Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1896. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 880. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.
BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.
CHAPTER XIII.
Some weeks were spent at Greenway Court, and George slipped back into
the same life he had led for so long in the autumn. Instead, however, of
reading in the evenings, Lord Fairfax and himself spent the time in
studying rude maps of the region to be explored, and talking over the
labors of the coming summer. The Earl told George that William Fairfax
had heard of the proposed expedition, and was so anxious to go as
George's assistant that his father was disposed to gratify him if it
could be arranged.
"But I shall not communicate with him until I have talked with you,
George," said the Earl; "for William, although a hardy youngster, and
with some knowledge of surveying, is still but a lad, and there might be
serious business in hand. However, this season's surveys are not to be
far from here, so that if you care for his company I see no reason why
he should not go."
"I should be very glad to have him," replied George, blushing a little.
"I did a very unhandsome thing to William Fairfax while we were at Mount
Vernon at Christmas, and he was so manful about it that I think more of
him than ever, and I believe he would be an excellent helper."
"An unhandsome thing?" repeated the Earl, in a tone of inquiry.
"Knocked him sprawling, sir, in my brother's house. My brother was very
much offended with me, and I was ashamed of myself."
"But you are good friends now?"
"Better than ever, sir, for William behaved as well as I behaved ill,
and if he is willing to come with me I shall be glad to have him."
"I shall send an express, then, to Belvoir, and William will be here in
a few days. And now I have something else to propose to you. My man
Lance is very anxious to see the new country, although he has not
directly asked my permission to go; but the poor fellow has served me so
faithfully that I feel like indulging him. Only a lettered man, my dear
George, can stand with cheerfulness this solitude month after month and
year after year as I do, and although Lance is a man of great natural
intelligence, he never read a book through in his life, so that his
time is often heavy on his hands. I think a few months of mountaineering
would be a godsend to him in his lonely life up here, and I make no
doubt at all that you would be glad to have him with you."
"Glad, sir! I would be more glad than I can say. But what is to become
of you without Lance?"
"I can get on tolerably well without him for a time," replied the Earl,
smiling. And the unspoken thought in his mind was, "And I shall feel
sure that there is a watchful and responsible person in company with the
two youngsters I shall send out."
"And Billy, of course, will go with me," said George, meditatively.
"Why, my lord, it will be a pleasure-jaunt."
"Get all the happiness you can out of it, George; I have no fear that
you will neglect your work."
Within two weeks from that day William Fairfax had arrived and the party
was ready to start. It was then the 1st of April, and not much
field-work could be done until May. But Lord Fairfax found it impossible
to hold in his young protégés. As for Lance, he was the most eager of
the lot to get away. Cut off from association with his own class,
nothing but his devotion to Lord Fairfax made the isolated life at
Greenway Court endurable to him; and this prospect of variety in his
routine, where, to a certain degree, he could resume his campaigning
habits, was a fascinating change to him.
The Earl, with a smile and a sigh at the loss of George and William's
cheerful company and Lance's faithful attendance, saw them set forth at
sunrise on an April morning. George, mounted on the new half-bred horse
that Lord Fairfax had given him, rode side by side with William Fairfax,
who was equally well mounted. He carried the most precious of his
surveying instruments, and two little books, closely printed, which the
Earl had given him the night before. One was a miniature copy of
Shakespeare's plays, and the other a small volume of Addison's works.
Behind them, on one of the stout cobs commonly used by the outriders on
Lord Fairfax's journey to lower Virginia, rode Lance.
The old soldier was beaming with delight. He neither knew nor cared
anything about surveying, but he was off for what he called a campaign,
in company with two youths full of life and fire, and it made him feel
like a colt. He had charge of the commissary, and a led-horse was loaded
with the tent, the blankets, and such provisions as they could carry,
although they expected their guns and fishing-rods to supply their
appetites. Behind them all rode Billy on an old cart-horse. Billy was
very miserable. He had no taste for campaigning, and preferred the fare
of a well-stocked kitchen to such as one could get out of woods and
streams. George had been so disgusted with Billy's want of enterprise
and devotion to the kitchen rations that he had sternly threatened to
leave the boy behind, at which Billy had howled vociferously, and had
got George's promise not to leave him. Nevertheless, a domestic life
suited Billy much better than an adventurous one.
What a merry party they were when they set off! Lord Fairfax stood on
the porch watching them as long as they were in sight, and when, on
reaching a little knoll, both boys turned and waved their hats at him,
he felt a very lonely old man, and went sadly into the quiet house.
The party travelled on over fairly good mountain roads all that day, and
at night made their first camp. They were within striking distance of a
good tavern, but it was not in boy nature to seek comfort and
civilization when camping out was possible.
George realized the treasure he had in Lance when, in an inconceivably
short time, the tent was set up and supper was being prepared. The
horses were taken care of by George and William, who got from a lonely
settler's clearing a feed of corn for them. Meanwhile, with a kettle, a
pan, and a gridiron, Lance had prepared a supper fit for a king, so the
hungry boys declared. Billy had actually been made to go to work, and to
move when he was spoken to. The first thing he was told to do by Lance
was to make a fire. Billy was about to take his time to consider the
proposition, when Lance, who was used to military obedience, instantly
drew a ramrod from one of the guns, and gave Billy a smart thwack across
his knuckles with it. Billy swelled with wrath. Lance he esteemed to be
a "po' white," and, as such, by no means authorized to make him stir.
