THE Conlys claimed it as their privilege to entertain the connection on
the following day, and before leaving Woodburn that evening gave Mr.
Hugh Lilburn a cordial invitation to make one of the company, which he
accepted with evident pleasure.
Again the weather was delightful, every one in good health and spirits,
and the host and hostess were most kind and attentive, making each
guest feel welcome and at home.
Roselands was again a beautiful place; its fields in a higher state of
cultivation than ever before, yielding excellent crops, Calhoun having
proved himself a wise, industrious, scientific planter and manager,
while Arthur assisted with his advice and professional gains; so that
they had at length succeeded in paying off all indebtedness and could
feel that the estate was now really their own.
Calhoun greatly enjoyed showing Mary Keith about the house and grounds;
calling her attention particularly to such parts of them as were more
especially associated with the experiences of his Cousin Elsie’s early
life; for Mary was a deeply interested listener to everything he had to
tell on the subject.
Toward tea-time all had gathered on the verandas and the lawn in front
of the house. The young people and little ones were somewhat weary with
romping games and roaming over the grounds, so that very little was
going on among them except a bit of quiet chat here and there between
some of the older people.
Walter, always eager for the sports Cousin Ronald could make for them
with his ventriloquism, stepped to the back of the old gentleman’s
chair and made a whispered request for an exertion of his skill in that
line.
“Wait a bit, laddie, and I’ll see what can be done,” replied Mr.
Lilburn, ever willing to indulge the boy, who was a great favorite with
him.
Walter took possession of a vacant chair near at hand, and patiently
waited. Mr. Lilburn gave his son a slight sign, hardly noticed by any
one else, and almost immediately the notes of a flute came softly to
the ear as if from some distance.
Instantly conversation was hushed and all listened intently. It seemed
but a prelude, and presently a rich tenor voice struck in and sang a
pretty Scotch ballad, the flute playing an accompaniment.
Many looks of surprise were exchanged, for surely Cousin Ronald could
not be responsible for it all; he could not both sing and play the
flute at the same time, and the questions, “Who are they? What does it
mean?” passed from one to another.
“What you doing? what you ’bout?” screamed a harsh voice, apparently
from a tree-top near at hand.
“None o’ your business,” croaked another.
Walter started up and whispered in the old gentleman’s ear, “Why,
Cousin Ronald, are there two of you to-night? or—no, it can’t be that
Max is here?”
“No, no, laddie, that guess is wide of the mark,” laughed Mr. Lilburn
in return, while little Elsie Raymond exclaimed, “Two Pollies! and we
have only one at our house.”
“Why, it’s very odd,” remarked Lulu. “I really thought my Polly was the
only one in this neighborhood.”
“I think the voice of the first one was hers,” said Mary Keith, “and
the same too that we heard at Ion; I recognized it when I saw and heard
her at Woodburn; but the other voice is a little different.”
“Yes, a little harsher,” said Rosie, “like a male voice. Polly must
have hunted up a mate somewhere.”
“Two cups of coffee!” screamed the first voice. “Polly wants her
breakfast.”
“Not breakfast, Polly, but supper,” laughed Walter. “You don’t seem to
know the time o’ day.”
“Supper! Polly wants her supper,” croaked the second voice. “Polly’s
hungry.”
“Just wait a bit,” laughed Walter; “we’ll all be getting ours
presently, and if you are good birds probably you’ll get some too.”
At that moment a bell rang.
“There’s the call to it now,” said Calhoun. “Walk in, ladies and
gentlemen—children too—and the pollies shall have theirs if they will
follow with the crowd.”
Every one accepted the invitation, and they were soon seated about the
tables; it took several to accommodate them all. A moment’s hush, then
Cousin Ronald was requested to ask a blessing, and did so in a few
words spoken in reverent tones. The guests were then helped, and the
meal began, a buzz of subdued conversation accompanying it.
The parrot at Woodburn had learned many words and sentences since
her arrival there; during Mr. Lilburn’s visit he and she had become
well acquainted, and under his tuition her vocabulary had been very
considerably increased, so that she could upon occasion, or when so
disposed, make herself a very entertaining companion.
Presently her voice, or one very like it, was heard above the clatter
of plates, knives and forks, and the buzz of talk, coming seemingly
from the mantelpiece some yards in Mr. Lilburn’s rear.
“Polly wants her supper. What you ’bout? Polly’s hungry.”
“Stop your noise, Polly,” promptly responded the other parrot’s voice.
“Cup o’ coffee for Polly, Mamma Vi,” promptly demanded the first voice.
“Miss Ella rules here,” laughingly returned Violet, “but even she
cannot serve you unless you show yourselves.”
“Why, where is dem?” queried little Ned, gazing in wide-eyed wonder in
the direction from which the sounds had seemed to come. “Me tan’t see
de pollies.”
