but the moment she said her baby was Irene, it came back to me. That was
the name in the Bible—_Irene Cutler_, and Ruth read it to me once and
she called me Rena. Oh, grandma, you don’t know how sad the lady looked
when she said, ‘Rena, Rena!’ I shall love her so dearly, and I mean to
take such good care of her, too.”
Rena was as good as her word, and soon loved the beautiful Daisy with a
devotion both rare and curious, while Daisy never seemed happier than
when her little maid was with her. She was very pretty with a fair
creamy complexion, soft brown eyes and abundant hair of the same shade,
which she wore in braids coiled about her head, while, added to her
beauty was an air of grace and gentle dignity which alone would have
made her very attractive. She did not seem to be really crazy; her mind
was only weak, and sometimes when talking of her baby she said queer
things, which showed that her reason was not quite clear. But the quiet,
happy life she led at the farm-house began to have its influence, and
when in September her husband, who had returned to Boston after seeing
her comfortably settled, came again to Oakfield, he found her greatly
improved. She was very happy there, and begged so hard to be allowed to
stay until after Christmas that both Mr. and Mrs. Harris and her husband
consented, while Rena was wild with delight when she heard of the
arrangement.
When Mr. Rivers first came she had feared that she might lose the sweet
lady whom she loved so much, but now she was to stay a long time, it
seemed to her, and her joy knew no bounds, while she redoubled her
efforts to please and amuse her patient who owed much of her improvement
to Rena’s care. Together in the bright autumn days they roamed over the
fields and thro’ the woods of Oakfield, and the villagers sometimes saw
them sitting on the banks of the river, Rena at Daisy’s feet, looking up
into the lovely face above her, while Daisy’s fingers caressed her
golden hair, or wove for it a crown of the rich-hued autumn leaves.
Once Daisy said to her:
“You make me think so much of the sister I lost; her name was Rena,
too.”
“Tell me about her, please,” Rena said, and Daisy replied:
“Sometime when I am stronger I will, but now it makes my brain thump so
to think of her. Oh, Rena, Rena, my darling, my darling.”
She covered her face with her hands, and Rena could see the tears
trickle through her fingers as she rocked to and fro, whispering of
things which perplexed and puzzled the little girl to whom they did not
seem strange or new.
After a little Daisy became quiet, but for many days she was not quite
herself, and Rena never spoke again of the dead sister, and the autumn
went by and the winter came with its dull gray clouds and wailing winds,
and still Daisy tarried at the farm-house where she was to remain until
after the holidays. These her husband was to spend with her, and he came
the day before Christmas with gifts, some for his wife, some for Mr. and
Mrs. Harris, and some for Rena. Among these last was a book—too young it
might seem for a girl of thirteen, but it had been gotten up with
beautiful binding and colored prints expressly for the holidays, and its
title was:
“THAT SWEET STORY OF OLD;
OR
THE LIFE OF JESUS.”
Very carefully, nay, almost reverently, Daisy took the book in her hand
and her eyes were full of tears as she said:
“It is beautiful, but not much like the one I bought that day for my
darling. Oh, George, how the Christmas holidays bring her back to me,
and I see her just as she looked that last night kneeling by the fire
and talking of ‘Jesus’ birthday party,’ and what she wanted from the
tree if she ever went to one—shoes, and stockings and a doll that would
squeak, and some mince pie and the story of Jesus and she would give
them all to _me_ but the book, she said, because I went in the cold,
and, George, her shoes were so ragged then and her little toes so blue.”
“Yes, yes, I know. Don’t talk of it any more; it excites you too much,”
George said, as he drew his young wife fondly to him, but Daisy
answered:
“I must talk. I feel just like it, and the words will choke me if I do
not let them out. I have thought of Rena all day just as I always do at
Christmas time. It’s eight years to-night since the fire, and I loved
her so much; she was so sweet and pretty, with a look in her eyes like
Rena Harris, whom I love for her sake. Darling sister, I see her now as
she prayed for a big fire to warm her and Ruthy, as warm as toast, and
God sent the fire and burned my precious sister up. Oh, George, does he
always answer prayer that way?”
Ere George could reply there was the sound of a choking sob by the open
door, a rush across the floor, a folding of arms tightly around the
astonished Daisy’s neck, while Rena’s voice said:
“Oh, Ruthy, Ruthy,—you _are_ Ruthy and I am Rena. I was not burned that
awful night, but thought you were, and have cried so often for you. God
did answer my prayer and I never was cold any more. I am Rena Cutler and
you are sister Ruth.”
Rena had been passing the open door when her attention was attracted by
hearing Daisy repeat the title of the book she had once coveted so much.
Involuntarily and without any intention of listening, she paused a
moment and heard that which kept her riveted to the spot, while the hot
blood surged wildly through her veins at Daisy’s story. She did not stop
to reason or ask herself how that beautiful young lady, with all the
signs of wealth and culture around her, could be the Ruth who once sold
matches in New York, and lived with her in that cheerless upper room.
She knew it was she—the Ruth she had mourned as dead,—and with a glad
cry she went to her, and falling upon her neck, claimed her as her own.
And Daisy neither shrieked, nor fainted, nor cried out, but sat like one
dead, while George unclasped Rena’s arms from her neck and questioned
her of the past. Very rapidly Rena told her story, and Daisy listened
till the color came back to her face, and the tears flowed in torrents,
while sob after sob shook her frame, and her lips kept whispering
gladly: “Thank God; thank God, it’s Rena, it is.”
Mr. and Mrs. Harris were now summoned, and to them George appealed for
confirmation of Rena’s story. As concisely as he could Grandpa Harris
told what he had heard of Rena from the man who brought her to Oakfield,
and when he had finished even Mr. Rivers himself could no longer doubt
that Daisy had found her sister, and drawing Rena to him he kissed her
fondly in token of his recognition as a near and dear relation.
Daisy’s story was soon told. After her frantic call for Rena to waken
she had fallen senseless upon the floor, where she would have died but
for the women who occupied the adjoining room, and who suddenly
remembered the little girls and called to a fireman to save them. The
flames by this time were rolling up the stairway, and Ruth’s hair was
scorched when the brave man reached her and bore her safely into the
street. To venture again into the roaring mass of fire was impossible,
and as none of Rena’s acquaintances chanced to see her in the crowd, it
was supposed that she perished in the flames, and not all the good
fortune which came to Ruth could ever obliterate the memory of that
dreadful night, or her sister’s terrible fate. A kind woman belonging to
the better class of poor had taken Ruth into her house, where within a
few days came Mrs. Rivers, from far uptown, to get plain sewing done.
Six months before she had lost her only daughter, who was just Ruth’s
age and size, and something in the face of the desolate young girl
attracted the lady’s notice, and when she heard her story it seemed as
if her own dead child from the grave in Greenwood, was pleading for the
orphan. And so it came about that Ruth found herself in a beautiful
home, where, as Mrs. Rivers’ adopted daughter, every want was supplied,
and she went no more into the street to sell her humble wares. So
certain did Rena’s death seem, that no effort was ever made to find her,
and for more than two years the sisters lived in the same city, and
possibly met sometimes in the street, as Ruth rode with Mrs. Rivers in
her luxurious carriage, and Rena took a walk with a teacher or older
girl. Then Mrs. Rivers moved to Boston, and three years after Rena was
sent to Oakfield, so that their lives were as far apart from each other
as they were different in incident.—Loved, and petted and caressed,
Ruth, to whom Mrs. Rivers gave the name of Daisy, had no wish
ungratified which money could procure, and she grew up a beautiful and
accomplished woman, retaining still the same sweet unselfishness of
disposition and gentleness of manner which had marked her childhood,
when she went hungry that little Rena might be fed. At eighteen she was
married to the nephew of her so-called father, and after the birth of a
little girl, whom she named Irene, she seemed perfectly happy until her
infant died, when she sank into a weak, peculiar state of mind from
which nothing had power to rouse her until Providence directed her to
Oakfield. There she felt at home from the first, she said; the place
reminded her so much of the house she had heard her mother describe so
often.
“And,” she continued, taking up her story where George had left it, “I
never thought of it when I first came here. I guess I did not think of
anything, but mother’s name was Harris—Agatha Harris—and she——”
Daisy never finished the sentence, for ere another word could be uttered
Grandpa Harris fell heavily against his wife, with the look of death on
his face. The shock was too great for him to bear, and they laid him
fainting upon the couch, while Aunt Hannah, Daisy and Rena bent over
him, trying to restore him to consciousness. When he was himself again
and able to listen, it needed but few words more to convince him that
the Rena whom he loved already as his own, and the beautiful Daisy, whom
he looked up to as a superior being, were both the children of his
daughter, whose marriage with Homer Hastings twenty-one years ago that
very night had so offended him.
Daisy could remember very little of her own father. He had been kind,
she knew, and they had been comfortable while he lived, but after his
death they were very poor till her mother married a Mr. Cutler, who
though a worthy and respectable man, was always sickly, and died soon
after Rena’s birth.
“So long as mother lived, we did pretty well,” Daisy said. “She took in
sewing and I went for and carried home the work; but when she died and
we sold the things to pay the doctor’s bill, and keep us from starving,
it was so hard; then I peddled in the street and tried to earn a living,
and tried to be good and remember all mother had taught me, but
sometimes, when I was so cold, and nobody bought, and the ladies held
their purses tight if I came near them, and the newsboys halloed after
me, and Rena was home so hungry waiting for me, I thought God had
forgotten us; but Rena never did. Her faith was always strong, and her
sweet, baby words of comfort kept my heart from breaking.”
They were all sobbing but Daisy, who alone was calm, as she went over
the dreadful past which was now done with forever. Cold, nor hunger, nor
insult, would ever touch Daisy again, and, as some great shock
frequently unsettles the mind, so, contrarywise, it sometimes restores
it, and the excitement and surprise of finding her sister and friends
seemed to restore Daisy’s reason wholly, and after a moment she said, as
she put her hand to her head and turned to her husband with one of her
brightest smiles, “It is all gone,—the confusion and uncertainty. Every
thing is clear as it was before baby died. I am myself once more. Thank
God for giving me back my mind with all the other blessings.”
She did seem perfectly sane, and never was there a happier family group
than that at the farm-house on that Christmas eve. They did not go to
the church, for they felt that their joy was something with which
strangers had nothing to do, and they kept the festival at home and
talked together of all the wonderful ways through which God had led
them, until the bell of the church across the common rang for twelve and
another Christmas morn was ushered in.