"Look a-heah, man," said Billy, loftily, "you 'ain' got no business
a-hittin' Marse George's nigger."
"I haven't, eh?" was Lance's rejoinder, giving Billy another whack, "Do
you make that fire, you rapscallion, or you get no supper. And make it
quick, d'ye hear? Oh, I wish I had had you in the Low Countries, under
my old drill-sergeant! You would have got what Paddy gave the drum!"
Billy, thus admonished, concluded it would be better to mind, and
although he felt sure that "Marse George" would give him his supper, yet
he was not at present in high favor with that young gentleman, and did
not want to take any risks in the matter. However, he did not really
exert himself, until Lance said, severely: "I have a great mind to ask
Mr. Washington to send you back to Greenway Court. It is not too far."
At that Billy suddenly became very industrious. Now George, on the other
side of the tent currying his horse, heard the whole affair, and when
they were called to supper he threw out a hint that his servitor might
be sent back, which threat then and forever after acted on Billy like a
galvanic battery.
George and William thought, as they sat by the fire in the woods eating
their rude but palatable supper, that they were the luckiest creatures
in the world. They were exhilarated rather than fatigued by their day's
work. A roaring fire cast a red glare among the rocks and trees, and
warmed the keen cold air of the spring night in the mountains. Within
their tent were piles of cedar boughs for beds, and blankets to cover
them.
William Fairfax had never heard any of Lance's interesting stories,
although George had told him of them. When supper was over, and the boys
had an hour before turning in, George induced Lance to tell of some of
his adventures in the wars of the Spanish Succession. They were deeply
interesting, for Lance was a daring character, and had seen many strange
vicissitudes. Billy and Rattler, who were not very much interested in
the proceedings, dropped asleep early, and George, throwing a blanket
over Billy, let him lie and snore before the fire until it was time to
take to the tent. After a while Lance said:
"It was the Duke of Marlborough's way to have all the lights out early;
and I think, Mr. Washington, if we want to make an early start, we had
better turn in now."
George and William, nothing loath, betook themselves to their beds of
boughs within the tent. Lance preferred to lie just in the doorway, the
flap being left up for air. The boys noticed that he very carefully took
off his shoes and washed his feet in a pail of ice-cold water brought
from a spring near by.
"Why do you do that, Lance?" asked George, who thought it rather severe
treatment.
"Because that's the way to keep your feet in order, sir, and to keep
from taking cold in a campaign; and I recommend you and Mr. Fairfax to
try it for a regular thing," answered Lance.
Within two days they reached the point where they must leave their
horses and really begin their work. They struck now into a wilderness,
full of the most sublime scenery, and with a purity of air and a wild
beauty of its own that would appeal to the most sluggish imagination.
George had found William Fairfax to be a first-rate camping companion,
and he proved to be an equally good assistant in surveying. George was
not only an accurate but a very rapid surveyor, and William was equal to
every demand made upon him. Although they carried their guns along when
at work, they shot but little game, leaving that to Lance, and the
trapping of birds and small animals to Billy, who was always willing to
forage for his dinner. They met a few Indians occasionally. Many of the
Indians had never seen surveying instruments, and thought them to be
something miraculous.
Lance was a genius in the way of making a camp comfortable. Although all
of his experiences had been under entirely different circumstances, in
an old and settled country with a flat surface, he was practical enough
to transmute his knowledge to suit other conditions. He made no pretence
of assisting in the field-work, but when George and William would come
back to camp in the evenings, after a long day's tramp on the mountains,
Lance would always be ready with a good supper, a bed of pine or cedar
branches, and an endless store of tales of life in other days and other
places. In the absence of books, except the two volumes given George by
Lord Fairfax, these story-tellings became a great resource to the two
young fellows, and were established as a regular thing. Although Lance
had been only a private soldier, and was not an educated man, he had
natural military talents, and when they would talk about possibilities
of war with the French upon the frontier, which was then looked upon as
inevitable, Lance clearly foresaw what actually happened years
afterwards. The military instinct was always active in George, and it
developed marvellously. For recreation he and Lance devised many
campaigns against the French and Indians, and proved, on paper at least,
how easy it would be to capture every French fort and block-house from
the Alleghanies to the Great Lakes. George had a provincial's
enthusiastic confidence in regular troops, and was amazed to find Lance
insisting that their usefulness in a campaign in the wilderness was
doubtful.
"I tell you, Mr. Washington, I have seen a little of the Indian
fighting, and you give a few of those red devils fire-locks, with a
handful of French to direct them, and there is not a General in England
who would know how to fight them. And the worst of it is that the
English despise the Indians, and you could not make an Englishman
believe that he could not lick two Frenchmen until he has been licked.
An English General would want roads and bridges and an artillery train
and a dozen other things that these savages never heard of, while all
they want is a fire-lock and a tree, and they can pick off their man
every time."
"Then do you think the English will not be able to hold this part of the
country?" asked George.
