"Yes, and I'm going to buy some 'baccy' as he calls it, for old Uncle
Jack."
Mamma was duly consulted, approved of their plans, took them the next
day to the nearest village, let them select the goods themselves, then
helped them to cut out and make the garments. Eddie assisted by
threading needles and sewing on buttons, saying "that would do for a boy
because he had heard papa say he had sometimes sewed on a button for
himself when he was away at college."
To be sure the work might have been given to the seamstress, but it was
the desire of these parents to train their little ones to give time and
effort as well as money.
Chapter Fourth.
"O, what a state is guilt! how wild! how wretched!"
--HAVARD.
The war had wrought many changes in the neighborhood where our friends
resided; some who had been reared in the lap of luxury were now in
absolute want, having sacrificed almost their last dollar in the cause
of secession; to which also in numerous instances, the husbands, sons
and brothers had fallen victims.
Though through the clemency of the Government there had been no
executions for treason, no confiscation of property, many plantations
had changed hands because of the inability of the original owners to
work them, for lack of means to pay the laborers.
Elsie's tender sympathies were strongly enlisted for these old friends
and acquaintances, and their necessities often relieved by her bounty
when they little guessed whence help had come. Her favors were doubled
by the delicate kindness of the manner of their bestowal.
The ability to give largely was the greatest pleasure her wealth
afforded her, and one in which she indulged to the extent of disposing
yearly in that way, of the whole surplus of her ample income; not
waiting to be importuned, but constantly seeking out worthy objects upon
whom to bestow that of which she truly considered herself but a steward
who must one day render a strict account unto her Lord.
It was she who had repaired the ravages of war in Springbrook, the
residence of Mr. Wood, her pastor; she who, when the Fosters of
Fairview, a plantation adjoining Ion, had been compelled to sell it, had
bought a neat cottage in the vicinity and given them the use of it at a
merely nominal rent. And in any another like deed had she done; always
with the entire approval of her husband, who was scarcely less generous
than herself.
The purchaser of Fairview was a Mr. Leland, a northern man who had been
an officer in the Union army. Pleased with the southern climate and the
appearance of that section of country, he felt inclined to settle there
and assist in the development of its resources; he therefore returned
some time after the conclusion of peace, bought this place, and removed
his family thither.
They were people of refinement and culture, quiet and peaceable, steady
attendants upon Mr. Wood's ministry, and in every way conducted
themselves as good citizens.
Yet they were not popular: the Fosters, particularly Wilkins, the only
son, hated them as their supplanters, and saw with bitter envy the rapid
improvement of Fairview under Mr. Leland's careful cultivation. It was
no fault of his that they had been compelled to part with it, and he had
paid a fair price: but envy and jealousy are ever unreasonable; and
their mildest term of reproach in speaking of him was "carpet-bagger."
Others found fault with Mr. Leland as paying too liberal wages to the
negroes (including Mr. Horace Dinsmore and Mr. Travilla in the same
charge), and hated him for his outspoken loyalty to the Government; for
though he showed no disposition to seek for office or meddle in any way
with the politics of others, he made no secret of his views when
occasion seemed to call for their expression. It was not a prudent
course under existing circumstances, but accorded well with the frank
and fearless nature of the man.
Messrs. Dinsmore and Travilla, themselves strong Unionists, though the
latter was more discreet in the utterance of his sentiments, found in
him a kindred spirit. Rose and Elsie were equally pleased with Mrs.
Leland, and pitying her loneliness, called frequently, inviting a return
of their visits, until now the three families had become tolerably
intimate.
This state of things was extremely displeasing to Louise and Enna;
scarcely less so to their father; but the others, convinced that they
were in the path of duty in thus extending kindness and sympathy to
deserving strangers, who were also "of the household of _faith_," were
not to be deterred by remonstrances or vituperation. "Scalawags"--a term
of reproach applied by the Democrats of the South to the Republicans,
who were natives of that section--was what Enna called her brother, his
son-in-law and daughter, when out of hearing of her father, who though
vexed at their notice of the Lelands, was too strongly attached to his
only remaining son, and too sensible of the kindness he had received at
the hands of Mr. Travilla and Elsie, to permit anything of that sort.
The Lelands had several young children, well-bred and of good
principles, and it angered Louise and Enna that Elsie evidently
preferred them to their own rude, deceitful, spoiled offspring as
companions and playmates for her little ones.
Elsie and her husband were very desirous to live on good terms with
these near relatives, but not to the extent of sacrificing their
children's morals; therefore did not encourage a close intimacy with
their Roselands cousins; yet ever treated them politely and kindly, and
made a valuable present to each on every return of his or her birthday,
and on Christmas; always managing to select something specially desired
by the recipient of the favor.
Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore pursued a similar course; Rosie was allowed to be
as intimate as she chose at Ion, and with her Aunt Sophie's children,
but never visited Roselands except with her parents or sister; nor were
the Roseland cousins ever invited to make a lengthened stay at the Oaks.
One afternoon, several weeks subsequent to the events related in the
last chapter, Mary and Archie Leland came over to Ion to spend an hour
with their young friends.
The weather was delightful, and the children preferred playing out of
doors; the girls took their dolls to a summer-house in the garden, while
with kite, ball and marbles, the boys repaired to the avenue.
"Who are those?" asked Archie, as looking up at the sound of approaching
footsteps he saw two boys, a good deal older than themselves, coming
leisurely toward them.
"My cousins, Wal Conly and Dick Percival," answered Eddie. "I wish they
hadn't come, they always tease me so."
"Hilloa!" cried Dick, "what! Ed Travilla, you play with carpet-baggers,
eh? fie on you! I wouldn't be seen with one."
"That's not polite, Dick. Archie's a good boy; mamma and papa says so;
and I like him for a playfellow."
"You do? ah, that's because you're a scalawag."
"What's that?"
"What your father is and your grandfather too."
"Then I don't care; I want to be just like my papa."
"But it isn't nice," put in Walter, laughing, "a scalawag's the meanest
thing alive."
"Then you shall not call papa that, nor grandpa!" and the child's great
dark eyes flashed with anger.
"Whew! I'd like to see you hinder me. Look here, Ed," and Dick pulled
out a pistol, "what d'ye think o' that? don't you wish you had one?
don't you wish you could shoot?"
"I can," returned Eddie, proudly, "papa's been teaching me, and he's
given me a better pistol than that."
"Hey! a likely story!" cried the two tormentors, with an incredulous
laugh. "Let's see it now?"
"It's in the house, but papa said I should never touch it 'cept when he
gives it to me; not till I grow a big boy."
"Nonsense!" cried Dick, "if 'twas there, you'd bring it out fast
enough. I sha'n't believe a word of the story until I see the pistol."
"I'll show you if I'm not telling the truth;" exclaimed Eddie, flushing
hotly, and turning about as if to go into the house.
But Archie laid a hand on his arm, and speaking for the first time since
the others had joined them, "Don't, Eddie," he said persuasively, "don't
disobey your father; I know you'll be sorry for it afterwards."
"Hold your tongue, you young carpet-bagger," said Dick. "Run and get it,
Ed."
"No, never mind about his pistol, he can't shoot," said Walter,
mockingly. "If he can, let him take yours and prove it."
Eddie remembered well that his father had also forbidden him to touch
firearms at all, except when with him; but the boy was naturally proud
and wilful, and spite of all the careful training of his parents, these
faults would occasionally show themselves.
He did not like to have his word doubted, he was eager to prove his
skill, which he conceived to be far greater than it was, and as his
cousins continued to twit and tease him, daring him to show what he
could do, he was sorely tempted to disobey.
They were slowly walking on farther from the house as they talked, and
finally when Dick said, "why, Ed, you couldn't hit that big tree yonder,
I dare you to try it," at the same time offering him the pistol, the
little fellow's sense of duty suddenly gave way, and snatching the
weapon from Dick's hand, he fired, not allowing himself time, in his
haste and passion, to take proper aim.
In their excitement and pre-occupation, none of the boys had noticed Mr.
Travilla riding into the avenue a moment before, closely followed by his
body servant Ben. Almost simultaneously with the report of the pistol
the former tumbled from the saddle and fell heavily to the ground.
With a cry, "O, Mass Edard's killed!" Ben sprang from his horse and bent
over the prostrate form, wringing his hands in fright and grief. He was
his master's foster-brother and devotedly attached to him.
