At length, feeling that the victory was at least partially won, and filled with anxiety about the baby, he began to retrace his steps toward the house.
In the avenue, he met Edward and Zoe, who greeted him with joyful surprise, not having before known of his arrival.
The expression of his countenance told them that he was already informed of the sad occurrence of the morning; and Edward said with heartfelt sympathy, "It is but a sad home-coming for you, captain, but let us try to hope for the best: it is possible the little darling has not received any lasting injury."
A silent pressure of the hand was the captain's only reply for the moment. He seemed too much overcome for speech.
"Such a darling as she is!" said Zoe; "the pet of the whole house, and just the loveliest little creature I ever saw."
"Did you—either of you—see her fall?" asked the captain huskily.
"Yes," said Zoe, "I did. Violet and I happened to be at the window of the little reception-room overlooking the veranda, and were watching the little creature as she toddled along, and"—But Zoe paused, suddenly remembering that her listener was the father of Lulu as well as of her poor little victim.
"Please go on," he said with emotion. "What was it that sent her down the steps?"
"Lulu was standing there," Zoe went on, hesitating, and coloring with embarrassment, "and I saw the baby-hands clutch at her skirts"—
Again she paused.
"And Lulu, giving the tender, toddling thing a savage kick, caused the dreadful catastrophe?" he groaned, turning away his face. "You need not have feared to tell me. I had already heard it from the servants who were eye-witnesses, and I only wanted further and undoubtedly reliable testimony."
"I think," said Edward, "that Lulu really had no idea what it was she was kicking at. I happened to be out in the grounds, and coming round the corner of the house just in time to catch her look of horror and despair as she half turned her head and saw the baby fall."
"Thank you," the captain said feelingly. "It is some relief to her unhappy father to learn of the least extenuating circumstance."
CHAPTER XII.
"Anger resteth in the bosom of fools."—ECCLES. vii. 9.
"Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him."—PROV. xxii. 15.
"He seems to feel terribly about it, poor man!" remarked Zoe with a backward glance at the retreating form of Capt. Raymond, as he left them and pursued his way to the house.
"Yes, and no wonder," said Edward. "Not for worlds would I be the father of such a child as Lulu!"
"Nor I her mother," said Zoe. "So I'm glad it was you I got for a husband instead of Capt. Raymond."
"Only for that reason?" he queried, facing round upon her in mock astonishment and wrath.
"Oh, of course!" she returned, laughing, then sobering down with a sudden recollection of the sorrow in the house. "But, O Ned! how heartless we are to be joking and laughing when poor Vi and the captain are in such distress!"
"I'm afraid you are right," he assented with a sigh. "Yet I am quite sure we both feel deeply for them, and are personally grieved for the injury to our darling little niece."
"Yes, indeed! the pretty pet that she is!" returned Zoe, wiping her eyes.
Gracie was on the veranda looking for her father, and, catching sight of him in the avenue, ran to meet him.
"How is baby now? Can you tell me?" he asked, taking her hand, and stooping to give her a kiss.
"Just the same, I suppose, papa," she said. "Oh, it's very hard to see it suffer so! isn't it, papa?"
He nodded a silent assent.
"Papa," she asked, lifting her tearful eyes to his face with a pleading look, "have you seen Lulu yet?"
"No."
"O papa! do go now! It must be so hard for her to wait so long to see you, when you've just come home."
"I doubt if she wants to see me," he said, with some sternness of look and tone.
"O dear papa! don't punish her very hard. She didn't hurt the baby on purpose."
"I shall try to do what is best for her, my little girl, though I very much doubt if that is exemption from punishment," he said with an involuntary sigh. "But if she is in haste to see me," he added, "there is nothing, so far as I am aware, to prevent her from coming to me."
"But she's afraid, papa, because she has been so very, very naughty."
"In that case, is it not kinder for me to keep away from her?"
"O papa! you know she always wants things—bad things—over."
"The bad thing she has brought upon the poor baby will not be over very soon," he said sternly. "I must go now to it and your mamma."
He did so; and sharing Violet's deep grief and anxiety, and perceiving that his very presence was a comfort and support to her, he remained at her side for hours.
Hours, that to Lulu seemed like weeks or months. Alone in her room, in an agony of remorse and fear, she waited and watched and listened for her father's coming, longing for, and yet dreading it, more than words could express.
"What would his anger be like?" she asked herself. "What terrible punishment would he inflict? Would he ever love her again, especially if the baby should die?
"Perhaps he would send her away to some very far-off place, and never, never come near her any more."
Naturally of a very impatient temperament, suspense and passive waiting were well-nigh intolerable to her. By turns she walked the floor, fell on her knees by the bedside, and buried her face in a pillow, or threw herself into a chair by table or window, and hid it on her folded arms.
"Oh! would this long day, this dreadful, dreadful waiting for—what? ever come to an end?" she asked herself over and over again.
Yet, when at last the expected step drew near, she shuddered, trembled, and turned pale with affright, and, starting to her feet, looked this way and that with a wild impulse to flee: then, as the door opened, she dropped into her chair again, and covered her face with her shaking hands.
She heard the door close: the step drew nearer, nearer, and stopped close at her side. She dared not look up, but felt her father's eyes gazing sternly upon her.
"Miserable child!" he said at length, "do you know what your terrible temper has wrought?—that in your mad passion you have nearly or quite killed your little sister? that, even should she live, she may be a life-long sufferer, in consequence of your fiendish act?"
"O papa, don't!" she pleaded in broken accents, cowering and shrinking as if he had struck her a deadly blow.
