached the door, she turned and said, with a voice so sweet and penetrating that it was oil to the wounded vanity of the man—"I thank you, sir, for wishing to help us; but, baby," she added, mentally, straining her littie burden to her bosom, "we will be true—we will keep our vow to God, won’t we? He is merciful; Jesus was merciful, even to that poor woman that was brought before him by cruel men; and if nobody will take us in on earth, God may take us to Himself—and I think he will, soon." She walked on slowly and perseveringly, turning many streets, till she reached the first address to which she had been referred. There she was received and dismissed as she had been on the previous day, and she went to look for the next; but she soon began to feel sensations she had never felt before—a pain and giddiness in the head and general trembling. She dragged on a little way, and then sat down. Gradually, her mind became confused, and she determined to turn back at once and make the best of her way to Mrs. O’Roorke, but to her dismay, she could not remember the name of the street where she lived, nor that of the intelligence-office. "Oh, I am going mad," she thought, "and they will take my baby from me!" and making an effort to compose herself, she sat down on a door step, and to test her mind, she counted the panes in the windows opposite. "All is right yet," she thought, as she went steadily on and finished her task; "but why cannot I remember that name? Do you know," she asked, timidly, of a man who was passing, and who looked like one of those people who know every thing of the sort—"do you know any street beginning with Van?" "Bless me, yes—fifty. There's Vandam, and Vandewater; and——" "Oh, stop there—it's one of those. Are they near together?" "As near as east and west—one is one side of the city, and one the other." And he passed briskly on. Poor Fanny sat down, and repeated to herself the names till she was more at a loss than ever. The passers-by looked curiously at her, and two or three addressing insolent words to her, she could endure it no longer, and she resolved to go to Vandam street, hoping it might be the right one. Her head throbbed violently, and she felt that her lips were parched, and her pulse beating quick and hard. Her baby began to cry for food, and seeing some boards resting against a house, she crept under them to be sheltered from observation while she supplied her child's wants. There were two little girls there before her, eating merrily and voraciously from an alms-basket. "Oh, my baby," said Fanny, aloud, "I am afraid this is the last time you will ever find any milk in your mother’s breast." The little beggar-girls looked at her pitifully, and offered her bread and meat. "Oh, thank you," she said, "but I cannot eat. If you would only get me a drink of cold water." "Oh, that we can, as easy as not," said one of them; and fishing up a broken teacup from the bottom of her basket, she ran to a pump and filled [81]it—and again and again filled it, as Fanny drank it or emptied it on her burning, throbbing head. "It’s beginning to rain," said one of the girls, "and I guess we had all better go home. You look sick; we'll carry your baby for you if your home is our way." "My home! No, thank you; my home is not your way." The children went away, talking in a low voice, and feeling as they had never quite felt before. It was early in February, and the days, of course, yet very short. The weather had been soft and bright, but as the evening approached, the sky became clouded and a chilling rain began. Fanny crept out of her place of shelter, after most anxiously wrapping up her baby, and, at first, stimulated by the fever, she walked rapidly on. Now and then she sat down, where an arched doorway offered a shelter, and remained half oblivious till urged on again by her baby’s cries. It was eleven o'clock, when she was passing before a brilliantly-lighted house. There was music within, and a line of carriages without. A gentleman was at this moment alighting from his carriage. Fanny shrunk back and leaned against the area-railing till he should pass. He sprung quickly up the step to avoid the dropping eaves, and when in the doorway, turned to say, "Be punctual at twelve" Fanny looked up; the light from the bright gas lamps beside the door steamed in the speaker's face. "Oh, mercy, it is he!" she exclaimed, and darted forward and mounted the step. It was he, Sydney. He left the door ajar as he entered, and Fanny followed in; and as she entered, she saw Sydney turn the landing of the staircase. Above was the mingled din of voices and music. Fanny instinctively shrunk from proceeding. Through an open door she saw the ruddy glow of the fire in the ladies' cloak-room. It was vacant. "I might warm my poor baby there," she thought; "and it's possible,—it is possible I may speak with him when he comes down,"—and she obeyed the impulse to enter. Her reason was now too weak to aid her, or she would not have placed herself in a position so exposed to observation and suspicion. When she had entered she saw, to her great relief, a screen that divided a small portion of the room from the rest. She crept behind it, and seated herself on a cushion that had been placed there for the convenience of the ladies changing their shoes. "How very fast you are sleeping, my baby," she said; "and yet," she added, shivering herself, "how very cold you are!" and twining around it a velvet mantle that had fallen over the screen, she leaned her head against the wall, and, partly stupefied by the change to the chilling street to the warm apartment, and partly from exhaustion, she fell asleep. What a contrast was she in her silent, lonely desolation, with fever in her veins, and enveloped in her cold, drenched, dripping garments, to the gay young creatures above—thoughtless of any evil in life more serious than not having a partner for the next waltz! She a homeless, friendless wanderer; they passing from room to room amidst the rustling of satins and soft pressure of velvets, and floating of gossamer draperies, with the luxury of delicious music and an atmosphere of the costliest exotics, and tables preparing for them where Epicurus might have banqueted. And such contrasts, and more frightful, are there nightly in our city, separated, perhaps, by a wall, a street or a square; and knowing this, we sleep quietly in our beds, and spend our days in securing more comforts and planning more pleasures for ourselves— and, perhaps, complaining of our lot! More than an hour had passed away, when Fanny was awaked to imperfect consciousness by the murmuring of two female voices outside the screen. Two ladies stood there, in their cloaks, waiting. "How in the world," asked one, "did you contrive to make her waltz with him?" "By getting her into a dilemma. She could not refuse without rudeness to her hostess." "And so you made her ride with him yesterday. And so you hope to decoy her into an engagement with him?" "No—no. I merely mean to decoy her—if you choose that word—into an intimacy, and then I will leave them to make out the rest between them. He is very irresistible. Stamford Smith’s wife was over head and ears in love with him; and you know poor Ellen Craven made no secret of her attachment to him." "Why did she not marry him?" "Lord knows," replied the lady, shrugging her shoulders. "She did not play her cards well; and, I believe, the truth is, he has been a sad fellow." "Do you believe there was any truth in that girl's story yesterday?" "Very likely; pretty girls in her station are apt to go astray, you know. But here is Augusta. Come in, Mr. Sydney; there is no one here but us. Are you going so early?" "Yes. After seeing you to your carriage, I have no desire to stay." There was a slight movement behind the screen, but apparently not noticed by the parties outside. "Oh, Miss Emly, allow me," he said, dropping on his knee before Augusta, who, the dressing-maid not being at her post, was attempting to button her overshoe—"allow me?" "No, thank you; I always do these things for myself." "But I insist." "And I protest!" and Augusta Emly sprang behind the screen. Sydney, with a sort of playful gallantry, followed her. Between them both, the screen fell, and they all stood silent and aghast, as if the earth had opened before