Rena had her book at last,—the story of Bethlehem,—and though many
costlier presents have been given her since, she prizes none of them so
much as that “sweet story of old” which came to her with the sister she
had believed to be dead. Her home proper is in the city now, with Daisy,
where her winters are spent, and where Grandpa and Grandma Harris often
come; but, all through the summer months, she stays at the old
farm-house with Daisy and the sturdy boy who has taken the place of the
little Irene. Uncle Obed always goes to the Christmas festival in the
old church, and though his voice trills and shakes a little, he does not
stop for that, but with a silent thanksgiving in his heart for the
children restored to him, joins heartily in the “Peace on earth, and
good will toward men,” which goes up to Heaven from so many tongues on
that, night of nights—that “wonderful night” when—
“Down o’er the stars to restore us,
Leading His flame-winged chorus.
Comes the Eternal to sight:—
Wonderful, wonderful night!”
THE END
OF
RUTH AND RENA.
BENNIE’S CHRISTMAS.
CHAPTER I.
BENNIE’S HOME.
It was very cold down in the old lumber yard which skirted the canal,
and Bennie’s little hands were numb and blue as he gathered the bits of
boards and shingles and piled them in his basket, until it seemed as if
so small a boy as he could not lift the heavy load. But Bennie was used
to burdens and hardships; indeed, he would hardly have known himself
without them, and when the basket was full he took it in both his hands
and walked slowly along the towpath towards the miserable hovel he
called his home. As he came near the bridge a young lady was going up
the stone steps which lead to the street above, and with her was a
little boy just Bennie’s age, but so different in looks and dress and
general appearance that one could not fail to notice the contrast at
once. Clad in a warm winter suit of the latest style Wallie Morgan knew
nothing of cold or hunger and cruel neglect, and the sight of Bennie,
with his ragged clothes and old slouched cap roused the boy nature and
he called out, “Halloo, there, tow-head! What are you stealing chips for
from my father’s lumber yard? I mean to tell him of you, Mr.
Out-at-the-knees.”
“Hush, Wallie!” said the young lady whose face was very sweet, “you
should not speak so to the little boy. He looks very poor and very cold.
Come here, boy, and tell me your name and where you live.”
She held her hand towards the child, who was scowling defiantly at
Wallie, but who, at the sound of her voice, seemed intuitively to
recognize an ally in her, and replied: “He ’allus calls me tow-head, or
out-at-the-knees, ’cause my hair’s white and my trouses is tore. I can’t
help it, I didn’t make myself.”
“Who did make you?” the young girl asked, and Bennie replied, “I dunno,
mother’s dead and pa gets drunk. I dunno nothing.”
“Don’t know who made you! That’s dreadful,” the lady said. “Why, you
poor child, you must come to Sunday school and into my class and I will
tell you about God. Will you come next Sunday? It is the church on the
corner.”
“Will _he_ be there?” Bennie asked, nodding towards Wallie.
“Yes, he is in my class, and I am his Aunt Nellie; but he will be very
kind to you. He is not a bad boy. Come, and perhaps you may get
something at Christmas. Do you know what that is?”
“Yes, it’s when the old chap fetches things down the chimbly; but he
never brung me none. We’re poor, and Hetty keeps house and runs the
streets all the time, and Mag and I is alone. I’ll tell Maggie, and
mayby she’ll come. She’s got a new gown Miss Katy give her. I must go
now, we are goin’ to have hasty puddin’ for dinner.”
He took his heavy basket and almost staggering under the load walked
slowly away. As usual at that time of day Hetty was out, but Maggie, a
dark faced girl of twelve, was waiting for him, and with her help a fire
was soon kindled in the old broken stove, and the hasty pudding, of
which Bennie had spoken, was boiling and bubbling in the one kettle the
miserable house afforded.
“I wish we had some ’lasses, don’t you?” Bennie said, as Maggie poured
into his dish more than half of the blue milk she had begged of a
neighbor.
But molasses was a luxury quite beyond the means of the Hewitts, and so
Bennie ate his pudding and skimmed milk, and told Maggie of Wallie
Morgan who had called him tow-heard and of the beautiful lady who had
invited him to Sunday school.
“Yes that’s Nellie Morgan, his aunt; his mother’s dead, and she keeps
house and has a class, a big one, in Sunday school, and give Jane Shaw a
doll and a dress and lots of candy and pop-corn last Christmas, and her
brother Tim got a top and a whip.”
“My, that’s jolly; less go to her class next Sunday,” Bennie said, his
fancy caught with the top and the whip, and the shoes which would keep
his little red toes from the cold.
But Bennie was a delicate child and when Sunday came he was sick and lay
on an old rug in a little room off from the kitchen where he was safe
from his drunken father, while Maggie went to church and into Miss
Morgan’s class.
That day was a new era in Maggie’s life, and unmindful of the bitter
cold which struck through her thin garments and made her shiver
involuntarily, she hurried home to Bennie with the picture card she had
received and the wonderful story she had heard of Jesus’ birthday and
the baby born among the cows and oxen in that far off manger in
Bethlehem. Wonderingly Bennie listened, asking innumerable questions
about the child; was he ever cold, or hungry, and was he afraid of the
cattle, and did his father get drunk and thrash him? To all these
inquiries Maggie answered no decidedly, but when Bennie asked if he
really could hear what every body said and would give them what they
wanted, Maggie was doubtful. She thought, however, they better try it,
and so the two forlorn little ones knelt down as Maggie said they did in
church and tried to pray. But neither knew what to say and when Bennie
suggested that his sister ought to know “’cause she’d been to meetin’,”
she answered, “I know they said Our Father, I am sure of that.”
But Bennie scoffed at this idea, “That baby in the hay our father! Why,
pa is drunk down to the grocery!”
As well as she could, Maggie explained, drawing some from her
imagination, some from what Miss Morgan had told her, and some from
faint remembrances of a time when her mother, who died at Bennie’s
birth, had taught her of God and Heaven. Half convinced, half doubtful
still, Bennie tried again, and said, “Our Father, if you is my father,
and was oncet a little boy like me, give me something to eat and some
gooder trouses and shoes, and a pair of lines on the tree when you have
your birth night.”
“For Christ’s sake; say that,” Maggie whispered, and Bennie rejoined,
“Who’s he! I shan’t do it. I’m not goin’ to get ’em mixed, I’ll stick to
Our Father.”
And surely the good Father, who is so kind and pitiful to the little
ones, heard that prayer of the ignorant child, and would in His own time
and way answer it.
CHAPTER II.
BENNIE’S FIRST CHRISTMAS.
The snow had fallen all day long, and from the window of his wretched
home Bennie had watched the feathery flakes as they fell in perfect
clouds, covering the old lumber yard where only yesterday he had
gathered his basket of wood and chips, covering the tow path which
skirted the canal, and covering the roofs of all the houses as far as he
could see. It was the first genuine snow of the season, and he wanted to
enjoy it as he saw some school-boys doing on the bridge, but his toes
were out of his shoes, and his elbows were out of his jacket and there
was that little hacking cough to which he was subject every winter, and
which this season was worse than usual and kept him awake at night. He
had learned that wet feet and chilled limbs increased it, and he dreaded
to lie all day long in that dreary little bed-room, with no fire and
nothing pleasant to look at. From his mother, who had been his father’s
superior in every respect, he had inherited a love of the beautiful, an
appreciation of comfort and pretty things, which made the squalor around
more offensive, and he could not endure the thought of being sick again,
as he was a month ago, when he was soaked in a rain and had the cough so
badly; and then, he wanted to go to the Christmas-tree that night, and
Hetty had said that he “should not stir a step if there was any sign of
his coughing, for she would not be bothered with a sick young one
again.” So, lest he should take cold and cough Bennie staid in doors all
day and watched the falling snow, and late in the afternoon hailed with
delight a rosy cloud in the west which said the storm was over. It was
not very cold, and when the sun went down and the full moon rose up over
the carpet of pure white snow Bennie thought he had never seen so
beautiful a night, or felt as happy as he did when starting for the
church, with Maggie as his chaperone. She had been three times to Sunday
school and when Miss Morgan asked for the little boy seen that cold day
in the lumber yard, Maggie had told her of his ragged clothes and
worn-out shoes, and Miss Nellie, who was like an angel of mercy in the
homes of the poor, had made a note of it; determining after Christmas
was over to find the child and do what she could for him.
It was early when Maggie and Bennie entered the church, but they found
it nearly full, and abashed at the sight of so many strangers and
attracted by the heat of the registers Bennie insisted upon staying by
them, near the door where he was jostled by the crowd and jeered at by
some thoughtless boys who made fun of his old clothes and asked “what he
would take for himself, rags and all.” But Bennie bore their jeers
meekly and only doubled his fist once, so intent was he upon the tree in
the chancel, bending with its hundreds of gifts. He had never dreamed of
anything like that, and his belief in Bethlehem’s baby grew stronger as
he saw this tangible commemoration of his birth night. How fine it all
was, and how splendidly the rector looked in his white robe, and how
grandly the music of the organ rolled through the aisles, making the
floor tremble under his feet, and causing him to start a little and look
down to see what was the matter. And when the children began one of
their Christmas carols and sang of the “Silent night, the holy night,”
Bennie felt a strange thrill creep over him and every nerve quivered
with excitement as he listened to the words:
“All is calm,—all is bright
· · · · ·
Glories stream from Heaven afar,
Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia,
Christ the Saviour is born.”
Was Heaven, of which Maggie had told him such wonderful things, any
better than this, or the children there happier than these whose faces
looked so eager and expectant as they went up to the tree, and so full
of joy when they came back? They were calling the names very rapidly
now, and Bennie held his breath to hear, and watched them anxiously.
Wallie Morgan seemed to be a favored one, for he was called many times,
and when he came back with a pair of red lines with little tinkling
bells, Bennie exclaimed aloud, “Oh, if they’d only call _me_!”
Would they? Was there anything for him on that heavily laden tree? There
were gifts for Johnnie and Jakie, and Susie and Freddie, and Sam, and
yes,—certain and true, he heard his name at last, or something like it,
and half started forward, when a rough boy caught his arm, saying,
“’Tain’t you. It’s a gal.”
No, it was not Bennie, but it was Maggie, his sister, whose name he had
heard and who received a Bible and a bundle of something which looked
like clothes.
“Maggie Hewitt; Maggie Hewitt,” Bennie heard a woman in front of him
say. “That is a new name. Who is she?”
“Oh, some waif Miss Nellie has picked up, I dare say,” was the reply.
