A STRANGER.
On the day of the funeral, the sun came up and flashed over the grey
chill earth, with a spring-like warmth and radiance, and crept through
the open windows with a broad glad smile, as though no sorrow darkened
the home and hushed the merry voices.
Many times in these three days of crushing sorrow, when heart and hand
seemed powerless to act, had Ernestine thought in a vague, wondering
way, of her words: "I wonder what Olive is good for, she is no comfort
to any one." Why, she herself, shivering and white, clung to her; Bea
went to her; Mrs. Dering turned to them all for comfort, but to Olive
for help and advice; Huldah came to her for orders; callers with offers
of flowers and help saw her, and all said when questioned; "ask Olive,
she can tell you;" "where is Olive?" "Olive knows all about it, don't
disturb mama;" and so for once, home without Olive, would have known its
greatest need.
On the evening of that last day, when all the sorrowful farewells were
over, and the grief stricken family had returned to their saddened
home; there came a stranger into Canfield, and after inquiring the way,
stalked briskly out to the Dering house. All the heavy foliage being
gone, Jean saw him coming through the gate, and turned from the window.
"Some one is coming, Olive," and Olive reached the door, just as the
stranger gave a vain pull at the muffled bell. He was a strange, odd
looking old gentleman, erect as a picket, scrupulously dressed, and
looking at her with fierce grey eyes from under the bushiest lashes.
"Is Mrs. Dering in?" he inquired with a tap of his cane.
"Yes, sir, but----,"
"Well, that's all I want to know now, I'll ask the rest after I get in,"
and emphasizing the words with another sharp tap of his cane, in he
walked.
"But, sir, my mother cannot see you to-night," said Olive, somewhat
startled, but speaking with decision, and still holding the door open.
"Tut, tut, tut! I haven't come three hundred miles to be turned out into
the night. Come, come, young woman, lead the way to where there's a fire
and light, then take this card to your mother, and if she won't see me,
give me a good comfortable bed, and I'll wait 'till morning for her."
Olive began to feel as though she had little to say in the matter,
besides, he stamped his cane and looked at her so fiercely, that she
thought he might be an escaped lunatic, and perhaps she had better humor
him. So she led the way into the sitting room, poked the fire till it
glowed brightly, then the old gentleman sat down, but jerked his head
around quickly as the sound of Jean's retiring crutch fell on his ear.
"Ha, hum; come here little girl;" and his voice sharp and rough,
softened wonderfully; but Jean only lifted her tear-stained pale little
face, for an instant, then vanished; whereupon he pulled out a scarlet
silk handkerchief, and blew his nose fiercely, then turned to Olive as
if he expected to demolish her instantly with the card in his fingers.
"Here girl, take that to your mother and be quick."
Olive took it and unconsciously dropped her eyes to the name--
"ROGER RIDLEY CONGREVE."
Even the old gentleman started as she looked up, for pale as her face
had been before, it was positively ashy now, and her eyes glared at him
like a young lioness at bay. Somewhat amazed the old man rose and
approached her; but she started back, threw the card at his feet, crying
chokingly with a frantic gesture of her hands:
"Go away, go away, don't touch me,--oh, how I hate you!" and vanished
through the door as if she had been shot.
"God bless my soul!" cried the astonished man, dropping into his chair
and apostrophizing the fire with startled energy. "If I ever saw the
like,--where's my snuff-box,--I never did to be sure; streak of
insanity, must be attended to; fine eyes, but ferocious young woman;
hum, ha!--I'll sit here till somebody comes."
A movement of several persons in the room above, would indicate that the
family were gathered there; as indeed they were, sitting around mother,
feeling nearer and dearer than ever in their mutual loss, each one
drying her eyes slowly, as she talked lovingly of the dead, trying to
make them feel as did she, that father was not lost, but just gone home
a little sooner than they. Into this peaceful, loving group came Olive,
with ashy lips, and excited eyes, and a few minutes later, the old
gentleman down stairs, arose from his waiting seat, as the door opened,
and a lady came towards him. Just while she crossed the little distance
lying between them, he scrutinized her, with almost savage intentness,
and his survey ended in a slightly astonished, "humph," as she paused
before him, and bent her head slightly, but with due respect for his
age.
"Mr. Congreve. Will you be seated, sir?"
"Humph! Well, I suppose I will," and down he sat, with more force than
was necessary, perhaps, but then he was excited.
"I'm too late for Robert's funeral, I hear," he said, in a moment, as
gruff and short as though she were to blame for the fact, and he was
come to deliver a verbal chastisement.
"Yes, sir, a few hours."
"Humph! His death was very sudden."
"Very sudden indeed."
"Humph!"