The fall, the cry, the snorting and running of the frightened horses,
instantly told the boys what had happened, and Eddie threw himself on
the ground screaming in an agony of grief and remorse, "O, I've killed
my father, my dear, dear father! O, papa, papa! what shall I do? what
shall I do?"
Mr. Leland coming in search of his children, the men passing the gate
returning from their work, all heard and rushed to the spot. The blacks
crowded about the scene of the accident, sobbing like children at the
sight of their loved master and friend lying there apparently lifeless.
Mr. Leland, his features working with emotion, at once assumed the
direction of affairs.
"Catch the horses," he said, "and you, Ben, mount the fleetest and fly
for the doctor. And you," turning to another, "take the other and hurry
to the Oaks for Mr. Dinsmore. Now the rest of you help me to carry your
master to the house. I will lift his head, there gently, gently, my good
fellows, I think he still breathes. But Mrs. Travilla!" he added,
looking toward the dwelling, "all seems quiet there; they have not
heard, I think, and she should be warned. I wish--"
"I will go, I will tell mamma," interrupted a quivering child voice at
his side.
Little Elsie had pushed her way through the crowd and dropping on her
knees on the grass was raining kisses and tears upon the pale,
unconscious face.
"You? poor child!" Mr. Leland began in piteous tones; but she had
already sprung to her feet and was flying toward the house with the
fleetness of the wind.
One moment she paused in the spacious entrance hall, to recover her
breath, calm her features, and remove the traces of her tears. "Mamma,
mamma," she was saying to herself, "O Lord Jesus give me the right words
to speak to her."
She hardly knew to which apartment to direct her steps, but "Hark! there
was the sound of the piano and mamma's sweet voice singing a song papa
had brought home only the other day, and that he liked. Ah would she
ever sing again now that he--"
But no, not even in thought could she say that dreadful word; but she
knew now that mamma was in the music room; and earnestly repeating her
silent petition for help, she hurried thither.
The door was open; with swift, noiseless steps she gained her mother's
side; passing an arm about her neck, and half averting her own pale,
agitated face, "Mamma," she said in low, tremulous tones, "'God is our
refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble!' Mamma, Jesus loves
you, Jesus loves you! He will help you to bear--"
"My daughter, what is it?" asked the mother in a tone of forced
calmness, a terrible pang shooting through her heart, "your father?
Eddie? Vi?"--then starting up at a sound as of the feet of those who
bore some heavy burden, she ran into the hail.
For a moment she stood as one transfixed with grief and horror.
"He breathes, he lives," Mr. Leland hastened to say.
Her lips moved but no words came from them. Silently motioning them to
follow her, she led the way to his room and pointed to the bed. They
laid him on it and at that instant consciousness returned.
"Dear wife, it is nothing," he faintly murmured, lifting his eyes to
her face as she bent over him in speechless anguish.
She softly pressed her lips to his brow, her heart too full for
utterance.
The words sent a thrill of gladness to the heart of little Elsie, who
had crept in behind the men, and stood near the bed silently weeping;
her father lived; and now Eddie's frantic screams seemed to ring in her
ears (in her fear for her father she had scarcely noticed them before)
and she must go and tell him the glad news. She was not needed here;
mamma was not conscious of her presence, and she could do nothing for
the dear injured father. She stole quietly from the room.
On the veranda she found Violet crying bitterly, while Mary Leland
vainly tried to comfort her.
"Don't cry so, little sister," Elsie said, going to her and taking her
in her arms in tender motherly fashion, "our dear papa is not killed;
I saw him open his eyes, and heard him say to mamma, 'Dear wife, it is
nothing.'"
Vi clung to her sister with a fresh burst of tears, but this time they
were tears of joy. "O, I'm so glad! I thought I had no papa any more."
A few more soothing words and caresses and Elsie said, "Now I must go
and tell poor Eddie. Do you know where he is?"
"Hark! don't you hear him crying way off in the grounds?" said Mary, "I
think he's just where he was."
"O, yes, yes!" and Elsie hastened in the direction of the sounds.
She found him lying on the grass still crying in heart-broken accents,
"Oh, I've killed my father, my dear, dear father! what shall I do! what
shall I do!"
Dick and Walter were gone; like the guilty wretches they were, they had
fled as soon as they saw what mischief they had caused. But Archie too
kind-hearted and noble to forsake a friend in distress, was still there.
"You didn't mean to do it, Eddie," he was saying, as Elsie came within
hearing.
"No, no," burst out the half distracted child, "I wouldn't hurt my dear
papa one bit for all the world! but it was 'cause I disobeyed him. He
told me never to touch firearms when he wasn't by to help me do it
right. Oh, oh, oh, I didn't think I'd ever be such a wicked boy! I've
killed my father, oh! oh!"
"No, Eddie, no, you haven't; papa opened his eyes and spoke to mamma,"
said his sister hurrying to his side.
"Did he? O Elsie, is he alive? Isn't he hurt much?" asked the child,
ceasing his cries for the moment, and lifting his tear-swollen face to
hers.
"I don't know, Eddie dear, but I hope not," she said, low and
tremulously, the tears rolling fast down her own cheeks, while she took
out her handkerchief and gently wiped them away from his.
He dropped his head again, with a bitter, wailing cry. "O, I'm afraid he
is, and I shooted him! I shooted him!"
Fortunately Dr. Burton's residence was not far distant, and Ben urging
Beppo to his utmost speed and finding the doctor at home, had him at Mr.
Travilla's bedside in a wonderfully short space of time.
The doctor found the injury not nearly so great as he had feared: the
ball had struck the side of the head and glanced off, making a mere
scalp-wound, which, though causing insensibility for a time, would have
no very serious or lasting consequences; the blood had been already
sponged away, and the wound closed with sticking plaster.
But the fall had jarred the whole system and caused some bruises; so
that altogether the patient was likely to have to keep his bed for some
days, and the doctor said must be kept quiet and as free from excitement
as possible.
Elsie, leaving Aunt Chloe at the bedside, followed the physician from
the room.
"You need give yourself no anxiety, my dear Mrs. Travilla," he said
cheerily, taking her hand in his for a moment, in his kind fatherly
way--for he was an old man now, and had known her from her early
childhood--"the injuries are not at all serious, and there is no reason
why your husband should not be about again in a week or so. But how did
it happen? What hand fired the shot?"
"Indeed I do not know, have not asked," she answered, with an emotion
of surprise at herself for the omission. "It seems strange I should not,
but I was so taken up with grief and fear for him, and anxiety to
relieve his suffering that I had room for no other thought. Can you
tell us, sir?" turning to Mr. Leland, who was standing near.
"I--did not see the shot," he replied with some hesitation.
"But you know; tell me, I beg of you."
"It was an accident, madam, entirely an accident: there can be no
question about that."
"But tell me all you know," she entreated, growing very pale. "I see you
fear to wound me, but it were far better I should know the whole truth."
"I suppose your little son must have been playing with a pistol," he
answered, with evident reluctance. "I heard him screaming, 'O, I've
killed my father, my dear, dear father!'"
"Eddie!" she groaned, staggering back against the wall, and putting her
hand over her eyes.
"My dear madam!" "My dear Mrs. Travilla," the gentlemen exclaimed
simultaneously, "do not let it distress you so, since it must have been
the merest accident, and the consequences are not so serious as they
might have been."
"But he was disobeying his father, and has nearly taken his life," she
moaned low and tremulously, the big tears coursing down her cheeks. "Oh,
my son, my son!"
The gentlemen looked uneasily at each other, scarcely knowing what
consolation to offer; but a well known step approached, hastily, yet
with caution, and the next instant Elsie was clasped in her father's
arms.
"My darling, my poor darling!" he said with emotion, as she laid her
head on his breast, with a burst of almost hysterical weeping.
He caressed her silently. How could he ask the question trembling on his
lips? what meant this bitter weeping? His eye sought that of the
physician, who promptly answered the unspoken query with the same
cheering report he had just given her.
Mr. Dinsmore was intensely relieved. "Thank God that it is no worse!" he
said in low, reverent tones. "Elsie, daughter, cheer up, he will soon be
well again."
Mr. Leland, taking leave, offered to return and watch by the sick bed
that night; but Mr. Dinsmore, while joining Elsie in cordial thanks,
claimed it as his privilege.
"Ah, well, don't hesitate to call upon me whenever I can be of use,"
said Mr. Leland, and with a kindly "Good evening," he and the doctor
retired, Mr. Dinsmore seeing them to the door.
Returning, he found Elsie still in the parlor where he had left her.
She was speaking to a servant, "Go, Prilla, look for the children, and
bring them in. It is getting late for them to be out."
