were reached, Squire lifted the children down, cautioning them against
lingering too late, mounted his wagon and was about starting when there
appeared a little ahead two horsemen riding abreast and coming directly
toward the children. They were dressed in gray, and sat their horses with
the air of "Charlie has come to his own again," softly singing snatches of
"My Old Kentucky Home." Roberta could hardly believe her eyes.
"O, Uncle Squire, it's the rebels, it's the rebels!"
"Yes, it's 'pintly dem," he answered, a broad grin overspreading his face.
When they came up with the children they drew rein, and one of them
reached out his hand to Roberta. It was the soldier boy.
"Have you come for your gun?" asked she.
[Illustration: "Have you come for your gun?" the child asked. "Yes, and to
see you," was the reply.]
"Yes, and to see you."
The child had no coquetry in her nature, else would have noticed the
earnest look in the boy's brown eyes that accompanied his significantly
spoken words. As it was, she only smiled and said:
"Well, I kept it for you; and are you as hungry as you were that night?"
"Well, yes, I reckon so. Soldiers generally are; at least our boys are.
But why do you ask? I wanted you to forget how many beat biscuits I ate."
"Because I've got a nice lunch here that I will give you. Aunt Judy fixed
it up for me to have a tea party in the woods."
"Who were you going to have at your tea party--Brer Rabbit and Brer Fox?"
"No, indeed," said the child, a fine scorn kindling her features; "no,
indeed. We were going to have General Morgan and Uncle Charlie and you. Of
course it was make-believe. That's the way we play, but we like it ever so
much."
"Well, if I take your chicken fixings you can't have any tea party."
"O yes, I can. I can just make-believe some hungry soldier has come along
and eaten it all up."
"There is no make-believe about that," laughed the soldier; "that's real."
There was a smothered sound in the direction of Polly. The boy turned
toward her, evidently seeing her for the first time.
"What's the matter with you, tar baby?"
"I wuz gwiner tell you erbout de time de Union sojer stole Miss Betsy's
bee-hives, en he wuz dat hongry he pitch en ter de honey fo' de bees got
out, en one git en hees frote en stung him; Lawdy, how he hollered! But I
won't, cors you called me tar baby."
"I beg your pardon, I meant no offense. I just have an unfortunate habit
of calling things by their names. I am like the hungry old lady who sung:
"'Alack-alack, alack-alack!
A dinner's a dinner, a snack's a snack.
I can call them none other, alack-alack!'
"But I think I have gotten the gist of your story from the preamble; so
am not inconsolable. Anyhow," he turned to Roberta, "if you wait here a
little you can have a sure-enough General Morgan and Uncle Charlie at your
tea party. They are just behind. Only, if they are as hungry as I am, I
don't know how they will like that make-believe part."
Away ran the child to Squire that she might tell him Uncle Charlie was
just behind, and urge him forward to meet him. The soldier looked after
her with a rueful expression.
"'Le roi est mort; vive le roi!'" he said--("'The king is dead; live the
king!') My little sweetheart is a gem, if she did go back on me for Uncle
Charlie."
While Lewie Kurl talked with Roberta the animal he rode seemed laboring
under strange excitement. She looked back at the horses in old Squire's
wagon, neighed joyously and with spirit. Absorbed in his conversation,
Lewie let the reins fall loosely about the mare's neck. In an instant she
turned and made for the wagon. Then began a pantomimic show of
affectionate demonstrations. The old comrades of the stable and meadow
kissed and caressed each other fondly. It required a firm hold upon the
reins to separate them. When Lewie rejoined his companion his mare tossed
her mane angrily at the turn affairs had taken. Little shivers of
dissatisfaction ran over her. She continued to look back and neigh, almost
viciously, and one of the horses in old Squire's wagon responded in like
manner.
Back again to the bluegrass,
Horse and rider too;
Back again to the old haunts,
Comrades tried and true.
Forgot, the weary marches;
Forgot, the hunger and cold.
Back again to the bluegrass,
And hearts whose worth is gold.
As old Squire and the children moved on a squad of soldiers mounted the
crest of the hill, then halted. They met right there a man in citizen's
clothes, on horseback, with a pair of fat saddle-bags swung across the
pommel of his saddle. The men in gray surrounded him instantly; one seized
hold of his bridle-rein, another made threatening demonstrations toward
his saddle-bags.
