examining the date, "and really I think he may walk in upon us day
after to-morrow."
"Then we'd better be getting ready for him!" exclaimed Mildred, starting
up in her energetic way.
"Wait a little. Mother promised to tell us about him," cried the
children.
"Yes, and will. There's time enough, Milly."
Mildred resumed her seat; for she, too, wanted to hear all her mother
had to tell.
"My mother," Mrs. Keith began, "was two years younger than Aunt Wealthy,
who was the daughter of my grandfather by his first wife; therefore only
half sister to my mother and Aunt Eva, who were the children of the
second.
"Aunt Eva was five years younger than my mother and was still single
when mother died; which, as you have all heard, was when I, her only
child, was but little more than two years old.
"Cousin Horace, too, was the only child of his mother, and quite a
little fellow when she died. I was there, on a visit, at the time and
did what I could to comfort him.
"We grew quite fond of each other then and have always been so ever
since, though we have lived far apart and met very seldom."
"Has he got a father?" asked Cyril, "and does he live with him?"
"Yes; he has a father, and lives with him when he is at home; but for
years past most of his time has been spent at school and college."
"I thought Cousin Horace had brothers and sisters?" Rupert said,
inquiringly.
"Yes; his father soon married again and has a large family by the second
wife."
"What is Cousin Horace like, mother?" asked Ada.
"Wait until he comes and see for yourself," was the smiling rejoinder.
"How glad you look, mother!" said Mildred, "are you really so much
pleased that he is coming?"
"Why, certainly, my child! he is my near kinsman, and, as I have just
told you, I am very fond of him; he's like a dear younger brother to me.
And particularly welcome just now as his coming will take from the
dreadfully lonely feeling Aunt Wealthy's departure has given the house."
"But, mother, we can't entertain him suitably, we're so cramped for room
and our house only half-furnished; and he is used to living in such
grand style. You know you have often told me about it--what a beautiful
place Roselands is, and how many carriages and horses, and what a
retinue of servants they keep."
Mrs. Keith smiled kindly at the anxious face turned toward hers. "Well,
daughter dear, we'll just do the best we can for him and it won't hurt
him to try roughing it in the backwoods--or prairies rather--for a
little while."
"Well, it's a little better than if he had come while we were in the old
yellow house. We've a nice porch here, and a front yard shaded with
grand old oaks; and no neighbors near enough to watch every movement."
"A good many conveniences, too," added her mother, cheerily, "and a
beautiful view of river and town. I think, too, that we can manage to
give him a room to himself, and to feed him well, with the help of
Rupert's garden, the cow and the chickens."
The expectation of this visit was a real blessing to the family; to Mrs.
Keith and Mildred in especial--just at this time; giving occupation to
their thoughts as well as hands, in the necessary preparation for the
proper accommodation and entertainment of the coming guest; thus
preventing much of the sadness the loss of Miss Stanhope's loved society
would have caused them.
The next arrival of the semi-weekly stage brought Horace Dinsmore, his
servant and luggage to their door.
Mr. Dinsmore was a dark-eyed, handsome youth of distinguished appearance
and with the air of a prince of the blood royal; yet evidently a kind
master; for his man John, a spruce young negro, seemed to take the
greatest pride and pleasure in waiting upon "Massa Horace" and
anticipating his every wish.
While warmly welcoming her young relative, Mrs. Keith was somewhat
dismayed at the unexpected sight of the servant--house room being so
scarce; but the difficulty was obviated by placing a cot-bed in the
empty loft of the newly erected stable at the foot of the garden.
"How very thoughtless and selfish in Cousin Horace to bring that fellow
along," Mildred said to her mother.
"No, my dear, not when we consider that they have always been together
and neither would know very well how to do without the other. I was the
thoughtless one not to remember that and expect John."
"Always together, mother?"
"Yes; they are nearly the same age--John a few months older than his
young master--and were playfellows in infancy.
"John's mother was Horace's 'mammy' as the children down south call
their nurses; and I think loved her white nursling even better than her
own children.
"John's affection for Horace is probably as great, and it would come
near breaking his heart to be separated from him."
