“That is a pleasant prospect for us,” said Captain Raymond. “If you like, I will drive you both over there to-morrow and also take you to look at Beechwood.”
The offer was at once accepted with thanks, and dismissing his pupils a little earlier than usual the next morning, the captain fulfilled his promise to his guests.
When they returned, the news they brought was that they had secured a suitable site for a factory in the outskirts of Union, and were carrying on negotiations for the purchase of Beechwood.
“But who is going to keep house for you, Cousin Ronald?” asked Lulu.
“Marian, I hope,” replied the old gentleman, looking smilingly at her. “You can do that in addition to attending to your studies, can you not, my bonny lassie?”
“I can try,” she said with a look of delight; “for oh, but it would be pleasant to have a home with my dear, kind old kinsman.”
“And so near to us, Marian. I hope you are as glad of that as I am,” exclaimed Lulu.
“Oh, yes, yes, indeed!” cried Marian. “I hope there will be seldom a day when we shall not see each other; for you are like a sister to me.”
“And you will come here to recite every school day, I hope,” said the captain, “for I do not want to lose so painstaking, industrious, and promising a pupil.”
“Nor I so good and kind a teacher,” responded Marian, looking her thanks.
“I am much pleased with the place and its near vicinity to this one, the home of kind and congenial relatives,” remarked Hugh Lilburn, “but as yet we are not entirely sure of securing it. You know the old saying, ‘There’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip.’”
“Very true, laddie,” said his father, “yet in this case I feel little apprehension of failure.”
“Do you not like the house, Cousin Hugh?” asked Marian.
“It suits me nicely,” he replied, “and I think you can hardly fail to like it. The grounds too are to my taste. I think if we are successful in securing it, it will make us a delightful home.”
By the next evening he was able to say they had secured it, and would get possession in a fortnight. Marian and Lulu were full of delight, and indeed every one seemed much pleased.
“Will you move in as soon as the other folks are out, Cousin Ronald?” asked Grace.
“We hope to do so,” he replied. “However, we shall need to do some furnishing first. This is Saturday evening: Cousin Vi, do you think you and your mother could go with us to the city next Monday and help us make our selection?”
“Yes, indeed; I shall be delighted to do so, and I have no doubt mamma will gladly accompany us. Marian is to be one of the party, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes, if the captain will give her leave of absence for a few hours?”
“Certainly, for an occasion so important,” the captain said pleasantly.
“If it were holiday time Lulu too should be invited to accompany us,” remarked Mr. Lilburn, “and I hope there will be another time when she can.”
“Thank you, sir, I should be glad to go along if it were not that I know papa wants me to stay at home and attend to lessons; and I don’t want to miss them, as our holidays will soon begin.”
“That’s right, lassie,” he said; “make good use of your fine opportunities, and learn all you can in these young days that you may be the better prepared for usefulness in future years.”
“Yes, sir; that is just what papa often says to us,” replied Lulu, with a loving smile up into her father’s face; “and I’ve found out that he always knows best about whatever concerns me.
“Quite a fortunate discovery for you,” returned Mr. Lilburn with a kindly smile, while the captain’s look was full of gratified approval.
“My dear little daughter,” he said when he came to bid her good-night in her room, “your willingness to stay at home and attend to lessons instead of going to the city to help Marian with her shopping pleases me very much, because it shows that you have confidence in your father’s wisdom and his love for you.”
He smoothed her hair caressingly and kissed her as he spoke.
“Thank you for telling me that, you dear papa,” she returned, her eyes shining. “I know you love me, and that your requirements are always meant for my good; also that you are very wise and know what is best for your own little girl. Oh, I’m so glad I am your very own!” she added, hugging him with all her strength.
“Not gladder than I am to own you, my darling,” he said, repeating his caress. “I should like to give you the pleasure of going were it not that I feel that you have had already more interruptions to your studies than ought really to have been allowed.”
“Yes, papa, I believe I have,” she returned, “and as I do want to be as well educated as possible, so that I may be very useful if God spares my life, I really do not want you to indulge me more in play-times and holidays than you think best.”
Thenext day was the Sabbath, and spent as that holy day usually was by our friends at Ion, Woodburn, and by their near kindred on the neighboring estates. To Zoe, rejoicing in her new hope—the blessed hope that she was indeed a child of God and an heir of glory—it was a sweetly solemn and happy day, and to her young husband almost equally so. They attended church in company with the other members of the family and received many kindly greetings and inquiries in regard to the narrow escape of Thursday night.
Grace Raymond seemed very thoughtful on the homeward drive. “Papa,” she asked at length, “do trees often fall suddenly like that one that came so near killing Aunt Zoe and the rest?”
“I think not very often, daughter,” he replied. “I have heard of only one other such occurrence. Some years ago, out in Wisconsin, two little girls, sisters, were walking along near the edge of one of those pretty little lakes ofwhich there are so many in that State, when suddenly a tree fell, striking one of the children to the ground, crushing her to death instantly. Her sister, who had escaped unhurt, but was of course terribly frightened and distressed, tried hard to move the tree and drag her out from under it, but could not, so had to leave her there and go for help.
“They were the children of a poor woman who was washing for some one who lived on the other side of the lake, and it was while the little girls were on their way to their mother, probably to see her home when her day’s work was done, that this dreadful accident happened.”
“Oh, how sad!” sighed Grace; “and was the little girl the tree fell on dead, did you say, papa?”
“Yes, quite dead; probably instantly killed by the blow. It seems very sad; yet it is quite possible she may have suffered less than she would had she died after weeks of sickness and pain.”
“Oh, it makes me feel afraid to go into the woods again, to walk or to play.”
“It need not, daughter; it is a rare occurrence. We all have to die somewhere and somehow, and the only thing that need concern us is to be ready whenever God shall call. It is wrong to needlessly rush into danger and throwour lives away; we have no right to do that, though we have a right and it is a duty to brave danger when by so doing we can save others. And if we love the Lord Jesus and trust in him for salvation, we need not be afraid of sudden death, for sudden death will be to us sudden glory. ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.’”
“It is very sweet to know that Jesus will be with us through that dark valley, papa. Oh, I should be so afraid to go alone, and even you, my dear father who loves me so dearly, could not go with me.”
“No, my darling, dearly as I love you, I will have to let you go alone should God call you first,” he said with emotion. “But you need not fear to go nor I to part with you, for you will be ‘safe in the arms of Jesus, safe on his gentle breast.’”