The girl went, and Elsie saying to her father that Prilla had brought
word that Mr. Travilla was now sleeping, begged him to sit down and talk
with her for a moment. The tears fell fast as she spoke. It was long
since he had seen her so moved.
"Dear daughter, why distress yourself thus?" he said, folding her in his
arms, and drawing her head to a resting place upon his breast; "your
husband's injuries are not very serious. Dr. Burton is not one to
deceive us with false hopes."
"No, papa, oh, how thankful I am to know he is not in danger; but--oh,
papa, papa! to think that Eddie did it! that my own son should have so
nearly taken his father's life! I grow sick with horror at the very
thought!"
"Yet it must have been the merest accident, the child almost idolizes
his father."
"I had thought so, but he must have been disobeying that father's
positive command else this could not have happened. I could never have
believed my son could be so disobedient, and it breaks my heart to think
of it all."
"The best of us do not always resist temptation successfully, and
doubtless in this case it has been very strong. And he is bitterly
repenting; I heard him crying somewhere in the grounds as I rode up the
avenue, but could not then take time to go to him, not knowing how much
you and Travilla might be needing my assistance."
"My poor boy; he does love his father," she said, wiping her eyes.
"There can be no question about that, and this will be a life-long
lesson to him."
"Papa, you always bring me comfort," she said gratefully. "And you will
stay with us to-night?"
"Yes; I could not leave you at such a time. I shall send a note to Rose,
to relieve her anxiety in regard to Edward's accident, and let her know
that she need not expect me home till morning. Well, Prilla," as the
girl reappeared, "what is it? why have you not brought the children as
your mistress directed?"
"Please, sah, Massa Dinsmore, Mars Eddie won't come; he jes' lie on de
ground an' scream an' cry, 'O, I've killed my fader, my dear, dear
fader,' an Miss Elsie she comfortin' an' coaxin', an' pleadin', but he
won't pay no pretention to nobody."
Elsie wept anew. "My poor child! my poor little son! what am I to do
with him?"
"I will go to him; trust him to me," Mr. Dinsmore said, leaving the room
with a quick firm step.
Chapter Fifth.
"If hearty sorrow
Be a sufficient ransom for offence,
I tender it here; I do as truly suffer,
As e'er I did commit."
--SHAKESPEARE.
"O Eddie, dear, do get up and come into the house!" entreated his
sister. "I must leave you if you don't, for Prilla said mamma had sent
for us; and you know we must obey."
"Oh I can't, I can't go in! I can't see mamma! she will never, never
love me any more!"
"Yes, she will, Eddie; nothing will ever make her stop loving us; and if
you're really sorry for having disobeyed poor, dear papa, you'll not go
on and disobey her now."
"But oh I've been such a wicked, wicked boy. O Elsie, what shall I do?
Jesus won't love me now, nor mamma nor anybody."
"O Eddie," sobbed his sister, "don't talk so. Jesus does love you and
will forgive you, if you ask him; and so will mamma and papa; for they
both love you and I love you dearly, dearly."
The two were alone, Archie having gone home with his father.
A step drew near, and Mr. Dinsmore's voice spoke close at hand in tones
sterner and more peremptory than he really meant them to be.
"Edward, get up from that damp grass and come into the house
immediately. Do you intend to add to your poor mother's troubles by
your disobedience, and by making yourself sick?"
The child arose instantly. He was accustomed to yield to his
grandfather's authority quite as readily as to that of his parents.
"O grandpa, please don't be hard to him! His heart's almost broken, and
he wouldn't have hurt papa on purpose for all the world," pleaded little
Elsie, hastening to Mr. Dinsmore's side, taking his hand in both hers,
and lifting her tear-dimmed eyes beseechingly to his face.
"Yes, grandpa ought," sobbed Eddie, "I've been such a wicked, wicked
boy, I deserve the dreadfulest whipping that ever was. And papa can't do
it now!" he cried with a fresh burst of grief and remorse, "and mamma
won't like to. Grandpa, it'll have to be you. Please do it quick, 'cause
I want it over."
"And has all this distress been for fear of punishment?" asked Mr.
Dinsmore, taking the child's hand, and bending down to look searchingly
into his face.
"Oh no, no, no, grandpa! I'd rather be whipped any day than to know
I've hurt my dear papa so. Grandpa, won't you do it quick?"
"No, my son, I am not fond of such business and shall not punish you
unless requested to do so by your father or mother. The doctor hopes
your father will be about again in a week or two, and he can then attend
to your case himself."
"Oh then he won't die! he won't die, our dear, dear papa!" cried both
children in a breath.
"No; God has been very good to us all in causing the ball to strike
where it could do but little injury. And Edward, I hope this will be
such a lesson to you all your life as will keep you from ever disobeying
again."
They were passing up the avenue, Eddie moving submissively along by his
grandfather's side, but with tottering steps; for the dreadful
excitement of the last hour had exhausted him greatly. Perceiving this
Mr. Dinsmore presently took him in his arms and carried him to the
house.
Low pitiful sobs and sighs were the only sounds the little fellow made
till set down in the veranda; but then clinging to his grandfather's
hand, he burst out afresh, "O grandpa, I can't go in! I can't, I can't
see mamma, for she can't love me any more."
The mother heard and came quickly out. The tears were coursing down her
cheeks, her mother heart yearned over her guilty, miserable child:
stooping down and stretching out her arms, "Eddie, my little son," she
said in tender tremulous accents, "come to mother. If my boy is truly
sorry for his sin, mamma has no reproaches for him: nothing but
forgiveness and love."
He threw himself upon her bosom, "Mamma, mamma, I am sorry, oh, _so_
sorry! I will never, never disobey papa or you again."
"God helping you, my son; if you trust in your own strength you will be
sure to fall."
"Yes mamma; oh, mamma, I've been the wickedest boy! I disobeyed my
father and shooted him; and oughtn't I to have a dreadful whipping?
Shall grandpa do it?"
Mrs. Travilla lifted her full eyes inquiringly to her father's face.
"It is all his own idea," said Mr. Dinsmore with emotion, "I think he
has already had a worse punishment by far in his grief and remorse."
Elsie heaved a sigh of relief. "I think his father would say so too; it
shall be decided by him when he is able. Eddie, my son, papa is too ill
now to say what shall be done with you. I think he does not even know of
your disobedience. You will have to wait some days. The suspense will be
hard to bear, I know, but my little boy must try to be patient,
remembering that he has brought all this suffering on himself. And in
the meantime he has mamma's forgiveness and love," she added folding him
to her heart with a tender caress.
Sorely the children missed their precious half hour with mamma that
night, and every night and morning of their papa's illness; she could
leave him only long enough each time to give them a few loving words and
a kiss all round, and they scarcely saw her through the day--were not
admitted to their father's room at all.
But they were very good; lessons went on nearly as usual, little Elsie
keeping order in the school-room, even wilful Eddie quietly submitting
to her gentle sway, and grandpa kindly attending to the recitations. He
rode out with them too, and he, Aunt Rosie or their mammies, took them
for a pleasant walk every fine day.
Friends and neighbors were very kind and attentive, none more so than
the Lelands. Archie told his father how, and by whom, poor Eddie had
been teased, provoked and dared into firing the pistol; Mr. Leland told
Mr. Dinsmore the story, and he repeated it to his father and sisters.
The old gentleman was sufficiently incensed against the two culprits to
administer a severe castigation to each, while Elsie was thankful to
learn that her son had not yielded readily to the temptation to
disobedience. She pitied him deeply, as she noted how weary to him were
these days of waiting, how his gay spirits had forsaken him, how anxious
he was for his father's recovery; how he longed for the time when he
should be permitted to go to him with his confession and petition for
pardon.
At length that time came. Mr. Travilla was so much better that Dr.
Burton said it would do him no harm to see his children, and to hear all
the details of his accident.
The others were brought in first and allowed to spend a few minutes in
giving and receiving caresses, their little tongues running very fast in
their exuberant joy over their restored father.
"Elsie, Vi, Harold, baby--but where is Eddie?" he asked, looking a
little anxiously at his wife; "not sick, I hope?"
"No, my dear, he will be in presently," she answered, the tears starting
to her eyes, "no one of them all has found it harder to be kept away
from you than he. But there is something he has begged me to tell you
before he comes."
"Ah!" he said with a troubled look in his eyes, a suspicion of the truth
dawning upon him. "Well, darlings, you may go now, and mamma will let
you come in again before your bedtime."
