if she had seen and heard the little girls as they stood together in
the hall. They had no thought of old Dinah and the cakes with this
important matter to talk over. Not think of what they heard, indeed!
That was a curious thing for Aunt Annie to say. She had been right
in believing that Maggie must have forgotten Mrs. Lawrence. Maggie
had done so, but now this conversation had brought the whole scene of
the quarrel with nurse to her mind. It all came back to her; but in
recollection it appeared far worse than the reality. Aunt Patty's loud,
angry voice seemed sounding in her ears, uttering the most violent
threats, and she thought of the old lady herself almost as if she had
been some terrible monster, ready to tear in pieces her own poor
frightened little self, clinging about nurse's neck.
And was it possible that this dreadful old woman was really coming
again to their house to make a visit? How could papa and mamma think it
best to allow it?
Such mischief had already been done by idle talk!
"Maggie," said Bessie, "do you remember about that Patty woman?"
"Yes," answered Maggie, "I did not remember about her till Aunt Annie
and Miss Carrie said that, but I do now; and oh, Bessie, she's _awful_!
I wish, I wish mamma would not let her come. She's the shockingest
person you ever saw."
"Aunt Annie said mamma did not want her herself; but she let her come
because she thought it was right," said Bessie.
"I wonder why mamma thinks it is right when she is so cross and
tempered," said Maggie, with a long sigh. "Why, she used to scold even
papa and mamma! Oh, I remember her so well now. I wish I didn't; I
don't like to think about it;" and Maggie looked very much distressed.
Bessie was almost as much troubled, but she put her arm about her
sister and said, "Never matter, dear Maggie, papa and mamma won't let
her do anything to us."
"But suppose papa and mamma both had to go out and leave us, as they
did that day she behaved so," said Maggie. "Nursey has so many to take
care of now, and maybe she'd meddle again,--Aunt Annie said she was
very meddling too,--and try to punish me when I did not do any blame."
"Jane would help nurse _pertect_ us," said Bessie, "and if she
couldn't, we'd yun away and hide till papa and mamma came."
"She shouldn't do anything to you, Bessie. I wouldn't let her do that,
anyhow," said Maggie, shaking her head, and looking very determined.
"How could you help it if she wanted to, Maggie?"
"I'd say, 'Beware, woman!'" said Maggie, drawing her eyebrows into
a frown, and extending her hand with the forefinger raised in a
threatening manner.
"Oh!" said Bessie, "what does that mean?"
"I don't quite know," said Maggie, slowly, "but it frightens people
very much."
"It don't frighten me a bit when you say it."
"'Cause you don't have a guilty conscience; but if you had, you'd be,
oh, so afraid!"
"How do you know I would?"
"I'll tell you," said Maggie. "Uncle John had a picture paper the other
day, and in it was a picture of a woman coming in at the door, and she
had her hands up so, and she looked as frightened, as frightened, and
a man was standing behind the curtain doing so, and under the picture
was 'Beware, woman!' I asked Uncle John what it meant, and he said that
was a wicked woman who was going to steal some papers so she could get
some money, and when she came in, she heard somebody say, 'Beware,
woman,' and she was so frightened she ran away and was never seen
again. I asked him to tell me more about it, but he said, 'No, it was a
foolish story, not fit for little people.' Then I asked him if foolish
stories were only fit for big people, but he just laughed and pinched
my cheek. But I coaxed him to tell me why the woman was so frightened
when the man did nothing but say those two words, and he said it was
because she had a guilty conscience, for wicked people feared what good
and innocent people did not mind at all. So if that old Mrs. Patty--I
sha'n't call her aunt--don't behave herself to you, Bessie, I'll just
try it."
"Do you think she has a guilty conscience, Maggie?"
"Course she has; how could she help it?"
"And will she yun away and never be seen again?"
"I guess so," said Maggie; "anyhow, I hope she will."
"I wonder why mamma did not tell us she was coming," said Bessie.
"We'll ask her to-morrow. We can't do it to-night because it will be
so late before she comes home from Riverside and we'll be asleep, but
we'll do it in the morning. And now, don't let's think about that
shocking person any more. We'll go and ask Dinah about the cakes."
But although they resolved to try to forget Aunt Patty for the present,
they could not help thinking of her a good deal and talking of her
also, for their young hearts had been filled with dread of the old lady
and her intended visit.