"With the militia--yes, sir. Your provincial troops know how to fight
Indians, and can get through a wilderness without making a highway like
a Roman road. But mark my words, Mr. Washington, many a brave fellow has
got to lay down his life before the English learn how to fight in the
woods."
These prophetic words came back vividly to George before many years had
passed.
The summer came on apace. Never had George seen anything more beautiful
than the outburst of tree and leaf and flower among these lonely peaks.
The out-door life agreed with him perfectly, as it did with William
Fairfax. They worked hard all the week, always leaving camp before
sunrise, and generally not returning until after sunset. Lance always
had a good fire and a capital supper waiting for them. He fashioned rude
but comfortable seats and tables out of logs, and his impromptu out-door
kitchen was a model of neatness and order. He was an accomplished
launderer, but, after instructing Billy in the art of washing and drying
clothes, turned that branch of their housekeeping over to this young
person, who worked steadily, if unwillingly. On rainy days the boys
remained in their tent, with two large tarpaulins thrown over it to keep
out the water. George then wrote in his journal and read one of his
precious books, William reading the other. On Sundays they took turns in
the morning, after the work of the camp was over, in reading the service
of the Church of England to a congregation composed of Lance, Billy, and
Rattler--the two latter generally going to sleep in the first five
minutes.
Besides his regular work and having an eye to military operations in
that region, George and William both had an opportunity to study the
animals and birds the forests and mountains harbored. For the first time
they had a chance of closely watching the beaver, and admiring this
great engineer among beasts. They were lost in admiration at the dam
constructed by him, which the most scientific engineering could not
surpass. The brown bear, a good-natured creature that was always
frightened at the sight of a human being, was common to them, and deer
enough to keep their larder supplied were found. Lance was a skilful
fisherman, and the mountain trout was on their daily bill of fare. Tho
only thing they feared was the snakes, but as they always wore long and
stout boots, they escaped being bitten while at their work, and Lance
and Billy kept a close watch on the camp, examining the tent and ground
every night before they slept. It was so cold at night, however, that
they were in but little danger from reptiles then, for no matter how
warm the day, by nightfall a fire was pleasant.
And so days became weeks, and weeks became months. George had begun his
work with a fierce disappointment gnawing at his heart, and thought he
should never live to see the day when he would not regret that he was
not in the navy. But at sixteen, with health and work, despair cannot
long abide. Before he knew it the pain grew less, and insensibly he
found himself becoming happier. But this was not accomplished by sitting
down and brooding over his troubles; it was done by hard work, by a
powerful will, and the fixed determination to make the best of things.
Before the summer was over he could think, without a pang, of that cruel
blow he had received the day after he reached Ferry Farm.
Lord Fairfax thought he had not given George too much time when he named
the 1st of October as the date the party would probably return to
Greenway Court. But on a glorious day in early September, when Lord
Fairfax came in from riding over his principality in land, he saw a
young figure that he well knew speeding down the road to meet him, and
recognized George. The boy was much grown, and gave full promise of the
six feet three that he attained in his manhood. His figure was admirably
developed, his fair complexion bronzed, and his bright, expressive eyes
were brilliant with health and spirits.
Lord Fairfax's pale and worn face lighted up with pleasure, and he
dismounted on seeing George. Arm in arm the two walked up to the great,
quaint house--the man, old before his time, and never losing the sad and
wearied look that showed he had not found life all roses, and the
splendid youth glowing with health and hope and brightness. Lord Fairfax
asked many questions about the work, and George was equally full of
questions about lowland affairs. Of these Lord Fairfax knew little, but
he told George there were a number of letters for him in a desk in the
library. George was all eagerness to get them, as he knew he should find
letters from his mother and Betty and his brother Laurence.
As they neared the house they passed within view of the kitchen. Billy
had not been off his horse's back half an hour, but he was already
seated in the kitchen door, and between his knees was a huge kettle, in
which were some bacon and beans. In one hand he held a tremendous
hoe-cake, which he shared with Rattler, who was sitting on his haunches,
with an expression of profound satisfaction very like that which
irradiated Billy's dusky features. Neither George nor Lord Fairfax could
forbear laughing, and Billy grinned appreciatively at them.
But on reading his letters a little later in the library George's face
lost its merry smile. His mother and Betty were quite well only ten days
before--which was late news for that day--but his little playmate
Mildred, at Mount Vernon, was fading fast. One of Madam Washington's
letters, dated about three weeks before, said:
"I have just come from a visit of eight days to Mount Vernon; your
brother and sister are fairly well, although Laurence will never be of a
robust constitution. But the little girl, I see, is not to be spared us
long. She is now nearly three years old--older than any of Laurence's
other children have lived to be--but there is a blight upon this dear
little innocent, and I doubt whether she will not be a flower in God's
garden by Christmas-time--greatly to her profit, but to the everlasting
grief of her sorrowing parents."
This letter made George feel as if he would like that very moment to
have his horse saddled and to start for Mount Vernon. But he felt that
with the great interests with which he had been trusted by Lord Fairfax
it would not be right to go without giving an account of his work. He
was sitting sadly enough at the library table, reading his mother's
letter, when Lord Fairfax entered.