them. There still sat Fanny, beautiful as the most beautiful of Murillo's peasant mothers. The fever had left her cheek—it was as colourless as marble; her lips were red, her eyes [82]beaming with a supernatural light, and her dark hair hung in matted masses of ringlets to her waist. She cast one bewildered glance around her, and then fixing her eyes on Sydney, she sprang to him, and laid her hand on his arm, exclaiming, "Stafford! Stafford !" in a voice that vibrated on the ears of all those who heard her, long after it was silent forever. Mrs. Emly locked the door! Truly, the children of this world are wise in their generation. Sydney disengaged his arm, and said, in a scarcely audible voice—for his false words choked him as he uttered them—"Who do you take me for? The woman is mad!" "No—I am not mad yet; but—oh, my head, it aches so—it is so giddy. Feel how it beats, Stafford. Oh, don’t pull away your hand from me. How many times you have kissed these temples and the curls that hung over them, and talked about their beauty. What are they now? What will they soon be? You feel it throb, don’t you? Stafford, I am not going to blame you now; I have forgiven you—I have prayed to God to forgive you. Oh, how deadly pale you are now, Stafford. Now you feel for us. Now, look at our poor little child!" She uncovered the infant, and raised it more from stupor than sleep. The half-famished little thing uttered a feeble, sickly moan. "Oh, God—oh, God, she is dying! Is not she dying?" She grasped Emly’s arm. "Can’t something be done for her? I have killed her—I have killed my baby. It was you that were kind to us yesterday—yes, it was you. I don’t know where it was. Oh, my head—my head!" "For God's sake, mamma, let us take her home with us," cried Augusta, and she rushed to the door to look for her servant. As she opened it; voices and footsteps were heard descending the stairs. She heeded them not—her mother did. "Go now—go instantly, Sydney," she said. "Oh, no—no, do not go!" cried Fanny, attempting to grasp him—but he eluded her, and, unnoticed by them, passed through the throng of servants at the door, threw himself into the first hackney coach he saw, and was driven away. Fanny uttered one piercing shriek, looked wildly round her, and darting through the cluster of ladies pressing into the cloak-room, she passed, unobserved by her, behind Miss Emly, who stood, regardless of the pouring rain, on the door-step, ordering her coachman to drive nearer to the door. When she returned to the cloak-room, it was filled with ladies; and in the confusion of the shawling, there was much talk among them of the strange apparition that had glided out of the room as they entered. Mrs. Emly threw a cloak around her daughter. "Say nothing, Augusta," she whispered, imperatively; "they are both gone." "Gone together?" Mrs. Emly did not, or affected not to hear her. The next morning Miss Emly was twice summoned to breakfast before she appeared. She had passed a sleepless and wretched night, thinking of that helpless young sufferer, ruined by the sin, and, in her extreme misery, driven forth to the stormy elements by the pride of her fellow-creatures. There is not a sadder moment in life than that in which a young, hopeful, generous creature, discovers unsoundness, worldliness and heartlessness in those to whom nature has most closely bound her—than that, when, in the freedom of her own purity and love of goodness and faith in truth, she discovers the compromising selfishnesses, the vain shows, the sordid calculations, the conventional falsehood of the world. Happy for her, if, in misanthropic disgust, she does not turn away from it; happy if use does not bring her to stoop from her high position—most happy, if, like Him who came to the sick, she fulfil her mission and remain in the world, though not of it! Augusta went through the form of breakfast; and taking up the morning paper and passing her eye listlessly over it, her attention was fixed by the following paragraph:— "Committals at the Tombs.—Fanny McDermot, a young woman so calling herself, was taken up by a watchman during the violence of the storm, with a dead infant in her arms. A rich velvet mantle, lined with fur, was wrapped round the child. Nothing but moans could be extracted from the woman. She was committed for stealing the mantle. A jury of inquest is called to sit upon the child, which they have not yet been able to force from the mother’s arms." "Good Heavens, Augusta, what is the matter? Are you faint?" asked the mother. Augusta shook her head, and rang the bell, while she gave Mrs. Emly the paragraph to read. "Daniel," she said, to the servant who answered the bell, "go to Dr. Edmunds and ask him to come to me immediately. Stop, Daniel—ask Gray as you go along to send me a carriage directly." "What now, Miss Emly. Are you going to the tombs?" "Yes." "Not with my permission." "Without it then, ma’am, unless you bolt the doors upon me. I have sent to my cousin, and he will go with me. There is no impropriety and no Quixotism in my going, and I shall never be happy again if I do not go. Oh, my dear mother," she continued, bursting into tears, "I have suffered agonies this night, thinking of that poor young woman; but they are nothing—nothing to the misery of hearing you, last night, defend that bad man, and bring me reason upon reason why 'it was to be expected,' and 'what often happened,' and 'what no one thought of condemning a man for;' that he, loaded with God's good gifts, should make a prey and victim of a trusting, loving, defenceless woman, and she, therefore, should be cast out of the pale of humanity—turned from our [83] doors—driven forth to perish in the storm. Oh, it is monstrous!—monstrous!" Augusta was too strong for her mother. She did not oppose, but merely murmured, in a voice that did not reach her ear—"There does seem to be an inconsistency, but it appears different when one knows the world." The door of Fanny McDermot's cell was opened by the turnkey, and Miss Emly and her cousin, the physician, admitted. It was a room twice the size of those allotted to single occupants, and there were already two women of the most hardened character in it, besides a young girl, not sixteen, committed for infanticide. She, her eyes filled with tears, was bathing Fanny's head with cold water, while the women, looking like two furies, were accusing one another of having stolen from Fanny, the one a handkerchief, the other a ring. Fanny's dead infant was on her arm, while she, half raised on her elbow, bent over it. She had wrapped her cloak and the only blanket on the bed around it. "It is so cold," she said; "I have tried all night to warm it. It grows colder and colder." "Cannot this young woman be moved to a more decent apartment?" asked Miss Emly of the turnkey. Fanny looked up at the sound of her voice. "Oh, you have come—I thought you would," she said. "You will warm my baby, won't you?" "Yes—indeed I will. Let me take it." "Take it—away? No—I can’t. I shall never see her again. They tried to pull her away from me, but they could not—we grew together. Bring me a little warm milk for her. She has not sucked since yesterday morning, and then my milk was so hot, I think it scalded her. I am sure it did not agree with her." "Oh, pray," said Augusta, to the turnkey, who had replied to her inquiry, "that the next room was just vacated and could be made quite comfortable,"—"pray, procure a bed and blankets, and whatever will be of any use to her. I will pay you for all your expense and trouble." "Nothing can be of use," said the physician, whose fingers were on Fanny's pulse; "her heart is fluttering with its last beats." "Thank God!" murmured Augusta. "Put your hand on her head. Did you ever feel such heat?" "Oh, dear—dear; it was that dreadful heat she felt in all her mental misery last night." A quick step was heard along the passage; a sobbing voice addressed the turnkey, and in rushed Mrs. O’Roorke. She did not, as her people commonly do at the sight of a dying creature, set up a howl, but she sunk on her knees and pressed her hand to her lips as if to hold in the words that were leaping from her heart. Fanny looked at her for a moment in silence, then, with a faint smile on her quivering lips, she stretched her hand to her. "You have found me. I could not find you—I walked—and walked." She closed her eyes and sunk back on her pillow; her face became calmer, and when she again opened her eye it was more quiet. "Mrs. O'Roorke," she said, quite distinctly, directing her eyes to Augusta, "this lady believed me; tell her about me." "Oh, I will—I will—I will!" "Hush—not now. Come here—my baby is—dead. I——God is good—I forgive——, God— Heaven is love. My baby—yes God—is good.” In that unfailing goodness the mother and the child reposed forever. