Chapter Nineteenth
"Seldom shall she hear a tale
So sad, so tender, and so true."
Horace Dinsmore showed much interest in Mildred, seemed to like to watch her, let her employment be what it might, and to have her company in long solitary walks and drives.
Several times he remarked to her mother that she was growing very lovely in person and was a girl of fine mind; adding that he sincerely hoped she would not throw herself away upon some country boor.
The two – Mrs. Keith and Mr. Dinsmore – were alone in the sitting-room, one pleasant afternoon early in September, when this remark was made for the third or fourth time; alone except that little Annis was playing about the floor, apparently absorbed with Toy and her doll.
Mrs. Keith was sewing, her cousin who had been pacing to and fro, now standing before her.
She lifted her head with a startled look.
"Horace, don't forget that you and Mildred are cousins."
He colored slightly, then laughingly answered to her thought rather than her words,
"Don't be alarmed, Marcia; I'm not thinking of her in that way at all."
His face suddenly clouded as with some gloomy recollection.
"Marcia," he said, taking a chair near her side, "my visit is drawing to a close and there is something I must tell you before I go; I came with the purpose of doing so, but hitherto my heart has failed me. We seem to be alone in the house and perhaps there will be no better time than this."
"I think not," she said, "we can secure ourselves from intrusion by locking the door."
He rose, turned the key, and came back.
He did not speak again for a moment, but sat watching Annis with a peculiar expression which excited his cousin's surprise and curiosity and not for the first time either; she had noted it before; the child seemed to both attract and repel him.
More than once Mrs. Keith had seen him snatch her up suddenly with a gesture of strong affection, only to set her down the next minute and turn away as if from something painful to look upon.
"What is it you see in my baby, Horace?" she asked, laying her hand affectionately upon his arm.
"She is a sweet, pretty little thing, yet it gives me more pain than pleasure to look at her," he said sighing and passing his hand across his brow.
"You cannot imagine why it should," he went on, smiling sadly into his cousin's wondering face, "because there is a page in my past life that you have never read."
His features worked with emotion. He rose and paced the floor back and forth several times; then coming to her side again,
"Marcia, I have been a husband; I am a father; my little girl – whom I have never seen – must be just about the age of Annis."
"You, Horace? you are but twenty years old!" dropping her work to look up at him in utter amazement.
"I knew you would be astonished – that you could hardly credit it – but it is true."
Then resuming his seat he poured out in impassioned language, the story already so well known to the readers of the Elsie books – of his visit to New Orleans three years before this, his hasty and clandestine marriage to the beautiful heiress, Elsie Grayson, their speedy separation by her guardian and big father, the subsequent birth of their little daughter and the death of the young mother, following so soon thereafter.
Her work forgotten, her hands lying idly in her lap, her eyes gazing intently into his, Mrs. Keith listened in almost breathless silence, the tears coursing down her cheeks during the saddest passages.
"My poor Horace! my poor, dear cousin!" she said when he had finished. "Oh, it was hard, very hard! Why did you never tell me before."
"I could not, Marcia," he answered in tremulous tones, "it is the first time I have spoken my darling's name since – since I knew that she was lost to me forever."
"Forever! oh do not say that! You have told me she was a sweet Christian girl, and none who trust in Jesus can ever be lost."
"But to me; I am no Christian," he sighed.
"But you may become one. The invitation is to you, 'Come unto me;' and the blessed assurance, 'Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.'"
He sat silent, his face averted, his head bowed upon his hands.
She waited a moment, then spoke again.
"Your child, Horace?"
"She is at Viamede with the guardian."
"And you have never seen her?"
"No."
"Oh how can you bear it? doesn't your heart yearn over her? don't you long to have her in your arms?"
"No; why should I? she robbed me of her – my darling wife."
"But you do not know that? and certainly it was innocently, if at all."
"That has always been my feeling."
"You ought not to allow yourself to feel so," she said almost indignantly. "Poor little motherless darling! must she be worse than fatherless too?"
"What would you have, Marcia?" he asked coldly, his face still turned from her, "what could I do with a child? And she is well off where she is; better than she could be anywhere else; – under the care of a pious old Scotch woman who has been house-keeper in the Grayson family for many years, and that of her mammy who nursed her mother before her: a faithful old creature so proud and fond of her young mistress that I doubt if she would have hesitated to lay down her life for her."
