[Illustration: 9155]
HILE Hazel and Starlight, Flutters, John Thomas, and the Marberrys were
so hugely enjoying watching the people down there on the floor of the
Assembly, it so happened that some of the people were not enjoying
themselves at all. Indeed, quite the contrary; for not a few were acting
unkindly, and others were being treated unkindly; and if there is any
enjoyment for anybody in that sort of a proceeding, one ought to be
thankful not yet to have discovered it.
You know how it came about that Colonel and Mrs. Boniface went to the
Assembly; it was simply because they felt they ought to. If the old
friends were truly sorry for having been so unfriendly, would it not be
ungracious for them to decline this invitation? Would it not look as if
they themselves were still harboring ill-feeling? And you also know that
Harry Avery had been consulted in the matter, and that his urgent advice
had been, “Go, by all means.” So the Colonel and his wife had decided
to accept quite in the face of all their preferences, and dreading the
ordeal far more than either was willing to confess to the other. But
alas! for the decision that cost them such a personal sacrifice, and
alas! for the hopefulness of Harry's buoyant temperament; for if Colonel
and Mrs. Boniface ever had reason abundantly to regret any step they had
ever taken, it was going to this Dancing Assembly; and if ever two proud
and sensitive hearts were stung to the quick, theirs were that evening.
It seems that Harry was mistaken in thinking that the invitation had
been sent because of a general desire to make amends to the Bonifaces.
True it was that two members of the Assembly Committee had insisted upon
their being invited, hardly thinking, however, that they would come; but
alas! in case they did come some other members had resolved to make
it very uncomfortable for them. Somehow or other nothing seems so
completely to change a warm human heart into something as cold and hard
as a stone as what men call a strong party feeling, and party feeling
ran very high in those days in which our great-grandfathers lived a
hundred years ago. That is to say, men felt so sure that their own
opinions were the only right ones that they fairly hated those who did
not agree with them.
And so it happened that, with cheeks crimsoned from the insults they had
received, and with blood tingling to their very finger tips Colonel and
Mrs. Boniface left the room, sending word to Josephine (who had been
screened from any insult by Harry's chivalrous devotion) to follow them.
Hazel suddenly missed them from the crowd below, and knew in a flash
what had happened. Indeed, the color had flushed into her own round
cheeks as she thought she saw a Mrs. Potter, whose husband was a leading
Whig, pretend not to see that Mrs. Boniface had made a move toward
shaking hands with her. But “No,” she thought, “I must be mistaken; no
lady would be so rude.” So it would seem, little Hazel; but it often
happens that things are not what they seem in this queer world of ours;
and as Hazel's dear mother learned to her sorrow, several others who
called themselves ladies could be just as rude as Mrs. Potter, and some
of them yet more rude. Fortunately for the Mar-berrys and Starlight and
Flutters, the clock was just on the stroke of eight when Hazel made
her unhappy discovery, for she could not have borne to have sat there
another moment looking down on that brilliant company, many of whom,
looking so fine and attractive, were at heart so cruel.
“Time's up,” said Hazel, starting to creep round to the little door at
the back of the gallery, and not trusting herself to say more than that
for fear a trembling voice should betray her suppressed excitement.
Hazel was the acknowledged commander-in-chief of that little party, and
difficult as it was to turn abruptly from the fascinating scene, the
children dropped obediently on to all fours, and followed in her train.
The Marberrys' carriage was waiting at the door, and Flutters, after
helping the others in, climbed onto the box beside Jake, the driver. It
was wonderful the way in which he seemed always to know intuitively the
“proper thing” to do. He was constantly placed on such an equal footing
with the other children that it would have been only natural for him
to have frequently forgotten that, after all, he was only Miss Hazel's
little servant; but somehow or other he never did forget it; perfectly
free in his manner, and never in any sense servile, yet always betraying
a little air of respectful deference that was simply charming. Indeed,
body-servant or no, all the Bonifaces had grown to actually loving
little Flutters, and Flutters knew it and was radiantly happy.
All the way home Hazel tried to be as merry as before. It would be such
a pity, she thought unselfishly, to spoil the Marberrys' good time; but
she did not succeed very well.
“Are you tired, Hazel?” asked Milly, as they neared home.