“Yes, papa; and if I go first, how glad I’ll be when you come, and if you go first, how glad you’ll be to see me when I come.”
“Yes, indeed, my precious child; and to greet all my other loved ones when they too are brought home, and we are all there together free from sin and sorrow and pain, never to part again, but to dwell forever with the Lord, servinghim in joy and peace and love throughout a blest eternity.”
“Oh, what a blessed hope it is!” said Violet, tears shining in her eyes. “And how thankful I am that almost every one whom I love very dearly is a Christian!
“‘Forever with the Lord,Amen, so let it be;Life from the dead is in that word,’Tis immortality.’”
“‘Forever with the Lord,Amen, so let it be;Life from the dead is in that word,’Tis immortality.’”
“‘Forever with the Lord,Amen, so let it be;Life from the dead is in that word,’Tis immortality.’”
“‘Forever with the Lord,
Amen, so let it be;
Life from the dead is in that word,
’Tis immortality.’”
Marian had been greatly impressed by the sermon, the subject of which was the shortness and uncertainty of life. She was very quiet and thoughtful that afternoon and evening, but woke the next morning full of thoughts of the shopping expedition of that day, which would be a rather new experience to her.
She rose an hour earlier than usual, busied herself with her lessons for the day, and at breakfast-time was able to tell the captain that she felt prepared to recite then or on her return from the city, if it suited him to hear her.
“Yes,” he said, “at either time, as you may prefer.”
“Oh, thank you sir!” she returned; “then, if you please, let it be before I go, for it will be a relief to have them off my mind and nothingto think of but the purchases we are going to make.”
So it happened that the recitations were over before the arrival of the carriage from Ion bringing Grandma Elsie to join the shoppers, Rosie and Walter to attend to school duties.
It was not quite time to begin work in the school-room, so those who were to remain behind gathered on the veranda to see the shoppers off.
Lulu watched them rather wistfully, and could not quite repress a little sigh of regret that she was not to be of the number, but catching her father’s eye and smile, her face grew bright again.
He had just turned and stepped back into the veranda, after handing the ladies into the carriage, and it was driving away toward the great gates opening on the high-road.
“Are you all sadly disappointed at being left behind?” he asked, addressing the little group collectively.
“I should be, sir, if I had had any expectation of going,” replied Rosie, putting on a hurt and indignant air, “but when mamma was invited the other evening, through the telephone, and nothing said about me, of course I understood that I was not wanted in the party.”
“No, little sister, it was rather that you were wanted in the school-room,” replied the captain with a slightly amused look. “Now let us all go there, and perhaps we may pick up something more valuable than we could have found in the city stores.”
“I think perhaps we may, papa,” Grace said with a bright, pleased look and slipping her hand into his.
“I think so too, papa, and mean to try my very best,” said Lulu, taking possession of his other hand and moving on with him and Grace in the direction of the school-room, Rosie and Walter following.
Rosie’s vexation was all pretence; she set diligently to work, as did each of the others, and all went swimmingly with them and their teacher till the day’s tasks were done and they dismissed to their sports.
Rosie and Walter had permission to stay at Woodburn until their mother’s return, which was not till near tea-time. So they dined with the captain and his children, and they were a very merry little party, the captain jesting with them all in a way to both entertain the older ones and help the babies to forget their mother’s absence.
They seemed to do so, and to be content and happy with their father and sisters, yet whenmamma returned to them received her with demonstrations of delight.
Both the captain and Violet urged Grandma Elsie to stay to tea, keeping Rosie and Walter there with her.
“We want a little visit from you, mother,” added the captain; “would be very glad to have you stay all night and as much longer as you will, but our family carriage will be at your service to carry you to Ion whenever you desire to go.”
“Yes, mamma, do stay at least till after tea,” urged Walter; “it is very pleasant here, about as pleasant as at home, and I think the change may be of benefit to you.”
“So you are turning doctor, are you, Walter?” laughed Rosie. “It might be well to engage Cousin Art to superintend your studies as well as those of Harold and Herbert; though it seems to me it would be rather a mistake to put so many lads out of one family into one profession.”
“That is a question that may be considered at some other time,” returned Walter, with unmoved gravity. “Mamma, you will stay, will you not?”
“Yes, since a visit here is the prescription of my little new doctor,” Elsie returned with a smile; “and since the host and hostess are both so kindly urgent.”
“Thank you, mamma,” said Rosie. “I am well pleased with your decision, for I am just aching to question Marian as to all that has been bought to-day for the furnishing of Beechwood.”
“Then suppose you and Lulu and Grace come with me to my room,” proposed Marian. “I feel quite in the humor for talking, but must at the same time make myself neat for the tea-table.”
The invitation was promptly accepted, and Marian made her toilet with the others looking on and occasionally giving some little assistance.
“I suppose you bought beautiful things, Marian?” observed Rosie interrogatively.
“Oh, yes, I think so,” was the reply. “Cousin Ronald was, oh, so kind! Cousin Hugh also. They both seemed to want me to have everything to suit my taste, particularly in my room; and the things we chose are very pretty, I think, though of course not nearly so expensive as the furnishings here in this room or in yours and Grace’s, Lulu.”
“But why shouldn’t they be?” queried Lulu. “Cousin Ronald seems to have plenty of money and to think everything of you.”
“I really don’t know how much money he has,” returned Marian, “but I do know thatthere is Beechwood to be paid for, besides the ground for the factory, and the buildings that have to be put up, and I’m sure it must take heaps of money to do it all. So I am more than content to have pretty furnishings that do not cost nearly so much as what you have here.”
“And I’m sure that’s just the right way to feel about it,” said Rosie, “though I’m not at all sure it would have occurred to me to take all that into consideration.”
“Very likely it might not to me if I hadn’t had to struggle with poverty nearly all my life,” said Marian.
Then she went on to give a minute and, to the listening girls, interesting description of the purchases made. The talk at the tea-table that evening was first of Beechwood and a few repairs and alterations needed there, then about the building of the factory, the engagement of workmen and women, and the markets to be found for the textile fabrics to be made by them under Hugh’s direction and supervision.
Then plans for the usual summer outing in the cooler climate of the North were discussed. Grandma Elsie, Captain Raymond, and Violet were of the opinion that the start for that section should be made within a week.
