 | CHAPTER XIII.
AT BEECHWOOD. West Lawn and The rector of St. Mark's |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
AT BEECHWOOD.
The Author's Story.
THE great house at Beechwood was closed, and
the first September sunshine which lay so
warmly on the grassy lawn and blooming
flower-garden, found no entrance through the doors and
curtained windows of what had been Margaret Russell's
home, and whither they were bringing her lifeless form.
During the past week there had been hot, passionate
tears wept in that desolate home, and touching childish
prayers made that God would spare the sick mother till
her broken-hearted boy could tell how sorry he was for the
angry words spoken to her, and for the many acts of disobedience
which came thronging around him like so
many accusing spirits. Poor Johnnie's heart was almost
crushed when he heard that his mother must die, and
calling Ben and Burt to him, he bade them kneel with
him, and ask that God would give her back to them
alive. And so with concern for Johnnie on their baby
faces, rather than concern for their mother, the two little
not let her die, or anyway send home Auntie Dora.”
This was Ben's idea, and it brought a world of comfort,
making him ask Johnnie “if it wouldn't be nicer
after all to have Auntie than mamma.”
“Perhaps it would, if I hadn't been so sassy to her
that morning, twitting her about not caring for us like
Auntie, and telling her to dry up. Oh, oh!” and the
conscience-smitten boy rolled on the floor in his first real
sorrow.
To Ben, looking on in wonder, there came a thought
fraught, as he hoped, with comfort to his brother, and
pursing up his little mouth, he said:
“Pho! I wouldn't keel over like that 'cause I'd said
dry up. 'Taint a swear. It's a real nice word, and all
the boys in the street say so.”
Still Johnnie was not comforted, and in a state of terrible
suspense he waited from day to day until the fatal
morning when there came a telegram which he spelled
out with Burt and Ben sitting on the doorstep beside him,
their fat hands on his knee, and their little round dirty
faces turned inquiringly towards him as he read:
“Your mother died at midnight. We shall be home to-morrow,
on the evening train.”
There was at first no sudden outburst, but a compressed
look in the eyes, which closed tightly as Johnnie began to
realize the truth. Then, with a loud, wild cry, he threw
himself upon the grass, while Ben and Burt laughed gleefully
at the contortions of body which they fancied were
made for their amusement. At last, however, they too
understood it partially, and Ben tried to imitate his
brother's method of expressing grief by also rolling in the
grass, while Burt, thinking intently for a moment, said,
with a sigh of relief:
“I'm plaguy glad Aunty isn't dead too.”
And this was all the consolation there was in that
home at Beechwood. Dora was not dead. She was
coming home and would bring sunshine with her. With
a desire to have everything done in accordance with her
taste, and also with a view to honor his mother's memory,
Johnnie, roused at last, and without a word of consultation
with any one, sought the old colored sexton, bidding
him toll the bell, and adding with a quivering lip:
“It's for my mother, and if you'll toll it extra for an
hour I'll give you half a dollar now, and a bushel of shag-barks
in the fall.”
It did not occur to the negro that possibly some higher
authority than Johnnie's was needful ere he proceeded to
toll for a person dead in Saratoga, but love of gain and
shag-barks predominated over other feelings, and for a
full hour and a quarter the bell from the old church-steeple
wondered if it would never stop, and repaired, some of
them, to the spot, where Johnnie sat like a second Shylock,
holding the sexton's watch and keeping accurate
note of time as the old man bent to his task, and tolled
that long requiem for Margaret Russell. This done
Johnnie wended his way to a dry-goods store, and before
night-fall there were streamers of crape hanging from the
gate and from every door-knob, while a band of the same
was tied around the arms of Ben and Burt, who wore
them quietly for a time and then made what they called
horse blankets for their velocipede. Poor little babies
of four and five, they knew no better, and only acted as
other children do when left wholly to themselves. Years
hence they will weep for the mother scarcely remembered,
but now her death was nothing to them, except as
they saw the deep distress of Johnnie, who, long after
they were sleeping in their cribs, sobbed passionately
upon his pillow, sorrowing most of all for the angry words
spoken to the mother who would never know his grief.