The reason that Mr. and Mrs. Bradford had not spoken to their children
of Mrs. Lawrence's coming was that it was not yet a settled thing; and
as there was not much that was pleasant to tell, they did not think it
best to speak of her unless it was necessary. It was long since her
name had been mentioned in the family, _so_ long that, as Mrs. Bradford
had hoped and supposed, all recollection of her had passed from
Maggie's mind, until the conversation she had just heard had brought it
back.
[Illustration: decoration, end of chap. 3]
[Illustration: Title decoration, chap. 4]
IV.
_PAPA'S STORY._
The next morning while they were at breakfast, the postman brought
three letters for papa and mamma.
"Margaret," said Mr. Bradford, looking up from one of his, "this is
from Aunt Patty to say that she will put off her visit until spring."
Maggie and Bessie both looked up.
"Oh!" said Mrs. Bradford, in a tone as if she were rather more glad
than sorry to hear that Aunt Patty was not coming at present. Papa
glanced at her with a smile which did not seem as if he were very much
disappointed either. Probably the children would not have noticed tone
or smile had they not been thinking of what they heard yesterday.
"Holloa!" said Fred, in a voice of dismay, "Aunt Patty is not coming
here again; is she? You'll have to look out and mind your P's and
Q's, Midget and Bess, if that is the case. We'll all have to for that
matter. Whew-ee, can't she scold though! I remember her tongue if it is
four years since I heard it."
"Fred, Fred!" said his father.
"It's true, papa; is it not?"
"If it is," replied his father, "it does not make it proper for you
to speak in that way of one so much older than yourself, my boy. Aunt
Patty is not coming at present; when she does come, I hope we shall all
be ready to receive her kindly and respectfully."
"I see you expect to find it difficult, papa," said the rogue, with a
mischievous twinkle of his eye. Before Mr. Bradford had time to answer,
Mrs. Bradford, who had been reading her letter, exclaimed joyfully,--
"Dear Elizabeth Rush says she will come to us at New Year, and make us
a long visit. I wish she could have come at Christmas, as I begged her
to do, but she says she has promised to remain in Baltimore with her
sister until after the holidays."
"Mamma," said Bessie, "do you mean Aunt Bessie is coming to stay with
us?"
"Yes, darling. Are you not glad?"
"Indeed, I am, mamma; I do love Aunt Bessie, and the colonel will be
glad too."
"That's jolly!" exclaimed Fred; and a chorus of voices about the
table told that Aunt Bessie's coming was looked forward to with very
different feelings from those which Aunt Patty's excited.
"Mamma," said Maggie suddenly, as they were about leaving the table,
"don't you wish you had forty children?"
"Forty!" exclaimed Mrs. Bradford, laughing. "No, that would be rather
too large a family, Maggie."
"But, mamma, if you had forty children, the house would be so full
there would never be room for Aunt Patty."
The boys laughed, but mamma was grave in a moment.
"Do you remember Aunt Patty, my darling?" she asked, looking rather
anxiously at Maggie.
"Oh, yes, mamma, I remember her ever so well," answered poor Maggie,
coloring all over her face and neck, and looking as if the remembrance
of Aunt Patty were a great distress.
"I thought you had quite forgotten her, dear," said her mother.
"I had, mamma, but yesterday Aunt Annie and Miss Carrie were talking
about her, and then I remembered her, oh! so well, and how fierce she
looked and what a loud voice she had, and how she scolded, mamma, and
how angry she used to be, and oh! mamma, she's such a dreadful old
person, and if you only wouldn't let her come to our house."
"And, mamma," said Bessie, "Aunt Annie said nobody had any peace from
the time she came into the house until she went out, and you know we're
used to peace, so we can't do without it."
By this time Maggie was crying, and Bessie very near it. Their mamma
scarcely knew how to comfort them, for whatever they might have heard
from Annie and her friends was probably only too true; and both she and
papa had too much reason to fear with Bessie that the usual "peace" of
their happy household would be sadly disturbed when Aunt Patty should
come there again. For though the old lady was not so terrible as the
little girls imagined her to be, her unhappy temper always made much
trouble wherever she went. All that Mrs. Bradford could do was to tell
them that they must be kind and respectful to Mrs. Lawrence, and so
give her no cause of offence; and that in no case would she be allowed
to punish or harm them. But the thing which gave them the most comfort
was that Aunt Patty's visit was not to take place for some months,
possibly not at all. Then she talked of Miss Rush, and made pleasant
plans for the time when she should be with them, and so tried to take
their thoughts from Aunt Patty.
