"I--I just want to ask you something."
"Another time then, pet, papa's in a hurry now."
But seeing the distress in the dear little face he came to her and
laying his hand on her head in tender fatherly fashion, said, "Tell papa
what it is that troubles you. I will wait to hear it now."
"Papa," she said, choking down a sob, "I--I don't know what to do."
"About what, daughter?"
"Papa, s'pose--s'pose I'd done something naughty, and--and it would
grieve dear mamma to hear it; ought I to tell her and--and make her
sorry?"
"My dear little daughter," he said bending down to look with grave,
tender eyes into the troubled face, "never, _never_ conceal anything
from your mother; it is not safe for you, pet; and she would far rather
bear the pain of knowing. If our children knew how much, how very much
we both love them, they would never want to hide anything from us."
"Papa, I don't; but--somebody says it would be selfish to hurt mamma
so."
"The selfishness was in doing the naughty thing, not in confessing it.
Go, my child, and tell mamma all about it."
He hastened away, and Violet crept back to the drawing-room.
The other children were leaving it. "Come, Vi," they said, "we're going
for a walk."
"Thank you, I don't wish to go this time," she answered with gravity.
"I've something to attend to."
"What a grown up way of talking you have, you little midget," laughed
Meta. Then putting her lips close to Vi's ear, "Violet Travilla," she
whispered, "don't you tell tales, or I'll never, never play with you
again as long as I live."
"My mamma says it's wicked to say that;" returned Vi, "and I don't tell
tales."
Then as Meta ran away, Violet drew near her mother's chair.
Mamma was talking, and she must not interrupt, so she waited, longing to
have the confession over, yet feeling her courage almost fail with the
delay.
Elsie saw it all, and at length seized an opportunity while the rest
were conversing among themselves, to take Vi's hand and draw her to her
side.
"I think my little girl has something to say to mother," she whispered
softly, smoothing back the clustering curls, and looking tenderly into
the tear-stained face.
Violet nodded assent; her heart was so full she could not have spoken a
word without bursting into tears and sobs.
Mamma understood, rose and led her from the room; led her to her own
dressing-room where they could be quite secure from intrusion. Then
seating herself and taking the child on her lap, "What is wrong with my
dear little daughter?" she asked.
"O, mamma, mamma, I'm so sorry, so sorry!" cried the child, bursting
into a passion of tears and sobs, putting her arms about her mother's
neck and hiding her face on her breast.
"Mamma is sorry, too, dear, sorry for anything that makes her Vi
unhappy. What is it? what can mother do to comfort you."
"Mamma I don't deserve for you to be so kind, and you'll have to punish,
'stead of comforting. But I just want to tell about my own self; you
know I can't tell tales, mamma."
"No, daughter, I do not ask, or wish it; but tell me about yourself."
"Mamma, it will make you sorry, ever so sorry."
"Yes, dear, but I must bear it for your sake."
"O mamma, I don't like to make you sorry I--I wish I hadn't, hadn't been
naughty, oh so naughty, mamma! for I played with some of your mamma's
things that you forbade us to touch, and--and one lovely plate got
broken all up."
"I am very sorry to hear that," returned the mother, "yet far more
grieved by my child's sin. But how did you get the door open and the
plates off the shelf?"
"I didn't, mamma: they were out."
"Some one else did it?"
"Yes, mamma; but you know I can't tell tales. It wasn't any of our
children, though, none of them were naughty but just me."
"Were you playing with the plate? did you break it?"
"No mamma, I didn't touch the plates, but I was dressing one of the
dollies. They are all locked up again now, mamma, and I don't think
anybody will touch them any more."
A little tender, serious talk on the sin and danger of disobedience to
parents, and the mother knelt with her child, and in a few simple words
asked God's forgiveness for her. Then telling Vi she must remain alone
in that room till bedtime, she left her.
Not one harsh or angry word had been spoken, and the young heart was
full of a passionate love to her mother that made the thought of having
grieved her a far bitterer punishment than the enforced solitude, though
that was at any time irksome enough to one of Vi's social, fun-loving
temperament.
It cost the mother a pang to inflict the punishment and leave the
darling alone in her trouble; but Elsie was not one to weakly yield to
inclination when it came in conflict with duty. Hers was not a selfish
love; she would bear any present pain to secure the future welfare of
her children.
She rejoined her friends in the drawing-room apparently as serenely
happy as her wont, but through all the afternoon and evening her heart
was with her little one in her banishment and grief, yearning over her
with tenderest mother love.