"O, Uncle Squire," cried Roberta, "that's Mr. Shanks, that's Sallie's dear
grandpapa! O, my heart just trembles for him. I hope they won't do any
thing to him."
"Yes, dat's him. He dun kotch up wid at las'. He gwiner be paid back fur
all hees meanness at las'."
"Where are you going?" asked he who held the bridle-rein.
"Home, to my family."
"What have you got in your saddle-bags?" was next asked.
"Nothing but a calico dress for my wife."
"Well, hand it out; I know a 'print' when I see it," responded he who had
made the threatening demonstrations towards the saddle-bags--was even then
diving in them.
"O, Uncle Squire," cried Roberta, "won't they give the calico dress back
to him? Poor Mrs. Shanks needs it awfully. The one she has on is all
faded, and her elbows are out."
"If he's gotter calicer dress en thar fur her," grunted old Squire,
"'twill be de fus'. I heered her say he never give her de rappens ob her
finger, en dat she wuden min' hees whippen' her ef hee'd unly previde fur
her."
He who was diving in Mr. Shanks' saddle-bags, drew thence a long slip of
white paper with something printed on it in black letters. He cleared his
throat, and read aloud the following:
"Fellow-citizens, I took up arms for my country in the War of 1812,
and were it not for the infirmities of age, would be again in the
saddle, to drive that notorious horse-thief and scoundrel, John
Morgan, from the State."
"You would, hey?" said the soldier. "Well, wait here a little, and see
what General Morgan says about that."
A dust was even then arising ahead, and in a few moments a squad of
Confederates dashed up. The foremost one, a soldierly looking-man, with a
pair of keen, humorous eyes, halted beside the group on the hill-side.
"What are you detaining this gentleman for?" he asked, in a clear,
ringing voice; "we are not making war on citizens."
"Well; but, General, just see this circular," handing him one.
General Morgan took it, glanced over it, then with a shrug of his
shoulders and a "pshaw!" dropped it to the ground, and rode on. The
vidette followed him.
"Well; but, General, what must we do with the prisoner?"
"Do?" responded the General, "Do? Why, turn him loose. He is nothing but a
little constable."
Up to the moment Roberta heard the circular read, her sympathies were all
with Mr. Shanks, the poor man looked so terribly frightened. He had
started out with his circulars, not knowing the Confederates were within a
hundred miles; and he expected every moment to have a bullet put through
his brain, or be swung up to the nearest limb. When she heard the circular
read, the wind veered from another quarter altogether.
As the soldiers rode off, the released prisoner came swiftly towards
Squire and the children.
"I wish you would let me empty these drotted things under them 'taters an'
apples, thar," he said.
Roberta came forward before Squire could reply.
"No, indeed, you can't put those dreadful things in our wagon. No, indeed.
I heard what you said about my Uncle Charlie, just the dearest and best
man on this earth."
"I never said nothing about your Uncle Charlie," said Mr. Shanks,
recognizing the child.
"Well, you said it about General Morgan, and that's the same thing. My
Uncle Charlie is one of his captains, and I think General Morgan is the
bestest man that ever lived not to do something awful to you. If I was
you, I would turn over a new leaf, and stop writing bad things about
people, your neighbors, too; and the Bible says, 'Love your neighbors as
yourself.' Mamma read it to me last night."
Who was that dashing towards them in a cloud of dust? Dust whitening his
long, unkempt beard; whitening his brown, curly locks; belted all around
with pistols and knives; teeth glistening through his tawny mustache;
radiant, positively radiant with joy, as he leaped from his panting horse,
and fairly crushed the startled child in his arms? She screamed aloud in
nervous terror.
"O, you goosey!" said he, "don't you know Uncle Charlie?"
The next minute he had sprung on to the wagon wheel, squeezed old Squire's
hand until the bones snapped, and snatched up a hatful of russets,
craunching one of them between his white teeth, stopping after each bite
to ask questions about everybody at home. Well, I reckon there were never
three happier children than the three who returned home that afternoon,
with the tall soldier walking beside them, leading his horse, and eating
russet apples as fast as ever he could. Old Squire jolted slowly along
behind, grinning from ear to ear.
Uncle Charlie wouldn't sleep in the house that night, but wrapped himself
in his blanket and laid down on the ground under a great elm tree in the
corner of the yard, with his faithful horse close by. Mrs. Marsden and
Roberta watched from an upper porch, and old Squire by the avenue gate.