They withdrew and Elsie told her story, dwelling more particularly upon
the strength of the temptation and the child's agony of grief and
remorse.
"Bring him here, wife," Mr. Travilla said, his eyes full, his voice
husky with emotion.
There was a sound of sobs in the hall without as she opened the door.
"Come, son," she said, taking his hand in hers, "papa knows it all now."
Half eagerly, half tremblingly he suffered her to lead him in.
"Papa," he burst out sobbingly, scarcely daring to lift his eyes from
the floor, "I've been a very wicked, bad boy; I disobeyed you
and--and--"
"Come here to me, my little son." How gentle and tender were the tones.
Eddie lifted his head and with one joyous bound was in his fathers arms,
clinging about his neck and sobbing out upon his breast his grief, his
joy, his penitence. "Papa, papa, can you forgive such a naughty
disobedient boy? I'm so sorry I did it! I'm so glad you didn't die,
dear, dear papa! so glad you love me yet."
"Love you, son? I think if you knew how much, you would never want to
disobey again."
"I don't, papa, oh, I don't! I ask God earnestly every day to give me
a new heart, and help me always to be good. But mustn't I be punished?
mamma said it was for you to say, and grandpa didn't whip me and he
won't 'less you ask him."
"And I shall not ask him, my son. I fully and freely forgive you,
because I am sure you are very sorry and do not mean to disobey again."
How happy the child was that at last his father knew and had forgiven
all.
Mr. Travilla improved the occasion for a short but very serious talk
with him on the sin and danger of disobedience, and his words, so
tenderly spoken, made a deep and lasting impression.
But Eddie was not yet done with the pain and mortification consequent
upon his wrong doing. That afternoon the Ashland ladies called bringing
with them the elder children of both families. While their mammas
conversed in the drawing-room the little people gathered in the veranda.
All was harmony and good-will among them till Philip Ross, fixing his
eyes on Eddie, said with a sneer, "So, Master Ed, though you told me one
day you'd never talk to your mamma as I did to mine, you've done a good
deal worse. I don't set up for a pattern good boy, but I'd die before
I'd shoot my father."
Eddie's eyes sought the floor while his lips trembled and two great
tears rolled down his burning cheeks.
"Phil Ross," cried Gertrude, "I'm ashamed of you! of course he didn't do
it a-purpose."
"May be not; he didn't disobey on purpose? hadn't his father--"
But catching a reproachful, entreating look from Elsie's soft, brown
eyes, he stopped short and turning away, began to whistle carelessly,
while Vi, putting her small arms about Eddie's neck, said, "Phil Ross,
you shouldn't 'sult my brother so, 'cause he wouldn't 'tend to hurt
papa; no, not for all the world;" Harold chiming in, "'Course my Eddie
wouldn't!" and Bruno, whom he was petting and stroking with his chubby
hands, giving a short, sharp bark, as if he too had a word to say in
defence of his young master.
"Is that your welcome to visitors, Bruno?" queried a young man of
eighteen or twenty, alighting from his horse and coming up the steps
into the veranda.
"You must please excuse him for being so ill-mannered, Cousin Cal,"
little Elsie said, coming forward and offering her hand with a graceful
courtesy very like her mamma's. "Will you walk into the drawing-room?
our mammas are all there."
"Presently, thank you," he said, bending down to snatch a kiss from the
sweet lips.
She shrank from the caress almost with aversion.
"What's the use of being so shy with a cousin?" he asked, laughing, "why
Molly Percival likes to kiss me."
"I think Molly would not be pleased if she knew you said that," remarked
the little girl, in a quiet tone, and moving farther from him as she
spoke.
"Holding a levee, eh?" he said, glancing about upon the group. "How
d'ye, young ladies and gentlemen? Holloa, Ed! so you're the brave fellow
that shot his father? Hope your grandfather dealt out justice to you in
the same fashion that Wal and Dick's did to them."
Eddie could bear no more, but burst into an agony of tears and sobs.
"Calhoun Conly, do you think it very manly for a big fellow like you to
torment such a little one as our Eddie?" queried Elsie, with rising
indignation.
"No, I don't," he said frankly. "Never mind, Eddie, I take it all back,
and own that the other two deserve the lion's share of the blame, and
punishment too. Come, shake hands and let's make up."
Eddie gave his hand, saying in broken tones, "I was a naughty boy, but
papa has forgiven me, and I don't mean ever to disobey him any more."
Chapter Sixth.
"So false is faction, and so smooth a liar,
As that it never had a side entire."
--DANIEL.
By the first of December Mr. Travilla had entirely recovered from the
ill effects of his accident--which had occurred early in November--and
life at Ion resumed its usual quiet, regular, but pleasant routine,
varied only by frequent exchange of visits with the other families of
the connection, and near neighbors, especially the Lelands.
Because of the presence among them of their northern relatives, this
winter was made a gayer one than either of the last two, which had seen
little mirth or jovialty among the older ones, subdued as they were by
recent, repeated bereavements. Time had now somewhat assuaged their
grief, and only the widowed ones still wore the garb of mourning.
A round of family parties for old and young filled up the holidays; and
again just before the departure of the Rosses and Allisons in the early
spring, they were all gathered at Ion for a farewell day together.
Some of the blacks in Mr. Leland's employ had been beaten and otherwise
maltreated only the previous night by a band of armed and disguised men,
and the conversation naturally turned upon that occurrence.
"So the Ku Klux outrages have begun in our neighborhood," remarked Mr.
Horace Dinsmore, and went on to denounce their proceedings in unmeasured
terms.
The faces of several of his auditors flushed angrily. Enna shot a fierce
glance at him, muttering "scalawag," half under her breath, while his
old father said testily, "Horace, you speak too strongly. I haven't a
doubt the rascals deserved all they got. I'm told one of them at least,
had insulted some lady, Mrs. Foster, I believe, and that the others had
been robbing hen-roosts and smoke-houses."
"That may perhaps be so, but at all events every man has a right to a
fair trial," replied his son, "and so long as there is no difficulty in
bringing such matters before the civil courts, there is no excuse for
Lynch law, which is apt to visit its penalties upon the innocent as well
as the guilty."
At this, George Boyd, who, as the nephew of the elder Mrs. Carrington
and a member of the Ashlands household, had been invited with the
others, spoke warmly in defence of the organization, asserting that its
main object was to defend the helpless, particularly in guarding against
the danger of an insurrection of the blacks.
"There is not the slightest fear of that," remarked Mr. Travilla, "there
may be some few turbulent spirits among them, but as a class they are
quiet and inoffensive."
"Begging your pardon, sir," said Boyd, "I find them quite the
reverse;--demanding their wages directly they are due, and not satisfied
with what one chooses to give. And that reminds me that you, sir, and
Mr. Horace Dinsmore, and that carpet-bagger of Fairview are entirely too
liberal in the wages you pay."
"That is altogether our own affair, sir," returned Mr. Dinsmore,
haughtily. "No man or set of men shall dictate to me as to how I spend
my money. What do you say, Travilla?"
"I take the same position; shall submit to no such infringement of my
liberty to do as I will with my own."
Elsie's eyes sparkled: she was proud of her husband and father. Rose,
too, smiled approval.
"Sounds very fine," growled Boyd, "but I say you've no right to put up
the price of labor."
"Papa," cried young Horace, straightening himself and casting a
withering look upon Boyd, "I hope neither you nor Brother Edward will
ever give in to them a single inch. Such insolence!"
"Let us change the subject," said old Mr. Dinsmore, "it is not an
agreeable one."
It so happened that a few days after this Messrs. Dinsmore, Travilla and
Leland were talking together just within the entrance to the avenue at
Ion when Wilkins Foster, George Boyd and Calhoun Conly came riding by.
They brought their horses to a walk as they neared the gate, and Foster
called out sneeringly, "Two scalawags and a carpet-bagger! fit company
for each other."
"So we think, sir," returned Travilla coolly, "though we do not accept
the epithets you so generously bestow upon us."
"It is an easy thing to call names; any fool is equal to that," said Mr.
Leland, in a tone of unruffled good-nature.
"True; and the weapon of vituperation is generally used by those who
lack brains for argument or are upon the wrong side," observed Mr.
Dinsmore.
"Is that remark intended to apply to me sir?" asked Foster, drawing
himself up with an air of hauteur and defiance.
"Not particularly: but if you wish to prove yourself skilled in the
other and more manly weapon, we are ready to give you the opportunity."
