A WHISTLE from the direction of the house startled the lovers.
“Ah, that is Cal’s call to me,” said Arthur, “and I presume that the
mail is received, a letter for me in it; perhaps one for you too, my
Marian.”
“Oh, I hope so,” she said, “it is so long since I heard from my dear
brother Sandy, my only one now.”
“Ah,” he said as they walked on to the house, for he had risen
and given her his arm, “you must tell me about him, dearest, when
opportunity offers. Your only brother? Well, I shall give you several
more when you give yourself to me.”
They found the family all on the porch, most of them with letters,
papers, or magazines in their hands.
Elsie looked smilingly at Arthur and Marian as they came up the steps,
something in their faces telling what had passed between them since
they walked down to the beach together.
Arthur saw and returned her smile, and leading Marian to her, said in
joyous tones, “You were right, cousin. I followed your advice, and she,
dear girl, has given herself to me; or rather we have given ourselves
to each other.”
His clear though not loud tones reached every ear, and in a moment all
the relatives, old and young, had gathered about the happy pair with
their hearty congratulations.
“I am truly glad, Miss Marian,” said Calhoun, taking her hand in a warm
pressure; “glad for both you and Art, who will, I am sure, make the
best of husbands, and for myself also that I am to have so sweet a new
sister.”
“And we are to be sisters too, it seems,” Mary said, giving the young
girl a warm embrace.
“And Hugh and I are to be left desolate and alone,” remarked Mr.
Lilburn in a rueful tone. “Hugh, laddie, it is high time you were
hunting up a wife.”
“I think I shall have to try, father,” returned the young man, coloring
and laughing. “I contemplate robbing those who have robbed us; but a
fair exchange is no robbery.”
At that both the Conlys turned surprised, inquiring looks upon him.
“Ah,” he laughed, “I perceive that I have stolen a march upon you.
This, sirs,” holding up a letter, “is from your sister Ella, accepting
my heart, hand, and fortune, which I offered her some days ago by
letter.”
At that there was a murmur of surprise from the listeners, accompanied
by looks of pleasure; then the brothers shook hands with Hugh, wishing
him joy and saying they should be glad to receive him into the family.
“My! what a lot of weddings we seem to be going to have!” exclaimed
Rosie. “I think I’ll wait for mine till they are not quite such common
affairs.”
“Particularly as there’s nobody offering to pair off with you yet,
my pretty young sister,” laughed Walter. “I think, though, that the
school-room is the best place for you and me for a while yet.”
“Ah, Marian, here is a letter for you, my bonny lass; from your brother
Sandy, I presume,” said Mr. Lilburn, holding it out to her.
She took it eagerly, exclaiming, “Oh, yes, that is Sandy’s writing! The
dear laddie! how I have wanted to hear from him.”
“Read it, lass, and tell us if he says he will come to us, and if so
how soon,” said the old gentleman.
She hastened to obey, and presently announced in joyous tones, “Oh,
yes, Cousin Ronald, he is delighted with your kind offer, and will come
as soon as he has finished his present engagement, which will be in
about a couple of months.”
In the mean time Arthur had opened and read a letter handed him by his
brother. He looked much pleased with its contents.
“Cousin Elsie,” he said, “do you think you can accommodate me here a
few days longer?”
“I am quite certain of it, provided you will stay,” she answered with
her own bright, sweet smile. “You need not have the slightest fear that
you are not as welcome as the sunlight.”
“Thank you very much,” he said; “then I shall stay perhaps another
week. This letter is from Cousin Dick Percival. He writes he has come
there—to Roselands—for change of scene and air, as well as to see his
relatives; can stay some weeks, and will take charge of my patients for
a time, which he has in fact already begun to do.”
“How nice!” exclaimed Rosie. “Dick is a good boy to enable us to keep
you a little longer, and when you go back he will, I hope, come and pay
a little visit here himself.”
“Yes, I hope he will,” said her mother. “I shall write and invite him
to do so.”
“Well, Cousin Art, I’m glad you are going to stay longer,” said Walter,
“but I hope none of us will be expected to get sick in order to give
you employment.”