“She is always doing such things, you know. Isn’t she beautiful to-night
with that long feather and jaunty sacque?”
Bennie thought she was beautiful and watched her admiringly as she moved
among her pupils, sharing their joy and occasionally trying to repress
their wild spirits. Johnnie and Jakie and Tommie again, and Susie and
Katie and Anne, but no Bennie Hewitt; he had been forgotten; there was
nothing for him, and with a choking, gasping sensation he stood, holding
fast to the pew railing in front of him, while the grand old anthem
Glory to God on High, rang through the church, and the final prayer was
said. But the music and the prayer were nothing to him now; faith in
Bethlehem’s baby was gone, and his little heart was as empty of
happiness as the tall tree was of gifts, and as full of bitter
disappointment as the church was of people, all moving out and crowding
him as they went. Maggie had been near the chancel with Miss Morgan’s
class, and when at last she came there were few left in the church, and
these were gathered about the rector, near the tree.
“Oh, Ben, see what I’ve got; a bran-new gown,” Maggie said, as she
caught sight of her brother.
At the sound of her voice Bennie’s pent-up grief gave way, and a low,
piteous, wailing cry reached the ear of Nellie Morgan, who, in a moment
was at Bennie’s side asking what was the matter.
“Everybody got somethin’ but me, and I never had a darned thing. I
thought the baby in the stable would bring me suthin’; I asked him this
mornin’ would he.”
This was the sobbing reply of the little ragged boy who cried as if his
heart would break, while Nellie tried to comfort him. In the
multiplicity of her cares she had forgotten him, and she felt so grieved
and sorry, until an idea struck her. There were a few whispered words to
Wallie, whose hands were full, and then turning to Bennie, she asked
what he wanted most.
“Some lines and some shoes,” he said, and glancing at his thin, worn
boots, Nellie replied, “Poor boy, you do need shoes, and you shall have
them to-morrow, while the lines,—” she turned appealingly to Wallie,
who, after a momentary struggle, laid the lines in her hand. “Yes,” she
continued, “you shall have the lines to-night. Wallie gives them to you,
and is sorry for the naughty words he said to you the other day. Now,
shake hands and be friends with him.”
Such generosity and self-denial were more than Bennie could comprehend,
and he stood staring blankly at Wallie, while his lip quivered and the
tears rained down his cheek.
“Git out! Yer only foolin’,” he said, while the glimmer of a smile
showed round his mouth.
Wallie had felt like crying himself, but at the sight of tears in
another he assumed a show of manliness and answered, “No, I ain’t
foolin’. I want you to have ’em. Auntie can knit me some more. They are
three yards long. Look!” and with a swift movement he threw them across
Ben’s neck, exclaiming, “Get up there! Go ’long!”
Quick as thought Ben started off on a brisk canter, with sundry little
squeals and kicking up of heels, and before the astonished rector could
stop it the two boys had made the entire circuit of the church, one as
driver and the other as horse! It was an unprecedented thing, but Bennie
knew no better, and Wallie would not admit that he was sorry. It was the
greatest fun, he said, and Ben was the nicest kind of a horse, because
he squealed and kicked up so good! To Bennie that race was, perhaps, the
best part of the festival, though the next day was to him the real
Christmas, the white day of his life, which he never forgot. There was
much cheer and festivity at the Morgan house that Christmas time, for
many guests were staying there, and Nellie, as the mistress, had
numberless duties to perform, but she did not forget her promise to
little Ben, and just before the bell at St. Luke’s rang for the morning
service, the Morgan carriage stopped at the wretched house where the
Hewitts lived, and Nellie entered the cold, dirty room, laden with gifts
for Bennie. There was a warm suit of Wallie’s half worn clothes, a pair
of shoes, with mittens and tippet, a book of pictures, and a horse on
wheels, which, possibly, pleased the little boy more than all the rest.
He was very happy and proud in his new clothes, and when the next Sunday
came and Nellie Morgan joined her class in Sunday school Bennie was the
first one she saw, his face all aglow with excitement and eager
expectancy. Forlorn and despised as he was, he was no ordinary child,
and the quickness with which he comprehended her and the aptness of his
replies and questionings surprised and interested Miss Nellie, who felt
that she had known the child for years, so fast did he gain upon her
love during that first hour of teaching. Regularly every Sunday after
that, through sunshine and storm, Bennie was in his place, his lesson
always perfect, and his brain full of the puzzling thoughts which had
come to him during the week, and which only Miss Nellie could explain.
Of the child Jesus he was never tired of hearing, and the story of
Bethlehem was told him again and again until he knew it by heart, and
prompted both Miss Morgan and his sister if, in telling it, they
deviated ever so little from the original. Of Calvary and its agony he
did not care to hear. There was something horrible to him in that three
hours’ suffering, and the darkened sky and opening graves, and he would
far rather think of Christ as a little child sleeping on a mound of hay,
or playing by the door of his home in Nazareth.
“Seems if I got nearer to Him, and He was sorrier for me when I’m cold
and hungry and father licks me so hard for nothin’,” he said, and his
prayers were mostly said to the baby boy he had first heard about, and
we have no doubt that God listened with love and sympathy for the poor
child who sometimes asked so touchingly, “Was you ever hungry, dear
Jesus, and be flogged and cuffed as I am when I hain’t done nothin’, and
did the snow come into your winder and cover the front of your bed, and
make you so cold at night?”
At first Bennie’s prayers were mostly interrogatories of the Lord with
regard to His early life; but as he learned more from the faithful
Nellie, he came at last to ask for what he wanted in his own peculiar
way, and God, who always hears and answers the prayer of faith like
Bennie’s, heard and answered him, as we shall see in our next chapter.
CHAPTER III.
BENNIE’S SECOND CHRISTMAS.
The year had rolled round swiftly, and the little ones of St. Luke’s
were again looking eagerly forward to Christmas Eve and the wonderful
tree, which all the summer long had been growing down by the lake and
gathering new beauty and strength for the task it was to perform. It was
in the cellar of St. Luke’s now, and the ladies and children were busy
trimming the little stone church on the corner, and Maggie Hewitt was
with them, holding twine and pulling twigs for Miss Nellie, at whose
side she hovered constantly, and whom some of the young girls called
“Miss Morgan’s shadow.” But Bennie was not there, and if you had gone
down on the tow path that winter day and entered the room, into which
the snow used to drift at night, and where Bennie used to hide away from
his drunken, crazy father, you would scarcely have known the place.
Nellie Morgan had proved the good angel of that house, as of many
others, and discovering that appreciation of tidiness and comfort which
Bennie possessed to so great a degree, she had made his surroundings as
pleasant as possible under the circumstances. Bennie was a delicate
child, and often sick for days and even weeks, and when Miss Nellie
found how distasteful to him was that dingy, dreary room where the
broken window was stuffed with rags, and the damp, stained paper hung in
strips on the wall, she went to work with a will, and many an article of
cast off furniture found its way from the garret of the Morgan house to
the hut on the tow path, and in comparison with his condition one year
ago, Bennie now lodged like a prince, and felt almost as happy as one.
There was fresh paper on the walls, the window was mended, and a clean
white curtain hung before it; a strip of carpet covered the floor, and
Bennie’s bed was a wide, capacious crib, which had once been Wallie
Morgan’s; and there, propped up with pillows and clad in a bright
dressing-gown, Bennie lay that December day when his sister Maggie was
busy at the church where he so longed to be. A severe cold had settled
on his lungs, and for weeks he had kept in doors, trying to subdue the
tickling cough, which harassed him day and night.
“Oh, if I only can be well by Christmas, I want to see Jesus’ birth
night once more. Do you think he’ll let me go?” he would say to Miss
Nellie, when she came, as she often did, to see him, and with tears in
her eyes Nellie would smooth the light hair of the little boy who had
grown so fast into her love, and answer that she hoped so, when all the
time there was a great fear in her heart that never again would Bennie
celebrate the Saviour’s birth night.
But she would not tell him so then, for she felt sure that he was one of
the little ones of whom our Savior said “of such is the kingdom of
Heaven.” Her labor had not been in vain so far as Bennie was concerned.
With astonishing avidity he had seized upon her words of instruction,
and now, whether awake or asleep, the baby of Bethlehem was always
present with him, the friend to whom he told his joys and griefs and to
whom he often prayed for his drunken father, his idle, wicked sister
Hetty, and his other sister, Maggie, whom he loved so well.
Such a child could not fail to influence any household for good, and it
was observed by many that Mr. Hewitt worked more steadily, and was not
intoxicated so often as of old, while Hetty was less in the street and
never brought her vile, noisy companions to disturb her sick brother.
And Bennie was very happy except when he thought of the Christmas
Festival and his desire to attend it.
“Please, Jesus of Bethlehem, let me be well enough to go there just this
once and hear my name called from the tree, will you, and I’ll be so
good and not fret at Mag when my side aches and I cough so hard.”
This was Bennie’s prayer, or the substance of it, said often to himself,
but for once God did not seem to hear the little boy, for his cough
daily grew worse, the pallor about his lips grew deeper, the red on his
thin cheeks redder, and his great blue eyes had in them that bright,
glassy look which only the eyes of consumptives wear.
“I can’t go; he won’t let me,” he said, with a burst of tears, the
morning before Christmas to Miss Nellie, who had come down to see him,
and who tried to comfort him by saying that he would be remembered just
the same, and that his presents would be new to him Christmas morning.
“’Tain’t that,” he answered with quivering lip, “’Tain’t the presents.
It’s going up myself and feeling that _he_ counts me in as one of ’em, I
want to hear Him call my name,—Bennie Hewitt, and know how it sounds.”
It was a fancy of his that Jesus himself called the names of the little
ones, and Nellie did not try to dispel the illusion. Jesus would call
him soon, she was sure, and with a kiss and a promise to come again on
the morrow she left him and went back to the church where she was busy
all the day with Maggie as her constant aid. And while they trimmed the
house of God and hung their gifts upon the tree, little Bennie lay in
his crib thinking about it and of the tree of life, of which Nellie had
once read to him. Would he ever see that tree, and would there be
something on it for him, and could he bathe his burning cheeks and hands
in that pure river of water, and wouldn’t it be nice to have no nights
to cough so in, and no need of sun or moon to light those golden
streets.
It was nearly dark when Maggie came in, full of the beautiful church and
the tree on which were so many curious things.
“Something for you,” she said to Bennie. “I saw more than one, and I’ll
bring ’em to you when it’s out. Don’t cry, Bennie, I’m so sorry you
can’t go with me. Next year you will.”