“Nor can I, Neddie boy,” said his Uncle Edward.
But at that instant subdued voices were heard conversing in quiet
tones, apparently outside upon the veranda, but close to an open door
leading into the dining-room.
“That supper smells mighty good, Bill.”
“So it does, Pat. Come now, let’s just step in and help ourselves,
seein’ as they doan’t hev perliteness enuff to ask us in or hand out so
much as a bite o’ victuals to us.”
“Let’s wait our turn, though, and perhaps we’ll get an invite when
they’re well filled theirselves.”
“You’re not afeared they’ll eat it all theirselves?”
“Huh! no; how could they? There’s loads and loads of grub there; plenty
for them and us too.”
“Yaas, ’bout enuff to feed a regirment.”
Conversation about the table had ceased; every one was gazing in the
direction from which the sounds of the talk between the two rough men
seemed to come.
“Whar dem fellers? I doan see ’em!” exclaimed a colored lad engaged in
waiting on the table; “hear deir talkin’ plain ’nuff, though.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed one of the strange voices, “is that so, darky? Then I
reckon your hearing’s some better’n your sight.”
“Impident rascal!” returned the colored lad wrathfully. “Mr. Cal, I’ll
go drive ’im out ef you say so, sir.”
“Yes, do so at once, Hector,” returned Calhoun. “We don’t want tramps
about to-day, and he seems a decidedly impudent one.”
Hector hurried to the door, but was back again in a moment, his face
ghastly with fright.
“He—he—dey am no dar, sir,” he gasped. “Couldn’t see nobody ’tall.
Whar—whar you ’spose dey’s done gone so pow’ful quick, sah?”
“Oh, don’t be frightened, Hector; they’re not likely to prove very
dangerous fellows,” returned Calhoun. “The probability would seem to be
that they have just stepped off the veranda into the grounds—scared,
you know, at seeing so powerful a fellow as you coming after them in
such a rage—and will be back asking for their supper in another minute
or two. However, as they may be lurking about, watching an opportunity
to help themselves, you may as well send some one out to look them up
and watch their movements.”
“Ha, ha, you’re a bit late with your precautions, mister!” exclaimed
one of the voices, now coming apparently from an inner room, “we’re
here already, and what’s more, defy you, sir, to put us out in a hurry.”
“That’s so,” growled the other voice; “’twould take any two o’ those
gents at the table to put me out; and I’ll not go a step till I’ve
satisfied my appetite with the best they’ve got.”
“Well,” exclaimed Ella, “if that isn’t impudence I never heard any.
But we are neglecting our guests, Art.; Uncle Horace’s plate wants
replenishing; the captain’s too.”
“Polly’s hungry; poor old Polly, poor old soul!” screamed from the
mantelpiece again the voice that sounded like that of Lulu’s pet.
“Breakfast-time. Polly wants coffee.”
“Hush, Polly! be quiet, Polly!” croaked the other voice. “Eat your
cracker and go to sleep.”
“Hold your tongue, Poll,” screamed the first. “Polly wants a cup of
coffee.”
Hector, who was a new servant, stood looking this way and that, gasping
and rolling up his eyes in terror, but the others, who were tolerably
well acquainted, by hearsay at least, with Mr. Lilburn’s ventriloquial
powers, had by this time recalled what they had heard on that subject,
and went quietly about waiting upon the guests.
Croly and Mary Keith had been most interested listeners, and when an
instant’s lull occurred, after the parrot-like screams, the former
said: “Well, ladies and gentlemen, I am now fully convinced that we
have, at least, one ventriloquist among us, though which of you it is I
have not been quite able to decide.”
“It may, perhaps, be easier to decide who it is not,” remarked the
elder Mr. Dinsmore, with an amused smile.
“Very true, sir,” said Croly, “and I have come to the conclusion that
it is not yourself, Captain Raymond, Doctor Conly, or my friends Harold
or Herbert Travilla.” With the last words he looked inquiringly at each
of the other gentlemen present. Not one of them seemed to him to look
conscious, and he felt that his question still remained unsolved.
Hector, still trembling with fright, and now and then sending a
timorous glance in the direction of the door at which the tramps had
last been heard, had listened in wondering surprise to the talk about
the ventriloquist.
“What dat, Scip?” he asked in shaking undertones, plucking at the
sleeve of a fellow servant, “dat vent-vent-erquis? Dis chile neber hear
of dat sort of ting afore.”
“You jess g’long an’ look fer it then,” returned Scip loftily. “’Pears
like maybe you find him in de parlor yonder behind de doah.”
The children had been looking and listening, wondering where the men
and the parrots were.
“Papa, where is de mans and birds? de pollies dat talked so loud?”
asked little Eric Leland. “Me don’t see dem.”
