out of your brother's eye while there is a beam in your own?"
"I see its time for me to go," said Damaris, rising.
She stood a moment looking at Effie, her lips compressed, her face white
and her eyes ablaze with rage.
"There's no Christian spirit about you," she hissed, "you don't like
faithful dealing; you don't want to be told of your sins. Very well,
Miss, I wash my hands of you; I shake off the dust of my feet against
you."
And with arms folded on her breast and head erect, she stalked out of
the house, leaving the invalid girl quivering from head to foot with
nervous excitement and distress, crying and laughing hysterically.
"Oh dear! oh dear!" she sighed to herself. "I haven't behaved in a
Christian manner; I was angry at what she said."
Mrs. Prescott and Mrs. Keith were strolling in from the garden, chatting
pleasantly of their domestic affairs, when an infant's screams were
heard coming from a back room.
"There, my baby is awake and calling for his mother," said Mrs.
Prescott. "Please excuse me a minute. Just step into the parlor again
and talk with Effie."
Mrs. Keith complied and found Effie alone, lying back in her chair,
trembling, flushed and tearful.
"My poor child! are you suffering very much?" she asked, bending over
her and smoothing her hair with a caressing motion.
"No, ma'am, I'm not worse--only--it was something that Damaris said; and
that I didn't take it quite as I ought.
"Oh, Mrs. Keith, do you think God sends sickness to punish us for our
sins? and that my health is poor because I'm more wicked than anybody
who is well?"
"Certainly not. I have excellent health as a general thing, while many
an eminent saint has been a great sufferer.
"We know that sin brought disease and death into the world and that God
sometimes sends afflictions as chastisements; but to his own people it
is in love and for their growth in grace.
"'As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten; be zealous therefore and
repent.' 'Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son
whom he receiveth. If ye endure chastening, God dealeth with you as with
sons.'
"Remembering that, would you wish to escape it?"
"Oh no, no! But oh, it makes the burden so much heavier to think that it
is because He is angry with me!"
"It is because he loves you. Do not look at it as punishment, but as
discipline; as the cutting and carving which are necessary to bring out
the beautiful statue from the shapeless block of marble, or to change
the diamond in the rough to the brilliant sparkling gem.
"As to the idea that the Christian bears any part of the penalty of his
sins--atoning for them by his own suffering, or his works, or in any
other way, either in this life or the next,--it is totally unscriptural.
'For Christ is the end of the law for righteousness to every one that
believeth.'"
"O, thank you, so much, so very much!" she exclaimed, looking up
gratefully. "What wonderful love His was, and who would not be willing
to bear any suffering to be made like unto Him?"
"That is unquestionably a Christian spirit," said Mrs. Keith; "none but
those who have felt the burden of sin and learned to hunger and thirst
after righteousness know that ardent desire for conformity to His
image."
"You make my heart glad!" cried the girl. "Damaris just told me there
was no Christian spirit about me; and I'm often afraid there isn't; yet
I do love Jesus and desire His love more than anything else. I want to
do and suffer all His holy will!"
Little Mary Chetwood, a sweet child of six, was the only daughter except
Claudina, and coming after some half dozen boys, naturally became, from
the first, a great pet and darling, made much of by parents, sister and
brothers.
Yet she was not a spoiled child; she had been taught obedience,
religiously trained, and not indulged to her hurt.
Love and wise indulgence do no harm, but quite the contrary; while
harshness, a dearth of affection, and undue severity have ruined many a
one for time and eternity.
Mrs. Keith found the Chetwoods a distressed household; for though the
little girl had been but two days ill, such was the violence of the
attack that it was already apparent that there was small hope of
recovery.
"This is kind," whispered Mrs. Chetwood, pressing her friend's hand,
while tears coursed down her cheeks. "The darling won't be tended by
any body but mother, father or sister, but your very presence is a
comfort."
"I should have been here sooner, but did not know of her illness till
this afternoon," Mrs. Keith responded in the same subdued key. "If I can
be of any use, I will take off my bonnet and stay; it is perfectly
convenient."
The offer was gratefully accepted, a note dispatched to Mildred,
entrusting the children at home to her care till such time as her mother
could be of no more service at the squire's, and Mrs. Keith's gentle
ministries in the sick room began.
Her quiet movements, her thoughtfulness, quick comprehension and
fertility of resource, made her invaluable at such a time.
