A FEW BRIGHT DAYS.
The next evening after supper Liddy showed unusual cheerfulness. She had
that day received three letters from the absent one, though of different
dates, and all contained assuring words. Then she had a little plan of
loving intent mapped out in her mind and was eager to carry it out. Her
father noticed her unusual mood and said: "It seems good to see you
smile once more, Liddy."
"I am trying hard to feel happy," she answered, "and harder still to
make you feel so as well." And then, drawing her chair close to him, she
sat down and rested her face against his shoulder. It was one of her odd
ways, and it must be now stated that when this winsome girl most
earnestly desired to reach her father's heart, she always stroked his
shoulder with her face.
"Well," he said, recognizing her method, "I know you have something on
your mind; so tell me what it is right away!"
She made no immediate reply, but softly stroked him for a moment and
then replied: "Yes, I do want something; I want a clock!" and then,
straightening herself up, she continued earnestly: "I want a lot of
things; I want a pretty clock to put on the mantel, and I want you to
put the tall one up into the attic, for it gives me the blues; and say,
father"---- and here again her face went to his shoulder, "I want a
piano!"
"Is that all?" he answered, a droll smile creeping into his face.
"No," she said, "that isn't all; but it's all I dare ask for now."
"Better tell me the rest," he replied, stroking the head that still
rested against his arm. "You haven't surprised me yet."
And then there was a very pretty scene, for the next instant that
blue-eyed heart-breaker was sitting in her father's lap, with both arms
around his neck.
"Do you mean it, father?" she whispered. "Can I have a piano?"
"Why, of course," he answered softly, "if you want one."
In a week the old cottage organ that had felt the touch of Liddy's
childish fingers learning the scale, was keeping company with the tall
clock in the attic, and in its place stood a piano. In the sitting-room
a new clock that chimed the hours and halves ticked on the mantel. These
were not all the changes, for when so much was won our heart-breaker
renewed her assault by her usual method, and pretty portières took the
place of doors between parlor, hall and sitting-room, and delicate lace
curtains draped the windows. Then Liddy surveyed her home with
satisfaction and asked her father how he liked it.
"It makes a great change in the rooms," he replied, "and they seem more
cheerful."
"Do you notice that it also makes the carpets look worn and shabby?"
said Liddy; "and the parlor furniture a little old-fashioned?"
Mr. Camp sat down in one of the parlor chairs and looked around. For a
few moments he surveyed the room in silence and then said: "Liddy, did
you ever hear the story of the brass fire-dogs? I don't think you have,
so I will tell it. There was once a good woman who persuaded her husband
to buy a pair of brass fire-dogs for the parlor, to take the place of
the old iron ones. When the new ones were in place she polished them
very brightly and asked him to look into the room. 'Don't you think,'
she said, 'they make the carpet look old and worn?' They certainly did,
so he bought a new carpet. That in turn made the furniture seem shabby,
so he was persuaded to renew that. By this time the curtains were not in
harmony, and had to be changed. When it was all done he remarked: 'Wife,
you said the fire-dogs would only cost me four dollars, but they have
really cost me two hundred.'"
"But we had the brass fire-dogs already," said Liddy laughing, "so the
story doesn't hit me." Then, going to him and putting one arm around his
neck and stroking his face with the other hand, she continued: "The
trouble is, father, you have got me instead of new fire-dogs; are you
sorry?"
"You must judge for yourself," was his answer. "Is there anything else
you wish?"
"Yes, there are two other things I want," was her reply, still stroking
him; "I want to see you look happier, and feel happier, and I want some
one to come back safe from the war."
Life is at best but a succession of moods that, like a pendulum, ever
vibrate between mirth and sadness. Circumstances will almost invariably
force the vibrations to greater extremes, but just as surely will its
opposite mood return. Though clouds darken to-day, the sun will shine
to-morrow; and if sorrow comes, joy will follow; while ever above the
rippled shores of laughter floats the mist of tears.
In some respects Liddy was a peculiar girl. While loving those near her
with almost pathetic tenderness and constantly striving to show it, she
shrank like a scared child from any public exhibition of that feeling.
She had another peculiarity that might be called a whim--she loved to
try experiments upon her own feelings to see what effect they would
have. It was this that had been the real cause of her desire to attend
the military funeral that had taken place in Southton a few months
previous. Since her mother's death Liddy had remained at home nearly all
the time. She seldom went to the village, because to do so awakened
unpleasant memories. To drive past the now vacant academy or near the
depot was to awaken unhappy thought and force her into a sad mood. The
seclusion of her home seemed more in harmony with her feelings. She had
but few intimate friends, and even those jarred upon her now, and her
father was the best, and the only one she cared to be with. One day in
mid-summer, she surprised him with a strange request.