Very plainly, Mr. Congreve did not know exactly what to say next. He
hadn't expected this kind of a widow; his mind had pictured one in
bushels of crape, with a drenched, woe-begone face, who would scream
when she saw him, fall on his neck, in lieu of his purse, and gasp out
dramatically: "Dear, dear Uncle Ridley, now all my troubles are over,"
after which, he would have to pet her into quietude, when there was
nothing, next to walking out of the window in his sleep, that he dreaded
more than a crying woman; then he would have to kiss all the children,
and so greatly did he object to such an osculatory performance, that
after the act he looked as though he had made way with a quart of alum.
Now, there was the pleasing, but slightly astonishing fact, that nobody
was going to want to kiss him, and this pale, sweet-faced woman, with
her quiet eyes and determined mouth was Robert's widow, that he would
have to talk to; and it was very evident, that if he had anything to
say, she was waiting quietly to hear it.
"You have quite a large family,--madam," he said, hurriedly rushing in
to break a pause.
"Yes, sir, six daughters."
"Six! Bless my soul,--six girls," and Mr. Congreve hastily took some
snuff to settle his nerves. "Astonishing, I declare. Pity they're not
boys,--great pity."
"I would not have it otherwise than it is, sir."
"Humph! well, they're your burden, not mine," said the old man, testily,
and twisting uneasily in his chair.
"A burden I am happy and grateful to bear, if burden it be," answered
the widow, calmly. "I am thankful they are all mine, my comforts and
helps at all times."
"One of them is lame, is she?" and as he spoke, the old man's voice
softened, as it had done when he called to Jean.
"Yes, sir, my little one, lame from babyhood."
Mr. Congreve resorted to his handkerchief again, and waved its scarlet
folds back and forth in much agitation for a few seconds, then, as he
put it back in its capacious pocket, and sniffed once or twice, as if in
defiance to some internal commotion, Mrs. Dering remembered that he had
once had a little lame girl, who died before reaching womanhood.
He was regarding her intently, and now as she lifted her eyes, softened
with this sudden remembrance, he bounced out of his chair, and set his
cane down sharply on the hearth.
"Elizabeth Dering, you're not the woman I thought you were. You're not
like your father, and I'm glad of that. I came here to offer you help,
because I know for a certainty that Robert was in trouble, and I see
that you are no more pleased to see me, than I was at the prospect of
seeing you. That I have been angry with my nephew for many years, you
know well enough, but there's no use denying that his sudden death has
touched me, and I want to do something for his family. To-night you are
in no condition to talk, no more am I; so if you will show me my room I
will go to it immediately."
Mrs. Dering arose also, with relief plainly visible in her face, and
after finding that he had taken an early supper before leaving the city,
excused herself to arrange for his comfort during the night.
Several hours later, when the household had forgotten its grief in
slumber, and nothing disturbed the stillness of the night, but an
occasional frog, and the lonesome sighing of the wind through the bare
trees, two persons found it extremely difficult to sleep. In Mrs.
Dering's room the fire lay in dying embers on the hearth, and in a low
chair before it, sat the pale mother and widow, with no need now to hide
her grief, lest other hearts were made sad, for no one was near but
Jean, and she slept soundly, with sorrow lost in the oblivion of dreams.
So feeling for the first time, the liberty of tears, that poor, aching
heart broke its stern control, and burying her face, the sorrowing woman
wept, praying, as the tears rolled down her cheeks, that they might not
be shed in bitterness or rebellion, and that her heart, through all its
pain, might still feel and know, "what is, is best." When the violence
of her grief had expended itself, and she could lift her face to view
calmly her loss and new responsibilities, the unvoiced prayer of her
heart was: "O God, help me; I cannot work alone; let me know what to do;
help me to think and act aright, and strengthen my trembling faith, that
whatever may come to me, I can say: 'God knows it is for the best.'"
Even as she prayed, help came to her, for Olive could not sleep, and
feeling assured that her mother was awake, had come noiselessly in, and
now stood by her.
"Mama, I cannot sleep either; let me stay with you."
"Olive, my child, it is past midnight."
"I know, mama," and as Olive spoke, she pushed a stool to her mother's
feet, and sat down, for something in the voice assured her that she was
welcome.
"Why couldn't you sleep, dear?"
"Thinking," answered Olive, gravely. "And I wanted to talk to you, mama,
when we could be quite alone."
"Yes, dear."
"Will you tell me about Mr. Congreve, please?"
No curiosity prompted the question; that her mother knew; so, looking
down into the grave, thoughtful face, she lowered her voice, and began:
"Mr. Congreve took papa when he was left an orphan at eight years old,
and raised him, expecting to make him his heir, as he is very wealthy.