"You have bad news, George," said he, after one glance at the boy's
troubled face.
"Very bad, sir," replied George, sadly. "My brother's only living child,
a dear little girl, is very ill, I am afraid. My mother writes me she is
fading fast. My poor brother and sister love her so much--she is the
only child that has been spared to them. Three others have all died
before they were a year old."
"Then you want to go to Mount Vernon as soon as possible?" said the
Earl, reading the unspoken wish in George's heart.
"Oh, sir, I do want to go; but I think I ought to stay here for some
days, to show you what I have done."
"One night will be enough, if you will leave your surveys and papers
with me; and perhaps I may myself go down to Mount Vernon later on, when
the little one is either better on earth or eternally well in heaven."
George looked at him with eloquent eyes.
"If you will be so kind as to let me go, I will come back just as
soon--" George stopped; he could say no more.
Although just come from a long journey, so vigorous and robust was
George that he began at once exhibiting his surveys and papers. They
were astonishingly clear, both in statement and in execution; and Lord
Fairfax saw that he had no common surveyor, but a truly great and
comprehensive mind in his young protégé. George asked that William
Fairfax might be sent for; and when he came, told Lord Fairfax how
helpful William had been to him.
"And you did not have a single falling out while you were together?"
asked Lord Fairfax, with a faint smile. At which both boys answered at
the same time, "No, sir!"--William with a laugh and George with a deep
blush.
All that day, and until twelve o'clock that night, George and Lord
Fairfax worked on the surveys, and at midnight Lord Fairfax understood
everything as well as if a week had been spent in explaining it to him.
When daylight came next morning George was up and dressed, his horse and
Billy's saddled and before the door, with Lord Fairfax, Lance, and
William Fairfax to bid him good-by.
"Good-by, my lord," said George. "I hope we shall soon meet at Mount
Vernon, and that the little girl may get well, after all. Good-by,
William and Lance. You have been the best of messmates; and if my work
should be satisfactory, it will be due as much to you as to me."
Three days' hard travel brought him to Mount Vernon on a warm September
day. As he neared the house his heart sank at the desolate air of the
place. The doors and windows were all open, and the negroes with solemn
faces stood about and talked in subdued tones. George rode rapidly up to
the house, and, dismounting, walked in. Uncle Manuel, the venerable old
butler, met him at the door, and answered the anxious inquiry in
George's eyes.
"De little missis, she k'yarn lars' long. She on de way to de bosom o'
de Lamb, w'har tecks keer o' little chillen," he said, solemnly.
George understood only too well. He went up stairs to the nursery. The
child, white and scarcely breathing, her yellow curls damp on her
forehead, lay in her black mammy's arms. The father and mother, clasped
in each other's arms, watched with agonized eyes as the little life
ebbed away. The old mammy was singing softly a negro hymn as she gently
rocked the dying child:
"'De little lambs in Jesus' breas'
He hol' 'em d'yar and giv' 'em res';
He teck 'em by dee little hands,
An' lead 'em th'u' de pleasant lands.'"
As George stood by her, with tears running down his face, the old mammy
spoke to the child. "Honey," said she, "heah Marse George. Doan' you
know Marse George, dat use ter ride you on he shoulder, an' make de
funny little rabbits on de wall by candle-light?"
The child opened her eyes, and a look of recognition came into them.
George knelt down by her. She tried to put her little arms around his
neck, and he gently placed them there. The mother and father knelt by
her too.
"My darling," said the mother, trembling, "don't you know papa and mamma
too?"
The little girl smiled, and whispered, "Yes--papa and mamma and Uncle
George and my own dear mammy."
The next moment her eyes closed. Presently George asked, brokenly,
"Is she asleep?"
"Yes," calmly answered the devoted old black woman, straightening out
the little body, "she 'sleep heah, but she gwi' wake up in heaben, wid
her little han' in Jesus Chris's; an' He goin' teck keer of her twell we
all gits d'yar. An' po' ole black mammy will see her honey chile oncet
mo'."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
BIRD TAMERS AND TAMING.
BY W. WARREN BROWN.
George Moore from New York was visiting his cousin Frank up in New
England, and was being shown Frank's pet birds.
"I had a time catching that oriole," said Frank. "The nest was on the
end of a slender limb of the big elm back of the barn. The oriole is the
smartest bird we have, when it comes to house-building, always putting
his hanging nest where even a squirrel is afraid to venture. I got
Jonah, one of father's hired help, to hold the longest ladder we have
under the nest while I climbed to the top of it. Even then I could
barely reach the birds, and had hardly put my hand on a young one when
Jonah, who was puffing and blowing with the strain of holding the heavy
ladder, and me on the top round, nearly lost his balance, so I grabbed
my bird, shinning down in a hurry, I tell you. The one in the last cage
is a bluebird. I took him out of a hollow in an old apple-tree over
there," and he pointed out to George a fine old orchard.
The following morning the cousins were up at break of day. On their way
down stairs Frank said: "Father only allows me to keep wild birds in
cages on condition I take good care of them. It's my first work in the
morning. Come and see what I do."