“Yes, awfully tired,” and with this admission the tears sprang into her
eyes; but fortunately it was too dark in the carriage for any one to
see them. “It's very uncomfortable,” she added, “to sit with your legs
curled under you so long as we had to there in the gallery.”
“Do you think so?” exclaimed Tilly; “why, I could have sat there till
morning, and never known I had a leg, it was all so lovely!”
“So lovely!” echoed Milly in a tone of evident regret that it was over.
“Here we are,” said Hazel, as Flutters leaped down and opened the door
for her; “good-night, Milly” (a kiss); “good-night, Tilly” (another
kiss); “much obliged for the ride.”
“Much obliged for the lovely time,” the Marberrys called back, for Jake,
impatient to get home and to bed, had immediately driven on.
“Why, it looks as though your father and mother were home,” Starlight
exclaimed as they walked up the path.
“Yes, they are home, I know that,” said Hazel, excitedly, “and Josephine
is home, and I know too that they've had a horrid time, and that
they'll never go to anything in New York again--never; and if there is a
cowardly set of creatures in the world it's the spiteful old Whigs.”
Starlight and Flutters stood aghast, while Hazel flew past them into
the house, slamming the front door after her, as much as to say that no
exasperating Whig should ever enter it again, not even if his name was
Job Avery Starlight.
The boys sat down on the step of the porch and conversed in dazed,
excited whispers as to what it could all mean.
Hazel flew up the stairs into her mother's room and into her mother's
arms with one great sob.
[Illustration: 0159]
“Why, Hazel, my little daughter, what is the matter?” and Mrs. Boniface,
whom Hazel had found sitting in a low rocker at the window, still in
the dress she had worn to the ball, drew Hazel's brown head on to her
shoulder, and soothingly stroked the brown wavy hair; but the tears were
in her own eyes, and her heart was very heavy.
Hazel could not speak at first for crying, but the caressing touch of
that dear hand was wonderfully calming, and presently she was able to
say, “I know all about it, mother. I know they treated you shamefully. I
saw that horrid old Mrs. Potter when she--”
“Hazel! Hazel, dear, you must not talk like this.”
“But it's true, every word of it is true, and tell me” (and Hazel
straightened herself up and looked through blinding tears into her
mother's face), “didn't they insult you? didn't they treat you very
rudely, and didn't you all come home on that account?”
“Well, they certainly were not very kind, Hazel, and it seemed best for
us to come home; but it is not worth caring too much about, you know.”
“And to think how friendly Mrs. Potter _used_ to be, and how much she
pretended to think of you, mother,” and Hazel becoming a little less
excited, thoughtfully turned the little turquoise ring on her finger
round and round, and shook her head sadly from side to side, as though
her faith in human nature was forever shaken, as indeed it had reason to
be.
It was a pretty picture, albeit a rather sad one, the mother and
daughter, in the graceful costumes of a hundred years ago, sitting there
in the low studded room, dimly lighted by the little rush-light on the
mantel--a high narrow mantel, with the glowing embers on the andirons
beneath it crackling loudly now and then, after the manner of a good
fire that is slowly dying out. An oblong mirror, hung at a wide angle
from the wall, surmounted the high mantel, and reflected the little
rocker with its double load, and the pretty old-fashioned drapery at the
window. It was not often that that little mirror, nor any other mirror
for that matter, had the chance to frame a picture for itself full as
lovely as ever artist dreamed of.
But while Hazel and her mother were talking, and Hazel herself was
growing calmer and Mrs. Boniface's heart lighter with the effort
to cheer her, some other things were happening in which we have an
interest. Captain Boniface was striding along the road that led on to
the Marberrys, trying to walk off the angry feelings that threatened
to get the mastery over him. There is nothing like a good brisk walk in
bracing air to get a feverish, excited mind into normal condition, and
the Captain knew it; but when the force of the angry mood had spent
itself, there still was left to him a sense of sad hopelessness for
which he saw no remedy. To have a little family on one's hands and no
money to care for them is enough to make the bravest heart heavy; but
to have reached that point, and at the same time to see every chance
of ever getting on one's feet again absolutely taken away, is enough
to break a man's spirit. And matters had come to just that pass that
evening with Captain Boniface. If the old friends had at last shown
themselves friendly, he would have felt there was a hope of his making
his services valuable to some of them, as indeed there would have been,
for every one acknowledged Captain Boniface to be a man of rare ability.