The end came sooner than was expected; day was just breaking when, with
her head on the bosom of her who gave her birth, the little one gently
breathed her last.
In all the trying scenes that followed, Mr. and Mrs. Keith and Mildred
were most kind, helpful and sympathizing, and the ties of Christian
friendship were thus more closely drawn than ever between the two
families.
The bereaved family found their home sadly desolated, but there was no
murmuring against the Hand that dealt the blow; the language of their
hearts was, "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the
name of the Lord."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Chapter Twenty-second.
"Hail! independence, hail! heaven's next best gift,
To that of life, and an immortal soul."
--THOMSON.
"There is strength,
Deep bedded in our hearts, of which we reck
But little till the shafts of heaven have pierc'd
Its fragile dwelling. Must not earth be rent
Before her gems are found?"
--MRS. HEMANS.
"BOOM!"
The loud voice of the cannon rent the air with sudden shock just as
eager waiting eyes caught the first glimpse of the sun's bright disc
peeping above the eastern horizon.
The sound broke suddenly in upon many a dream, woke many a sleeper.
"Independence day! the glorious Fourth, the nation's birthday," shouted
Cyril, giving Don a kick, then springing out of bed and hurrying on his
clothes.
"Oh! oh! Fourth of July!" echoed Don, following suit. "I'm so glad,
'cause now we can fire our crackers."
Their clatter and another shot roused Fan and Annis who joined in the
rejoicing, the latter calling loudly for mother or Milly to come and
dress her.
"No more hope of sleep," yawned Mr. Keith, in the next room; "so we may
as well get up."
"Yes," returned his wife, "I wish you would, and watch over the
children;--see that they don't burn their fingers or set things on fire.
"Yes, Annis, mother's coming."
Breakfast was prepared amid the almost constant firing of crackers and
childish shouts of exultation, near at hand, and the occasional booming
of the more distant cannon.
The young folks were full of gayety and excitement, hurrahing, singing
"Hail Columbia!" "Yankee Doodle," and "Star-spangled Banner."
Rupert came in a little late to breakfast, from a stroll down town, and
reported that a wonderfully large flag-staff had been planted in front
of the court-house, and that the stars and stripes were floating from
its top.
The Sunday schools were to unite and march in procession through the
streets of the town, then separate, and each school betake itself to
its own church, there to enjoy a little feast prepared by the parents
and friends of the scholars.
There had been a good deal of baking going on in Mrs. Keith's kitchen
the day before, and shortly after breakfast a large basket was packed
with delicacies and sent to the church.
Then mother and Mildred had their hands full for an hour or so in
dressing the children and themselves for the grand occasion.
They made a goodly show as they issued from the gate and took their way
toward the place of rendezvous; the girls all in white muslin and blue
ribbons, the boys in their neat Sunday suits, and each with a flower or
tiny nosegay in his button-hole.
The house had to be shut up, as Celestia Ann claimed the holiday, but
was left in its usual neat and orderly condition, by means of early
rising and extra exertion on the part of the three older girls.
Otherwise Mildred could not have been content to go, and delay was
dangerous, as on account of the heat of the weather the procession was
to move by nine o'clock.
The whole town was in holiday attire, and everywhere smiling faces were
seen.
A shower in the night had laid the dust without turning it to mud, and
the Sunday school celebration proved quite a success.
The children enjoyed their treat of cakes, candies and lemonade, then
the little Keiths went home, tired enough to be glad to sit down and
rest while father, mother and Milly told them stories of other Fourths
that they could remember.
After dinner Mildred went to call on her friend Claudina, carrying with
her another book for Effie Prescott.
"Dunallan," had been returned in perfect condition and with a little
note of thanks.
Effie met Mildred with a pleased look, a cheerful greeting, and warm
thanks for the book.
"I am so glad to see you!" she said, "and it was very kind in you to
come; for I am owing you a call. I thought I should have paid it long
ago, but there are so many days when I don't feel quite equal to the
walk."
"You do walk out then?"
"Oh yes! every day when the weather is good. That is part of the cure.
But I cannot walk fast or far."
"I hope you are improving."
"Yes, I believe so, but very slowly. I'm never confined to bed, but
never able to do much, and the books are such a blessing."
From that they fell into talk about books and authors and were mutually
pleased to find their tastes were similar as regarded literature, and
that their religious views accorded.