"And Uncle Ruthven is coming home," said Maggie. "Grandmamma had a
letter from him last night, and she said he promised to come before the
winter was over; and _won't_ we all be happy then?"
Mamma kissed her little daughter's April face, on which the tears were
not dry before smiles were dancing in their place, and in happy talk of
Uncle Ruthven, Aunt Patty was for the time forgotten.
Uncle Ruthven was mamma's only brother, and a famous hero in the eyes
of all the children. None of them save Harry had ever seen him, and he
had been such a very little boy when his uncle went away ten years ago,
that he could not recollect him. But his letters and the stories of his
travels and adventures had always been a great delight to his young
nieces and nephews; and now that he talked of coming home, they looked
forward to seeing him with almost as much pleasure as if they had known
him all their lives. As for the mother and the sisters who had been
parted from him for so long, no words could tell how glad they were. A
sad rover was Uncle Ruthven; it was easier to say where he had not been
than where he had. He had climbed to the tops of high mountains and
gone down into mines which lay far below the surface of the earth; had
peeped into volcanoes and been shut up among icebergs, at one time had
slung his hammock under the trees of a tropical forest, at another had
rolled himself in his blankets in the frozen huts of the Esquimaux; had
hunted whales, bears, lions, and tigers; had passed through all manner
of adventures and dangers by land and by sea; and at last was really
coming home, "tired of his wanderings, to settle down beside his dear
old mother and spend the rest of his days with her." So he had said
in the letter which came last night, and grandmamma had read it over
many times, smiled over it, cried over it, and talked of the writer,
until, if Maggie and Bessie had doubted the fact before, they must then
have been quite convinced that no other children ever possessed such
a wonderful uncle as this Uncle Ruthven of theirs. When he would come
was not quite certain,--perhaps in two months, perhaps not in three or
four, while he might be here by Christmas or even sooner.
And now came faithful old nurse to hear the good news and to have her
share in the general family joy at the return of her first nursling,
her beloved "Master Ruthven."
"And will your Aunt Patty be here when he comes, my dear lady?" she
asked.
"I think not," said Mrs. Bradford, at which mammy looked well pleased,
though she said no more; but Maggie and Bessie understood the look
quite well.
Mrs. Bradford had intended by and by to talk to her children of Mrs.
Lawrence and to tell them that she was rather odd and different from
most of the people to whom they were accustomed, but that they must be
patient and bear with her if she was sometimes a little provoking and
cross. But now she found that they already knew quite too much, and
she was greatly disturbed when she thought that it would be of little
use to try and make them feel kindly towards the old lady. But the
mischief had spread even farther than she had imagined.
That afternoon Maggie and Bessie with little Franky were all in their
mamma's room, seated side by side upon the floor, amusing themselves
with a picture-book. This book belonged to Harry, who had made it
himself by taking the cuts from magazines and papers and putting
them in a large blank book. It was thought by all the children to be
something very fine, and now Maggie sat with it upon her lap while
she turned over the leaves, explaining such pictures as she knew, and
inventing meanings and stories for those which were new to her.
Presently she came to one which quite puzzled her. On the front of the
picture was the figure of a woman with an eagle upon her shoulder,
intended to represent America or Liberty; while farther back stood a
man with a gun in his hand and a lion at his side, who was meant for
John Bull of England. Miss America had her arm raised, and appeared to
be scolding Mr. England in the most terrible manner. Maggie could not
tell the meaning of it, though she knew that the woman was America, but
Franky thought that he understood it very well. Now Master Franky had
a good pair of ears, and knew how to make a good use of them. He had,
also, some funny ideas of his own, and like many other little children,
did not always know when it was best to keep them to himself. He had
heard a good deal that morning of some person named Patty, who was said
to scold very much; he had also heard of his Uncle Ruthven, and he knew
that this famous uncle had hunted lions in far-away Africa. The picture
of the angry woman and the lion brought all this to his mind, and now
he suddenly exclaimed,--
"Oh, my, my! Dere's a Patty wis her chitten, and she stolds Uncle
'Utven wis his lion."
