THE TRUNDLE-BED.
They were all very sorry to have Caleb go away, for he had lived in the
family a great many years, and was always good-natured and obliging.
"But since he has turned out to be a thief, of course we don't want him
here," said Seth.
"How can you speak so, my son?" said his mother, reprovingly. "You do
not really know any harm of Caleb. Remember what the Bible says, 'Judge
not, that ye be not judged.'
"Why, mother, who judged Caleb? Who ever accused him of stealing? I
should think he judged himself--shouldn't you? When a man runs away as
he did, it looks very much as if he was guilty."
"O, no," said gentle Love, who was knitting "double mittens" in the
corner; "that isn't a sure sign at all. I dare say he went away because
he was unhappy. How would _you_ like to live with people that don't
trust you? Why, Seth, you couldn't bear it, I'm sure."
"I wish Caleb didn't go off," said Willy; "he was a-going to give me a
rabbit."
"Well," said Stephen, in a teasing tone, "he wouldn't have gone off if
it hadn't been for you, Master Willy! You said he wanted father's money,
you know, and that was what put us to thinking."
"O, yes, he telled me he wanted it," cried the little fellow stoutly.
"Willy, Willy, you should be more careful in repeating other people's
words," said Mrs. Parlin, looking up from the jacket she was making.
"Little boys like you are so apt to make mistakes, that they ought to
say, 'Perhaps,' or, 'I think so,' and never be too sure."
"Then I'm not sure; but _perhaps_ I know, and I _guess_ I think so real
hard."
"That's right, little Pawnee Indian," laughed Stephen. "Indians like you
always stick fast to an idea when they once get hold of it."
"I'm not an Indian," said Willy, ready to cry; "and I never said Caleb
stealed; 'twas you said so; you know you did."
It grew very cold that winter, about "Christmas-tide," and one night the
wind howled and shrieked, while up in the sky the moon and stars seemed
to shiver and shine like so many icicles. Willy had been put to bed at
the usual time, and nicely tucked in, and it was nearly half past eight,
the time for him to begin his wanderings. Lydia sat by the kitchen
fireplace, comforting herself with hot ginger tea.
"It would be too bad for that little creetur to get out of bed such a
night as this," thought she; "I'm going in to see if he has enough
clothes on. Who knows but his dear little nose is about _fruz_ off by
this time?"
So she stole into the bedroom, which opened out of the kitchen, took a
peep at her beloved Willy, made sure his nose was safe, and turned down
the coverlet to see if his hands were warm.
"Poor, sweet little lamb! Not much cold now; but thee will be cold;
this room is just like a barn."
Then, as "Liddy" went back to the kitchen, she wondered if it might not
be the cold weather that made Willy have what she called his
"walking-spells."
"For he is so much worse in winter than he is in summer," thought she.
"Any way, I'm going to try, and see if I can't put a stop to it
to-night; and then, if the _expeeriment_ works, I'll try it again."
What "expeeriment"? You will soon see. There had been a quantity of
charcoal put on the kitchen fire to broil some steak for travellers; so
the kind-hearted Liddy bustled about on tiptoe, filled a shallow pan
with some of the coals, "piping hot," and placed it very near the
trundle-bed, on Mrs. Parlin's foot-stove.
Alas for Liddy's ignorance! she was always rather foolish in her
fondness for Willy; but didn't she know any better than to put a dish of
red coals so near him in a small room, and then go out and shut the
door? She often said she didn't "see any use in all this book-larning,"
and wondered Mrs. Parlin should be so anxious to have her children go to
school. In her whole life Liddy had never attended school more than six
months; and as for chemistry and philosophy she knew nothing about them
except that they are hard words to spell. She did not dream that there
was a deadly gas rising every moment from that charcoal, and that her
darling Willy was breathing it into his lungs. She may have heard of the
word "gas," but if she had she supposed it was some sort of "airy
nothing" not worth mentioning.
Of course _you_ know that if she had hated Willy, and wished to murder
him, she could hardly have chosen a surer way than this; but poor Liddy
went back to the kitchen with a smiling face, feeling well pleased with
her "_expeeriment_," and began to chop a hash of beef, pork, and all
sorts of vegetables, for to-morrow's breakfast.
After a little while Willy began to toss about uneasily; but he did not
come out of the room and Liddy was delighted. She had said she meant to
put a stop to that; and so, indeed, she had,--for this time at least.
The dear child had not strength enough to get out of bed, and moaned as
if a heavy hand were clutching at his throat. In fact he was
suffocating. It is frightful to think of! Was nobody coming to save him?
The chilly teamsters had some time ago crowded into the bar-room with
frost on their hair and whiskers; but the frost was fast turning to
steam as they drank the cider which John, the new hired man, heated with
the red-hot loggerhead. Dr. Hilton had set out the little red chair, and
somebody would have wondered why Willy did not come in, if the men had
not all been so busy telling stories that they did not have time to
think of anything else.
It was now nearly nine, and Mrs. Parlin and Love were in the
sitting-room sewing by the light of two tallow candles.
"Isn't it the coldest night we've had this year, mother?"
"Yes, dear, I think it is. You know what the old ditty says,--
'When the days begin to lengthen,
The cold begins to strengthen.'
"I do wish dear little Willy would stay in his bed, nicely 'happed' in'"
(_happed_ is the Scotch word for "tucked"), "but I suppose he is just as
well off by the bar-room fire. It's lucky he doesn't take a fancy to
wander anywhere else, and we can always tell where he is."
"But, mother, I haven't heard him pass through the south entry,--have
you? I always know when he goes into the bar-room by the quick little
click of the latch."
"So do I," replied her mother; "but now I think of it, I haven't heard
him to-night. I can't help hoping he is going to lie still."
There was nothing more said for a little while. They were both very busy
finishing off a homespun suit for Willy. How should they suspect that a
strange stupor was fast stealing over their little darling? Who was
going to tell them that even now he was entering the valley of the
shadow of death? _Who?_ I cannot answer that question; I only know that
just then Mrs. Parlin, who was going to bed in about fifteen minutes,
and did not like to leave her work yet, suddenly dropped the jacket,
which was almost done, and said,--
"Love, I guess I'll go in and look at that child. He may have tossed the
clothes off and got a little chilly."
Then she arose from her chair slowly,--she was so large that she always
moved slowly,--took one of the candles, and went into the kitchen.
As she opened the bedroom door--Well, I cannot tell you; you will have
to imagine that white, white face, pressed close to the pillow, that
limp little figure, stretched under the coverlet, in awful stillness.
"O God, is it too late?" thought Mrs. Parlin. She saw the charcoal; she
understood it all in an instant.
"Lydia, come quick!"
A low moan fell on her ear as she bent to listen. Thank Heaven, it was
not too late! Willy could yet be saved!
Happy mother, receiving her precious one as if from the dead! Bewildered
Willy, coming back to life with no remembrance of the dark river which
he had almost forded, without a thought of the pearly gates he had
almost entered!
Conscience-stricken "Liddy!" How she suffered when she found what she
had done! Not that she made a scene by screaming and tearing her hair,
as some ignorant people are apt to do at such a time. No; Liddy was a
Quaker, and the Quaker blood is very quiet. She only pressed her hands
together hard, and said to Mrs. Parlin,--
"Thee knows I never _meant_ any harm to that sweet child."