The birds were wide awake, and did not seem at all afraid of their young
master as he quietly withdrew the trays on the bottoms of the cages,
refilling them with sand from a handy barrel. Then fresh water was
supplied to each one, and they all took a drink, throwing their heads
back after each sip. From a covered tin the boy filled the linnet's
seed-cup, first blowing out the empty shells. To the others he gave soft
food.
"They are soft-billed birds, and must have soft food," he explained,
"They are now fixed for the day," said Frank; "and by the time breakfast
is ready you'll hear some music."
After the birds came the ducks, chickens, and pigs, all receiving
careful attention, George going the rounds, and laughing to see how the
different creatures expressed their satisfaction for the meal.
Their own breakfast was now announced by a loud toot from the horn. The
pure country air together with the early rising had given George a fine
appetite as he sat down to the plentiful meal spread before him, and for
a time neither of the youngsters had a word to say.
The clatter of the knives and forks seemed to excite Frank's pets, for
the bluebird, seconded by the oriole and linnet, gave them a sweet
concert.
Uncle John replied, when his young guest expressed his pleasure and
surprise on hearing their fine notes: "My son has always been fond of
the wild birds, wanting, when he was younger, to make a collection of
their eggs. I could not allow it, as it is cruel to rob nests, but I
knew the birds, both young and old, have numerous enemies. Snakes,
hawks, owls, and other vermin every year kill so many of them that it's
only by the sharpest lookout the old birds escape at all, while the
younger are devoured as soon as found. Therefore I consented to his
having these birds in the house, taking one young one from a nest of
four varieties of birds he fancied. These little captives, who, if they
have not their liberty, are safe and well cared for here, and besides,
being taken so young with only their pin-feathers on, they do not know
what freedom means as trapped old birds would do."
Breakfast over, the boys started on an excursion to Black Pond, half a
mile away, a stretch of water sparkling under the sun's rays like a
sheet of silver.
The route led through a winding lane. In one of the fields by the side
of it, surrounded by a higher fence than usual, the city boy noticed a
very large black and white cow, as he thought, and was in the act of
vaulting the rail to examine her closer, when Frank caught him by the
leg.
"Thunderation! Don't you know a bull when you see him?" he shouted. "He
is dangerous, and I don't dare to go in that pasture, though I'm sure
there is a bobolink's nest in it that I want to see."
George felt ashamed of himself at such a mistake, and determined he
would not show his ignorance of the country again. By this time the boys
were within a hundred yards of the pond. Frank proposed a race to see
who would get there first. George was ready for anything. Away they
started, running side by side till three-quarters of the distance was
passed. Here George took the lead, holding it to the water's edge. Frank
opened his eyes, for there was not a boy in F---- his equal in a
foot-race.
"How did you do it?" he cried, excitedly.
George's eyes sparkled as he answered, "One has got to know how to use
his legs to play good baseball."
Birds were numerous now, and Frank told their names, with something of
their habits, to his companion as they watched them. "Look at that
fellow with a gray body, in the thicket. It's a cat-bird, a good singer,
and mimic besides. There are a lot of their nests about here.
Black-snakes eat the young ones. They can climb bushes too. Two weeks
ago on this very spot I noticed one of these beauties flying excitedly
in and out of the alders. I thought something was up, and crept softly
into the thicket. Sure enough, twined around a limb within a foot of a
nest filled with young cat-birds was the biggest blacksnake I ever saw,
over four feet long, and his body was as thick as my wrist. Luckily I
had a stout stick with me. He tried to get away, but I settled his
snakeship with a whack as he reached the ground."
George wanted to see a blacksnake.
This wish was soon gratified, for as they passed some granite bowlders a
snake, which was sunning himself on a bit of sand near by, made for the
rocks. The boys grabbed stones, throwing them at him and killing him
before he could gain cover.
"The birds will thank us for that," said Frank. "I've no doubt this
scamp has devoured a good many of them this summer."
The boys then made a regular hunt through the alders, finding many
nests, mostly with young ones in them, as it was the first of July, the
experienced country lad discovering most of them, as he knew where to
look for the nest of each variety, whether on a high or low tree, or on
a bush or on the ground. Still George had the pleasure of running onto
two or three nests himself. One was the cat-bird of Frank's story. The
young ones had flown, but an old one soon appeared, scolding and flying
close to the boys' heads.
"Look sharp, George, the little ones can't be far off, I know by the way
the bird acts," exclaimed Frank.
[Illustration: THE LITTLE CHAP COULD FLY, HOWEVER, AND REFUSED TO BE
CAUGHT.]
True enough, after a short and exciting search George spied one on top
of a bush. He knew it was a young bird by its short tail. Creeping
cautiously up, the boy made a dash for him. The little chap could fly,
however, and refused to be caught, hiding himself so cleverly that
though the hunters looked for half an hour, they did not see him again.
Along with the cat-bird the brown thrasher and wood-thrush rear their
young. A nest of the former was discovered in the fork of a bush near
the ground. The mother was on it, allowing George to almost put his hand
on her before she flew, to alight close by, making a curious clocking
noise. The nest contained four little ones not over a day old. The
cousins admired them, but took care not to handle the naked babies or
disturb their home. Frank took a small book from his pocket and wrote
something in it.