“No, certainly not,” returned Arthur gravely. “You must remember it was
not for work I came, but rest; so don’t trouble yourself trying to make
business for me.”
“No, I will leave that business to Cousin Marian,” returned Walter,
giving her a mischievous look which brought a charming blush to her
cheek.
“Yes, Walter, I have given him a great deal of business in that line,
I am sorry to say,” she returned; “so that he has had but little rest,
and needs to stay and have some play-time.”
“So he has; but you are much better, I’m sure, for your cheeks are like
as roses—not the white kind, either—and we’ll all endeavor to keep well
so that he’ll have nothing to do but rest and recruit the remainder of
the time he stays.”
“Well, what are the plans for the day?” asked Harold, addressing the
company in general.
“Some of us want to do a little shopping, and would like to have you
drive us in to the city,” replied his mother.
“I shall do so with the greatest pleasure, mamma,” he returned. “How
soon do you wish to start?”
“I’m wanting a ride,” said Rosie. “I haven’t had one for some time, and
am actually hungry for it.”
“Well, little dear, I’ll see what can be done to relieve your hunger,”
said Herbert gallantly. “Are there any others of our company suffering
from the same kind of hunger?”
“Yes; I’d like to go,” said Lulu. “May I, papa?”
“Yes; if the right kind of horse can be secured, so that I can feel
that you will be safe. Violet, my dear, if you are not to be one of the
shopping party, will you ride with me and the others?”
“With pleasure, my dear,” she replied. “I dare say I am as hungry for
a ride as my younger sister; and in your company it will be especially
enjoyable.”
All then hurried to their rooms to don their riding hats and habits,
while Harold and the captain went in search of the required steeds.
Arthur did not think Marian strong enough for such a ride, and Mary and
Calhoun did not care to go. They would probably walk out presently, but
just now were waiting to see the others off.
At Calhoun’s request, Mary sat down to the piano, Marian and Arthur
drew near, and the four joined in the singing of some of their favorite
hymns, Mary playing the accompaniment.
Presently Will Croly ran in, in his informal way, joined the little
group, and added his voice to theirs.
Good-mornings were exchanged when they had finished their piece, then
Croly said, “Now, Miss Mary, let us have ‘My days are gliding swiftly
by.’ It is a great favorite with me, particularly the chorus:
“‘For oh, we stand on Jordan’s strand,
Our friends are passing over,
And, just before, the shining shore
We may almost discover.’”
Mary at once complied with the request, and they were singing the last
verse when two young men, strangers to the family, came up into the
porch asking for Croly.
“Ah,” said he, “I quite forgot my errand. Those are some strangers
visiting at my uncle’s house, and I have promised to go in bathing with
them—so called to ask my friends Harold and Herbert to go in with us.”
“I really don’t think they can to-day,” said Calhoun, and went on to
explain how they had planned to spend the next few hours.
“Ah, then I must just go on with the others,” returned Croly.
“Good-morning to you all,” and with the words he hurried out, joined
the two strangers; the three went over to the bath houses, not very far
away, and were presently seen coming out of them in bathing-suits and
going down among the waves.
A few moments later those who had gone in search of horses and carriage
returned bringing a full supply. Those expecting to go had crowded on
the porch, all in good spirits, laughing and chatting, the younger ones
especially full of mirth and gayety, when suddenly a cry of fright and
distress came from the sea. “Help! help! he’s drowning! Oh, help! help!
save him!”
With the first cry a deep hush had fallen on our friends upon the
porch, but at the last word Captain Raymond, Mr. Dinsmore, Mr. Lilburn
and his son, the two Conlys, Harold and Herbert, all dashed down the
steps and away toward the spot from whence the cry came.
But a row-boat near at hand was already pulling for it, and was there
before them. There seemed nothing for them to do, but they stood close
by the incoming waves, waiting in breathless anxiety and suspense.
Some moments passed—then they saw an insensible, limp, dripping form
drawn from the water into the boat, which immediately made for the
shore with all speed.