"That is well so far as it goes, Horace, but do you wish your child to grow up a stranger to you? would you have no hand in the moulding of her character, the training of her mind?"
"I had not thought of that," he said sighing, "but I do not feel competent to the task."
"But it is your work; a work God himself has appointed you in giving you the child; a work for which he will give wisdom if you seek it of him.
"'If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, who giveth to all men liberally and upbraideth not: and it shall be given him.'
"And if you neglect it, my dear cousin, – bear with me, while I say it – it will be at your peril."
"How do you mean, Marcia?"
"The day may come when you will want that child's love and obedience: when you will covet them more than any other earthly good, and perhaps, find that they are denied you."
"It is possible you may be right in regard to the first," he said haughtily, his dark eyes flashing, as he turned his face towards her again, "but as to the other – her obedience – it will be strange indeed if I cannot compel it. She may have a strong will, but she will find that mine is yet stronger."
"Horace," said his cousin earnestly, "if you refuse or neglect to do a father's duty by her, what right can you have to claim a child's duty from her?"
"I am not conscious of having neglected my duty toward her thus far," he said, still haughtily. "As I have already explained, she is where, in my judgment, she is better off for the present, than she could be anywhere else. What changes may come in the future I do not know."
"Forgive me if I have seemed to blame you undeservedly," Mrs. Keith said with tears in her eyes; "but ah, my heart yearns over that poor baby!"
She caught up her own and kissed it passionately as she spoke.
"Ah!" she sighed, pressing the little creature to her bosom, "whatever would my darlings do without a father's and a mother's love!"
He walked to the window and stood there for several minutes. Then coming back,
"Marcia," he said, "will you do me the favor to write about this to Aunt Wealthy and tell her I have always felt ashamed of my behavior during my visit to you both, two years ago. I could not bring myself to explain then the cause of my – what shall I call it? sullenness? It must have looked like it to you and her and to all who saw me.
"But you will understand it now and perhaps have some charity for me."
"We had then, Horace," she said, "we were sure it was some secret grief that made you so unlike your former self. Yes, I will write to Aunt Wealthy. May I tell your story to Mildred also?"
"Not now, please. When I am gone she may hear it."
"Excuse another question. Do you know anything of your little one's looks?"
"I have heard nothing; but if she at all resembles her mother, she must be very pretty."
"And you have never even asked! O Horace!"
"I'm afraid you think me very heartless," he said, coloring. "But you must make some allowance for my being a man. Women, I think, feel more interest in such things than we of the sterner sex do."
"Then I think my husband must be an exceptional man, for he loves his children very dearly, and takes great pride in their beauty and intelligence."
"I daresay; it might have been the same with me under happier circumstances," he answered in a bitter tone.
Little feet came pitpatting through the hall, little voices were asking for mother.
Mr. Dinsmore opened the door and admitted the inseparable three.
"Mother, I'm cold," said Fan shivering, and her teeth chattering as she spoke.
"Cold, darling? Come here."
"She's got a chill," remarked Cyril sagely. "I'm as warm as toast. It's real hot in the sun where we've been playing."
"I'm afraid she has; her nails are quite blue," Mrs. Keith said, taking one small hand in hers. "Come, dear; mother will put you to bed and cover you up nice and warm, and give you something hot to drink."
"Me too, mother," said Don, creeping to her side and laying his head on her shoulder, "I'm so tired and my head aches so bad."
His cheeks were flushed, his hands hot and dry.
"You, too, mother's little man?" she exclaimed. "Mother is so sorry for you both. Have you been cold, Don?"
"Yes, ma'am, and it creeps down my back now."
"Take care of Annis, Cyril," said Mrs. Keith, and excusing herself to her cousin, she led the sick ones away.
Coming back after some little time, "I found Ada down, too," she sighed. "She had crept away by herself, without a word to any one – poor, dear child! 'not wanting to trouble mother,' and there she lay shaking till the very bed shook under her."
"It's dreadful!" cried Mr. Dinsmore, "positively dreadful, Marcia! How can you stand it! I believe there has hardly been a week since I came when you were all well."
