CHAPTER V.
THE OLD PEDDLER—BITTER WORDS—THE MEEK REPLY—THE EFFECT—ACTING A PART—SOFTER FEELINGS—THE DEATH-SCENE—THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS—SIMPLE CHRISTIAN COURTESY.
"I know," said Fanny Brighton, "that there is not a word of truth in what you say. Peddlers are always liars. This ring is nothing but brass, and would turn black with a week's wearing."
"I bought it for gold," meekly replied the old man, as he placed his heavy box upon the ground, and wiped the large drops of sweat from his wrinkled face.
"What else have you?" inquired Alice, as she turned over a box of thimbles, and pulled out a large handkerchief. "What a splendid thing!" said Alice; but at the same time she winked at Fanny, and laughed.
[Illustration: THE GIRLS AND THE PEDDLER.]
"Half cotton," said Fanny; "and now pray tell me when you take time to split your skeins of silk."
"I never do such a thing!" said the old man, with some spirit.
"Perhaps not," was the reply; "I suppose your profits are enough to hire it done; but here is a shawl,—what is the price of it?"
"Five dollars, miss; and a good bargain at that." "Five dollars! O what a cheat!" and Fanny laid the shawl, all unfolded, upon the grass, where scissors, needles, buttons, tape, pins, &c., lay strewed in wild confusion. Once more the poor man wiped his forehead, and kept his patience. It is bad policy for the poor to lose their patience.
"There comes Mary Palmer, and the missionary of Appledale," said Fanny. "Mr. Cotting will have to give up his office, or take Miss Lindsay as colleague."
Fanny knew that Emma was near enough to hear these remarks, but she did not know for what intent the feeble girl had taxed her strength in walking so far to see her.
The old peddler was now sadly putting his things back into his box; and Fanny, looking at him a moment, felt the injustice of causing him so much trouble for nothing: so she said to him, "Wait a moment—I will take some of your knickknacks, though they are not worth buying;" and she put into his hand a bill to pay for some articles which she hastily selected.
The old man thanked her, and his hand trembled as he gave her the change. Then he took up his heavy box, and Emma handed him the straps which fastened it upon his shoulders.
"Is it very heavy?" she asked.
"Yes," was the reply, "it is; but I am used to heavy burdens."
"Well, the burden and heat of your life's day is almost over," said
Emma, as, assisted by Mary, she drew the strap firmly into the buckle.
"Then, sir, if you are a Christian, you will rest."
"I know it," said the old man; "I know it, child:" and he looked at
Emma, as though she had given him something better than silver or gold.
"Call at the large house, among the apple-trees," said Emma, "and tell the lady that her daughter sent you."
All this time Fanny stood as if counting her money, while the old peddler went along.
"He has cheated himself in making change," said she; "I owe him a quarter more."
"Never mind," said Alice; "you paid enough for the things, and that is clear gain."
Fanny paid no attention to Alice, but ran after the old man, and gave him all his due.
Emma saw this; and the charity in her heart which "rejoiceth not in iniquity, but in the truth," exulted as one that findeth great spoil. She forgot the bitter remark which Fanny had made respecting herself; forgot all, except the one joyful thing that Fanny was not wholly selfish.
"We walked over to see you for a little while," said Mary, as Fanny came back; and Emma was far from feeling it a rudeness, though Fanny did not say, "I am glad to see you." She, however, invited them into the house where her grandfather and grandmother lived—for Fanny was an orphan.
Emma was very tired, and Fanny brought a pillow, which she placed upon the old-fashioned lounge, and asked her if she would like to lie down. She saw that Emma was pale, and this little act of kindness was prompted by a momentary feeling of pity: yet Fanny was ashamed of this kindness, and afraid that Mary and Alice would think her anxious to show Miss Lindsay particular attention; so putting on her old "care-for-nobody airs," she said, "Don't you undertake to faint, Mary Palmer. We country girls are neither genteel nor sentimental enough for that."
"And not feeble enough, I hope," replied Emma. "You have much to be thankful for, and so have I; for if it please God to deprive us of health, he will not leave us comfortless—not if we trust in him."
Fanny was not naturally a hardhearted girl. Her aged grandparents had done much toward making her what she was. Left to them when she was but two years of age, Fanny found herself left also to the full sway of every selfish passion and desire. The old people believed from their hearts that such another child never lived—so bright, so witty, so smart, and fearless. They talked and laughed over her sayings in her presence, and, in the blindness of their fond affection, saw not that the child was impudent, even to themselves; yet there was a fountain of purer water in that young heart, though self-love was rapidly drying it up. Emma, however, had that day discovered a bright drop from that better fountain, and she believed that the wasted streams of affection might be unsealed, even in Fanny's heart; and the rude girl herself wondered at the feelings which came over her, as Emma replied so meekly to her unkind remark. "I did not know that you were out of health," said Fanny; and both Mary and Alice were surprised at the tone of her voice and the expression of her countenance. She arose too, propped the pillow under Emma's head, and begged to know if she could do anything for her.