Little Elsie, too, missed her sister, and returning from her walk, went
in search of her. She found her at last in their mamma's dressing-room
seated at the window, her cheek resting on her hand, the tears coursing
slowly down, while her eyes gazed longingly out over the beautiful
fields and lovely orange groves.
"Oh my own Vi, my darling little sister! what's the matter?" asked
Elsie, clasping her in her arms, and kissing the wet cheek.
A burst of bitter sobs, while the small arms clung about the sister's
neck, and the golden head rested for an instant on her shoulder, then
the words, "Ah I'd tell you, but I can't now, for you must run right
away, because mamma said I must stay here all alone till bedtime."
"Then I must go, pet; but don't cry so: if you've been naughty and are
sorry, Jesus, and mamma too, will forgive you and love you just the
same," Elsie said, kissing her again, then releasing her, hurried from
the room, crying heartily in sympathy.
On the upper veranda, whither she went to recover her composure, before
rejoining her mates, she found her mother pacing slowly to and fro.
"Is my Elsie in trouble, too?" Mrs. Travilla asked, pausing in her walk
and holding out her hand.
"For my Vi, mamma," sobbed Elsie, taking the hand and pressing it to her
lips.
"Yes, poor little pet! mother's heart aches for her too," Mrs. Travilla
answered, her own eyes filling. "I am glad my little daughters love and
sympathize with each other."
"Mamma, I would rather stay with Vi, than be with the others. May I?"
"No, daughter, I have told her she must spend the rest of the day
alone."
"Yes, mamma, she told me so and wouldn't let me stay even one minute to
hear about her trouble."
"That was right."
Time crept by very slowly to Violet. She thought that afternoon the
longest she had ever known. After a while she heard a familiar step, and
almost before she knew it papa had her in his arms.
With a little cry of joy she put hers around his neck and returned the
kiss he had just given her.
"Oh I'm so glad!" she said, "but, papa, you'll have to go away, because
nobody must stay with me; I'm--"
"Papa may," he said, sitting down with her on his knee. "So you told
mamma about the naughtiness?"
"Yes, sir."
"I am glad you did. Always tell mamma everything. If you have disobeyed
her never delay a moment to go and confess it."
"Yes, papa: but if it's you?"
"Then come to me in the same way. If you want to be a happy child have
no concealment from father or mother."
"Shall I tell you about it now, papa?"
"You may do as you like about that since your mother knows it all."
"Papa, I'm afraid you wouldn't love such a naughty girl any more."
"Mamma loves you quite as well, and so shall I; because you are our own,
own little daughter. There were tears in mamma's eyes when she told me
that she had had to punish our little Vi."
"Oh I'm so sorry to have made mamma cry," sobbed the child.
"Sin always brings sorrow and suffering sooner or later, my little girl;
remember that; and that it is because Jesus loves us that he would save
us from our sins."
After a little more talk, in which Violet repeated to him the same story
of her wrong doing that she had already told her mother, her papa left
her and she was again alone till mammy came with her supper--a bowl of
rich sweet milk and bread from the unbolted flour, that might have
tempted the appetite of an epicure.
"Come, honey, dry dose wet eyes an' eat yo' supper," said mammy, setting
it out daintily on a little table which she placed before the child and
covered with a fine damask cloth fresh from the iron. "De milk's mos' all
cream, an' de bread good as kin be: an' you kin hab much as eber you
want ob both ob dem."
"Did mamma say so, mammy?"
"Yes, chile; an' don't shed no mo' dose tears now; ole mammy lubs you
like her life."
"But I've been very naughty, mammy," sobbed the little girl.
"Yes, Miss Wi'let, honey: an' we's all been naughty, but de good Lord
forgib us for Jesus' sake if we's sorry an' don't 'tend neber to do so
no mo'."
"Yes, mammy, Oh I wish you could stay with me I but you musn't: for
mamma said I must be all alone."
"Yes, darlin'; an' if you wants mo' supper, jes ring dis, an' mammy'll
come."
She placed a small silver bell on the table beside Vi, and with a
tender, compassionate look at the tear-swollen face, went away.
The young Travillas were sometimes denied dainties because of
misconduct, but always allowed to satisfy their youthful appetites with
an abundance of wholesome, nourishing food.