"Father," she said, "I want to go fishing. I don't mean to tramp
through the brush along a brook, but I want you to take me to some
pretty pond where there are trees all around, and where I can sit in a
boat on the shady side and fish. We will take a basket of lunch and have
a nice time. If we cannot catch fish we can pick pond lilies. Will you
go?"
As there was nothing that loving father would not do for his only child,
it is needless to say that the trip was made.
When Liddy began to catch fish, and he noticed how excited she became,
he said, with quiet humor: "Which would you rather do, Liddy, put your
fish in the boat or hang them up in the trees? Tut, tut!" he continued,
as he saw a deep shadow creep over her face, "you will have Charlie to
bait your hook next summer, never fear!"
That night she wrote to her soldier boy: "I coaxed father to take me
fishing to-day. I wanted to see if it wouldn't bring me nearer to you or
you to me. I came home in a sad mood, however, though I learned one
thing, and that is wherein lies the fascination of fishing. It's the
constant expectation of getting a bite that takes your mind away from
all else."
With the autumn evenings came the time for open fires, and Liddy had
hard work to keep her spirits up. There were so many tender
associations lurking in the firelight, and so much that brought back the
past and gone hours of happiness that it was painful instead of
cheerful. Thanksgiving time and the holidays were days of sadness
instead of joy. The long eighteen months of constant dread and suspense
had worn upon her nerves and was slowly changing her from a
light-hearted, happy girl to a saddened, waiting woman. The winter
slowly dragged its weary length, and one evening, about a year from the
time she had attended the military funeral, she broke down entirely. She
had tried piano practice for a time and then reading, but neither
availed to occupy her thoughts or drive away the gloom. Finally she sat
down beside her father, who was reading, and said piteously:
"Father, please talk to me; tell me stories, scold me--anything! I am so
utterly wretched I am ready to cry!"
"My child," he answered tenderly, stroking the fair head that was
resting against his arm, "don't let your mind brood so much upon your
own troubles; try and think how many there are who have more to bear
than you have."
The delicate reproach, though not intended as such by him, was the last
straw, for the next instant her head was down in his lap and she was
sobbing like a child. When the little shower was over she raised her
face and whispered:
"Don't think it's all Charlie, father, or that I forget mother, or how
much you have to bear; for I do not. It's all combined, and the silent
room upstairs added to the dread, that is breaking my heart."
When the day that marked the anniversary of her parting from Manson
arrived she tried another experiment upon herself. The promise she had
made him that day seemed a sacred bond, and she resolved to go alone to
Blue Hill and see how it would affect her. The day was almost identical
to the one two years previous, and when, late in the afternoon, she
arrived at the top, the spot seemed unchanged. The trees were thick with
the same fresh foliage, the birds were there, and around the rock where
they had sat grew the same blue violets. Under a tree was the little
lattice table, just as they had left it. She sat down on the rock and
tried to live over the thoughts and feelings of that day. They all came
back, like so many spectres of a past and gone happiness, and as, one by
one, they filed by in thought, the utter silence and solitude of the
place seemed to increase. The only sound was the faint whisper of the
breeze in the hemlocks, and as she listened and looked into the shadow
beyond where the trees grew thicker, a strange feeling of fear began to
assail her heart and a new and horrible dread crept into her thoughts.
She had not heard from the absent one for two weeks--what if the dreaded
fate had already come and he was at this very moment near her in spirit?
And as all the horror of this thought forced itself upon her, she
suddenly rose to her feet, and almost running, left the spot.
When she arrived home and looked into her mirror she saw a strange
expression on her face and her lips were pale. "I could not go there
again," she said to herself; "I should go mad if I did."
During the next few weeks the dread seemed to grow upon her day by day.
She did not dare tell her father of her trip to Blue Hill, but he
noticed that she was getting thin and that her eyes were growing hollow.
Then came the news of the battle of Peach Creek and that Company E were
engaged in it; but no names of the killed or wounded, if any, reached
her, and no letter from Manson.
Each day her father drove to the village and he was always met at the
gate upon his return by a sad-faced girl whose blue eyes wore a look of
piteous appeal. He tried to comfort her all he could; but it did no
good. She could not talk; she could scarcely eat or sleep, but went
about her daily work as if in a trance. Occasionally in the evening she
would give way to tears, and for three weeks she existed in a state of
wretchedness no pen can describe. Then one evening her father handed her
a letter in a strange handwriting and turned his face away, for he knew
its contents.
"Tell me the worst, father," she almost screamed, "tell me quick; is he
alive?"
"Yes, my child," he answered sadly, "but we must go to him to-morrow. He
is in the hospital at Washington and very low."