“When shall I come then?” wishing to have matters very definitely arranged. “Do you think they would like to have me here to help them feel at home right off at the very first?”
“Well, I should not wonder but they would like that very much indeed.”
“Then I will come on Friday.”
“You mean you will ask your grannana, Brevet,” said Joe, significantly.
“Oh, yes; I mean I will ask if I may come.” This last very quickly and eagerly, remembering his little lecture of the morning.
“Well, it’s des a comfort to see de ole place in shape once more, an’ I trus’ you an’ de young lady an’ de chilluns will have des a beautiful summer. P’r’aps some day,” and Joe’s eyes twinkled with the thought, “dey’ll all come up and spen’ de day with me at Arlington. Brevet here alway des loves to come. You know Arlington’s where all de soldiers am buried. I used to be a slave on de place ‘fo’ de wah, an’ dere ain’t much happened dere fur de las’ fifty years dat I hasn’t some knowledge of, and dey done tell me” (indulging in a little complacent chuckle) “dat it’s mighty interestin’ ter spen’ de day with Joe at Arlington.”
“Well, indeed I should think it would be,” said Mary, very much interested, “and I wish you would stop and see Miss Courage about it the first time you drive by.”
“Thank you very much, Miss; and now. Brevet, your grannana will be watchin’ fur us an’ we had bes’ be joggin’ on I’m thinkin’.”
“All right, Captain,” clambering into the cart, and then Joe and Brevet courteously touched their caps, in true military fashion, and old Jenny jogged on.
“Miss Courage did she say?” asked Brevet, the moment they were out of hearing, just as Joe knew he would.
“Yes; it soun’ like dat, Honey, but some day we must make inquiries. Dere mus’ be some ‘splanation of a name like dat.”
CHAPTER IV.—EVERYBODY HAPPY.
It is strange and beautiful,” thought Courage as she moved busily about her room, putting one thing and another into a trunk that stood open before the fireplace; “strange and beautiful how difficulties take to themselves wings, when you once make up your mind what is right to do and then go straight ahead and do it.”
“Miss Courage,” said a young coloured girl, who was leaning over the bed trying to fold a black dress in a fashion that should leave no creases to show for its packing, “I felt all along there was nothing else for you to do.”
“Then, Sylvia, why did you not say so?” Courage asked, a little sharply. “You knew how hard it was for me to come to any decision. It was not because you were afraid to say so, was it?”
“Afraid?” and a merry look shone for a moment in Sylvia’s eyes. “No, I don’t believe I ever could grow afraid of the little curly-headed girl I used to work for when we were both children together. No, indeed; it was only because I thought you ought to see it so yourself. It seemed as though it was just as plain a duty as the hand before your face, and I felt sure you would come to it, as you have, if we only gave you time enough.” It was a comfort to Courage to feel that Sylvia so thoroughly understood her. Indeed, they were far more to each other than mistress and maid; they were true friends these two, whose only home for a while had been Larry Starr’s brave lighter, and for both of whom he had cared in the same kind, fatherly way. Of course you do not understand about Larry or Larry’s lighter, unless you have read “Courage,” but then on the other hand there is no reason why you need to understand. Nor was Sylvia the only one who approved of what Courage had done. The Elversons, Miss Julia’s brother and his wife, and with whom Courage and Miss Julia had lived, were as glad as glad could be to have Courage carry out Miss Julia’s plan; and so in fact was everybody who saw how sad and lonely Courage was, and what a blessing anything that would occupy her thoughts must be to her. And so, in the light of all this, you can see how sad it would have been if Courage had yielded to her fears, and persistently turned away from a duty, in very truth as plain as the hand before your face, as Sylvia had put it. But Courage had not turned away, nor for one instant wavered from the moment her resolve was taken.
And now at last the day for the start had dawned. The little Bennetts had been awake at sunrise. Fancy having three months of Christmas ahead of you—for it seemed just as fine as that to them. It was a wonder they had slept at all. They had read about brooks and hills and valleys, and woods where all manner of beautiful wild things were growing; of herds of cow’s grazing in grassy pastures; of loads of hay with children riding atop of them, and of the untold delights of a hay-loft. And now they were going to know and enjoy every one of these delights for themselves. Why, they could not even feel sad about leaving their mother, and indeed she was as radiant as they at the thought of their going.