But it had now been shown him very plainly that there was no use
in longer trying to stem the tide of hate and prejudice that set so
strongly against him, and with the future a hopeless blank, he finally
turned his face homeward. But the other thing that was happening, and
in which we too have an interest, was of a cheerier sort, and was taking
place at the Assembly, which had only fairly gotten under way when the
Bonifaces left it.
That old-fashioned law of a partner for the evening, to be chosen by
lot, of course applied only to the young folks, and the more staid,
middle-aged, and elderly people were free to chat with each other, else
why should they have cared to go to the ball at all?
Now it happened that Aunt Frances, who was quite in ignorance of the
sad experiences of the Bonifaces, was having a most satisfactory
conversation with a Mrs. Rainsford, a near neighbor, whom she had
not seen since her flight from home nearly two years before, for Mrs.
Rainsford was able to answer a great many questions which Aunt Frances
had been longing to ask about her own home, and the care it was having.
“No, I should not think the place had been greatly abused,” said Mrs.
Rainsford, while Aunt Frances sat, an eager listener. “Captain Wadsworth
moved his men down to the barracks at Fort George a month ago, and since
then he has been giving the house a thorough overhauling. You know he
has resigned his commission, and intends to remain in this country.”
“Yes; and I know, too, that he intends to remain in my home,” sighed
Aunt Frances. “I wonder if he would sell it to me, though, for that
matter, it's as much mine to-day as it ever was. But there's no use to
talk about that either, for I have saved from the wreck barely money
enough to live upon.”
“But, Miss Avery,” said Mrs. Rainsford in a serious whisper, that was
scarcely audible above the music, “I'll tell you one thing: I do not
believe Captain Wadsworth _will_ remain in your house very long.”
“Indeed! why not?” and Aunt Frances's elevated eyebrows betrayed her
surprise.
“Why, because it is going to be so very uncomfortable for all Loyalists
here in the city.”
“I do not quite see what you mean, Mrs. Rainsford.”
“No, of course not, dear,” replied Mrs. Rainsford (seeming to regard
Aunt Frances in the light of an older daughter, though, in point of
fact, there was but little difference in their ages.) “No, of course not;
your kind heart would never dream of such things as are happening on
every side. The leading Whigs, now that the Revolution has been
successful, say that they'll make this town too hot to hold a single
Tory, and, mark my words, they'll do it, too. Perhaps you haven't
noticed how the Bonifaces were treated tonight; they went home some time
ago.”
“Why, Mrs. Rainsford, can that be possible?” questioned Aunt Frances,
looking vainly about the room in search of her friends; “I call that
cruelty of the most unwarrantable sort.”
“Yes, it must be very humiliating to say the least; but then they have
brought it upon themselves, you must remember,” for Mrs. Rainsford was
herself a most ardent Whig, and thought the Loyalists, whether English
or American, should be made to pay very dearly for their behavior.
“You ought to have seen your garden this summer, Miss Avery,” continued
Mrs. Rainsford, reverting to their former subject. “Captain Wadsworth
must be very fond of flowers. He took the best of care of it.”
“I think I could not have borne to see it, Mrs. Rainsford.”
“No, perhaps not, dear child; and to think that you really have
Alexander Hamilton to thank for it all. You must hate him. He is here
to-night, you know, with his young wife. I don't wonder she turned the
heads of the officers at Morristown. You know she went to visit her
aunt while Washington had his headquarters there, and Hamilton was his
aide-de-camp, and fell in--”
“Sh--” interrupted Aunt Frances, who saw that Colonel Hamilton was not
very far off, and might easily overhear what they were saying; and,
indeed, he was not far off, for the very good reason that, in the
company of his friend, Major Potter, every step was bringing him nearer.
Imagine, if you can, Aunt Frances's surprise when Major Potter, whom she
knew quite well, paused before her, and bowing low, with old-time grace
and courtliness, said slowly, “May I take the liberty, Miss Avery, of
presenting my friend, Colonel Hamilton?”
[Illustration: 0163]
Aunt Frances was, of course, greatly confused, though too much of a lady
to betray it; but Mrs. Rainsford, astonished beyond measure, and not
always at her ease, was quite glad to slip away from an interview that
promised to be, to say the least, embarrassing.