"What's that for?" asked George.
"Oh, I'm putting down the date of their birth. I like to know when the
different birds hatch or lay their eggs. To-night I shall transfer this
note into a book full of them. You shall see it if you like."
They spent the morning and many other mornings searching the fields and
woods, peeking into bird homes, and learning a good deal about them, and
George, before his departure, began to love the happy days spent in this
fascinating way.
Their afternoons were passed on the surface of Black Pond catching
pickerel or gathering lily-pads, and giving the youngsters great sport.
George found his vacation ended all too quickly, but gladly promised to
come again the next summer, inviting his cousin to his city home for the
Christmas holidays.
As he boarded the cars he said to Frank, "I forgot to mention it before,
but in New York there are lots of stores that sell all kinds of birds
from South America, England, and everywhere, so when you are with me
'we'll take them all in.'"
This promise was so alluring to Frank that he replied, "Look for me the
day before Christmas, for I'm coming, even if I have to walk all the
way."
IN THE OLD HERRICK HOUSE.
BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.
CHAPTER II.
When Elizabeth first went into the room she could see nothing. The
window-blinds were tightly closed, and the lack of sunlight out of doors
made it doubly dark within. She had no thought of fear, however, as she
stood motionless for a moment on the inner side of the forbidden door.
The dark had never any terrors for Elizabeth, and her one feeling was
that of elation that her curiosity was at last to be gratified.
What great secret was she at last to discover in this mysterious
chamber?
Gradually her eyes became accustomed to the dim twilight. She found her
way to one of the windows and opened the slats of the shutters, letting
in the cool damp air, and relieving the close, musty atmosphere of the
unused room. Then she looked about her and exclaimed aloud with
admiration.
It was, beyond doubt, the prettiest room in her aunt's house.
A dainty dressing-table stood between the windows, and the little bed in
the corner was hung with white drapery, now fast yellowing with age. The
wall was covered with an exquisite paper of delicate tints, and soft
rugs lay on the floor. In the corner was a pretty desk, with a sheet of
paper lying on it, and a pen, evidently thrown down in haste. Everything
in the room had the appearance of having been untouched since the former
owner left it, and was covered with a thick coating of dust.
On the dressing-table was a pile of unopened letters. Elizabeth looked
at them, and found that all but two of them were addressed in the same
hand to "Miss Herrick, No. -- South Fourth Street, Philadelphia." There
were seven altogether; and the remaining two bore the name of her
father, Mr. Edward Herrick.
How did they get to this room? And how very strange that neither her
father nor her aunt had opened them. The seals had not been touched.
Very soon Elizabeth made another discovery more startling still. Near
one of the windows stood an easel such as artists use for their work,
and on it was a canvas, its back turned toward the room. Elizabeth
dearly loved pictures, and she carefully lifted this one down and,
turning it toward the light, looked at it. It was an unfinished portrait
of her aunt Caroline.
The child surveyed it for some minutes, and then replaced it on the
easel as she had found it. What could it all mean? Who had once lived in
this mysterious apartment? It could not have been her father, for she
had frequently been in the room that was formerly his. She had never
heard of any one else in the family. She must certainly ask her aunts if
they had ever used any rooms but those they now occupied.
And then she heard Marie calling her. She waited until the maid's voice
sounded quite far away, and then Elizabeth closed the window and left
the fascinating chamber, carefully locking the door behind her.
Then she answered Marie's renewed calls, and submitted to having her
shoes changed, her mind absorbed with the startling revelations which
this rainy afternoon had brought about.
Miss Herrick was extremely fond of having company to dinner, and there
were but few evenings in the week when she and her sister did not either
entertain in their own house or dine out. On those rare occasions when
they were at home alone Elizabeth came to the table. Otherwise she had
supper by herself and went early to bed.
To-night she was to dine with her aunts, and she intended to question
them as closely as possible. It would be difficult, for Aunt Caroline
always told her when she became too pressing that children should be
seen and not heard, and other maxims to the same effect, but Elizabeth
made up her mind that this time she should not be daunted. Her aunts
must give her some satisfaction.
There was another matter also which she had on her mind, and which must
be discussed this evening.
The soup was barely served before she began.
"I wish you would tell me something about this house, Aunt Caroline.
Have you always lived here?"
"Always. I fancied that you knew that, Elizabeth. Your
great-great-grandfather built the house, and it has been occupied ever
since by succeeding generations of Herricks."
"And have you always had the room you have now?"
"Certainly not. It was your grandmother's during her lifetime."
"And what room did you have?"
"Really, Elizabeth, your questions are most tiresome! I had the one next
to yours."
"Always?"
"Always."
"Aunt Rebecca, which one did you have?" continued Elizabeth, turning
toward the other end of the table.
"I have had my present room ever since I emerged from the nursery,
Elizabeth; the place where I think you should still be."
"Aunt Caroline, did you ever have any brothers and sisters but my father
and Aunt Rebecca?"
Elizabeth's eyes were fixed upon Miss Herrick's face as she asked this
question. She could not fail to see the wave of color which swept over
the usually pale cheeks, and that her aunt's hand shook as she laid down
her fork.