When Mr. Congreve and my father were boys they were great friends; but
in early manhood, had a bitter quarrel that has never been forgiven
either side, and they have hated each other fiercely ever since. When
Mr. Congreve found that his nephew was in love with his enemy's
daughter, he was furious with anger, and my father also objected to the
match, but not so bitterly and blind to reason, as his enemy. Your
father was threatened, plead with, and sworn at; but while he remained
firm to his intention of marrying me, he really loved his fiery uncle,
and disliked to come out in open rebellion; but a final move of Mr.
Congreve's was more than he could bear. He locked him up. Of course no
man of age and reason could stand such an indignity as that, so, making
his escape at night, he left without a word of any kind, and has never
seen his uncle but once since. A little while after we were married, we
received a letter from him, very short and bitter, saying that he could
tread the path he had chosen unmolested; that we were no more to him
than strangers, and that his new will left his property entire, to a
cousin's child, Roger Ridley Congreve, his namesake. He says now, that
when he saw papa's death in the paper, that he was touched by it, and
that he has come to help us, though I don't see how he knows we need
it."
"I do, mama."
"You, Olive?"
"Yes, mama." Olive's fingers were interlaced nervously and her eyes were
flashing warmly as she lifted them from the low fire to her mother's
face. "I know all about it, mama. Do you remember the night I talked
with papa in the study about two months ago?"
"Yes."
"Well, he told me a great deal that night about his business, that he
never told you, because he said he did not want to worry you with it
unless he had to; he had a note of six thousand to meet in sixty days,
and he was trying every way to raise it without touching your money in
the bank. He said if he could not pay it, the store would go, that the
home was ours, and must never go for his debts. Just a few days ago a
letter came, and he snatched it so eagerly, that I knew it was very
important; it was very short, and when he finished reading it he laid
his head down and groaned. He didn't know I was near, and I did not
speak then, but that letter has haunted me ever since, and yesterday
when you thought I was asleep, I was down at the store, and I found it
in his private drawer. O mama, it was from Mr. Congreve, and so short
and cruel, oh, so bitterly cruel, and I tore it all to shreds, and burnt
it, and never meant to tell you, at least, not for awhile. He refused to
loan papa a cent, and said he didn't care if he lost both business and
home, and when I read it I believe I could almost have killed him.
To-night when he came and gave me his card I threw it in his face, and
told him I _hated_ him!"
"Olive! Olive!"
"I did, I did, and I'm glad; I felt as if it would choke me to sleep
with him in the house to-night, and I never want to look at him again. I
would rather work my fingers off than ever have you take one penny of
his money, or let him help us in any way," cried Olive, excitedly,
almost forgetting the sleeping household in her energy.
Mrs. Dering put her hand to her head, bewildered with the sudden news,
and Olive saw, and comprehended the look of startled trouble that rested
on her face.
"We are very poor now, aren't we, mama?"
"Yes, child, yes; indeed I am quite bewildered," exclaimed Mrs. Dering,
anxiously. "Did you say sixty days, Olive?"
"Yes, mama, the time is out next Friday."
"Is it possible? What shall we do!"
"Isn't letting it go, the only thing we can do?" asked Olive.
"I suppose so, but really I can hardly think, it all seems so sudden,"
and truly her sad, troubled face echoed her words.
"I have been thinking about it so long," said Olive, as though relieved
to speak her thoughts. "The home is ours, and you have four thousand in
the bank. It seems to me a very little for seven people to live on, but
we are all strong and well, and can work."
"Yes, all strong and well but Jean," and Mrs. Dering's eyes went
wistfully to the little unconscious face resting on the pillow. "She
will have to be so neglected in more ways than one, if home is broken up
and every one's hands and work belonging to some one else."
"Dear me," cried Olive, reproachfully. "How could I forget her! There's
something more to think over, now."
"But you must think no more to-night, dear, nor must I, or we will not
be fit for to-morrow's work and thought. Go to bed, and remember, God
will not send us more than we can bear; we must only do the best we can
and all that is left, He will provide a way for us. Good night, dear."
Next morning after breakfast, Mr. Congreve stood pulling his gloves on
and eyeing the six girls from under his fierce, bushy brows, and there
was something almost like amusement in the quizzical look as it swept
from one face to the other.
Whatever he thought, he put it into no words, but caught up his cane,
then stooped down over Jean, lying on the lounge, and whispered
something in her ear. It must have been something magical, indeed, for
Jean got up, took her shawl and crutch, and walked with him down to the
gate, and there the astonished girls, who all rushed to the window, saw
them pause, and the old gentleman lifted Jean up on the post, put her
shawl up over her head, and then began talking earnestly.
"Did you ever!" cried Kittie, falling back at the amazing sight. "I
thought she was afraid of him!"
