It was the last game of cards for that trip.
The captain coming in shortly after the sudden flight of the gamblers, took charge of the money, and the next day restored it to the owners.
To Elsie's observant eyes it presently became evident that the Dalys were in very straitened circumstances. They made no complaint, but with her warm sympathy and delicate tact, she soon drew from the wife all the information she needed to convince her that here was a case that called for the pecuniary assistance Providence had put it in her power to give.
She consulted with her husband, and the result was a warm invitation to the Dalys to spend the winter at Viamede, where they would have all the benefit of the mild climate, congenial society, use of the library, horses, etc., and be at no expense.
"Oh how kind, how very kind!" Mrs. Daly said with tears of joy and gratitude, "we have hardly known how we should meet the most necessary expenses of this trip, but have been trying to cast our care upon the Lord, asking him to provide. And how wonderfully he has answered our petitions. But—it seems too much, too much for you to do for strangers."
"Strangers, my dear friend!" Elsie answered, pressing her hand affectionately, "art we not sisters in Christ? 'Ye are all the children of God by faith in Christ Jesus.' 'Ye are all one in Christ Jesus.'
"We feel, my husband and I, that we are only the stewards of his bounty; and that because he has said, 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me,' it is the greatest privilege and delight to do anything for his people."
Mr. Travilla had already expressed the same sentiments to Mr. Daly, and so the poor minister and his wife accepted the invitation with glad and thankful hearts, and Harold and Frank learned with delight that they were to live together for what to their infant minds seemed an almost interminable length of time.
The passage to New Orleans was made without accident or detention.
As our party left the vessel a voice was heard from the hold, crying in dolorous accents, and a rich Irish brogue, "Och captin dear, help me out, help me out! I've got fast betwane these boxes here, bad cess to 'em! an' can't hilp mesilf at all, at all!"
"Help you out, you passage thief!" roared the captain in return, "yes I'll help you out with a vengeance, and put you into the hands of the police."
"Ah ha! um h'm ah ha, you'll have to catch him first," remarked Mr. Lilburn with a quiet smile; stepping from the plank to the wharf as he spoke.
"Ah, cousin, you are incorrigible!" said Elsie, laughingly.
Chapter Twenty-fourth.
"The fields did laugh, the flowers did freshly spring,
The trees did bud and early blossoms bear,
And all the quire of birds did sweetly sing,
And told that garden's pleasures in their caroling."
—SPENSER'S FAERY QUEEN
Nothing could be lovelier than was Viamede as they found it on their arrival.
The children, one and all, were in an ecstasy of delight over the orange orchard with its wealth of golden fruit, glossy leaves, and delicate blossoms, the velvety lawn with its magnificent shade trees, the variety and profusion of beautiful flowers, and the spacious lordly mansion.
They ran hither and thither jumping, dancing, clapping their hands and calling to each other with shouts of glee.
The pleasure and admiration of the older people were scarcely less, though shown after a soberer fashion. But no check was put upon the demonstrations of joy of the younger ones: they were allowed to gambol, frolic, and play, and to feast themselves upon the luscious fruit to their hearts' content.
Nor was the gladness all on the side of the new arrivals: to the old house servants, many of whom still remained, the coming of their beloved young mistress and her children had been an event looked forward to with longing for years.
They wept for joy as they gathered about her, kissed her hand and clasped her little ones in their arms, fondling them and calling them by every endearing name known to the negro vocabulary.
And the children, having heard a great deal, from both mamma and mammy, about these old people and their love and loyalty to the family, were neither surprised, nor displeased, but quite ready to receive and return the affection lavished upon them.
The party from Lansdale arrived only a few days after the others, and were welcomed with great rejoicings, in which even Bruno must have a share: he jumped and gamboled about Harry and May, tried to kiss the babies, and finally put his nose into Aunt Wealthy's lap, saying, "Ye're a dear auld leddy, ma'am, and I'm glad ye've come!"
"Ah," she answered, patting his head and laughing her low, sweet silvery laugh, "you betray your Scotch accent, my fine follow; and I'm too old a chaff to be caught with a bird."
Mr. Mason was still chaplain at Viamede, and with his wife and children occupied a pretty and commodious cottage which had been built on the estate expressly for their use.
When he and Mr. Daly met they instantly and delightedly recognized each other as former classmates and intimate friends, and the Dalys, by urgent invitation, took up their abode for the winter in the cottage; but Mr. and Mrs. Travilla were careful that it should still be entirely at their expense.
A suite of apartments in the mansion was appropriated to each of the other families, and it was unanimously agreed that each should feel at perfect liberty to withdraw into the privacy of these, having their meals served to them there, if they so desired; or at their pleasure to mingle with the others in the breakfast parlor, dining-room, drawing-rooms, library, etc.
The first fortnight was made a complete holiday to all, the days being filled up with games, walks, rides, drives and excursions by land and water.
In consequence of the changes occasioned by the war, they found but little society in the neighborhood now, yet scarcely missed it; having so much within themselves.
But at length even the children began to grow somewhat weary of constant play. Harry Duncan and Horace Jr. announced their speedy departure to attend to business, and the other adults of the party felt that it was time to take up again the ordinary duties of life.
Mr. Daly, anxious to make some return for the kindness shown him, offered to act as tutor to all the children who were old enough for school duties; but Rosie put her arms about her father's neck and looking beseechingly into his eyes, said she preferred her old tutor;—at which he smiled, and stroking her hair, said she should keep him then, for he would be quite as loth to give up his pupil,—and Elsie's children, clinging about her, entreated that their lessons might still be said to mamma.
"So they shall, my darlings," she answered, "for mamma loves to teach you."
The young Carringtons too, and their mother preferred the old way.
So Mr. Daly's kind offer was declined with thanks: and perhaps he was not sorry; being weak and languid and in no danger of suffering from ennui with horses to ride and plenty of books at hand.
A school-room was prepared, but only the Travillas occupied it, Sophie preferring to use her dressing-room, and Rosie studying in her own room, and reciting to her papa in his or the library.
Elsie expected her children to find it a little hard to go back to the old routine; but it was not so. They came to her with bright, happy faces, were quiet and diligent and when the recitations were over, gathered about her for a little chat before returning to their play.
"Mamma," said Eddie, "we've had a nice long holiday, and it's really pleasant to get back to lessons again."