Horace Dinsmore had paid a visit to Lansdale the year before the removal
of the Keiths to Indiana. The impression he had then made upon his young
cousins was not at all favorable; he was silent, morose and seemed to
take little or no interest in anybody or anything.
"He is not like himself," Mrs. Keith had said to Aunt Wealthy again and
again; "he is in trouble, some great sorrow has come to him."
But they did not succeed in winning his confidence; he rejected their
sympathy, locked up his secret in his own bosom, and left them as sad
and moody as when he came.
He was changed for the better now; was cheerful, at times even gay, and
showed much interest in them and their affairs, making them valuable
presents; for he had large means and a generous nature.
Some gifts--of dress-goods, jewelry and children's toys, he had brought
with him, and in addition he presented Mildred and Rupert each with a
town lot in the immediate neighborhood of their new home.
Mr. Keith, in his sturdy pride of independence, was inclined to reject
these last; but his wife said,
"No, Stuart, do not; you will hurt Horace's feelings; the land is very
cheap, the price of it nothing to him with his large wealth; I know it
is a real pleasure to him to give it to the children."
Mr. Keith yielded the point and said nothing.
Mr. Dinsmore, not being a religious man, and belonging to a very proud
and aristocratic family, was not one to mingle with those he denominated
"the common herd," as his cousin well knew. Therefore only a few of
their acquaintances--the educated and refined--were invited to meet him
and accompany them on some little excursions--riding, boating, and
fishing--gotten up for his entertainment.
He made himself agreeable on these occasions;--an easy thing for him to
do with his handsome person, polished manners and good conversational
powers--but soon let it be known to his relatives that he decidedly
preferred exclusively family parties. After that they had only such
while he staid, which was for several weeks.
[Illustration]
Chapter Nineteenth.
"Seldom shall she hear a tale
So sad, so tender, and so true."
HORACE DINSMORE showed much interest in Mildred, seemed to like to watch
her, let her employment be what it might, and to have her company in
long solitary walks and drives.
Several times he remarked to her mother that she was growing very lovely
in person and was a girl of fine mind; adding that he sincerely hoped
she would not throw herself away upon some country boor.
The two--Mrs. Keith and Mr. Dinsmore--were alone in the sitting-room,
one pleasant afternoon early in September, when this remark was made for
the third or fourth time; alone except that little Annis was playing
about the floor, apparently absorbed with Toy and her doll.
Mrs. Keith was sewing, her cousin who had been pacing to and fro, now
standing before her.
She lifted her head with a startled look.
"Horace, don't forget that you and Mildred are cousins."
He colored slightly, then laughingly answered to her thought rather than
her words,
"Don't be alarmed, Marcia; I'm not thinking of her in that way at all."
His face suddenly clouded as with some gloomy recollection.
"Marcia," he said, taking a chair near her side, "my visit is drawing to
a close and there is something I must tell you before I go; I came with
the purpose of doing so, but hitherto my heart has failed me. We seem to
be alone in the house and perhaps there will be no better time than
this."
"I think not," she said, "we can secure ourselves from intrusion by
locking the door."
He rose, turned the key, and came back.
He did not speak again for a moment, but sat watching Annis with a
peculiar expression which excited his cousin's surprise and curiosity
and not for the first time either; she had noted it before; the child
seemed to both attract and repel him.
More than once Mrs. Keith had seen him snatch her up suddenly with a
gesture of strong affection, only to set her down the next minute and
turn away as if from something painful to look upon.
"What is it you see in my baby, Horace?" she asked, laying her hand
affectionately upon his arm.
"She is a sweet, pretty little thing, yet it gives me more pain than
pleasure to look at her," he said sighing and passing his hand across
his brow.
"You cannot imagine why it should," he went on, smiling sadly into his
cousin's wondering face, "because there is a page in my past life that
you have never read."
His features worked with emotion. He rose and paced the floor back and
forth several times; then coming to her side again,
"Marcia, I have been a husband; I am a father; my little girl--whom I
have never seen--must be just about the age of Annis."
"You, Horace? you are but twenty years old!" dropping her work to look
up at him in utter amazement.
"I knew you would be astonished--that you could hardly credit it--but it
is true."
