Elsie and the Raymonds by Martha Finley - HTML preview

CHAPTER XX.

Captain Raymond lingered some time longer in Minersville.

It was near the middle of July, and his arrangements had been made for starting upon the homeward journey in a day or two, when early one morning he, Max, Mr. Short and the Austins set out upon their final hunt together.

Lulu was, of course, left behind in the boarding-house.

As her father kissed her good-by he said, “I am very sorry to leave you alone, dear child, but I trust that you will be able to pass the time agreeably in reading, sewing or letter-writing—whatever employment you fancy that can be attended to in the house—for I want you to stay within doors; the day is a very warm one, and I much prefer that you should not be exposed to the heat of the sun.

“I hope to be back in season to take you for a walk or ride in the cool of the evening.”

“I shall like that, if you don’t come home too tired, dear papa,” she replied, clinging about his neck for a moment. “Oh, do take good care of yourself! and don’t be a bit troubled lest I should be lonesome. I shall do nicely and be oh, so glad to see you when you come back.”

She followed him out to the porch, with a book in her hand, and after seeing the hunting party disappear down the street, took a seat in a comfortable arm-chair in the shade of the vines, and amused herself with reading until joined by Marian with a basket of mending.

“There!” exclaimed Lulu, closing her book. “I have some stockings to darn. I’ll go and get them and my work-basket, and we’ll have a nice time together.”

“I’d like that very much,” Marian said, “but don’t let me hinder you from reading your book.”

“I’d rather stop reading and talk awhile. I’m remarkably fond of talking,” laughed Lulu, as she hurried into the house.

She was back again almost immediately, and as she resumed her seat Marian said, “I was glad to hear you say you were fond of talking, because I wish very much you would tell me about your home and your brothers and sisters—if you have any beside the one that is here.”

Lulu willingly complied with a glowing description of Woodburn, “Mamma Vi,” Gracie and the babies, and the happy life led there by the whole family.

Marian listened with deep interest, tears sometimes starting to her eyes as she was struck by the contrast between that life and her own, most of all in the tender fatherly love and care in which the Woodburn children rejoiced, and which had been so sadly lacking in her experience since the blighting curse of Mormonism had fallen upon the McAlpine household.

Lulu noticed her emotion, guessed at the cause, and made an effort to divert the poor girl’s thoughts from the sorrows of her lot, by telling amusing anecdotes of little Elsie’s sayings and doings.

“Of course,” she said, “Mamma Vi began as soon as Elsie was able to talk, to teach her to say the little prayer, ‘Now I lay me.’ She soon said it nicely, but whenever she came to the part, ‘If I should die,’ she would put in ‘but I won’t die!’

“Not long ago Mamma Vi told her she thought she was old enough now to learn the Lord’s prayer. ‘It is a good deal longer than the other,’ she said, ‘do you think you can remember it?’ ’Yes’m,’ Elsie said, ‘I’ll set it down.’

“Then Mamma Vi began teaching it to her, but she has never succeeded in getting her to say it all right yet, for she always will ask for ‘daily corn bread.’ We have corn bread on the table at least once every day, and Elsie likes it much better than wheat.

“She often says things that make us all laugh. Once Mamma Vi had just finished a very pretty new dress for the little darling and put it on her for the first time; then she took her to Grandma Elsie, who was visiting us, to ask what she thought of it.

“‘See, ganma,’ little Elsie said, walking up to her.

“Grandma Elsie said, ‘Ah! just from Paris?’ And little Elsie nodded her head, saying, ‘Yes’m, ganma, just from parasol.’”

“She must be a dear, amusing little thing,” said Marian. “Is she pretty?”

“She is a perfect beauty!” replied Lulu, with enthusiasm.

“Ah, here comes Edith Kingsley!” Marian exclaimed, as the gate opened and a girl a year or two younger than herself, a neighbor and intimate friend of hers, came tripping up the path.

Lulu had met Edith several times and liked her, for she was a pleasant, sunny-tempered child, innocent and artless.

“Good-morning, girls,” she said. “I just ran over for a minute to tell you that a party of us are going berrying this afternoon, and to ask you both to go along.”

“I’d like to, if mother can spare me,” said Marian. “But isn’t it very warm!”

“Not so warm as it was,” replied Edith; “there are floating clouds now, so that the sun doesn’t shine so hot, and a nice breeze has sprung up. You’ll go, won’t you, Lulu?” turning to the latter.