"So it is!" said Vi, "don't you think so, Elsie?"
"Yes, indeed! nice to get back to our books, but we've had lessons almost every day, grandpa and papa and mamma teaching us so much about the birds, insects, and all sorts of living things, and the flowers and plants, trees, stones and oh, I don't know how many things that are different here from what we have at home."
"At home! why this is home; isn't it, mamma?" exclaimed Eddie.
"Yes, my son, one of our homes."
"Yes, and so beautiful," said Vi; "but Ion 'pears the homest to me."
"Does it, darling?" asked mamma, giving her a smile and a kiss.
"Yes, mamma; and I love Ion dearly: Viamede 'most as well, though, because you were born here, and your dear mamma."
"And because that dear grandma is buried here;" remarked her sister, "and because of all those dear graves. Mamma, I do like those lessons I was speaking of, and so do Eddie and Vi; but Herbert and Meta and Harry don't; they say they think them very stupid and dull."
"I am glad, my children, that you love knowledge," their mother said, "because it is useful; the more knowledge we have the more good we can do if we will."
"And then it is a lasting pleasure. God's works are so wonderful that we can never learn all about them while we live in this world, and I suppose throughout the endless ages of eternity, we shall be ever learning, yet always finding still more to learn."
"Mamma, how pleasant that will be," said Elsie thoughtfully.
"And oh, mamma!" cried Vi, "that reminds me that we've been out of doors 'most all the day-times, and haven't seen grandma's play-room and things yet. Won't you show them to us?"
"Yes, we will go now."
"Me too, mamma?" asked Harold.
"Yes, all of you come. I want you all to see everything that I have that once belonged to my dear mother."
"Aunt Rosie wants to see them too," said Vi.
"And Herbert and Meta and the others," added Elsie.
"They shall see them afterwards. I want no one but my own little children now," replied mamma, taking Harold's hand, and leading the way.
She led them to the room, a large and very pleasant one, light and airy, where flowers were blooming and birds singing, vines trailing over and about the windows, lovely pictures on the walls, cosy chairs and couches, work-tables, well supplied with all the implements for sewing, others suited for drawing, writing or cutting out upon, standing here and there, quantities of books, games and toys; nothing seemed to have been forgotten that could give pleasant employment for their leisure hours, or minister to their amusement.
There was a burst of united exclamations of wondering delight from the children, as the door was thrown open and they entered. Now they understood why mamma had put them off when several times they had asked to be brought to this room: she was having it fitted up in a way to give them a joyful surprise.
"Do you like it, my darlings?" she asked with a pleased smile.
"Oh, yes, yes! yes indeed!" they cried, jumping, dancing and clapping their hands, "dear, dear mamma, how good, how good you are to us!" and they nearly smothered her with caresses.
Releasing herself, she opened another door leading into an adjoining room which, to Eddie's increased delight, was fitted up as a work-room for boys, with every sort of tool used by carpenters and cabinet makers. He had such at Ion and was somewhat acquainted with their use.
"Oh what nice times Herbert and Harry and I shall have!" he exclaimed. "What pretty things we'll make! Mamma, I don't know how to thank you and my dear father!" he added, catching her hand and pressing it to his lips with passionate affection.
"Be good and obedient to us, kind and affectionate to your brothers, sisters and playmates," she said, stroking his hair: "that is the kind of thanks we want, my boy; we have no greater joy than to see our children good and happy."
"If we don't be, it's just our own fault, and we're ever so wicked and bad!" cried Vi, vehemently.
Mamma smiled at her little girl's impetuosity, then in grave, tender tones, said, "And is there not some One else more deserving of love and thanks than even papa and mamma?"
"God, our kind heavenly Father," murmured little Elsie, happy, grateful tears shining in her soft eyes.
"Yes, it is from his kind hand all our blessings come."
"I love God," said Harold, "and so does Fank: Mamma, can Fank come up here to play wis me?"
"Yes, indeed: Frank is a dear, good little boy, and I like to have you together."
Mamma unlocked the door of a large light closet, as she spoke, and the children, looking eagerly in, saw that its shelves were filled with beautiful toys.
"Grandma's things!" they said softly.
"Yes, these are what my dear mother played with when she was a little girl like Elsie and Vi" said mamma. "You may look at them."
There was a large babyhouse, beautifully furnished; there were many dolls of various sizes, and little chests and trunks full of nicely made clothes for them to wear—night-clothes, morning wrappers, gay silks and lovely white dresses, bonnets and hats, shoes and stockings too, and ribbons and laces, for the lady dolls; and for the gentlemen, coats, hats, vests, cravats and everything that real grown-up men wear; and for the baby dolls there were many suits of beautiful baby clothes; and all made so that they could be easily taken off and put on again.
There were cradles to rock the babies in, and coaches for them to ride in; there were dinner and tea-sets of the finest china and of solid silver; indeed almost everything in the shape of toys that the childish heart could desire.
The lonely little girl had not lacked for any pleasure that money could procure: but she had hungered for that best earthly gift—the love of father, mother, brothers and sisters—which can be neither bought nor sold.
The children examined all these things with intense interest and a sort of wondering awe, then begged their mother to tell them again about "dear grandma."
They had heard the story—all that mamma and mammy could tell—many times, but it never lost its charm.
"Yes, dears, I will: I love to think and speak of her," Elsie said, sitting down in a low chair while they gathered closely round her, the older two, one on each side, the others leaning upon her lap.
"Mamma, it is a sad story; but I love it," little Elsie said, drawing a deep sigh, as the tale came to an end.
"Yes, poor little girl, playing up here all alone," said Eddie.
"'Cept mammy," corrected Vi.
"Yes, mammy to love her and take care of her, but no brother or sister to play with, and no dear mamma or papa like ours."
"Yes, poor dear grandma!" sighed little Elsie. "And it was almost as hard for you, mamma, when you were a little girl: didn't you feel very sad?"
"Ah, daughter, I had Jesus to love me, and help me in all my childish griefs and troubles," the mother answered, with a glad smile; "and mammy to hug and kiss and love me just as she does you."
"But oh, didn't you want your mamma and papa?"
"Yes, sorely, sorely at times; but I think no little child could be happier than I was when at last; my dear father came home, and I found that he loved me dearly. Ah, I am so glad, so thankful that my darlings have never suffered for lack of love."