Vi ate her supper with a keen relish, and found herself greatly
comforted by it. How much one's views of life are brightened by a good
comfortable meal that does not overtax the digestive organs. Vi suddenly
remembered with a feeling of relief that the worst of her trouble--the
confession--was over, and the punishment nearly so.
It was only a little while till mamma came, took her on her lap, kissed
and forgave her.
"Mamma, I'm so, _so_ sorry for having disobeyed and grieved you!"
whispered the child, weeping afresh: "for I do love you very, very much,
my own mamma."
"I know it, dearest; but I want you to be far more sorry for having
disobeyed God, who loves you more, a great deal, than your parents do,
and has given you every good thing you have."
"Yes, mamma, I've asked God many times to forgive me for Jesus's sake,
and I think he has."
"Yes, if you asked with your heart, I am sure he has; for Jesus said,
'Verily, verily, I say unto you, Whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in
my name, he will give it you.'"
There was a little pause, Vi nestling close in her mother's arms; then
with a quiver in her voice, "Mamma," she sighed, "will you ever trust me
again?"
"Just the same as before, my child; because I believe you are truly
sorry for your sin against God and against me."
"Thank you, dear, dear mamma! oh I hope God will help me to keep from
ever being naughty any more."
Chapter Twenty-seventh.
"Conscience makes cowards of us all."
Meta was not in a cheerful or companionable mood during the walk that
afternoon; the stings of conscience goaded her and she was haunted by
the fear that Violet, so young and innocent, so utterly unused to
concealments, would betray her share in the mischief done, even without
intending to do so.
"Meta, what's the matter with you?" Herbert asked at length; "you
haven't spoken a pleasant word since we came out."
"I'm not ill," was the laconic reply.
"Then you must be in the sulks, and ought to have staid at home,"
returned the plain-spoken brother.
"Oh don't tease her," said little Elsie. "Perhaps she has a headache,
and I know by myself that that makes one feel dull, and sometimes even
cross."
"You cross! I don't believe you ever were in your life," said Herbert.
"I've never seen you any thing but pleasant as a May morning."
"Don't quarrel, children, but help me to gather some of these lovely
flowers to scatter over the graves up there on the hill," said Rosie
Dinsmore.
"Our graves," said Eddie, softly. "Yes I'd like to; but, Aunt Rosie, I
don't believe we can get in."
"Yes, we can," she answered. "Uncle Joe's up there at work, weeding and
trimming the rosebushes."
"Then I'll gather plenty of these beauties," said Eddie, stooping to
pluck the lovely, many-hued blossoms that spangled the velvety grass at
their feet in every direction.
"How beautiful! how beautiful they are! and some of them so fragrant!"
exclaimed Elsie, rapidly filling a pretty basket she carried in her
hand. "How good God is to give us so many lovely things!"
"Yes," returned Rosie, "it seems a pity to pluck them from their stems
and make them wither and die; but there is such a profusion that what we
take can hardly be missed."
"And it's honoring our graves to scatter flowers over them: isn't it,
Aunt Rosie?" Eddie asked.
"Why do you say our graves? just as if you were already buried there,"
laughed Herbert.
"Come," said Rosie, "I think we have enough now."
"O Aunt Rosie, down in that little dell yonder they are still thicker
than here, and more beautiful, I think," exclaimed Elsie.
"But we have enough now; your basket is full. We'll go to that dell as
we come back, and gather some to take home to our mammas."
"Oh yes, that will be best," Elsie said, with cheerful acquiescence.
"I shall go now and get some worthy to honor the dead," said Meta,
starting off in the direction of the dell.
"Meta likes to show her independence," said Rosie, smiling; "we won't
wait for her."
They climbed the hill, pushed open the gate of the little enclosure and
passed in; very quietly, for their youthful spirits were subdued by the
solemn stillness of the place, and a feeling of awe crept over them at
thought of the dead whose dust lay sleeping there.
Silently they scattered the flowers over each lowly resting place,
reserving the most beautiful for that of her who was best known to them
all--the first who had borne the name of Elsie Dinsmore.
"Our dear grandma!" whispered Elsie and Eddie, softly.
"I can't help feeling as if she was some relation to me too," said
Rosie, "because she was my sister's mother, and papa's wife."
The breeze carried the words to the ear of Uncle Joe, who was at work on
the farther side of the enclosure, and had not till that moment been
aware of the vicinity of the young people.
He rose and came hobbling toward them, pulling off his hat and bowing
respectfully.
