DANGER AND COURAGE.
WE must now pass over three years in the history of our friends.
Harry Everett is four years old, a bright, beautiful boy, of whom
any mother might be proud. Words fail me when I attempt to describe
this child. With perfect boyish instincts,—indeed, quite a romp at
outdoor frolics,—there is a maturity and precociousness about him which
impresses every one with the feeling "he has not long for this world."
"I do not believe," said a visitor at Mr. Everett's, "the doctrine I
learned when a child from the numerous biographies of boys and girls,
that all the good children die young, and that only wicked ones live
to grow up. But I do believe that often our heavenly Father sees a
plant in his earthly garden of such peculiar beauty and grace that he
determined to transplant it to his celestial garden. Upon this lovely
nursling he bestows such degrees of care and tenderness as bring it
forward to an early maturity, which all who are witnesses thereof
wonder at and admire."
Harry was of ordinary height, erect and graceful in figure. His head
was of unusual size,—his broad, open brow being shaded by locks of
chestnut hair, which fell in a shower of ringlets on his fair neck.
His eyes, shaded by long, dark lashes, were hazel, bright, but not
flashing, with often a pensive, thoughtful expression unusual in a
child of his years. His nose was straight and well formed, while the
small mouth, full-parted lips, and dimpled chin were expressive of both
sweetness and decision of character. Harry was naturally passionate,
energetic, and full of enthusiasm. The first trait was early
restrained, or rather he was taught to exercise self-control, so that a
stranger would never have imagined him easily moved to anger.
As a foundation for a good character, Lily learned from her Bible she
must teach her child obedience,—prompt, unasking, cheerful obedience
and perfect truthfulness; and this by the aid of prayer she succeeded
in doing at a very early period. When he was only twenty months old,
Lily took him with her to call upon a friend who also had a little son.
When she rose to leave, the lady asked him to give her a parting kiss,
which he readily did.
"Kiss the little boy, too, Harry," said his mother.
The boy shook his shoulders and made no advances.
"Mamma wants you to kiss little Frankey," Lily said, firmly.
Harry looked gravely at the boy, but still refused.
"Never mind," urged the lady, "he'll do it another time."
The mother thought otherwise. "If I allow him to disobey me now," she
said, softly, "it will be more difficult next time for him to obey."
She took his hand, led him off a few steps and whispered in his ear,
when he instantly walked up to Frankey and gave him a cordial kiss.
She appealed to his love for her and his desire to please her, and was
successful.
Harry's health, which, though good, was never firm, prevented him from
being put to his books, but this want was more than supplied by the
eagerness with which he listened to stories of children and animals,
and particularly to stories from the Bible. Hour after hour he would
sit drinking in the inspired words,—the stories of Abraham, Moses,
Joseph, and all the worthies of the Old Testament being as familiar to
him as household names. But what moved his tender heart more than all
other reading was the story of the God Man, born in a manger, nurtured
in a carpenter's shop, visiting the temple, asking questions of the
doctors, his mission of love to all men, and, finally, his death on the
cross. These sacred truths stole insensibly into his heart, and at a
very early age began to influence his whole character.
"You need not tell me to say my prayers," he often said as his mother
was unrobing him for the night. "I always remember." And running to his
little chair, he would pour out his heart in childish petitions to his
heavenly Father, a being he had been taught to love and not to fear.
Harry was not now an only child. In his fourth year, a little sister
came to share his parents' love; and never was there a more tender,
affectionate brother. Sweet little Paulina gave him her first smile,
and learned before she was three months old to recognize his voice in
the hall, and would turn her dainty head to catch the first glimpse of
him as he entered the room.
Contrary to the opinion of most of her friends, Lily proved to be a
firm, judicious mother. Though so young when married, yet she had
witnessed too often the anxious care which mothers brought upon
themselves by neglecting to train their children according to the
Scripture rules, and she made it her earnest prayer that she might be
guided in the right course. What was wanting in experience was made up
from the fountain of wisdom, from which all are permitted to draw. Can
we wonder that the result was as nearly a model of perfection as is
ever seen among depraved humanity?