"I too, mamma."
"And I."
"And I," they exclaimed, clinging about her and loading her with caresses.
"Hark!" she said, "I hear your dear grandpa's step, and there, he is knocking at the door."
Eddie ran to open it.
"Ah, I thought I should find you here, daughter," Mr. Dinsmore said, coming in. "I, too, want to see these things; it is long since I looked at them."
She gave him a pleased look and smile, and stepping to the closet he stood for some moments silently gazing upon its treasures.
"You do well to preserve them with care as mementoes of your mother," he remarked, coming back and seating himself by her side.
"O grandpa, you could tell us more about her, and dear mamma too, when she was a little girl!" said little Elsie, seating herself upon his knee, twining her arms about his neck, and looking coaxingly into his face.
"Ah, what a dear little girl your mamma was at your age!" he said, stroking her hair and gazing fondly first at her and then at her mother, "the very joy of my heart and delight of my eyes! though not dearer than she is now."
Elsie returned the loving glance and smile, while her namesake daughter remarked, "Mamma couldn't be nicer or sweeter than she is now; nobody could."
"No, no! no indeed!" chimed in the rest of the little flock. "But grandpa please tell the story. You never did tell it to us."
"No," he said, half sighing, "but you shall have it now." Then went on to relate how he had first met their mother's mother, then a very beautiful girl of fifteen.
An acquaintance took him to call upon a young lady friend of his, to whom Elsie Grayson was paying a visit, and the two were in the drawing-room together when the young men entered.
"What did you think the first minute you saw her, grandpa?" asked Eddie.
"That she had the sweetest, most beautiful face and perfect form I had ever laid eyes on, and that I would give all I was worth to have her for my own."
"Love at first sight," his daughter remarked, with a smile, "and it was mutual."
"Yes she told me afterward that she had loved me from the first; though the longer I live the more I wonder it should have been so, for I was a wild, wayward youth. But she, poor thing, had none to love or cherish her but her mammy."
"Grandpa, I think you're very nice," put in little Vi, leaning on his knee, and gazing affectionately into his face.
"I'm glad you do," he said, patting her soft round cheek.
"But to go on with my story. I could not keep away from my charmer, and for the next few weeks we saw each other daily.
"I asked her to be my own little wife and she consented. Then early one morning we went to a church and were married; no one being present except the minister, the sexton, and her friend and mine, who were engaged to each other, and her faithful mammy.
"Her guardian was away in a distant city and knew nothing about the matter. He was taken sick there and did not return for three months, and during that time Elsie and I lived together in a house she owned in New Orleans.
"We thought that now that we were safely married, no one could ever separate us, and we were very, very happy.
"But one evening her guardian came suddenly upon us, as we sat together in her boudoir, and in a great passion ordered me out of the house.
"Elsie was terribly frightened and I said, 'I will go to-night for peace sake; but Elsie is my wife, and to-morrow I shall come and claim her as such, and I think you'll find I have the law on my side.' Elsie clung to me and wept bitterly; but I comforted her with the assurance that the parting was only for a few hours."
Mr. Dinsmore's voice faltered. He paused a moment, then went on in tones husky with emotion.
"We never saw each other again. When I went back in the morning the house was closed and quite deserted; not even a servant in it, and I knew not where to look for my lost wife.
"I went back to my hotel and there found my father waiting for me in my room. He was very angry about my marriage, the news of which had brought him from home. He made me go back with him at once and sent me North to college. I heard nothing of my wife for months, and then only that she was dead and had left me a little daughter."
"And that was our mamma!" cried the children, once more crowding about her to lavish caresses upon her.
They thanked their grandfather for his story, and Vi looking in at the closet door again, said in her most coaxing tones, "Mamma, I should so, so like to play a little with some of those lovely things; and I would be very careful not to spoil them."
"Not now, daughter, though perhaps I may allow it some day when you are older. But see here! will not these do quite as well?"
And rising, Mrs. Travilla opened the door of another closet displaying to the children's delighted eyes other toys as fine and in as great profusion and variety as those she considered sacred to her mother's memory.
"Oh, yes, yes, mamma! how lovely! how kind you are! are they for us?" they exclaimed in joyous tones.
"Yes," she said, "I bought them for you while we were in New Orleans, and you shall play with them whenever you like. And now we will lock the doors and go down to dress for dinner. The first bell is ringing."
After dinner the play-room and the contents of the two closets were shown to Mrs. Dinsmore, Rosie, and the Carringtons: then Mrs. Travilla locked the door of the one that held the treasured relics of her departed mother, and carried away the key.
Chapter Twenty-fifth.
"She'd lift the teapot lid
To peep at what was in it,
Or tilt the kettle if you did
But turn your back a minute."
Meta Carrington had many excellent traits of character; was frank, generous, unselfish and sincere; but these good qualities were offset by some very serious faults; she was prying and full of desire for whatever was forbidden.
The other children played contentedly with the toys provided for them; but Meta secretly nursed a great longing for those Mrs. Travilla had chosen to withhold; and was constantly endeavoring to devise some plan by which to get possession of them.
She attempted to pick the lock with a nail, then with a knife, but failing in that, seized every opportunity of doing so unobserved, to try the keys from other doors in different parts of the house, till at length she found one that would answer her purpose; then she watched her chance to use it in the absence of her mates.
At length such a time came. The ladies had all gone out for an airing, the little ones, too, in charge of their nurses, Vi and the boys were sporting on the lawn, and Elsie was at the piano practicing; certain, faithful little worker that she was, not to leave it till the allotted hour had expired.
Having satisfied herself of all this, Meta flew to the play-room, and half trembling at her own temerity, admitted herself to the forbidden treasures.
There was no hesitancy in regard to her further proceedings; for weeks past, she had had them all carefully arranged in her mind; she would have a tea-party, though, unfortunately, there could be no guests present but the dolls; yet at all events, she could have the great pleasure of handling that beautiful china and silver and seeing how a table would look set out with them. A pleasure doubled by the fact that she was enjoying it in opposition to the known wishes and commands of her mother and the owner; for in Meta's esteem 'stolen waters were sweet' indeed.