"Dat's so, Miss Rosie, ef you lubs de Lord, like she did, de dear young
Missus dat lays heyah; for don't de 'postle say ob de Lord's chillen dat
dey's all one in Christ Jesus? all one, Miss Rosie: heirs ob God and
joint heirs wid Christ."
"Yes, Uncle Joe, that is true."
"Ah, she was lubly an' lubbed de Master well," he went on, leaning upon
his staff and gazing fixedly at the name engraved on the stone, "She's
not dead, chillen: her soul's wid de Lord in dat land ob light an'
glory, an' de body planted heyah till de mornin' ob de resurrection."
"And then she will rise more beautiful than ever," said little Elsie.
"Mamma has told me about it. 'The dead in Christ shall rise first.'"
"Then we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them
in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with
the Lord," repeated Rosie.
"Yes, Miss Rosie. Bressed hope." And Uncle Joe hobbled back to his work.
"Here, look at these!" said Meta hurrying up, heated and out of breath
with running, "Aren't they beauties?"
She emptied her apron upon the grave as she spoke, then pulled out her
handkerchief with a jerk, to wipe the perspiration from her face
Something fell against the tombstone with a ringing, metallic sound.
"A key! a door key!" cried Herbert, stooping to pick it up. "Why, Meta,
what key is it? and what are you doing with it?"
"I never heard that it had any particular name," she answered tartly,
snatching it from him and restoring it to her pocket, while her cheeks
flushed crimson.
The others exchanged surprised glances, but said nothing.
"But what door does it belong to? and what are you doing with it?"
persisted Herbert.
"Talk of the curiosity of women and girls!" sneered Meta: "men and boys
have quite as much; but it's against my principles to gratify it."
"Your principles!" laughed Herbert "You, prying, meddling Meta; talking
about other people's curiosity! Well, that's a good one!"
"You insulting boy! I'll tell mamma of you," retorted Meta, beginning to
cry.
"Ha! ha! I wish you would! tell her my remarks about the key, and she'll
soon make you explain where it belongs, and how it came into your
possession."
At that Meta, deigning no reply, put her handkerchief to her eyes and
hurried away toward the house.
"There, she's gone to tell mamma," said Harry.
"Not she," said Herbert, "she knows better; she'd only get reproved for
telling tales, and be forced to tell all about that key. She's been at
some mischief, I haven't a doubt: she's always prying, and meddling with
what she's been told not to touch. Mamma says that's her besetting sin."
"And what does she say is yours?" asked Rosie, looking him steadily in
the eye.
Herbert colored and turned away.
His mother had told him more than once or twice, that he was quite too
much disposed to domineer over, and reprove his younger brother and
sisters.
"Well, I don't care!" he muttered to himself, "'tisn't half so mean a
fault as Meta's. I'm the oldest, and Harry and the girls ought to be
willing to let me tell them of it when they go wrong."
The key, which belonged to a closet in Mr. Lilburn's dressing-room,
seemed to burn in Meta's pocket. She was frightened that Herbert and the
others had seen it.
"They all looked as if they knew something was wrong," she said to
herself, "and to be sure what business could I have with a door-key.
Dear me! why wasn't I more careful. But it's like 'murder will out;' or
what the Bible says; 'Be sure your sin will find you out.'"
She was afraid to meet her mother with the key in her possession, so
took so circuitous a route to reach the house, and walked so slowly that
the others were there some time before her.
Her mother was on the veranda looking out for her. "Why, how late you
are, Meta," she said. "Make haste to your room and have your hair and
dress made neat; for the tea-bell will soon ring."
"Yes, ma'am," and Meta flew into the house and up to her room, only too
glad of an excuse for not stopping to be questioned.
She was down again barely in time to take her seat at the table with the
others. She glanced furtively at the faces of her mother, grandmother,
and Aunt Elsie, and drew a sigh of relief as she perceived that they had
evidently learned nothing yet of her misconduct.
After tea she watched Mr. Lilburn's movements and was glad to see him
step into the library, seat himself before the fire, and take up a book.
"He's safe to stay there for awhile," she thought, "so fond of reading
as he is," and ran up to her room for the key, which she had left there
hidden under her pillow.
She secured it unobserved and stole cautiously to the door of his
dressing-room. She found it slightly ajar, pushed it a little wider
open, crept in, gained the closet door, and was in the act of putting
the key into the lock, when a deep groan, coming from within the closet,
apparently, so startled her that she uttered a faint cry, and dropped
the key on the floor; then a hollow voice said, "If you ever touch that
again, I'll--"
But Meta waited to hear no more; fear seemed to lend her wings, and she
flew from the room in a panic of terror.