"She is the only one that he has looked at kindly," said Bea, with some
indications of resentment in her voice. "Was he always so fierce and
queer, mama?"
"Always," answered Mrs. Dering, who was watching from another window.
"He has a kind heart, but a most exceedingly violent temper, which he
seems to have under no control.
"If thwarted or vexed, he stops at nothing, but most always repents his
rash acts as soon as they are committed, and, sometimes, if the humor so
strikes him, there is nothing he will not do as reparation."
Olive, understanding that this little explanation was especially for
her, shut her lips tightly, whereupon Kate exclaimed, "You never looked
at him when you were introduced, Olive, and if you could have seen the
way he frowned and glared at you, you would have shook all over."
"I don't care how he looked, nor how much he frowned. I don't like him,
and I wish he was back in Virginia."
"If he isn't stingy as a miser, he'll give us something, and perhaps ask
us to visit him," said Ernestine, who looked languid and pale from
excessive and violent weeping, and really seemed to be the only one who
was not trying to be cheerful for the others' sake.
[Illustration: THE OLD GENTLEMAN LIFTED JEAN UP ON THE POST.]
"I should like to see where papa lived when he was a boy, but I wouldn't
care to have Mr. Congreve there," said Bea, who had that morning began
being more womanly than usual by relieving mama of coffee-urn duties.
"He's gone!" exclaimed Kittie, from the window. "Now for the secret!
What did he say, Jean?"
"I'm not to tell," answered Jean, looking quite excited and rather pale,
as she hurried in; then amazed them all again by hiding her face in Mrs.
Dering's dress and bursting into tears.
"What ever has he done?" cried Kat, bouncing excitedly out of her chair.
"Was he cross?--or perhaps he pinched you or something."
"No, he didn't," said Jean, trembling but smiling through her tears. "He
was very good and kind, and didn't look near so cross as he did in here.
He said that a great many years ago he had a little girl just like me,
and he kissed me, too."
"Did I ever!" cried Kat, quite carried away by curiosity. "And is that
all that he said?"
"No, but I can't tell the rest, now, but he's going to bring me some
candy and I'll give you all some."
Perhaps it was because Mrs. Dering turned her head away just then,
finding control of her face impossible; or because Jean looked so
pathetic, as she gave her little promise; at any rate, Ernestine broke
into a quick sob, and the next moment they were all crying, while Kittie
threw herself on the lounge, and hid her face, as though she never cared
to show it again, and Kat followed her example in the rocking-chair.
For several minutes the sound of weeping filled the room, then Mrs.
Dering wiped her eyes and tried to steady her voice.
"Children, do you think it would make papa happy to see us all so
miserable and wretched?"
Something in the voice hushed the sobs, and caught attention, except
from Ernestine, who continued to cry wailingly.
"If papa had gone to Europe, made a great fortune, and built a grand,
beautiful home for us all to come to, would we all sit down and cry
about it, and say it wasn't right?"
Even Ernestine listened a little at this, and Kittie lifted her drenched
face to look in amaze at her mother.
"I don't think we would, but that our happiness would hardly wait for
the time 'till we started to join him. Now, instead of going to any
country to build us a home, he has gone home himself, to the beautiful
glorious home that was waiting for him, and waits for us; and isn't it
lovely to think how glad he'll be to see us when we come, and it may
not be long, either. I can almost imagine how happy he is to-night, and
I should hate to feel that we made him sad by sitting here and crying,
as though we regretted his perfect joy. We miss him sadly indeed, but it
will make our time of waiting seem shorter, if we busy ourselves in
doing what we know he would have approved and enjoyed, had he stayed
with us. You, my girls, know how proud and fond he was of you; you know
just which of your little faults grieved him, so work to overcome them,
and try to become the noble, splendid women he always prayed you might
be. As for me, I know how he always trusted me in raising our girls, and
now that he has gone home, and left it all to me, don't you suppose it
is a duty made doubly precious? None of us can complain of idle hands,
and so with busy hearts we can find no time to complain and weep. Now
let's go to our morning work, and all be as happy and cheerful as you
can; just remember, God loves us so much that He has put some one who is
dear to us all in our home above, so that we cannot forget it, even if
we are tempted to do so."
There was a general putting away of handkerchiefs, and many resolves
written on the girlish faces, that were facing their first grief, and
found it hard to do so with a patient faith. As they all left the room
for morning duties, Bea lingered behind the others, and throwing her
arms about her mother, looked up with full eyes and a loving smile.
"Mama, you are such a comfort; you talk about heaven and papa, as if
they were just around the corner, and make me feel as if he knew, and
was interested in all that we did, just as much as ever. I know what
will make him the happiest, and that is for us to be just like you, for
he did love and trust you so perfectly."