“You will go with us, Cousin Ronald, willyou not?” asked Grandma Elsie, turning to him.
“I think not, cousin,” he replied. “I want to be here to help my laddie with his building and the adorning of the house that’s to make a home for Marian here and ourselves,” smiling kindly upon his young relative as he spoke. “But I quite approve of her accompanying you, for she’s been a diligent scholar, the captain tells me, and occasional rest and diversions are very good and desirable things for the young.”
“No better than for the old, Cousin Ronald,” returned Marian with a grateful, loving look into his eyes; “and if you don’t need them I do not, I am sure. I’ve had a very great change of scene and life, and a long journey too, within the last few months, you know, and now there is nothing I should enjoy more than staying here and helping you to put the new home in order and place the pretty furniture we bought to-day.”
Cousin Ronald and Hugh both looked much pleased with her choice.
“Ah, lassie, you appreciate your privileges,” said Mr. Lilburn, “which is more than can be said of everybody.”
“But everybody has not so many privileges or so great as mine,” returned Marian, her eyes shining.
Thecaptain’s pupils were jubilant over the prospect of soon leaving for the sea-shore at the North. Inquiries in regard to different locations had been set on foot some weeks previous, and now it was decided to take possession for the season of several dwellings in the neighborhood of Cape Ann, Mass. In one of them, which was quite large, too large to be called a cottage, the Ion and Woodburn families would be together much of the time, a little building near at hand containing the overflow when guests would render accommodations at the larger house too small.
Edward and Zoe with their little ones would remain at home for the present, that he might oversee the work on the plantation, and the Fairview family would go for a time at least to Evelyn’s home on the banks of the Hudson. The families at the Oaks and the Laurels were not going North at present, but might do later in the season.
The Raymonds were to take their journey by sea in theDolphin, the others, with their guests, going by rail.
That was the plan at first, but only a day or two before they started Mary Keith received a letter from her father giving her permission to accept an invitation from the relatives to spend the summer with them at the sea-shore, which she did with delight.
“Oh, I am so glad, Mary!” Violet exclaimed when she heard the news; “and I want you to go with us on theDolphin. Won’t you? It will be a new and, I hope, pleasant experience for you, and we shall be so glad to have your company.”
Captain Raymond, who was present, warmly seconded the invitation, and Mary accepted it.
This talk was at Ion, where the captain and Violet were making a short call. They took their leave almost immediately, saying that the time for their preparations for leaving home was growing very short, and there were a number of matters still claiming their attention.
Before they had reached the avenue gates the captain turned to his wife, saying, “I think, my dear, if you have no objection, we will drive over to Roselands for a short call before going home. I want to say a few words to Cal.”
There was a twinkle of fun in his eye, andViolet returned laughingly, “Yes, I understand. Let us go by all means.”
On reaching Roselands they did not alight, but said to Calhoun, who came out to welcome them, that they were in haste, only wanted a few words with him, and then must return home.
“Yes,” he said; “you leave day after to-morrow, I believe? Is there something you would like me to attend to for you in your absence, captain?”
“No, thank you,” was the smiling reply; “what we want is to take you with us. You have not taken a holiday for years; we have plenty of room for you on the yacht, and can assure you of pleasant company—the very pleasantest you could have, for Cousin Mary Keith has consented to go with us.”
“And you think that furnishes an additional inducement?” Calhoun returned, coloring and laughing. “Well, I won’t deny that it does. But this is very sudden.”
“You needn’t decide at once; talk it over with Art, and we shall hope you will decide to go. We shall be glad to take you as a passenger, though it should be at the last minute. Good-morning;” and with the last word the carriage started down the avenue.
Arthur called that evening to thank the captainfor the invitation to Calhoun and say that it would be accepted.
“He really needs a rest,” he said, “and though I had some difficulty in persuading him that he could be done without for a few weeks, I succeeded at last, though a bit of information about a certain passenger,” he added with a smile, “had probably more to do with his acceptance than anything else.”
“O Cousin Arthur, I wish you could go too!” exclaimed Violet. “Don’t you think you could?”
“Yes, can’t you?” asked the captain. “We should be delighted to have you, for the sake of your pleasant company, to say nothing of the convenience of having our medical adviser close at hand in case of sickness or accident.”
“Thank you kindly,” returned the doctor. “I should greatly enjoy going, especially in such pleasant company, but it would not do for Cal and me to absent ourselves at one and the same time. Besides, I have some patients that I could not leave just at present.”
“Then take your turn after Calhoun comes home,” said the captain. “He would be a welcome guest as long as he might choose to stay, but if I know him as I think I do, he is not likely to stay as long as we do.”
“No, not he,” said Arthur; “if he stays twoor three weeks it will be quite as much as I expect.”
“And we shall hope to see you after that,” said the captain. “Don’t forget that ‘all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,’ and we could ill afford to have our doctor so transformed.”
“Many thanks,” returned Arthur. “I sometimes feel that such a rest would do me a world of good, and perhaps prevent or delay such a catastrophe as you speak of,” he added with a smile; “but it is really a very difficult thing for a busy country doctor to get away from his work for even a brief holiday.”
“Yes, but I think he should take one occasionally nevertheless,” said the captain; “since by so doing he is likely to last the longer, and in the end do more for his fellow-creatures.”
“Very pleasant doctrine, captain,” laughed Arthur. “But I must be going now, as some of these same fellow-creatures are in need of my services at this present moment.”
“I wish you were going with us now, Art,” said Violet as she bade him good-by. “It would be really delightful to have you along as friend and relative as well as physician.”
“That is very good and kind in you,” he returned. “I won’t forget it, and perhaps I may look in on you before the summer is over.”
That day and the next were very busy ones at Woodburn and Ion, and the succeeding one saw them all on their way northward. Mary Keith was delighted with the yacht, which she had not seen until she boarded it in company with the Raymonds. It was a pleasure to Violet to take her cousin down into the cabin and show her all its beauties and conveniences, including the state-room she was to occupy on the voyage.
“Oh, how lovely!” cried Mary; “and how good in you to ask me to go with you in this beautiful vessel. I am sure the journey will not be half so wearisome as it would in the cars.”
“I hope not,” returned Violet, “but I hope you won’t be sea-sick; for if you are you will probably wish we had not induced you to try the voyage in preference to the journey by land.”