"Yes; come in, gentlemen, and let us have a free and friendly
discussion," said Mr. Travilla.
Boyd and Conly at once accepted the invitation, but Foster, reining in
his horse in the shade of a tree at the gate, said, "No, thank you; I
don't care to alight, can talk from the saddle as well as anyway. I call
you scalawags, Messrs. Dinsmore and Travilla, because though natives of
the South, you have turned against her."
"Altogether a mistake," observed Travilla.
"I deny the charge and call upon you to prove it," said Mr. Dinsmore.
"Easy task; you kept away and took no part in our struggle for
independence."
"That is we (I speak for Travilla as well as myself) had no share in the
effort to overthrow the best government in the world, the hope of the
down-trodden and oppressed of all the earth a struggle which we foresaw
would prove, as it has, the almost utter destruction of our beloved
South. They who inaugurated secession were no true friends to her."
"Sir!" cried Boyd, with angry excitement, "ours was as righteous a cause
as that of our Revolutionary fathers."
Mr. Dinsmore shook his head. "They fought against unbearable tyranny;
and that after having exhausted every other means of obtaining a redress
of their grievances; and we had suffered no oppression at the hands of
the general government."
"Hadn't we?" interrupted Foster fiercely. "Were the provisions of the
Fugitive Slave Law carried out by the North? didn't some of the Northern
States pass laws in direct opposition to it? and didn't Yankee
abolitionists come down here interfering with our institutions and
enticing our negroes to run away, or something worse?"
"Those were the acts of private individuals, and individual states,
entirely unsanctioned by the general government, which really had always
rather favored us than otherwise."
"But uncle," said Conly, "there would have been no secession but for the
election of Lincoln, an abolition candidate."
"And who elected him? who but the Democrats of the South? They made a
division in the Democratic party, purposely to enable the Republicans to
elect their man, that they might use his election as a pretext for
secession."
A long and hot discussion followed, each one present taking more or less
part in it. It was first the causes of the war, then the war itself;
after that the reconstruction policy of Congress, which was bitterly
denounced by Foster and Boyd.
"Never was a conquered people treated so shamefully!" cried the former,
"it is a thing hitherto unheard of in the history of the world, that
gentlemen should be put under the rule of their former slaves."
"Softly, softly, sir," said Leland, "surely you forget that the terms
proposed by the fourteenth amendment, substantially left the power of
the State governments in your hands, and enabled you to limit suffrage
and office to the white race. But you rejected it, and refused to take
part in the preliminary steps for reorganizing your State governments.
So the blacks acquired the right to vote and hold office: they were, as
a class, well meaning, but ignorant, and their old masters refusing to
accept office at their hands, or advise them in regard to their new
duties, they fell an easy prey to unscrupulous white men, whose only
care was to enrich themselves by robbing the already impoverished
states, through corrupt legislation.[A] Now, sir, who was it that really
put you under the rule of your former slaves, if you are there?"
[Footnote A: See report of Congressional Committee of Investigation]
Foster attempted no reply, but merely reiterated his assertion that
no conquered people had ever been so cruelly used; to which Messrs.
Travilla, Dinsmore and Leland replied with a statement of facts, i.e.,
that before the war was fairly over, the Government began to feed,
clothe, shelter and care for the destitute of both colors, and millions
were distributed in supplies; that in 1865 a bureau was organized for
this purpose, and expended in relief, education and aid to people of
both colors, and all conditions, thirteen millions, two hundred and
thirty thousand, three hundred and twenty-seven dollars, and forty
cents; while millions more were given by charitable associations and
citizens of the North: that the Government sold thousands of farm
animals in the South, at low rates, and large quantities of clothing and
supplies at merely nominal prices, that there had been no executions for
treason, no confiscation of lands, but that some estates abandoned by
the owners during the war, and taken possession of and cultivated by the
Government, had been returned in better condition than they would have
been in if permitted to lie idle; that the railroads of the South were
worn out by the war, woodwork rotted, rails and machinery worn out; that
the Government forces as they advanced, captured the lines, repaired the
tracks, rebuilt bridges and restored and renewed the rolling stock; that
at the close of the war the Government might have held all these lines,
but instead turned them over to the stockholders, sold them the rolling
stock at low rates, and on long time, and advanced millions of dollars
to the southern railroads; that there were debts estimated, when the war
began, at three hundred millions of dollars due the merchants of the
North; that they compounded with their southern debtors, abating more
than half their dues, and extending time for the payment of the
remainder; that a bankrupt act was passed enabling those hopelessly
involved to begin business anew. Sound institutions took the places of
the old broken banks, and United States currency that of Confederate
notes, etc. etc.[B]
[Footnote B: See Reports of Congressional Committee of Investigation.]
Foster attempted no denial of these facts, but spoke bitterly of
corruption among the state government officials, resulting in ruinous
taxation etc.
His antagonists freely admitted that there had been frauds and great
extravagance, yet claimed that neither party was responsible for these,
but members of both and persons belonging to neither who cared only for
their own gains.[C] "And who," they asked, "are responsible for their
success in obtaining the positions which enable them thus to rob the
community?"
[Footnote C: See Reports of Congressional Committee of Investigation.]
"They had no vote from me," said Foster. "But, I say it again, we have
been shamefully treated; if they'd confiscated my property and cut off
my head, I'd have suffered less than I have as things have gone."
"Why not petition Congress for those little favors? Possibly it may not
yet be too late;" returned Leland, laughing.
This ended the talk, Foster put spurs to his horse and rode off in a
rage.
"Come, Conly, we've surely had enough of this Republican discourse: let
us go also," said Boyd, and with a haughty wave of his hand to the
others, he hurried into the road and remounted.
But Conly did not follow. Elsie joined the group at that moment and
laying her hand on his arm, said with one of her sweetest smiles, "Don't
go, Cal, you must stay and take tea with us; it is already on the
table."
"Thank you, I will," he said with a pleased look.
He was one of his cousin's ardent admirers, thinking her the most
beautiful, intelligent, fascinating woman he had ever seen.
She extended her invitation to Leland and Boyd, Mr. Travilla seconding
it warmly, but it was courteously declined by both, and each went his
way.
"Papa, you will not forsake us?" Elsie said gayly, putting both hands
into his and smiling up into his face, her sweet soft eyes, brimful of
fond, filial affection; "but you know you are at home and need no
invitation."
"Yes," he said, returning the smile, and holding the hands fast for a
moment, "I am at home and shall stay for an hour or so."
Chapter Seventh.
"Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness,
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much."
--SHAKESPEARE'S TWELFTH NIGHT.
"Will you walk into the library, gentlemen? I have just received a
package of new books, which, perhaps, you would like to examine," said
Mr. Travilla to his guests as they left the tea-table.
"Presently, thank you," Mr. Dinsmore answered, catching Elsie's eye, and
perceiving that she had something for his private ear.
She took his arm and drew him out to her flower garden, while her
husband and Calhoun sought the library.
"Papa, I want a word with you about Cal. I do not like Foster and Boyd;
that is, they seem to me to be unprincipled men, of violent temper and
altogether very bad associates for him; and you must have noticed how
intimate he is with them of late."
"Yes, I regret it, but have no authority to forbid the intimacy."
"I know; but, papa, you have great influence; he is proud to be known
as your nephew; and don't you think you might be able to induce him to
give them up for some better friend; my brother, for instance? Papa, he
is twenty-one now, and are not his principles sufficiently fixed to
enable him to lead Cal and Arthur, doing them good instead of being
injured by association with them?"
"Yes, you are right; Horace is not one to be easily led, and Calhoun is.
I am glad you have spoken and reminded me of my duty."
"My dear father, please do not think I was meaning to do that," she
cried, blushing, "it would be stepping out of my place. But Edward and I
have had several talks about Cal of late, and decided that we will make
him very welcome here, and try to do him good. Edward suggested, too,
what a good and helpful friend Horace might be to him, if you approved,
and I said I would speak to you first, and perhaps to my brother
afterward."
"Quite right. I think Horace will be very willing. I should be loth to
have him drawn into intimacy with Boyd or Foster, but as he likes
neither their conduct nor their principles, I have little fear of that."
They sauntered about the garden a few moments longer, then rejoined the
others, who were still in the library.
The children were romping with each other and Bruno on the veranda
without; the merry shouts, the silvery laughter coming pleasantly in
through the open windows.
"How happy they seem, Cousin Elsie," remarked Calhoun, turning to her.
"Yes, they are," she answered, smiling. "You are fond of children, Cal?"
"Yes; suppose you let me join them."