"Ah ha! ah ha! um h'm! ah ha! you were at some mischief, no doubt, my
lassie. 'The wicked flee when no man pursueth,' the good Book tells us,"
said the occupant of the room, stepping out from the shadow of the
window-curtain.
He had laid down his book almost immediately, remembering that he had
some letters to write, and had come up to his apartments in search of
one he wished to answer.
It was already dark, except for the light of a young moon, but by some
oversight of the servants the lamps had not yet been lighted here.
He was feeling about for matches, when hearing approaching footsteps he
stepped behind the curtain and waited to see who the intruder was.
He recognized Meta's form and movements, and sure that no legitimate
errand had brought her there at that time, resolved to give her a fright.
Tearing down the hall, Meta suddenly encountered her mother, who, coming
up to her own apartments, had reached the head of the stairs just in
time to witness Meta's exit from those of Mr. Lilburn.
"Oh I'm so frightened! so frightened, mamma!" cried the child, throwing
herself into her mother's arms.
"As you richly deserve to be," said Mrs. Carrington, taking her by the
hand and leading her into her dressing-room. "What were you doing in Mr.
Lilburn's apartments?"
Meta hung her head in silence.
"Speak, Meta; I will have an answer," her mother said, with
determination.
"I wasn't doing any harm; only putting away something that belonged
there."
"What was it?"
"A key."
"Meddling again! prying even into the affairs of a strange gentleman!"
groaned her mother. "Meta, what am I to do with you? this dreadful fault
of yours mortifies me beyond everything. I feel like taking you back to
Ashlands at once, and never allowing you to go from home at all; lest
you should bring a life-long disgrace upon yourself and me."
"Mother, I wasn't prying or meddling with Mr. Lilburn's affairs," said
Meta, bursting into sobs and tears.
"What were you doing there? tell me all about it without any more ado."
Knowing that her mother was a determined woman, and seeing that there
was now no escape from a full confession, Meta made it.
Mrs. Carrington was much distressed.
"Meta, you have robbed your Aunt Elsie, your Aunt Elsie who has always
been so good, so kind to me and to you: and I can never make good her
loss; never replace that plate."
"Just that one tiny plate couldn't be worth so very much," muttered the
offender.
"Its intrinsic value was perhaps not very great," replied Mrs.
Carrington, "but to my dear friend it was worth much as a memento of her
dead mother. Meta, you shall not go with us to-morrow, but shall spend
the day locked up in your own room at home."
An excursion had been planned for the next day, in which the whole
party, adults and children, were to have a share. They were to leave at
an early hour in the morning, travel several miles by boat, and spend
the day picnicking on a deserted plantation--one Meta had not yet seen,
but had heard spoken of as a very lovely place.
She had set her heart on going, and this decree of her mother came upon
her as a great blow. She was very fond of being on the water, and of
seeing new places, and had pictured to herself the delights of roaming
over the large old house, which she had heard was still standing,
peeping into the closets, pulling open drawers, perhaps discovering
secret stairways and--oh delightful thought!--possibly coming upon some
hidden treasure forgotten by the owners in their hasty flight.
She wept bitterly, coaxed, pleaded, and made fair promises for the
future, but all in vain. Her mother was firm.
"You must stay at home, Meta," she said. "It grieves me to deprive you
of so great a pleasure, but I must do what I can to help you to overcome
this dreadful fault. You have chosen stolen pleasures at the expense of
disobedience to me, and most ungrateful, wicked behavior toward my kind
friend; and as a just and necessary punishment you must be deprived of
the share you were to have had in the innocent enjoyments planned for
to-morrow. You shall also make a full confession to your Aunt Elsie and
ask her forgiveness."
"I won't!" exclaimed Meta angrily; then catching the look of pained
surprise in her mother's face, she ran to her and throwing her arms
about her neck, "O mamma! mamma! forgive me!" she cried. "I can't bear
to see you look so grieved: I will never say that again; I will do
whatever you bid me."
Mrs. Carrington kissed her child in silence, then taking her by the
hand, "Come and let us have this painful business over," she said, and
led the way to Mrs. Travilla's boudoir.
Elsie had no reproaches for Meta, but kindly forgave her, and even
requested that she might be permitted to share in the morrow's
enjoyment, but Mrs. Carrington would not hear of it.