“Thank you; I feel a strong inclination to go, but I can’t, as papa is not here to give me leave.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’d say you might go,” returned Edith, with eager entreaty in her tones; “the place we are going to is only a little beyond the edge of town, and the berries are so thick we shall fill our baskets directly and be back long, long before dark. So what objection could he find?”

“He said he wanted me to stay in the house till he came back,” replied Lulu, “he didn’t want me exposed to the heat of the sun, and hoped to be back in time to take me for a walk or ride in the cool of the evening.”

“Oh, if that was all, I’m sure he would say you could go, because the sun isn’t hot any longer. And he didn’t positively forbid you, did he?”

“No,” Lulu said slowly, as if striving to recall his exact words; “he only said he wanted me to stay within doors, and gave that reason for it; and I’m pretty sure if he were here he would give me permission to go.”

“Then you will, won’t you?”

Lulu considered a moment. The temptation to yield was very strong, but the more she reflected, the deeper grew her conviction that to do so would be disobedience; disobedience to the kindest, dearest, most indulgent of fathers; one who never denied her any pleasure that he deemed good for her.

“Come now, do say you will,” urged Edith, coaxingly. “Even if your father should be a little vexed at first, he will soon forgive you.”

“Perhaps so; but it would be a long time before I could forgive myself,” Lulu said, then added firmly, “No, Edith, I thank you very much for your invitation, but I can’t go. I am quite sure it would be disobedience, and how could I be so ungrateful as to so grieve such a father as mine? I couldn’t bear to see the sorry look that would come into his eyes when he heard of it.”

“Oh, we won’t tell on you,” Edith said laughingly.

Lulu looked indignant at that. “I should tell on myself,” she said. “I could never be happy while concealing anything from papa.”

Marian had left them to consult with her mother in regard to her own acceptance of the invitation, and now came back to report a favorable reply. She was much disappointed to hear that Lulu would not go, and joined her entreaties to Edith’s that she would reconsider and accept.

But Lulu was firm, both then and later, when, ready to start on their little expedition, they again urged her to accompany them.

“I think we’ll have a nice time,” Edith said; “it’s just a pleasant walk, winding about a little way among the hills, and there are lovely wild flowers to gather as well as berries. Oh, do change your mind and come along with us!”

“I do wish you would, Lulu,” put in Marian, “I shan’t half enjoy myself without you, and thinking how lonely you’ll be here by yourself.”

“Please don’t urge me any more,” returned Lulu. “I think you wouldn’t if you knew how very much I’d like to go with you, if I could have papa’s permission; but I know I couldn’t enjoy myself going without that. My conscience wouldn’t give me any peace at all.”

So they left her. She sat on the porch watching them out of sight, then opened her book, and presently forgot her disappointment in the interest of the story.

She read on and on, taking no note of the lapse of time, though full two hours had passed since the berry gatherers disappeared round the corner, till suddenly she became conscious that some unusual excitement was abroad in the streets of the town; men armed with muskets, revolvers, and other weapons, were rushing past in the direction the girls had taken; women and children were running hither and thither, calling wildly to each other, some crying, all seeming full of anxiety and fright.

“Oh, what is it? what’s the matter, Sandy?” asked Lulu, dropping her book and springing to her feet, as the lad came tearing in at the gate, his face white with terror and distress.

“A bear!” he gasped; “a big grizzly got after the girls, and they all had to run for their lives, and he—he caught Edith—they say, and—and he’s hugging her to death.”

“Oh! oh!” cried Lulu, bursting into tears and sobs, “can’t anybody save her? Oh, I wish papa was there with his gun to shoot the bear, he’d do it, I know he would. And, oh, where’s Marian?”

“She’s safe now; they all got away from the beast but Edith. But Marian was so out of breath with fright and running and crying because she couldn’t save Edith, that she had to stop farther down the street.”

Mrs. McAlpine had heard enough of the bustle in the streets to alarm her, and now came hurrying out, asking, “What’s happened, Sandy? Where’s your sister?”

The boy repeated his story, had scarce finished when Marian came in at the gate, her form drooping, her head bowed on her breast, sobs shaking her whole frame.

“Have they got her?” asked Sandy.

“Marian, my poor child, is Edith much hurt?” questioned her mother, drawing the weeping girl into the house.

Marian did not lift her head; she seemed unable to speak.