"Suppose we all do," suggested Mr. Dinsmore, seeing Travilla lay aside
his book, and listen with a pleased smile to the glad young voices.
"With all my heart," said the latter as he rose and led the way, "I find
nothing more refreshing after the day's duties are done, than a romp
with my children."
For the next half hour they were all children together; then Aunt Chloe
and Dinah came to take the little ones to bed, and Elsie, after seeing
her guests depart, followed to the nursery.
Mr. Dinsmore rode over to Roselands with his nephew, conversing all the
way in a most entertaining manner, making no allusion to politics or to
Boyd or Foster.
Calhoun was charmed, and when his uncle urged him to visit the Oaks more
frequently, observing that he had been there but once since Horace's
return from college, and proposing that he should begin by coming to
dinner the next day and staying as long as suited his convenience, the
invitation was accepted with alacrity and delight.
On returning home Mr. Dinsmore explained his views and wishes, with
regard to Calhoun, to his wife and son, who at once cordially fell in
with them in doing all they could to make his visit enjoyable. In fact,
so agreeable did he find it that his stay was prolonged to several days.
The morning papers one day brought news of several fresh Ku Klux
outrages, beatings, shootings, hanging.
Mr. Dinsmore read the account aloud at the breakfast table, and again
made some remarks against the organization.
Calhoun listened in silence, then as Mr. Dinsmore laid the paper down,
"Uncle," said he doubtfully, and with downcast troubled look, "don't you
think the reconstruction acts form some excuse for the starting of such
an organisation?"
"Let the facts answer," returned Mr. Dinsmore: "the organization existed
as early as 1866; the reconstruction acts were passed in March,
1867."[D]
[Footnote D: See Reports of Congressional Committee of Investigation.]
"Ah, yes, sir, I had forgotten the dates; I've heard that reason given;
and another excuse is the fear of a conspiracy among the negroes to rob
and murder the whites: and I think you can't deny that they are
thievish."
"I don't deny, Cal, that some individuals among them have been guilty of
lawless acts, particularly stealing articles of food; but they are poor
and ignorant; have been kept in ignorance so long that we cannot
reasonably expect in them a very strong sense of the rights of property
and the duty of obedience to law; yet I have never been able to discover
any indications of combined lawlessness among them. On the contrary they
are themselves fearful of attack."
"Well, sir, then there were those organizations in the other--the
Republican party; the Union Leagues and Redstrings. I've been told the
Ku Klux Klan was gotten up in opposition to them."
"I presume so, but Union Leaguers and Redstrings do not go about in
disguise, robbing, beating, murdering."
"But then the carpet-baggers," said Calhoun, waxing warm, "putting
mischief into the negroes' heads, getting into office and robbing the
state in the most shameless wholesale manner; they're excuse enough for
the doings of the Ku Klux."
"Ah!" said his uncle, "but you forget that their organization was in
existence before the robberies of the state began: also that they do not
trouble corruptionists: and why? because they are men of both parties;
some of them men who direct and control, and might easily suppress the
Klan. No, no, Cal, judged out of their own mouths, by their words to
their victims, with some of whom I have conversed, their ruling motives
are hostility to the Government, to the enjoyment of the negro of the
rights given him by the amendments to the Constitution, and by the laws
which they are organized to oppose.[E] Their real object is the
overthrow of the State governments and the return of the negro to
bondage. And tell me, Cal, do you look upon these midnight attacks of
overpowering numbers of disguised men upon the weak and helpless, some
of them women, as manly deeds? Is it a noble act for white men to steal
from the poor ignorant black his mule, his arms, his crops, the fruit of
his hard labor?"
[Footnote E: See Reports of Congressional Committee of Investigation.]
"No, sir," returned Calhoun half-reluctantly, his face flushing hotly.
"No, emphatically no, say I!" cried Horace, Jr., "what could be more
base, mean, or cowardly?"
"You don't belong, do you, Cal?" asked Rosie, suddenly.
He dropped his knife and fork, his face fairly ablaze, "What--what could
make you think that, Rosie? No, no, I--don't belong to any organization
that acknowledges that name."
A suspicion for the first time flashed upon Mr. Dinsmore, a suspicion of
the truth. Calhoun Conly was already a member of the White Brotherhood,
the name by which the Klan was known among themselves, Ku Klux being the
one given to the world at large; that thus they might avail themselves
of the miserable, Jesuitical subterfuge Calhoun had just used.
He had been wheedled into joining it by Foster and Boyd, who utterly
deceived him in regard to its objects. He had never taken part in the
outrages and was now fully determined that he never would; resolving
that while keeping its secrets, the penalty of the exposure of which was
death, he would quietly withdraw and attend no more of its meetings. He
understood the language of the searching look Mr. Dinsmore gave him and
seized the first opportunity for a word in private, to vindicate
himself.
"Uncle," he said with frank sincerity, "I am not free to tell you
everything, as I could wish, but I hope you will believe me when I
assure you that I never had any share in the violent doings of the Ku
Klux, and never will."
Mr. Dinsmore bent upon him a second look of keen scrutiny. Conly bore it
without flinching; and extending his hand, his uncle replied, "I think I
understand the situation: but I will trust you, Cal, and not fear that
in entertaining you here I am harboring a hypocrite and spy who may
betray my family and myself into the hands of midnight assassins."
"Thanks, uncle, you shall never have cause to repent of your
confidence," the lad answered with a flush of honest pride.
He returned to Roselands the next day, and went directly to an upper
room, at some distance from those usually occupied by the family, from
whence came the busy hum of a sewing machine.
The door was securely fastened on the inner side, but opened immediately
in response to three quick, sharp taps of a pencil which Calhoun took
from his pocket.
It was his mother's face that looked cautiously out upon him. "Oh, you
have returned," she said in an undertone; "well, come in. I'm glad to
see you."
He stepped in, and she locked the door again, and sitting down, resumed
the work, which it seemed had been laid aside to admit him. She was
making odd looking rolls of cotton cloth; stuffing them with cotton
wool.
Mrs. Johnson, the only other person present, was seated before the
sewing machine, stitching a seam in a long garment of coarse, white
linen.
"How d'ye do, Cal?" she said, looking up for an instant to give him a
nod.
He returned the greeting, and taking a chair by Mrs. Conly's side, "All
well, mother?" he asked.
"Quite. You're just in time to tell me whether these are going to look
right. You know we've never seen any, and have only your description to
go by."
She held up a completed roll. It looked like a horn, tapering nearly to
a point.
"I think so," he said; "but, mother, you needn't finish mine: I shall
never use it."
"Calhoun Conly, what do you mean?" she cried, dropping the roll into her
lap, and gazing at him with kindling eyes.
"You're not going to back out of it now?" exclaimed Enna, leaving her
machine, and approaching him in sudden and violent anger. "You'd better
take care, coward, they'll kill you if you turn traitor; and right they
should too."
"I shall not turn traitor," he said quietly, "but neither shall I go any
farther than I have gone. I should never have joined, if Boyd and Foster
hadn't deceived me as to the objects of the organization."
"But you have joined, Cal, and I'll not consent to your giving it up,"
said his mother.
"I don't like to vex you, mother," he answered, reddening, "but--"
"But you'll have your own way, whether it displeases me or not? A
dutiful son, truly."
"This is Horace's work, and he's a scalawag, if he is my brother,"
cried Enna, with growing passion, "but if I were you, Cal Conly, I'd be
man enough to have an opinion of my own, and stick to it."
"Exactly what I'm doing, Aunt Enna. I went into the thing blindfold;
I have found out what it really is--a cruel, cowardly, lawless
concern--and I wash my hands of it and its doings."
Bowing ceremoniously he unlocked the door, and left the room.
Enna sprang to it and fastened it after him. "If he was my son, I'd turn
him out of the house."
"Father would hardly consent," replied her sister, "and if he did, what
good would it do? Horace or Travilla would take him in of course."
"Well, thank heaven, Boyd and Foster are made of sterner stuff and our
labor's not all lost," said Enna, returning to her machine.
The two ladies had been spending many hours every day in that room for
a week past, no one but Calhoun being admitted to their secrets, for
whether in the room or out of it they kept the door always carefully
locked.
The curiosity of servants and children was strongly excited, but vain
had been all their questions and coaxing, futile every attempt to solve
the mystery up to the present time.