“No, Maggie, I shall never go—never hear my name,” Bennie tried to say,
but a fit of coughing severer than any he had ever had came on and the
cloth he held to his lips was stained with blood.
Neither Hetty nor Mag knew the danger, or what those crimson stains
portended, and both went to the church leaving their father with Bennie,
who at first lay very still and seemed to be asleep; then he began to
grow restless and asked his father to read to him of the “golden city
where the gates stand always open and there is neither sun nor moon.”
But Mr. Hewitt was unused to the Bible, and did not know where to find
that description of the New Jerusalem of which Bennie talked so much,
sometimes coherently and sometimes not, for his mind wandered a little
and was now in “Jerusalem the golden, with milk and honey blest,” where
the tree of life was growing and where Christ’s name was written on the
foreheads of his children, and then at the church where the names were
called, his perhaps, and he bade his father listen and tell him if he
heard it.
“I can’t go up,” he said, “I’m so sick, but Maggie will bring them, and
next year I shall see that other tree in the New Jerusalem, I guess I
will, I mean, for I have tried to be good since she told me how, and
I’ve prayed to Jesus every day. Do you love Him, father?”
There was no answer from the rough-faced man who sat watching his child
with a pain in his heart such as he had not felt in years.
“Father!” and Bennie’s voice was very low and pleading, “You ain’t drunk
now one bit.”
“No, by Jove, no,” came emphatically from the father’s lips, and Bennie
continued, “Don’t ever be so any more, will you? Promise me, father,
promise your little sick boy, who is going to die.”
“No, Bennie, you must not die, and I’ve been so hard on you, and flogged
you when I was in drink,” Mr. Hewitt sobbed, laying his head upon the
pillow, while Bennie went on: “But I’ve forgiven that, father, and I was
naughty sometimes, and called you names and made faces at you when you
did not see me. I’m sorry for it now, and when I’m gone remember me as I
was at the best, when I tried to be good, and, father, _don’t_ drink any
more, please keep sober, for Maggie’s sake, and Hetty’s; will you? Say
you will; say it, father, quick.”
His wasted hand rested lovingly on the bowed head of his father, who
faltered out: “Yes, Ben, I’ll try, I will, so help me God.”
“And He will help you, father, I’ll ask Him, now; He will hear me
because I am going to die,” and folding his hands reverently, Bennie
prayed, “Oh, Jesus, _man_ Jesus, I mean; please keep father from getting
drunk, and don’t let him trade at the groceries where they sell it; then
he won’t see it and want it so bad, and make him a good man, for
Christ’s sake.”
Bennie’s voice ceased, and for a long time there was silence in the
room, broken at last by the sound of steps outside, and Maggie came
rushing in, her arms full of presents and her cheeks glowing with
excitement and exercise. But she stopped quickly when she caught sight
of Bennie’s face. It was very white, with a rapt look upon it, as if he
were already lost to earth and was listening to “the shouts of them who
triumph, the song of them that feast.” But her voice called him back and
his eyes sparkled with pleasure for a moment as she spread his presents
before him, and told him how many times his name had been called.
“Six times; ’most as often as Wallie Morgan’s; and look, here’s a
Christmas card, and a bran-new suit of clothes, and a ball, and a top,
and a jumping jack, and—and—oh, Bennie, guess what else; a pair of
skates from Wallie Morgan.”
She had kept the skates for the last, knowing how her brother had wanted
them, and now, at sight of them, he did seem to brighten up, and took
them in his hands and examined them carefully; then, laying them where
he could see them, he said, “Yes, I’m so glad, and they are all so good.
I’d like to skate just once. I know I could beat Tom Carter in a little
while; but, Maggie, I’m going to die. It came to me to-night. I’m going
where Jesus is, and pa is not going to drink anymore, and Hetty must
stay home nights, and you must be a real good girl, and not romp and
tear your clothes so much.”
“Oh, Bennie, Bennie,” and all the brightness was gone from Maggie’s face
as she dropped beside the bed, and seizing her brother’s hand begged of
him to stay with her and not leave her all alone.
“Father and Hetty will be with you, and Jesus, too,” the pale lips
whispered, and then Bennie’s mind began to wander, and he talked strange
things of the Tree of Life, which he said was hung with tapers and
beautiful gifts, some of which were for him, and he listened to hear his
name, bidding his father and sisters keep very quiet lest he should fail
to catch the sound.
All night they sat by him, scarcely daring to move, while, with closed
eyes and parted lips, he lay listening—listening—till over the snow-clad
town the grey morning broke and the Christmas chimes were rung from the
church tower; then with a triumphant voice he cried, “There, he has
called me at last, little Bennie Hewitt, he said. Didn’t you hear his
voice? He’s there, with something for me. I’m going now. Good-bye. Tell
Miss Morgan she told me the way, and I love her for it. I wish more
ladies would hunt up the poor little boys on the canal. I’m going up the
aisle, and the music is playing, too. Such music! oh, Maggie, don’t you
hear it? It’s better than the ‘Silent Night,’ and I hear the heavenly
hosts sing ‘Alleluia.’ Little Bennie Hewitt they call. Yes, I’m
coming—coming—coming. A golden harp and golden crown. That’s what is on
the tree for me and joy forever and forever. Good-bye, good-bye,
good-bye.”
* * * * *
Little Bennie was dead and the Christmas he had looked forward to so
eagerly was kept with the Saviour he loved, and when Miss Nellie came to
inquire for him she found only a white wasted form which her own hands
made ready for the grave. The new suit of clothes which was to have kept
him warm, were put upon him, and flowers from the Morgan conservatory
were placed in his hands and on his pillow, and over the little coffin
bitter tears were shed and promises were renewed as the wretched father
whispered to himself, “I’ll keep my word to Ben. I’ll try to be a man.”
There’s a small white head stone near the gate in the Rosedale Cemetery,
and Bennie’s name is on it.
“BENNIE HEWITT.
DIED DECEMBER 25, 1883,
AGED 9 YEARS.”
Strangers pass it by and think nothing of it, but God knows all about
that little grave and the boy sleeping there, and when the Golden City
shall indeed come down and Christ’s saints be gathered home, Bennie will
be with them, where there is no more night, or need of sun or moon, for
the glory from the Eternal Throne transcends the light of noonday and
Christ is all in all.
* * * * *
Does my story seem a sad one to you, my little readers? In one sense it
is, and in another it is not. It is always sad to see the children die,
but when like Bennie they go from cold and hunger and toil, to be
forever with the Lord it is for them a blessed thing, so, on Christmas
morning of 1884 do not think of little Bennie, as in the grave where
they laid him one year ago, but
In that far off, happy country
Which no human eye hath seen,
Where the flowers are always blooming,
And the grass is ever green.
There we find our little Bennie. No more hungry days and freezing nights
and cruel blows for him, for he is safe forever. Jesus called his name,
and he has gone to that beautiful land where so many children are, and
where, I pray, we too may meet to celebrate our Saviour’s birth in one
never ending Christmas.
_Brown Cottage,
Christmas—1884._
THE END
OF
BENNIE’S CHRISTMAS
THE CHRISTMAS FONT.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.
When I was a child, as young as some of the children who may read this
story, I brought from the Sunday school one afternoon the story of “Ruth
Lee.” The day was warm and bright, and the summer sunshine fell softly
on the grass in the old orchard, where, beneath an apple-tree, I sat
down to read about Ruth and her half-brother Reuben, to whom she was
always so kind, even when he was cross and irritable. The story was not
a long one, and I read it very rapidly, growing more and more interested
with every page, and wishing so much that I knew just where the brother
and sister lived, and if Ruth still watched the web of cloth bleaching
on the mountain side, or Reuben in a pet threw his piece of pie over the
ledge of rocks, where his good, patient sister could not get it. To me
every word was true. I believed in Ruth and Reuben. I knew just how they
looked—Ruth with her grave, womanly face and soft brown eyes, and Reuben
with his rosy cheeks, and round, hard head, which he sometimes bumped
upon the floor when in one of his passions. I could see him bumping his
head—could see Ruth, too, trying to quiet and soothe him. I would
imitate her, I thought, and when my little baby brother screamed and
kicked and wanted me to gather flowers instead of reading under the
apple-tree, as I was given to doing, I would put up my books and go with
him to the brook in the meadow where the little fishes glided in and out
from their hiding-places and where the buttercups and daisies grew on
the side of the mossy bank. I would be more like my older sister, who
had borne with my childish freaks, who always gave me the fairest apple
and the largest piece of cake, and who might have stood for Ruth
herself.
The story was having a good effect upon me, when suddenly I came upon a
little note appended by the author, and which said the whole was a
fiction; that no such person as Ruth Lee had ever lived, and I had been
reading what was not true. I did not know then that but few of the
Sunday school books are literally true, and I was terribly disappointed.
I felt that in losing Ruth I had lost a real friend, and, leaning my
head against the tree, I cried for a few moments, thinking to myself,
that when I was older I would write a book for children, which should
every word be _true_. I am older now—much older than I was then; that
Sunday afternoon lies far back in the past; the sister, who might have
been Ruth, is dead, and her grave is under a little pine, which whispers
softly to the wind, of the gentle sleeper below. There are more graves
than hers near to the pine. The household is broken up, and children of
another name than mine read under the old apple-tree in the orchard, or
search for violets and buttercups down by the meadow brook. I have
learned to know that stories of fictitious people, if true to life and
written with an earnest purpose to do good, may oftentimes be as
beneficial as stories of real people; but I have through all adhered to
my resolution, that my first story for children should be true; and so
this bright May morning, when the sky is beautifully blue, and the grass
in the garden is green and fresh with yesterday’s rain, I begin this
story of the Font, which shall in every particular be _true_.
CHAPTER II.
SOMETHING ABOUT THE CHURCH, AND THE CHILDREN WHO BOUGHT THE FONT.