At least Roberta thought she watched, but next morning mamma told her with
tears in her eyes that Uncle Charlie was gone, that somebody had given him
away. Uncle Squire heard the Federals coming, and told him, and he barely
had time to escape.
In February of '64 old Squire came out from town one afternoon strutting,
as Aunt Judy said, for all the world just "lak er turkey goberler." He
made six consecutive trips to the sitting-room, carrying one stick of wood
each time as a pretext, before he caught Roberta's eye. When he finally
succeeded, he beckoned mysteriously to her, and she got right up and
followed him from the room. He led her out of ear-shot of the others
before he told her what he wanted.
"Lil Missus, how's it happen dat you never axes me no mo' whar your par
is?"
"Because, Uncle Squire, I am afraid you will tell me 'lay o'ers to catch
meddlers.'"
"I neber sed erlong wid dat, honey, 'en you'd be de fus' one caught.'
Well, if I never sect dat, thar's nuffin' sartin erbout who I means when I
sez 'lay o'ers ter ketch meddlers'; you musen jump et conclugeons, honey.
Ennyhow, you ax me ergin, en see what I'll say dis time."
She asked him, her eager eyes uplifted to his face, her small hands
clasped, wondering and hope bursting into instant full dawn. A way hope
has of doing in youth.
The old man went through his accustomed facial pantomime, slapped himself
on the thigh, and blurted out:
"In town wid de Unions. He is Kyurnel Robert Marsden now."
"Who told you, Uncle Squire?" Her eyes were filled with sudden gathered
tears, and her scarlet lips trembled.
"Jim, dat is Kyurnel Tadlock's man, telled me. He seed him en know'd him.
But he is mity sick, honey, mity sick."
"O, Uncle Squire," cried the delighted child, "won't mamma go right
straight in town and take me?"
"Well, now, dat's er gray hoss ob ernuther color. Mebbe she mout, en mebbe
she mouten."
The child's countenance fell, her sensitive nature touched. Already a
womanly intuition, wonderful in one so childlike and ignorant of the
world's ways, begun to stir faintly.
"If mamma can't leave Aunt Betsy, don't you reckon she will let me go with
you in town to see him, Uncle Squire?"
"You en your mar fur dat, honey. But Squire's your man."
That night after Aunt Betsy had been given her medicine and tucked away,
the child climbed to her mamma's lap and coddled down to her.
Instinctively she wanted the magnetism of touch to help her. And then,
with her warm breath playing about her mamma's cheek, and her little hand
nestling in hers, she told her what Squire had heard. Mrs. Marsden was not
especially startled. She had suffered so much it seemed to her sometimes
that her feelings were numb.
"Aren't you going in town to see him, Mamma?" the child asked.
"Me! Oh, no; I couldn't. You don't know what you ask, darling." Tears
gathered in the beautiful sad eyes.
"Then, may I go, Mamma? May I? Squire will take good care of me."
The mother-arms tightened around the childish form. An unwonted jealousy
sprung up in the mother-heart. Hitherto she had had her all to herself.
"Would you leave me, darling," she asked, "my one comfort? Suppose he
should take you away from me, and carry you off where I could seldom see
you, what would become of me?"
The child looked up in the beautiful, agitated face with surprise.
"He would never do that. Mamma, never. In the first place, nobody on
earth _could_ take me away from my darling mamma. Then he wouldn't take me
away if he could. That would be too mean for any thing, and Squire says my
papa is a splendid gentleman."
Mrs. Marsden made no reply to this. She sat gazing dreamily into the
glowing fire. Splendid? Yes, that was what she thought him before the hard
feeling came between them. She recalled his eyes, glowing--tender. Her
little daughter had them exactly. Those ardent glances had so bewitched
her she could have followed them to the ends of the earth.
"Suppose he should die, poor papa, all by himself? Squire says he is very,
very sick."
"God forbid!" cried Mrs. Marsden, "God forbid."
"If papa has come all the way down to Kentucky," continued Roberta, "I
don't believe he came down here just to fight us, I don't indeed. It looks
to me more like he is hunting for somebody. And who should that somebody
be but my own darling mamma?"
"It isn't probable he is hunting me, darling. It has been ten long years
since he went away. He knows where the old place is. He could have found
me easily enough."