But three or four days after Calhoun's return from the Oaks, the thought
suggested itself to mischievous, prying Dick and his coadjutor Walter,
that the key of some other lock in the house might fit that of the door
they so ardently desired to open. They only waited for a favorable
opportunity to test the question in the temporary absence of their
mothers from that part of the building, and to their great joy
discovered that the key of the bedroom they shared together was the
duplicate of the one which had so long kept their masculine curiosity
at bay.
It turned readily in the lock and with a smothered exclamation of
delight they rushed in and glanced eagerly about.
At first they saw nothing in any way remarkable--the familiar furniture,
the sewing machine, the work-table and baskets of their mothers, a few
shreds of white cotton and linen, a scrap here and there of red braid
littering the carpet near the machine, and the low rocking-chair used by
Mrs. Conly.
"Pooh! nothing here to be so secret about," cried Walter, but Dick,
nodding his head wisely said, "Let's look a little further. What's in
that closet?"
They ran to it, opened the door, and started back in sudden momentary
affright.
"'Taint alive," said Dick, the bolder of the two, quickly recovering
himself; "horrid thing! I reckon I know what 'tis," and he whispered a
few words in his companion's ear.
Walter gave a nod of acquiescence of the opinion.
"Here's another 'most finished," pursued Dick, dragging out and
examining a bundle he found lying on the closet floor. (The one which
had so startled them hung on the wall.) "We'll have some fun out of 'em
one of these times when it's ready, eh, Wal?"
"Yes, but let's put 'em back, and hurry off now, for fear somebody
should come and catch us. I'm afraid those folks in the drawing-room may
go, and our mothers come up to their work again."
"So they might, to be sure," said Dick, rolling up the bundle and
bestowing it in its former resting place. "We must be on the watch, Wal,
or we'll miss our chance; they'll be sending them out o' this about as
soon as they're finished."
"Yes. Who do you think they're for?"
(The boys scorned the rules of English grammar, and refused to be
fettered by them. Was not theirs a land of free speech--for the
aristocratic class to which they undoubtedly belonged?)
"Cal and Art, of course."
"Don't you believe it, Art cares for nothing but his books and
Silverheels. Wasn't that a jolly birthday present, Dick? I wish Travilla
and Cousin Elsie would remember ours the same way."
"Reckon I do. There, everything's just as we found it. Now let's
skedaddle."
Chapter Eighth.
"A horrid spectre rises to my sight,
Close by my side, and plain, and palpable
In all good seeming and close circumstance
As man meets man."
--JOANNA BAILLIE.
It was a sultry summer night, silent and still, not a leaf stirring,
hardly so much as the chirp of an insect to be heard. The moon looked
down from a cloudless sky upon green lawns and meadows, fields and
forests clothed in richest verdure; gardens, where bloomed lovely
flowers in the greatest variety and profusion, filling the air in their
immediate vicinity with an almost overpowering sweetness; a river
flowing silently to the sea; cabins where the laborer rested from his
toil, and lordlier dwellings where, perchance, the rich man tossed
restlessly on his more luxurious couch.
Mr. and Mrs. Travilla had spent the earlier part of the evening at the
Oaks, and after their return, tempted by the beauty of the night, had
sat conversing together in the veranda long after their usual hour for
retiring. Now they were both sleeping soundly.
Perhaps the only creature awake about the house or on the plantation,
was Bungy the great watch dog, who, released from the chain that bound
him during the day, was going his rounds keeping guard over his master's
property.
A tiny figure, clothed in white, stole noiselessly from the house,
flitted down the avenue, out into the road beyond, and on and on till
lost to view in the distance. So light was the tread of the little bare
feet, that Bungy did not hear it, nor was Bruno, sleeping on the
veranda, aroused.
On and on it glided, the little figure, now in the shadow of the trees
that skirted the road-side, now out in the broad moonbeams where they
fell unimpeded upon dew-laden grass and dusty highway alike.
Ion had been left more than a mile behind, yet farther and farther the
bit feetie were straying, farther from home and love, and safety, when a
grotesque, hideous form suddenly emerged from a wood on the opposite
side of the road.
Seemingly of gigantic stature, it wore a long, white garment, that,
enveloping it from head to foot, trailed upon the ground, rattling as it
moved, and glistening in the moonlight; the head was adorned with three
immense horns, white, striped with red, a nose of proportional size,
red eyes and eyebrows, and a wide, grinning red mouth, filled with
horrible tusks, out of which roiled a long red tongue.
Catching sight of the small white form gliding along on the other side
of the road, it uttered a low exclamation of mingled wonder, awe and
superstitious dread.
But at that instant a distant sound was heard like the rumble of
approaching wheels, and it stepped quickly behind a tree.
Another minute or so and a stage came rattling down the road, the
hideous monster stepped boldly out from the shadow of the tree, there
was the sharp crack of a rifle, and the driver of the stage tumbled from
his high seat into the road. The horses started madly forward, but some
one caught the reins and presently brought them to a standstill.
"Ku Klux!" exclaimed several voices, as the trailing, rattling white
gown disappeared in the recesses of the wood.
The stage door was thrown open, three or four men alighted, and going to
the body stooped over it, touched it, spoke to it, asking, "Are you
badly hurt, Jones?"
But there was no answer.
"Dead, quite dead," said one.
"Yes, what shall we do with him?"
"Lift him into the stage and take him to the next town."
The last speaker took hold of the head of the corpse, the others
assisted, and in a few moments the vehicle was on its way again with its
load of living and dead.
No one had noticed the tiny white figure which now crouched behind a
clump of bushes weeping bitterly and talking to itself, but, in a
subdued way as if fearful of being overheard.
"Where am I? O mamma, papa, come and help your little Vi! I don't know
how I got here. Oh, where are you, my own mamma?" A burst of sobs; then
"Oh, I'm so 'fraid! and mamma can't hear me, nor papa; but Jesus can;
I'll ask him to take care of me; and he will."
The small white hands folded themselves together and the low sobbing
cry went up, "Dear Jesus, take care of your little Vi, and don't let
anything hurt her; and please bring papa to take her home."
At Ion little Elsie woke and missed her sister. They slept together in
a room opening into the nursery on one side, and the bedroom of their
parents on the other. Doors and windows stood wide open and the moon
gave sufficient light for the child to see at a glance that Vi was no
longer by her side.
Slipping out of bed, she went softly about searching for her, thinking
to herself the while, "She's walking in her sleep again, dear little
pet, and I'm afraid she may get hurt; perhaps fall down stairs."
She had heard such fears expressed by her papa and mamma since of late
Violet had several times risen and strayed about the house in a state of
somnambulism.
Elsie passed from room to room growing more and more anxious and alarmed
every moment at her continued failure to find any trace of the missing
one. She must have help.
Dinah, who had care of the little ones, slept in the nursery. Going up
to her bed, Elsie shook her gently.
"What's de matter, honey?" asked the girl, opening her eyes and raising
herself to a sitting posture.
"Where's Violet? I can't find her."
"Miss Wi'let? aint she fas' asleep side o' you, Miss Elsie?"
"No, no, she isn't there, nor in any of mamma's rooms. I've looked
through them all. Dinah where is she? We must find her: come with me,
quick!"
Dinah was already out of bed and turning up the night lamp.
"I'll go all ober de house, honey," she said, "but 'spect you better
wake yo' pa. He'll want to look for Miss Wi'let hisself."
Elsie nodded assent, and hastening to his side softly stroked his face
with her hand, kissed him, and putting her lips close to his ear,
whispered half sobbingly, "Papa, papa, Vi's gone: we can't find her."
He was wide awake instantly. "Run back to your bed, darling," he said:
"and don't cry; papa will soon find her."
He succeeded in throwing on his clothes and leaving the room without
rousing his wife. He felt some anxiety, but the idea that the child had
left the house never entered his mind until a thorough search seemed to
give convincing proof that she was not in it.
He went out upon the veranda. Bruno rose, stretched himself and uttered
a low whine.
"Bruno, where is our little Violet?" asked Mr. Travilla, stooping to pat
the dog's head and showing him the child's slipper, "lead the way, sir;
we must find her." There was a slight tremble in his tones.
"Dinah," he said, turning to the girl, who stood sobbing in the doorway,
"if your mistress wakes while I am gone, tell her not to be alarmed; no
doubt with Bruno's help I shall very soon find the child and bring her
safely back. See he has the scent already," as the dog who had been
snuffing about suddenly started off at a brisk trot down the avenue.
Mr. Travilla hurried after, his fatherly heart beating with mingled hope
and fear.