Chapter Twenty-eighth.
"Mature I'll court in her sequester'd haunts,
By mountain, meadow, streamlet grove or cell."
--SMOLLET.
Mr. Dinsmore was pacing the front veranda, enjoying the cool, fresh
morning air, when little feet came pattering through the hall and a
sweet child voice hailed him with, "Good morning, my dear grandpa."
"Ah, grandpa's little cricket, where were you last evening?" he asked,
sitting down and taking her on his knee.
It was his pet name for Vi, because she was so merry.
The fair face flushed, but putting her arms about his neck, her lips to
his ear, "I was in mamma's dressing-room, grandpa," she whispered. "I
was 'bliged to stay there, 'cause I'd been naughty and disobeyed mamma."
"Ah, I am sorry to hear that I but I hope you don't intend to disobey
any more."
"No, indeed, grandpa."
"Are you considered good enough to go with us to-day?"
"Yes, grandpa, mamma says I was punished yesterday, and I don't be
punished twice for the same thing."
"Mamma is quite right," he said, "and grandpa is very glad she allows
you to go."
"I don't think I deserve it, grandpa, but she's such a dear, kind
mamma."
"So she is, pet, and I hope you will always be a dear good daughter to
her," said grandpa, holding the little face close to his.
Meta was not allowed to come down to breakfast. Vi missed her from the
table, and at prayers, and going up to Mrs. Carrington, asked, "Is Meta
sick, Aunt Sophie?"
"No, dear, but she has been too naughty to be with us. I have said she
must stay in her own room all day."
"And not go to the picnic? Oh please let her go, auntie!"
The other children joined their entreaties to Vi's, but without avail;
and with streaming eyes Meta, at her window, saw the embarkation, and
watched the boats glide away till lost to view in the distance.
"Too bad!" she sobbed, "it's too, too bad that I must stay here and
learn long hard lessons while all the rest are having such a good time!"
Then she thought remorsefully of her mother's sad look, as she bade her
good-bye and said how sorry she was to be obliged to leave her behind,
and as some atonement set to work diligently at her tasks.
The weather was very fine, the sun shone, the birds filled the air with
melody, and a delicious breeze danced in the tree-tops, rippled the
water, and played with the brown and golden ringlets of little Elsie and
Vi, and the flaxen curls of Daisy Carrington.
The combined influences of the clear, pure air, the pleasant motion, as
the rowers bent to their oars, and the lovely scenery meeting the eye at
every turn, were not to be resisted; and all, old and young, were soon
in gayest spirits. They sang songs, cracked jokes, told anecdotes, and
were altogether a very merry company.
After a delightful row of two hours or more the rounding of a point
brought suddenly into view the place of their destination.
The boats were made fast and the party stepped ashore, followed by the
men servants bearing rugs and wraps and several large well-filled
hampers of provisions.
With joyous shouts the children ran hither and thither; the boys tumbled
on the grass, the girls gathered great bouquets of the beautiful
flowers, twisted them in their curls, and wore garlands for their hats.
"Walk up to de house, ladies an' gentlemen; Massa an' Missus not at home
now, but be berry glad to see you when dey gets back," said a pleasant
voice close at hand.
All but Mr. Lilburn looked about for the speaker, wondered at seeing no
one, then laughed at themselves for being so often and so easily
deceived.
"Suppose we accept the invitation," said Mr. Travilla, leading the way.
The two old ladies preferred a seat under a wide-spreading tree on the
lawn; but the others accompanied him in a tour of the deserted mansion
already falling rapidly to decay.
They climbed the creaking stairs, passed along the silent corridors,
looked into the empty rooms, and out of the broken windows upon the
flower gardens, once trim and gay, now choked with rubbish, and
overgrown with weeds, and sighed over the desolations of war.
Some of the lower rooms were still in a pretty good state of
preservation, and in one of these the servants were directed to build
a fire and prepare tea and coffee.
Plenty of dry branches strewed the ground in a bit of woods but a few
rods distant. Some of these were quickly gathered and a brightly blazing
fire presently crackled upon the hearth and roared up the wide chimney.
Leaving the house, which in its loneliness and dilapidation inspired
only feelings of sadness and gloom, our party wandered over the
grounds, still beautiful even in their forlornly neglected state.
The domain was extensive, and the older boys having taken an opposite
direction from their parents, were presently out of their sight and
hearing, the house being directly between. Uncle Joe, however, was with
the lads, so no anxiety was felt for their safety.