It was the beginning of a friendship which became a source of great
enjoyment to both.
Effie had learned to love Mrs. Keith. That drew Mildred toward her; and
their common faith in Christ and love to Him, was a yet stronger bond of
union.
They regretted that they had been so long comparative strangers, and
Mildred felt well rewarded for the kind thoughtfulness on her part,
which had at length brought them together.
But leaving Effie to the perusal of the book, she walked on to Squire
Chetwood's.
Mrs. Chetwood and Claudina, in their deep mourning dress, sat quietly at
home, with no heart to join in the mirth and jollity going on about
them; yet calm and resigned.
"Ah," sighed the mother, tears springing to her eyes, as the joyous
shouts of children penetrated to their silent room, "our little darling
would have been so gay and happy to-day! But why do I say that! I know
she is far, far happier in that blessed land than she could ever
possibly have been here."
"I know that," said Claudina, weeping, "and I do rejoice in the thought
of her blessedness; but oh, the house is so dreary and desolate without
her! O Mildred, how rich you are with four sisters!"
There was a knock at the street door, answered by the girl, and the next
moment Miss Drybread walked into the parlor where the ladies were
sitting.
She was courteously received and invited to take a seat; which she did,
drawing a deep sigh.
"Are you well, Miss Damaris?" asked Mrs. Chetwood.
"Yes; I'm always well; I try and do right, and have no sick fancies; am
never troubled with the vapors. I hope you're well?"
"As usual, thank you."
"You've had a great affliction."
No response, for the torn hearts could scarce endure the rude touch; her
tone was so cold and hard.
"I hope you're resigned," she went on. "You know we ought to be;
especially considering that we deserve all our troubles and trials."
"I trust we are," said Mrs. Chetwood, "we can rejoice in her happiness
while we weep for ourselves."
"Don't you think you made an idol of that child? I think you did, and
that that is the reason why she was taken; for God won't allow idols."
"We loved her very dearly," sobbed the bereaved mother, "but I do not
think we made an idol of her, or ever indulged her to her hurt."
"The heart is deceitful," observed the schoolma'am with emphasis, "and
putting on mourning, and shedding so many tears, doesn't look like
submission and resignation. I don't see how a Christian can act so."
"Wait till you are bereaved," replied the mother, sobs almost choking
her utterance.
"And remember how Jesus wept at the tomb of Lazarus, and that he never
reproved the Jews for putting on sackcloth and ashes when mourning for
their dead," said Mildred, adding, in her uncontrollable indignation, "I
think you might be at better work, Miss Drybread, than wrenching the
hearts of these bereaved ones whom Jesus loves, and in all whose
afflictions He is afflicted."
"I'm only doing my duty," retorted the spinster; "the Bible says we must
reprove our brethren and not suffer sin upon them."
"It says 'Judge not, that ye be not judged.' They are the words of Jesus
in the Sermon on the Mount, and if you turn to the passage and read on
a little further, you will see that people who try to pull the mote out
of a brother's eye while there is a beam in their own, He calls
hypocrites."
"I can understand an insinuation as well as the next one," said Miss
Drybread, rising in wrath, "and let me tell you, Miss, that I consider
you the most impertinent young person I ever met.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. and Miss Chetwood; I wish you joy of your friend,"
and she swept from the room and the house, before the astonished ladies
could utter a word.
"What a disagreeable, self-righteous old hypocrite!" cried Mildred, her
cheeks flushed, her eyes flashing. "To think of her talking to you in
that cold-hearted, cruel manner, Mrs. Chetwood and Claudina. But there!
I am judging her. Oh dear! oh dear!"
She finished with a burst of sobs, clasping her arms about her friend,
who was weeping bitterly.
Mrs. Chetwood, too, was shedding tears; but presently wiped them away,
saying, "We will try to forgive and forget her harsh words. I trust she
is a well-meaning, and perhaps, truly good woman; though mistaken as to
her duty and sadly wanting in tact."
On her way home Mildred passed Mr. Lightcap's. She usually avoided doing
so by taking the other street; but to-day was too full of grief for her
bereaved friends, to care which way her steps were tending till they
were arrested by Mrs. Lightcap's voice, speaking from her open door.