"You deserve it," he said: "indeed, I could not possibly inflict a worse punishment than your conduct merits. But what is the use of punishing you? nothing reforms you! I am in despair of you! You seem determined to make yourself a curse to me instead of the blessing I once esteemed you. What am I to do with you? Will you compel me to cage or chain you up like a wild beast, lest you do some one a fatal injury?"
A cry of pain was her only answer, and he turned and left the room.
"Oh!" she moaned, "it's worse than if he had beaten me half to death! he thinks I'm too bad, even to be punished; because nothing will make me good: he says I'm a curse to him, so he must hate me; though he used to love me dearly, and I loved him so too! I suppose everybody hates me now, and always will. I wish I was dead and out of their way. But, oh! no, I don't; for I'm not fit to die. Oh! what shall I do? I wish it was I that was hurt instead of the baby. I'd like to go away and hide from everybody that knows me; then I shouldn't be a curse and trouble to papa or any of them."
She lifted her head, and looked about her. It was growing dusk. Quick as a flash came the thought that now was her time; now, while almost everybody was so taken up with the critical condition of the injured little one; now, before the servants had lighted the lamps in rooms and halls.
She would slip down a back stairway, out into the grounds, and away, she cared not whither.
Always impulsive, and now full of mental distress, she did not pause a moment to consider, but, snatching up a hat and coat lying conveniently at hand, stole noiselessly from the room, putting them on as she went.
She gained a side-door without meeting any one; and the grounds seemed deserted as she passed round the house and entered the avenue, down which she ran with swift footsteps, after one hasty glance around to make sure that she was not seen.
She reached the great gates, pushed them open, stepped out, letting them swing to after her, and started on a run down the road.
But the next instant some one had caught her: a hand was on her shoulder, and a stern, astonished voice cried, "Lulu! is it possible this can be you? What are you doing out here in the public road alone, and in the darkness of evening? Where were you going?"
"I—I—don't want—to tell you, papa," she faltered.
"Where were you going?" he repeated, in a tone that said an answer he would have, and that at once.
"Nowhere—anywhere to get away from this place, where everybody hates me!" she replied sullenly, trying to wrench herself free. "Please let me go, and I'll never come back to trouble you any more."
He made no reply to that, but simply took her band in a firm grasp, and led her back to the house, back to her own room, where he shut himself in with her, locking the door on the inside.
Then he dropped her hand, and began pacing the floor to and fro, seemingly in deep and troubled thought, his arms folded, his head bowed upon his breast.
A servant had brought in a light during Lulu's absence; and now, looking timidly up at her father, she saw his face for the first time since they had bidden each other farewell a year before. It struck her as not only very pale, stern, and grief-stricken, but very much older and more deeply lined than she remembered it: she did not know that the change had been wrought almost entirely in the last few hours, yet recognized it with a pang nevertheless.
"Papa is growing old," she thought: "are there gray hairs in his head, I wonder?" Then there came dimly to her recollection some Bible words about bringing a father's gray hairs down with sorrow to the grave. "Was her misconduct killing her father?" She burst into an agony of sobs and tears at the thought.
He lifted his head, and looked at her gravely, and with mingled sternness and compassion.
"Take off that hat and coat, get your night-dress, and make yourself ready for bed," he commanded, then, stepping to the table, sat down, drew the lamp nearer, opened her Bible, lying there, and slowly turned over the leaves as if in search of some particular passage, while she moved slowly about the room, tremblingly and tearfully obeying his order.
"Shall I get into bed, papa?" she asked tremulously, when she had finished.
"No, not yet. Come here."
She went and stood at his side, with drooping head and fast-beating heart, her eyes on the carpet, for she dared not look in his face.
He seemed to have found the passage he sought; and, keeping the book open with his left hand, he turned to her as she stood at his right.
"Lucilla," he said, and his accents were not stern, though very grave and sad, "you cannot have forgotten that I have repeatedly and positively forbidden you to go wandering alone about unfrequented streets and roads, even in broad daylight; yet you attempted to do that very thing to-night in the darkness, which, of course, makes it much worse."
"Yes, papa; but I—I didn't mean ever to come back."
"You were running away?"
"Yes, sir: I—I thought you would be glad to get rid of me," she sobbed.
He did not speak again for a moment; and when he did, it was in moved tones.
"Supposing I did desire to be rid of you,—which is very far from being the case,—I should have no right to let you go; for you are my own child, whom God has given to me to take care of, provide for, and train up for his service. You and I belong to each other as parent and child: you have no right to run away from my care and authority, and I have none to let you do so. In fact, I feel compelled to punish the attempt quite severely, lest there should be a repetition of it."
"Oh, don't, papa!" she sobbed. "I'll never do it again."
"It was an act of daring, wilful disobedience," he said, "and I must punish you for it. Also, for the fury of passion indulged in this morning. Read this, and this, aloud," he added, pointing to the open page; and she obeyed, reading faltering, sobbingly,—
"'Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him.' … 'Withhold not correction from the child: for if thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die. Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and shalt deliver his soul from hell.'"
"You see, my child, that my orders are too plain to be misunderstood," he said, when she had finished; "and they must be obeyed, however unwelcome to me or to you."
"Yes, papa; and—and I—I—'most want you to whip me for hurting the baby so. I suppose nobody believes I'm sorry, but I am. I could beat myself for it, though I didn't know it was the baby pulling at my skirt. I thought it was Rosie's dog."
"It is not exactly for hurting the baby," he said; "if you had done that by accident, I should never think of punishing you for it: but for the fury of passion that betrayed you into doing it, I must punish you very severely.
"I shudder to think what you may come to, if I let you go on indulging your fiery, ungovernable temper: yes, and to think what it has already brought you to," he added, with a heavy sigh.