She selected a damask table cloth from a pile that lay on one of the lower shelves, several napkins to match, slipping each of these last into a silver ring taken from a little basket that stood alongside, and proceeded with quiet glee, to deck a table with them, and the sets of china and silver she most admired.
"Beautiful! beautiful! I never saw anything so pretty!" she exclaimed half aloud, as, her task finished, she stood gazing in rapt delight at the result of her labors. "Oh I think it's real mean in Aunt Elsie, to say we sha'n't play with these, and to lock them up away from us. But now for the company!" and running into the closet again, she brought out several of the largest dolls.
"I'll dress them for dinner," she said, still talking to herself in an undertone: "that'll be fun. What lots of lovely things I shall find in these trunks; I'll look them over and select what I like best to have them wear. I'll have time enough: it isn't at all likely anybody will come to disturb me for an hour:" and as she opened the first trunk, she glanced hastily at the clock on the mantel.
She was mistaken. Time flew away much faster than she was aware of, and scarce half an hour had passed when a pair of little feet came dancing along the hall, the door—which in her haste and pre-occupation Meta had forgotten to lock—flew open, and Vi stood before her.
The great blue eyes turning toward the table opened wide with astonishment. "Why, why, Meta!"
Meta's face flushed deeply for a moment, but thinking the best plan would be to brave it out, "Isn't it pretty?" she asked, as unconcernedly as she could.
"Yes, oh lovely! but—where did you—aren't they my grandma's things? O
Meta, how could you ever dare—"
"Pooh! I'm not going to hurt 'em. And why should you think they were hers? can't other people have pretty things?"
"Yes, but I know they're grandma's, I rec—recog—recognize them. Oh what shall we do? I wouldn't venture to touch 'em, even to put them back."
"What a big word that was you used just now," said Meta, laughing, "It 'most choked you."
"Well when I'm bigger it won't," returned Vi, still gazing at the table.
"Oh how lovely they are! I do wish mamma would let us play with them."
"So do I: and these dolls too. It's just delightful to dress and undress them. Here, Vi, help me put this one's shoes on."
The temptation to handle the tiny, dainty shoes and see how well they fitted the feet of the pretty doll, was great, and not giving herself time to think, Violet dropped down on the carpet by Meta's side and complied with the request. "Just to slip on those lovely shoes, now that they were there right before her, was not much," so said the tempter: then, "Now having done a little, what difference if she did a little more?"
Thoughtless and excitable, she presently forgot mamma and her commands, and became as eagerly engaged as Meta herself in the fascinating employment of looking over the contents of the trunks, and trying now one, and now another suit upon the dollies.
"Now this one's dressed, and I'll set her up to the table," said Meta, jumping up. "Oh my!"
Something fell with a little crash on the lid of the trunk by Vi's side, and there at her feet lay one of the beautiful old china plates broken into a dozen pieces.
The child started up perfectly aghast, the whole extent of her delinquency flashing upon her in that instant. "Oh, oh! what have I done! what a wicked, wicked girl I am! what will mamma say!" And she burst into an agony of grief and remorse.
"You didn't do it, nor I either," said Meta; stooping to gather up the fragments, "the doll kicked it off. There, Vi, don't cry so; I'll put the things all back just as they were, and never, never touch one of them again."
"But you can't; because this one's broken. Oh dear, oh dear! I wish you had let them alone, Meta. I wish, I wish I'd been a good girl and obeyed mamma!"
"Never mind: if she goes to whip you, I'll tell her it was 'most all my fault. But she needn't know: it won't be a story to put them back and say nothing about it. And most likely it won't be found out for years and years; maybe never. You see I'll just put this plate between the others in the pile and it won't be noticed at all that it's broken; unless somebody takes them all down to look."
"But I must tell mamma," sobbed Violet. "I couldn't hide it; I always tell her everything; and I'd feel so wicked."
"Violet Travilla, I'd never have believed you'd be so mean as to tell tales," remarked Meta, severely. "I'd never have played with you if I'd known it."
"I'll not; I didn't mean that. I'll only tell on myself."
"But you can't do that without telling on me too, and I say it's real mean. I'll never tell a story about it, but I don't see any harm in just getting the things away and saying nothing. 'Taint as if you were throwing the blame on somebody else," pursued Meta, gathering up the articles abstracted from the closet and replacing them, as nearly as possible as she had found them.
"Come, dry your eyes, Vi," she went on, "or somebody'll see you've been crying and ask what it was about."
"But I must tell mamma," reiterated the little girl, sobbing anew.
"And make her feel worried and sorry because the plate's broken, when it can't do any good, and she needn't ever know about it. I call that real selfishness."
This, to Vi, was a new view of the situation. She stopped crying to consider it.
It certainly would grieve mamma to know that the plate was broken, and perhaps even more to hear of her child's disobedience, and if not told she would be spared all that pain.
But on the other hand, mamma had always taught her children that wrong doing should never be concealed. The longer Vi pondered the question the more puzzled she grew.
Meta perceived that she wavered and immediately seized her advantage.
"Come now, Vi, I'm sure you don't want to give pain to your mamma, or to get me into trouble. Do you?"
"No, Meta, indeed I don't, but—"
"Hush! somebody's coming," exclaimed Meta, locking the closet door, having just finished her work, and hastily dropping the key into her pocket.
"Come, girls, come quick! we're sending up a balloon, from the lawn!" cried Eddie throwing open the door to make his announcement, then rushing away again.
The girls ran after him, in much excitement, and forgetting for the time the trouble they were in; for spite of Meta's sophistry her conscience was by no means easy.
The ladies had returned and in dinner dress were gathered on the veranda. Mr. Travilla seemed to be managing the affair, with Mr. Dinsmore's assistance, while the other gentlemen, children and servants, were grouped about them on the lawn.
Meta and Violet quickly took their places with the rest and just at that moment the balloon, released from its fastenings, shot up into the air.
There was a general shout and clapping of hands, but instantly hushed by a shrill sharp cry of distress from overhead.
"Oh! oh! pull it down again! pull it down! pull it down! I only got in for fun, and I'm so frightened! I shall fall out! I shall be killed! oh! oh! oh!"
The voice grew fainter and fainter, till it quickly died away in the distance as the balloon rose rapidly higher and higher into the deep blue of the sky.
A wild excitement seized upon the little crowd.