"Well, but may be he wasn't exactly sure about you wanting him to come. He
might have wanted ever so bad to come himself, and yet been afraid _you_
didn't want him. I wouldn't go where I wasn't sure I was wanted,"
continued the child, a fine scorn curving her lips, "no, not for any
thing."
How much she looked like her father when she said that.
"May I go, Mamma?" she coaxed again. "Say yes, dear Mamma. You don't know
how I've longed to have a papa like other little girls."
Then the sorely tried heart gave a great leap and got way beyond self.
"Yes, you may go, darling," she cried; "and may the God of the pure in
heart watch over you and bring you back safely to your lonely mother."
The child coddled down again to her.
"What must I tell him for you, Mamma?" she asked.
Mrs. Marsden started. She had not expected that.
"Send him kind message, Mamma, just like your own sweet self. You are so
good to everybody, and he is your little daughter's papa, and you love him
dearly, don't you, dear Mamma?"
Then the woman-heart gave a great leap and reached out to that other heart
the child was pleading for, and it seemed as if they touched, although
miles separated them, and pride lay prostrate.
"I have erred," she reasoned dumbly, "erred in the sight of God and man. I
have been hard, hard. What right have I to hold him to so strict an
account? By my own contrition and unutterable yearning to behold his
face, will I judge him, and naught else, the husband of my youth, once
the delight of my eyes."
Then, having gone thus far, she could stop at nothing. Her eyes shone,
varying emotions chased over her beautiful face, her whole nature unbent,
tender, as when she stood in that room in the old days and heard the
benediction that pronounced them man and wife.
"O, you dear child!" she cried, "surely God has put in your little hands
the gift of healing. Tell him, tell him, your Father, that for ten long
years, the string has been on the outside of the latch for him. Tell
him"--then, utterly unable to say more, she bowed her head and wept.
Roberta clung to her and caressed her. That phase of her mother's
character touched her unspeakably, young as she was. She never forgot it.
It was a revelation of how blessed a possession is the heart that is
incapable of cherishing resentment.
"O, you darling mother!" she cried, "I don't believe God's angels are any
sweeter than you."
When Roberta and old Squire reached the house where they had been told
Colonel Marsden was lying sick they saw an officer sitting in the front
room, writing busily by a table. He looked up as they entered, startled by
the vision of childish beauty before him. Roberta's scarlet hood, edged
with swansdown, was pushed back, and her hair lay in fluffy golden rings
on her white forehead. Her cloak, the color of her hood, was bordered with
the same snowy, feathery trimming. She carried in her hand a tiny,
swansdown muff. The rich blood of health mantled her cheek. Her eyes were
like stars. Where had he seen them before, those wondrously beautiful
eyes?
In person and manner Roberta was like her mother, but her features were
her father's. A little aristocrat she was, from the poise of her golden
head to the tip of her prunella boots.
"Well," said the officer, laying down his pen, "what can I do for you,
little lady?"
The child turned to Squire, who came forward and stood in embarrassed
silence, uneasily shifting his position from one foot to the other. He had
been advised by saucy Polly "not ter skeer fo'ks ter def by de way he dun
his face," and he was a little out of his moorings. But finally he managed
to say:
"It's Mars Robert Marsden, sah, dat me and Lil Missus wan'er see."
"Well, who is Lil Missus? and what is she to Colonel Marsden?"
His admiring gaze was directed again to the child.
"Shee's his own flesh en blood, sah; nuffin' shorter; hees lil gal dat wuz
born'd arfter he wen' back ter N'ark."
"Whew," whistled the officer; "I didn't know Colonel Marsden was a family
man. That accounts for many things, I have always thought peculiar in a
man of his attractive personality. Well, I am sure I envy him his newly
found daughter. Wait here a little, and I will see if the Colonel is
awake. He is convalescent now, and will doubtless be glad to see you
both."
He returned in a moment and said, "Colonel Marsden is asleep, and I
thought best not to awaken him; but you shall see him," he said to
Roberta, "just as soon as he awakes."
The child could not repress her eagerness.
"I can't wait," she cried; "I want to see him so bad. Let me go in and
look at him while he is asleep. I won't make any noise. That's the way I
do mamma when she has headache."
"Well," said the officer, smiling, "go right in."
Squire started to follow.
"No; you wait outside. Two at once might make him a little nervous. He has
been a very sick man."