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Fanny McDermot Subject The topic of the resource Orphans, gender roles, virtue, hypocrisy, urban life Description An account of the resource A poor, innocent young woman is seduced and abandoned by an older, wealthy man in New York City. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Miss C. M. Sedgwick Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Godey’s Lady’s Book, edited by Sarah Josepha Hale (January and February 1845): 12-20 and 75-83. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Louis A. Godey Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1845 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Lucinda Damon-Bach and Fanshu Sun Relation A related resource Collected in A New England Tale and Miscellanies, 355-88. NY: George P. Putnam & Co., 1852. Also collected in Rediscoveries: American Short Stories by Women, 1832-1916, edited by Barbara H. Solomon, 113-54. NY: Mentor, 1994. Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Document abandonment class gender roles girls Irish morals orphans poverty religion seduction The Tombs https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/4347/archive/files/8d1e40a1949e403067ee73bd9acd3c85.pdf?Expires=1777507200&Signature=fL4kNPJJcmNNmquQ4EN-ZKWEx1cBdIDIUsd50WBYFnJpgFYX7dwxskD3VtLPOTgQ7KZfnpYDoIfPpSG4O8AaDl2dmiud3aqcJEA4eBrplJDbbhKlVXPVCatQ5ryd94G4vKjU%7E3iHdKYv1KBV8kueeX1t9zasYJcVfT2VKL8X8IMUHOkADL49J95D0dReyEnrSTbzsLLvSUx3xU35TJ5iL6pV2fZQav3-wjawdz02EX7JQ2ewB3he7ImYs24Z2ZUofzZmhhlFQGCdb26XIEZFSS96pmQH%7EJ0FSLTcTt1-H2y3%7EaGtxRxIcZM7jg2kiYgPxav11sK0rNHgO4vd0OOcZg__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM 9318956458123efb124f4d2a4096f467 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1840 Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Text Any textual data included in the document. THE DEFORMED BOY “THE great Basil mentions a certain art of drawing many doves by anointing the wings of a few with a fragrant ointment, and so sending them abroad, that by the fragrancy of the ointment they may allure others unto the house whereof they are domestics.” We would borrow a hint from the artifice of the ingenious bird-catcher, and record, for the benefit of some of our young friends, a few acts of particular goodness that have chanced to fall under our own observation, in the hope that their love of virtue may be augmented by contemplating its lovely aspects and certain results. The example of gratitude which we are about to record, though it is derived from one of the very limited means and in humble life, will, it is hoped, serve to illustrate the duty so often and so ably enforced by our benevolent philosopher Franklin, the duty of looking upon our fellow-beings as all children of one parent—members of one family; so that, if we receive a favour from one individual which we cannot return, we should bestow it on some other member of the family, and thus, to use the doctor’s own expression, keep it “going round.” [10] Much occurs to us to say on the uses and felicity of a grateful temper, but we are so well acquainted with the habits of our young friends, that we know they will skip the general remarks to get at the story, as nimbly as a little squirrel will leap over a heap of rubbish to grasp a single nut. To the story then. In one of the small cities of Hudson there lived a Mrs. Aikin; a lady eminently blessed with affluence and happiness, and one who gratefully acknowledged the truth “freely ye have received,” and faithfully obeyed the admonition “freely give.” On a bright but bitter cold morning in January, Mrs. Aikin’s family were assembled in the parlour to breakfast; a fine fire of hickory blazed on the hearth, and seemed to crackle defiance to the terrors of the cold, if indeed there was a crevice through which the cold could enter this snug and nicely calked parlour. The family had just risen from their morning devotions; the servant was bearing in a tea-tray loaded with the hissing coffee-pot, tempting sausages, and a plate of buckwheat pancakes, when a violent ring at the door, thrice repeated, called everyone’s attention. “Run, William, and open the door quickly,” said Mrs. Aikin; “I would not keep a dog on the outside of my door this morning.” William obeyed and immediately returned, followed by a little fellow who ran, or, rather, waddled in after him. The child had short legs, a body disproportionately large, and a hump on his back. His head, though rather overgrown, was well formed, his hair light and curling, his skin very fair [11] his eyes a deep clear blue, and his whole expression that of infantine sweetness and innocence. Such a head and face surmounting a deformed body looked somewhat like a beautiful fruit on a gnarled stalk. The boy seemed almost stiffened with the cold; but, regardless of himself, and apparently impelled by instinct, he ran up to Mrs. Aikin, and, grasping her gown, he said, with a voice so tremulous as to be almost inaudible, “Oh, ma’am, do come and see what ails mother!” “Why, who is your mother, child? And who are you?” asked Mrs. Aikin. “Oh, do come and see ma’am—now—quick. I am afraid mother will burn the house up, for she is lighting the fire with all our clothes; she does not act like mother; do—do come and see what ails her.” Little Lucy Aikin, a rosy-cheeked, kind-hearted little girl, was at first impatient at the delay of her breakfast; but she soon forgot herself, and, apparently with the expectation of comforting the child, took a sausage, and, wrapping it nicely in a buckwheat cake, she offered it to him. “No, no,” said he, bursting into cries that expressed impatience and grief, “no, I am not hungry. I was hungry last night, and we were all hungry. Mother said so; and she began to cry, but she isn’t crying now!” “There is something very urgent in this case,” said Mrs. Aikin, turning to her husband. “Let William serve you and the children, and I will go with the child.” Mr. Aikin assented, for he perceived the boy’s distress was deep and unaffected—how should it be [12] otherwise! he was not, apparently, more than five or six years old. Mrs. Aikin threw on her cloak, and, taking the child’s hand, he led her through a lane, which, running by the corner of her house, formed the communication between the street she lived upon and a street in the rear of that, where there were several one-story houses, or rather hovels, which had been erected as temporary habitations for the poorest class of people. Into one of the most wretched of these Mrs. Aikin followed her little conductor, and there she beheld a spectacle of misery that sufficiently explained the poor child’s distress. His mother sat on the hearth, with a pale, half-famished-looking infant in her arms, crying piteously, and seeking nourishment at her breast, where, alas! there was none. She was deliberately tearing up cotton frock, and throwing it, piece by piece, on the few embers that lay in the fireplace. She rose on seeing Mrs. Aikin, as if from habitual good manners; and after looking round for a chair, she smiled and said, “Oh! I remember, they took my chairs; but pray be seated, ma’am. I have been trying,” she continued, “to kindle a fire to warm my baby and me; but my stuff is so light it goes out directly, and we don’t seem to get warm, ma’am.” Mrs. Aikin perceived at a single glance at the poor woman’s burning cheeks and parched lips, that she was in the delirium of a fever. She approached her, and offered to take the child. “Oh no,” she said, “not my baby; you know, when they took all the rest, they promised not to take my baby.” [13] “But let me try to quiet her for you.” “No, I thank you ma’am; she is only fretting for her breakfast.” She put the infant again to her breast; the child seized it with the eagerness of starvation, and then redoubled its cries. “I