I must tell you first about the Church where the children who bought the
Font went to Sunday school. St. Luke’s we call it, and it stands on the
corner where two streets cross each other, in a little village which we
will call Carrollton. That is not its real name, you know, but I will
call it that, and then go on to tell you how the church is built of
stone, with a spire from which the paint has been worn off by time, and
the rains which beat against it from the west. The window, too, on that
side, has been broken by the wind, and boards are nailed across the top
where the stained glass used to be. But the window will be mended in
time; the old spire will be repainted; the ivy at the corner will reach
higher and higher, until the tendrils will cling perhaps to the very
roof; the fence will be built around that plot of grass, which looks so
fresh this morning; and then the church will be as nice and neat as it
was the day it was completed and consecrated to God. It is very pretty
now inside, and the fine-toned organ in the gallery makes sweet music on
a Sunday when they chant the “Gloria in Excelsis” and sing “Peace on
earth, good-will to men.” That organ has played the Christmas songs
which tell of a Saviour born, and the joyful Easter carols, which
proclaim a Saviour risen. It has pealed a merry strain as bridal parties
went up the aisle to the altar bedecked with flowers, and then its notes
have been sad,—oh, so sad!—as strong men carried coffins up the aisle
and laid them on the table. Two of them little coffins, with a dead boy
in each,—boys who once came to the Sunday school, but who will never
come again, or join their voices in the hymns the children sing and the
prayers they say.
To the left of the chancel, looking toward the organ, is a little
enclosure, or room where the singers used to sit, but which is now used
for the infant class;—the nursery which feeds the larger Sunday school.
It is nearly seven years since the class was first organized, and,
during that time, there have been in it one hundred different children.
Three of these are dead,—three little boys,—and they lie up in the quiet
graveyard where the white stones show so prettily through the dark
evergreens. Berkie was the first to die,—blue-eyed, pale-faced Berkie,
who used to sit so quietly all through the Sunday school, with an
earnest expression on his thoughtful face and in his great blue eyes, as
if he were already looking away from this world into the one where he
was going so soon. There is a picture on the wall before me of Berkie,
with many other members of his class, and I never look at it without a
sigh, as I recall the dear little boy who used to run so gladly to meet
me, and listen so attentively to the stories I told him of Jesus; and
then I think of that innumerable host of white-robed children
... “whose little feet,
Pacing life’s dark journey through,
Have safely reached the heavenly seat
They had ever kept in view.”
And I know Berkie is there with them, and I cannot wish him back, though
his going from us made a sad vacancy in our little school, and left his
parents’ hearts so desolate.
Children cannot be sorry long, neither is it right they should; and so
the members of Berkie’s class, although they did not forget him, soon
began to wear their cheerful faces again, and look forward to the
Christmas festival, when the church was hung with garlands of green, and
in the chancel was set up the young pine-tree, which, away in the marsh
by the lake, had been growing year by year, and gathering strength in
its young limbs to bear the many gifts hung upon it by parents, and
teachers, and friends, when, on Christmas eve, they came together to
keep the birthnight of the child born in Bethlehem’s manger more than
eighteen hundred years ago. Children are always happy on such occasions,
and it seems to me that the children of St. Luke’s, in Carrollton, are
particularly so, judging from the eager joy which lights up their faces,
and beams in their eyes when they hear their own names called, and go up
the aisle to receive the expected gift. I wonder every church in the
land does not have the Christmas trees, and thus give to the children
pleasant remembrances of that day, without which we had indeed been
shrouded in the deepest gloom! True, we do not know the exact date of
Christ’s birth, but we know near enough, and children should be early
taught that Christmas has a far deeper meaning than merely a day for
festivity and mirth.
As far as possible the little ones of St. Luke’s were taught to
understand why the day was kept; and that rosy, round-cheeked Fred did
understand was proved by his saying to his mother, “I know what the
Christmas-tree means. It is Jesus’ birthday party.”
Freddie had caught the spirit of the thing, if not its exact meaning;
and as often as Christmas comes round he will remember the child Jesus,
whose birth the church then commemorates.
The summer following Berkie’s death the infant Sunday school was
unusually large, and every seat was full, while a few of the smaller
boys sometimes sat upon the floor. There were some visitors in
Carrollton Parish that summer,—Susie Ganson from Jersey City, Maggie
Holmes from New York, Lena and Ira Stevens from Philadelphia, and Sammie
Field from New Orleans,—and these were all in the class. Then there was
another Susie and Maggie, with Louise and Maria, and Carrie, and Fanny,
and Mary, and Cora, and Ida, and Dell, and Nellie, and Lizzie, and Lulu,
and Jennie, and Geenie, and two Emmas. Then came the boys,—a host of
them: five Willies, four Freddies, three Franks, three Georges, two
Walters, two Johns, with Ezra, and Mason, and Eddie, and Charlie, and
Hugh, and Hunter, and Polie, and Newton, and beautiful little
Wallie,—the youngest of them all,—who presented the Easter offering last
year, and whom we love so much because of his mother, who died ere he
could remember more of her than the cold, white face which he patted
with his dimpled hands, as he said to the weeping ones around, “That is
my mamma.” Darling Wallie! God keep him in safety, and bring him at last
to the home where his mother is waiting for him!
To say that these fifty children were always quiet and well-behaved
would not be true; for sometimes, when the day was warm, and they were
crowded more than usual, there was a pushing among the boys, a knocking
together of boots and elbows, with a few wry faces made, and a few sly
pinches given. Then, too, they sometimes whispered during prayers, and
compared marbles and balls, and traded Jack-knives; while the girls
thought sometimes of their new dresses, and the ribbons on their hats.
Do any of the children who read this story play in Sunday school, and
whisper to each other when they should be listening to what the teacher
is saying? And do they know how displeasing this is to God, whose eyes
are upon them everywhere, and who would have them reverence his house? I
am sorry to say that there were a few children in the class who were
very irregular in their attendance. The most trivial thing would keep
them at home. The day was too hot or too cold,—or their new clothes were
not done,—or they went out into the country to see their grandmother,—or
they wandered off to some other Sunday school, where there was to be a
festival or celebration, from which they hoped to be benefited. For this
last the parents are especially to be censured. Better have some regular
place, and stay there; for as a rolling stone gathers no moss, so no
real good can come from going to different schools, and learning
sometimes from one catechism, and sometimes from another, and sometimes
from none at all.
One boy there is at St. Luke’s who deserves especial notice for his
regular attendance. The day is very cold and stormy indeed which does
not find him there; and neither worn-out shoes nor threadbare coat avail
to keep him at home. He does not always have his lesson, and he loses
more catechisms than I can tell; but he is _always there_; and, what is
better yet, he brings other children with him. Six, in all, he has
brought to the Sunday school, and we call him our little “recruiting
officer.” He has a very high-sounding name,—“Napoleon Augustus,”—but we
all know him as “Polie.”
CHAPTER III.
THE CHILDREN’S SEWING SOCIETY.
There were many baptisms that summer, and the little silver bowl was so
often called into requisition, that the people began to think a marble
Font would be a most appropriate and useful ornament for the church; and
who more appropriate to buy it than the children? So the teachers set
themselves at work to devise the best means by which it could be done.
And now, as it has something to do with the Font, I must tell you of the
Children’s Sewing Society, which met every Saturday afternoon at the
different houses in the parish, and was composed of the young girls of
St. Luke’s, together with many who came from the other denominations.
There were Carries and Lilies, and Adas, and Jennies, and Nellies and
Ellas, and Marys, and Kitty, and Lenas, and Ida, and Annies, and Fannys,
and many others, and they worked at first upon a patchwork quilt
intended for Nashotah. There were bits of calico of every quality and
hue, from flaming yellow down to sombre brown; and the blocks were put
together with but little regularity or adaptation of one color to
another. But could the student, whom it will keep warm next winter, have
seen the group of merry-hearted girls who worked upon that quilt,—some
with thimbles and some without; some with long stitches and some with
short,—and could he know how engaged they were in the work, and how
anxious even the youngest of them was to learn to sew for Nashotah,—he
would forgive whatever there is unsightly in the quilt, and hold it more
precious than the covering of kings’ couches. A lady in the parish, who
was deeply interested in the children’s society, offered to give five
dollars for the quilt when it was done, and then send it herself to
Nashotah; and this five dollars was the nucleus round which other funds
were to be gathered for the Font.
At last a fair was suggested, and then the little girls’ fingers worked
faster and their faces grew brighter as they talked together of what
they could make or do for the fair. It was the one absorbing topic of
conversation, and the society increased, and all were busy with
something which they intended for the fair. I cannot enumerate all the
articles, for it would make the story too long; and then I do not
remember them. But I have in mind the beautiful bead mats, which little
Susie made; and the elephant, as natural as the real ones which
sometimes come into town, with their fanciful blankets on, and their big
feet, which leave so large prints in the sand. There was a little
air-castle made of straw, and designed for the flies to light on; and
every time I lift my eyes I can see it hanging over my head, and I think
of the bright-eyed Carrie who made it, and who was so much interested in
the fair, even though she did not belong to St. Luke’s Sunday school.
There were handsome hair-receivers, made by a young girl, from New York,
who was spending the summer in Carrollton, and who contributed both
labor and material. Boys tried their skill in making mats on corks, and
harnesses for dogs; and all through the parish the enthusiasm increased
until the fair promised to be a great success.
CHAPTER IV.
WHAT WAS DONE IN THE INFANT CLASS FOR THE FAIR.
There were two teachers in the infant school,—one the mother of little
Berkie and the other Mrs. Hoyt, who wrote to a friend in New York,
telling him of the fair, and asking if his little daughter would like to
send a few toys for the tables. Three days passed, and then the answer
came, not in the shape of toys, but a crisp five-dollar bill from little
“Susie Street,” another five from “little Joe,” and two from “little
Mamie.” This was the answer; and the ladies, who had sometimes felt
discouraged, and feared they might fail, believed that God was blessing
them in their efforts, and with earnest prayers they gave the fair into
his charge, and the result proved how faithful he was to the trust. Not
satisfied with what his children had done, the kind gentleman from New
York, who was an editor, interested his workmen in the matter, and the
treasurer was one day surprised with twelve dollars and a half,
contributed by the printers and workmen in the press-room,—strangers,
the most of them, to the ladies of St. Luke’s—and the gift was all the
more acceptable for that, while many thanks and blessings were showered
upon the generous donors. In Massachusetts, too, where the treasurer’s
childhood was passed, a few kind friends interested themselves in the
Children’s Fair, and eleven dollars more was the result. And so the fund
kept growing, as one friendly hand after another was stretched out to
help, and the Font seemed almost a certainty without the fair.