“Oh, it is Will, dear Will!” cried Harold as he caught sight of the
death-like face. “O Art, Cousin Art, do your best to save him, if
there’s any life there. How glad I am you’re here with us.”
“I shall certainly do all I can,” returned Arthur in moved tones, “and
do the rest of you ask the Lord to direct and bless my efforts.”
“Oh, yes, we will, we will,” responded several voices as the poor
fellow was lifted from the boat and swiftly carried to the nearest
house—the one occupied by our friends.
Arthur understood his business thoroughly and there were plenty of
willing, helping hands. The news flew fast, and presently Croly’s aunt
came, full of distress, to ask if there was any life, any hope.
“We have not given up, we will not while the least spark of hope
remains,” Elsie answered; then told of the long and at last successful
fight which had once saved her Harold from the grave.
“Oh, dear fellow, I hope he will be saved,” said the aunt, weeping.
“You probably know, Mrs. Travilla, how anxious he has been about his
parents: we have just had a telegram from his father, saying that they
have landed in New York and will be here this evening. I think it will
kill his mother—father too, perhaps, for he is their only child and
just an idol with them both—to learn that he is lying here, to all
appearance dead. I’ll have to put them off with the news that he went
out on the sea before their telegram came and may be back in an hour or
two.”
“Yes, I hope he will soon show signs of life,” Elsie said with emotion.
“Oh, how sad, how heart-breaking for them to lose their only child in
such a way—so suddenly and without a parting word!”
“They are coming home very happy,” continued the aunt; “the mother
having almost entirely recovered her health, and if only they could
find poor Will all right——” she ended with a burst of weeping.
“Dear Mrs. Croly, do not give up hope; we are all praying for him—that
his life may be spared if the will of God be so.”
“Then I believe it will be, for God is the hearer and answerer of
prayer,” returned the aunt; “and oh, I want to thank you for having
poor Will brought here; for if he was with us the state of affairs
could hardly be kept a moment from his parents, but now I hope it will
be all right before they need to know.”
“You are very, very welcome,” Elsie replied, and Mrs. Croly went away
somewhat consoled and hopeful.
The rides and the shopping expedition had been given up and the
children and younger members of the family had gone down to the beach
to be out of the way of those working with Croly; but Rosie, Lulu,
Grace, and Walter were in a sad, subdued, and anxious mood. Mary and
Marian presently joined them, and they talked feelingly of him whom
they hardly dared to hope to see in life again.
Yet all had great faith in Arthur’s skill, and the younger girls,
telling of Harold’s narrow escape some years before at Nantucket,
cheered and encouraged the others with the hope that Croly might even
yet be saved from temporal death, and live many years to be a comfort
to his parents and a blessing to the world.
“I do hope he is not gone and will live for many years serving the
Master here on earth,” said Mary, “but if he is gone, we know that it
is to be with Jesus and forever blest. How he loved that hymn about the
shining shore! and perhaps he has reached it now,” she added with a
burst of tears.
“But oh, we will hope not! hope he is still living and will be spared
to the parents who love him so dearly,” said Marian. “And I believe if
anybody can save him it is your cousin, Dr. Conly.”
“I’ll run back to the house to see if there is any sign of life yet,”
said Walter, and rushed away.
He was back again in a few minutes, running, waving his handkerchief
over his head, and showing so joyous a face that the others exclaimed
half breathlessly, “Oh, is he coming to?”
“Yes, yes, Cousin Arthur says there are signs of life, and he thinks
that he will be able to save him.”
The glad news was received with a simultaneous burst of joyful
exclamations.
“His parents have come,” added Walter, “and are, oh! so anxious to see
him, but don’t know yet that anything is wrong with him.”
And now with their minds relieved the girls were able to give attention
to anything that might be going on within the range of their vision.
A boat was tied to the wharf and they saw that persons had left it
and were wandering along the beach, among them an elderly man having
several children in his care.
Presently this little group had seated themselves on the beach quite
near our little party, and the smallest, a child of three, came
toddling toward them.