“You see,” she explained to them, “I shall have the baby for company, and such a beautiful time to rest; and your father and I will take a sail now and then down the bay, or go to the park for the day in the very warm weather; and then it is going to be such a comfort to have your father home for two whole months, and that couldn’t have happened either, you know, if you had not been going away for the summer.” The children’s father, Captain Bennett, was one of the pilots who earn their living by bringing the great ocean steamers into the harbour, and often he would be aboard the pilot-boat, at sea for weeks at a time, waiting his turn to take the helm of one of the incoming steamers, and then, as like as not, he would have to put straight to sea again, for there were many to keep, and there was need for every hard-earned dollar. But the Captain’s chance for a vacation had come with the children’s. He could afford to take it, since four of his little family were to be provided for, for the entire summer, and so every one was happy and every one believed that somehow Miss Julia must know and be so glad for them all.
But this was the day for the start, as I told you, and the children had started. They were in the waiting-room at the foot of Cortlandt Street, where Courage was to meet them.
“And here she is,” exclaimed Mary, with a great sigh of relief, being the first to espy Courage coming through the gate of the ferry-house, “and doesn’t she look lovely!” Mary was right; Courage did look lovely as, with Sylvia close behind her, she walked the length of the waiting-room to where the little group were standing. Other people thought so too, as she passed, and watched her with keenest interest. Her stylish black dress and black sailor hat were wonderfully becoming, and the face that had been so pale and sad was flushed with pleasure now, and with the rather uncomfortable consciousness that she and her little party could scarcely fail to be the observed of all observers. Mrs. Bennett was there, of course, to see them off, and the baby and the Captain, and it must be confessed that the eyes of both father and mother grew a little misty as they said “Good-bye” to their little flock. The girl contingent was a trifle misty, too, but the baby was the only one who really cried outright. However, I half believe that was because he wanted a banana that hung in a fruit stand near by, and not at all because the children were going to leave him; some babies seem to have so very little feeling. But now it was time to go aboard the boat, and the Captain and Mrs. Bennett saw the last of the little party as they disappeared within the ferry-boat cabin, and then in fifteen minutes more the same little party was ranged along one side of a parlor car on the “Washington Limited”; then the wheels slowly and noiselessly commenced to turn and they were really off; all of the little party’s hearts thrilling with the thought, and all sitting up as prim as you please, in their drawing-room chairs, quite overawed with the magnificence of their surroundings and the unparalleled importance of the occasion.
Courage, very much amused, watched them for a few moments and then suggested that they should settle themselves for the journey. Bags were stowed away in the racks overhead, coats and hats banished to coat hooks, and one thing and another properly adjusted, until at last four little pair of hands having placed four little footstools at exactly the desired angle, four pair of brand-new russet shoes found a resting-place rather conspicuously atop of them, and the four children leaned comfortably back in the large, upholstered chairs as though now at last permanently established for the entire length of the journey. But of course no amount of adjusting and arranging really meant anything of that sort, or that they could be able to sit still for more than five minutes at a time, and Courage and Sylvia soon had to put their wits to work to think up ways of keeping the restless little company in some sort of order. But fortunately none of the fellow-passengers appeared disturbed thereby. On the contrary, they seemed very much interested, and finally a handsome old gentleman came down the aisle, and leaning over the chair in which Courage was sitting, said courteously:
“My dear young lady, if you will pardon an old man’s curiosity, and do not for any reason mind telling me, I should very much like to know what you are doing, and where you are going with this little family?”
“And I am very glad to tell you,” answered Courage cordially, for since that summer spent with Larry there had always been such a very warm corner in her heart for all old people; and Teddy, who was sitting next to Courage, had the grace to offer the old gentleman a chair. Then for some time he listened intently, his kind old face glowing with pleasure as Courage told him all about the children, and finally of the cosy little cottage awaiting their coming down in Virginia.
“But in doing all this,” Courage concluded, “I am simply carrying out the plans of my dearest friend, Miss Julia Everett.”
“Oh, you don’t mean it!” the old gentleman exclaimed, his voice trembling. “I knew Miss Everett well. She always stopped with me when she came to Washington.”
“Can it be that you are old Colonel Anderson?”
“Yes, I am Colonel Anderson, and I suppose I am old,” he added, smiling; “and can it be you are young Miss Courage, of whom I have heard so often?”
“Yes, I am Courage, but you will excuse me, won’t you, for speaking as I did? I only had happened to hear Miss Julia——”
Courage hesitated.