"You can never enter heaven unless you gain the victory over that, as well as every other sin: and, my daughter, there are but two places to choose from as our eternal home,—heaven and hell; and I must use every effort to deliver your soul from going to that last—dreadful place!"
He rose, stepped to the window where her little riding-whip still lay, came back to her; and for the next few minutes she forgot mental distress in sharp, physical pain, as the stinging, though not heavy, blows fell thick and fast on her thinly covered back and shoulders.
She writhed and sobbed under them, but neither screamed, nor pleaded for mercy.
When he had finished, he sat down again, and drew the weeping, writhing child in between his knees, put his arm about her in tender, fatherly fashion, and made her lay her head on his shoulder; but he said not a word. Perhaps his heart was too full for speech.
Presently Lulu's arm crept round his neck. "Papa," she sobbed, "I—I do love you, and I—I'm glad you wouldn't let me run away,—and that you try to save me from losing my soul. But oh, I can't be good! I wish, I wish I could!" she ended, with a bitter, despairing cry.
He was much moved.
"We will kneel down, and ask God to help you, my poor, dear child," he said.
He did so, making her kneel beside him, while, with his arm still about her, he poured out a prayer so earnest and tender, so exactly describing her feelings and her needs, that she could join in it with all her heart. He prayed like one talking to his Father and Friend, who he knew was both able and willing to do great things for him and his.
When they had risen from their knees, she lifted her eyes to his face with a timid, pleading look.
He understood the mute petition, and, sitting down again, drew her to his knee, and kissed her several times with grave tenderness.
"I wanted a kiss so badly, papa," she said. "You know, it is a whole year since I had one; and you never came home before without giving me one just as soon as we met."
"No; but I never before had so little reason to bestow a caress on you," he said. "When I heard of your deed of this morning, I felt that I ought not to show you any mark of favor, at least not until I had given you the punishment you so richly deserved. Do you not think I was right?"
"Yes, sir," she answered, hanging her head, and blushing deeply.
"I will put you in your bed now, and leave you for to-night," he said. "I must go back to my little suffering baby and her almost heart-broken mother."
He led her to the bed, and lifted her into it as he spoke.
"Papa, can't I have a piece of bread?" she asked humbly. "I'm so hungry!"
"Hungry!" he exclaimed in surprise. "Had you no supper?"
"No, sir, nor dinner either. I haven't had a bite to eat since breakfast."
"Strange!" he said; "but I suppose you were forgotten in the excitement and anxiety every one in the house has felt ever since the baby's sad fall. And they may have felt it unnecessary to bring any thing to you, as you were quite able to go to the dining-room for it."
"I couldn't bear to, papa," she said, with tears of shame and grief; "and, indeed, I wasn't hungry till a little while ago; but now I feel faint and sick for something to eat."
"You shall have it," he replied, and went hastily from the room, to return in a few minutes, bringing a bowl of milk and a plentiful supply of bread and butter.
He set them on the table, and bade her come and eat.
"Papa, you are very kind to me, ever so much kinder than I deserve," she said tremulously, as she made haste to obey the order. "I think some fathers would say I must go hungry for to-night."
"I have already punished you in what I consider a better way, because it could not injure your health," he said; "while going a long time without food would be almost sure to do so. It is not my intention ever to punish my children in a way to do them injury. Present pain is all I am at all willing to inflict, and that only for their good."
"Yes, papa, I know that," she said with a sob, setting down her bowl of milk to wipe her eyes; "so, when you punish me, it doesn't make me quit loving you."
"If I did not love you, if you were not my own dear child," he said, laying his hand on her head as he stood by her side, "I don't think I could be at the trouble and pain of disciplining you as I have to-night. But eat your supper: I can't stay with you much longer, and I want to see you in bed before I go."
As she laid her head on her pillow again, there was a flash of lightning, followed instantly by a .crash of thunder and a heavy downpour of rain.
"Do you hear that?" he asked. "Now, suppose I had let you go when I caught you trying to run away, how would you feel, alone out of doors, in the darkness and storm, no shelter, no home, no friends, no father to take care of you, and provide for your wants?"
"O papa! it would be very, very dreadful!" she sobbed, putting her arm round his neck as he bent over her. "I'm very glad you brought me back, even to punish me so severely; and I don't think I'll ever want to run away again."
"I trust not," he said, kissing her good-night; "and you must not leave this room till I give you permission. I intend that you shall spend some days in solitude,—except when I see fit to come to you,—that you may have plenty of time and opportunity to think over your sinful conduct and its dire consequences."
CHAPTER XIII.
"I'm on the rack;
For sure, the greatest evil man can know,
Bears no proportion to the dread suspense."
"Is there any change, doctor?" asked Capt. Raymond, meeting Arthur Conly in the hall.
"Hardly," was the reply: "certainly none for the worse."
"Will she get over it, do you think?" The father's tones were unsteady as he asked the question.
"My dear captain, it is impossible to tell yet," Arthur said feelingly; "but we must try to hope for the best."
Their hands met in a warm clasp.
"I shall certainly do so," the captain said. "But you are not going to leave us,—especially not in this storm?"
"No: I expect to pass the night in the house, ready to be summoned at a moment's notice, should any change take place."
"Thank you: it will be a great satisfaction to us to know we have you close at hand." And the captain turned and entered the nursery, which Arthur had just left.
Violet, seated by the side of the crib where her baby lay, looked up on her husband's entrance, greeting him with a smile of mingled love and sadness.
"Your dear presence is such a comfort and support!" she murmured as he drew near. "I don't like to lose sight of you for a single moment."