Then resuming his seat he poured out in impassioned language, the story
already so well known to the readers of the Elsie books--of his visit
to New Orleans three years before this, his hasty and clandestine
marriage to the beautiful heiress, Elsie Grayson, their speedy
separation by her guardian and big father, the subsequent birth of their
little daughter and the death of the young mother, following so soon
thereafter.
Her work forgotten, her hands lying idly in her lap, her eyes gazing
intently into his, Mrs. Keith listened in almost breathless silence, the
tears coursing down her cheeks during the saddest passages.
"My poor Horace! my poor, dear cousin!" she said when he had finished.
"Oh, it was hard, very hard! Why did you never tell me before."
"I could not, Marcia," he answered in tremulous tones, "it is the first
time I have spoken my darling's name since--since I knew that she was
lost to me forever."
"Forever! oh do not say that! You have told me she was a sweet Christian
girl, and none who trust in Jesus can ever be lost."
"But to me; I am no Christian," he sighed.
"But you may become one. The invitation is to you, 'Come unto me;' and
the blessed assurance, 'Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast
out.'"
He sat silent, his face averted, his head bowed upon his hands.
She waited a moment, then spoke again.
"Your child, Horace?"
"She is at Viamede with the guardian."
"And you have never seen her?"
"No."
"Oh how can you bear it? doesn't your heart yearn over her? don't you
long to have her in your arms?"
"No; why should I? she robbed me of her--my darling wife."
"But you do not know that? and certainly it was innocently, if at all."
"That has always been my feeling."
"You ought not to allow yourself to feel so," she said almost
indignantly. "Poor little motherless darling! must she be worse than
fatherless too?"
"What would you have, Marcia?" he asked coldly, his face still turned
from her, "what could I do with a child? And she is well off where she
is; better than she could be anywhere else;--under the care of a pious
old Scotch woman who has been house-keeper in the Grayson family for
many years, and that of her mammy who nursed her mother before her: a
faithful old creature so proud and fond of her young mistress that I
doubt if she would have hesitated to lay down her life for her."
"That is well so far as it goes, Horace, but do you wish your child to
grow up a stranger to you? would you have no hand in the moulding of her
character, the training of her mind?"
"I had not thought of that," he said sighing, "but I do not feel
competent to the task."
"But it is your work; a work God himself has appointed you in giving you
the child; a work for which he will give wisdom if you seek it of him.
"'If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, who giveth to all men
liberally and upbraideth not: and it shall be given him.'
"And if you neglect it, my dear cousin,--bear with me, while I say
it--it will be at your peril."
"How do you mean, Marcia?"
"The day may come when you will want that child's love and obedience:
when you will covet them more than any other earthly good, and perhaps,
find that they are denied you."
"It is possible you may be right in regard to the first," he said
haughtily, his dark eyes flashing, as he turned his face towards her
again, "but as to the other--her obedience--it will be strange indeed if
I cannot compel it. She may have a strong will, but she will find that
mine is yet stronger."
"Horace," said his cousin earnestly, "if you refuse or neglect to do a
father's duty by her, what right can you have to claim a child's duty
from her?"
"I am not conscious of having neglected my duty toward her thus far," he
said, still haughtily. "As I have already explained, she is where, in my
judgment, she is better off for the present, than she could be anywhere
else. What changes may come in the future I do not know."
"Forgive me if I have seemed to blame you undeservedly," Mrs. Keith said
with tears in her eyes; "but ah, my heart yearns over that poor baby!"
She caught up her own and kissed it passionately as she spoke.
"Ah!" she sighed, pressing the little creature to her bosom, "whatever
would my darlings do without a father's and a mother's love!"
He walked to the window and stood there for several minutes. Then coming
back,
"Marcia," he said, "will you do me the favor to write about this to
Aunt Wealthy and tell her I have always felt ashamed of my behavior
during my visit to you both, two years ago. I could not bring myself to
explain then the cause of my--what shall I call it? sullenness? It must
have looked like it to you and her and to all who saw me.
"But you will understand it now and perhaps have some charity for me."
"We had then, Horace," she said, "we were sure it was some secret grief
that made you so unlike your former self. Yes, I will write to Aunt
Wealthy. May I tell your story to Mildred also?"
"Not now, please. When I am gone she may hear it."
"Excuse another question. Do you know anything of your little one's
looks?"