Roberta crept softly in on tiptoe. The room was darkened, and there was no
light save the reflection of the fire. Colonel Marsden was, in health, a
superbly handsome man. But, as he lay there in the dim light, emaciated
and pallid, there was something almost touching in the droop of his
shoulders and the look of helpless weakness about the mouth. It was not
long before he stirred uneasily and opened his eyes. His gaze fell
directly on the child sitting beside him and looking at him with her whole
heart in her eyes.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"I am Roberta Marsden. My papa's name is Robert, and my mamma called me
Roberta after him."
[Illustration: "My Papa's name was Robert, and my Mamma named me Roberta,
after him."]
He raised himself upon one elbow. A flush burned in his cheeks. It was
like a flame through alabaster.
"I don't understand," he said; "what does it all mean?"
Right there old Squire put in an appearance.
"Don't you know me, Mars Robert? It's Squire dat useter 'long ter you."
"Yes; I know you. How are you, Squire? But this child, who is she?"
"Your own flesh an' blood, Mars Robert, born'd after you went away an'
left Miss July."
Colonel Marsden sank back on the pillow with a groan and covered his eyes
with his hands.
"O, Uncle Squire!" cried Roberta, "you have hurt his feelings. But she
isn't mad at you, Papa, not a bit. She told me to tell you, that for ten
long years the string has been on the outside of the latch for you. She
did indeed, Papa."
"She is an angel," said Colonel Marsden. There was moisture in his fine
eyes.
"That's what Mam' Sarah says. She says she is afraid every morning that
she will find mamma's wings sprouting."
"But why was I not written to? Why was I not told I had a child?" Again a
groan escaped him. "My God!" he cried, "I forgot I had no right to
expect that. Like a self-willed child I wantonly threw away life's
choicest blessings, was unmindful of its most sacred obligations."
His lips moved for an instant in silent prayer, and then he stretched out
his arms yearningly toward the child and asked almost humbly:
"Will my little daughter give me a kiss?"
The child crept to him and kissed him again and again.
"I do not deserve this blessing from Heaven; I do not deserve this darling
little daughter."
"And you have the darlingest and most beautiful wife in all the world!"
cried the child.
"Lawd, honey!" said old Squire--he was in a broad grin--"he know'd her
long fo' you did."
"Is she like this?" asked Colonel Marsden.
He reached under his pillow and drew thence a small square case and handed
it to Roberta.
Roberta fairly screamed: "It's my mamma; it's my own darling mamma! Now I
know how much you love her, or you wouldn't carry her picture about with
you."
"It has never been away from me an instant, never one instant."
"Why did you stay away from her so long if you loved her so dearly?" Her
great brown eyes were lifted in wonder to his face. "I can't stay away
from her a single day. Sometimes, even when I'm just out in the yard
playing, I have to come back and peep at mamma, to be sure she is there."
A red flush mounted to Colonel Marsden's temples.
"I must tell her first, little daughter; and if she forgives me, will not
you?"
"O yes!" cried the child delightedly. "I won't wait for you to tell me.
I'll forgive you right now, before I know, and so will mamma. Mam' Sarah
says it makes you feel good all over to forgive people, 'sho' 'nuff.'"
Then, her tender heart touched by the appealing look in Colonel Marsden's
eyes, she added: "Mamma says we must have faith in people and not blame
'em, but believe that nearly everybody does the very best they can. And we
don't know, even when they do _wrong_, what makes 'em. You know, Papa,"
continued the little theologian gravely, "nobody ever does _exactly_ right
in this world."
When old Squire and Roberta returned home they found Aunt Betsy very sick,
and Mrs. Marsden entirely occupied at her bed-side. It was a great
disappointment to the child, she was so eager to bring father and mother
together, but Mrs. Marsden was firm.
"Your father does not need me, darling; but she does. And it is right
always to take up the duty that is nearest."
It was an anxious night; but when morning came the sick woman was better,
and resting easily. Soon after breakfast, as Mrs. Marsden and Roberta were
standing by the window in the sitting-room, and looking out at the yard,
bathed in light and sparkling with dew, an ambulance appeared in the
avenue. It stopped in front of the porch; two officers descended from it
and assisted a third one down the steps, then they supported him to the
door.
"It's papa," cried Roberta; "he is like me, he couldn't wait."