It was a plan of the teachers that the smaller children should assist,
and, either by saving or earning, contribute their mites. And so each
Sunday the pennies were brought, while during the week the little ones
were busy as bees in devising ways and means to save or earn for the
fair. I wish you could have seen the boys who lived in the brick house
just across the street from St. Luke’s. They were as fond of play as
boys usually are; but they gave it up for a while, and the croquet
mallets rested quietly in the grass, and the old house-dog had a
worried, anxious look in his eyes, as if he wondered what had come over
his young masters, and why, instead of running up and down the walk with
him, they stayed so long out in the back yard, or climbed the trees
where he could not reach them. They were picking plums, and piling up
wood, and selling grapes; and, as the result of their work, they brought
to the Sunday school over a dollar and a half. And while they were thus
busy, two little girls, Susie and Maria, were picking apples, their
chubby faces getting very red and their white aprons somewhat stained
with the juicy fruit. Down on Main street there was a soda-fountain, and
the delicious, creamy liquid was very tempting, on a hot day, to the
children who had the pennies to spare, and in many cases the temptation
was too strong to be resisted; but a few denied themselves, and brought
the fruits of their self-denial to their teacher, just as Willie
Sutherland brought the pennies which he had saved by going without the
chewing-gum which boys usually like so much. To us these self-denials
may look very small, but God knew just how hard the struggle was in each
little heart, and he surely commended the offerings as he did the
widow’s mite, and blessed the children, too, who made them. Fourteen
dollars and thirty-three cents was the sum total which the children
saved in seven weeks; and never were pennies more acceptable than these,
which had cost the children quite as hard a struggle as many a greater
self-denial costs those of maturer years.
CHAPTER V.
THE DAY OF THE FAIR.
Oh, how it rained and rained for days and days before the one appointed
for the fair, and how many anxious eyes were turned up towards the
clouds which looked so heavy and gray and pitiless, as if they never
intended to stop raining again! It was hard to believe that behind the
dark mass the sun was still shining, and the children watched in vain
for the “silver lining” which is said to invest every cloud. But it
appeared at last on the very day of the fair, and patches of blue sky
showed here and there in the heavens, and before noon the October sun
was drying the walks and the wet grass, and brightening up the little
faces which for days had been overcast with gloom. The fair was to be
held at a private house, and I wish you could have seen the multitude of
pretty things which came pouring in, until the Brown Cottage looked like
one great bazaar of toys and fancy articles. There were cushions of pink
and cushions of blue, and penwipers and book-racks, and a beautiful
whirling butterfly which Lulu bought on Broadway, and needle-books and
spool-cases, and tidies of various devices and colors, with mittens and
gloves, and fanciful lines with tinkling bells attached, and I know a
little boy, among the Massachusetts hills, who to-day drives his
miniature horses, of which he has forty or more, with a pair of those
very lines. Then there were toys of every description sent from New York
by Susie Ganson’s mother, and spread out upon the tables in the upper
room, whose glass door looked into the garden. There were jumping-jacks,
which turned the boys wild, and churns, which made the little girls
scream with delight. There were washbowls and tubs, tin-kitchens and
rolling-pins, and bars to dry the dolly’s clothes on, and chairs, and
tables, and dishes, with balls and canes, and old Santa Claus himself
bearing his Christmas-tree with the gifts to put upon it. There was a
negro, too, with his woolly head and calico frock, looking so life-like
and real that some of the smaller children drew back from him in terror,
fancying he was alive.
Downstairs, in the bay window, and on a table where it could be
distinctly seen, was the “Beauty of the Fair,”—a little stained
bedstead, which an ingenious gentleman had whittled out with his
penknife. It was a most perfect thing, with castors and mattress tufted
with pink, with ruffled sheets and pillow-cases, the ruffles all nicely
fluted and showing well against the covering of white Marseilles. Upon
it lay a handsome doll, in her muslin dress and scarlet cloak, ready for
the opera. The two were to go together, and many a little girl hoped she
might be made the happy possessor of so beautiful a gift. In a corner of
the parlor, the books which a kind New York publisher had given, were
arranged, together with the Fate Eggs, which looked so pretty, suspended
from the branch of evergreen made to resemble a tree. The books and the
eggs were to be Jennie’s charge,—dear little Jennie, with the pale,
sweet face, whom everybody loves and pities so much,—for Jennie is lame;
and when the other children of her age are at their merry play, she can
only lean upon her crutches and watch the sport in which she can take no
part. Near Jennie’s corner the candy and flower tables stood, and Annie
and Carrie were to preside there, and send out little peddlers with
baskets of candy and bouquets to sell.
I must not forget to tell you of the famous fish pond, as it was
something new in Carrollton, and proved a great success. A corner of the
room was divided off with a heavy curtain, on which the printed words,
FISH POND
were pinned, while standing near were fishing rods and lines, with hooks
made out of wire. With these the children were to fish, throwing the
lines over the curtain and into a box filled with toys of various kinds,
which a boy fastened upon the hooks as fast as they came over.
At last everything was ready. The drapery had been taken from the
windows and the pictures from the walls; the furniture had been removed
from the rooms, which looked bare and empty enough, I assure you. There
were curtains before the doors of the library where the tableaux were to
be, and on the piano stood the big _shoe_ where Louise was to sit and
sell her three dozen dolls. There were loaves and loaves of cake in the
kitchen, which served as the restaurant, and gallons of ice-cream in the
freezers. And all over the town the excited children were getting ready,
and watching for the sun to set and the clock to point the hour when it
was time for them to start.
CHAPTER VI.
THE NIGHT OF THE FAIR.
It seemed a very inhospitable thing to close the doors of one’s house,
and let in only those who paid for the admittance; but it had been
decided that such should be the rule, and so at precisely six o’clock
every door was locked, and the boys who were to tend them waited with an
air of great importance for the ring which was to herald the first
arrival, and put the first dime in their box. They had not long to wait,
for the children were prompt to time, and came in groups of half-dozens,
and dozens, and scores, until the boys who kept the doors became
confused and bewildered, and gladly gave up their post to some one who
was older, and could better stem the tide of human beings pouring in so
fast, and filling the lower rooms till there was hardly a place to
stand. It was a great jam,—the greatest which had ever been in town.
Four hundred people were present, and, in an inconceivably short space
of time, the tables upstairs were cleared, and then the crowd came
surging down to the parlors, and gathered round the candy-table, which
was emptied in a few moments,—for the little peddlers, Lily and Kitty
and Jennie and Lena and Ada and Emma and Nellie, did their part well,
and no one could refuse to buy when asked by so beautiful little girls.
There were pictures, too, contributed by one of our finest artists, and
these sold rapidly, until only two were left,—one of Horace Greeley, and
another of some scene in Germany.
Then came the tableaux. The first, called the “Red, White, and Blue,”
was a group of three little girls,—Lizzie, Susie, and Lulu,—each wearing
a white dress, and a sash of the color she represented, ornamented with
stars. Around them were gathered the children,—three of whom sang the
popular air, “Red, White, and Blue,” while all joined in the chorus,—the
boys’ voices rising loud and shrill with their “Three cheers for the
Red, White, and Blue!”
I wish you could have seen the next tableau, called the “Bridal of Tom
Thumb,” where Maria, in her long tarletan dress and flowing veil, with
the orange blossoms in her hair, stood for Lavinia Warren: and little
Maggie Holmes, only three years old, represented Minnie,—her soft, blue
eyes looking shyly out from under their long lashes at the people, who
set up loud shouts of laughter at the sight of the comical-looking
party. There was Wallie, as Tom Thumb, in his swallow-tailed coat, with
his white vest and white cravat, just putting the ring on Maria’s
finger; while beside him was Little Josey Allen, similarly attired, and
making the drollest figure you ever saw, as, with his thumb in his white
vest, he stood erect and still,—making a better Commodore than the
Commodore himself,—while Willie Campbell, in surplice made of a sheet,
was supposed to perform the ceremony. As you may imagine, Maria and
Maggie, Wallie and Josey, were the stars of the evening; but the poor
little girls, in their long, trailing dresses, were almost as helpless
as the ladies of China are with their little feet; and they had to be
carried around in gentlemen’s arms, and shown to the people who had been
unable to see them distinctly.
“Santa Claus” came next; and Mason, with his white hair, and beard, and
furs, made a capital St. Nick, and elicited peals of laughter as he
drove in his eight reindeer, each with pasteboard horns tied on his
head, and his name pinned on his back in large capitals. There were
DASHER and DANCER, and PRANCER and VIXEN. There were COMET and CUPID,
and DUNDER and BLITZEN; and the little bells about their necks made a
soft, tinkling sound, as they shook their horned heads, and pranced in
imitation of deer, while waiting for their master to fill the sleeping
children’s stockings with toys. Then, with a bound, St. Nick sprang into
his sleigh, and the little cortege passed on through the parlor and hall
and sitting-room and dining-room, and so out of sight.
There was a post-office, too, and the mail was drawn by eight little
boys, with red plumes on their heads, and driven again by Mason, who
showed great skill in the management of his horses and reindeer. Close
beside the boys ran little Sammie Field, with the words
“THIS-IS-A-COLT,” pinned on his back; and I assure you that kicking colt
attracted quite as much attention as the eight plumed horses did. The
letters, which sold for five and ten cents each, made a great deal of
fun, and added to the general hilarity of the evening.
You should have seen Ella, dressed as an old woman, and trying to thread
the point of her needle by a tallow candle of enormous length, and which
was called “The Light of other Days.” Louise, too, in broad frilled cap
and glasses, with her dollies all over her, represented the “Old Woman
in the Shoe,” and attracted crowds around her, until every doll was
sold, and the great shoe was nearly empty. The Fish Pond was very
popular, and was drained in half an hour,—the boys and girls going
nearly crazy over it, and contending with each other for a chance to
fish, at five cents a bite. It proved a great success, as did everything
pertaining to the fair which closed with “JOHNNY SCHMOKER,” sung and
acted by the children, and a tableau arranged by the young ladies.
It was rather late when at last the fair was over, and the children went
home very tired, and a few of them a little cross, it may be, though
some were very happy, as was proved by little black-eyed Johnny, who had
come up from Rochester, and who, after the fair was over, and he was
going to bed, asked his mother if she did not think that children were
sometimes as happy in this world as they would be in heaven; “Because,
mother,” said he, “I know I was as happy to-night at the fair as I shall
ever be in heaven.”
When the ladies, who had worked so hard and been sometimes so
disheartened, heard of that, they felt that the fair had paid, if only
in making one child so happy. That it paid, too, in a more tangible
form, was shown when the receipts were footed up, and found to amount to
over two hundred and sixty dollars. You may be sure there was great
rejoicing the next day when it was known that we had enough to get the
Font, together with the bishop’s and rector’s chairs, which we so much
needed. Means were immediately taken to have them in readiness by
Christmas, so that the children could then present them to the church.