"Oh, oh, oh I which ob de chillins am up dar?" the mammies were asking, each sending a hasty glance around the throng to assure herself of the safety of her own particular charge.
"Who is it? who is it?" asked the children, the little girls beginning to sob and cry.
"Oh it's Fank! it's Fank!" screamed Harold. "Papa, papa, please stop it quick. Fank, don't cry, any more: papa will get you down. Won't you, papa?" And he clung to his father's arm, sobbing bitterly.
"Son, Frank is not there," said Mr. Travilla; taking the little weeper in his arms. "There is no one in the balloon; it is not big enough to hold even a little boy like you or Frank."
"Isn't it, papa?" returned the child, dropping his head on his father's shoulder with a sigh of relief.
"Oh it's Cousin Ronald, it's just Cousin Ronald!" exclaimed the children, their tears changing at once to laughter.
"Ah ha, ah ha! um h'm, um h'm! so it is, bairnies, just Cousin Ronald at his old tricks again," laughed Mr. Lilburn.
"Oh there's nobody in it; so we needn't care how high it goes," cried Eddie, jumping and clapping his hands, "See! see! it's up in the clouds now, and doesn't look as big as my cap."
"Not half so big, I should say," remarked Herbert. "And there, it's quite gone."
The dinner bell rang and all repaired to the dining-room.
Chapter Twenty-sixth.
"Train up a child in the way he should go; and when he is old, he will not depart from it." —PROVERBS, xxii: 6.
As naturally as the helianthus to the sun, did the faces of Elsie's little ones turn to her when in her loved presence. At the table, at their sports, their lessons, everywhere and however employed, it was always the same, the young eyes turning ever and anon to catch the tender, sympathetic glance of mamma's.
But at dinner to-day, Vi's great blue orbs met hers but once and instantly dropped upon her plate again, while a vivid blush suffused the fair face and neck.
And when the meal was ended and all gathered in the drawing-room, Vi still seemed to be unlike her usual gay, sunny self, the merriest prattler of all the little crowd of children, the one whose sweet silvery laugh rang out the oftenest. She stood alone at a side table turning over some engravings, but evidently with very little interest. The mother, engaged in conversation with the other ladies, watched her furtively, a little troubled and anxious, yet deeming it best to wait for a voluntary confidence on the part of her child.
Longing, yet dreading to make it, Vi was again puzzling her young brain with the question whether Meta was right in saying it would be selfish to do so. Ah, if she could only ask mamma which was the right way to do! This was the first perplexity she had not been able to carry to her for disentanglement.
Remembering the words of the Lord Jesus, "Sanctify them through thy truth: thy word is truth," Elsie had been careful to store her children's minds with the blessed teachings and precious promises of God's holy Book. She had also taught them to go to God their heavenly Father, with every care, sorrow, doubt and difficulty.
"I'll ask Jesus," thought Vi; "he'll help me to know, because the Bible says, 'If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God that giveth to all men liberally and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.'"
She slipped into an adjoining room, where she was quite alone, and kneeling down, whispered softly, with low sobs and many tears, "Dear Father in heaven, I've been a very, very naughty girl; I disobeyed my dear mamma; please forgive me for Jesus' sake and make me good. Please Lord Jesus, help me to know if I ought to tell mamma."
A text—one of the many she had learned to recite to her mother in that precious morning half hour—came to her mind as she rose from her knees. "He that covereth his sins shall not prosper: but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them shall have mercy."
"I didn't cover them;" she said to herself, "I told God: but then God knew all about it before; he sees and knows everything; but mamma doesn't know. Perhaps it means I musn't cover them from her. I think Jesus did tell me."
Wiping away her tears she went back into the drawing-room. The gentlemen were just leaving it, her father among the rest. A sudden resolution seized her and she ran after them.
"Papa!"
He turned at the sound of her voice. "Well daughter?"
"I—I just want to ask you something."
"Another time then, pet, papa's in a hurry now."
But seeing the distress in the dear little face he came to her and laying his hand on her head in tender fatherly fashion, said, "Tell papa what it is that troubles you. I will wait to hear it now."
"Papa," she said, choking down a sob, "I—I don't know what to do."
"About what, daughter?"
"Papa, s'pose—s'pose I'd done something naughty, and—and it would grieve dear mamma to hear it; ought I to tell her and—and make her sorry?"
"My dear little daughter," he said bending down to look with grave, tender eyes into the troubled face, "never, never conceal anything from your mother; it is not safe for you, pet; and she would far rather bear the pain of knowing. If our children knew how much, how very much we both love them, they would never want to hide anything from us."
"Papa, I don't; but—somebody says it would be selfish to hurt mamma so."
"The selfishness was in doing the naughty thing, not in confessing it.
Go, my child, and tell mamma all about it."
He hastened away, and Violet crept back to the drawing-room.
The other children were leaving it. "Come, Vi," they said, "we're going for a walk."
"Thank you, I don't wish to go this time," she answered with gravity.
"I've something to attend to."
"What a grown up way of talking you have, you little midget," laughed Meta. Then putting her lips close to Vi's ear, "Violet Travilla," she whispered, "don't you tell tales, or I'll never, never play with you again as long as I live."
"My mamma says it's wicked to say that;" returned Vi, "and I don't tell tales."
Then as Meta ran away, Violet drew near her mother's chair.
Mamma was talking, and she must not interrupt, so she waited, longing to have the confession over, yet feeling her courage almost fail with the delay.
Elsie saw it all, and at length seized an opportunity while the rest were conversing among themselves, to take Vi's hand and draw her to her side.
"I think my little girl has something to say to mother," she whispered softly, smoothing back the clustering curls, and looking tenderly into the tear-stained face.
Violet nodded assent; her heart was so full she could not have spoken a word without bursting into tears and sobs.
Mamma understood, rose and led her from the room; led her to her own dressing-room where they could be quite secure from intrusion. Then seating herself and taking the child on her lap, "What is wrong with my dear little daughter?" she asked.
"O, mamma, mamma, I'm so sorry, so sorry!" cried the child, bursting into a passion of tears and sobs, putting her arms about her mother's neck and hiding her face on her breast.
"Mamma is sorry, too, dear, sorry for anything that makes her Vi unhappy. What is it? what can mother do to comfort you."