make but a poor nurse,” said the mother, smiling faintly; “I think it does not agree with me to live without food. Do you think that can be reason my baby does not thrive, ma’am?’ and she raised her eyes to Mrs. Aikin, as if appealing for her opinion. The tears of compassion were streaming down Mrs. Aikin’s cheeks, and the poor woman, apparently from pure sympathy, burst into loud sobs. The little boy threw himself on a bed in a corner of the room, and, burying his head in the bedclothes, tried thus to suppress his cries. Mrs. Aikin, aware that the wants of these sufferers would not justify a moment’s delay of the succor they needed, called the boy to her, and despatched him to her husband with a note, which she hastily wrote with a pencil on the back of a letter. While he was gone she had leisure to observe the extreme wretchedness of the apartment, in which there was not an article of furniture save a straw bed and its scanty covering. There were shreds of the garments strewed about the floor, the “light stuff” the poor crazed woman had been burning to warm her infant. “Have you been long sick, my friend?” she asked, with the faint hope of obtaining a rational answer. “Sick! Sick!” replied the mother; “yes, a good while—I have been sick a trifle—the intermittent and the typhus—but I believe I am getting the better of it all, for yesterday I felt quite hungry.” [14] “And did you take anything?” asked Mrs. Aikin. “Oh yes,” she answered, drawing near to Mrs. Aikin, and whispering with an air of great self-complacency, “I did indeed take something—all I had in the house-an excellent thing to blunt the edge of one’s appetite—laudanum—you know ma’am, it is doctor’s stuff and the doctors know how to cure an appetite.” “God help you, poor woman!” exclaimed Mrs. Aikin. “God help me!” reiterated the poor creature, with a piercing cry; “there is no help for me;” and she sunk on the side of the bed and wept freely. Mrs. Aikin was sensible that in this returning consciousness of her miseries there was a dawning of reason; she knew that her tears were a natural expression of feeling, and would afford her the quickest relief; and she permitted them to flow on without interrupting her. In the mean time Mr. Aikin arrived, accompanied by a woman-servant laden with necessaries and refreshments, and a boy with a barrow of wood; a fire was kindled; nourishment was provided for the baby, and food offered to the deformed boy, who, now that he saw a relief at hand for his mother, ate ravenously. Cordials were administered to the mother; a physician was summoned, and a nurse provided for her; and, in short, everything was done that could be done, where there was benevolence to devise and ability to execute. The lapse of a few days found Mrs. Shepard (for that was the poor woman’s name) quite recovered from the delirium into which she had been [15] driven by sickness and extreme misery. She related to her benefactress the few particulars of her melancholy history. It was not an uncommon one, and we shall not detail it at length, for we would not cloud the cheerful faces of our young readers with unnecessary sadness. Mrs. Shepard was the daughter of a respectable farmer; the youngest of a numerous family. She was married when very young to one of those miserable beings who are always meeting with disappointments and bad luck, those sure plagues of the idle and shiftless. Her husband had health, a good trade, and abundance of friends; but, as the proverb says, “Who can help those who won’t help themselves?” Shepard changed one branch of business for another; he moved from place to place, but he never left behind him the faults that caused the failure of all his enterprises. He went in the beaten track from idleness to intemperance and to bad company; and finally, lost to all sense of duty, he abandoned his wife and little ones in a strange place, after a sheriff had stripped his wretched dwelling of the little wreck of furniture he possessed. But Mrs. Shepard was not left to perish. In her greatest extremity, when there seemed no help, and sickness and the sight of her starving children had driven her to distraction, Heaven directed to her relief a kind and efficient friend. Mrs. Aikin’s discretion and good sense equaled her benevolence. She thought that as God is his kind providence had seen fit to exempt her from the sore evils of life, she was bound to testify her gratitude by doing all in her power to mitigate the sufferings of others. [16] She remembered that our Saviour was familiar with our sorrows and acquainted with our griefs; and as it was not with her passing desire, but the rule of her life, to imitate him, she did not content herself with sending a servant with an inquiry or a gift to the poor, or with subscribing to charitable societies, but she visited the sick and the afflicted, and listened patiently to their very long, and often, to her as well as to others, very tiresome stories. She would enter with benevolent sympathy into the history of their cares and wants, and would even forget she had nerves while she gave her ear to the details of a loathsome sickness; in short, she never forgot the common people who have minds and hearts, and that often a more essential charity is done by fainting an influence over them than can be effected by pecuniary relief. We entreat our young friends to believe that, they will have treasures of kindness to impart far more valuable than Aladdin’s lamp. Fortunatus’ cap, or any gift of fay or fairy. But we are digressing from our story—not uselessly, however, if we are strengthened the love of goodness in the breast of a single reader. Mrs. Aikin visited her humble friend every day till she was restored to comfortable health. It was then necessary that some means should be adopted for her permanent relief. She could be received with her children into the almshouse, but she preferred making any struggle to being dependant on public charity; “for that,” she said to Mrs. Aikin, “was what nobody took pleasure in giving, and no one was thankful for receiving.” [17] After many consultations with her benefactress it was determined that she should hire a small cheap apartment, and take in sewing. Mrs. Aikin promised her constant aid, and performed more than she promised; and Mr. Aikin, who was one the aldermen of the city, obtained for her a small weekly stipend from the corporation, who find this a much better mode of aiding the industrious poor than removing them from the excitements and pleasures of their own homes to public institutions. Mrs. Shepard’s health was infirm, and her means were scanty, but she was so diligent and economical that she maintained her children with decency. With the present she was not only contented, but grateful; the past she had borne with fortitude and patience. “Many a time,” she said to Mrs. Aikin, “when I have been reduced almost to despair, those words, ‘Put thy trust in the Lord, he will never leave nor forsake thee,’ have come to my remembrance, and I have taken courage and gone on again. When Richard, my poor little crooked boy, was born, I had two children older than he: they were both sick with the whooping-cough; the baby, that is, Dick, took it; I was myself in a weakly way; we had none of us the necessary medicines nor food; both my boys died; my poor baby was neglected; he mastered the whooping-cough, and fell into the rickets, which ended in making him the little misshapen thing you see. But it seems as if God had tempered the wind to the shorn lamb, for a better, or, in the main a happier child there never was than Dicky.” The good mother was not blinded, as fond moth- [18] ers sometimes are, by partiality to unfortunate children; for Richard, or Dicky as he was familiarly, or rather Ducky as he was most commonly called, in an allusion to his short legs, Ducky was a perfect philosopher. Not a single crook of his little body had twisted his temper, or given one wrong turn to his disposition. How much of his philosophy he owed to the faithful care of his mother, we leave to be estimated by those of our young readers who are so blessed as to possess parents who are continually watching over their morals and happiness. Mrs. Shepard was a poor woman, but she had received a good common education, the birthright alike of rich and poor in