“And perhaps that you had my doctor brother as fellow-passenger instead of myself,” remarked a familiar voice behind them—that of Calhoun Conly—and turning quickly they discovered him and the captain standing near by, regarding them with amused, smiling countenances.
“Welcome! I’m glad to see you, Cal,” said Violet, holding out her hand.
“Thank you, Vi,” he returned, taking thehand in a cordial grasp. “And you, Miss Mary, are not displeased, I hope, that I have accepted an invitation to join your party on the voyage and for a short time at the sea-shore.”
“No, Mr. Conly,” laughed Mary. “Whom the captain and Violet choose to invite is, I am sure, no affair of mine; nor should I object to your company so long as you continue so inoffensive as you have been during our brief acquaintance.”
“Thanks,” he returned, bowing low; “now I feel entirely comfortable.”
“That’s right, Cal,” said the captain. “And suppose we all go on deck to see the weighing of the anchor and the starting of the vessel; for the steam is up and we are about ready to move.”
An awning shaded the deck and a breeze from the sea made it a pleasant place to lounge and read or chat. The children were already seated there, watching the movements of the sailors and of the people on the wharf.
“How d’y do, Cousin Cal?” said Lulu, making room for him and Mary Keith on the settee she had been occupying. “I’m glad you are going with us, and I hope you and Cousin Mary will have a good time, for I think a journey taken on theDolphinis very much more enjoyable than one by rail.”
“I have no doubt of it—if one is not attacked by sea-sickness,” returned Calhoun.
“Are you likely to be?” she asked.
“Well, that I cannot tell, as this will be my first voyage,” he answered.
“As it is mine,” said Mary.
“If you are both sick you can sympathize each with the other,” remarked Violet laughingly.
But the captain had walked forward to give his orders, the work of weighing anchor was beginning, and all kept silence while watching it. Presently the vessel was speeding on her way, and they had nothing to do but sit under the awning enjoying the breeze and the prospect of the wide expanse of ocean on the one side and the fast-receding shore on the other.
The voyage proved a speedy and prosperous one, continuous fair weather and favorable winds making it most enjoyable. One pleasant afternoon they entered Gloucester harbor, and before night were safely housed in their new temporary home, where they found the Dinsmores and Travillas awaiting them.
Mr. Croly too was there to join in the greetings. Domiciled with relatives who occupied a cottage but a few rods distant, he passed much of his time with Harold and Herbert, fishing, boating, bathing, riding, or driving; pleasuresthat were now shared by the other gentlemen and ladies and more or less by the children also; the captain, young uncles, and occasionally Mr. Croly caring for them when in bathing and seeing that they had a fair share of the pleasures of the older people.
There were many beautiful drives to be taken, some interesting spots to visit. One day they took a long drive, much of it through a pleasant wood, whence they emerged within a few hundred yards of the sea-shore, there very high and rocky. They fastened their horses in the edge of the wood, alighted, and walked out in the direction of the sound of the dashing, booming waves.
Stepping across a narrow fissure in the rocks, the gentlemen helping the ladies and children over, they could see that it widened toward the water and that the sea roared and foamed like a seething caldron about the base of the rocks, which were very steep and uneven, in many places great stones piled upon each other in a way that made them look as if it would take very little to send them toppling down into the roaring, fuming water below.
Grace clung to her father in affright. “O papa, please don’t let us go any nearer,” she said; “please hold me tight.”
“I will, my darling,” he answered soothingly.“We are in no danger here, and you can just stand and look, seeing all you need care to. Then I will take you back to mamma, over yonder where she is gathering flowers for Elsie and Ned, and you can stay with and amuse them while she comes here to take a look.”
“Yes, I’d rather be there,” she said, “for it seems so dangerous here. O papa, see! Lu is going so near the edge. I’m afraid she’ll fall in.”
“Uncle Harold has her hand,” he said; “still I do not like to see her venturing so near the edge. Lucilla,” he called, “come here, daughter.”
She turned about and came at once. “Uncle Harold was taking care of me, papa,” she said; “but oh, it does look dangerous, and I shouldn’t like to go climbing about over the rocks as Cousin Mary and Rosie are doing; at least not unless I had you to hold me, papa.”
“I shall not take you into any such dangerous place,” he said, “nor will I allow any one else to do so. Do you see that little cross there?” pointing to a small wooden one driven in the rock near by.
“Yes, sir. What is it there for?” asked Lulu.
“As a reminder of a sad accident that happened here some years ago. A party of summervisitors to this coast came out here one day as we have done and went down near the waves. Among them was a very estimable young lady, a Christian, I believe she was, a teacher too, supporting her aged parents by her industry. She was soon to be married, and with her were the parents of her intended husband.
“It seems they all went down near the waves, this young lady nearer than the others. She seated herself on the rock against which the waves dash up. Some of the others called to her that she was not in a safe place, but she replied that she thought it safe; the waves did not come up close to her, and they looked away in another direction for a moment; when they turned to look for her again she was gone from the rock, and all they could see of her was one hand held up out of the boiling waves as if in a wild appeal for help. Help which they could not give, for they had no boat and no other way of reaching her.”
“Was she drowned, papa?” asked Grace.
“Yes, my child; she could not live many minutes amid such waves and rocks. They made all the haste they could to get help, but none was near at hand, and she must have been dead long before they got it there. They did get the body finally, with grappling irons, but the soul had fled.
“My children, remember what I say to you now. Never run the risk of losing your lives when nothing is to be gained by it for either yourselves or others; to do so is both wrong and foolish; it is really breaking the sixth commandment—‘Thou shalt not kill.’ We have no right to kill ourselves, not even to escape great suffering, but must wait God’s time to call us hence.
“Now I will take you to your little sister and brother, to take charge of them while your mamma comes to view Rafe’s Chasm.”
In the mean time Grandma Elsie had called to Rosie and Walter, and was talking to them, in much the same strain, of the folly and sinfulness of unnecessarily exposing themselves to danger.
“You can see almost as much from this safe place as you can by going into those very dangerous ones,” she said. Then she told them the same story the captain had just been telling his little girls.
“O mamma, how dreadful, how very dreadful!” exclaimed Rosie; “it was so sad to be snatched away from life so suddenly, while young and well and with so much to live for.”
“Yes,” sighed her mother; “my heart aches for the poor parents, even more than for the lover. He has probably found another bridebefore this, while they still mourn the irreparable loss of their dear daughter.”
