by Oliver Optic
CHAPTER X.
GOOD OUT OF EVIL.
Peacefully, on what had been her couch of pain, lay the silent form ofJenny. The room resounded with the sobs of the mother and the brother,and hardly less with the wailings of the stranger, who, in a few briefhours had found and lost the truest and best of earthly friends. Thedarkness gathered, and still they wept--the darkness from which Jennyhad fled to the brightness of the eternal world, where there is nonight or sorrow. There was woe in that humble abode, while heaven'shigh arches rang with paeans of rejoicing that a ransomed soul hadjoined the happy bands above.
There were no kind and sympathizing friends to go into that hovel anddeck the marble form in the vestments of the grave. Fanny was the firstto realize that there was something to be done: she was a stranger tosuch a scene; she knew not what to do; but she told Mrs. Kent that shewould go out and obtain assistance. With hurried step she walked downto the residence of the physician who had so gently and feelinglyministered to the sufferer. She found the doctor at home, and informedhim of the sad event. Since his return he had told his wife anddaughter of the beautiful girl who was dying in the cottage up thestreet. He called them into his library, and Fanny, with tearful eyesand broken voice, repeated her narrative of the passing away of poorJenny.
The ladies promptly expressed their intention to visit the bereavedmother, and discharge the duties the occasion required. A carriage wascalled, in which the benevolent physician, his wife and daughter, andFanny, proceeded to the house of Mrs. Kent. They were the kindest andtenderest of friends, and the sorrowing mother, grateful to them fortheir good offices, and grateful to God for sending them to her, wasrelieved of a great load of pain and anxiety. At a late hour theydeparted, with the promise to come again on the following day.
Hour after hour Mrs. Kent and Fanny sat in the chamber of death,talking about the gentle one who had passed away, and was at rest. Itwas nearly morning before Fanny, worn out by excitement and fatigue,could be prevailed upon to take the rest she needed. Mrs. Kent made abed for her on the kitchen floor, and she slept for a few hours. Whenshe awoke, her first thought was of Jenny; and all the events of theprevious day and evening passed in review before her. Her soul had beensanctified by communion with the sainted spirit of her departed friend.On the day before, her current of being seemed suddenly to have stoppedin its course, and then to have taken a new direction. Her thoughts,her hopes, her aspirations had all been changed. She had resolved to begood--so solemnly and truly resolved to be good, that she felt like anew creature.
She prayed to the good Father, who had been revealed to her by thedying girl; and from her prayers came a strength which was a new lifeto her soul. From her strong desire to be good--to be what Jenny hadbeen--had grown up a new faith.
In the forenoon came the wife and daughter of the good physician againupon the mission of mercy. They had requested the attendance of anundertaker, and assumed the whole charge of the funeral of Jenny, whichwas to take place on the third day after her death.
Fanny had hardly thought of herself since the angel of death enteredthe house, though she had been weighed down by a burden of guilt thatdid not embody itself in particular thoughts. In her sincere penitence,and in her firm and sacred resolve to be good and true, she had foundonly a partial peace of mind. She had not a doubt in regard to herfuture course: she must return to Woodville, and submit to anypunishment which her kind friends might impose upon her. She waswilling to suffer for what she had done; she was even willing to besent to her uncle's in Minnesota; and this feeling of submission wasthe best evidence to herself of the reality of her repentance.
She was not willing to return to Woodville till she had seen the mortalpart of Jenny laid away in its final resting-place. But Mr. Grant, whowas at Hudson with his daughters, might already have been informed ofher wicked conduct; and Mr. Long was probably still engaged in thesearch for her. There was a duty she owed to her friends which herawakened conscience would not permit her to neglect. The family wouldbe very anxious about her, for wayward and wilful as she had been, shefelt that they still loved her. Procuring pen and paper, she wrote aletter to Mrs. Green, informing her that she should return home onFriday; that she would submit to any punishment, and endeavor to begood in the future. She sealed the note, and put it in the post-office,with a feeling that it was all she could do at present as an atonementfor her faults. If it was not all she could do, it was an error ofjudgment, not of the heart.
On Thursday the form of Jenny was placed in the coffin. It was not apauper's coffin; it was a black-walnut casket--plain, butrich--selected by Mrs. Porter, the physician's lady, who could notpermit the form of one so beautiful to be enclosed in a lessappropriate receptacle. The choicest flowers lay upon her breast, and abeautiful wreath and cross were placed upon the casket before thefuneral services commenced.
The clergyman was a friend of Dr. Porter, and he was worthy to be thefriend of so true a man. The service was solemn and touching; no wordof hope and consolation was omitted because they stood in the humbleabode of poverty and want. He spoke of the beautiful life and the happydeath of Jenny, and prayed that her parents might be comforted; thatthe little brother might be blessed by her short life, and that "thedevoted young friend, who had so tenderly watched over the last hoursof the departed," might be sanctified by her holy ministrations. Thefather, living or dead, wherever suffering, or wherever battlingagainst the foes of his country, was remembered.