“Oh, yes, dear child, I understand perfectly. You used to hear Miss Julia speak of me as old Colonel Anderson, and so I am, and I am not ashamed of it either, although I could not resist the temptation to tease you a little, which was very rude of me. But now, can it be that it is to Miss Julia’s estate near Arlington that you are going—to the home that her Uncle Everett left her when she was just a little slip of a girl, years before the war?”
“Yes, that is exactly where, but I have never seen it.”
“Well, you will love it when you do. It is the dearest little spot in the world. I will drive out some day and take luncheon with you and the children, if I should happen to have an invitation. I could tell you some interesting things about the old place.”
“Oh, will you come?” exclaimed Mary and Gertrude in one breath, for with a curiosity as pardonable, I think, as that of old Mr. Anderson, all of the children had grouped themselves about Courage, and had listened with keenest interest to every word spoken. And so one more happy anticipation was added to the many with which their happy hearts were overflowing.
At last the train steamed into Washington, although at times it had seemed to the children as though it never would, and then a carriage was soon secured, and, three on a seat, the little party crowded into it, and they were off for their eight mile drive to Arlington.
CHAPTER V.—HOWDY
And meantime what excitement in the little cottage down in Virginia! Everything was in readiness and everybody was on the tiptoe of expectation. Everybody meant Mary Duff, (it was she, you know, who had cared for little Courage through all her babyhood, and who had been sent down to get everything in order), and besides Mary Duff, Mary Ann the cook, old Joe and Brevet.
It must be confessed, Brevet had had a little difficulty in winning his grandmother’s consent to this visit, but he had been able to meet every objection with such convincing arguments, that he had come off victor in the encounter.
“You see, Grandnana,” he had confidentially explained, with his pretty little half-southern, half-darkey accent, “I is a perfec’ stranger to them now I know, but then everything is strange to them down here, so don’t you s’pose it would be nice for me to be right there waiting at the gate, where I can call out ‘How’dy’ just so soon as ever they come in sight, and so for me not to be a stranger to them more’n the first minute, and have them find there are folks here who are very glad to know them right from the start? Besides, the lady—Mary Duff was her name—told me she just knew those little Bennetts would love to see me, and that she would surely expect me down to-day for certain.”
And so “Grandnana” succumbed, not having the heart to nip such noble hospitality in the bud, and at two o’clock precisely, the best carriage wheeled up to the door and Mammy and Brevet were quickly stowed away within it, to say nothing of a basketful of good things covered with a huge napkin of fine old damask. But who is Mammy? you ask, and indeed you should have been told pages ago, for no one for many years had been half so important as Mammy in the Ellis household. She is an old negro woman, almost as old as Joe himself, and when on the first of January, 1863, President Lincoln issued the proclamation that made all the slaves free, she was among the first to turn her back upon the plantation where she was raised, and make her way to Washington. It was there that Mrs. Ellis had found her, when in search of a nurse for her two little boys, and from that day to this she has been the faithful worshipper of the whole Ellis family. Now in her old age her one and only duty has been to care for Brevet, a care constantly lessening as that little fellow daily proves his ability to look out more and more for himself.
Brevet was not to be allowed, however, on the occasion of this first visit to their new neighbours, to make the trip alone. “Grandnana” had been very firm about that, somewhat to his chagrin, and so, if the truth be told, Mammy’s presence in the comfortable, old-fashioned carriage was at first simply tolerated. But that state of affairs did not last long. Try as he would, Brevet was too happy at heart to cherish any grievance, imaginary or otherwise, for many minutes together; and soon he and Mammy were chatting away in the merriest fashion, and the old nurse was looking forward to the unusual excitement of the day, with quite as much expectation as her little charge of seven. Had she not devoted the leisure of two long mornings of preparation to the shelling of almonds and the stoning of raisins, and then when the day came, with eager trembling hands, packed all the good things away in the great, roomy hamper that seemed now to look at her so complacently from the opposite seat of the phaeton? Yes, indeed, it was every whit as glad a day for Mammy as Brevet, and she peered out from the carriage just as anxiously as they drove up to the gate and Mary Duff came out to greet them. But Mammy had something to say before making any motion to leave the carriage.
“Are you quite sure, Miss, dat dis yere little pickaninny of ours ain’t gwine to be in any one’s way or nuffin?” she asked, bowing a how-do-you-do to Mary, and keeping a restraining hand upon Brevet.
“Oh, perfectly sure.”