"Mamma I don't deserve for you to be so kind, and you'll have to punish, 'stead of comforting. But I just want to tell about my own self; you know I can't tell tales, mamma."
"No, daughter, I do not ask, or wish it; but tell me about yourself."
"Mamma, it will make you sorry, ever so sorry."
"Yes, dear, but I must bear it for your sake."
"O mamma, I don't like to make you sorry I—I wish I hadn't, hadn't been naughty, oh so naughty, mamma! for I played with some of your mamma's things that you forbade us to touch, and—and one lovely plate got broken all up."
"I am very sorry to hear that," returned the mother, "yet far more grieved by my child's sin. But how did you get the door open and the plates off the shelf?"
"I didn't, mamma: they were out."
"Some one else did it?"
"Yes, mamma; but you know I can't tell tales. It wasn't any of our children, though, none of them were naughty but just me."
"Were you playing with the plate? did you break it?"
"No mamma, I didn't touch the plates, but I was dressing one of the dollies. They are all locked up again now, mamma, and I don't think anybody will touch them any more."
A little tender, serious talk on the sin and danger of disobedience to parents, and the mother knelt with her child, and in a few simple words asked God's forgiveness for her. Then telling Vi she must remain alone in that room till bedtime, she left her.
Not one harsh or angry word had been spoken, and the young heart was full of a passionate love to her mother that made the thought of having grieved her a far bitterer punishment than the enforced solitude, though that was at any time irksome enough to one of Vi's social, fun-loving temperament.
It cost the mother a pang to inflict the punishment and leave the darling alone in her trouble; but Elsie was not one to weakly yield to inclination when it came in conflict with duty. Hers was not a selfish love; she would bear any present pain to secure the future welfare of her children.
She rejoined her friends in the drawing-room apparently as serenely happy as her wont, but through all the afternoon and evening her heart was with her little one in her banishment and grief, yearning over her with tenderest mother love.
Little Elsie, too, missed her sister, and returning from her walk, went in search of her. She found her at last in their mamma's dressing-room seated at the window, her cheek resting on her hand, the tears coursing slowly down, while her eyes gazed longingly out over the beautiful fields and lovely orange groves.
"Oh my own Vi, my darling little sister! what's the matter?" asked
Elsie, clasping her in her arms, and kissing the wet cheek.
A burst of bitter sobs, while the small arms clung about the sister's neck, and the golden head rested for an instant on her shoulder, then the words, "Ah I'd tell you, but I can't now, for you must run right away, because mamma said I must stay here all alone till bedtime."
"Then I must go, pet; but don't cry so: if you've been naughty and are sorry, Jesus, and mamma too, will forgive you and love you just the same," Elsie said, kissing her again, then releasing her, hurried from the room, crying heartily in sympathy.
On the upper veranda, whither she went to recover her composure, before rejoining her mates, she found her mother pacing slowly to and fro.
"Is my Elsie in trouble, too?" Mrs. Travilla asked, pausing in her walk and holding out her hand.
"For my Vi, mamma," sobbed Elsie, taking the hand and pressing it to her lips.
"Yes, poor little pet! mother's heart aches for her too," Mrs. Travilla answered, her own eyes filling. "I am glad my little daughters love and sympathize with each other."
"Mamma, I would rather stay with Vi, than be with the others. May I?"
"No, daughter, I have told her she must spend the rest of the day alone."
"Yes, mamma, she told me so and wouldn't let me stay even one minute to hear about her trouble."
"That was right."
Time crept by very slowly to Violet. She thought that afternoon the longest she had ever known. After a while she heard a familiar step, and almost before she knew it papa had her in his arms.
With a little cry of joy she put hers around his neck and returned the kiss he had just given her.
"Oh I'm so glad!" she said, "but, papa, you'll have to go away, because nobody must stay with me; I'm—"
"Papa may," he said, sitting down with her on his knee. "So you told mamma about the naughtiness?"
"Yes, sir."
"I am glad you did. Always tell mamma everything. If you have disobeyed her never delay a moment to go and confess it."
"Yes, papa: but if it's you?"
"Then come to me in the same way. If you want to be a happy child have no concealment from father or mother."
"Shall I tell you about it now, papa?"
"You may do as you like about that since your mother knows it all."
"Papa, I'm afraid you wouldn't love such a naughty girl any more."
"Mamma loves you quite as well, and so shall I; because you are our own, own little daughter. There were tears in mamma's eyes when she told me that she had had to punish our little Vi."
"Oh I'm so sorry to have made mamma cry," sobbed the child.
"Sin always brings sorrow and suffering sooner or later, my little girl; remember that; and that it is because Jesus loves us that he would save us from our sins."
After a little more talk, in which Violet repeated to him the same story of her wrong doing that she had already told her mother, her papa left her and she was again alone till mammy came with her supper—a bowl of rich sweet milk and bread from the unbolted flour, that might have tempted the appetite of an epicure.
"Come, honey, dry dose wet eyes an' eat yo' supper," said mammy, setting it out daintily on a little table which she placed before the child and covered with a fine damask cloth fresh from the iron. "De milk's mos' all cream, an' de bread good as kin be: an' you kin hab much as eber you want ob both ob dem."
"Did mamma say so, mammy?"
"Yes, chile; an' don't shed no mo' dose tears now; ole mammy lubs you like her life."
"But I've been very naughty, mammy," sobbed the little girl.
"Yes, Miss Wi'let, honey: an' we's all been naughty, but de good Lord forgib us for Jesus' sake if we's sorry an' don't 'tend neber to do so no mo'."
"Yes, mammy, Oh I wish you could stay with me I but you musn't: for mamma said I must be all alone."
"Yes, darlin'; an' if you wants mo' supper, jes ring dis, an' mammy'll come."
She placed a small silver bell on the table beside Vi, and with a tender, compassionate look at the tear-swollen face, went away.
The young Travillas were sometimes denied dainties because of misconduct, but always allowed to satisfy their youthful appetites with an abundance of wholesome, nourishing food.
Vi ate her supper with a keen relish, and found herself greatly comforted by it. How much one's views of life are brightened by a good comfortable meal that does not overtax the digestive organs. Vi suddenly remembered with a feeling of relief that the worst of her trouble—the confession—was over, and the punishment nearly so.
It was only a little while till mamma came, took her on her lap, kissed and forgave her.