CHAPTER VII.
POOR LITTLE HUNTER
The fair was held on the third of October, and of all the boys there,
none was happier, or enjoyed it more, than little Hunter Buckley, who
never dreamed that this was the last festivity in which he would ever
join with his comrades,—that before the winter snows were falling, or
the Font for which he had worked was set up in the church, he would be
buried away from sight and sound,—where the songs of the children could
not reach him, nor the sobs of his poor mother, who mourned so bitterly
for her little darling boy. His death was very sudden. In the morning he
was perfectly well, and his mother little thought, when, after
breakfast, he bade her good-by, and started for the village, that never
again would his feet come down the grassy lane, or his loved voice sound
in her ears; that when he came back to her it would be as the dead come
back,—lifeless and still. Yet so it was, for in a few hours the news ran
through the village that Hunter Buckley was dead,—smothered in the wheat
where he was playing; and which was running through a large tunnel into
a boat loading at the wharf. It was a careless thing to play there; but
he had done it before, and thought of no danger now, until the suction
became so great that it was impossible to escape, and he was drawn into
that whirlpool of grain.
I saw him the next day, looking, except that he was paler, exactly as he
had the Sunday before, when he sat in Sunday school, and listened to the
lessons his teacher taught.
The next day was the funeral; and six young boys carried his coffin up
the aisle and laid it on the table; while, in silence and awe, his
companions listened to the words the clergyman spoke,—words of
admonition to them,—words of commendation of the dead,—and words of
comfort for the weeping friends, upon whom so heavy a sorrow had fallen.
Those were sad notes which the organ played then, and more than one
voice trembled as it joined in the hymn sung over the dead boy, and then
they carried him out to the long, black hearse, which bore him to the
graveyard where Berkie had gone before him.
Since that time they have made another grave, and the boys of the Sunday
school have followed Walter Hewitt there. He died when the winter snows
were heaped upon the ground, and now lies in the same yard where Hunter
and Berkie are,—three little boys, who will sleep there in their coffins
until the resurrection morn, when Jesus comes to claim his own and take
them to himself.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHRISTMAS, 1867.
There was no rector in the parish that winter; but the people kept up
lay-services and the Sunday school, and were resolved that the children
should not go without the usual festival. So the evergreens were brought
from the lake, with a beautiful pine-tree, and a few of the ladies
worked industriously, day after day, fashioning wreaths and crosses and
anchors, which were hung upon the walls and festooned about the chancel,
where the tree was placed, its long branches reaching out in every
direction, as if asking for the many hundred gifts which came pouring in
so fast. There were dolls and tops, and bows and arrows, and Christmas
cakes all sugared over the top, and stamped with the owner’s name. There
were books and cards, and marbles and balls, and a beautiful
slipper-case, which Lulu gave to her teacher. There were boxes with
candy and boxes without, and horses and cows, and monkeys in red, and
tea-kettles and pails, and golden fishes, which gleamed so brightly
among the dark-green leaves of the tree. There was a white ermine muff,
and a picture called the “Christmas Bell,” bought for Berkie’s mother by
her class; while, swinging in his pretty cage, was a beautiful Canary,
who, when the gas was lighted and he had recovered a little from his
fright at being brought from the depot with a shawl over his cage, began
to look about him, and wink his bright eyes at the children. Then, as he
began to feel more at home and to get an inkling of what it all meant,
he opened his mouth and poured forth one sweet song after another until
it seemed as if his little throat would burst.
But the handsomest gift of all was the font, which had come the night
before and been firmly fixed in its place just outside the chancel. It
was of Italian marble, very graceful in its proportions, and on the top,
in black letters, were the words “Presented by the children of St.
Luke’s Sunday School, Christmas, 1867,” followed by “Suffer the little
children to come unto me, and forbid them not.” This was, of course, the
center of attraction, and both the children and the grown people
gathered around it, commenting on its beauty, and wondering who would be
the first child baptized from it. The new chairs, too, were there, made
of solid oak, and upholstered with crimson, so that the church looked
very handsome with its new furniture, and the Christmas-tree, with the
tapers shining from its branches and lighting up the hundreds of pretty
things upon it.
I have told you before that we had no clergyman; but our good doctor
read a part of the evening service, and then made a few remarks to the
children, who, I am afraid, did not listen very closely, they were so
intent upon the tree and what they would probably get from it. Our
organist had taken great pains to drill the children in their carols,
and when they sang of “The Wonderful Night,” we could almost see the
“Angels and shining immortals
Which, crowding the ebony portals.
Fling out their banners of light,”
It is a splendid carol, and if you do not already know it, I advise you
to get the “New Service Book” and learn it before another Christmas eve.
The distribution of gifts commenced at last, and never were children
happier than those who, as their names were called, went up one after
another to the chancel, and came back with loaded hands, and hearts
throbbing with a keener, purer delight than they will ever know after
the years of childhood are past, and they have grown to be women and
men. The tree was stripped at last, and all over the church there was
the hum of eager, excited voices, mingled occasionally with a blast from
a whistle or horn blown by some boy who could not wait till he reached
home before testing his musical instrument. Then there came a hush, as
the closing prayer was said, and the grand old chant was sung “Glory to
God on high.” How the music rolled through the church as the organ
pealed its loudest strains, and the boys and girls joined in the song,
while the little bird, frantic by this time with all it had seen and
heard, fairly shook its golden sides as it trilled its clear, shrill
notes, and mingled its own loud voice in the last Christmas song!
Half an hour later, and the church was silent and empty, the organ was
hushed, the echo of the singing had died away, the tree was shorn of its
decorations, the children were all at home, sleeping many of them, and
dreaming, perhaps, of that boy-baby whose birth the angels sang, whom
wise men came to worship, and over whose cradle hovered the shadow of
the cross. But with the early dawn I know they will awake, looking at
their treasures and living over again the joy of the preceding night.
Blessed childhood, when guarded and hedged around with the influences
which religion brings! Which of us does not recall with a pang of regret
those halcyon days when the summer was so long and bright because of the
flowers and birds, and the autumn so fair and sweet because of the
ripening fruits and nuts, and the winter so glorious because of the
beautiful snow? And who does not love the children and wish to make them
happy? I most certainly do; and as, while writing this story of The
Font, the actors in the fair have one by one passed in review before me,
I have kissed and blessed them all, and asked that God would keep them
to a green old age, when, perhaps, they may read, with strange, curious
feelings, what I have written of them.
And to the children I have never seen, but who may read this story, I
would say, I love you, too;—love you because you are children and parts
of God’s great family, and I pray him that you may one day meet in the
better world with every one of those who helped to buy the Font and her
who wrote its story.
ADAM FLOYD.
CHAPTER I.
ADAM.
It was the warmest day of the season, and from the moment when the first
robin chirped in the maple tree growing by the door, to the time when
the shadows stretching eastward indicated that the sultry afternoon was
drawing to a close, Adam Floyd had been busy. Indeed, he could not
remember a day when he had worked so continuously and so hard, neither
could he recall a time when he had been so perfectly happy, except upon
one starlight night when last winter’s snow was piled upon the ground.
The events of that night had seemed to him then like a dream, and they
were scarcely more real now, when pausing occasionally in his work and
leaning his head upon his broad, brown hands, he tried to recall just
the awkward words he had spoken and the graceful answer she had given;
answer so low that he would hardly have known she was speaking, had not
his face been so near to hers that he could hear the murmured response,
“I am not half good enough for you, Adam, and shall make a sorry wife;
but, if you will take me with all my faults, I am yours.”
That was what she had said, the only she in all the world to Adam Floyd,
now that the churchyard grass was growing over the poor old blind
mother, to whom he had been the tenderest, best of sons, and who had
said to him when dying,
“I’m glad I’m going home, my boy, for now you can bring Anna here. She
is a bonny creature, I know by the sound of her voice and the touch of
her silky hair. Tell her how with my last breath I blessed her, and how
glad I was to think that when she came, the old blind woman’s chair
would be empty, and that she would be spared a heavy burden which she is
far too young to bear. God deal by her as she deals by you, my noble
boy.”
The March winds were blowing when they made his mother’s grave, and
Adam’s heart was not as sore now as on that dismal, rainy night, when he
first sat alone in his little cottage and missed the groping hand
feeling for his own. Anna was coming within a week, Anna who had said,
“I am not half good enough for you.” How the remembrance of these words
even now brought a smile to the lips where the sweat drops were standing
as he toiled for her, putting the last finishing strokes to the home
prepared for his future bride, Anna Burroughs, the Deacon’s only
daughter, the fairest maiden in all the goodly town of Rhodes—Anna, who
had been away to school for a whole year, who could speak another
language than her own, whose hands were soft and white as wool, whom all
the village lads coveted, and at whom it was rumored even Herbert
Dunallen the heir of Castlewild, where Adam worked so much, had cast
admiring glances. Not good enough for him? She was far too good for a
great burly fellow like himself, a poor mechanic, who had never looked
into the Algebras and Euclids piled on Anna’s table the morning after
she came from school. This was what Adam thought, wondering why she had
chosen him, and if she were not sorry. Sometimes of late he had fancied
a coldness in her manner, a shrinking from his caresses; but the very
idea had made his great, kind heart, throb with a pang so keen that he
had striven to banish it, for to lose his darling now would be worse
than death. He had thought it all over that August day, when he nailed
down the bright new carpet in what was to be her room. “Our room,” he
said softly to himself, as he watched his coadjutor, old Aunt Martha
Eastman, smoothing and arranging the snowy pillows upon the nicely made
up bed, and looping with bows of pure white satin the muslin curtains
which shaded the pretty bay window. That window was his own handiwork.
He had planned and built it himself, for Anna was partial to bay
windows. He had heard her say so once when she came up to Castlewild
where he was making some repairs, and so he had made her two, one in the
bed-room, and one in the pleasant parlor looking out upon the little
garden full of flowers. Adam’s taste was perfect, and many a passer by
stopped to admire the bird’s nest cottage, peeping out from its thick
covering of ivy leaves and flowering vines. Adam was pleased with it
himself, and when the last tack had been driven and the last chair set
in its place, he went over it alone admiring as he went, and wondering
how it would strike Anna. Would her soft blue eyes light up with joy, or
would they wear the troubled look he had sometimes observed in them? “If
they do,” and Adam’s breath came hard as he said it, and his hands were
locked tightly together, “If they do, I’ll lead her into mother’s room;
she won’t deceive me there. I’ll tell her that I would not take a wife
who does not love me; that though to give her up is like tearing out my
heart, I’ll do it if she says so, and Anna will answer——”
Adam did not know what, and the very possibility that she might answer,
as he sometimes feared, paled his bronzed cheek, and made him reel, as,
walking to his blind mother’s chair, he knelt beside it, and prayed
earnestly for grace to bear the happiness or sorrow there might be in
store for him. In early youth, Adam had learned the source of all true
peace, and now in every perplexity, however trivial, he turned to God,
who was pledged to care for the child, trusting so implicitly in him.