“He done told us you wanted him very much,” but in a half-questioning tone, as though what Brevet “done told them” was sometimes “suspicioned” of being slightly coloured by what he himself would like to do, notwithstanding his general high standard of truthfulness.
“Brevet is perfectly right—we do want him very much,” Mary answered, heartily.
“Even if you have to take his old Mammy ‘long wid him, kase Miss Lindy wasn’t quite willin to ‘low him ter come by hisself?”
“And we’re very glad to see you, Mammy,” Mary answered cordially, and so the last of Mammy’s scruples, which were not as real as Mammy herself tried to think them, were put to rest, and Brevet was permitted to scramble out of the carriage, while Mary Duff lent a hand to Mammy’s more difficult alighting.
“Is dere ere a man ‘bout could lift dis yere basket ter de house for us?” she asked, looking helplessly up to the hamper, “kase Daniel dere has instructions from de Missus neber to leave de hosses less’n dere ain’t no way to help it.”
“Well, I guess dere is,” chuckled a familiar voice behind her back, and Mammy turned to discover Joe close beside her.
“Well, I klar, you heah!” she exclaimed. “Why, it seems like de whole county turn out to welcome dese yere little Bennetts. Seems, too, like some of us goin’ to be in de way sure ‘nuff.”
“Howsomever, some on us don’ take up so much room as oders,” grunted Joe, surmising, and quite correctly, too, that Mammy considered his presence on the scene something wholly unnecessary and undesirable. “I’se heah to help wid de trunks, Mammy,” he then added; “what you heah to help wid?”
Mammy, scorning the insinuation, turned to Mary Duff as they walked up the path.
“You know, Honey, de Lord ain’t lef’ no choice ter most on us as ter what size we’ll be, but pears like you’d better be a fat ole Mammy like me, than such a ole bag o’ bones as Joe yonder.”
But Joe by that time was depositing his basket in the hall-way of the cottage, and was fortunately quite beyond the fire of this personal attack. Mary Duff was naturally much amused at the real but harmless jealousy of these old coloured folk, and realised for perhaps the five hundredth time what children we all are, be race and nationality what they may.
Meantime Brevet had taken his position on the top rail of the gate, with one arm around a slim little cedar that stood guard beside it.
“May I stand right out here, Miss Duff,” he called back to Mary, “so as to see them a long way off?”
“Bless your heart, yes!” Mary answered, quite certain in her mind that since Courage herself was a little girl she never had seen such a dear child. Brevet’s watch was a brief one.
“They are coming! Hear the wheels! They are coming,” he cried exultingly, with almost the next breath. In just two minutes more they really had come, and Brevet was calling out “How’dy, how’dy, how’dy” at the top of his strong little lungs, to the wide-eyed amazement of the Bennetts, who had never heard this Southern abbreviation of the Northern “How-do-you-do.” Then jumping down from his perch, he ran up to the carriage, repeating over again his cordial welcoming “How’dy.”
“How’dy, dear little stranger!” replied Courage, waving a greeting to Mary; “and who are you I would like to know?”
“I’m Howard Stanhope Ellis, but that’s not what you’re to call me, I have another name. It’s the name they give—” but he did not finish his sentence, for charming little fellow though he was, he could not be allowed to monopolise things in this fashion, and Mary gently pushed him aside to get him out of her way.
“And so here you are at last,” she said joyously; “welcome home, Miss Courage. How are you, Sylvia?” while she bent down with a cordial kiss for each friendly little Bennett. Meantime Courage was making friends with Brevet, and a moment later the children were crowding close about him.
“My, but I’m glad to see you all,” he exclaimed, with an emphasising shake of his head, “and I think I know who’s who too. I believe this is Gertrude,” laying one little brown hand on Gertrude’s sleeve, “and you are Mary, because Mary’s the oldest, and you Teddy, because Teddy comes next, and you—you are Allan.” Brevet had learned his lesson from Mary Duff quite literally by heart, and altogether vanquished by his’ joyous, friendly greeting, the children vied with each other in giving him the loudest kiss and the very hardest hug, but from that first moment of meeting it was an accepted fact that Allan held first place. There was no gainsaying the special joyousness of his “And you—you are Allan.” The boy play-fellow for whom he had hitherto longed in vain had come, and to little Brevet it seemed as though the millennium had come with him.