Colonel Hamilton took the seat she left vacant. “I begged the favor of
an introduction, Miss Avery, and am very glad to meet you,” he said,
politely.
“I must not doubt your sincerity, Colonel Hamilton,” Aunt Frances
replied with no little dignity, “but perhaps you do not recognize in me
the Miss Avery whom you lately defeated in the courts.”
“On the contrary,” replied the Colonel with a deferential air, for Aunt
Frances was by many years his senior, “that is the very reason why I
wished to meet you. I feel myself to have been the cause--”
“Excuse me, Colonel Hamilton, but I desire neither apologies nor
sympathy.” For with all her sweetness, Aunt Frances was high spirited;
she thought the Colonel's manner was a little patronizing.
But Colonel Hamilton was high spirited too, and was on his feet in a
moment. “It was not my intention to offer either sympathy or apologies.
I bid you good-evening, Miss Avery.”
But Aunt Frances said quickly, “In that case I should prefer you to
remain, Colonel Hamilton.”
“Thank you,” and the Colonel, with no little dignity, resumed his seat,
while Aunt Frances condescended to add:
“I did not mean to be rude, but I wished you to understand my position.”
“It was because I wished you to understand mine that I sought this
interview, Miss Avery; but I see I have need to be very careful as to my
choice of words.”
Aunt Frances smiled, as much as to say, “Quite right, Colonel Hamilton.”
“I hope you realize,” he said, “that my argument in Captain Wadsworth's
case was founded on the most sincere convictions;” and the Colonel half
betrayed the admiration which Aunt Frances somehow inspired in him,
notwithstanding her high-spiritedness.
“I never questioned that, Colonel Hamilton.”
“So I felt I had reason to believe, when I found you had urged your
nephew to make application for the vacancy in my office.”
“Why, I told Harry it was hardly necessary to volunteer the fact of our
relationship,” said Aunt Frances, with unconcealed surprise.
“He evidently did not agree with you then, for he had been with me
scarce twenty-four hours before he told me he was your nephew. I suppose
you thought, if I knew it, that it might count against him; on the
contrary, let me assure you it has helped him. It is no light thing,
Miss Avery, to have done any one an injury, whether from conscientious
motives or not; and I shall welcome every chance to atone for it that
comes within my power. I can imagine, in part at least, what it
must mean to be banished from the home of a life-time under any
circumstances, and especially when you feel that you have still a
perfect right to be there.”
This looked a little like sympathy on the Colonel's part, but it was too
kindly meant to be rejected. They were treading, however, dangerously
near the region of Aunt Frances's proud sensitiveness, so she changed
the direction somewhat by asking, “But Harry is able to rise on his own
merits, is he not, Colonel Hamilton?”
“Abundantly; that was one thing I desired to tell you. He has unusual
capacity, and is remarkably efficient. I think his future assured.
As for me, it is a great satisfaction to know you do not question my
sincerity. And now, Miss Avery, I will not detain you longer, and will
say good-evening.”
“Good-evening, Colonel Hamilton.”
And so the Colonel went back to his pretty young wife in the farther
corner of the room, and Aunt Frances, with a tumult of thoughts in her
heart, rejoined the Van Vleets, and was glad to find them making ready
to go down to the clumsy barge, which, manned by two of the farm hands,
was waiting to carry them home across the moonlit river. How much she
had to think over; and what had Colonel Hamilton told her but that he
would lose no chance to atone for what his duty, as he understood it,
had compelled him to do. But one thing Colonel Hamilton had not told
her, but which was very true, nevertheless, and that was, that one of
the strongest impulses toward this same atoning had come to him in the
form of a call from a very earnest and winsome little maiden one sunny
September morning. “Yes, what may it not mean?” thought Aunt Frances,
and a hope that she had not dared to cherish for a long, long time
shaped itself once more before her. Perhaps it might come about that she
should have her home again some day; surely it was not impossible, since
Colonel Hamilton himself was enlisted in her favor. And _this_ was the
man whom she thought her worst enemy--whom she had said she would go a
long way to avoid meeting. Very thankful was she now that the Colonel
had given her no opportunity to carry out her intention. So there is
this comfort: if some sorry things happened at the Assembly, some other
things happened that were not sorry at all.