"Nothing," said Emma; "only love me: if you can do that, Fanny, I shall feel better."
Fanny tried to laugh, though she felt more like crying. "I am not much like other people," said she; "and those who want to have anything to do with me, must take me as I am."
"O yes," replied Emma; "if the Saviour does not refuse to take us just as we are, I am sure we ought to receive others in the same way, and love them too, even as he has loved us."
Very pleasantly did that summer afternoon pass away. Emma, after she had rested awhile, thought of going home; but Fanny entreated her to stay. She wanted to show her the bee-house, her grandfather's new beehive, the flower-garden, and many other things. Mary dearly loved to be near Emma; but this good little girl possessed the very best kind of courtesy, because it was the fruit of a pure loving heart—that kind of heart always forgetting its own wishes, in gratifying the wishes of another. Mary was always happy, but it was a sweet reflex happiness. She loved Emma, and dearly loved to hear her talk; but she did not claim the right of keeping close to her side. She sometimes lingered far behind, as Fanny and Emma walked arm-in-arm; but there was neither envy nor jealousy in this. She knew that Fanny was ashamed of being kind and affectionate, and she thought it best that they should be left to themselves; so she kept with Alice, and tried to do her good.
That night, as the sun went down, Fanny might have been seen standing at the door, where she had bid Mary and Emma good-night. Alice was preparing to go, but Fanny seemed quite forgetful of her. She was still looking far down the road, where Mary and Emma, with an arm around each other's waist, were walking slowly along. Alice prided herself on being more genteel in her manners than was Fanny Brighton; but she had not Mary Palmer's self-forgetting courtesy. All the afternoon she had felt vexed, because she imagined that but little notice had been taken of herself; and now, as Fanny stood so absent-minded, picking a rose to pieces, as her eyes wandered far away, Alice hurriedly put on her bonnet, and said, in a tone of pique, "Good-night, Miss Brighton; I suppose you would like now to cut acquaintance with me."
"Nonsense," said Fanny. "Wait a moment, I am going a little way with you;" and as they walked along, Fanny tried to be herself again.
"There comes Graffam," said she: "now I hope that he is drunk; if so, we will make him tell about the times when he was major."
But in this Fanny was disappointed. Soberly, but sadly, the poor man of the plain came along, and shrunk from the gaze of those merry girls.
"O," said Fanny, "Uncle Pete is not tipsy; so we shall not hear from the major to-night."
Poor Graffam passed them quickly, for he heard this remark; and a deeper shade of gloom came over him. "What is the use of this dreadful struggle?" thought he. "What suffering this self-denial has cost me! and yet what is gained? Nothing, but to know that I am ridiculed and despised."
"It is the first time," said Fanny to herself, as she parted with Alice that night—"the first time that I have ever acted a part: but I would not have her suspect my feelings; and why do I feel so?"
Thus thought Fanny, as she sat down upon a rock by the roadside, and could not keep back the tears which came from a heart never so sad before. And why so sad? Fanny had been, for a few hours, in close converse with one who every day was becoming more and more meet for an inheritance with the saints in light. She had ridiculed and set at defiance the most common rules of politeness; but what was she to do with the self-forgetting, affectionate courtesy which she had seen, not forced nor constrained, but beaming forth so sweetly, so naturally, from those young disciples of Christ? Fanny felt that, however deceitful the world's polite intercourse might be, this was holy:—and how can sin approach purity without fear and trembling? She felt this mysterious fear. The reckless girl, whose highest boast had always been that she feared nothing, now trembled, as in imagination she changed places with Emma, and stood where she saw her standing,—upon the brink of the tomb.
It was on this evening that Emma was summoned to her mother's room. She found her mother sitting alone with Martha. There was no light there save moonlight, and Emma was glad, for she knew that her own countenance was deathly; and she had known that for weeks her mother had watched her narrowly.
"Emma, my dear," said Mrs. Lindsay, "you understand the reason of my coming to this place—that it was solely on your account."
"Yes, mamma," said Emma.
"I have invited some of the gayest of our young friends," continued Mrs. Lindsay, "to keep us company; and all this because I wanted you to make the most of being in the country. I have them here, my love, to talk, to ride, to run, and walk with you. This was the advice of your physician. He said that you would soon become healthy and happy, provided his directions were faithfully followed: but they are not; and how can we expect these favorable results? You neither ride nor walk with suitable company; not that I care much about your present associations. If they are conducive to health, that is sufficient: but I have reason to think, dear, that you spend a great part of your time alone—that you go into the woods, not with your gay young friends (as the doctor requires) to run and have a good frolic, but to sit down and read. Is it not so?"
"Yes, mamma," said Emma, "it is so. I cannot run now, and I get very tired in walking only a short distance; but it rests me, dear mother, to read the Bible."
"But how can I have you go away alone to read your Bible, and think sadly of—being so weak?" asked her mother.