New-England, where she was brought up. She seldom found time to read a book herself; but devoted mothers can do that for their children which they cannot do for themselves; and Mrs. Shepard found, or made time to teach Richard to read before he could walk. She would tie her baby into a chair beside her while she was washing, or ironing, or mending, and, at the same time, teach Dicky to repeat hymns and stories in verse which she had learned in her childhood. It was really a pleasing, and, at the same time, an affecting sight to see the little fellow, deprived as he was of the of the active pleasures usual at his age, sitting curled up on his chair, with his head unnaturally drawn down on his bosom, fix his bright, eager eye on his mother, repeat the words after her without missing a syllable, and chuckle with delight when he had mastered a couplet. Oh! who, when they see calamities thus mitigated, can help recalling that sentiment of [19] Scripture, “He remembereth our infirmities and pititeth us, even as a father pitieth his children.” But how did Dicky escape the fretfulness of temper which so often attend deformity? Surely not by learning hymns. No; though this occupation lightened many an hour, we cannot attribute such power to it. He had naturally a sweet and cheerful temper, but this would probably have given place to the irritability that so often attends and aggravates disease and privation but for the unceasing watchfulness and patience of his mother. If he ever got into a pet (as what child does not sometimes?), her rebuke was mildly spoken; and if the pet amounted to a passion, it was soon subdued by her firm, tranquil manner. The sound of her low gentle, and tender voice operated like oil thrown on the stormy waves, which is said to smooth their surface wherever it touches them. Mrs. Aikin suggested to Richard’s mother that she might give him a useful occupation by teaching him to knit. She immediately improved the hint; Dick was delighted with his new employment, and soon became such a master of the knitting-needle that he might have rivalled almost any old woman in the country. He was sitting one day on his mother’s door-step, protected from the sun by the shadow of a fine elm-tree, finishing a pair of suspenders which Mrs. Aiken had bespoken for her son, when a company of boys came marching in military procession up the street. The young soldiers were equipped with wooden muskets; their hats were garnished with cocks’ tails for plumes; half a dozen pocket-handkerchiefs tied together, decked with white paper stars and [20] attached to a stick, formed their flag, their ”star-spangled banner,” and was as proudly carried by its bearer as more magnificent colours have been; a tin-kettle served for “a spirit-stirring drum,” and a “shrill fife” was blown by a sturdy little fellow, whose lungs seemed as inexhaustible as the windbags of old Æolus. When they arrived opposite to Mrs. Shepard’s door, a proposal was made to halt under the elm-tree till their captain, Frank Hardy, should join them. “And, in the mean time, gentlemen,” called out mischievous little urchin in the rear, “let us give a salute to Miss Ducky Shepard, knitter to the light-infantry.” “Hurrah for Miss Ducky!” shouted the boys, and the soldiers lowered their muskets, the standard-bearer waved his colours, and the little drummer beat a flourish. Dicky had at first entered into the sport, but now his countenance fell, he resumed his knitting which he had laid down, but his eyes were blurred with tears, his hands trembled, and his stitches dropped. “Ah!” cried out the lieutenant, Miss Ducky don’t like your salute; never mind, Dick, Miss Ducky you shall be no longer. Gentlemen, fellow-soldiers, all who are for electing Miss Ducky captain, pro tem. will please hold up their right hands.” Fifty right hands were instantly elevated,” and another shout of “Hurrah for Captain Dick!” made the welkin ring. As soon as the sounds had ceased, “Advance, Corporal Seation,” said the lieutenant, “and help me escort the captain to the head of his company.” The two boys took the unresisting child in their [21] arms and placed him at the head of their corps. “Turn out your toes captain,” said the lieutenant, touching Dicky’s short bow legs with his musket; “there, gentlemen, is a fine leg for a march!” “Hold up your head, captain,” said the corporal; “there’s a captain to scare the enemy!” But poor little Dick could not hold up his head, and the tears that he had manfully repressed now gushed from his eyes and rolled down to his bosom. At this critical moment there was a sudden movement in the ranks. “What is all this? said the real captain, Frank Hardy, springing on his lieutenant and corporal, and laying them on their marrow-bones. “Coward’s play, boys -- coward’s play; here, Dick, my little man, take my hand; brush away your tears, and I’ll see you righted.” Dick grasped the friendly hand that was extended to him, and Frank, after replacing him on the doorstep, instituted an inquiry into this cruel sport. The eyes of the company were now turned to their popular commander, and all were preparing to trim their vessels whichever way he should cause the tide to set. He soon satisfied himself that the offence demanded an exemplary punishment; and, ordering his company to form into a hollow square, he made them a speech, full of eloquence and feeling, on the merits of Dicky and their own demerit, or, rather, the demerit of their ringleaders, for he skillfully contrived to make them the scapegoats, and to bind the offences of all the culprits on their backs. After the speech he proposed that the lieutenant and corporal should be degraded from their high command to the private ranks, and should be sentenced to pay a fine to Dicky of six cents each. [22] The sentence was passed by acclamation; the captain saw the decision enforced. The money which had been carefully husbanded for a treat after the day’s drill, was sullenly delivered into the commander’s hand, and reluctantly received from him by Dicky; reluctantly, for out little simple friend did not quite comprehend how “might made right;” and his feelings had been too deeply wounded to admit of consolation in this form. He was, however, in a degree comforted by the interposition of Captain Frank in his behalf; he felt that it conferred consequence on him, for Frank Hardy was a universal favourite among the boys; stout and active, good-humoured and kind-hearted, he was the champion of all the oppressed, and the corrector of all the wrongs in his neighborhood. When the company marched away, poor Richard’s sorrows broke out afresh, and, running to his mother’s room, he threw the knitting on the floor, and said, in a voice half suppressed with sobs, “I never will touch that work again.” “Why, what is the matter with you Dicky?” asked his mother; “I never saw you in such a flurry.” Richard recounted, as well as he was able, the story of his wrong, and Mrs. Shepard listened with all a mother’s patience; and, when he concluded, she tried in vain to remove the impression from his mind that it was his “girl’s-work” that had been the cause of his mortification. “Hurrah for Miss Ducky, knitter to the light-infantry,” still sounded his ears, and drowned every argument she could urge. Shame, that most unpleasant feeling, was ever after most indissolubly associated [23] with his work. The most obedient of all good boys, he would resume his knitting in compliance with his mother’s commands, but he never took it up voluntarily--never again relished it. Thus was this poor little fellow deprived of an innocent and useful pastime by a company of unfeeling boys. Perhaps we ought rather to say inconsiderate, for young people are more apt to be thoughtless than cruel; and we believe that those who laughed loudest and longest at Dicky’s drool little figure, would have wept with the ingenuous sorrow of childhood if they could have known the pang their laugh inflicted. Our young readers may have heard of the philosopher’s stone; there is an art that far exceeds the power ascribed to that gem of the alchemist: the art by which a good person extracts instruction from every event, however adverse, is certainly superior to that which transmutes base metal into gold. The incident we have related made Mrs. Shepard fully aware of Richard’s