All this while Joe and Mammy, barely tolerating each other’s presence, waited respectfully in the background, so that Mary had a chance to explain who they were, as Courage stood in the path, delightedly looking up at the dear little house that was to be her home. But Sylvia had already made their acquaintance. After paying the driver and making sure that nothing had been left in the carriage, she went straight toward them. “I thought I should find some of my own people down here in Virginia,” she said, cordially extending a hand to each as she spoke, “but I did not expect they would be right on the spot, the very first moment, to welcome me,” "Miss Duff done tol’ us ‘bout Miss Sylvy bein’ of de party,” said Joe with great elegance of manner, while Mammy looked daggers at him, for replying to a remark which she considered addressed chiefly to herself. It was queer enough, the attitude of these two oldtime slaves toward each other, and yet to be accounted for, I think, in their eagerness to be of use to those whom they claimed the privilege of serving; and each was conscious, by a subtle intuition, of a determination to outwit the other if possible in this regard—which was all very well, if they only could have competed in the right sort of spirit.
But there is no more time in this chapter for Mammy or Joe, nor anything else for that matter. Indeed, it would take quite a chapter of itself if I should try to tell you of the unpacking of Grandma Ellis’s basket, and then of the children’s merry supper; but it seems to me there are more important things for me to write about, and for you to read about, than things to eat and of how the children ate them. By nine o’clock quiet reigned in the little cottage, and “the children were nestled as snug in their beds” as the little folk in “The Night before Christmas.” Joe and Mammy and Brevet had long ago gone home, and Courage and Mary Duff were sitting together in the little living-room, while Sylvia, in the hall just outside, was busy arranging the books they had brought with them, on some hanging shelves.
“I think this has been the happiest day in all my life,” said Courage. “I have simply forgotten everything in the pleasure of those children.” And then, sitting down at the little cottage piano and running her hands for a few moments over the keys, she sang softly,—
“For all the Saints, who from their labour rest,
Thy name, O Jesus, be forever blest.”
The sweet, familiar hymn brought Sylvia to the door.
“Miss Courage,” she said, standing with her arms folded behind her back, as she had always a way of standing when deeply interested, “you have forgotten yourself and your sorrow to-day, but not for one moment have you really forgotten Miss Julia,” and Courage knew that this was true, and closed the little piano with tears in her eyes and a wondrous joy and peace in her heart.
CHAPTER VI.—ARLINGTON BEFORE THE WAR.
No sooner were our little New Yorkers settled in their pretty summer home than they naturally desired that it should have a name, and after much discussion, according to the Bennett custom, they all agreed that “Little Homespun,” one of the names that Courage had suggested, seemed to fit the cosy, unpretentious little home better than anything else that had been thought of. No sooner were they settled either before they became friends firm and fast of the household up at Ellismere. It needed but very little time to bring that about, because everything was—to use a big word because no smaller one will do—propitious. You can imagine what it meant to Courage—taking up her home in a new land, and with cares wholly new to her—to have a dear old lady like Grandma Ellis call upon her, as she did the very first morning after her arrival. Of course Courage had to explain how it was she had come way down there to Virginia with the little Bennett children in charge. Indeed, almost before she knew it, and in answer to Grandma Ellis’s gentle inquiries, she had told her all there was to tell—about Miss Julia, about herself and Mary Duff and Sylvia, and finally, as always with any new friend, the why and wherefore of her own unusual name. The tears stood in Grandma Ellis’s eyes many times during the narration, and her face was aglow with love and sympathy and admiration as Courage brought her story to a close.
“And now, my dear,” she had said, “I want you should know what little there is to tell about us. We live just three miles from here, and in the same old Virginia homestead where my husband was born. We, means my son Harry, and Brevet and myself. Brevet, as you already know, perhaps, has neither father nor mother. His mother died when he was six months old, and his father, my oldest son, was drowned when the Utopia went down, off the coast of Spain five years ago. We are doing our best, Harry and I, to make up to Brevet for his great loss; but it is sad that the little fellow should only know the love of an old grandmama like me, and never of his own young mother. But I do not want to burden you with my sorrows, dear child; I only want you to know we must all be the best of friends the whole summer through. It seems to me we just need each other, and in order to commence right, you must all come and spend the day with us to-morrow.”
And on the morrow they all did go up to Ellismere, Mary Duff and Sylvia with the others; the children went again the day after that, and then all hands from Ellismere came down to Homespun for the day, and so what with constant coming and going from one house to the other, in just two weeks’ time it was as though they had known each other always. And then it was that Joe arranged with Courage for the day to be spent at Arlington.