“No; they can only be heard, not seen,” laughed his father, “while
little fellows—like my Eric, you know—should be seen and not heard when
at table with so many older people.”
“Big folks talk very much, papa,” remarked the little one, smiling up
into his father’s face.
“So they do, and so may you when you grow big,” returned his father.
“And now, when at home with no strangers by, you may talk too.”
“Well, Hector, suppose you take Scip’s advice and go and look for those
tramps,” said Dr. Conly, addressing the frightened, perplexed-looking
young servant-man. “Don’t be afraid; I promise to cure your hurts if
you get any in trying to put them out.”
But Hector stood where he was as if rooted to the spot, shaking his
head gloomily in response to the doctor’s suggestions.
“No, tank you, doctah, sah, but dis chile radder stay cured widout
bein’ hurted fus,” he answered, retreating a little farther from the
parlor door as he spoke.
“Then come and make yourself useful,” said Ella. “Get your salver and
hand this cup of coffee to Mr. Lilburn.”
Hector obeyed, and Cousin Ronald, giving him a humorous look as he took
his cup from the salver, asked: “Are you really going to leave those
tramps in the parlor yonder to carry off whatever they please?”
“Why, sah, dis chile ain’t so powerful strong dat he kin fight two big
fellers widout nobody to help wid the business,” grumbled Hector,
looking very black at the suggestion.
“Oh, Hector, don’t be such a coward,” exclaimed Walter Travilla. “I’m
not very big or strong, but, if mamma will let me, I’ll go along and
protect you from them while you put them out. I may, mayn’t I, mamma?”
giving her an inquiring look as he rose from his chair.
But at that moment one of the strange voices was again heard at the
door opening on the veranda.
“Never mind, little feller; we’re out here and going off now; and we
haven’t taken a pin’s worth, for we’re honest chaps if we are poor and
sometimes ask for a bite o’ victuals.”
“Yaas, that’s so,” drawled the other voice.
A sound like that of retreating footsteps followed; then all was quiet,
and Hector drew a long breath of relief.
“Glad dey’s gone,” he said presently, then went briskly about his
business.
It was still early, not yet sundown, when those of the guests who had
little ones took leave of their kind entertainers, and started for
their homes. Edward and Zoe, with their twin babies, were among the
first. Herbert, too, excused himself, and on the plea of a letter to
write for the next mail went with them, riding his horse beside the
carriage in which the others were seated.
They took a short cut through a bit of woods and were moving rather
leisurely along, chatting about Cousin Ronald’s tricks of the afternoon
and speculating upon the seeming fact that he must have a coadjutor,
when Herbert suddenly reined in his steed, backing him away from the
vehicle, and at the same time calling out in a quick, imperative,
excited tone to the driver: “Rein in your horses, Solon! Quick, quick,
back them for your life!”
Even while he spoke the order was obeyed, yet barely in time; for at
that instant a great tree came down with a heavy crash, falling across
the road directly in front of the horses and so close that it grazed
their noses as it passed.
Zoe, throwing an arm round her husband’s neck and clasping her babies
close with the other, gave one terrified shriek, then for several
minutes all sat in horror-struck silence, feeling that they had escaped
by but a hair’s-breadth from sudden, horrible death. Edward’s arm was
about her waist, and he drew her closer and closer yet, with a gesture
of mute tenderness.
“O Ned, dear Ned, how near we’ve been to death! we and our darlings,”
she exclaimed, bursting into tears and sobs.
“Yes,” he said in trembling tones. “Oh, thank the Lord for his
goodness! The Lord first, and then you, Herbert,” for his brother was
now close by the side of the carriage again.
“No thanks are due me, dear Ned,” he replied, with emotion, “but let
us thank the Lord that he put it into my heart to come along with you,
and directed my eyes to the tree as it swayed slightly, preparatory to
its sudden fall. Look, Zoe, what a large, heavy one it is—one of the
old monarchs of the wood and still hale and vigorous in appearance. Who
would ever have expected it to fall so suddenly and swiftly?”
“I hardly want to,” she said, shuddering; “it seems so like a dreadful
foe that had tried to kill my husband, my darling babies, and myself.”
“How the horses are trembling with fright!” exclaimed Edward. “Poor
fellows! it is no wonder, for if I am not mistaken the tree actually
grazed their noses as it fell.”
“Yes, sah, it did dat berry ting,” said Solon, who had alighted and was
stroking and patting the terrified steeds, “an’ dey mos’ tinks dey’s
half killed. I dunno how we’s goin’ fer to git ’long hyar, Mr. Ed’ard,
sah; cayn’t drive ober dis big tree no how ’tall.”
“No, but perhaps we can manage to go round it; or better still, we’ll
turn and drive back till we can get into the high-road again. But
drive slowly, till your horses recover, in a measure at least, from
their fright.”
“Yes, I think that is the best we can do,” said Herbert, wheeling about
and trotting on ahead.