susceptibility to the mortifications to which his deformity rendered him liable, and henceforward she constantly endeavoured to arm him with fortitude. It is unnecessary to recount all she said and did to accomplish this purpose. Perhaps it would not make much figure in print, for Mrs. Shepard was so quiet and simple in her way, that one would as soon expect (provided there was neither experience nor knowledge on the subject) a tree to grow from an acorn an any great effect to proceed from her efforts. She had good materials to work on, docile disposition and sweet temper; and so completely successful [24] was she, that Richard, as he grew older, bore all sorts of jibes and jokes without wincing, His sweet, enduring temper disarmed mischief of its sting, and converted ridicule into respect. At the Lancaster school, where he was monitor of a class composed of boys of every disposition, some much older, and all a head taller than himself, he was treated with as much deference as if he had been six feet high, and had had the limbs of Apollo. Since the memorable day of the training, he had maintained a constant friendly intercourse with his champion, Frank Hardy. Dick would do anything on earth to serve Frank, and Frank was sword and shield to Dick. But, notwithstanding this strict alliance between them, they were in some respects widely different. Unfortunately, those good principles had not been instilled into Frank that prompted Richard to do right, as well from duty as from impulse. Frank’s mother was a widow, and he was her only child; and she indulged him excessively, or restrained him unreasonably, according to the humour she happened to be in, without any regard to the right of the case or his ultimate good. Frank was what everybody calls a warm, good-hearted fellow with a bright, sunny face, and a merry disposition, that won his way to all hearts. He loved pleasure extravagantly, as was natural, for he was on all occasions contriver of the sport and master of the revels. On one fourth of July, he had planned a sailing excursion to a village in the vicinity. Each member of the party was to contribute half a dollar to the expenses, and poor Frank was in utter consternation when, on apply- [25] ing to his mother, in the confident expectation of obtaining the money, she denied it to him. He entreated and expostulated, but all in vain; she was out of humour, and if she had been a Midas she would not have given him the half dollar. Frank left her disappointed and mortified; he knew that his companions were awaiting him, and, ashamed to meet them and explain the cause of his inability to meet them and explain the cause of his inability to join them, he went in quest of Dick to bear his errand to them. He found him at a huckster’s shop, where he was in the habit of going in his leisure time, and making himself useful by performing small services. Richard was alone in the shop, busily arranging some fruits which were to be placed in the window as specimens. “Oh!” he exclaimed, on seeing Frank, “what a royal day you have got for your sail. “A royal day, indeed,” replied Frank, looking up wistfully to the bright, cloudless sky. “You had better make haste, Frank, for the boys will be waiting for you. Jim Allen and Harry Upham went along half an hour ago. Jim bought twelve oranges of Mr. George, and Mr. George lent Harry his flute; two merrier fellows I never saw; and they told me, if I saw you, to hurry you on.” “I am not going at all, Dick.” “Not going at all!” exclaimed Richard, struck by the words and by the sorrowful tone in which they were uttered. “Are you sick, Frank?” he asked, looking with great concern in his friend’s face. “No, not sick,” replied Frank, and half ashamed [26] that he had betrayed so much feeling on the subject, he averted his eye, and it fell on a newly-coined, glittering half dollar which was lying on the counter. “Oh if that half dollar were mine,” was his first, and, certainly, most natural thought. He turned again to the door--all the military of the town were out in honour of the day--drums were beating merrily, colours flying, and everybody, old and young, seemed to be animated with the spirit of the day. Frank looked down the street; he saw two or three of his young associates running towards the river. He again turned his eye to the tempting half dollar. Richard’s back was towards him--temptation pressed--opportunity favoured; one moment more of reflection, and he would have resisted, but he did not allow himself that moment; he grasped the half dollar, and, when Richard again turned, he was gone. Richard wondered a little at the singular manner of his friend; but he was too intent on the task of his friend; but he was too intent on the task that had been assigned him to think much of it, till, his work being finished, he looked for the money, which had been left on the counter, in payment for a brush he had sold in the absence of George Sutton, the clerk, who had gone on an errand to the next street. The poor child was trembling with the discovery of the loss when the clerk came in. “So, Dicky,” he said, “you have made a sale in my absence. I met Mrs. Lincoln’s servant with the brush. Where is the money, Dick?” he continued, unlocking the money-drawer, and standing ready to put in the half dollar. “I have not got the money, Mr. George,” Richard replied, with a trembling voice. [27] “Not got it!” exclaimed Sutton; and a suspicion darted across his mind which he could not bear to harbour for a moment. “Not got it!” he repeated. “What does this mean, Dick; where is it?” “I cannot tell,” said Richard, faltering so much that the words were scarcely articulate. George Sutton sprang over the counter; took the poor child, who now shook like an aspen leaf, by the arm, and, looking steadily in his face, which blushed crimsons, he exclaimed, “What can have tempted you to steal that money?” Richard started back --his face became pale as death--his little crooked form was drawn up to an expression of dignity, for it expressed truth and innocence. “Steal! Mr. George,” he said, and he now spoke with a firm voice; “you know I would not steal one penny for the whole world.” “I don’t think you would, Dick- I can’t think you would,” replied George, touched by the child’s appeal, and more than half convinced by his fair, direct look. “I have always found you honest, boy, and true as the sun. But where is the money? Has any one been in the shop since the man bought the brush?” Richard’s countenance again fell- again his voice faltered. “Oh do not ask me; I cannot tell you, Mr. George,” he said. “But you must tell me, Dick, or you must never come into the shop again.” “Then I never will come into it again,” replied Richard, “for I never will tell;” and, bursting into tears, he ran out of the shop, leaving the clerk utterly at a loss what construction to put on his conduct. [28] George Sutton, though not the proprietor of the shop, was the sole manager of its concerns. His master was engaged in another branch of business; and, knowing his clerk to be perfectly trustworthy, he confided the affairs of the shop entirely to him. Thus trusted, young Sutton felt the obligation to be very exact in the performance of his duties. His first determination was to expose the affair to his principal; but he had one of the kindest hearts in the world; he really loved poor little Dicky; and, believing him innocent, he could not bear to expose him to the bad opinion of a stranger; he therefore paid the half dollar out of his own pocket, and said not a word to anybody on the subject. Richard returned home with his heart full. He passed without notice all the gay parade of “Independence” -- and there was enough of it to satisfy patriots and charm boys -- and entered his mother’s humble dwelling; and there he would probably have yielded to the inquiries she would naturally have made into the cause of the disturbance--for what boy of nine years could withstand the sympathy of a tender mother--but Mrs. Shepard was in no state to observe his agitation. She had been seized that morning with pains and agues, which were, as she well knew, the prelude to violent sickness. Richard was instantly despatched for a physician, who came, but could not avert a terrible fever, which raged for four weeks, and then left this afflicted