"You have been told all of the family history that it is desirable for
you to know, Elizabeth. I have one brother, your father, and I have one
sister, your aunt Rebecca. Further than this I decline to tell you."
Elizabeth still looked at her, and Miss Herrick moved uneasily. Those
dark eyes were so penetrating.
"Aunt Caroline, is there a skeleton in your closet?"
Miss Herrick did not reply, and her sister came to the rescue.
"What on earth do you mean, Elizabeth? Where did you get hold of that
expression?"
"I read it in a book, and I thought it meant a real skeleton, all bones
and ugly skull, standing up in the people's closet--the people in the
book, I mean. I asked Miss Rice, and she said it was a family secret,
something not at all pleasant, and most families had them. It seems a
very strange thing to call a secret. But I was wondering if our family
had one. _Is_ there a skeleton in our closet?"
"Do be quiet, Elizabeth, and do not discuss family affairs before the
servants. It is bad form."
"Oh!" said Elizabeth. "Very well. I will wait until another time; but I
should like to know some time. There is something else I want to talk
about, and if you don't mind, Aunt Caroline, I should like to now. You
see, I don't have much chance to ask you things."
"You certainly make the most of every opportunity," returned her aunt.
"What is it now?"
"It is about the Bradys."
"And who are the Bradys?"
"The poor family who live in the back street."
"I know nothing about them."
"No, I know you don't, Aunt Caroline, and that is why I want to tell
you. They are very poor."
"Indeed!"
"And sometimes I am afraid that they are very hungry."
"Indeed!" said Miss Herrick again. "They had better come here for the
cold scraps--that is, if they are deserving. How do you happen to know
about them?"
"I met them in the alley," returned Elizabeth, composedly. "There are
two very nice girls and four boys. One of them is a bootblack, and
another is a newspaper-boy, and Tom is--"
"Heavens!" cried Miss Herrick, in horror. "Where did you pick these
people up?" While Miss Rebecca, who was more frivolous, laughed aloud.
"In the alley, I told you," repeated Elizabeth. "I went out the back
gate when I was playing in the garden one day, and met them. The alley
is so interesting and the girls are so pleasant, though they do have
rather dirty faces sometimes. But the boys--"
"Spare us any further details, I beg of you," said her aunt. "Your
tastes must be extremely low, Elizabeth."
"Well, I like to have a few people to play with. You know I have only
Julius Cæsar, and he won't always play. But I was going to ask you
something about the Brady family, Aunt Caroline. Why do we have such
lots and lots of money and they none at all?"
"Elizabeth, you are too absurd!"
"But why?"
"I--I don't exactly know. They are of a very different class of life,
for one thing. Their ancestors--if they had any--were poor men, I
suppose, while ours were rich."
"I don't think that explains it. And I am sure they are terribly hungry
half the time. They look so. Tom doesn't--"
"Again I must beg you to stop, Elizabeth. I do not care to hear all this
at the dinner table. It quite takes away my appetite."
"I am very sorry, Aunt Caroline. Then I will stop. But I was only going
to say, don't you think it would be nicer and evener all round if we
were to give them some of our money and a nice house to live in? We
could easily do it."
"Bless me, what socialistic notions the child has!" cried her aunt
Rebecca. "Encouraging pauperism in this style!"
"What is porprism?" asked Elizabeth, turning quickly.
"Don't ask another question, I beg of you! You have used twenty
interrogation points at least since we sat down to dinner."
And then the Misses Herrick began resolutely to talk of something else,
and Elizabeth knew no more than she did before, and had by no means
settled satisfactorily the affairs of the Brady family.
Clearly, if she wanted to know anything she must find it out for
herself, and if she wished to do anything to improve the condition of
the Bradys she must take matters into her own hands.
If her father would only come home and explain everything to her! But
when he received her letter he would certainly come, and with the
thought of this possibility the world grew brighter.
The days went by and Elizabeth paid frequent visits to the closed room.
It did not once occur to her that it was not by any means an honorable
proceeding for her to slip into her aunt's room as soon as that lady
left the house, take the keys, and go to a place which it was evidently
intended that she should know nothing about. Elizabeth would have
scorned to read some one else's letter, or open bureau drawers, or
investigate boxes. But this seemed so different. A room was unlike a
bureau drawer or a box, she thought. Surely she had a perfect right to
go into any room that she wished in her own home, and find out, if she
could, about her own family.
But her repeated visits threw no light on the subject. She could not
discover to whom it belonged.
It was not very long before something most exciting and utterly
unprecedented occurred in the family. A letter was received from Mrs.
Redmond, Elizabeth's aunt in Virginia, stating that Valentine Herrick
had trouble with his eyes, and that he was coming North to consult a
Philadelphia oculist. Of course his aunt's house would be open to him,
and it would also be an opportunity for him to become acquainted with
his sister. Mrs. Redmond deplored the necessity for bringing up the
children apart from one another, and would be only too glad to have
Elizabeth come for a long stay at her house, if Miss Herrick would allow
her to return with Valentine.
Now the Misses Herrick were not particularly fond of entertaining
visitors. It interfered too seriously with their accustomed pursuits.