“Your mother is right, children,” said Mr. Dinsmore, standing near. “Heed her teachings, and never risk life or limb in a mere spirit of bravado.”
The captain now stood beside them with Violet on his arm, and the others came climbing back, till they all stood in a group together.
“What an awful occurrence that was! what a dreadful death to die—tossed about by those booming waves, that raging, foaming water, against those cruel rocks till life was extinct,” Violet said, gazing down into the chasm while clinging tightly to her husband’s arm.
“Yes,” said Mary Keith, “and I feel that I was hardly right to run the risk I did in climbing about as I have been doing.”
“Nor I,” said Croly.
“Nor any of the rest of us,” added Calhoun; “but we won’t do it any more. But what is it Vi refers to? Has there ever been an accident here?”
“Yes; have you not heard the story?” said his uncle. “Has no one told you the meaning of yonder cross?” pointing to it as he spoke.
“No, sir; and I had not noticed it before.”
Mr. Dinsmore briefly told the sad tale; thenslowly and almost in silence they turned and left the spot.
Harold, Herbert, and Will Croly were strolling together along the beach that evening, and for a time their talk was of Rafe’s Chasm and the accident there, the story of which they had heard that day.
“It has been a good deal in my mind ever since I heard it,” remarked Croly, “and I have asked myself what must it be to be called so suddenly from earth to heaven. It is a solemn thought that we may be so called any day or hour, but a sweet one also; for to the Christian, what is sudden death but sudden glory, a sudden awaking in the land where pain and sickness, sin and sorrow are unknown, and in the immediate presence of the dear Master who has loved us with an everlasting love? Oh, I cannot think sudden death a calamity to the Christian!”
“No,” said Harold, “but it is sad for the surviving relatives and friends. Oh, what a heart-breaking thing to lose our mother in that way, for instance!”
“Yes; such a terrible death,” said Herbert in moved tones.
“But the suffering was very short,” said Croly. “Doubtless consciousness was soon lost, and I have heard again and again that thosewho have been taken from the water apparently dead—so nearly gone that if left to themselves they would never have recovered consciousness—have said that it was an easy death to die. Those who die by disease must often and often suffer far more in the weeks and months while disease is slowly making its way to the citadel of life.”
“Yes, that is true,” answered Harold; “yet thinking of it all does not rouse in me any desire for drowning. I believe I have never told you, Will,” he added, facing round upon his friend and speaking in tones slightly tremulous with emotion, “that I was once as near drowning as one could be and live; yes, should probably never have recovered consciousness but for my dear mother’s determined perseverance with efforts at resuscitation, when every one else had given me up as dead.”
“No,” returned Croly in an awestruck tone, “I never heard it before. No wonder you love her so dearly, for leaving that out of the account, she is a woman in a thousand. Ah, I often envy you fellows when I see you with your mother and think of mine, sick and suffering away on the other side of the sea.”
“But you are hoping she and your father will return soon, are you not, Will?” asked Herbert in a tone of sympathy.
“Yes, I am hoping every day to hear that they are about sailing; but I have heard nothing at all for some weeks, and am growing more anxious day by day. Aunt and uncle try to comfort and reassure me with the old saying that ‘no news is good news,’ but—well, my only comfort is in casting my cares on the Lord, remembering that he cares for both them and me, and that his promise is, ‘As thy days, so shall thy strength be.’”
“That is one of my mother’s favorite texts,” remarked Herbert, “and she says it has always been fulfilled to her.”
“And she has seen some sore trials?”
“Yes; my father’s death for one. I know that was the greatest of all; though before that, death had snatched away from her a very dear and lovely little daughter,” said Harold.
“And she has had trials in other forms,” added Herbert. “Some persons would esteem it a very great trial to be called to choose between a difficult and dangerous surgical operation and certain, painful death from disease.”
“And she has had that trial?” asked Croly.
“Yes; and went through it bravely, trusting in the Lord to spare her life or take her to dwell with him in bliss forever.”
“She is a noble and lovely woman,” remarkedCroly. “I never saw one whom I admired more.”
“Ah, you do not know half how sweet and good, and what a devoted Christian she—our beloved mother—is,” said Harold earnestly. “I thank God every day for giving me such a mother.”
“As I do,” said Herbert. “I often think if there is anything good in me, it is the result of my mother’s kind, wise, loving training.”
Thenext day was the Sabbath—the third since the arrival of the Raymonds. Rain fell heavily. There was no church near at hand, and our friends gathered in the parlors of the house occupied by the Dinsmores, Travillas, and Raymonds, where a sermon was read, prayers were offered, and hymns sung. In the evening they held a Bible-reading, and afterward sang hymns, now selected or suggested by one, now by another.
Croly chose several. He had been with them in the morning and offered a very feeling, fervent prayer. The first two verses of the last hymn sung at his request were:
“My days are gliding swiftly by,And I, a pilgrim stranger,Would not detain them as they fly,These hours of toil and danger.For oh, we stand on Jordan’s strandOur friends are passing over,And, just before, the shining shoreWe may almost discover.“Our absent King the watch-word gave,‘Let every lamp be burning;’We look afar across the wave,Our distant home discerning.For oh, we stand on Jordan’s strand,Our friends are passing over,And, just before, the shining shoreWe may almost discover.”
“My days are gliding swiftly by,And I, a pilgrim stranger,Would not detain them as they fly,These hours of toil and danger.For oh, we stand on Jordan’s strandOur friends are passing over,And, just before, the shining shoreWe may almost discover.“Our absent King the watch-word gave,‘Let every lamp be burning;’We look afar across the wave,Our distant home discerning.For oh, we stand on Jordan’s strand,Our friends are passing over,And, just before, the shining shoreWe may almost discover.”
“My days are gliding swiftly by,And I, a pilgrim stranger,Would not detain them as they fly,These hours of toil and danger.For oh, we stand on Jordan’s strandOur friends are passing over,And, just before, the shining shoreWe may almost discover.
“My days are gliding swiftly by,
And I, a pilgrim stranger,
Would not detain them as they fly,
These hours of toil and danger.
For oh, we stand on Jordan’s strand
Our friends are passing over,
And, just before, the shining shore
We may almost discover.
“Our absent King the watch-word gave,‘Let every lamp be burning;’We look afar across the wave,Our distant home discerning.For oh, we stand on Jordan’s strand,Our friends are passing over,And, just before, the shining shoreWe may almost discover.”