"Why, if it ain't Miss Keith! I hain't seen a sight o' you this long
time. Walk in, won't you? and sit a bit. They've all run off somewheres
and left me settin' here without a soul to speak to, and I'm dreadful
lonesome."
Mildred could not well refuse the invitation, so stepped in and took a
seat.
Her first feeling on becoming aware that Mrs. Lightcap was addressing
her was one of embarrassment at the idea of facing the mother of her
rejected suitor; but the next instant she concluded from the cordial
manner of her neighbor, that she must be entirely ignorant of the
affair, which was really the case; Gotobed having insisted upon Rhoda
Jane keeping his secret.
Mildred was not in a talking mood, but Mrs. Lightcap grew garrulous over
the day's celebration, the heat of the weather,--prophesying that if it
lasted long, coming as it did after a very rainy spring, there would be
a great deal of sickness--branching off finally to her housework and
garden; two inexhaustible themes with her.
An occasional yes, or no, or nod of acquiescence, was all that was
necessary on the part of her listener; and these Mildred could supply
without giving her undivided attention to the steady flow of empty talk.
The firing of the cannon at short intervals had been kept up all day.
"Boom!" it came now, causing Mrs. Lightcap to give a sudden start and
break off in the middle of a sentence.
"Well, I declare!" she exclaimed, "I can't git used to that there
firin'; and I jest wisht they'd stop it; 'fore some on 'em gits hurt.
It's a dreadful dangerous thing--gunpowder is, and I guess there ain't
never a Fourth when there don't somebody git about half killed."
"Or quite," said Mildred; "people will be so careless; and I suppose
that even with the greatest care there must be some danger, from the
bursting of guns and other accidents that it is, perhaps, impossible to
guard against."
Mildred sat very near the open door, Mrs. Lightcap farther within the
room.
"Well as I was a sayin'," began the latter, resuming the thread of her
discourse.
Some one came running without, his heavy footsteps resounding upon the
sidewalk. It was a man. He paused before the door, looking pale and
frightened, and beckoning to Mildred, said in a low, hurried tone, "Just
step this way a minute, Miss, I want to speak to you."
Hardly comprehending, too much taken by surprise even to wonder what he
could want, she hastily complied.
"She ought to be prepared, you know," he went on in the same breathless,
agitated manner, drawing her further away from the door as he spoke;
"he's awfully hurt, a'most killed, I believe, and they're bringin' him
up the street now."
"Who?" gasped Mildred.
"Her son Gote; gun went off while he was ramming in the wadding and shot
the ramrod right through his hands; I guess they'll both have to come
off."
Mildred staggered back, sick and faint, and with a dazed sort of feeling
that she was somehow to blame.
"They're comin'," repeated the man hurriedly, pointing to a little crowd
of men and boys moving slowly up the street, scarcely a square away,
"can't you say something to her! kind o' break the shock a little, you
know."
Mrs. Lightcap had stepped into the door way and was looking this way
and that, curious to learn the cause of Mildred's sudden exit.
"Why, Jim Foote, is that you?" she exclaimed. "What on airth are you a
wantin' with Miss Keith?" then catching sight of the approaching crowd,
"What's goin' on?" she asked, "anything the matter?"
Mildred sprang to her side, and fairly pushing her back into the house,
threw her arms about her sobbing, "Oh, I'm so sorry for you! so sorry!
Don't look! not yet. He--he's living but--"
"Who? who's a livin'? who's hurt? Girl, tell me quick! 'Tain't none o'
mine, sure? 'Taint my old man? Oh, what'll I do? what'll I do?"
The trampling of many feet drew near, her husband rushed in, pale,
breathless, trembling, and at sight of her burst out crying like a
child. Then the wounded man was supported into the house, men and boys,
and even women and girls crowding in after, till in a moment the room
was full.
Rhoda Jane and the younger brothers and sisters were there, screaming
and crying. Gotobed was silent, bearing his agony with the heroism of a
soldier, but as his mother caught sight of his ghastly face, his mangled
hands, the blood upon his person, and the surgeon with his instruments,
she uttered a wild shriek and fell back fainting.
Her husband carried her into the kitchen, and some of the neighbor women
gathered round with restoratives and whispered words of pity and
condolence, while others hurried back and forth in quest of such
articles as the surgeon called for.
Rhoda Jane rushed out of the kitchen door, and ran to the foot of the
garden, screaming and wringing her hands, the younger ones following
her.