"Not sadly," replied Emma; "I do not think sadly, mother, for all the sadness is gone; and if I have not become healthy, I certainly have become happy, very happy, since we came to Appledale. It is true that I see a great deal to be done now, and wish sometimes that those who have the prospect of years before them would undertake this work."
"I am glad that you mentioned this," said Mrs. Lindsay; "you have imbibed some of Dora's strange notions, my dear, about living for others. You may be assured, Emma, that I have not sacrificed so much for any object save that of your health. I did not leave the society of the refined and intelligent for the sake of benefiting the rude and ignorant; and I would have you remember what was my object. You have nothing to do with this community only with a view to your health. If such society amuses you, mingle with it freely, but waste no thoughts upon the people here. They have always taken care of themselves, and can do this still without any help from little Emma Lindsay."
This the mother said playfully, as she kissed her cheek, and added: "I did not give you a fashionable education, my dear; but it was not because I intended you for a missionary."
"My heavenly Father may have intended this," replied Emma; "and you would not oppose Him, mother, for he has purchased me with a great price. We may be unwilling to make the smallest sacrifice for our fellow-creatures, yet God gave his only Son a sacrifice for us."
"How that child talks," said Mrs. Lindsay, bursting into tears as Emma left the room.
"And yet," replied Martha, "if we cannot save her, mother, you would rather that she should be as she is."
The mother made no reply, for she knew not what to say.
Emma's first summer and winter at Appledale had passed away. It was a beautiful morning in May; Martha Lindsay was sitting beside a low couch where her young sister was sleeping so sweetly, so gently, that she had more than once placed her cheek close to those parted lips fearing that the breath was gone. Dora was in her little room adjoining Emma's, and with hands uplifted in prayer, was asking this one thing of the Lord, that as in life so in death, Emma might glorify him. Mrs. Lindsay was pacing the floor in her own chamber, now weeping as if her heart would break, and now striving in this hour of deep distress, to do as Emma had long entreated her to do, namely, to come weary and heavy laden to Him who in no wise will cast us out. Mr. Graffam was at work in the garden; but his eye, now clear and intelligent, often rested on the chamber windows where the curtains were folded so close and solemnly.
Susan Sliver had watched with Emma many a night, and now she had retired for a few moments while Emma slept. Susan no longer sighed for Olivet and Kedron, for in a Christian's earnest daily work she had found places equally sacred.
"I have come to hear thy dying testimony, Emma," said friend Sliver, as drawing his broad-brimmed hat more closely over his eyes, the old man took his seat beside the bed.
Emma smiled feebly. "Are any more of my friends here?" she asked.
"Fanny Brighton is in the keeping-room," said Martha.
"Call her," whispered Emma; and in a few moments Fanny was kneeling beside the bed sobbing violently, while Emma pressed her hand, but could not speak. But there was a bright triumphant smile upon her face as Mary Palmer came in; and Mary smiled too through her tears. She had spent many a day with Emma since that first summer at Appledale; and now, though a little girl, and a young Christian, she felt somewhat as did Elisha when he awaited the horsemen and chariot which were coming for Elijah.
Emma looked around the room and stretched her hand toward her mother, who had just entered with Dora. Mrs. Lindsay took that cold hand into her own, and then Emma repeated I Cor. xiii, 13, "And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity."
Emma's breath grew shorter, but she was able to add a verse which she had often read in Dora's hymn book:—
"This is the grace must live and sing
When faith and hope shall cease,
And sound from every joyful string
Through all the realms of bliss."
These were the last audible words uttered by Emma. When another morning came it found her cold and silent, dressed for the grave. The spring blossoms breathed their sweet fragrance into her open window, but Emma was gone—gone to the land of unfading bloom; yet her life, short and beautiful as the spring, had left in passing a more enduring fragrance than that of early blossom and flower.
Little by little does the husbandman cast the precious seed into the earth, and drop by drop comes the genial shower upon the green herb, yet who does not despise the day of small things? Young, feeble Christian, the world will never do thee justice, for in the great war of mighty deeds thy meek, noiseless charity is unheard and forgotten; but fear not, God keeps his own jewels. Do what thou canst, and thus provide for thyself "a treasure in the heavens that faileth not."
There are some things spoken of in the town where Emma died, things not wholly forgotten, but far back in the distance of years. It is said that Mr. Graffam, who is now a Church-member and a town officer, was once a complete sot, living in a log-hut upon the plain. So much for the temperance reform. It is said, too, that the pious, charitable old lady, Mrs. Lindsay, and her good daughter Martha, now living at Appledale, were once very thoughtless, fashionable people; that the gentle, amiable Mrs. Boyd was, when a girl and living with her grandparents, one of the rudest and most reckless creatures living; that Susan and Margaret Sliver, now earnest, efficient co-operaters in every good cause, were once vain, frivolous, and almost hopelessly sentimental. Many such things are said; but there are but few who trace the changes that have taken place in those characters to their proper cause. We think, however, that if these persons could express what their secret hearts feel, they would ascribe the changes they have experienced to the grace of God first influencing them through the medium of simple Christian courtesy.