"Mamma, I'm so, so sorry for having disobeyed and grieved you!" whispered the child, weeping afresh: "for I do love you very, very much, my own mamma."
"I know it, dearest; but I want you to be far more sorry for having disobeyed God, who loves you more, a great deal, than your parents do, and has given you every good thing you have."
"Yes, mamma, I've asked God many times to forgive me for Jesus's sake, and I think he has."
"Yes, if you asked with your heart, I am sure he has; for Jesus said, 'Verily, verily, I say unto you, Whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in my name, he will give it you.'"
There was a little pause, Vi nestling close in her mother's arms; then with a quiver in her voice, "Mamma," she sighed, "will you ever trust me again?"
"Just the same as before, my child; because I believe you are truly sorry for your sin against God and against me."
"Thank you, dear, dear mamma! oh I hope God will help me to keep from ever being naughty any more."
Chapter Twenty-seventh.
"Conscience makes cowards of us all."
Meta was not in a cheerful or companionable mood during the walk that afternoon; the stings of conscience goaded her and she was haunted by the fear that Violet, so young and innocent, so utterly unused to concealments, would betray her share in the mischief done, even without intending to do so.
"Meta, what's the matter with you?" Herbert asked at length; "you haven't spoken a pleasant word since we came out."
"I'm not ill," was the laconic reply.
"Then you must be in the sulks, and ought to have staid at home," returned the plain-spoken brother.
"Oh don't tease her," said little Elsie. "Perhaps she has a headache, and I know by myself that that makes one feel dull, and sometimes even cross."
"You cross! I don't believe you ever were in your life," said Herbert.
"I've never seen you any thing but pleasant as a May morning."
"Don't quarrel, children, but help me to gather some of these lovely flowers to scatter over the graves up there on the hill," said Rosie Dinsmore.
"Our graves," said Eddie, softly. "Yes I'd like to; but, Aunt Rosie, I don't believe we can get in."
"Yes, we can," she answered. "Uncle Joe's up there at work, weeding and trimming the rosebushes."
"Then I'll gather plenty of these beauties," said Eddie, stooping to pluck the lovely, many-hued blossoms that spangled the velvety grass at their feet in every direction.
"How beautiful! how beautiful they are! and some of them so fragrant!" exclaimed Elsie, rapidly filling a pretty basket she carried in her hand. "How good God is to give us so many lovely things!"
"Yes," returned Rosie, "it seems a pity to pluck them from their stems and make them wither and die; but there is such a profusion that what we take can hardly be missed."
"And it's honoring our graves to scatter flowers over them: isn't it,
Aunt Rosie?" Eddie asked.
"Why do you say our graves? just as if you were already buried there," laughed Herbert.
"Come," said Rosie, "I think we have enough now."
"O Aunt Rosie, down in that little dell yonder they are still thicker than here, and more beautiful, I think," exclaimed Elsie.
"But we have enough now; your basket is full. We'll go to that dell as we come back, and gather some to take home to our mammas."
"Oh yes, that will be best," Elsie said, with cheerful acquiescence.
"I shall go now and get some worthy to honor the dead," said Meta, starting off in the direction of the dell.
"Meta likes to show her independence," said Rosie, smiling; "we won't wait for her."
They climbed the hill, pushed open the gate of the little enclosure and passed in; very quietly, for their youthful spirits were subdued by the solemn stillness of the place, and a feeling of awe crept over them at thought of the dead whose dust lay sleeping there.
Silently they scattered the flowers over each lowly resting place, reserving the most beautiful for that of her who was best known to them all—the first who had borne the name of Elsie Dinsmore.
"Our dear grandma!" whispered Elsie and Eddie, softly.
"I can't help feeling as if she was some relation to me too," said
Rosie, "because she was my sister's mother, and papa's wife."
The breeze carried the words to the ear of Uncle Joe, who was at work on the farther side of the enclosure, and had not till that moment been aware of the vicinity of the young people.
He rose and came hobbling toward them, pulling off his hat and bowing respectfully.
"Dat's so, Miss Rosie, ef you lubs de Lord, like she did, de dear young Missus dat lays heyah; for don't de 'postle say ob de Lord's chillen dat dey's all one in Christ Jesus? all one, Miss Rosie: heirs ob God and joint heirs wid Christ."
"Yes, Uncle Joe, that is true."
"Ah, she was lubly an' lubbed de Master well," he went on, leaning upon his staff and gazing fixedly at the name engraved on the stone, "She's not dead, chillen: her soul's wid de Lord in dat land ob light an' glory, an' de body planted heyah till de mornin' ob de resurrection."
"And then she will rise more beautiful than ever," said little Elsie.
"Mamma has told me about it. 'The dead in Christ shall rise first.'"
"Then we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord," repeated Rosie.
"Yes, Miss Rosie. Bressed hope." And Uncle Joe hobbled back to his work.
"Here, look at these!" said Meta hurrying up, heated and out of breath with running, "Aren't they beauties?"
She emptied her apron upon the grave as she spoke, then pulled out her handkerchief with a jerk, to wipe the perspiration from her face Something fell against the tombstone with a ringing, metallic sound.
"A key! a door key!" cried Herbert, stooping to pick it up. "Why, Meta, what key is it? and what are you doing with it?"
"I never heard that it had any particular name," she answered tartly, snatching it from him and restoring it to her pocket, while her cheeks flushed crimson.
The others exchanged surprised glances, but said nothing.
"But what door does it belong to? and what are you doing with it?" persisted Herbert.
"Talk of the curiosity of women and girls!" sneered Meta: "men and boys have quite as much; but it's against my principles to gratify it."
"Your principles!" laughed Herbert "You, prying, meddling Meta; talking about other people's curiosity! Well, that's a good one!"
"You insulting boy! I'll tell mamma of you," retorted Meta, beginning to cry.
"Ha! ha! I wish you would! tell her my remarks about the key, and she'll soon make you explain where it belongs, and how it came into your possession."
At that Meta, deigning no reply, put her handkerchief to her eyes and hurried away toward the house.
"There, she's gone to tell mamma," said Harry.
"Not she," said Herbert, "she knows better; she'd only get reproved for telling tales, and be forced to tell all about that key. She's been at some mischief, I haven't a doubt: she's always prying, and meddling with what she's been told not to touch. Mamma says that's her besetting sin."