woman in a hopeless consumption. Mrs. Aikin had removed the previous spring to the country; but, before her departure, she had ta- [29] ken care to recommend Mrs. Shepard to some of her friends, who were humane and active in their charities, and Mrs. Shepard’s wants were soon known and relieved, as far as benevolence could relieve them. Mrs. Aikin was informed of her humble friend’s situation, and she wrote her a kind letter, enclosing some money, and telling her to spare herself all anxiety about her little girl, for she would take her into her own family, and provide for her so long as she should want a home. Thus relieved from solicitude concerning her youngest child, all Mrs. Shepard’s anxiety centred in Richard. He was too young to be apprenticed to a trade and there was no person whom Mrs. Shepard had the right or the courage to ask to provide for him in the mean time. Our young readers are, we trust, quite inexperienced in the sorrows of life: when they learn them, as learn them they must, may they have that spirit in which they can be borne--even the sorest of them--poverty, sickness, and death. Better than many a long sermon on resignation and trust in the goodness of God--far better would it be if we could present to the mind’s eye the humble apartment of this Christian woman, when, conscious of the fast approach of death, and that this was perhaps her last opportunity of prayer with her children, she had, in the energy of her feeling, raised her weak and wasted form from the pillows which supported her. Richard and little Mary knelt by her bedside; she held their hands in hers; her raised eye gleamed brightly, for “The immortal ray is seen more clearly through the shrine’s decay;” [30] and, making a last effort, she uttered in a low but perfectly distinct voice, “My father in heaven, to thee I commit these little ones.” She paused, and closed her eyes--once more she opened them, smiled on her children with an expression of ineffable peace, and murmured in a low whisper, “God will provide;” her face was then slightly convulsed, she let go of their hands, and sunk back on the pillow. The physician had stood unobserved in the door way; he now moved towards the bed, and exclaimed involuntarily, “She is gone!” Poor little Richard had never seen death before, but he knew what it all meant; he locked his arms around his mother’s neck, and sobbed out, “Mother--mother--mother!” till he could speak no longer; and his little sister, crying because her brother cried, repeated again and again, “Mother will speak to you when she wakes up, Dicky-- do stop crying.” But we must pass over this scene and the two sad days that followed. The little girl was removed to the house of a friend of Mrs. Aikin, and was sent to that lady by the first conveyance that offered; and, without Richard’s knowledge, arrangements had been made for his being transferred to the almshouse immediately after the funeral. There were but few persons who followed the remains of Mrs. Shepard to the grave; but if the hearts of those few had been laid open; it would have been seen that there was more honour paid to her humble, unquestionable virtue (if human esteem confers honour), than is rendered by many a sweeping procession, that attracts the eyes of multitudes with its unseemly parade. Among these [31] few followers was Frank Hardy; since the 4th of July he had never spoken with his little friend. He had some times seen him in the street; but conscience, that most uncomfortable companion to the guilty, conscience had led him to avoid Richard. Hardy had accidentally heard of Mrs. Shepard’s death, and his good feeling prevailing over every other, he went to the funeral and returned from the grave to the house, anxious to know how Richard was to be provided for. The physician and the clergyman also went home with the child; and, after consoling them as well as they are able, they told him that he was to go to the almshouse for the present. “To the almshouse!” he exclaimed. “Oh, don’t take me to the almshouse.” “But where will you go, Dicky?” asked the doctor. “I have nowhere to go,” replied the child; “I will stay here; I an’t afraid to stay alone in mother’s room.” “You cannot stay here, my poor boy; this room is not yours, you know; what objection have you to the almshouse?” “Oh, I don’t know. I hate the almshouse. Everybody hates the almshouse;” and the poor little fellow turned from his friends, laid his head on his mother’s pillow, and wept bitterly. Frank Hardy stood aside, listening with concern to every word that was uttered; he now drew near to Richard and whispered “Why don’t you go, Dicky, and speak to Mr. George Sutton? He was always a friend to you.” “He is not my friend now,” replied Richard, in [32] a voice which, though scarcely audible, reached Frank’s heart. “What makes you think so, Dick?” asked Frank, so agitated that he hardly knew what he said. Richard raised his head from the pillow, and fixed his eye on Frank. “Frank,” he said, “Mr. George thinks that it was I that stole the half dollar from him last Independence.” These few words revealed the whole state of case to Frank. He perceived that Richard had been suspected, and had voluntarily, magnanimously borne suspicion rather than betray him; his tenderest feelings had been awakened by the desolate condition of the afflicted child; and he now looked at him a sentiment of awe, for his little crooked body really seemed to him to contain a celestial spirit. “Oh, Dicky! You have been too good to me,” he exclaimed; and, unable to endure or repress his feelings, he ran out of the house. The gentlemen told Richard that they could wait no longer for him, and he prepared to accompany them; but when he looked round upon his home for the last time, it seemed as if his heart would burst. If our young friends will consider what it is they love in their homes, they will not wonder at Richard’s grief. It surely is not a great house nor fine furniture; but it is the voice of kindness, and the unwearying, unchanging love of parents; the sports and caresses of brothers and sisters, and all the endearments that make a happy home a picture of Heaven. The doctor soothed, the clergyman wiped Richard’s eyes; and at last, succeeding in quieting him, [33] they led him between them to the almshouse, and, after many kind expressions of good-will, they left him there. The poor child slunk away into the corner of the large desolate apartment into which he had been conducted; he looked around upon the sullen, discontented faces of the strange throng that filled it, each taking his or her evening meal at a solitary board; he thought of the nice little cherry table at which he had been accustomed to participate the simple meal with his mother and sister, their hearts filled with thankfulness and cheerfulness, and their faces lit up with smiles. He did not, perhaps, institute precisely the comparison we have made, but it was the change--the change--that struck upon his heart. “I can’t--I won’t stay here,” he said to himself; “I had rather starve in the street than stay here.” Some supper was offered to him, but he declined it; and a little time after he stole unobserved into the passage, groped his way into the yard, run into the street, and was out of sight long before he was missed. He knew not whither to bend his steps; scarcely knew where he was, till, looking up, he perceived that he was close to George Sutton’s shop; the recollection of the young man’s former kindness darted a ray of hope upon his darkened mind. It was perhaps more his pressing need of pity than any defined expectation of relief that made him ascend the steps; but there his heart failed him, and he sat down. He was wearied and exhausted; it was a frosty night early in November, and he was shivering with the cold. He felt utterly forsaken. He looked up to Heaven; the moon [34] was shining brightly; he thought of his mother; he remembered that he had seen her, when in the deepest distress, kneel down and pray to God, and rise up again comforted. He recollected her last words, “God will provide;” and he repeated the Lord’s prayer. He who feedeth the young ravens when they cry unto him, heard and answered the helpless child. Richard had scarcely said “Amen” when he was startled by the opening of the shop-door, and, rising on his