Wandering on, they came to a stream of limpid water flowing between high
grassy banks, and spanned by a little rustic bridge.
"Let's cross over," said Herbert, "that's such a pretty bridge, and it
looks lovely on the other side."
"No, no, 'tain't safe, boys, don't you go for to try it," exclaimed
Uncle Joe.
"Pooh! what do you know about it?" returned Herbert, who always had
great confidence in his own opinion. "If it won't bear us all at once,
it certainly will one at a time. What do you say, Ed?"
"I think Uncle Joe can judge better whether it's safe than little boys
like us."
"Don't you believe it: his eyes are getting old and he can't see half so
well as you or I."
"I kin see dat some ob de planks is gone, Marse Herbert; an' de ole
timbahs looks shaky."
"Shaky! nonsense! they'll not shake under my weight, and I'm going to
cross."
"Now, Herbie, don't you do it," said his brother. "You know mamma
wouldn't allow it if she was here."
"'Twon't be disobedience though; as she isn't here, and never has
forbidden me to go on that bridge," persisted Herbert.
"Mamma and papa say that truly obedient children don't do what they know
their parents would forbid if they were present," said Eddie.
"I say nobody but a coward would be afraid to venture on that bridge,"
said Herbert, ignoring Eddie's last remark. "Suppose it should break and
let you fall! the worst would be a ducking."
"De watah's deep, Marse Herbert, and you might git drownded!" said Uncle
Joe. "Or maybe some ob de timbahs fall on you an' break yo' leg or yo'
back."
They were now close to the bridge.
"It's very high up above the water," said Harry, "and a good many boards
are off: I'd be afraid to go on it."
"Coward!" sneered his brother. "Are you afraid too, Ed?"
"Yes, I'm afraid to disobey my father; because that's disobeying God."
"Did your father ever say a word about not going on this bridge?"
"No; but he's told me never to run into danger needlessly; that is when
there's nothing to be gained by it for myself or anybody else."
"Before I'd be such a coward!" muttered Herbert, deliberately walking on
to the bridge.
The other two boys watched his movements in trembling, breathless
silence, while Uncle Joe began looking about for some means of rescue in
case of accident.
Herbert picked his way carefully over the half-rotten timbers till he
had gained the middle of the bridge, then stopped, looked back at his
companions and pulling off his cap, waved it around his head, "Hurrah!
here I am: who's afraid? who was right this time?"
Then leaning over the low railing, "Oh!" he cried, "you ought just to see
the fish! splendid big fellows. Come on, boys, and look at 'em!"
But at that instant the treacherous railing gave way with a loud crack,
and with a wild scream for help, over he went, headforemost, falling
with a sudden plunge into the water and disappearing at once beneath the
surface.
"Oh he'll drown! he'll drown!" shrieked Harry, wringing his hands, while
Eddie echoed the cry for help.
"Run to de house, Marse Ed, an' fotch some ob de boys to git him out,"
said Uncle Joe, hurrying to the edge of the stream with an old
fishing-rod he had found lying among the weeds on its bank.
But a dark object sprang past him, plunged into the stream, and as
Herbert rose to the surface, seized him by the coat-collar, and so
holding his head above water, swam with him to the shore.
"Good Bruno! brave fellow! good dog!" said a voice near at hand, and
turning to look for the speaker, Uncle Joe found Mr. Daly standing by
his side.
Leaving his gayer companions, the minister had wandered away, book in
hand, to this sequestered spot. Together he and Uncle Joe assisted the
dog to drag Herbert up the bank, and laid him on the grass.
The fall had stunned the boy, but now consciousness returned. "I'm not
hurt," he said, opening his eyes. "But don't tell mother: she'd be
frightened half to death."
"We'll save her as much as we can; and I hope you've learned a lesson,
young sir, and will not be so foolhardy another time," said Mr. Daly.
"P'raps he'll tink ole folks not such fools, nex' time," remarked Uncle
Joe. "Bless de Lord dat he didn't get drownded!"
The men and boys came running from the house, bringing cloaks and shawls
to wrap about the dripping boy. They would have carried him back with
them, but he stoutly resisted, declaring himself quite as able to walk
as anybody.
"Let him do so, the exercise will help to prevent his taking cold
provided he is well wrapped up;" said Mr. Daly, throwing a cloak over
the lad's shoulders and folding it carefully about him.