"And what does she say is yours?" asked Rosie, looking him steadily in the eye.
Herbert colored and turned away.
His mother had told him more than once or twice, that he was quite too much disposed to domineer over, and reprove his younger brother and sisters.
"Well, I don't care!" he muttered to himself, "'tisn't half so mean a fault as Meta's. I'm the oldest, and Harry and the girls ought to be willing to let me tell them of it when they go wrong."
The key, which belonged to a closet in Mr. Lilburn's dressing-room, seemed to burn in Meta's pocket. She was frightened that Herbert and the others had seen it.
"They all looked as if they knew something was wrong," she said to herself, "and to be sure what business could I have with a door-key. Dear me! why wasn't I more careful. But it's like 'murder will out;' or what the Bible says; 'Be sure your sin will find you out.'"
She was afraid to meet her mother with the key in her possession, so took so circuitous a route to reach the house, and walked so slowly that the others were there some time before her.
Her mother was on the veranda looking out for her. "Why, how late you are, Meta," she said. "Make haste to your room and have your hair and dress made neat; for the tea-bell will soon ring."
"Yes, ma'am," and Meta flew into the house and up to her room, only too glad of an excuse for not stopping to be questioned.
She was down again barely in time to take her seat at the table with the others. She glanced furtively at the faces of her mother, grandmother, and Aunt Elsie, and drew a sigh of relief as she perceived that they had evidently learned nothing yet of her misconduct.
After tea she watched Mr. Lilburn's movements and was glad to see him step into the library, seat himself before the fire, and take up a book.
"He's safe to stay there for awhile," she thought, "so fond of reading as he is," and ran up to her room for the key, which she had left there hidden under her pillow.
She secured it unobserved and stole cautiously to the door of his dressing-room. She found it slightly ajar, pushed it a little wider open, crept in, gained the closet door, and was in the act of putting the key into the lock, when a deep groan, coming from within the closet, apparently, so startled her that she uttered a faint cry, and dropped the key on the floor; then a hollow voice said, "If you ever touch that again, I'll—"
But Meta waited to hear no more; fear seemed to lend her wings, and she flew from the room in a panic of terror.
"Ah ha! ah ha! um h'm! ah ha! you were at some mischief, no doubt, my lassie. 'The wicked flee when no man pursueth,' the good Book tells us," said the occupant of the room, stepping out from the shadow of the window-curtain.
He had laid down his book almost immediately, remembering that he had some letters to write, and had come up to his apartments in search of one he wished to answer.
It was already dark, except for the light of a young moon, but by some oversight of the servants the lamps had not yet been lighted here.
He was feeling about for matches, when hearing approaching footsteps he stepped behind the curtain and waited to see who the intruder was.
He recognized Meta's form and movements, and sure that no legitimate errand had brought her there at that time, resolved to give her a fright.
Tearing down the hall, Meta suddenly encountered her mother, who, coming up to her own apartments, had reached the head of the stairs just in time to witness Meta's exit from those of Mr. Lilburn.
"Oh I'm so frightened! so frightened, mamma!" cried the child, throwing herself into her mother's arms.
"As you richly deserve to be," said Mrs. Carrington, taking her by the hand and leading her into her dressing-room. "What were you doing in Mr. Lilburn's apartments?"
Meta hung her head in silence.
"Speak, Meta; I will have an answer," her mother said, with determination.
"I wasn't doing any harm; only putting away something that belonged there."
"What was it?"
"A key."
"Meddling again! prying even into the affairs of a strange gentleman!" groaned her mother. "Meta, what am I to do with you? this dreadful fault of yours mortifies me beyond everything. I feel like taking you back to Ashlands at once, and never allowing you to go from home at all; lest you should bring a life-long disgrace upon yourself and me."
"Mother, I wasn't prying or meddling with Mr. Lilburn's affairs," said
Meta, bursting into sobs and tears.
"What were you doing there? tell me all about it without any more ado."
Knowing that her mother was a determined woman, and seeing that there was now no escape from a full confession, Meta made it.
Mrs. Carrington was much distressed.
"Meta, you have robbed your Aunt Elsie, your Aunt Elsie who has always been so good, so kind to me and to you: and I can never make good her loss; never replace that plate."
"Just that one tiny plate couldn't be worth so very much," muttered the offender.
"Its intrinsic value was perhaps not very great," replied Mrs. Carrington, "but to my dear friend it was worth much as a memento of her dead mother. Meta, you shall not go with us to-morrow, but shall spend the day locked up in your own room at home."
An excursion had been planned for the next day, in which the whole party, adults and children, were to have a share. They were to leave at an early hour in the morning, travel several miles by boat, and spend the day picnicking on a deserted plantation—one Meta had not yet seen, but had heard spoken of as a very lovely place.
She had set her heart on going, and this decree of her mother came upon her as a great blow. She was very fond of being on the water, and of seeing new places, and had pictured to herself the delights of roaming over the large old house, which she had heard was still standing, peeping into the closets, pulling open drawers, perhaps discovering secret stairways and—oh delightful thought!—possibly coming upon some hidden treasure forgotten by the owners in their hasty flight.
She wept bitterly, coaxed, pleaded, and made fair promises for the future, but all in vain. Her mother was firm.
"You must stay at home, Meta," she said. "It grieves me to deprive you of so great a pleasure, but I must do what I can to help you to overcome this dreadful fault. You have chosen stolen pleasures at the expense of disobedience to me, and most ungrateful, wicked behavior toward my kind friend; and as a just and necessary punishment you must be deprived of the share you were to have had in the innocent enjoyments planned for to-morrow. You shall also make a full confession to your Aunt Elsie and ask her forgiveness."
"I won't!" exclaimed Meta angrily; then catching the look of pained surprise in her mother's face, she ran to her and throwing her arms about her neck, "O mamma! mamma! forgive me!" she cried. "I can't bear to see you look so grieved: I will never say that again; I will do whatever you bid me."
Mrs. Carrington kissed her child in silence, then taking her by the hand, "Come and let us have this painful business over," she said, and led the way to Mrs. Travilla's boudoir.
Elsie had no reproaches for Meta, but kindly forgave her, and even requested that she might be permitted to share in the morrow's enjoyment, but Mrs. Carrington would not hear of it.