Mildred could not go away and leave the family in their dire distress.
She caught Gotobed's eye, and there was in it a dumb entreaty which she
had neither power nor heart to resist.
Silently she made her way to his side. The doctors were clearing the
room of all who were not needed.
"They're a goin' to take off my right hand," he said hoarsely. "It's an
awful thing, but if--if you'll stand by me and let me look in your eyes,
I can bear it."
She turned hers on the surgeon--Lucilla Grange's father.
"May I?"
"If you have the nerve, my dear child; it would be a great kindness to
the poor fellow. There ought to be a woman near him, and it seems
neither mother nor sister is equal to it."
"I will stay," she said, a great compassion filling her heart. "I shall
not look at what you are doing; but I will stand by and fan him."
She kept her word; forgetting herself entirely, thinking of him only as
one suffering terrible agony and in need of her support, she stood
gazing into his eyes, her heart going up in silent, fervent prayer on
his behalf.
Chloroform and ether were not known in those days, and the knife's cruel
work must be borne without the blessed insensibility to pain that they
can give. Had the magnetism of Mildred's gaze a like effect? I know not;
but something enabled Gotobed to pass through the terrible ordeal
without a groan or moan; almost without flinching.
The right hand had to be taken off at the wrist; the left, though much
mangled, the surgeon hoped to save; and did so ultimately.
The amputation and the dressing of the wounds was over at last and
Mildred was turning away when a cup of tea was put into her hand with
the words, spoken in a half whisper, "Give him this; he will take it
from you."
She held it to his lips and he drank; a plate was silently substituted
for the cup and she fed him like a child.
Poor fellow! it would be long before he could feed himself again.
Mildred set down the plate and stole quickly from the house. Her long
pent up emotion must find vent.
She went weeping home, her heart breaking with pity for the man she
could not love, could not have married for the wealth of the world. Oh,
why did he love her so?
She had read it in his eyes;--that she was more to him than all the
world beside, and that he knew his was a hopeless passion.
She was glad to see that the sun was setting; because she knew from the
lateness of the hour that tea must be over at home, and the little ones
in bed; for she dreaded their questionings and curious looks, and
loathed the thought of food.
Her mother, that best earthly friend, who always understood her as by
intuition, met her at the door and clasped her in a tender, loving
embrace; and on that dear bosom the whole sad story was sobbed out.
"Poor, poor fellow! my heart aches for him," Mrs. Keith said, mingling
her tears with Mildred's. "And, my dear child I am very glad you had
the courage and firmness to give him the help you did. I pity him, too,
for his unfortunate attachment, at the same time that I, of course,
could never, never be willing to see it returned.
"But your courage surprises me, I doubt if I should be capable of the
like myself," she added, smiling through her tears.
"I know you would, mother dear," returned the girl, gazing with loving
admiration into her mother's eyes; "for you are far braver and firmer
than I. I should not have expected to be able to do it myself, but we
never know what we can do till we are tried.
"I am sure our Father helped me in answer to prayer, and according to
his gracious promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be,'" she
added in subdued, tremulous tones.
"I do not doubt it," said Mrs. Keith; "for 'our sufficiency is of God.'"
Throughout the whole town great sympathy was felt for the wounded young
man. People showed it in various ways; by inquiries made of the doctor
or at the door, by calling in for a little friendly chat and sending
delicacies to tempt his appetite; which for a time failed under the
pressure of pain, enforced idleness (a great change for one who had
been all his life a hard worker) and depression of spirits; for there
were seasons when he was well-nigh overwhelmed at the thought of his
maimed and helpless condition.
Mrs. Keith went frequently to see and comfort him and his distressed
mother, and was more successful in so doing than almost any one else;
except Mildred, who occasionally accompanied her.
They carried to Gotobed food for the mind as well as the body; books
which they read to him; as he could not hold them himself, and the other
members of the family had little time or ability to entertain him in
that way.
Also they said many a kind, encouraging word concerning the
possibilities of future usefulness yet remaining to him.
"I shall never be good for nothing no more," he sighed, mournfully, one
day, looking down at his maimed arm and wounded hand; "can never swing
my hammer, or shoe a horse again. I'll have to be a helpless burden on
other folks, 'stead o' takin' care o' father and mother when they git
old, as I used to think I should."