But Hugh came running in from the street, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Oh, oh, Edith’s killed! she’s dead! I heard a man say so. They’ve killed the bear, but he’d a’ready squeezed Edith to death, and tore her awful with his big claws and teeth.”

“Oh, don’t! don’t tell it!” shrieked Marian, covering her ears with her hands. “Oh, if we only hadn’t gone there!”

“Her poor mother, her poor, poor mother! how will she ever bear it?” sobbed Mrs. McAlpine, dropping into a chair and hiding her face with her apron.

Lulu, too, was weeping bitterly.

“What have they done with her, Hugh?” asked Sandy, in a loud whisper.

“Who? Edith, or the bear?”

“Edith, I meant, of course, Stupid,” returned the elder brother contemptuously.

“They’re goin’ to bring her home; I guess they’re doin’ it now,” as a sound as of the trampling of many feet smote upon their ears.

The body was being carried past on a hastily improvised litter, and in another moment, as it crossed the threshold of the home she had left two hours before in the heyday of life and health, a woman’s wail of heart-breaking anguish rent the air.

“It’s her mother, her poor mother!” sobbed Mrs. McAlpine. “Wae’s me for the puir heart-broken thing! but, oh! thank God my lassie has come safe home to me!”

Marian burst into wild weeping, and Lulu, unable to bear any more, ran swiftly from the room to that of her father, where, falling on her knees by the bedside, she buried her face in the clothes and cried as if her heart would break.

She seemed to see Edith standing before her, bright and beautiful, full of life and health, as she had seen her—oh, such a little while ago!—then in the cruel embrace of the ferocious wild beast, crushed, bitten, torn, bleeding, and dying—dead. Then the poor body, at last rescued from the clutches of the bear, but with no life left in it, carried along the high road on its rude litter, borne into the house over the way—the happy home of the morning now darkened and made desolate by that sudden, fearful stroke of doom—the mother, bereaved in a manner so fearful, of her only child, bending over it in an agony of woe unutterable.

“And I might have been the one the bear attacked, if I had gone with them, papa mourning over his dead daughter, his heart breaking with the thought that she’d been killed in the very act of disobeying him,” thought Lulu. “I can never, never be thankful enough that I didn’t do it; that God helped me resist the temptation.”

A hand rested lightly, tenderly on her head, and she started up to find her father standing by her side.

She threw herself into his arms, and as he folded her close to his heart, hid her face on his breast, sobbing convulsively. “Oh, papa, it is so, so dreadful! so terrible!”

“Yes,” he said, in tones tremulous with emotion, “my heart aches for the bereaved parents. Oh, thank the Lord that I have my darling safe in my arms!” caressing her with exceeding tenderness, as he sat down, still holding her fast as a treasure he would suffer no earthly power to snatch from his grasp. “You were not with them?”

“No, papa; you bade me stay within doors—at least, you said you wanted me to—and how could I disobey such a dear, kind father? Oh, I couldn’t, though I wanted to go very badly! And if I had—oh, I might have been the one to be killed in that dreadful way!”

“And your father the heart-broken parent weeping over his lost treasure. My dear child, I think you will never regret resisting the temptation to disobey the father who loves you as his life.”

“Oh, no, I’m sure I shall not! Papa, what a good thing for me that you have trained me to obedience, for otherwise I should have gone with them and maybe have been killed, killed in that horrible way! You didn’t say I must stay in the house—only that you wanted me to—but I suppose it would have been disobedience if I’d gone; wouldn’t it?”

“Yes; a truly obedient child will not go against the known wishes of a parent. I trusted my daughter loved me enough to obey my slightest wish, so did not think it necessary to put my injunction in the form of a command. We all prefer to be requested rather than ordered.”

“But I have really learned to love even to be ordered by you, my own, own dearest father!” she said, creeping closer in his embrace.

“Had I been quite sure of that it would have saved me some moments of great alarm and anxiety,” he said.

She looked up inquiringly, and he went on. “As our party came into town, on the side opposite to that where this dreadful accident occurred, a man hailed us with the news that some little girls, out gathering berries, had been attacked by a bear, one of them killed, and others badly hurt.

“That last was a mistake, as we presently learned, but, oh, the pang that shot through my heart with the sudden fear that my dear little daughter might be among the injured, perhaps even the slain one. How I wished that I had positively forbidden you to leave the house at all in my absence!”