"Nor I of you, dearest," he answered, bending down to kiss her pale cheek, then taking a seat close beside her; "but I had to seek solitude for a time while fighting a battle with myself. Since that I have been with Lulu."
He concluded with a heavy sigh, and for a moment both were silent; then he said with grave tenderness,—
"I fear you will find it hard to forgive her: it has been no easy thing for me to do so."
"I cannot yet," returned Violet, a hard look that he had never seen there before stealing over her face; "and that is an added distress, for 'if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.' I think I can if my baby recovers; but should it—be taken away—or—or, worse by far, live to be a constant sufferer—oh, how can I ever forgive the author of that suffering! Pray for me, my dear husband," she sobbed, laying her head on his shoulder.
"I will, I do, my darling," he whispered, passing his arm about her, and drawing her closer; "and I know the help you need will be given.
"'Ask, and it shall be given you.'
"Perhaps it may aid the effort, if I tell you Lulu did not intentionally harm her little sister, and is greatly distressed at her state. She thought it was Rosie's dog pulling at her skirts; and I own that that explanation makes the sad affair a little less heart-rending to me, though I could not accept it as any excuse for an act done in a fury of passion, and have punished her very severely for it; that is, for her passion. I think it is right, under the circumstances, that you should know that I have, and that it is my fixed purpose to keep her in solitary confinement, at least so long as the baby continues in a critical condition."
"Oh! I am glad to know it was not done purposely," Violet exclaimed,—though in a tone hardly raised above a whisper,—lifting her tearful eyes to his face with a look of something like relief: "knowing that, I begin to feel that it may be possible to forgive and forget, especially if the consequences do not prove lasting," she added with a sob, and turning her eyes to the little wan face on the pillow. "But I certainly take no delight in the severity of her punishment: in fact, I fear it may destroy any little affection she has had for her baby sister."
"No," he said, "I am not at all apprehensive of that. When she found I was about to punish her, she said she almost wanted me to; that she felt like beating herself for hurting the baby, then went on to explain her mistake,—thinking it was the dog tugging at her dress,—and I then gave her fully to understand, that the chastisement was not for hurting the baby, but for indulging in such a fury of passion, a fault that I have punished her for on more than one former occasion; telling her, too, that I intended to chastise her every time I knew of her being guilty of it."
The sound of a low sob caused the captain to turn his head, to find his little Grace standing at the back of his chair, and crying bitterly, though without much noise.
He took her hand, and drew her to his side. "What is the matter, daughter?" he asked tenderly.
"O papa! I'm so sorry for Lulu," she sobbed; "please, mayn't I go to her for a little while?"
"No, Gracie. I cannot allow her the pleasure of seeing you, either to-night, or for some days."
"But, papa, you said—you told mamma just now—that you had already punished her very severely; and must you keep on?"
"Yes, my child, so far as to keep her in solitude, that she may have plenty of time to think about what she has brought upon herself and others by the indulgence of an ungovernable temper. She needs to have the lesson impressed upon her as deeply as possible."
"I'm so sorry for her, papa!" repeated the gentle little pleader.
"So am I, daughter," he said; "but I think, that to see that she has the full benefit of this sad lesson, will be the greatest kindness I can do her. And my little Grace must try to believe that papa knows best.
"Now, give me a good-night kiss, and go to your bed, for it is quite time you were there."
As he spoke, he took her in his arms, and held her for a moment in a close embrace. "Papa's dear little girl!" he said softly: "you have never given me a pang, except by your feeble health."
"I don't want to, papa: I hope I never, never shall!" she returned, hugging him tight.
Leaving him, she went to Violet, put her arms about her neck, and said in her sweet, childish treble, "Dear mamma, don't feel so dreadfully about baby: I've been asking God to make her quite, quite well; and I do believe he will."
When she had left the room, the captain found himself alone with his young wife and their little one. Again her head was on his shoulder, his arm about her waist.
"My husband, my dear, dear husband," she murmured, "I am so glad to have you here! I cannot tell you how I longed for you when the children were so ill. Oh, if we could only be together always, as Lester and Elsie, Edward and Zoe, are!"
"My love, my life," he said in low tones, tremulous with feeling, "what if I should tell you that your wish is already accomplished?"
She gave him a glance of astonishment and incredulity.
"It is even so: I mean all I have said," he answered to the look. "I have sent in my resignation: it has been accepted, and I have come home—no, I have come here to make a home for you and my children, hoping to live in it with you and them for the rest of my days."
Her face had grown radiant. "Oh! can it be true?" she cried, half under her breath; for even in her glad surprise, the thought of her suffering babe and its critical condition was present with her: "are we not to be forced apart again in a few days or weeks? not to go on spending more than half our lives at a distance from each other?"
"It is quite true, my darling," he answered, then went on to tell, in a few brief sentences, how it had come about.
"It cost me a struggle to give up the service," he said in conclusion; "and perhaps I might not have decided as I did, but for the thought that, if I should be needed by my country at some future day, I could offer her my services; and the thought that, at present, wife and children needed me more, probably, than she. I felt that Lulu, in particular, needed my oversight and training; that the task of bringing her up was too difficult, too trying, to be left to other hands than those of her father; and I feel that still more sensibly since hearing of this day's doings," he added in a tone of heartfelt sorrow.
"I think you are right," Violet said. "She is more willing to submit to your authority than to that of anybody else; as, indeed, she ought to be: and in a home that she will feel is really her own, her father's house, and with him constantly at hand, to watch over, and help her to correct her faults, there is hope, I think, that she may grow to be all you desire."
"Thank you, love, for saying it," he responded with emotion. "I could not blame you if now you thought her utterly irreclaimable."