"Ah, that's because there are so many of us!" she answered, laughing, though tears sprang to her eyes.
"Why do you stay here! I'd pack up everything and be off instanter."
"Necessity knows no law," she said. "Cyril, son, can you go down to the spring and get some fresh water for the sick ones?"
"Yes, ma'am; I'll take the biggest bucket; cause folks always want to drink so much water when the chill's on 'em."
"Cyril knows that by experience," his mother remarked as the boy left the room.
"Why do you speak of staying here as a necessity, Marcia?" asked her cousin. "You had as large a fortune from your mother as I from mine."
"Riches take wings, Horace, and a large family and unfortunate investments supplied them to mine."
She spoke cheerfully, jestingly, as though it were but occasion for mirth, but his tone was full of concern as he answered,
"Indeed I never knew that. It is a thousand pities! I wonder you can be so content and light-hearted as you seem."
"Ah, I have so much left! All my chiefest treasures, – husband, children, many great and precious promises for both this life and the next."
"Ah, but if you stay here, how long are you likely to keep husband and children? not to speak of the danger to your own life and health."
"Sickness and death find entrance everywhere in this sad world," she said; her voice trembling slightly, "and in all places we are under the same loving care. It seems our duty to stay here, and the path of duty is the safest. It is thought that in a few years this will become a healthy country."
"I hope so, indeed, for your sake, but it is a hard one for you in other ways. I am not so unobservant as not to have discovered that you do a great deal of your own work. And I don't like that it should be so, Marcia."
"You are very kind," she answered, smiling up brightly into his face as he stood looking down upon her with a vexed and anxious expression, "It is very nice to have you care so much for me, Horace."
"There's nobody in the world I care more for, Marcia," he said, "and going over some of our late talk, in my mind, I have thought there is nobody to whom I should so much like to commit the care and training of my child. I mean, of course, if your hands were not already full and more than full with your own."
"They are not so full that I would not gladly do a mother's part by her," she answered with emotion, "were it not for the danger of bringing her to this climate."
"Yes, that is the difficulty. It would never do, so miasmatic and so cold and bleak during a great part of the year; especially for one born so far south. But I thank you, cousin, all the same."
"We have not much sickness here except ague," she remarked presently, "but there are several varieties of that – chills and fever occurring at regular intervals – generally every other day at about the same hour; dumb ague, shaking ague, and sinking or congestive chills; which last are the only very alarming kind, sometimes proving fatal in a few hours."
"Indeed! you almost frighten me away," he said half seriously, half in jest. "That is not a very common form, I hope?"
"No, rather rare."
"Don't you send for the doctor?"
"Not often now; we did at first, but it is so frequent a visitor that we have learned to manage it ourselves."
The sickly season had fairly set in, and more afraid of it than he liked to acknowledge, Mr. Dinsmore hastened his departure, leaving for the East by the next stage.
Chapter Twentieth
"I marked the Spring as she pass'd along,
With her eye of light and her lip of song;
While she stole in peace o'er the green earth's breast,
While the streams sprang out from their icy rest.
The buds bent low to the breeze's sigh,
And their breath went forth in the scented sky;
When the fields look'd fresh in their sweet repose,
And the young dews slept on the new-born rose."
– Willis Gaylord Clark.
"Well, I'm both glad and sorry Horace is gone," Mrs. Keith remarked with a smile, a sigh and a dewy look about her eyes, as the stage passed out of sight. "I'm fond of the lad, but was troubled lest the ague should get hold of him. Besides, the dearest of guests is something of a burden with sickness in the house and a scarcity of help."
"Yes, that is very true, mother," Mildred answered, "and so thoroughly do I realize it that I am wholly and heartily glad he's gone; albeit I liked him much better this time than I did before."
Celestia Ann had left months ago, and they had had very indifferent help during Mr. Dinsmore's visit, though fortunately such as they could keep away from the table when their guest was present at it.
Mildred went on now to express her satisfaction that such had been the case, adding, "What would he have done if Miss Hunsinger had been here, and in her usual fashion asserted her right to show that she felt herself as good as he or anybody else?"
"He'd have annihilated her with a look," laughed Rupert.