“Our absent King the watch-word gave,
‘Let every lamp be burning;’
We look afar across the wave,
Our distant home discerning.
For oh, we stand on Jordan’s strand,
Our friends are passing over,
And, just before, the shining shore
We may almost discover.”
Monday was a bright, beautiful day, spent by our friends very much as usual. They had been unusually long without letters from their homes or that vicinity, and were growing a trifle anxious; Calhoun in especial, as he felt that he himself had had a good vacation, and it was time that his brother, the doctor, was taking his turn. Yet there was a very strong tie binding him for the present to the spot where he was. He and Mary Keith had come to an understanding and were mutual lovers, only awaiting the consent of her parents to become engaged. He had written to Mr. Keith, telling him frankly of his circumstances and prospects, his love for Mary, and desire to make her his wife at the earliest day on which her parents could be induced to resign her to him, also of her willingness to become his; concluding his letter by a reference to their cousin and his uncle, Mr. Dinsmore, for any desired information in regard to his character and thecorrectness of his statements concerning his ability, present and prospective, to support a wife and family.
He and Mary walked out that morning soon after breakfast, strolled along the beach for a time, then seated themselves within sight of their temporary home.
They had hardly done so, when Walter Travilla came running with letters which he said had just come from the office.
“There are several for each of you; you are fortunate this morning,” he added; “however, that depends very much upon what is in them.”
“So it does, Wal,” said Calhoun, glancing at his, and perceiving that the direction on one of them was in a masculine hand and the postmark that of the town where Mary’s parents lived.
His pulses quickened at the sight, and his face flushed.
Walter had run away, and Mary was breaking the seal of her own letter from home; she seemed too busy with it to notice the excitement of her companion, seeing which he silently opened and read his to himself.
The two epistles were of much the same tone and tenor. The parents, though feeling it a sore trial to part with their child—their eldestdaughter—gave full consent, since that seemed necessary to her happiness.
Mary’s feelings as she read were of strangely mingled happiness and heartache. She loved the man at her side, loved him so dearly that she could scarce have borne to resign him, yet the thought of leaving the dear parents who had loved and cherished her all her days was almost equally unendurable. Her tears began to fall, and the sound of a low sob startled Calhoun just as he finished the perusal of Mr. Keith’s letter, which brought only joy to him.
“Oh, dearest, what is it?” he asked, passing an arm about her waist. “Does that letter bring you bad news? Mine gives me only the joyful intelligence of your parents’ consent; so that I have a right to comfort you in any trouble, if it lies in my power.”
“Do not be vexed or offended that the same news is not all joy to me,” she returned, smiling through her tears. “My father and mother are very, very dear to me; they have loved and cherished me all my life; their home has always been mine, and—” but overcome by emotion, she ended with a sob, leaving her sentence unfinished.
“And you are giving them up for me, a comparative stranger, and far from worthy of such a prize as yourself,” he said in low, tender tones,taking her hand and pressing it affectionately in his. “Dear girl, if love, tenderness, entire devotion can make you happy, you shall never regret the sacrifice.”
“I have no fear of that,” she returned, smiling through her tears, “for though but a few weeks have passed since we first saw each other, you are well known to us through Uncle Dinsmore, Cousin Elsie, and others. I do not fear to trust you—oh, no, it is not that, but the leaving of the dear father and mother now—when they begin to grow old and may need a daughter’s care.”
“But they have other daughters?”
“Yes, but I am the eldest, and the one who would perhaps know best how to make them comfortable.”
“Well, dearest, let us leave that for the present. There is plenty of room at Roselands, and perhaps—should your father some day retire from business—they may like to come and make their home with us. If so, we shall be glad, very glad to have them.”
That was a word of comfort that chased Mary’s tears away, and the rest of their talk was gay and happy; the principal subject their plans for the immediate future.
“I ought to be going home,” remarked Calhoun at length, with a slight sigh, “though thefact is I don’t know how to tear myself away. But I must, for poor, overworked Art must have his turn. Ah, here’s a letter from him,” taking up one from the still unexamined, half-forgotten pile lying on the grass by his side.
Hastily tearing it open, he glanced over the contents. “Why, here is news!” he exclaimed. “Marian McAlpine has been quite ill, Art attending her; she’s convalescing, but needs change of climate and scene. Art has prescribed a few weeks at the sea-shore, and they are coming here—the whole four of them—Mr. Lilburn and his son, Miss Marian, and Art as her attending physician. I am commissioned to find a boarding-place for them. But what are they thinking of? They were to start the day after this was written, and will probably be here to-night or to-morrow. Oh, well, there are hotels in the town, and I must just hurry in there, make inquiries, and do the best I can for them.”
“Yes; let us go back to the house at once,” said Mary. “But ah, here comes Cousin Elsie,” she added, as they both rose and turned toward the dwelling.
“You had a letter from Art, I noticed, Calhoun,” said Mrs. Travilla, hastening toward them, “and I presume it brings the same news as this one from Cousin Ronald to me,” indicatingone that she held in her hand. “He says Marian has been really very ill, but is convalescing, and they are bringing her here, thinking the sea-air may do her good. He says Arthur is coming along as her physician, but agrees with him that it is not at all necessary for you to hurry home, as Edward is able and willing to give some little attention to the workers on your plantation.”
“That is good news,” Calhoun said with a smile, “but I must hurry into the city and find a boarding-place for them.”
“Why, Cal, you astonish me!” exclaimed Elsie. “Have I ever shown myself so inhospitable that you have a right to suppose I would let relatives go to a hotel when I can make room for them in my home?”
“I didn’t think you could, cousin,” he returned.
“I both can and will, if I am allowed the opportunity; it is only a little crowding that is necessary. Mr. Conly can take his brother the doctor into his room to share his bed, Cousin Ronald and his son can share another—and there is a spare room waiting for them—while Marian can be taken in with some of us. I have not thought it all out yet, but am confident I can soon arrange it.”
“Oh, easily, cousin,” said Mary, “for Rosieand I could easily take Lulu or Grace, or both of them, into our room. Crowding at the sea-shore is nothing new, and I do not think it will be at all unpleasant to me.”
“You are a dear, good girl, Mary,” was Elsie’s smiling response as she turned and hastened back to the house.