"No, oh, no!" she answered earnestly. "I have great hopes of her, with her father at hand to help her in the struggle with her temper; for I am sure she does struggle against it; and I must acknowledge, that, for months past, she has been as good and lovable a child as one could desire. I don't know a more lovable one than she is when her temper does not get the better of her; and, as Gracie says, whenever it does, 'she gets sorry very soon.'"
"My darling," he said, pressing the hand he held, "you are most kind to be so ready to see what is commendable in my wayward child. I cannot reasonably expect even you to look at her with her father's partial eyes. And dearly as I certainly do love her, I have been exceedingly angry with her to-day; so angry, that, for a time, I dared not trust myself to go near her, I, who ought to have unlimited patience with her, knowing, as I do, that she inherits her temper from me."
"I don't know how to believe that, my dear, good husband," Violet said, gazing up into his face with fond, admiring eyes; "for I have never seen any evidence of it. If you have such a temper, you have certainly gained complete mastery of it. And that may well give us hope for Lulu."
"I do not despair of her," he said; "though I was near doing so to-day—for a time—after hearing a full account of her passionate behavior—her savage assault, as it seemed to be, upon her baby sister."
"Oh!" moaned Violet, bending over the little one with fast-falling tears,—for it was moaning as if in pain,—"my baby, my poor, precious baby! how gladly mamma would bear all your suffering for you, if she could! O Levis! what shall we do if she is taken from us?"
"Dear wife, I hope we may not be called to endure that trial," he said; "but, in any case, we have the gracious promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.' And that blessed assurance, for our consolation, in regard to her, 'He shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom.'"
"'Tis a very sweet promise; but, oh! I don't know how to resign her, even to Him," she said, weeping bitterly.
"Nor I; but we will try to leave it all with Him. We will rejoice if she is spared to us; and, if not, we will be glad to know that she is so safe, so happy with Him—gathered with His arm, carried in His bosom."
"Yes, yes," she sobbed: "it would be only for ourselves we would need to grieve, not for her, sweet pet."
Elsie, Violet's mother, came into the room at that moment.
"My dear Vi," she said tenderly, "you are looking sadly worn and weary.
I want you and the captain to take your rest to-night, while Arthur and
I will care for baby."
"Thank you, dearest mamma," Violet replied; "but rest and sleep are quite as necessary to you as to me; and, besides, I could not bear to leave her."
"I took a nap on purpose to be able to sit up to-night," Elsie said; "also, I am less exhausted by mental distress than her mother is, dearly as I love her. Can you not trust her to me, with the doctor sharing my vigil?"
"I could trust your nursing sooner than my own, mother," Violet answered; "it is not that; but I cannot tear myself away from my darling, while she is in so critical a state."
"And I," said the captain, "while warmly thanking you and the doctor, cannot consent to leave either wife or baby to-night."
So, finding they were not to be persuaded to rest, the others left them to watch over the little one through that night.
The morning brought a slight change for the better, yet no certainty of recovery; but even that barely perceptible improvement, joined to the delightful prospect of always having her husband at home, cheered Violet greatly.
They had talked much of that through the night, beguiling the long hours of their tedium with many a bright plan for the future, always hoping that "baby" would be a sharer in their realization.
The captain hoped to buy or build in the near neighborhood of Ion, that Violet need not be separated from her mother,—a separation he was most desirous to avoid on his own account, also; for he entertained a very high regard and warm affection for his mother-in-law, averring that it would be scarcely possible for him to love her better were he her own son.
He had resigned to Violet the pleasure of telling the joyful news to her mother and the whole family, except his children; reserving to himself the right to communicate the glad tidings to them when, and in what way, he should deem best.
Lulu, he said, was to be kept in ignorance of it till the time of her imprisonment expired.
At a very early hour in the morning, Elsie and the doctor came to the relief of the watchers. Arthur noted and announced the improvement, thus reviving hope in the anxious hearts of the parents; and before retiring for a few hours' rest and sleep, Violet whispered to them the news that had gladdened her heart in spite of its heavy load of grief and fear.
They both rejoiced with her, and bade her hope for the best in regard to her babe.
Pain, mental and physical, kept Lulu awake a good while after her father left her; but at length she fell into a deep sleep, which lasted far beyond her customary hour for rising, the house being very still, because of the baby's illness, and the blinds down in her room, so that there was neither light nor noise to rouse her.
Her first thoughts on awaking were a little confused: then, as with a flash, all the events of yesterday came to her remembrance, bringing with them bitter upbraidings of conscience, and torturing anxieties and fears.
Would the baby die? oh! perhaps it was already dead, and she a murderess! the murderess of her own little sister—her father's child!
If that were so, how could she ever look him, or anybody else, in the face again? And what would be done to her? was there any danger that she would be put in prison? oh! that would be far worse than being sent to a boarding-school, even where the people were as strict and as disagreeable as possible!
And she would be sorry, oh, so sorry! to lose the baby sister, or to have her a sufferer from what she had done, for life, or for years, even could she herself escape all evil consequences.
All the time she was attending to the duties of the toilet, these thoughts and feelings were in her mind and heart; and her fingers trembled so that it was with difficulty she could manage buttons and hooks and eyes, or stick in a pin.
She started at every sound, longing, yet dreading,—as she had done the previous day,—to see her father; for who could tell what news he might bring her from the nursery?
Glancing at the little clock on the mantel, when at last she was quite dressed, and ready for her breakfast, she saw that it was more than an hour past the usual time for that meal; yet no one had been near her, and she was very hungry; but, even if her father had not forbidden her to leave the room, she would have preferred the pangs of hunger to showing her face in the dining-room.