Fanny wept, as all in the house wept, when the good man feelinglydelineated the lovely character of her who was still so beautiful inher marble silence; when he recalled those tender scenes on the eveningof her death, which had been faithfully described to him by Fanny. Thecasket was placed in the funeral car, and followed by two carriages,--oneof which contained Mrs. Kent, Eddy, and Fanny, and the other the familyof Dr. Porter,--to Greenwood Cemetery. Sadly the poor mother turnedaway from the resting-place of her earthly treasure, and the little_cortege_ returned to the house from which the light had gone out. Thelast solemn, sacred duty had been performed; Jenny had gone, but herpure influence was still to live on, and bless those who had never evenknown her.
When the little party reached the house, Dr. Porter, after some remarksabout the solemn scenes through which they had just passed, inquiredmore particularly than he had been permitted to do before into thecircumstances of the family. He promised to procure for her the moneydue to her as a soldier's wife, and to obtain some light employment forher. Mrs. Kent was very grateful to him for his kind interest inherself, and in her lost one, assuring him that she did not ask forcharity, and was willing to work hard for a support.
"You have been a blessing to me, Fanny," said Mrs. Kent, when thephysician and his family had departed. "I am sure that God sent youhere to save me from misery and despair. What should I have done if youhad not come?"
"I think I was sent for my own sake, rather than for yours, for I knowthat it has been a greater blessing to me than to you," replied Fanny.
"That can't be."
"It is so. When I told Jenny that I had been a very wicked girl, Imeant so."
"I'm sure that one who has been so kind can't be very bad," added Mrs.Kent, rather bewildered by the confession of her benefactor. "Where didyou say you lived, Fanny?"
The wanderer had been obliged to invent a story in the beginning toaccount for her absence from home, and the poor woman's heart had beentoo full of gratitude to permit any doubt to enter there.
"I have deceived you, Mrs. Kent," replied Fanny, bursting into tears."I do not live in the city; my home is twenty-five miles up the river.But I did not mean to deceive poor Jenny. I wanted to tell her what awicked deed I had done, but she would not let me."
"She was too good to think evil of any one, and especially of you, whohave been so generous to us."
"You know the paper she wrote and gave to me?"
"Yes."
"I know from that she believed I had done something very bad."
"Perhaps she d
id."
"She told me how to be good. The very sight of her made me feel howwicked I was. I mean to be good."
"Then I am sure you will be."
"I shall always think of Jenny, and the anchor she gave me, when I amtempted to do wrong. I feel that Jenny has saved me, and made me a newbeing."
"I'm sure I hope so; and I am glad you came here for your own sake, aswell as for mine. But I can't believe that one who has been good to mydear lost one can be very bad," replied Mrs. Kent, gloomily.
"I am--at least, I was; for I know I am ever so much better than I waswhen I came here. I ran away from home!"
"Ran away!" exclaimed Mrs. Kent, appalled at the words.
"Yes; and I did even worse than that."
"Dear me! I hope not. I thought it was strange that a young lady likeyou should have so much money; but my heart was so full that I didn'tthink much about it."
"Mrs. Kent, I stole that money!" added Fanny, her face crimson with theblush of shame.
"Mercy on me! I can't believe it."
"It is true."
"It was wrong of me to take the money," added Mrs. Kent, actuallytrembling with apprehension at the thought. "I will pay it all backsome time, Fanny. I can work now. I'm sure I wouldn't have taken themoney if I had thought you did not come rightly by it."
Fanny then told the whole story, and described her feelings from thetime she had first seen Mrs. Kent in front of the house.
"I am so sorry!" said the poor woman, wringing her hands as she thoughtof her own participation in the use of the stolen property. "I wouldrather have been turned out of the house than be saved by such money."
"Don't cry, Mrs. Kent. I am almost sorry I told you anything about it."
"I'm glad poor Jenny didn't know it."
"So am I; but I am sure she knew how guilty I had been, though shedidn't know exactly what I had done."
"I think there is hope for you, Fanny. You must have a kind heart, oryou couldn't have done what you did for Jenny. I'm sure I feel verygrateful to you."
"Now you know me as I am, Mrs. Kent; but I tell you most solemnly, thatI mean to be good always after this. I am sorry for my wicked deeds,and I am willing to be punished for what I have done. I shall alwaysbless poor Jenny for saving me from error and sin--if I am saved."
"What are you going to do, Fanny?"
"I am going back to Woodville to-morrow morning. I will give up all themoney I have, confess my fault, and let them do with me as they thinkbest."
"You can tell them I will pay back all the money you spent for me, justas soon as I can."
"Mr. Grant is very rich, and he will not ask you to do that. He is verykind, too."
"But I must do it, and I shall have no peace till it is done,"protested the poor woman. "I'll tell you what I will do. I will giveyou a note for the money."
Mrs. Kent was in earnest. She was sorely troubled by the fact that shehad even innocently received any of the stolen money. In the eveningshe wrote the note, which was made payable to Mr. Grant, and insistedthat Fanny should take it. They talked of nothing but the guilt of therunaway, though rather of the means of making reparation for the wrong,than of the consequences of the wrong acts. Mrs. Kent was fullyconvinced that Fanny was sincerely penitent; that her intercourse withJenny had ushered her into a new life. She was even willing to believe,before they retired that night, that it was all for the best; that Hewho brings good out of evil, would bring a blessing out of the wrongwhich Fanny had done.
The next morning the wanderer bade farewell to Mrs. Kent, and took thetrain for Woodville.