“The Ellis’s will all come,” Joe explained, “Mammy wid de res’ of ‘em, I suppose,” (but very much as though he preferred she should not) “and I done wish de Colonel could be persuaded to drive out from Washington, case ‘tween us we knows mos’ dere is of interest happened at Arlington. He use’ to visit at de big house when General Lee lived in it ’fo’ de wah, an’ I was a slave on de place.”
“You don’t mean Colonel Anderson, do you, Joe?”
“De berry same, Miss.”
“Well, then, of course he’ll come. He is an old, old friend of Miss Julia’s. I met him on the train when we came down and he asked me to invite him out some time,” and so Courage wrote a note of invitation that very day which Joe, with his own hands, carried into Washington. It was written on pretty blue paper, which had “Homespun” engraved at the top of the sheet and Tiffany’s mark on the envelope as well. It must be confessed that Courage had a little extravagant streak in her; that is, she loved to have everything just about as nearly right as she could. Sister Julia had encouraged the little streak, knowing the peculiar pleasure that the reasonable indulgence of a refined taste brings into life, “but, dear,” she had often said to Courage, “there is one thing to look out for, and that is that the more you gratify your own taste the more you must give to the people who have no taste at all, or very little of anything that makes life enjoyable,” all of which good advice Courage had taken to heart and remembered. But extravagant streak or no, the stylish little blue note accomplished its purpose, for at precisely nine o’clock the next morning Colonel Anderson wheeled up at Joe’s cabin, in his high, old-fashioned carriage, and at almost the same moment arrived the Homespun buckboard with its load of eight (for Sylvia and Mary Duff were to be in as many good times as possible) and a moment later Grandma Ellis, Harry, Brevet and old Mammy drove upon the scene.
“Now, how would we best manage things, Joe?” asked Colonel Anderson, after everybody had had a. little chat with everybody else, and luncheon baskets and wraps had been safely stowed away in Joe’s cabin.
“Well, seems ter me we’d better take a look over de house first, den take a stroll through de groun’s an’ come back to de shade of dat ol’ ches’nut yonder for de story. You can’t make a story bery interestin’ when you hab a walkin’ aujence, an’ de aujence what’s walkin’ can’t catch on ter de story bery well either.”
It was easy to see that this suggestion was a wise one, so with the exception of Grandma Ellis and Mammy, for whom comfortable rocking-chairs were at once placed under the chestnut tree, the little party made its way into the old colonial house.
“Arlington House is rather a cheerless looking place now, I admit,” sighed Colonel Anderson, as they walked through the large empty rooms, “but wait till we have the story and we’ll fill it full enough.”
“Yes, but don’t let us wait any longer than we have to,” answered Courage, and as this was the sentiment of the entire party, they hurried from the house for the walk that was to follow. The four little Bennetts kept close to each other all the way, Mary, the eldest, leading little Gertrude by the hand. They were very quiet, too, wondering and overawed by the unbroken lines of graves on every side.
“I wonder if Teddy and I will have to go to a war when we grow up,” said Allan at last, half under his breath, with a perceptible little shiver and as though barely mustering courage to speak.
“We’ll go if there is a war, I can tell you that,” Teddy replied, rather scornfully.
“Then we’ll be buried here, I suppose,” and Allan shook his head hopelessly, as though standing that moment at the foot of their two soldier-graves.
“And so will I,” affirmed Brevet, who had kept his place close beside his favourite Allan from the start. “I’ll speak to be buried right by both of you, too, just as though I was one of your family,” and Brevet stood as he spoke with his arms folded and his brows knit, in solemn and soldier-like fashion.
Now and then the little party would group itself around Colonel Anderson as he read the inscription from some monument or headstone, telling of the valour of the man whose grave it marked and often of the brave deed dared that cost the hero his life. And so some idea was gained of the beauty and significance of the great soldier cemetery, and then all hurried back to Grandma Ellis, and Colonel Anderson began his story.
An odd assortment of rush-bottomed chairs had been brought from Joe’s cabin for the grown-ups, and the children were scattered about on shawls and carriage rugs on the ground.
“Now, it isn’t easy,” said Colonel Anderson thoughtfully, “to know just where to commence.”
“Den I’ll tell you,” said Joe, who was seated at the Colonel’s elbow. “Dere ain’t no such proper place ter begin as at de beginnin’. Tell ‘em as how der was a time when Arlington was a great unbroken forest, an’ how way back early in de eighteen hundreds, George Washington Parke Custis came by de lan’ through his father and built Arlington House.”