How long to him were the hours of the next day, when
they waited for the dead. It was also a day of peace and
quiet, for owing to Johnnie's continual efforts there was
only a single fight between the little boys, who otherwise
comported themselves with admirable propriety, asking
often when Aunt Dora would come, and if Johnnie
was sure she was not dead too?
At last the train came screaming in, and shortly after
the hearse stopped before the gate, while the coffin was
brought slowly up the walk and placed in the darkened
parlor. With a great sobbing cry Johnnie sprang
towards Dora, but suddenly checked himself, as there
flashed upon his mind that to his father belonged the first
greeting of sorrow. And who that has passed through
such a scene that knows not the comfort there is in the
sympathy of a warm-hearted child! Squire Russell felt
it keenly, as he held his first-born in his arms and heard
his boyish attempts at consolation.
“We'll love each other more, father, now our mother's
gone. Poor father, don't cry so hard. If you'll stop I'll
try to do so too. We've got Aunt Dora left and all the
children. Benny, come and kiss poor father, because
mother is dead.”
Such were Johnnie's words, and they fell soothingly on
the father's heart, making him think he had not lost everything
which made his life desirable. He had his children
still, and he had Dora too. She was in the nursery now,
with Ben and Burt clinging to her neck, and asking why
she cried when they were so glad to have her back, asking,
too, what made mamma so cold, and why she was
sleeping in that long queer box on the parlor table. They
did not know what death meant, and continued their
questionings until their eyelids closed in slumber, and
mother sleeping in it.
The night was hot and sultry, and as Dora lay tossing
restlessly, she fancied she heard a sound from the parlor,
which was just beneath her room, and throwing on her
dressing-gown she went noiselessly down the stairs to the
parlor door, which was open, and saw a little form
kneeling by the coffin and talking to the unconscious
dead.
“O mother, maybe you can hear me; I'm Johnnie,
and I'm so sorry I was ever bad to you, and made your
head ache so! Poor mother, I used to think I loved
Aunt Dora best, but now I know I didn't! There's
nothing like a mother, and I was going to tell you so
when you got home, but you're dead and I can't! O
mother! mother! will you never know?”
“She does; she did know, Johnnie, for I told her,”
Dora said, advancing into the room and taking the child
in her arms; “I told her you were sorry, and she forgave
you freely, sending you messages of love, and bidding me
cut her longest, brightest curl for you. I did so, Johnnie;
it is in my room, and to-morrow you shall have it.”
“Why not to-night?” Johnnie pleaded, and so his
aunt brought him the lock of hair cut from Margaret's
head, the mother's last memento, which Johnny took with
him to his room, sleeping more quietly because of that
tress of hair upon his pillow.
It was a long procession which followed Margaret to
her grave, and for the sake of Johnnie the sexton again
tolled for the dead, until the husband and the sister
wished the sad sounds would cease. Sadly they returned
to the house, leaving Margaret behind them, and missing
her more than one month ago they would have thought
it possible. But as the days went by the family gradually
resumed its wonted cheerfulness, for Dora was there still:
their head, their blessing, and comforter. Many lonely
hours Squire Russell experienced, it is true, but there was
always a solace in knowing that Dora would welcome him
home after a brief and necessary absence; that Dora
would preside at his table, and keep his children in order;
that Dora, in short, would do everything which the most
faithful of sisters could do. The children, too, clung to
Dora even more than they were wont to do; and little
Daisy, taught by Clem, the nurse-maid, called her mamma,
a name which Ben and Burt were quick to catch,
and which Dora did not like to hear, especially if the
father chanced to be present.
At Dora's heart there was a constant dread of some
impending evil, and when, three weeks after Margarets'
death, she stood one night alone with Dr. West, listening
to his farewell, she felt again a longing to throw herself
on his protection, and thus she might be saved from danger.
But the doctor, though treating her with the utmost
tenderness, had never broached the subject of his
him so indifferently. Her foolish words had hurt him
more since than they did then, causing him sometimes to
wonder if she did really care for him. If not, or if the
germ of her affection was as yet very small, it was better
not to press the matter, but let it take its course; and so,
trusting that absence would do all that he wished done,
he only said good-by as he would have said it to a dear
sister, and hardly so, for when he would have kissed the
sister, he left Dora unkissed, fancying she would be
better pleased with such a parting. His caresses had
wearied Anna, and he would not err this way again, so
he never touched the lips which would have paid him
back so gladly, but merely pressed the little hand which
trembled in his, as he said to her, “A year is not very
long, Dora. It will pass sooner than we think, and you
must not forget me.” Another pressure of the hand, and
he was gone, leaving the maiden far more desolate than
he dreamed. Could he have known how fast the tears
came, when alone in her room she went over with the
parting and said to herself, “He does not love me now.