“If it is right for Anna to be mine, give her to me, but, if she has
sickened of me, oh, Father, help me to bear.”
This was Adam’s prayer, and when it was uttered, the pain and dread were
gone, and the childlike man saw no cloud lowering on his horizon.
It was nearly time for him to be going now, if he would have Anna see
the cottage by day-light, and hastening to the chamber he had occupied
since he was a boy, he put on, not his wedding suit, for that was safely
locked in his trunk, but his Sunday clothes, feeling a pardonable thrill
of satisfaction when he saw how much he was improved by dress. Not that
Adam Floyd was ever ill-looking. A stranger would have singled him out
from a thousand. Tall, straight and firmly built, with the flush of
perfect health upon his frank, open face, and the sparkle of
intelligence in his dark brown eyes, he represented a rare type of manly
beauty. He was looking uncommonly well, too, this afternoon, old Martha
thought, as from the kitchen door she watched him passing down the walk
and out into the road which lead to the red farm-house, where Deacon
Burroughs lived, and where Anna was waiting for him.
CHAPTER II.
ANNA.
Waiting for him, we said, but not exactly as Adam Floyd should have been
waited for. Never had a day seemed so long to her as that which to Adam
had passed so quickly. Restless and wretched she had wandered many times
from the garden to the brook, from the brook back to the garden, and
thence to her own little chamber, from whose window, looking southward
could be seen the chimney of the cottage, peeping through the trees. At
this she looked often and long, trying to silence the faithful monitor
within, whispering to her of the terrible desolation which would soon
fall upon the master of that cottage, if she persisted in her cruel
plan. Then she glanced to the northward, where, from the hill top, rose
the pretentious walls of Castlewild, whose young heir had come between
her and her affianced husband; then she compared them, one with the
other—Adam Floyd with Herbert Dunallen—one the rich proprietor of
Castlewild, the boyish man just of age, who touched his hat so
gracefully, as in the summer twilight he rode in his handsome carriage
past her father’s door, the youth, whose manners were so elegant, and
whose hands were so white; the other, a mechanic, a carpenter by trade,
who worked sometimes at Castlewild—a man unversed in etiquette as taught
in fashion’s school, and who could neither dress, nor dance, nor
flatter, nor bow as could Dunallen, but who she knew he was tenfold more
worthy of her esteem. Alas, for Anna; though our heroine, she was but a
foolish thing, who suffered fancy to rule her better judgment, and let
her heart turn more willingly to the picture of Dunallen than to that of
honest Adam Floyd, hastening on to join her.
“If he were not so good,” she thought, as with a shudder she turned away
from the pretty little work-box he had brought her; “if he had ever
given me an unkind word, or suspected how treacherous I am, it would not
seem so bad, but he trusts me so much! Oh, Adam, I wish we had never
met!” and hiding her face in her hands, poor Anna weeps passionately.
There was a hand upon the gate, and Anna knew whose step it was coming
so cheerfully up the walk, and wondered if it would be as light and
buoyant when she was gone. She heard him in their little parlor, talking
to her mother, and, as she listened, the tones of his voice fell
soothingly upon her ear, for there was music in the voice of Adam Floyd,
and more than Anna had felt its quieting influence. It seemed cruel to
deceive him so dreadfully, and in her sorrow Anna sobbed out,
“Oh, what must I do?” Once she thought to pray, but she could not do
that now. She had not prayed aright since that first June night when she
met young Herbert down in the beech grove, and heard him speak jestingly
of her lover, saying “she was far too pretty and refined for such an odd
old cove.” It had struck her then that this cognomen was not exactly
refined, that Adam Floyd would never have called Dunallen thus, but
Herbert’s arm was round her waist, where only Adam’s had a right to
rest. Herbert’s eyes were bent fondly upon her, and so she forgave the
insult to her affianced husband, and tried to laugh at the joke. That
was the first open act, but since then she had strayed very far from the
path of duty, until now she had half promised to forsake Adam Floyd and
be Dunallen’s bride. That very day, just after sunset he would be
waiting in the beech wood grove for her final decision. No wonder that
with this upon her mind she shrank from meeting her lover, whom she knew
to be the soul of truth and honor. And yet she must school herself to go
with him over the house he had prepared for her with so much pride and
care. Once there she would tell him, she thought, how the love she once
bore him had died out from her heart. She would not speak of Herbert
Dunallen but she would ask to be released, and he, the generous,
unselfish man, would do her bidding.
Anna had faith in Adam’s goodness, and this it was which nerved her at
the last to wash the tear-stains from her face and rearrange the golden
curls falling about her forehead. “He’ll know I’ve been crying,” she
said, “but that will pave the way to what I have to tell him;” and with
one hasty glance at the fair young face which Adam thought so beautiful,
she ran lightly down the stairs, glad that her mother was present when
she first greeted Adam. But the mother, remembering her own girlish
days, soon left the room, and the lovers were alone.
“What is it, darling? Are you sick?” and Adam’s broad palm rested
caressingly upon the bowed head of Anna, who could not meet his earnest
glance for shame.
She said something about being nervous and tired because of the
excessive heat, and then, steadying her voice, she continued:
“You have come for me to see the cottage, I suppose. We will go at once,
as I must return before it’s dark,”
Her manner troubled him, but he made no comment until they were out upon
the highway, when he said to her timidly, “If you are tired, perhaps you
would not mind taking my arm. Folks will not talk about it, now we are
so near being one.”
Anna could not take his arm, so she replied: “Somebody might gossip; I’d
better walk alone,” and coquettishly swinging the hat she carried
instead of wore, she walked by his side silently, save when he addressed
her directly. Poor Adam! there were clouds gathering around his heart,
blacker far than the dark rift rising so rapidly in the western sky.
There was something the matter with Anna more than weariness or heat,
but he would not question her there, and so a dead silence fell between
them until the cottage was reached, and standing with her on the
threshold of the door, he said, mournfully, but oh! so tenderly, “Does
my little Blossom like the home I have prepared for her, and is she
willing to live here with me?”
CHAPTER III.
IN THE COTTAGE.
She seemed to him so fair, so pure, so like the apple blossoms of early
June, that he often called her his little Blossom, but now there was a
touching pathos in the tones of his voice as he repeated the pet name,
and it wrung from Anna a gush of tears. Lifting her blue eyes to his for
an instant, she laid her head upon his arm and cried piteously:
“Oh, Adam, you are so good, so much better than I deserve. Yes, I like
it, so much.”
Was it a sense of his goodness which made her cry, or was it something
else? Adam wished he knew, but he would rather she should tell him of
her own accord, and winding his arm around her, he lifted up her head
and wiping her tears away, kissed her gently, saying, “Does Blossom like
to have me kiss her?”
She did not, but she could not tell him so when he bent so fondly over
her, his face all aglow with the mighty love he bore her. Affecting not
to hear his question she broke away from his embrace and seating herself
in the bay window, began talking of its pretty effect from the road, and
the great improvement it was to the cottage. Still she did not deceive
Adam Floyd, who all the while her playful remarks were sounding in his
ear was nerving himself to a task he meant to perform. But not in any of
the rooms he had fitted up for her could he say that if she would have
it so she was free from him, even though the bridal was only a week in
advance and the bridal guests were bidden. Only in one room, his dead
mother’s, could he tell her this. That had been to him a Bethel since
his blind mother left it. Its walls had witnessed most of his secret
sorrows and his joys, and there, if it must be, he would break his heart
by giving Anna up.
“I did not change mother’s room,” he said, leading Anna to the arm-chair
where none had sat since an aged, withered form, last rested there. “I’d
rather see it as it used to be when she was here, and I thought you
would not mind.”
“It is better to leave it so,” Anna said, while Adam continued,
“I’m glad you like our home. I think myself it is pleasant, and so does
every one. Even Dunallen complimented it very highly.”
“Dunallen; has he been here?” and Anna blushed painfully.
But Adam was not looking at her. He had never associated the heir of
Castlewild with Anna’s changed demeanor, and wholly unconscious of the
pain he was inflicting, he went on, “He went all over the house this
morning, except indeed in here. I could not admit him to the room where
mother died. Did I tell you that he had hired me for a long and
profitable job? He is going to make some repairs at Castlewild before he
brings home his bride. You know he is engaged to a young heiress,
Mildred Atherton.”
It was well for Anna that her face was turned from Adam as she replied,
“Yes, I’ve heard something of an engagement made by the family when he
was a mere boy. I thought perhaps he had tired of it.”
“Oh, no; he told me only to-day that he expected to bring his wife to
Castlewild as early as Christmas. We were speaking of you and our
marriage.”
“Of me?” and Anna looked up quickly, but poor, deluded Adam, mistook her
guilty flush for a kind of grateful pride that Dunallen should talk of
her.
“He said you were the prettiest girl he ever saw, and when I suggested,
‘except Miss Atherton,’ he added, ‘I will not except any one; Milly is
pretty, but not like your _fiancee_.’”
Anna had not fallen so low that she could not see how mean and dastardly
it was for Herbert Dunallen to talk thus of her to the very man he was
intending to wrong so cruelly; and for a moment a life with Adam Floyd
looked more desirable than a life with Herbert Dunallen, even though it
were spent in the midst of elegance of which she had never dreamed.
Anna’s good angel was fast gaining the ascendency, and might have
triumphed had not the sound of horse’s feet just then met her ear, and
looking from the window she saw Herbert Dunallen riding by, his dark
curls floating in the wind and his cheek flushing with exercise. He saw
her, too, and quickly touching his cap, pointed adroitly towards the
beechwood grove. With his disappearance over the hill her good angel
flew away, and on her face there settled the same cold, unhappy look,
which had troubled Adam so much.
“Darling,” he said, when he spoke again, “there is something on your
mind which I do not understand. If you are to be my wife, there should
be no secrets between us. Will you tell me what it is, and if I can help
you I will, even though—though——”
His voice began to falter, for the white, hard look on Anna’s face
frightened him, and at last in an agony of terror, he grasped both her
hands in his and added impetuously: