11. CHAPTER XI.
FANNY.
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not
Before his weary pilgrimage began.
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.
Farewell a word that must be, and hath been,
A sound that makes us linger,yet farewell
Childe Harold.
What a happy creature was Fanny Fowler!
happy in her own blithe heart and her
own sweet temper. But she was not now
the little laughing Fanny of other days; but
the levely and innocent maiden of sweet sixteen.
And she was a favorite with all, and,
most of all, with Mrs. Merton, the kind lady
who had adopted her. All loved the sweet
girl, and joyed to hear her merry voice at
home, or her light laugh in the green woods.
And Fanny was grateful, too, to her kind
friends. Bright and joyous would she return
from her early rambles, when summer sprinkled
the fields with snow-drops, and garlanded
the woods with jessamine, to lay on
Mrs. Merton's table the freshest bunch of
flowers. But most of all she loved to prepare
a flower-gift for her Henry, and many a
green wreath and sweet boquet were woven
to send to Bosten for her dear brother. But
when from him came a letter, then was the
maiden's gladnass. It was read again and
again, and thea deposited among her choicest
treasures.
It was a cold, raw afternoon. Fanny had
just returned from school, and sat with Mrs.
Merton, by the bright fire, reading a story of
the pilgrims' trials and triumphs. It was her
usual occupation the long winter afternoons.
A knock came to the door.
“A letter for Miss Fanny,” said Cæsar,
as his shining face appeared at the parlor-door.
“O, from Henry,” cried she, dropping her
book, and starting up. The good black's
countenance reflected the joy that sparkled
in the eyes of his young mistress. He handed
her the letter, and then lingered to ask
about “Massa Henry's” health.
Fanny broke the seal. Alas for the joy of
the sister's heart! It was her brother's farewell
and blessing. He was going to South
America. The letter fell from the sister's
hand, and she burst into passionate tears.
Mrs. Merton drew the poor girl to her bosom,
and Fanny tried again to read:—
“ * * * * Fanny, I have been wronged;
suspected of a crime; and I cannot explain.
I shall go a distant land. When I return, I
trust, my immocence will be established. O,
my dear sister, may heaven guard you! Remember
your poor brother, and pray for him.
Good-bye, my dear, dear Fanny —”
She could read no farther, but, throwing
her arms around the neck of Mrs. Merton,
she sobbed long and bitterly. Had he then
left her — his sister — and gone to a foreiga
land? she could not bolieve it. “He would
not leave his Fanny!” she murmured. But
he was suspected — of a crime! What was
it?
Her kind friend's tears mingled with the
orphan's, as she perused poor Henry's letter.
It was the outpouring of a brother's love;
and there was so much sorrow, too, and yet
so high, so noble a tone of resolution in it,
that she could not but believe the writer's
was a virtuous soul. “Dear Fanny,” she
said, “do not weep Of whatever he is accused,
I believe he is innocent. Dry your
tears, my dear child, and pray with me that
he may be proved so.”
The orphan knelt by the side of her kind
hearted friend, and prayed for her her far-off
brother.
But the next day a letter came from Mr.
Abbot, and the cold, hard statement of the
merchant almost carried conviction to the
mind of Mrs. Merton. A postscript was in
Mrs. Abbot's hand, and it relieved the heart
of her sister, for it spoke her belief in Henry's
innocence, and her fear that Mr. Abbot
was deceived.
A kind note came, too, from Lucia; a note
for Henry's sister. Fanny wept and smiled
over it; for it breathed the writer's confidence
in the suspected one, and her love and
sympathy for his sister. “May heaven bless
her kind heart,” said she; “for she believes
my brother guiltless.”
“You had better write to your cousin Lucia,”
said Mrs. Merton.
Fanny looked up in her face; “Cousin?”
she said.
“And are you not my adopted daughter,
my dear child?” said the lady, kissing the
orphan's forehead.
Fanny's tears gushed forth again, but they
were not sorrowful tears. “Cousin!” she
repeated; “cousin Lucia!”
How much often lies hid in a single word!
How much the future may develope! Time
is the Grave-digger—and—the Resurrectionist!