This was too much for Maggie. Pushing the book from her knees, she
threw herself back upon the carpet and rolled over, screaming with
laughter at the joke of America with her eagle being mistaken for Aunt
Patty with a chicken; Bessie joined in, and Franky, thinking he had
said something very fine, clapped his hands and stamped his feet upon
the floor in great glee. Mrs. Bradford herself could not help smiling,
partly at the droll idea, partly at Maggie's amusement; but the next
moment she sighed to think how the young minds of her children had
been filled with fear and dislike of their father's aunt, and how much
trouble all this was likely to make.
"Children," said Mr. Bradford, that evening, "who would like to hear a
true story?"
Papa found he was not likely to want for listeners, as three or four
eager voices answered.
"Wait a moment, dear," he said, as Bessie came to take her usual place
upon his knee, and rising, he unlocked a cabinet secretary which stood
at the side of the fireplace in his library. This secretary was an
object of great interest to all the children, not because it held
papa's private papers,--those were trifles of very little account
in their eyes,--but because it contained many a relic and treasure,
remembrances of bygone days, or which were in themselves odd and
curious. To almost all of these belonged some interesting and true
story,--things which had happened when papa was a boy, or even farther
back than that time,--tales of travel and adventure in other lands, or
perhaps of good and great people. So they were pleased to see their
father go to his secretary when he had promised "a true story," knowing
that they were sure of a treat.
Mr. Bradford came back with a small, rather worn, red morocco case,
and as soon as they were all quietly settled, he opened it. It held
a miniature of a very lovely lady. Her bright eyes were so sparkling
with fun and mischief that they looked as if they would almost dance
out of the picture, and the mouth was so smiling and lifelike that it
seemed as if the rosy lips must part the next moment with a joyous,
ringing laugh. Her hair was knotted loosely back with a ribbon, from
which it fell in just such dark, glossy ringlets as clustered about
Maggie's neck and shoulders. It was a very beautiful likeness of a very
beautiful woman.
"Oh, how sweet, how lovely! What a pretty lady!" exclaimed the
children, as they looked at it.
"Why, she looks like our Maggie!" said Harry.
"Only don't flatter yourself you are such a beauty as that, Midget,"
said Fred, mischievously.
"Oh, Fred," said Bessie, "my Maggie is a great deal prettier, and I
don't believe that lady was so good as Maggie either."
"She may have been very good," said Harry, "but I don't believe she had
half as sweet a temper as our Midge. I'll answer for it that those eyes
could flash with something besides fun; could they not, papa?"
"Was she a relation of yours, papa?" asked Fred.
"Yes," answered Mr. Bradford, "and I am going to tell you a story about
her."
"One summer, a good many years ago, two boys were staying on their
uncle's farm in the country. Their father and mother were travelling
in Europe, and had left them in this uncle's care while they should
be absent. It was a pleasant home, and the boys, accustomed to a city
life, enjoyed it more than I can tell you. One afternoon, their uncle
and aunt went out to visit some friends, giving the boys permission to
amuse themselves out of doors as long as they pleased. All the servants
about the place, except the old cook, had been allowed to go to a fair
which was held in a village two or three miles away, so that the house
and farm seemed to be quite deserted. Only one other member of the
family was at home, and this was an aunt whom the boys did not love at
all, and they were only anxious to keep out of her way."
"Papa," said Fred, eagerly, "what were the names of these boys and
their aunt?"
"Ahem," said Mr. Bradford, with a twinkle in his eye, as he saw Fred's
knowing look. "Well, I will call the oldest boy by my own name, Henry,
and the youngest we will call Aleck."
"Oh," said Fred, "and the aunt's name was, I suppose--"
"Henrietta," said his father, quickly; "and if you have any remarks to
make, Fred, please keep them until my story is done."
"Very well, sir," said Fred, with another roguish look at Harry, and
his father went on.
"Henry was a strong, healthy boy, who had never known a day's sickness;
but Aleck was a weak, delicate, nervous little fellow, who could bear
no excitement nor fatigue. Different as they were, however, the
affection between them was very great. Gentle little Aleck looked up
to his elder and stronger brother with a love and confidence which
were beautiful to see, while the chief purpose of Henry's life at this
time was to fulfil the charge which his mother had given him to care
for Aleck, and keep him as far as he could from all trouble and harm,
looking upon it as a sacred trust.