“But even then you couldn’t have been sure that I wasn’t with those girls, because there have been times when I’ve disobeyed your most positive commands,” she said, in a remorseful tone.

Her heart leaped with joy at his answering words. “But you have been so perfectly obedient for a long time now, that I have come to have great confidence in your careful observance of any order from me to do or not to do.”

Max, who had lingered in the street trying to learn all the particulars of the sad occurrence, which was the absorbing subject of thought and speech with every one for the time being, now came quietly in, looking thoughtful and distressed.

“They say she’s terribly crushed and mangled,” he said, half-chokingly. “Oh, Lu, what a fright papa and I had, thinking it might be you!”

“But I could have been spared much better than poor Edith,” she said; “she was an only child, and papa would have four still left if he lost only me.”

“I should not know how to spare you or any one of my darlings,” responded her father, in moved tones, smoothing her hair with tender, caressing hand, and kissing her on cheek and lip and brow.

“I’m glad we’re almost ready to go away from here,” remarked Max, “We’ve been having a merry, happy time, but it will seem very sad after this.”

“When do we go, papa?” asked Lulu.

“I have set day after to-morrow,” he answered. “But while we are here, let us strive rather to sympathize in the grief and suffering of those so sorely bereaved than to be thinking of ourselves and our own enjoyment. The Bible bids us weep with those that weep, as well as to rejoice with those that do rejoice!”

The captain earnestly strove to carry out that teaching, and nothing was omitted or neglected that he could do to show his sympathy with Edith’s heart-broken parents; or with Marian, who grieved sorely over the loss of her friend—snatched from her in so sad a manner—and the news that Lulu, to whom she had become warmly attached, was soon to leave Minersville, probably never to return.

Lulu had been seized with a longing for the dear ones at home—especially Gracie—and expected to feel only joy in turning her back upon the little Western town in which she had sojourned so pleasantly for the last four weeks, but, when the time came, found she was a sharer to some extent in the grief at parting, that set Marian to weeping bitterly.

“Don’t cry so, Marian,” Lulu said, with emotion. “I didn’t think you cared so much for me.”

“Oh, I love you almost as if you were my sister!” sobbed Marian, “and it nearly breaks my heart to think I shall never, never see you again.”

“But perhaps you may. Isn’t it possible, papa?” and Lulu turned inquiringly to her father.

“Yes,” he said; “I may be visiting my property here again one of these days, and in that case will be very likely to bring my eldest daughter along.

“And Marian, my good girl, if ever you should be in need of a friend, remember that Captain Raymond will be glad to do you any kindness in his power.”

Marian and her mother both thanked him with earnest gratitude; both felt that the day might not be far distant when they would stand in sore need of his friendly offices, and with the knowledge they had gained of his character in the last few weeks of daily intercourse, they could not doubt the sincerity of his offer.

But the train that was to carry the Raymonds on their eastward way was nearly due; the rest of the good-byes were hastily said, and in a few moments they were seated in the cars and speeding onward.

It was a beautiful summer morning, and the spirits of the children soon rose to such a height that they must find vent in chat and laughter.

“Papa,” exclaimed Lulu, “you actually haven’t told us where we are going next!”

“To the sea-shore, as the end of this journey.”

“But that’s very indefinite; for the sea-shore of our big country is a long, long strip,” she said laughingly.

“So it is; but can’t you trust me to take you to a pleasant part of it?”

“Oh, yes, sir, yes, indeed! and I’m always glad to go anywhere with you,” resting her cheek affectionately against his shoulder and squeezing his hand in both of hers.

“And we are perfectly willing to wait for the information till you are ready to give it, sir,” added Max.

“Good children,” the captain said, smiling approvingly upon them. “I had thought of giving you a surprise, but have no objection to telling you now, that we have taken again the cottages we occupied the first summer after my marriage to your Mamma Vi, and that she and Gracie and the babies—the Ion and Fairview people too—are already there waiting for us to join them. Are you satisfied with the arrangement, my dears?”

“I am, perfectly, papa,” Max replied.

“And I, too,” said Lulu. “Oh, I do think it will be very pleasant to spend a while there again! And I hope I’ll be a great deal better child to you than I was before, dear papa,” she whispered in his ear, her arm about his neck.

“Dear child!” was all he said in reply, but the accompanying look and smile spoke volumes of fatherly love and confidence.

THE END.