“How do you do, baby girl? Do you like candy? Will you have a bite?”
asked Rosie, holding out a tempting-looking morsel.
The little one stood gazing for a moment with her finger in her mouth,
then she accepted the offer. “Dood!” she said smacking her lips. “Dot
nudder bit for Sally?”
“Yes,” Rosie said, bestowing another piece.
But another, older girl came running. “Sally,” she said reprovingly,
and seizing the little one’s hand in an effort to draw her away, “you
must not tease the ladies; papa says so. Come with me.”
Sally resisted and Rosie said, “No, we are not teased. We’d like to
have her stay and talk to us.”
But the father had come for his baby girl. “Please excuse her, young
ladies,” he said, lifting his hat politely, “she’s pretty well spoiled.
I’ve come to the seaside for a bit of rest and brought my children
along, for I knew it would be quite a treat to them.”
“And see, we’ve all got on the Union colors,” said one of the little
girls who had followed him, showing a rosette of red, white, and blue
ribbon pinned to her dress. “Father was a soldier in the war, and we
all love the old flag.”
“Oh, were you, sir?” cried Lulu delightedly. “Won’t you please tell us
of your experiences there?”
The other girls joined eagerly in the request, and at length, evidently
pleased that they cared to hear the story, he sat down on the beach
beside them and began it.
“In the war of the rebellion I was in the Shenandoah Valley with the
infantry troops; a mere lad I was, only fifteen. One day I slipped off
without leave, to visit an aunt living in Washington. We were at that
time in camp on Georgetown Heights. Going back that night I lost my way
and did not feel safe to ask it lest I should be thought a deserter;
so finally went down into an area and, wearied out with my wanderings,
fell asleep. It rained heavily through the night, but I was so weary
and so used to hardship that I slept on and knew nothing about that
till morning, when I waked to find myself lying in a puddle of water. I
rose and hurried on my way; finally got back to camp, but so rheumatic
from my wetting that I was sent to the hospital—in Washington. There my
gun was taken from me and a receipt for it given me; so that when at
length I recovered sufficiently to go back to camp, I was without a gun.
“It was not supplied to me immediately, and in the mean time the troops
with whom I belonged were ordered to guard some wagons—a very long
train—and while it was moving on, Mosby came up with his cavalry, took
us prisoners, rifled the wagons of such things as he could carry away
and use, and took the best horses for the use of his troops, leaving
behind his own broken-down ones.
“Mosby’s own troops and his prisoners were allowed to help themselves
to such provisions as they could carry. I think they burnt all they
could not take. When the rebs came upon us, one demanded my coat. I
pulled it off and gave it to him; another took my hat, a third my
shoes, so that I was not particularly well dressed when they were done
with me.
“But I, as well as others, filled my haversack with
provisions—hard-tack, pork, and so forth—and as they moved on each
prisoner was obliged to lead one or more horses. I had but one.
“When the troops halted for the night the prisoners—among others—were
ordered to take the horses to the river and water them. I had been all
the time since my capture trying to contrive a way to escape. Now I
saw a way, told a fellow-captive my plan, and asked him to render his
aid by taking charge of my horse in addition to several already in his
keeping. He consented. I slipped from the horse’s back and, unobserved,
got behind a large stone, allowed myself to sink in the water there
till nearly covered—only able to breathe—and so remained till the
troops of rebs and prisoners had left the spot.
“Then creeping cautiously out, I hurried on my way, going down the
river bank, knowing the Union troops were camped somewhere lower down
the stream.
“I trudged on all night, crept into the bushes and hid as day
dawned—lying there all day tortured with heat and thirst as well as
hunger—travelled on again the following night. Faint, weary, and worn
with fatigue, hunger, and thirst, about nine o’clock seeing a light at
a little distance I went toward it, feeling that I must venture for
relief from my intolerable sufferings from hunger and thirst.
“As I drew near the light a dog began to bark from its vicinity and
rushed out in my direction. At that I stood still and the dog came no
nearer.
“But presently I heard the voice of a negro man asking: ‘Who dar?’