"There was a large old barn standing at some distance from the house,
used only for the storing of hay; and as they found the sun too warm
for play in the open air, Henry proposed they should go there and make
some boats which later they might sail in the brook. Aleck was ready
enough, and they were soon comfortably settled in the hayloft with
their knives and bits of wood. But while they were happily working
away, and just as Henry was in the midst of some marvellous story, they
heard a voice calling them.
"'Oh, dear,' said little Aleck, 'there's Aunt Henrietta! Now she'll
make us go in the house, and she'll give me my supper early and send
me to bed, though Aunt Mary said I might sit up and have tea with the
rest, even if they came home late. Let us hide, Henry.'
"No sooner said than done. The knives and chips were whisked out of
sight, Aleck hidden beneath the hay. Henry, scrambling into an old
corn-bin, covered himself with the corn-husks with which it was half
filled, while the voice and its owner came nearer and nearer.
"'You'd better take care; she'll hear you,' said Henry, as he heard
Aleck's stifled laughter; and the next moment, through a crack in the
bin, he saw his aunt's head appearing above the stairs. Any stranger
might have wondered why the boys were so much afraid of her. She was a
tall, handsome lady, not old, though the hair beneath her widow's cap
was white as snow. She stood a moment and cast her sharp, bright eyes
around the hayloft; then, satisfied that the boys were not there, went
down again, saying quite loud enough for them to hear,--
"'If I find them, I shall send Henry to bed early, too; he's always
leading dear little Aleck into mischief. Such nonsense in Mary to tell
that sick baby he should sit up until she came home!'
"Now it was a great mistake for auntie to say this of Henry. He did
many wrong things, but I do not think he ever led his little brother
into mischief; on the contrary, his love for Aleck often kept him
from harm. So his aunt's words made him very angry, and as soon as he
and Aleck had come out of their hiding-places, he said many things he
should not have said, setting a bad example to Aleck, who was also
displeased at being called 'a sick baby.'
"'Let's shut ourselves up in Dan's cubby-hole,' said Henry; 'she'll
never think of looking for us there, if she comes back.'
"Dan's cubby-hole was a small room shut off from the rest of the
hayloft, where one of the farm hands kept his tools; and here the boys
went, shutting and bolting the door behind them. They worked away for
more than an hour, when Aleck asked his brother if he did not smell
smoke.
"'Not I,' said Henry; 'that little nose of yours is always smelling
something, Aleck.'
"Aleck laughed, but a few moments after declared again that he really
did smell smoke and felt it too.
"'They are burning stubble in the fields; it is that you notice,' said
Henry. But presently he sprang up, for the smell became stronger, and
he saw a little wreath of smoke curling itself beneath the door. 'There
is something wrong,' he said, and hastily drawing the bolt, he opened
the door. What a sight he saw! Heavy clouds of smoke were pouring up
the stairway from the lower floor of the barn, while forked flames
darted through them, showing that a fierce fire was raging below. Henry
sprang forward to see if the stairs were burning; but the flames,
fanned by the draught that came through the door he had opened, rushed
up with greater fury, and drove him back. How could he save Aleck?
The fire was plainly at the foot of the stairs, even if they were not
already burning, while those stifling clouds of smoke rolled between
them and the doors of the haymow, and were now pouring up through every
chink and cranny of the floor on which he stood. Not a moment was to
be lost. Henry ran back, and closing the door, said to his terrified
brother,--
"'Aleck, you must stay here one moment until I bring the ladder. I can
let myself down from this little window, but cannot carry you. Stand
close to it, dear boy, and do not be frightened.'
"Stretching out from the window, he contrived to reach an old worn-out
leader which would scarcely bear his weight, and to slide thence to the
ground. Raising the cry of 'Fire!' he ran for the ladder, which should
have been in its place on the other side of the barn. It was not there.
Frantic with terror, as he saw what headway the fire was making, he
rushed from place to place in search of the missing ladder; but all in
vain; it could not be found. Meanwhile his cries had brought his aunt
and the old cook from the house. Henry ran back beneath the window of
the little room where he had left Aleck, and called to him to jump down
into his arms, as it was the only chance of safety left. But, alas,
there was no answer; the poor little boy had fainted from fright. Back
to the door at the foot of the stairs, which were now all in a blaze,
through which he was about to rush, when his aunt's hand held him back.
"'Live for your father and mother. _I_ have _none_ to live for.'