Meanwhile poor Starlight and Flutters sat shivering on the front porch.
Captain Boniface had come home, but had quietly entered the house at the
rear, and the children had not heard him.
“Really, I think we had better go in now,” said Flutters, as though he
had brought the same inducement to bear upon Starlight several times
before.
“You may go if you like,” answered Starlight. “It's different with you,
you live here; but you don't catch _me_ going in at a door that's been
slammed in my face, unless the some-one who slammed it comes out and
gets me.”
So Flutters stretched and yawned and shivered a moment longer, and then
decided to quit the dreary scene.
“Now, don't you tell Hazel that I'm out here, Flutters. Promise me.”
“Not if she asks me?”
“No, not if she asks you fifty times.” Starlight was angry, and not
without reason, but he did not believe impetuous Hazel would give
him another thought, and so he looked about to see how he could most
comfortably pass the night on the porch, for he knew nowhere to go at
that late hour. Perhaps it _was_ a pity for a fellow to be so proud, but
he could not help it. He wondered if other people's pride made the blood
rush so hotly through their veins, and made their hearts thump like trip
hammers; there was one good thing about it, though: it helped to keep
him a little warmer out there in the chill November evening.
Flutters groped his way forlornly to bed, for all the lights were out
in the house. He longed to knock at Hazel's door and tell her about
Starlight, and his hand actually doubled itself in a preparatory way
as he passed her door; but no, it would not do. Starlight would never
forgive him; besides, he had promised.
But fortunately it was not to be an out-all-night experience, after all,
for Starlight. Hazel's room was directly under the roof of the high,
pillared porch, and as, just before getting into bed, she leaned out to
close the blinds, so that the morning sun should not wake such a tired
and sorrowful little body too early, she saw some dark thing lying under
the mat on the porch. At first she thought it was the Marberrys' dog,
who occasionally made them a visit, so she called, “Bruno! Bruno!” in a
penetrating whisper, but the dark object showed no signs of life. Then
she said, “Who is it?” and the dark object moved a little and replied
sullenly, “Who do you suppose?”
“Why, Job Starlight, what are you doing out there; you'll catch your
death of cold.”
“I know it,” said Starlight, for by this time even his pride had cooled
down a little, and his teeth were chattering, “and there'll be no one to
blame for it but yourself, Hazel Boniface.”
“What do you mean?” asked Hazel; but as she spoke a conviction of just
exactly what he meant swept over her. “Haven't you been in since I left
you on the porch?”
“No, I haven't been in since you slammed the door in my face and said if
there was a cowardly set of spiteful old creatures in the world it was
the Whigs.”
“I did not call _you_ a----” and then Hazel realized that it was very
foolish, as well as very cold, to stand talking there in that way, so
she called down, “But wait a minute, and I'll come and let you in.”
Then she closed the shutters and hurriedly slipped into her wrapper and
slippers, and in a twinkling the hall lamp was lighted and the hall
door thrown open; but Starlight was in no hurry to enter--not he; he
was going to see this thing through in right dignified fashion,
notwithstanding, now that the prospect looked more cheerful, he could
himself see a funny side to the proceeding.
“I did not mean _you_ were cowardly or spiteful, Starlight,” Hazel said
again. “I meant all the other Whigs. Do, please, come in.”
“Then why did you slam the door in this Whig's face, I'd like to
know,” and Starlight was so gracious as to advance as far as the broad,
old-fashioned door-sill; “besides, all the other Whigs are not spiteful
and cowardly. Aunt Frances isn't, and----”
“Starlight,” interrupted Hazel, “this is very mean of you. If you knew
what we'd had to bear to-night you wouldn't blame me for anything. I was
very angry, I know, but I am very sorry, and now--won't you please come
in?”
Certainly this was as much as the most aggrieved of individuals
could desire, and Starlight walked in, and dignity and resentment and
everything else were forgotten as Hazel with tearful eyes told him of
the evenings experiences. “Yes,” she said at the close of her narration,
“I saw Mrs. Potter with my own eyes refuse to shake hands with mamma,
and if it hadn't been time then to come home I do not know what I ever
should have done.”