"He would have acted like the perfect gentleman he is," said Mrs. Keith, "but it would have been exceedingly mortifying to me to have him so insulted at my table; for as he has been brought up, he could not avoid feeling it an insult to be put on a social equality with one so rude and vulgar."
"The house feels lonely," said Zillah, "it seems 'most as if Aunt Wealthy had just gone away."
"We'll get our sewing and a book," said her mother, "Come all into the sitting-room. Rupert may be the reader this time.
"Mildred, you and I will have to be very busy now with the fall sewing."
"Yes mother dear; it's a blessing to have plenty of employment. But do you think I shall need to give up my studies for a time?"
"No, daughter, I hope not. I want you to go on with them; Mr. Lord says you are doing so nicely. Your cousin, too, told me he thought you were getting a better – more thorough – education with him, than you would be likely to in any school for girls that he knows of."
Mildred's eyes sparkled, and cousin Horace took a warmer place in her affections than he had held before. It was well, for it needed all that to keep her from disliking him for his indifference toward his motherless little one, when, a few days later, she heard his story from her mother's lips.
They had a very busy fall and winter, missing sorely Miss Stanhope's loved companionship and her help in the family sewing, the putting up of fruit – the pickling and preserving, indeed in every department of household work; and in nothing more than in the care of the sick.
Letters came from her at rare intervals – for mails were infrequent in those days and postage was very high – were read and re-read, then put carefully by to be enjoyed again when time and opportunity could be found for another perusal. They were not the brief statements of facts that letters of the present day generally are, but long chatty epistles, giving in pleasing detail, her own doings and those of old friends and acquaintances, and all that had happened in Lansdale since they left; telling of her pets, of the books she read and what she thought of them.
Then there were kind inquiries, conjectures as to what they were doing and thinking; answers to their questions, and words of counsel and of tender sympathy in their joys and sorrows.
Many a laugh did they give their readers, and many a tear was dropped upon their pages. They so loved the dear old lady and could almost hear the sweet tones of her voice as they read or repeated to each other, her quaint sayings.
Fall and winter passed, bringing with them no marked changes in the family, but very much the same round of work, study and diversion as in the former year.
The children grew, mentally and physically, now mother, and now sister Mildred, "teaching the young ideas how to shoot;" for they could not endure the thought of resigning the precious darlings to the tender mercies of Damaris Drybread, whose school was still the only one in town.
The old intimacy was kept up in just the old way among the coterie of six, and the gossips vainly puzzled their brains with the question which girl was the admired and admirer of which young man.
Mildred was happily freed from the visits of Ransquattle – of which Lu Grange had become the impatient and disgusted recipient – and saw little of Gotobed Lightcap, who, upon one excuse, or another, absented himself from most of the merry-makings of the young people.
Indeed there had been scarcely any intercourse between the two families since the removal of the Keiths from the immediate neighborhood of the Lightcaps; for there was no similarity of taste, no common bond of interest to draw them together; nothing in truth, save a kind and friendly feeling toward each other; and as regarded Rhoda Jane, even this was lacking.
She had never yet forgiven Mildred's rejection of her brother and almost hated her for it, though she knew naught of her added offense in the matter of the criticism on his letter. That was a secret which Gotobed kept faithfully locked in his own breast.
The spring opened early for that climate; with warm rains that brought vegetation forward rapidly.
The Keith children revelled in out door work and play; each of the younger ones had a little garden to dig and plant as he or she pleased, and a pet hen or two in the chicken yard, and there was much good-natured rivalry as to who should have the earliest vegetables, the greatest variety of flowers, the largest broods of young chicks, or the most newly laid eggs to present to father and mother, or the invalid of the hour; for the old enemy – ague – still visited them occasionally; now one, now another, or it might be several at once, succumbing to its attacks.
However, the lion's share of both gardening and poultry-raising fell to Rupert; who busied himself out of study hours, with these and many little odd jobs of repairing and adorning – such as mending fences, putting up trellises, training vines and trimming shrubbery and trees.
The mother and Mildred found so much to do within doors, that some oversight and direction of these younger workers, and the partial care of a few flower-beds near the house, were all they could undertake outside.
They had been without a domestic for some weeks, had passed through the trying ordeal of the regular spring house-cleaning with only Mrs. Rood's assistance, when one pleasant May morning, while dishing up breakfast, their hearts were gladdened by the sight of the sinewy form and energetic countenance of Celestia Ann Hunsinger as she stepped in at the kitchen door with a characteristic salutation.