Knowing the negroes were always friends to the Union soldiers, I then
came forward and told of my escape from the rebs and my desire to reach
the Union camp, my ignorance of the right road, hunger, thirst, and
weariness.
“The negro told me I was in a dangerous place—rebel troops being all
about—and he and Dinah—his wife—had not much provision, but to come in
and Dinah would give me something to eat, then I could go on my way, he
showing me where to ford the river, the Federal troops being two or
three miles farther down on the other side.
“I went with him into the cabin; an old negress greeted me kindly, and
having heard my story undertook to get me some supper.
“She made a corn pone, took a pan with a division across the middle,
put the pone in one side, some bacon in the other, and setting it on
the coals, cooked them together, the fat from the bacon running through
to the pone. It made as delicious a supper as I ever ate. She gave me
a piece to carry along when I set out upon my journey again, as I did
presently, travelling still farther down stream, till I reached a ford.
“Near there I lay down and slept soundly, not waking till the sun was
two hours high.
“I was alarmed to find it so late, but I forded the river safely, and
finally reached the Union camp.
“No one there knew me. I had not even a uniform to show what I was, so
lest I might prove to be a spy I was ordered under arrest and confined
till some of my own regiment who knew me came in and corroborated my
story, or at least recognized me as one of themselves.”
“That was a very interesting story, and we are much obliged to you for
it, sir,” said Lulu, as the narrator paused as if he had finished.
“But can’t you give us another?”
“Yes,” he said, smiling in an absent-minded way. “I was just thinking
of another and rather amusing occurrence that took place while I was a
soldier, though it hadn’t much to do with the war.
“My parents were living in Baltimore then, and I was still in the
Shenandoah Valley. At one time, blackberries being very plenty in the
woods where I was encamped, I gathered great quantities, filled a box,
putting green leaves under and over the berries, nailed it up and sent
it by express to my parents. I wrote to them about it, but the box
started ahead of the letter and arrived first.
“In the mean time my mother and grandmother had been talking of
paying a visit to my older sister, who had married, was living in
Philadelphia, and anxious and urgent to have them come on to see her
and her first-born—a baby boy toddling about.
“They were most desirous to do so, as he was the first grandchild of
the one, the first great-grandchild of the other. But before they had
made ready to start upon the journey a letter was received from the
child’s mother saying that he had been taken dangerously ill. The two
grandmothers were greatly troubled and more anxious than ever to see
the baby. The older one was in her bedroom, not feeling well; her
daughter was with her. A vehicle was heard to drive up to the front
door. Glancing from the window the younger grandmother saw it was the
express wagon and a box was being lifted out, evidently for them.
Thinking—its mother having said they should see it dead or alive—it
contained the corpse of her baby grandchild, she hurried down, had it
carried into the parlor and set upon a table. She then threw a white
sheet over it and awaited in trembling and grief the home-coming of her
husband—my father.
“When he came in she told of the box and its supposed contents, and he,
also full of grief, set to work to open it. The lid was at length torn
off, and great was the surprise and relief of both to come upon the
fresh green leaves and berries beneath them.
“But the door-bell rang again, and there stood Hannah with her babe in
her arms alive and well.
“Joyful was the welcome given to both; they were taken into the parlor,
Hannah shown the box, which was still standing, and told the story.
“After a while the baby was allowed to trot about at his own sweet
will, while the older people were taken up with each other (a cradle
had been brought down to the parlor to lay the baby corpse in before
the box was opened, and there it stood covered with a spread or
something white), so when the little chap was left unnoticed, he got at
the box of berries, carried some to the cradle and threw them in on the
dainty white spread.”
The little girls had been listening to their father’s story with as
much interest as if they had never heard it before, though doubtless it
was quite familiar to them.
“Wasn’t it funny?” asked one of them with a merry laugh, as he finished.
But just then a boy came running, calling out, “Pap, you’re wanted now.
Please come right away, mother says,” and with a pleasant “Good-by,
ladies,” the father rose, took Sally in his arms and went, the rest of
the children following.