Starlight drew a deep sigh, but Hazel had grown a full inch in his
estimation. It was real plucky in her to have kept her forlorn discovery
to herself all the way home; he could almost understand now how she had
slammed the door when she reached it. But what a shame it was that a
family like the Bonifaces should be so shamefully treated! “Well, it's
too bad, Hazel, that's all I can say,” he said; “but I suppose we may as
well go to bed. It must be very late.”
“Why, where is Flutters?” asked Hazel, for the first time recalling his
existence.
“Here,” answered a voice from the top of the hall stairway; “I was just
coming down to see if I could not make Starlight come in.”
“I don't believe anybody could have _made_ him,” said Hazel; “the
Starlights must be a very proud family.”
“So must the Bonifaces,” answered Starlight, with the shadow of a smile;
“but, then, I like proud families.”
“And so do I,” said Hazel.
A few moments afterward the little trio separated, and with the thought
of “Better late than never,” Starlight crept gratefully into the bed
of the little hall room, whose blankets and coverlid had been carefully
folded back for him, full five hours before, by Dinah's kind black
hands.
CHAPTER XIX--A SAD LITTLE CHAPTER
[Illustration: 9169]
OT a bright outlook certainly, but then, you see, it is to be only a
little chapter.
Some people think that children's books ought to be cheery and bright
from cover to cover, and so they ought--that is, for the very little
children; but when they have gotten beyond the days of rhymes and
jingles and colored pictures, and have wit enough and appreciation
enough to enjoy a chaptered story, then I, for one, think the stories
should be true to life. To be sure, the charm of such delightful and
purely impossible tales as “Alice in Wonderland” and “Water Babies” lies
in the fact that they do not pretend to be true to anything in the world
save the enchanting-caprice of the people who write them; but when one
comes to place a story in a real time, and put real people in it, then
it is bound to be true to the real things.
Then one certainly does not need to be, say, more than seven years old
to get at least an inkling of the truth, that the real things of life
are not always bright things. But there is no use of dwelling at too
great length upon these same sorrowful experiences, and so for that
reason we are going to try to make this a short chapter. And now, to
tell you right away what the sad thing was, for fear your lively
imagination should be conjuring up something yet more sad than the
reality, though the reality was sad enough, since it was nothing more
nor less than that, when Captain Hugh Boniface woke on the morning after
the Assembly, he found that he could move neither hand nor foot. The
eager mind worked as actively as ever, but not a muscle would respond to
the great, strong will, and the Captain knew--knew beyond all
hoping--that he was completely paralyzed, and that in all probability,
as far as ever rendering any real service to that blessed little family
of his was concerned, he had better, from that time, be out of the world
than in it.
It is needless to tell you very particularly with what foreboding the
alarming news spread through the little household, nor how breathlessly
they all waited for old Dr. Melville's verdict as he came from
the Captain's room a few hours later. Nor of how, in spite of his
encouraging words, that bade them be hopeful, they read that in his kind
old eyes which plainly told them that he felt there was little enough to
ground any real hope upon.
“Yes,” said Dr. Melville, gravely, as Mrs. Boniface followed him to
the door, at the close of one of his professional visits, “I feared
something of this sort might be in store for the Captain. He has been
into my office several times complaining of certain wretched benumbing
feelings that we doctors dread to hear acknowledged. But it's not
strange, Mrs. Boniface, not strange at all; he's been through enough
to break down the strongest constitution. There was a sight of mischief
already done when they brought him home from Lexington in '75, and then
all these years of worry and excitement have not helped matters.”
“But, doctor,” said Mrs. Boniface, nerving herself to ask the question,
“do you think he will never be any better?”
“I doubt if he ever walks again, Mrs. Boniface.”
“Do you mean, Dr. Melville, that it is your opinion that he never _will_
walk again. You must be very frank with me, else I cannot tell how to
plan for the future.”
“Well, then, since you are a brave woman, and I know you mean what you
say, I will give you my honest opinion, which is this: that your good
Captain will probably, at least in a degree, regain the use of his hands
and arms, but never, I fear, of his lower limbs.”
It was not easy for Mrs. Boniface to hear her fears put thus plainly
into words, but it was best, she felt sure, that she should know the
worst.
Meantime the days dragged wearily along for Captain Boniface, and yet
brought with them one glorious revelation. Never before had he known
quite so fully what an all-powerful love there was in his heart for that
dear wife of his. It was a privilege simply to be able to watch her as
she moved so quietly about the room, and to listen to the sweet familiar
voice; and was it not abundant cause for thankfulness that he was still
in the same world with her, though no longer able to move about in it.