“She has her full share of the Southern virtue of hospitality,” remarked Calhoun, looking after her with admiring eyes.
“Do you consider it a specially Southern virtue?” queried Mary with a little laugh of amusement.
“I beg your pardon,” returned Calhoun gallantly, “and acknowledge that I have seen no lack of the virtue in question since coming up North, but I have always heard it spoken of as particularly characteristic of my native section of the Union, though I dare say that is altogether a mistake.”
“I shall try to convince you of that one of these days,” she said with a smiling look up into his eyes.
When Mrs. Travilla reached the house, there was first a short consultation among the older members of the family, then a pleasant little bustle of preparation for the expected, welcome guests, who it was found could be easily accommodated without greatly disturbing orinterfering with the comfort of any one else.
These preparations completed, all gathered on the porch and sat there, the gentlemen reading, the ladies crocheting or merely chatting to pass away the time till the dinner-bell should summon them to the table. But a carriage was seen approaching from the direction of the town.
“I wonder, now, if it isn’t our party,” said Calhoun, and even as he spoke it drove up and stopped before the gate; seeing which he, Harold, and Herbert sprang up and hastened forward to assist the travellers to alight; for it was indeed the expected party of relatives from the South.
The gentlemen were all well and in fine spirits, but Marian was much exhausted and glad to be taken directly to bed. The doctor seemed very careful of his patient, the other two equally solicitous for her comfort; as were Mrs. Dinsmore, Elsie, and Violet, all of whom were ready to do for her anything in their power.
All she wanted, however, was a little light nourishment, then a long sound sleep, and the next morning she was able to occupy a hammock swung upon the porch, where she passed her time listening to reading, generally by the doctor,who rarely left her long for the first day or two, chatting with the cousins or sleeping; weakness and the sea-air having somewhat the effect of an opiate.
But both the air and the sleep did her great good, so that in a few days she was able to take short drives and even walks along the beach with the support of the arm of one or another of the gentlemen, oftener that of Arthur than any other. He watched over her with the care and tenderness of a mother, noticed the first sign of exhaustion, and it was always he who helped her up the stairs to her bedroom, not infrequently half-carrying her there.
All the older members of the family noticed his devotion and quietly remarked upon it among themselves.
“He is really in love with her, I think, but it seems to me the disparity of years is too great,” remarked Herbert one day when the matter was under discussion.
“Perhaps, laddie, when you come to be of his age you may see such matters in a different light,” said Mr. Lilburn in a fatherly tone and with a kindly smile at his young relative.
“As his mother did before him,” added Elsie, laying her hand affectionately in that of Herbert, who was as usual close at her side.
“Ah, mamma dear, I quite forgot at themoment that you had married one so much older than yourself. But my father was no common man.”
“No, nor is Cousin Arthur; at least so we all think, we to whom he has always been so kind and faithful as both relative and physician.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Dinsmore, “and any one who is so fortunate as to win his heart and hand will have one of the best, most affectionate, and attentive of husbands.”
“And the disparity of years will not be so very much greater than between Cousin Mary and his brother,” remarked Mrs. Dinsmore.
“And they seem a delightfully happy pair; as a certain married couple of my acquaintance, between whom there must be something like the same disparity of years, are to my actual knowledge,” remarked Violet with a bright, fond look up into her husband’s face as he sat by her side with baby Ned on his knee.
“Quite true, my dear. I could not be induced to exchange my one little wife for half a dozen women of twice her years, even if the law allowed it,” returned the captain with a humorous look and smile.
“Nor could I be induced to exchange my one good big husband for a dozen or more other men of any age, size, or quality,” laughed Violet.
“Wise Vi,” remarked Herbert; “one is plenty; more than one would certainly be a superfluity. There—look toward the shore, everybody. Yonder are Cal and his beloved wandering together near the waves, seemingly in close conversation, while Art and his sit side by side on two camp-chairs a little nearer here, or a trifle farther from the water. There is certainly a good deal of love-making going on.”
“At least things have that appearance,” Harold said with a quiet smile as he and the others followed Herbert’s advice, and gazing out seaward had a pretty view of the two pairs of lovers.
There was little doubt in any of their minds that Arthur and Marian belonged in that class, while the other two were openly acknowledged as such.
But they were somewhat mistaken. Arthur had not yet breathed a word of love to his young patient, and she thought of him only as her dear, kind doctor, who had done much to relieve her sufferings and had in all probability saved her life. She had strong confidence in his skill and was a perfectly tractable and obedient patient. He assisted her to her room that evening, as usual, more than an hour before any but the younger children were ready to retire.
It was a beautiful moonlight evening, and the porches, where most of the family were gathered, looked very inviting as he came down again and stepped out upon the one that ran along the front of the house.
His Cousin Elsie invited him to an easy-chair by her side, then presently proposed that they two should stroll around the porches together. He caught gladly at the suggestion, rose and offered her his arm.
“I want a little private chat with you, Art,” she said, smiling brightly up into his face.
“I am always glad to talk with you, cousin,” he returned, giving her an affectionate yet keenly scrutinizing look, “but I hope it is not of any serious ailment you have to tell me.”
“Oh, no! I am thankful to be able to say that I and all my near and dear ones are in perfect health so far as I know. It is of yourself and your dear young patient I would speak. Marian is a sweet girl, lovely in both character and person.”
“So I think. Ah, cousin, if I were only some years younger!”
“Never mind that, Art; you are young in looks and feeling, and I doubt if there is any one nearer and dearer to her now than yourself. She thinks her feeling for you is only the gratitude and affection any patient might feelfor a kind, attentive, sympathizing physician, but I am much mistaken if on hearing the story of your love from your lips she will fail to discover that she loves you as a woman should the man to whom she gives her hand.”
“Do you really think so, cousin?” he asked with a bright, glad smile.
“I do indeed,” she replied, “and if I were in your place I should soon put it to the proof by offering her my hand and heart.”
He seemed lost in thought for a moment, then heaving a sigh, “Ah, if I were only sure,” he said—“sure of not, by so doing, losing the place I can see that I have already won in her heart—the friendship—it may not, after all, be anything more than that—I should not for a moment hesitate to make the offer you recommend; for I feel confident that with mutual love we might be exceptionally happy despite the difference in our years.”
“No doubt of it,” she returned, “and I hope that before you leave us you will put it to the proof; because I think it will be for both your happiness and hers.”