"How d'ye, Mis' Keith? You don't want no help round here, do ye?"
"We want just the sort of help we'll be sure of if you'll take off your bonnet and stay," Mrs. Keith answered, giving her a hearty grip of the hand.
"Then that's what I'll do and no mistake," returned the girl, setting down a bundle on a chair, with the remark, "You see I've brought some o' my duds along," pulling off her sunbonnet and hanging it on a nail. "Here, Miss Mildred, let me smash them 'taters."
"So Mis' Keith, you've been buildin' since I was here last."
"Yes; a new kitchen; so we could take the old for a dining-room and be less crowded."
"It's awful nice; I always did like a good big kitching; – room to turn round and keep things straight."
"It's going to be nicer still, Celestia Ann," said Rupert who had just come in from his work in the garden, and was washing his hands preparatory to taking a seat at the table, "it wants a coat of paint on the outside and I'm going to put it on myself, to-day."
"Well, I never!" she ejaculated, "do ye think you're up to that?"
"Of course I do; and so, I suppose, do father and mother; or they wouldn't have consented to let me try."
"Well, there's nothin' like tryin'; as I've found out in my own experience," returned Miss Hunsinger, using her potato masher vigorously, "and I allers enjoy meetin' with folks that's willin' fur it. But do you know, Mis' Keith, 'pears to me like 'I can't' comes the easiest to most human critters' tongues of any two words in the American language; and with more'n half on 'em they're lyin' words; yes, there's more lies told in them two words than in any other ten. So there!" as she laid down her masher to stir in the milk, butter and salt.
"I'm afraid there is only too much truth in your remark," said Mrs. Keith, "but certainly no one can accuse you of a fondness for that favorite phrase of the indolent and ease-loving."
"Thank you, Mis' Keith. I've lots of faults and failin's as well's the rest o' the human family, but I'm certain sure there ain't no lazy bone in my body.
"Here these taters is ready to set on the table, and I see you've got your steak and biscuits dished up. But I hain't inquired after the fam'ly. Anybody got the agur?"
"No, I believe we are all well this morning thanks to a kind Providence. Rupert, call your father and the rest to breakfast."
No frowns greeted Celestia Ann as she, with her accustomed nonchalance, took her place with the others. Everybody was glad to see her, because her arrival meant comparative rest for mother and Mildred, and more time to be devoted by them to the loving care and entertainment of father and the younger children.
After breakfast, family worship. Then Mr. Keith went to his office and the others scattered to their work or play. Sunbonnets and hats were in request among the little ones; for mother had given permission to go out if they would be careful to keep on the gravel walks till the dew was off the grass.
Sister Mildred gave kind assistance, and away they ran, while she and Zillah and Ada, old enough now to begin to be useful about the house, made beds, dusted and set things to rights in sleeping and dwelling rooms, and Rupert donned a suit of overalls and went to his chosen task.
Celestia Ann needed but little direction or oversight, and in half an hour Mrs. Keith repaired to the sitting-room.
What a pleasant place it seemed as she came in! – fresh and bright from its recent cleaning, neat as a new pin, the open windows looking out upon the grassy side yard, with its shrubbery and trees clothed in vivid green, and giving a charming view of the clear waters of the swiftly flowing river sparkling in the sunlight.
"Isn't it a lovely morning, mother?" cried Mildred, whose graceful figure was flitting about here and there, putting a few finishing touches to the adornments of the room. "I think the sunshine was never brighter, the air never sweeter. It is a luxury just to live! Hark to that robin's song and the sweet prattling of the little voices you and I love so well! And I feel as blithe and gay as a bird."
"Yes, dear child," said the mother, happy tears springing to her eyes, "Oh, how great is His goodness to us unworthy creatures! so much of mercy and blessing here and the certainty of endless joy and bliss beyond! Life has its dark and dreary days, but after all there is more of brightness, to those who look for it, than of gloom."
"I believe that is true, mother," responded Mildred, "though when the dark and dreary days are upon us, it is sometimes very difficult to hold fast to one's faith.