But what were they going to do? That, of course, was the thought that
gave him greatest anxiety. The sum of money in the bank had been growing
more and more slender with every year of diminished income, until now
there was scarce enough left to tide them over more than another twelve
months, and then only with the strictest economy. But the good Captain
did not have to meet this dread question alone, and in the twilight of
a November afternoon he had talked it all over with his wife, and as
the result of that long, quiet talk they had decided that Mrs. Boniface
should write for aid to her father, a clergyman, living alone in a
little ivy-grown rectory in the South of England. But it was not easy to
come to this decision. They hesitated to intrude their heavy anxieties
upon the good old man, whose own income was by no means ample. But there
was simply no one else to whom they could turn, and they knew he would
gladly give them any help within his power.
“And now, Hugh, there is nothing for us to do but to wait till the
answer to my letter comes, and do let us try not to worry,” said
Mrs. Boniface when the long talk was over, and they did try, and they
succeeded, and right in the face of the heaviest trial they had ever
known there was peace and even an added sweetness in the Boniface home
life. The new trouble knit all hearts closer together; they realized
more keenly than ever before how much it was just to have each other,
and they cared far less than such a little while ago they would have
thought possible for the insults of people who, after all, had been
friends only in name. But half the secret of the bravery of the little
household lay in the fact that the Captain himself was so brave; but
often, of course, his courage was strongly tested; seldom more strongly
than when little Kate would come running to the side of his bed, and he
felt himself powerless to lift her to a seat beside him or to romp with
her as he used to love to do.
One afternoon, when he was alone in the room, he heard the patter of her
little feet on the stairway. He could count each step, for, after the
necessarily slow fashion of very little walkers, she had need to plant
both feet on one step before attempting another. But at last the patient
little climber was where she wanted to be, and said, without stopping to
think, “Lift me up, papa, please.”
“Ah! Kate, you always forget papa can't do that,” and the Captain's eyes
grew misty.
“Oh, yes, I did fordet,” Kate answered, with a world of regret in her
tone; and then she laid her chubby head on her father's arm and tenderly
stroked the great brown hand as though she loved him more than ever now,
and for the very reason that he was so helpless.
“Kate,” said her father, when he felt sure that he could speak and yet
keep his voice steady, “you are such a darling, Kate.”
“Mamma said that a little while ago,” answered her little ladyship
calmly, “and Josephine said it yesterday twice, and then Hazel said
something like it too. I _dess_ I was never quite so nice as lately.”
“I guess you were never quite such a comfort,” smiled the Captain. “But
then you must not grow too set up about it.”
Kate did not pay much attention to this last remark; she had decided on
a little plan, and was putting it into execution. She pushed a chair to
the side of the bed and mounted, by aid of its round, to its seat; from
there it was an easy climb to the bed; and then, shoving the chair away
with a push of her little foot, she turned to her father with a sigh of
honest satisfaction, such as no mere “lifting up” could possibly have
occasioned.
[Illustration: 0173]
Evidently she had come to stay, the blessed little sunbeam, and
straightway the Captain began to rack his brain for the story that he
knew well enough in a moment would be asked for, and for the sort that
would be likely to keep her attention longest. No one could tell so good
a story as the Captain, and no one could tell it as well--at least, that
was the verdict of Starlight and Flutters, of Hazel and the Marberrys,
and a few other little folk who now and then had the pleasure of hearing
him. Little Kate was delighted with the fact that she was to be favored
with “the first story since papa fell ill,” and, I fear, took a little
selfish delight in the fact that she was the only listener. As for the
story, it proved a fine one, with some very queer little people in
it, who did most outlandish things, and Kate sat entranced till it was
finished, and then, laying her head down on her father's shoulder, “just
to think it over,” fell fast asleep instead, and did not waken, even
when the Captain, hearing Josephine's step in the hall, called her in
to throw something over her. And then, after a while, what with Kate's
regular breathing as she lay on his helpless arm, and what with the
light in the room growing dim and yet more dim as the glow faded out
of the sunset, the Captain fell asleep too, and all was so tranquil and
peaceful that it seems almost as though we had made a mistake in calling
this “A Sad Little Chapter.”