“If you are going as far back as that, Joe, you ought to go farther, and tell how there was an old house here even before this one, which was built way back early in the seventeen hundreds. It was a little house, with only four rooms, and it stood down yonder near the bank of the river, and was bought with the land by John Custis from the Alexanders. John Custis, you know, children, was Martha Washington’s son, for she was a widow with two children when she married General Washington; and George Washington Parke Custis, who lived for awhile in the little house before he built this beautiful big one, was her grandson. He was a fortunate young fellow, as the world counts being fortunate, for he had more money than he knew what to do with. As soon as this fine house was completed, George Custis was married and brought his bride to his new home, where for the next fifty years they lived the most happy and contented life imaginable. They had one daughter, a very beautiful young lady, as I myself clearly remember, for my birthday and her wedding-day fell together, and that was why I was allowed to attend the wedding. My mother and Miss Mollie’s mother were the warmest friends, but I was only a boy of ten, and would have been left at home, I think, but for the coincidence of the birthday. I remember my mother told me Miss Custis said she would like me always to think of her wedding-day, when my birthday came round, and I can tell you, children, I always do, even though I am an old man and have started in the seventies.” "An’ so do I,” chimed in Joe; “I neber done think of one without de oder, so closely are dey ’sociated in my min’.”
“Why, were you there too, Joe?” asked Brevet, with a merry little twinkle in his eyes, for if there was one story more often told than any other for Brevet’s edification, it was the story of Miss Mary Custis’s wedding.
“Sho’ as yo’ born, Honey,” quite overlooking Brevet’s insinuation in his absorbing interest in the subject. “It was a bery busy day for me, de day Miss Mollie was married.”
“How ole was you, Joe, ‘bout dat time?” asked Mammy, her old eyes a-twinkle with mischief as well as Brevet’s, for Joe’s age, as every one knew, was a mere matter of guesswork, so careful was he that no one should ever come to a knowledge of the same.
“Seems ter me dat question ain’t no wise relavent,” replied Joe, bristling up a little, “but de Colonel and I warn’t so bery far apart when we was chilluns.”
“Why, were you friends then?” asked Allan Bennett.
“Well, that day made us friends,” answered Colonel Anderson, “and this was the way it happened. Everything was ready for the wedding. As many of the guests as it would hold were assembled in the drawing-room, the room on the left of the front door there as you go in, but the clergyman had not arrived. Then it was that Mr. Custis, beginning to grow nervous, called to Joe there, who stood on the porch, as fine as silk in his best clothes and white cotton gloves, ready to open the carriage doors for the guests as they arrived.
“‘Joe,’ called Mr. Custis, ‘run down the road, and see if you see a sign of a carriage anywhere in sight,’ and, children, what do you suppose Joe did? Well, he just stood stock still, looking down at his bright polished boots, and he never budged an inch.”
“It’s de truf,” said Joe, shaking his head regretfully, for the children were looking to him for confirmation of the story.
“You see the boots were very shiny,” continued the Colonel, in a tone of apology for Joe, “and the roads were very very muddy, so that he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Fortunately for Joe, I imagine, Mr. Custis had not waited to see him start, taking for granted, of course, that he would obey at once, and then what did I do but spring down the steps and run on Joe’s errand for him, only too thankful if I could do anything to prove my gratitude for being allowed to be present at that, to me, greatest of occasions. I had to wait less than five minutes before I discovered the open chaise, which had been sent into Washington to bring the dominie, tearing up the road.
“‘They’re coming, they’ll be here in a minute,’ I called, hurrying back to Joe, and then he rushed away in his new shiny boots and delivered my message to Mr. Custis, pretending, as the rogue confessed to me afterward, to be quite out of breath from the haste with which he had come. And then in the next moment Mr. Meade, for that was the clergyman’s name, was really there, but he came in at the back door and slipped upstairs as quickly as he could, followed by Joe and myself. You see he had driven right into the heart of a heavy thunder shower, just outside of Washington, and was drenched to the skin. There was nothing for it but that he must make a change of clothing as quickly as he could, so Joe, who knew where Mr. Custis kept his clothes, ran hither and thither, bringing one article after another, and I helped the minister into them—but my, how he did look! Mr. Custis was short and stout, and Mr. Meade was tall and thin, and I didn’t see how any one could keep their faces straight with such a guy of a minister. They couldn’t have done it either, if they had seen how he looked, could they, Joe?”