"I have heard nothing; but if she at all resembles her mother, she must
be very pretty."
"And you have never even asked! O Horace!"
"I'm afraid you think me very heartless," he said, coloring. "But you
must make some allowance for my being a man. Women, I think, feel more
interest in such things than we of the sterner sex do."
"Then I think my husband must be an exceptional man, for he loves his
children very dearly, and takes great pride in their beauty and
intelligence."
"I daresay; it might have been the same with me under happier
circumstances," he answered in a bitter tone.
Little feet came pitpatting through the hall, little voices were asking
for mother.
Mr. Dinsmore opened the door and admitted the inseparable three.
"Mother, I'm cold," said Fan shivering, and her teeth chattering as she
spoke.
"Cold, darling? Come here."
"She's got a chill," remarked Cyril sagely. "I'm as warm as toast. It's
real hot in the sun where we've been playing."
"I'm afraid she has; her nails are quite blue," Mrs. Keith said, taking
one small hand in hers. "Come, dear; mother will put you to bed and
cover you up nice and warm, and give you something hot to drink."
"Me too, mother," said Don, creeping to her side and laying his head on
her shoulder, "I'm so tired and my head aches so bad."
His cheeks were flushed, his hands hot and dry.
"You, too, mother's little man?" she exclaimed. "Mother is so sorry for
you both. Have you been cold, Don?"
"Yes, ma'am, and it creeps down my back now."
"Take care of Annis, Cyril," said Mrs. Keith, and excusing herself to
her cousin, she led the sick ones away.
Coming back after some little time, "I found Ada down, too," she sighed.
"She had crept away by herself, without a word to any one--poor, dear
child! 'not wanting to trouble mother,' and there she lay shaking till
the very bed shook under her."
"It's dreadful!" cried Mr. Dinsmore, "positively dreadful, Marcia! How
can you stand it! I believe there has hardly been a week since I came
when you were all well."
"Ah, that's because there are so many of us!" she answered, laughing,
though tears sprang to her eyes.
"Why do you stay here! I'd pack up everything and be off instanter."
"Necessity knows no law," she said. "Cyril, son, can you go down to the
spring and get some fresh water for the sick ones?"
"Yes, ma'am; I'll take the biggest bucket; cause folks always want to
drink so much water when the chill's on 'em."
"Cyril knows that by experience," his mother remarked as the boy left
the room.
"Why do you speak of staying here as a necessity, Marcia?" asked her
cousin. "You had as large a fortune from your mother as I from mine."
"Riches take wings, Horace, and a large family and unfortunate
investments supplied them to mine."
She spoke cheerfully, jestingly, as though it were but occasion for
mirth, but his tone was full of concern as he answered,
"Indeed I never knew that. It is a thousand pities! I wonder you can be
so content and light-hearted as you seem."
"Ah, I have so much left! All my chiefest treasures,--husband, children,
many great and precious promises for both this life and the next."
"Ah, but if you stay here, how long are you likely to keep husband and
children? not to speak of the danger to your own life and health."
"Sickness and death find entrance everywhere in this sad world," she
said; her voice trembling slightly, "and in all places we are under the
same loving care. It seems our duty to stay here, and the path of duty
is the safest. It is thought that in a few years this will become a
healthy country."
"I hope so, indeed, for your sake, but it is a hard one for you in other
ways. I am not so unobservant as not to have discovered that you do a
great deal of your own work. And I don't like that it should be so,
Marcia."
"You are very kind," she answered, smiling up brightly into his face as
he stood looking down upon her with a vexed and anxious expression, "It
is very nice to have you care so much for me, Horace."
"There's nobody in the world I care more for, Marcia," he said, "and
going over some of our late talk, in my mind, I have thought there is
nobody to whom I should so much like to commit the care and training of
my child. I mean, of course, if your hands were not already full and
more than full with your own."
"They are not so full that I would not gladly do a mother's part by
her," she answered with emotion, "were it not for the danger of bringing
her to this climate."
"Yes, that is the difficulty. It would never do, so miasmatic and so
cold and bleak during a great part of the year; especially for one born
so far south. But I thank you, cousin, all the same."