Presently, however, footsteps—not those of her father—approached her door.
"Miss Lu," said a voice she recognized as that of her mamma's maid, "please open de doah: hyar's yo' breakfus."
The request was promptly complied with; and Agnes entered, carrying a waiter laden with a bountiful supply of savory and toothsome viands.
"Dar it am," she remarked, when she had set it on the table. "I s'pose mos' likely yo' kin eat ef de precious little darlin' is mos' killed by means ob yo' bein' in a passion an' kickin' ob her—de sweet honey!—down de steps."
And turning swiftly about, her head in the air, the girl swept from the room, leaving Lulu standing in the middle of the floor, fairly struck dumb with indignation, astonishment, and dismay.
"How dared Agnes—a mulatto servant-girl,—talk so to her! But was the baby really dying? Would papa never come to tell her the truth about it? She wouldn't believe any thing so dreadful till she heard it from him: very likely Agnes was only trying to torment her, and make her as miserable as possible."
She had sunk, trembling, into a chair, feeling as if she should never want to eat again; but with that last thought, her hopes revived, hunger once more asserted its sway, and she ate her breakfast with a good deal of appetite and relish.
But, when hunger was appeased, fears and anxieties renewed their assault: she grew half distracted with them, as hour after hour passed on, and no one came near her except another maid, to take away the breakfast-dishes and tidy the room.
On her, Lulu turned her back, holding an open book in her hand, and pretending to be deeply absorbed in its contents, though not a word of the sense was she taking in; for, intense as was her desire to learn the baby's condition, she would not risk any more such stabs to her sensitiveness and pride as had been given by Agnes.
This one came, did her work, and went away again in silence; but all the time she was in the room, Lulu felt that she was casting glances of disgust and disfavor at her. She could not breathe freely till the girl had left the room.
She thought surely the dinner-hour would bring her father; but it did not: her wants were again supplied by a servant.
CHAPTER XIV.
"The dread of evil is the worst of ill."
On leaving the breakfast-room, Violet hastened back to the nursery; but the captain, calling Max and Grace into her boudoir, said, as he took the little girl on his knee, and motioned Max to sit by his side,—
"I have some news for you, my children: can you guess what it is?"
"Something good, I hope, papa," said Max: "you look as if it was."
"I am very much pleased with my share of it," the captain said, smiling; "and I shall know presently, I presume, what you two think of yours. What would you like it to be, Gracie?"
"That my papa was never, never going away any more," she answered promptly, lifting loving eyes to his face.
"There couldn't be better news than that," remarked Max; "but," with a profound sigh, "of course it can't be that."
"Ah! don't be quite so sure, young man," laughed his father.
"Papa, you don't mean to say that that is it?" queried Max breathlessly.
"I do: I have resigned from the navy, and hope soon to have a home ready for my wife and children, and to live in it with them as long as it shall please God to spare our lives."
Tears of joy actually came into the boy's eyes; while Gracie threw her arms round their father's neck, and half smothered him with kisses.
"O papa, papa!" she cried, "I'm so glad, I don't know what to do! I'm the happiest girl in the world!—or should be, if only the dear baby was well," she added, with springing tears.
"Yes," he sighed: "we cannot feel other than sad, while she is suffering and in danger. But she is a trifle better this morning, and we will hope the improvement may continue till she is entirely restored."
"She's such a darling!" said Max; "just the brightest, cutest baby that ever was seen! Mamma Vi has taught her to know your photograph; and, whenever she sees it, she says, 'Papa,' as plainly as I can. She calls me too, and Lu. Oh! I don't know how Lulu could"—He broke off, without finishing his sentence.
"Lu didn't do it on purpose," sobbed Gracie, pulling out her handkerchief to wipe her eyes.
"No," sighed the captain: "I am quite sure she had no intention of harming her little sister, yet she is responsible for it as the consequence of indulging in a fit of rage; she feels that: and I hope the distress of mind she is now suffering because of the dreadful deed she has done in her passion, will be such a lesson to her, that she will learn to rule her own spirit in future."
"Oh, I do hope so!" said Grace. "Papa, does Lulu know your good news?"
"No. I have not told her yet; and I intend to keep her in ignorance of it for some days, as part of her deserved punishment. I do not want her to have any thing to divert her mind from the consideration of the great sin and danger of such indulgence of temper."
"You haven't quit loving her, papa? you won't?" Grace said, half entreatingly, half inquiringly.
"No, daughter, oh, no!" he replied with emotion. "I don't know what would ever make me quit loving any one of my dear children."
He drew her closer, and kissed her fondly as he spoke.
"I am very glad of that, papa," said Max feelingly; "for though I do mean to be always a good son to you, if I ever should do any thing very, very bad, I'd not be afraid to confess it to you. I could stand punishment, you know; but I don't think I could bear to have you give up being fond of me."
A warm pressure of the lad's hand was the captain's only reply at first; but presently he said, "I trust you will always be perfectly open with me, my dear boy. You don't think, do you, that you could have a better—more disinterested—earthly friend than your father?"
"No, sir! oh, no, indeed!"
"Then make me your confidant," his father said, with a smile and look that spoke volumes of fatherly pride and affection; "let me into all your secrets. Now that I am to be with you constantly, I shall take a deeper interest than ever in all that concerns you,—if that be possible,—in your studies, your sports, your thoughts and feelings. You may always be sure of my sympathy, and such help as I can give in every right and wise undertaking."
"I'll do that, papa!" Max exclaimed with a sudden, glad, lighting-up of the face. "Why, it'll be as good as having the brother I've often wished for!" he added with a pleased laugh; "better, in some ways, anyhow; for you'll be so much wiser than any boy, and keep me out of scrapes with your good advice."