And above all, to have a boy! Valentine must now be about fourteen years
old, and could anything be more objectionable to have in the house than
a boy of fourteen?
However, there was nothing to be done but to say that he should come,
and so the day was fixed, and the family, from the servants up, were in
a flutter of excitement. Elizabeth was truly delighted. It would be a
vast improvement to have some one in the house besides her stately
aunts, and she had longed many a time to know her brother. She was
doubtful about boys in general, but then she did not know any but the
Brady boys, who were inclined to be rough. This one would be her own
brother, and besides, it would be a change, and variety is always
desirable.
It was four o'clock one afternoon when a hansom dashed up to the door.
Elizabeth and Julius Cæsar, in the window, saw a tall, strong-looking
boy jump out, pay the driver, and run up the steps. There was a
resounding ring at the door-bell, a loud boyish voice was heard asking
if Miss Herrick lived there, and from that moment the old house in
Fourth Street lost its accustomed quiet.
He came into the parlor, and at the same instant Julius Cæsar fled away
to the safer precincts of the kitchen. He also disliked boys. Elizabeth
remained hidden in the window-seat, overcome with shyness.
Peering out from behind the drapery, which formed a deep recess, she
could see that her new brother had bright golden hair of the same odd
shade as her own, but his eyes were blue and full of fun, and his mouth
seemed very ready for a smile. She thought that she should like him.
Miss Herrick was long in appearing, and Valentine occupied the time in
looking around him. Presently he began to whistle as he walked about the
room, knocking over a screen and upsetting a vase. At last he reached
one of the windows, where he was confronted by a small figure in a white
dress, with golden hair and great solemn brown eyes, which were fixed
upon his face.
"Holloa!" he exclaimed, his whistle stopping short in the middle of a
bar.
There was no reply.
[Illustration: "WHY, I SUPPOSE YOU ARE MY SISTER."]
"Why, I suppose you are my sister?"
"Yes, I am Elizabeth."
"Elizabeth! That is a terribly long name for such a short person."
The little girl considered it beneath her dignity to respond to this.
Suddenly, however, she remembered her manners.
"How do you do?" she said, rising, and holding out a small right hand.
"How do you do?" replied Valentine, as he took it and shook it warmly.
"I hope you had a pleasant journey?"
"Very pleasant, thank you. My eye, aren't you a funny one! I should
think you were Miss Herrick herself."
"I am the youngest Miss Herrick. My aunt will come down soon, I think."
"Oh, I say, come off your perch, do! She is my aunt, too. I shall die if
you keep on talking like your great-grandmother. Why, how old are you,
little Miss Betsey?"
"I am eleven. Did you ever see my great-grandmother?"
Valentine stared. He had not been in Fourth Street long enough to know
that Elizabeth's great-grandmother was a very real personage to her, her
name being often quoted by the aunts. The titles of their ancestors were
too much reverenced to be used as figures of speech.
"Not that I know of," he said. "And so you are eleven. Just the same age
as Marjorie, and she would make two of you."
"Who is Marjorie?"
"My cousin, Marjorie Redmond. Your cousin too, as to that."
"Aren't you older?"
"Well, I should say so! What do you take me for? I am thirteen, almost
fourteen."
And then their conversation was interrupted by the advent of Miss
Herrick. Valentine had really extremely good manners, and his aunt was
favorably impressed with her new nephew, despite the fact that he was
precisely the age which she had most dreaded.
After a little conversation she went out in the carriage, and left the
children together. She said to herself that she might as well begin at
once to make the boy understand that she could not entertain him, and
besides, the brother and sister had better become acquainted.
Elizabeth felt a terrible responsibility about the matter. She had an
impression that boys never did what girls enjoyed doing; for instance, a
boy would never play with a doll. But then Elizabeth did not care much
for dolls herself. She had always preferred live animals.
"What shall I do with him?" she sighed to herself.
"I wish I had my wheel here," remarked Valentine, presently. "Do you
ride?"
"A bicycle? No, indeed!"
"You ought to see Marjorie go. Why, she rides off on my machine like a
breeze, though she is so short compared to me that her feet don't go
anywhere near the pedals when they are down. What do you do all day?"
"I have lessons with Miss Rice, my governess, and I go to walk, and play
in the garden--"
"Have you got a garden? That is jolly. I have one too, and so has
Marjorie; but hers is a great deal better than mine. She spends more
time over it, weeding and all that. I say life is too short for weeding,
but Marjorie loves to grub."
This unknown Cousin Marjorie must be a very superior person, thought
Elizabeth. She appeared to surpass the rest of the world in everything.
Elizabeth would put what was to her an important question.
"Is Marjorie pretty?"
"Pretty? Oh, I don't know. I never thought much about it. No, I don't
believe Marjorie is pretty. Her hair is too straight, and hangs all in a
shag, and she has a turned-up nose. I call her 'Pug' half the time. But
she is a jolly one, Marjorie is," said the admiring cousin.
Elizabeth began to feel a strong liking for the new-comer. A boy who was
so fond of his cousin, and that cousin a girl, must be very nice, she
thought. She did hope that as he was her own brother he would grow to
like her a little. And then an idea occurred to her.