"We have not much sickness here except ague," she remarked presently,
"but there are several varieties of that--chills and fever occurring at
regular intervals--generally every other day at about the same hour;
dumb ague, shaking ague, and sinking or congestive chills; which last
are the only very alarming kind, sometimes proving fatal in a few
hours."
"Indeed! you almost frighten me away," he said half seriously, half in
jest. "That is not a very common form, I hope?"
"No, rather rare."
"Don't you send for the doctor?"
"Not often now; we did at first, but it is so frequent a visitor that we
have learned to manage it ourselves."
The sickly season had fairly set in, and more afraid of it than he liked
to acknowledge, Mr. Dinsmore hastened his departure, leaving for the
East by the next stage.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Chapter Twentieth.
"I marked the Spring as she pass'd along,
With her eye of light and her lip of song;
While she stole in peace o'er the green earth's breast,
While the streams sprang out from their icy rest.
The buds bent low to the breeze's sigh,
And their breath went forth in the scented sky;
When the fields look'd fresh in their sweet repose,
And the young dews slept on the new-born rose."
--WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK.
"WELL, I'm both glad and sorry Horace is gone," Mrs. Keith remarked with
a smile, a sigh and a dewy look about her eyes, as the stage passed out
of sight. "I'm fond of the lad, but was troubled lest the ague should
get hold of him. Besides, the dearest of guests is something of a burden
with sickness in the house and a scarcity of help."
"Yes, that is very true, mother," Mildred answered, "and so thoroughly
do I realize it that I am wholly and heartily glad he's gone; albeit I
liked him much better this time than I did before."
Celestia Ann had left months ago, and they had had very indifferent
help during Mr. Dinsmore's visit, though fortunately such as they could
keep away from the table when their guest was present at it.
Mildred went on now to express her satisfaction that such had been the
case, adding, "What would he have done if Miss Hunsinger had been here,
and in her usual fashion asserted her right to show that she felt
herself as good as he or anybody else?"
"He'd have annihilated her with a look," laughed Rupert.
"He would have acted like the perfect gentleman he is," said Mrs. Keith,
"but it would have been exceedingly mortifying to me to have him so
insulted at my table; for as he has been brought up, he could not avoid
feeling it an insult to be put on a social equality with one so rude and
vulgar."
"The house feels lonely," said Zillah, "it seems 'most as if Aunt
Wealthy had just gone away."
"We'll get our sewing and a book," said her mother, "Come all into the
sitting-room. Rupert may be the reader this time.
"Mildred, you and I will have to be very busy now with the fall sewing."
"Yes mother dear; it's a blessing to have plenty of employment. But do
you think I shall need to give up my studies for a time?"
"No, daughter, I hope not. I want you to go on with them; Mr. Lord says
you are doing so nicely. Your cousin, too, told me he thought you were
getting a better--more thorough--education with him, than you would be
likely to in any school for girls that he knows of."
Mildred's eyes sparkled, and cousin Horace took a warmer place in her
affections than he had held before. It was well, for it needed all that
to keep her from disliking him for his indifference toward his
motherless little one, when, a few days later, she heard his story from
her mother's lips.
They had a very busy fall and winter, missing sorely Miss Stanhope's
loved companionship and her help in the family sewing, the putting up of
fruit--the pickling and preserving, indeed in every department of
household work; and in nothing more than in the care of the sick.
Letters came from her at rare intervals--for mails were infrequent in
those days and postage was very high--were read and re-read, then put
carefully by to be enjoyed again when time and opportunity could be
found for another perusal. They were not the brief statements of facts
that letters of the present day generally are, but long chatty epistles,
giving in pleasing detail, her own doings and those of old friends and
acquaintances, and all that had happened in Lansdale since they left;
telling of her pets, of the books she read and what she thought of them.
Then there were kind inquiries, conjectures as to what they were doing
and thinking; answers to their questions, and words of counsel and of
tender sympathy in their joys and sorrows.
Many a laugh did they give their readers, and many a tear was dropped
upon their pages. They so loved the dear old lady and could almost hear
the sweet tones of her voice as they read or repeated to each other, her
quaint sayings.
Fall and winter passed, bringing with them no marked changes in the
family, but very much the same round of work, study and diversion as in
the former year.