On and on they went closely following in the footsteps of the little
runaway. The dog presently left the road that passed directly in front
of Ion, and turned into another, crossing it at right angles, which was
the stage route between the next town and the neighboring city.
It was now some ten or fifteen minutes since the stage had passed this
spot bearing the dead body of the driver who had met his tragical end
some quarter of a mile beyond.
The loud rumble of the wheels had waked little Vi, and as in a flash she
had seen the whole--the horrible apparition in its glistening, rattling
robes, step out from behind a tree and fire, and the tumble of its
victim into the dusty road. Then she had sunk down upon the ground
overpowered with terror.
But the thought of the almighty Friend who, she had been taught, was
ever near and able to help, calmed her fears somewhat.
She was still on her knees sobbing out her little prayer over and over
again, when a dark object bounded to her side, and Bruno's nose was
thrust rather unceremoniously into her face.
"Bruno, you good Bruno!" she cried clasping her arms about his neck,
"take me home! take me home!"
"Ah, papa will do that, now he has found his lost darling," said a loved
voice, as a strong arm put aside the bushes, and grasped her slight form
with a firm, but tender hold. "How came my little pet here so far away
from home?" he asked, drawing her to his breast.
"I don't know, papa," she sobbed, nestling in his arms and clinging
about his neck, her wet cheek laid close to his, "that carriage waked
me, and I was 'way out here, and that dreadful thing was over there by a
tree, and it shooted the man, and he tumbled off on the ground. O papa,
hurry, hurry fast, and let's go home; it might come back and shoot us
too."
"What thing, daughter?" he asked, soothing her with tender caresses, as
still holding her to his breast, he walked rapidly toward home.
"Great big white thing, with horns, papa."
"I think my pet has been dreaming?"
"No, no, papa, I did see it, and it fired, and the man tumbled off, and
the horses snorted and ran so fast; then they stopped, and the other
mans came back, and I heard them say, 'He's killed; he's quite dead.' O
papa, I'm so frightened!" and she clung to him with convulsive grasp,
sobbing almost hysterically.
"There, there, darling: papa has you safe in his arms. Thank God for
taking care of my little pet," he said, clasping her closer, and
quickening his pace, while Bruno wagging his tail and barking joyously,
gamboled about them, now leaping up to touch his tongue to the little
dusty toes now bounding on ahead, and anon returning to repeat his
loving caress; and so at last they arrived at home.
Mr. Travilla had scarcely left the house, ere the babe waked his mother.
She missed her husband at once, and hearing a half smothered sob coming
from the room occupied by her daughters; she rose and with the babe in
her arms, hastened to ascertain the cause.
She found Elsie alone, crying on the bed with her face half hidden in
the pillows.
"My darling, what is it?" asked the mother's sweet voice. "But where is
Vi?"
"O, mamma, I don't know; that is the reason I can't help crying," said
the child, raising herself and putting her arms about her mother's neck,
as the latter sat down on the side of the bed. "But don't be alarmed,
mamma, for papa has gone to find her."
"Where, daughter? she cannot have gone out of the house, surely?"
At this instant Dinah appeared and delivered her master's message.
To obey his injunction not to be alarmed, was quite impossible to the
loving mother heart, but she endeavored to conceal her anxiety and to
overcome it by casting her care on the Lord. The babe had fallen asleep
again, and laying him gently down, she took Elsie in her arms and
comforted her with caresses and words of hope and cheer.
"Mamma," said the little girl, "I cannot go to sleep again till papa
comes back."
"No, I see you can't, nor can I so we will put on our dressing-gowns and
slippers, and sit together at the window, to watch for him, and when we
see him coming up the avenue with Vi in his arms, we will run to meet
them."
So they did, and the little lost one, found again, was welcomed by
mother and sister, and afterward by nurse and mammy, with tender, loving
words, caresses and tears of joy.
Then Dinah carried her to the nursery, washed the soiled, tired little
feet, changed the draggled night-gown for a fresh and clean one, and
with many a hug and honeyed word, carried her back to bed, saying, as
she laid her down in it, "Now, darlin', don't you git out ob heyah no
mo' till mornin'."
"No, I'll hold her fast; and papa has locked the doors so she can't get
out of these rooms," said Elsie, throwing an arm over Vi.
"Yes, hold me tight, tight" murmured Vi, cuddling down close to her
sister, and almost immediately falling asleep, for she was worn out with
fatigue and excitement.
Elsie lay awake some time longer, her young heart singing for joy over
her recovered treasure, but at length fell asleep also, with the murmur
of her parents' voices in her ears.
They were talking of Violet, expressing their gratitude to God that
no worse consequences had resulted from her escapade, and consulting
together how to prevent a repetition of it.
Mr. Travilla repeated to his wife the child's story of her awaking and
what she had seen and heard.
"Oh my poor darling, what a terrible fright for her!" Elsie exclaimed,
"but do you not think it must have been all a dream?"
"That was my first thought; but on further consideration I fear it may
have been another Ku Klux outrage. I dare say, the disguise worn by them
may answer to her description of 'the horrible thing that shooted the
man;' I judge so from what I have heard of it."
"But who could have been the victim?" she asked with a shudder.
"I do not know. But her carriage was probably the stage: it was about
the hour for it to pass."
Day was already dawning and they did not sleep again.
Mr. Travilla had gone on his regular morning round over the plantation,
and Elsie stole softly into the room of her little daughters.
Though past their usual hour for rising they still slept and she meant
to let them do so as long as they would. They made a lovely picture
lying there clasped in each other's arms. Her heart swelled with tender
emotions, love, joy and gratitude to Him who had given these treasures
and preserved them thus far from all danger and evil. She bent over them
pressing a gentle kiss upon each round rosy cheek.
Little Elsie's brown eyes opened wide, and putting her arm about her
mother's neck, "Mamma," she whispered, with a sweet, glad smile, "was
not God very good to give us back our Vi?"
"Yes, dearest, oh, so much better than we deserve!"
Violet started up to a sitting posture. "Mamma, oh mamma, I did have a
dreadful, dreadful dream!--that I was 'way off from you and papa, out in
the night in the woods, and I saw--"
She ended with a burst of frightened sobs and tears, hiding her face on
the bosom of her mother who already held her closely clasped to her
beating heart.
"Don't think of it, darling, you are safe now in your own dear home with
papa and mamma and sister and brothers." Tender soothing caresses
accompanied the loving words.
"Mamma, did I dream it?" asked the child lifting her tearful face, and
shuddering as she spoke.
The mother was too truthful to say yes, though she would have been glad
her child should think it but a dream.
"Perhaps some of it was, daughter," she said, "though my pet did walk
out in her sleep; but papa is going to manage things so that she can
never do it again. And God will take care of us, my darling."
The sobs grew fainter and softly sighing, "Yes mamma," she said, "I
asked him to send papa to bring me home, and he did."
"And papa came in here this morning and kissed both his girls before he
went down stairs. Did you know that?"
"Did he? Oh I wish I'd waked to give him a good hug!"
"I too;" said Elsie, "Papa loves us very much, doesn't he, mamma?"
"Dearly, dearly, my child; you and all his little ones."
Vi's tears were dried and when her father came in she met him with a
cheerful face, quite ready for the customary romp, but days passed ere
she was again her own bright, merry self, or seemed content unless
clinging close to one or the other of her parents.
While the family were at the breakfast table, Uncle Joe came in with the
mail, his face full of excitement and terror.
"Dem Ku Kluxes dey's gettin' awful dangerous, Massa," he said, laying
down the bag with a trembling hand, "dey's gone an' shot the stage
drivah an' killed 'um dead on the spot. Las' night, sah, jes ober
yondah in de road todder side o' Mars Leland's place, and--"
Mr. Travilla stopped him in the midst of his story, with a warning
gesture and an anxious glance from one to another of the wondering,
half frightened little faces about the table.
"Another time and place, Uncle Joe."
"Yes, sah, beg pardon, sah, Massa Edard," and the old man, now growing
quite infirm from age, hobbled away talking to himself. "Sure nuff, you
ole fool, Joe, might 'a knowed you shouldn't tole no such tings fo' de
chillum."
"Was it 'bout my dream, papa?" Vi asked with quivering lip and fast
filling eyes.
"Never mind, little daughter; we needn't trouble about our dreams," he
said cheerily, and began talking of something else, in a lively strain
that soon set them all to laughing.
It was not until family worship was over and the children had left the
room that he said to his wife, "The Ku Klux were abroad last night and
I have no doubt Uncle Joe's story is quite true, and that our poor little
Vi really saw the murder."