Mr. Everett does not now live in the stone cottage where we last saw
him. Three years ago, he removed a mile nearer to his business in the
city, to a house he had purchased on a new street, with an ornamental
park in front. The house was in a block built of brick, with a granite
front, and iron railings to the nicely-cut steps. It had large, airy
rooms, well, but not expensively, furnished, and containing every
modern improvement. A few well-chosen pictures adorned the walls, and
some choice articles of "bijouterie," tastefully arranged by Lily's
skilful hands, gave an air of refinement to the dwelling.
The young matron herself is changed, and yet the same. There is still
the fresh, beaming face and sweet smile, sometimes breaking out into a
musical laugh, as light and "abandon" as ever; but there is a deeper,
holier light in her eye, an expression of thoughtfulness at times on
her features which is very becoming. One trait has been discovered in
her which even those who loved her best did not imagine her to possess.
Shielded from her infancy from the least semblance of danger, when
she was married, it was natural for her to look to her husband for
guidance and protection. As we have seen, she shrunk from encountering
the servants after their dishonesty had been discovered. But as her
character, especially her Christian character, matured, she grew more
self-possessed and self-reliant. These traits showed themselves in a
degree in her every-day duties, but circumstances were to prove that,
united to her confiding, trusting disposition, there was also firmness
and resolution to meet the emergencies of the hour.
Mr. and Mrs. Percival had been returned from Paris nearly three years,
he having been far more successful than he had at first expected in
saving his fortune. Taught by experience, however, they never again
entered on such a life of fashion and display, but took a house similar
to Mr. Everett's, only two squares distant.
Aunt Mercy divided her time between her own home and her nephew's, but
was at this period in N—.
One afternoon Mr. Everett returned to dinner an hour earlier than
common, having received a telegram from his aunt, who had been
suddenly taken ill, and wished to see him. His plan was to take the
early afternoon train, which would leave him at his destination about
half-past three, and return, if possible, at eight, reaching home a
little before midnight.
He brought from his store a large packet of bank-notes, which he asked
her to put carefully away, remarking that he had just taken them from
the bank in order to pay a bill, when the telegram was given to him.
Lily reached out her hand doubtfully, which led him to say, with a
laugh,—"If you are afraid to have so much money in the house, send
Maggie with it over to your father."
"No, I'm not afraid," was her quiet answer. "How much is there?"
"Twenty-one hundred dollars."
"I'll put it in the closet in my room with the silver," she answered.
"It will be perfectly safe there."
It was quite cool weather; and Mr. Everett had scarcely buttoned on his
outside coat, and bade her a hasty adieu, before Lily was summoned to
the kitchen to see a poor man, who wanted food.
Taking Harry by the hand, she went below, and found, sitting near the
kitchen fire, one of the most repulsive-looking men she had ever seen.
His cap was torn, revealing hair grizzled and matted; his eyes were
bloodshot, his face red and bloated; while his whole features wore a
look of cunning painful to witness.
He told a pitiful story of suffering, which completely conquered Lily's
repugnance, notwithstanding the glances and signs of caution made by
the shrewder Maggie.
Bidding the girl prepare a bowl of tea as quickly as possible, with
her own hands, this delicate, high-born lady, dressed the wounded hand
which he exhibited, expressing words of sympathy and encouragement
which might have softened the heart of a brute.
When she had done this, and had seen him engaged in eating a hearty
meal, she told him to sit near the fire till he was thoroughly warmed,
and was leaving the kitchen, when she noticed a glance of triumph shoot
from his eyes, for which she could not account.
Maggie ran to the stairs after her.
"I wish you'd bid him go at once," she said, earnestly. "There's an ill
look about him,—a look which makes me think of murder and stealing."
"Hush, Maggie! He'll hear you. I think he'll go presently."
"But, ma'am, I'm afraid to stay alone with him, and I'm afraid to leave
him. He might set the house on fire over our heads."
"You're nervous, Maggie," the lady said, laughing, at the same time her
thoughts recurring to the large sum of money she had in the house. She
returned to the sitting-room followed by Harry, and, engaged with him
and the baby, soon forgot her late visitor.