"Papa," queried Grace, with a little bashful hesitation, "mayn't I have you for my friend too?"
"Yes, indeed, my darling little girl!" he answered with a hug and kiss.
"I should like to be quite as intimate with you as I hope to be with
Max."
"With Lulu too?" she asked.
"Yes; with every one of my children."
Max had averted his face to hide his amusement at his little sister's question in regard to her father's friendship for herself, for the timid, sensitive little girl could hardly bear to be laughed at; but now he turned to his father again with the query,—
"Papa, where are we going to live?"
"I don't know yet, Max," the captain answered; "but I hope to be able to buy or build somewhere in this neighborhood, as I should be loath to take your mamma far away from her mother,—myself either, for that matter; and I presume you would all prefer to live near these kind friends?"
"I am sure I should," said Max. "But, papa,"—he paused, coloring, and casting down his eyes.
"Well, my boy, what is it? don't be afraid to talk freely to your intimate friend," his father said in a kindly tone, and laying a hand affectionately on the lad's shoulder.
"Please don't think me impertinent, papa," Max said, coloring still more, "but I was just going to ask how you could live without your pay; as I have heard you say it was nearly all you had."
"I am not at all offended at the inquiry," was the kindly reply. "The intimacy and confidences are not to be all on one side, my boy.
"I am quite willing you should know that am able now to do without the pay, some land belonging to me in the Far West having so risen in value as to afford me sufficient means for the proper support of my family, and education of my children."
"Oh, that is good!" cried Max, clapping his hands in delight. "And if it is used up by the time I'm grown and educated, I hope I'll be able to take care of you, and provide for you as you do now for me."
"Thank you, my dear boy," the captain said with feeling; "the day may come when you will be the stay and staff of my old age; but, however that may be, you may be sure that nothing can add more to your father's happiness than seeing you growing up to honorable and Christian manhood."
"Yes, sir: it's what I want to do." Then, a little anxiously, after a moment's thought, "Am I to be sent away to school, sir?"
"I have not quite decided that question, and your wishes will have great weight with me in making the decision. I shall keep Lulu at home, and educate her myself,—act as her tutor, I mean,—and if my boy would like to become my pupil also"—
"O papa! indeed, indeed I should!" exclaimed Max joyfully, as his father paused, looking smilingly at him; "and I'll try hard to do you credit as my teacher as well as my father."
"Then we will make the trial," said the captain. "If it should not prove a success, there will be time enough after that to try a school."
"What about me, papa?" asked Grace wistfully, feeling as if she were being overlooked in the arrangements.
"You, too, shall say lessons to papa," he answered with tender look and tone. "Shall you like that?"
"Ever so much!" she exclaimed, lifting glad, shining eyes to his face.
"Now you may go back to your play," he said, gently putting her off his knee. "I must go to your mamma and our poor, suffering baby."
He went; but the children lingered a while where they were, talking over this wonderfully good news.
"Now," said Max, "if Lu had only controlled her temper yesterday, what a happy family we'd be!"
"Yes," sighed Grace; "how I do wish she had! Oh, I'm so sorry for her, that she doesn't know this about papa going to stay with us all the time! 'Sides, she's 'specting to be sent away somewhere; and how dreadfully she must feel! Papa's punishing her very hard, and very long; but of course he knows best, and he loves her."
"Yes, I'm sure he does," assented Max: "so he won't give her any more punishment than he thinks she needs. It'll be a fine thing for her, and all the rest of us too, if this hard lesson teaches her never to get into a passion again."
Capt. Raymond had intended going to Lulu early in the day; but anxiety about the babe, and sympathy with Violet, kept him with them till late in the afternoon.
When at last he did go to his prisoner, he found her feverish with anxiety and fear for the consequences of her mad act of the day before.
She had been longing for his coming, moving restlessly about the room, feeling that she could not endure the suspense another moment; had at length thrown herself into a chair beside the window, and, as was her wont in times of over-wrought feeling, buried her face on her folded arms, laid on the window-sill.
She started up wildly at the sound of his step and the opening of the door.
"Papa," she cried breathlessly, "O papa! what—what have you come to tell me? Is—is the baby"—
"She is living, but far from out of danger," he said, regarding her with a very grave, stern expression; but it softened as he marked the anguish in her face.
He sat down, and drew her to his knee, putting his arm about her waist, and with the other hand clasping one of hers.
He was startled to feel how hot and dry it was.
"My child!" he exclaimed, "you are not well."
She dropped her head on his shoulder, and burst into a passion of tears and sobs. "Papa, papa! what shall I do if baby dies? Oh! I would do or bear any thing in the world to make her well."
"I don't doubt it, daughter," he said; "but a bitter lesson we all have to learn is, that we cannot undo the evil deeds we have done. Oh! let this dreadful occurrence be a warning to you to keep a tight rein upon your quick temper."
"Oh! I do mean to, indeed I do," she sobbed; "but that won't cure the dear baby's hurt. Papa, all day long I have been asking God to forgive me. Do you think he will?"
"I am sure that he has already done so, if you have asked with your heart, and for Jesus' sake. But we will ask him again for that, and to give you strength to fight against your evil nature as you never have fought, and to conquer."
"And to make the baby well, papa," she added sobbingly, as he knelt with her.
"Yes," he said.
When they had risen from their knees, he bade her get her hat and coat, saying, "You need fresh air and exercise. I will take you for a walk."
"I'd like to go, papa," she said; "but"—
"But what?"
"I—I'm afraid of—of meeting some of the family; and—and I don't want to see any of them."