My waywardness has sickened him;” could he have
seen her when in the early dawn she watched him as he
left the house for the last time, he would have turned
back, and by taking her with him, or staying himself with
her, would have saved her from the dark storm which
would bear her down with its mighty force.
But this he did not know, and he went his way to
Morrisville, where his mother waited for him, and where
Jessie, just returned from Saratoga, sparkled, and flashed,
and flitted around him, asking him to write occasionally
to her father, and tell them of California.
“Why not write to you?” he replied, and Jessie responded
at once:
“To me, then, if you like; I shall be delighted.”
Judge Verner, and Bell, and Mattie Randall all heard
this conversation, and so there could be no harm in it,
Jessie thought, while the others thought the same, knowing
that the light-hearted girl was already corresponding
with at least ten gentlemen, for not one of whom did she
care in the least. She was a merry little creature, and
she made the doctor's stay at Morrisville much pleasanter
than it would otherwise have been, and after he was
fairly on the sea, she wrote to Dora a glowing account
of “the perfectly splendid time she had with Doctor
West, the best and most agreeable man in the world.
We are going to correspond, too,” she added in a postscript,
“and that will make the eleventh gentleman on
my list. I want it an even dozen, and then I'll be satisfied.”
Dora knew Jessie was a flirt, but this did not lessen
the pang with which she read that Jessie, and not herself,
was to be the recipient of the doctor's letters. Never
had the autumn seemed so dreary to her before; and
a nervous dread, from the coming months, with the long,
long evenings, when there would be nothing to occupy
her time, except, indeed, the children, or the game of
chess which she played nightly with her brother.
For one who at first mourned so sorely for the dead,
the squire had recovered his spirits wonderfully, and the
villagers even hinted that, as is usual with widowers, his
dress had undergone a change, being now more youthful
and stylish than in former days when Margaret was alive.
Young girls blushed when he appeared at any of the social
gatherings, while the older ones grew very conscious
of themselves, and the mothers were excessively polite
and gracious to the squire. He was happier than he
used to be, notwithstanding that he went twice a week
to Margaret's grave, and always spoke of her as “my dear
wife.” It soothed his conscience to do this, particularly
as he felt how much he enjoyed going home from Margaret's
grave, and finding order and quiet and pleasant
words, where once there had been confusion and fretful
complaints. Dora was very pretty in her mourning garb,
with the simple linen band about her neck and wrists,
for she would relieve the sombre aspect of her dress with
a show of white, even if it were not the fashion. There
was not much color in her cheeks, and her eyes were
larger than usual, but to the squire and the children she
was very beautiful, moving among them as their household
kind.
Once, and only once, there came a letter from Dr.
West,—a friendly letter, which any one might read, and
which said that he was at Marysville, with his mother,
whose health was greatly improved.
“I like the country much,” he wrote, “and if I had
with me a few of my Eastern friends I should be willing
to settle here for life; but, as it is, I find myself looking
forward eagerly to the time when I shall return and meet
you all again.”
This passage Squire John read twice, and then glanced
again at the “My Dear Dora” with which the letter
commenced.
“The doctor is very affectionate,” he said, “calling
you `Dear Dora,' though perhaps he has a right, for I
remember thinking he admired you.”
Dora was bending over Daisy, whom she was rocking
to sleep, and he did not see her blushes as she replied:
“That is a very common way of addressing people, and
means nothing at all.”
Perhaps the squire believed this, but he was quite
absent-minded the remainder of the day, and in the
evening was twice checkmated by Dora, when his usual
custom had been to checkmate her.
Dora's first intention was to answer the doctor's letter
from doing so, and when she was at last free to write, the
disposition had in a measure left her, and so the answer
for which the doctor waited so anxiously was not sent.
| CHAPTER XIII.
AT BEECHWOOD. West Lawn and The rector of St. Mark's | |