"Ill news flies fast," says the proverb. Mrs. Carrington met them upon
the threshold, pale and trembling with affright. She clasped her boy in
her arms with a heart too full for utterance.
"Never mind, mother," he said, "I've only had a ducking, that's all."
"But it may not be all: you may get your death of cold," she said,
"I've no dry clothes for you here."
By this time the whole party had hurried to the spot.
"Here's a good fire; suppose we hang him up to dry before it," said old
Mr. Dinsmore with a grim smile.
"His clothes rather; rolling him up in cloaks and shawls in the
meantime," suggested Herbert's grandmother. "Let us ladies go back to
the lawn, and leave his uncle to oversee the business."
Herbert had spoiled his holiday so far as the remainder of the visit to
this old estate was concerned: he could not join the others at the feast
presently spread under the trees on the lawn, or in the sports that
followed; but had to pass the time lying idly on a pallet beside the
fire, with nothing to entertain him but his own thoughts and watching
the servants, until, their work done, they too wandered away in search
of amusement.
Most of the afternoon was spent by the gentlemen in fishing in that same
stream into which Herbert's folly and self-conceit had plunged him.
Eddie had his own little fishing-rod, and with it in his hand sat on a
log beside his father, a little apart from the rest, patiently waiting
for the fish to bite. Mr. Travilla had thrown several out upon the
grass, but Eddie's bait did not seem to attract a single one.
He began to grow weary of sitting still and silent, and creeping closer
to his father whispered, "Papa, I'm tired, and I want to ask you
something. Do you think the fish will hear if I speak low?"
"Perhaps not; you may try it if you like," returned Mr. Travilla,
looking somewhat amused.
"Thank you, papa. Well, Herbert said nobody but a coward would be afraid
to go on that bridge. Do you think he was right, papa?"
"No, my boy; but if you had gone upon it to avoid being laughed at or
called a coward, I should say you showed a great lack of true courage.
He is a brave man or boy who dares to do right without regard to
consequences."
"But, papa, if you'd been there and said I might if I wanted to?"
"Hardly a supposable case, my son."
"Well, if I'd been a man and could do as I chose?"
"Men have no more right to do as they please than boys; they must obey
God. If his will is theirs, they may do as they please, just as you may
if it is your pleasure to be good and obedient."
"Papa, I don't understand. Does God say we must not go into dangerous
places?"
"He says, 'Thou shalt not kill;' we have no right to kill ourselves, or
to run the risk of doing so merely for amusement or to be considered
brave or dexterous."
"But if somebody needs us to do it to save them from being hurt or
killed, papa?"
"Then it becomes quite a different matter: it is brave, generous, and
right to risk our own life or limbs to save those of others."
"Then I may do it, papa?"
"Yes, my son; Jesus laid down his life to save others, and in all things
he is to be our example."
A hand was laid lightly on the shoulder of each, and a sweet voice said,
"May my boy heed his father's instructions in this and in every thing
else."
"Wife!" Mr. Travilla said, turning to look up into the fair face bent
over them.
"Mamma, dear mamma, I do mean to," said Eddie.
"Is it not time to go home?" she asked. "The little ones are growing
weary."
"Yes, the sun is getting low."
In a few moments the whole party had reembarked; in less exuberant
spirits than in the morning, yet perhaps not less happy: little disposed
to talk, but with hearts filled with a quiet, peaceful content.
Viamede was reached without accident, a bountiful supper awaiting them
there partaken of with keen appetites, and the little ones went gladly
to bed.
Returning from the nursery to the drawing-room, Elsie found her namesake
daughter sitting apart in a bay window, silently gazing out over the
beautiful landscape sleeping in the moonlight.
She looked up with a smile as her mother took a seat by her side and
passed an arm about her waist.
"Isn't it lovely, mamma? see how the waters of our lakelet shine in the
moonbeams like molten silver! and the fields, the groves, the hills! how
charming they look in the soft light."
"Yes, darling: and that was what you were thinking of, sitting here
alone?"
"Yes, mamma; and of how good God is to us to give us this lovely home
and dear, kind father and mother to take care of us. It is always so
sweet to come back to my home when I've been away. I was enjoying it all
the way coming in the boat to-night; that and thinking of the glad time
when we shall all be gathered into the lovelier home Jesus is preparing
for us."
"God grant we may!" said the mother, with emotion, "it is my heart's
desire and prayer to God for all my dear ones, especially my children.
'Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart
of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.'"