"I do love this time of year," she added, leaning from the window to watch the ferryboat slowly crossing,
"'Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie.'"
"Come, let us go out; I think we may spare an hour to the garden this morning," Mrs. Keith said gayly, leading the way. "What a blessing, among others, it is to have a good reliable girl in the kitchen!"
"Yes," laughed Mildred, "I could almost have hugged Celestia Ann; I was so glad to see her. What do you suppose brought her just at this time, mother?"
"Need of money for summer finery, I presume. See, our morning glories are coming up nicely."
"Mother, mother, and Milly," cried Fan running to them in an ecstasy of delight, "my speckled hen has thirteen little chicks, the prettiest bits of fuzzy things you ever saw. Do come and look!"
She turned and sped back again toward the chicken yard, mother and sister following.
The other three little ones were there watching "Speckle" and her brood with intense interest.
"See! see! mamma, Milly! see! see!" cried Baby Annis in a flutter of delight, holding her little skirts close to her chubby legs, as the "bits of fuzzy things" ran hither and thither about her feet, "pitty 'ittle chickies, dust tum out of eggs."
"Yes, dears, they are very pretty," Mrs. Keith said; "but they are very tender little things; so be careful not to hurt them. No, Cyril, don't pick them up, and be sure you don't step on them. You may go to the house for some bread crumbs, Fan, and you and Annis may feed them."
This permission gave great pleasure, and Fan's small feet went skipping and dancing through the garden in the direction of the kitchen door.
Then mother must look at Annis's hen sitting on her nest, and notice how the older broods, belonging to Cyril and Don, were growing in size and strength; Zillah's and Ada's also; and hear how many eggs the other nests had furnished this morning.
After that the gardens were submitted to her inspection, Mildred still bearing her company, both making suggestions and giving assistance.
And so a full hour had slipped by before they returned to the house, and Rupert, they found, had made great progress with his work.
"I've painted the whole end, mother; do you see?" he called to her; "and now I'm beginning this side. I think I'll have the whole job done to-day."
"You have been very industrious," she said, "but don't make haste so fast that it will not be done well."
"Oh, no, ma'am, I don't intend to."
He was at the top of his ladder and near the roof of the new one-story addition to their house.
"Take care, my son," said Mrs. Keith; "it seems to me your ladder doesn't stand very securely. Is there no danger of its slipping?"
"Never a bit, mother," laughed the boy "why what should make it slip?"
She and Mildred turned and walked on toward the front of the house, had just set foot upon the porch there, when a shout from Rupert startled them and made them pause and look back at him.
They saw the ladder slip, slip then slide rapidly to the ground, while with a cry of alarm they rushed toward him.
But they were much too far off to reach him in time to be of the least assistance. Down he came to the ground, falling with considerable impetus and alighting upon his feet, his brush in one hand, his paint pot in the other, striking with a force that sent the paint all over his person.
He reeled and dropped.
"Are you hurt? oh, my boy, are you much hurt?" asked his mother tremulously, as she hurried to him, looking very pale and frightened.
"My clothes have got the worst of it, I believe, mother," he said, laughing and staggering to his feet. "I'm afraid they've robbed the house of half its new coat."
The others came running from chicken-yard and garden; Celestia Ann poked her head out of the kitchen window, and a peal of laughter met him from all sides.
"I dare say I cut quite a comical figure," he said, taking it in good part, "but since I've broken no bones, I wouldn't care a red cent, if it wasn't for the loss of the paint and the damage to my illegant attire.
"'O what a fall was there, my countrymen.'"
"Since you are unhurt, no matter for the clothes; even if they were an elegant suit," said his mother, with a sigh of relief.
"But half the paint's gone, mother – or at least put upon my person where it's worse than useless," cried the lad, surveying himself with an expression so comically lugubrious that there was a fresh explosion of mirth.
"Never mind; it will not cost a great deal to replace it," said Mrs. Keith. "But I think the job may wait now till we can get a regular house-painter to finish it up."
"What! would you have me give up so easily, mother, and own myself beaten? I don't like to do it. Please let me try again, and I'll place the ladder more carefully."
"I don't know; we'll ask your father first. There's no special haste and – how would you all like to go with me for a walk? a nice long stroll down to the bridge, and over the river, to look for wild flowers."