"Perhaps we shall not meet them," he said; "and, if we do, you need not look toward them; and they will not speak to you. Put on your hat and coat at once: we have no time to lose."
She obeyed; and presently they were walking down the avenue, not having met any one on their way out of the house.
The captain moved on in silence, seemingly absorbed in sad thought, and hardly conscious that Lulu was by his side.
She glanced wistfully up into his grave, stern face two or three times, then said humbly, pleadingly, "Papa, please may I put my hand in yours?"
"Certainly," he said, looking down at her very kindly, as he took her hand, and held it in a warm, affectionate clasp. "Child, you have not lost your father's love. You are very dear to me, in spite of all your naughtiness."
He slackened his pace, for he saw she was finding it difficult to keep up with him; and his attention was again attracted to the heat of her hand.
"You are not well, perhaps not able to walk?" he said inquiringly, and in tenderly solicitous accents.
"It is pleasant to be out in the air, papa," she answered; "but it tires me a good deal more than usual."
"We will not go far, then," he said; "and, if your strength gives out before we get back to the house, I will carry you."
They were in the road now, some distance beyond the avenue-gates; and at this moment a number of horsemen came in sight, approaching from the direction opposite to that they were taking.
Perceiving them, Lulu uttered a sharp cry of terror, and shrank behind her father, though still clinging to his hand.
"What is it, daughter?" he asked in surprise: "what do you fear?"
"O papa, papa!" she sobbed, "are they coming to take me and put me in prison? Oh, don't let them have me!"
"Don't be frightened," he said soothingly. "Don't you see it is only some men who have been out hunting, and are going home with their game?"
"Oh! is that all?" she gasped, the color coming back to her face, which had grown deadly pale. "I thought it was the sheriff coming to put me in jail for hurting the baby. Will they do it, papa? Oh! you won't let them, will you?" she cried entreatingly.
"I could not protect you from the law," he said, in a moved tone; "but I think there is no danger that it will interfere. You did not hurt your sister intentionally, and she is still living. You are very young too; and, doubtless, everybody will think your punishment should be left to me, your father."
She was trembling like a leaf.
He turned aside to a fallen tree, sat down on it, and took her in his arms. She dropped her head on his shoulder, panting like a hunted thing.
"These two days have been too much for you," he said pityingly. "And that fear has tormented you all the time?"
"Yes, papa: oh, I thought I might have to be hung if baby died, and—it was—so—dreadful—to think I'd killed her—even if they didn't do any thing to me for it," she sobbed.
"Yes; very, very dreadful; perhaps more so to me—the father of you both—than to any one else," he groaned.
"Papa, I'm heart-broken about it," she sobbed "Oh, if I only could undo it!"
He was silent for a moment; then he said, "I know you are suffering very much from remorse; this is a bitter lesson to you; let it be a lasting one. I can relieve you of the fear of punishment from the law of the land; there is no danger of that now: but, if you do not lay this lesson to heart, there may come a time when that danger will be real; for there is no knowing what awful deed such an ungovernable temper as yours may lead you to commit.
"But don't despair: you can conquer it by determination, constant watchfulness, and the help from on high which will be given in answer to earnest prayer."
"Then it shall be conquered!" she cried vehemently. "I will fight it with all my might. And you will help me, papa, all you can, won't you, by watching me, and warning me when you see I'm beginning to get angry, and punishing me for the least little bit of a passion? But oh, I forget that you can't stay with me, or take me with you!" she cried with a fresh burst of sobs and tears. "Must you go back to your ship soon?"
"Not very soon," he said; "and I gladly promise to help you all I can in every way. I can do it with my prayers, even when not close beside you. But, my child, the struggle must be your own; all I can do will be of no avail unless you fight the battle yourself with all your strength.
"We will go home now," he added, rising, and taking her hand in his.
But they had gone only a few steps when he stooped, and took her in his arms, saying. "You are not able to walk. I shall carry you."
"But I am so heavy, papa," she objected.
"No, darling: I can carry you very easily," he said. "There, put your arm round my neck, and lay your head on my shoulder."
The pet name from his lips sent a thrill of joy to her heart; and it was very pleasant, very restful, to feel herself infolded in his strong arms.
He carried her carefully, tenderly along, holding her close, as something precious that he began to fear might slip from his grasp. She had always been a strong, healthy child, and heretofore he had scarcely thought of sickness in connection with her; but now he was alarmed at her state.
"Are you in pain, daughter?" he asked.
"Only a headache, papa; I suppose because I've cried so much."
"I think I must have the doctor see you."
"Oh, no, no, papa! please don't," she sobbed. "I don't want to see him or anybody."
"Then we will wait a little; perhaps you will be all right again by to-morrow."
He did not set her down till they had almost reached the house; and he took her in his arms again at the foot of the stairway, and carried her to her room, where he sat down with her on his knee.
"Papa, aren't you very tired, carrying such a big, heavy girl?" she asked, looking regretfully into his face.
"No; very little," he answered, taking off her hat, and laying his cool hand on her forehead. "Your head is very hot. I'll take off your coat, and lay you on the bed; and I want you to stay there for the rest of the day; go to sleep if you can."
"I will, papa," she answered submissively; then as he laid her down, and turned to leave her, "Oh, I wish you could stay with me!" she cried, clinging to him.
"I cannot now, daughter," he said, smoothing her hair caressingly. "I must go back to your mamma and the baby. But I will come in again to bid you good-night, and see that you are as comfortable as I can make you. Can you eat some supper?"
"I don't know, papa," she answered doubtfully.
"Well, I will send you some; and you can eat it, or not, as you feel inclined."