feet, he saw Frank Hardy coming out of the shop. “Oh Dicky, is that you?” he exclaimed. “Come in, come in; I have told everything to Mr. George, and he likes you better than ever, now; and I am sure,” he added, putting his arm around Richard’s neck, “I am sure I love you better than all the world besides.” Richard was astounded; he knew not what to say, but he followed Frank into the shop. “Is that you, my good boy Dicky?” exclaimed George Sutton at the first glimpse of him; and, grasping his hand, he said,” you are an honest boy and a noble boy, Dick, and I always believed you were, in spite of appearances; but now Frank has made all clear, and, if he had known everything, he would have done you justice long before this, Dicky: reparation wipes out offences, and I’m sure you will forgive and forget all, especially when you see how Frank repents the past; bitterer tears has he shed than any that have dropped from your eyes, my poor boy.” “That I have, indeed,” said Frank; “and, till this evening, I have never had one such real happy hour since Independence as I had before; but [35] I’m sure, Dicky, I never had a thought of the trouble I had brought you into. I have read on many a tombstone ‘an honest man’s the noblest work of God;’ but, for my part, I think an honest boy and such a little boy as you, Dick, that will bear to be suspected rather than expose a friend, is something nobler still.” How long Frank would have run on thus, we know not, for happiness is very talkative; but he was interrupted by Richard. The sudden change from the outcast feeling with which he had sat on the door-step, from the solitude and the stillness of the night, to the lighted shop, friendly voices, and cheerful looks, overpowered him with a confused sense of happiness; he burst into tears; “I don’t know what it is makes me cry now,” said he, “for I feel very glad.” “You have been tried too much to-day, Dicky,” replied George Sutton. “Sit here by the fire with Frank, while I go and bring you some supper; and then you shall go to bed, in the little back room, and in the morning we will see what can be done. I am not afraid,” he continued, as he opened the shop-door, “for all that has come and gone, to leave you and Frank in the shop together.” When his kind friend returned, Richard ate his supper heartily; and when he snugged down in bed alongside of George Sutton, he thought again of his mother’s last words, and fell asleep repeating to himself “God will provide.” _____ [36] Eighteen months subsequent to the events we have related, Mrs. Aikin paid a visit to the place of her former residence. One of her first inquiries was for Richard Shepard. She was informed that she might hear of him at the store of George Sutton. She immediately went there, and found Mr. Sutton established in a well-furnished store of his own. As soon as she had introduced herself and made known her errand, Sutton called “Dicky;” and Richard came waddling into the shop as fast as his little legs could bring him, and delighted beyond expression at the sound of Mrs. Aikin’s voice. His eyes glistened, and his face brightened and smiled all over. After she had made many inquiries of him, had drawn from him a particular account of his mother’s last hours, and had told him that, with Mr. Sutton’s permission, she should take him into the country to pass a little time with his sister, she dismissed him. When he was gone she inquired of Mr. Sutton if he continued as good a child as he had been. “As good, ma’am? There can be no better; he is worth his weight in gold to me. He understands the shop business almost as well as I do myself; and he is so good-natured and obliging, and has such pleasant ways, and is, withal, such a droll-looking little chap, that he brings many a customer to the store.” Mrs. Aikin thought, as she looked in Sutton’s honest, frank, and benevolent face, that he did not stand much in need of aid to attract good-will to the shop. “I understand,” she said “ of Richard’s account of himself, that he has been with you ever since his mother’s death. I do not quite see [37] how you could provide for him all that time; for I think you did not begin for yourself till last Spring.” “I did not, ma’am; and I found it difficult to save enough out of my small wages to pay the boy’s board, though I got him boarded for a trifle. But I did make it out, without any miracle; it was only working a little harder and faring a little harder, and you know that is nothing, ma’am, after it is past.” “But how,” asked Mrs. Aikin, “could you, in such circumstances, think of assuming such an expense?” Sutton seemed for a moment greatly embarrassed by this question. He blushed deeply, and his eyes filled with tears. “I could not help it, ma’am,” he replied; “when I was five years old, my parents died, and left me, as I may say, on the street. Some kind people took me in, brought me up, and provided for me; and when this poor little motherless child came to me, I seemed to hear a voice saying, ‘Remember what was done for thee; go thou and do likewise.’” _____ This is the real instance of that efficient gratitude which makes a favour “go round,” alluded to in the beginning of our story. It is neither exaggerated nor embellished by fiction; and we hope we have not misjudged in deeming it a fact worthy of being rescued from the oblivion that is too apt to pass upon the good as upon the bad actions of men. One word more, and this humble tale is finish-- [38] ed. Frank Hardy reaped all the benefit that is to be derived from virtuous associates. The friendly counsel of Sutton induced him to fix himself in a regular employment, and his subsequent upright conduct fully expiated his single offence. He never ceased to feel and manifest affection and gratitude to Richard; and he has been heard to say, that he was sure, if Solomon had known Dicky, he would have pronounced that, instead of four, “there be five things upon the earth which are little, but they are exceeding wise.” We scarcely need add, that Richard was allowed the gratification of a visit to his sister; but our readers may have some pleasure in being told, that when the brother and sister again parted, Mrs. Aikin presented each of them a breastpin containing their mother’s hair, and on their reverses was inscribed, “God will provide.” Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Deformed Boy Subject The topic of the resource Charity, virtue, and honesty. Description An account of the resource A poor young boy, whose legs have been affected by rickets, attracts the attention and charity of kind friends due to his good humor and virtue. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Sedgwick, Catharine Maria [by the author of "The Linwoods," "Poor Rich Man," "Love Token," "Live & Let Live," &c.] Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <em>Stories for Young Persons,</em> pp. 9-38. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available New York: Harper & Brothers Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1840 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Angie Lydon, Michael Nicosa, Cyntheara Tham, L. Damon Bach, D. Gussman Relation A related resource Originally published as <em>The Deformed Boy. </em>By the author of "Redwood," &amp;c. Brookfield: E. and G. Merriam Printers, 1826. <br />Reprinted as <em>The Deformed Boy.</em> By the author of "Redwood." Springfield: Merriam, Little &amp; Co, 1831.<br />Collected in Stories for Young Persons, 1840, 9-38, reprinted 1841, 1842, 1846, 1855, 1860; reprinted 184? By the author of "The Linwoods," "Poor Rich Man," "Love Token," "Live and Let Live," &amp;c. London: W. Smith. Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Document 1840 4th of July abandonment Aeolus Aladdin's lamp almshouse Apollo benevolence Benjamin Franklin boyhood charity Christianity Consumption Cotton Mather deathbed deformity fairy Fortunatus' cap funeral gender roles girls-work God gratitude H. Gally Knight Honesty Independence Day intemperance juvenile literature knitting laudanum literacy Magnalia Christi Americana marriage Midas Mothers orphans Ovid philosopher's stone poverty prayer Proverbs 30:24 Psalm 103 public assistance public education rickets self reliance sewing shame shopkeeper sons star-spangled banner Stories for Young Persons tears virtue widows