“No, Colonel, not for a minute,” chuckled Joe. "But why didn’t they see?” questioned eager little Allan.
“Why, because, of course, he had brought his gown with him, and it covered him all up,” for Brevet, able to anticipate much of the familiar story, was glad to have a hand in its telling.
“I wish you could know how the house looked in those days,” said the Colonel with a sigh of regret, echoed by a much louder and deeper sigh on the part of Joe. “It was full of the most beautiful things. There was a magnificent array of old family portraits; among them two or three of George and Martha Washington. Then there was a marvelous old sideboard that held many beautiful things that had belonged to Washington. I remember in particular some great silver candlesticks with snuffers and extinguishers, and silver wine-coolers, and some exquisite painted china, part of a set that had been given to Washington by the Society of the Cincinnati.”
“I do not think you have told the children,” interrupted Grandma Ellis, “who it was that Miss Custis married.”
“Can that be possible?” provoked that he should have left out anything so important. “Why, it was General Robert E. Lee!” "I’m afraid we don’t know who General Lee was,” said Mary Bennett, blushing a little, and then she added quickly, “you see we live so far away from where the war was fought,” for Brevet’s undisguised look of astonishment was really quite paralysing.
“We only know what we have learnt at school,” Teddy further explained, “and we don’t remember so very much of that.”
“Why, General Lee,” said Brevet earnestly, feeling that he must come personally to the rescue of such dense ignorance, “was the greatest general they had down South. He would have whipped us Yankees if any one could.”
“He was a fine man though, a fine man,” said Joe, solemnly. “He and Miss Mary lived right on here at Arlington after dey was married and dere wasn’t a slave of us on de place who wouldn’t hab let Lieutenant Lee walk right ober us if he’d wanted to. So den when Mr. Custis died in 1857, and Lieutenant Lee done come to be de haid of de house, it was changin’ one good master for anoder.”
“Was Joe a slave?” asked Allan, drawing himself up to Mammy’s knees, near whom he happened to be sitting, and speaking in an awe-struck whisper.
“Why, yes, Honey, Joe was born in a cabin nex’ where he lives to-day, an’ we was all slaves down here ‘fo’ de wah, but de coloured folks here at Arlington was always treated ver’ han’some. I wasn’t so fortunate, Honey—I belonged down to a plantation in Georgia, where de Missus was kind, but where our Master treated us des like cattle, an’ I had my only chile sold away from me, when she wasn’t no mo’ den fo’teen or fifteen, an’ I don’ know ter this day whether she be livin’ or daid.”
“Oh, Mammy!” was all Allan could say in reply, but his little face looked worlds of sympathy.
Meanwhile Joe and Colonel Anderson between them went on with the story of Arlington, now one and now the other taking up its thread. Joe told of the many cosy cabins at that time dotted about the place in which the slaves lived, and of their happy life on a plantation where they all felt as though they were part of the household, and took as great pride and pleasure as the Master himself in everything belonging to it. He described, too, to the great delight of the children, the wild excitement of the Autumn hunting parties, when Mr. Custis and a whole houseful of guests would start off at sunrise, coming home at night with their game-bags full to a banquet in the house and an evening of unbounded fun and merriment. The Colonel told about the house itself, for from the time he became a young man until the day when, about to take command of a Washington regiment, he came to say goodbye to Lieutenant Lee, he had been a constant visitor there. He told of the luxury and comfort of the delightful home, now so bare and desolate; of the pretty sewing-rooms in the right wing, set apart for Mrs. Custis and Miss Mary; of the cosy library in the left wing, and then of the pictures painted on the walls by Mr. Custis. The pictures represented five of the battles of the Revolution, and Washington was the central figure in them all. There is just a trace of some of his work left now on the rear entrance of the wide hall, but Colonel Anderson admitted they could never have been considered very fine, rather detracting than adding to the other beautiful finishings of the house.
“But what became of all the beautiful things and how did the place ever happen to become a national cemetery?” asked Courage in one of the pauses, when both Joe and the Colonel seemed to be casting about in their minds for what would best be told next. She had listened as intently as any of the children to the whole narrative, and was every whit as much interested. "Well, it seems to me that is almost a story in itself,” Colonel Anderson answered, “and that we would better have out the luncheon baskets and take a bit of rest.”
Even the children agreed but half-heartedly at first to this interruption, but the avidity with which they afterward settled down to sandwiches and sponge cake showed that they really had minds not above the physical demands of life.