The shock to Zoe had been very severe. All the way home she was
shuddering, trembling, sobbing hysterically, and clinging to her
husband and babies as though in terror lest they should be suddenly
torn from her arms.
In vain Edward tried to sooth and quiet her, clasping her close and
calling her by every endearing name; telling her the danger was a thing
of the past; that their heavenly Father had mercifully preserved and
shielded them, and they had every reason to rest with quietness and
assurance in his protecting care.
“Yes, yes, I know it all, dear Ned,” she sobbed, “but have patience
with me, dear; my nerves are all unstrung and I cannot be calm and
quiet; I cannot help trembling, or keep back the tears, though I am
thankful, oh, so thankful! that not one of us was killed or even hurt.”
“No; it was a wonderful escape,” he said in moved tones; “a wonderful
evidence of the goodness of God to all of us; and thankful I am that
even the horses escaped injury.”
“Yes, yes, indeed, poor things! I’m very glad they escaped so well,”
she sobbed; “but for them to have been killed would have been as
nothing to having one of our dear babies hurt.”
“Oh, no, no! and we can never be thankful enough for their escape,”
he responded in moved tones, putting his arm around both at once and
drawing them into a closer embrace, while they looked from one parent
to the other in wide-eyed wonder.
“There, dear,” said Edward the next minute, glancing from the window,
“we are turning into our own avenue and you may surely feel that the
threatened danger is fully past.”
“Ah, no!” she returned, shuddering; “how can we be sure that any of our
grand old trees may not fall at any moment? I shall never, never feel
safe again.”
“Except by trusting in Him without whose will not even a sparrow falls
to the ground,” he said low and tenderly. “‘The angel of the Lord
encampeth round about them that fear him and delivereth them. O taste
and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the man that trusteth in
him.’”
“And you are that man, and so the Lord has spared you and your wife
and little ones. O Ned, dear, ask him to make their mother a Christian
too.”
“My darling, I will; I do every day of my life,” he said with emotion,
and holding her close.
In another moment the carriage had drawn up before the veranda steps
and Herbert, who had arrived and dismounted a little in advance of the
others, hastened to assist them to alight.
“Why, Zoe, dear girl, how you are trembling!” he exclaimed, as he
lifted her out and set her on her feet. “Don’t allow yourself to be so
agitated; the danger is past, and by God’s great goodness we have all
escaped injury.”
“Yes, yes, I know it!” she said, “but the shock was very great, and I
cannot get over it yet.”
She and Edward went directly to their own apartments, taking their
babes with them; for Zoe seemed unwilling to lose sight for a moment of
any one of her three treasures.
But Laurie and Lily were soon asleep.
“The sweet pets!” murmured Zoe, leaning over them, her eyes full of
tears. “O Ned, suppose they, or even one of them, had been struck by
that tree and killed or badly hurt, how could we have borne it—you and
I?” She ended with a storm of tears and sobs.
“Only by the strength that God gives in proportion to our needs, dear
little wife,” Edward answered, holding her close and caressing her
with great tenderness. “He is ever faithful to his promise to his
people. ‘As thy days, so shall thy strength be.’”
“But I cannot claim that promise,” she sobbed, laying her head on his
shoulder, while he clasped her close. “But I want to be a Christian. My
heart goes out in love and gratitude to him for sparing to me my life,
my dear babies, and most of all my best and dearest of husbands.”
“And I should be very, very desolate without you and yours, love,”
he returned with emotion; “I cannot feel that I could do without you
even in another world. Ah, dearest, why delay any longer? why not come
now—at this moment—and give yourself to God? Surely you cannot refuse,
cannot hesitate when you think of all his loving-kindness to you and
yours.”
“I do want to be his,” she said, “but the way does not seem quite clear
to me; can you not tell me just how?”
“It is very simple. Just tell him that you are a lost, helpless sinner,
ask him to forgive your sins and save you from them. David’s prayer
was, ‘Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity and cleanse me from my
sin.... Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit
within me’—petitions that he is both able and willing to grant. He
says, ‘him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.’ Delay is very
dangerous, dearest, as the experience of this evening may well convince
us; we are sure of no time but the present. ‘Now is the accepted time;
now is the day of salvation.’”
A moment of silence followed, broken at length by a few low-toned words
from Zoe: “I want to do it, dear Ned. Let us kneel down together, and
you say the words for me. I will follow you in my heart, for I do want
to belong to the dear Lord Jesus from this time forever.”
They knelt down with their arms about each other, and in a few earnest
words he expressed for her her sense of sin, her desire to be delivered
from it, and to consecrate herself with all her powers and possessions
to God’s service, for time and for eternity.
Zoe followed with a fervent “Amen! Dear Lord Jesus, take me for thy
very own, and let me be thine, wholly thine, forever and forevermore.”