Being alone, she retired to her room earlier than common, where,
sitting before the bright fire, she hummed a soft air to Paulina, who
was restless in her crib.
As she sat there gently rocking the little sleeper, a sudden turn of
her head led her to look toward the wall at the farther end of the
chamber. The fire was burning brightly, but beside this there was
little light, the nurse having turned the gas down when she went below.
But there she saw, just above the canopy over her bed, the top of the
soiled cap the beggar had worn, with the matted gray hair sticking
through it.
For a moment her breath stopped; the blood seemed frozen in her veins.
But she was alone, and in the power of this brute, whose object, she
could not doubt, was to obtain possession of the silver in her closet.
Thoughts flew like lightning through her brain.
"He must have stolen up here from the kitchen, and seen Maggie put
the tray in the closet. But oh, the money! Why didn't I send it away?
Perhaps he knew it was here. Yes, it was just after Lawrence went that
he came. I took it from my husband in the hall, and he heard me say
I should keep it here. Now what is to be done? Maggie and nurse have
both gone to bed; and if they were here, what could three weak women do
against such a brute as this? First of all, I must be calm, and appear
calm." And with that, she began again to hum the rest of the verse:—
"Hush, my child, lie still in slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed,
Heavenly blessings without number
Gently falling on thy head."
Even during the singing, a plan was suggested to her. She ascribed it
to her Father in heaven, who was even now watching over her and her
little ones.
"Yes," she said to herself, "he must have heard Lawrence tell me there
was twenty-one hundred dollars; that was the reason of his triumphant
smile. Maggie distrusted him from the first. How did he get in here
unseen?"
She glanced timidly toward the bed. There the figure stood immovable as
a statue.
With a silent prayer for strength, and a countenance from which every
shade of color had vanished, but with a look of noble resolve in her
eye, she arose and began to prepare for bed.
But first she turned up the gas, filling the room with light. And then,
bringing the tray from the closet, she set it on the table and began
to count the forks, spoons, and napkin-rings, to all appearances as
unmoved as if nothing had occurred to terrify her.
Taking them up in her hand, she went on: "Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen—I
wonder what Maggie has done with the others! Oh, here they are among
the forks! Twenty-three, twenty-four; that's all right!"
Making as much display as possible of the coffee-urn, salver, and
tea-set, she carried the whole back to the closet, taking the
opportunity to slip the money into a high drawer, and pull out the key.
After this, she slowly took off one garment after another. Her heart
sometimes almost failed her, and then, being reassured by a short
petition for strength, she put on her embroidered night-dress, and
knelt down for her evening prayer.
In a voice low, but perfectly distinct, she said,—
"Father, unto thy kind care I commit myself and those so dear to me.
Protect me from all harm and danger. Let thy holy angels watch around
my bed. Help all those who are in distress, and particularly those who
are driven by their poverty into crime. Forgive all my many sins, for
the sake of thy Son, my Saviour, Jesus Christ. Amen."
She arose, calmed by the exercise, without one glance toward the
intruder, drew the crib across the floor near the bed, and then lay
herself down, but not to rest.
She feigned sleep, however, and soon heard a stealthy movement behind
the couch. It was evident the robber thought his opportunity had come.
Stealthily as a cat creeps toward his prey, he moved across the carpet
toward the closet. Once only poor Lily dared to open her eyes; he was
just entering the door.
"Now is my time," she said to herself, and springing softly from her
couch, she darted after him, shut the door with a bound, and locked it
upon him.
Then her strength all left her, and she sank almost fainting into a
chair. But realizing that the danger was not yet over, she tried to
rally, and, crawling to the window, raised the sash and screamed,
"Murder! Murder!!" with all the strength her lungs would permit.
The next step was to ring the chamber-bell for nurse, who soon appeared
terrified beyond measure, and gave a more decided call for help. Maggie
came and opened the door for the watch, who secured the villain, and,
having put on handcuffs, carried him off to the station house, to await
his trial.