“Thank you very much for both your sympathy and advice, dear cousin,” he said. “I shall do so to-morrow if opportunity offers, as is likely to be the case, seeing we are so frequently alone together as patient and physician.Then if I find she does not and cannot love me in the way I wish, I shall trouble her no longer with my presence, but speedily set off for home and its duties.”
“But even in that case you need not entirely despair,” his cousin said with a bright, sweet look up into his rather anxious and troubled face, “for she is but young, and clever courting may win her heart in time. You are such a dear fellow, Art, so kind-hearted, generous, sympathetic, so unselfish and helpful, that you seem to me to deserve every good thing in life.”
“Oh, Cousin Elsie, such extravagant praise mortifies me, because I must acknowledge to myself that it is so far beyond my deserts,” he returned, blushing like a girl.
“It need not,” she said. “There is an old saying that every one—every deserving one at least—eats white bread at some time in his or her life. You have had a hard life so far, but I hope your time for white bread is now close at hand.”
He laughed a little at that. “Yes,” he said, “Cal and I have worked very hard for years past, and times do grow easier with us, but whether I shall ever get so far with the white bread as to win the dear young wife I covet, I do not know.”
“Well, you have my best wishes,” she returned,“and I shall do what I can to help the prosperity of your suit by sounding your praises in the ears of your lady-love. Ah, do not look alarmed, but trust me to say only enough to interest her, not so much as to weary her of the subject.”
“Thank you, dear cousin, I know I can trust you fully. And will you not help me with your prayers that I may, if it be God’s will, succeed in winning her heart completely?”
“Surely I will,” she said, “and I believe our joint petition will be granted, if it be for the best.”
Arthur lay awake for some time that night, pondering on Elsie’s advice in regard to his contemplated suit for Marian’s hand and asking divine guidance and help.
The next morning, soon after breakfast, he, as usual, asked Marian if she would like to go down on the beach and get a breath of the refreshing breeze from the sea.
“Yes, indeed, doctor, if it will not be keeping you from going somewhere with somebody else,” she answered with a smile.
“Not at all,” he returned. “I have no engagement, and shall be glad not only to help you to a breath of sea-air, but to take one myself.”
He brought a light shawl and wrapped it about her, saying the breeze was rather freshfor her, while her Cousin Elsie tied on her hat and veil. Then with a thick shawl over one arm, he offered her the other, saying, “Walter has run on ahead with a couple of camp-stools for us, and this heavier shawl is to wrap around you in case you find the other not warm enough.”
“Thank you,” she returned, smiling up into his face. “I am sure it is not every patient who has so good and kind a doctor as mine.”
“I do certainly want to be kind to all my patients,” he said pleasantly, “yet cannot deny that some are greater favorites with me than others. Besides, I have, you know, but the one here to devote myself to.”
“Fortunately for me,” she returned laughingly. “And I assure you I do enjoy having my doctor all to myself. One likes to be treated as a person of importance, you know.”
“You are such to me,” he said, “especially as you have not yet fully recovered your strength, and I must leave you soon to return to the care of other patients left behind in the South.”
She started and looked up half-entreatingly into his face, but said nothing, for at that moment Walter came running up to them.
“Cousin Arthur,” he said, “I placed the stools about where you usually sit, I think; but if they are not just where you want them, they are easily moved.”
“Yes; thank you,” replied the doctor, and Walter ran on to the house.
He seated Marian comfortably, then took the chair beside her.
“Must you go very soon?” she asked, trying to swallow a lump in her throat.
“I am afraid I must, on account of the other patients, though it seems decidedly hard for me to leave this delightful spot and pleasant company.”
“Yes, sir; and I really think you ought to have a longer rest after working so hard and long. I—I am afraid I have been a great deal of trouble and the cause of much weariness. And—and I can never begin to pay you for it all.”
“O Marian, dear girl, you can far more than repay me if—if only you can find it in your heart to love and trust me well enough to give your dear self into my care for the rest of our two lives,” he said in low, eager tones, bending over her and taking her hand in his.
She did not withdraw it, but neither did she speak, but bending low to catch sight of her face, he saw that her tears were falling fast.
“O my darling, I did not mean to distress you so,” he said in moved tones. “I see that you cannot give me that kind of love, so forget that I have asked it.”
“Forget!” she exclaimed in low, tremuloustones, “forget the sweetest words I ever had spoken to me? Oh, no, no! But I don’t know how you can give such love to me—a poor, ignorant girl, whose own father cares so little for her that he would sacrifice her happiness for life.”
“No, no,” he said, gathering her in his arms, “the sweetest, dearest, loveliest one that ever crossed my path. And you can love me. Ah, darling, you have made me the happiest of men; you do not deny that you love me; and you are to me the dearest of all earthly creatures.”
He held her close, while she dropped her head on his breast and wept for very joy and thankfulness. For Elsie was right; he had won her heart and was dearer to her than all the world besides.
Many low-breathed, comforting, endearing words fell from his lips as he held her close in such loving embrace as she had not felt since her mother’s death, till at length her tears ceased to fall and she was able to speak again.
“Oh, I never dreamed,” she said, “that one so wise and good could ever care in that way for me. My heart is so full of joy and gratitude to God and to you that words would not express the half of it. But are you not afraid that you may some day weary of a companion for life who knows so much less than you do that she is but a child in comparison with you?”
“Ah, no,” he answered with a smile; “I have only feared that your youth and my years might stand in the way of my winning you; that a girl so sweet, fresh, and young would feel herself thrown away upon a man of my age. It would be but natural that you should prefer a much more youthful and finer-looking man.”
“I do not know where I could find a finer-looking one,” she answered with an earnest sincerity that made him smile. “Your face is so benevolent in expression, so full of goodness and kindness, that I could not help loving and trusting you from the first.”
“Ah, darling, those are sweet words,” he said, his eyes shining. “And you I found so patient and uncomplaining under suffering, so grateful for any and every kindness done you, every effort to give you relief, that I could but admire and end by loving you as I never loved before. Ah, dearest, that you return my love and have given yourself to me has made me the happiest of men! What a joy it will be to have you for my very own to love, cherish, and provide for!”
“And how sweet to me to belong to one who is so good and kind,” she exclaimed, half-hiding her blushing face on his shoulder. “Oh, never before in all my life was I so happy as I am at this moment!”