Mildred Keith

by Martha Finley

  Chapter Nineteenth.

  "Seldom shall she hear a tale So sad, so tender, and so true."

  HORACE DINSMORE showed much interest in Mildred, seemed to like to watchher, let her employment be what it might, and to have her company inlong solitary walks and drives.

  Several times he remarked to her mother that she was growing very lovelyin person and was a girl of fine mind; adding that he sincerely hopedshe would not throw herself away upon some country boor.

  The two--Mrs. Keith and Mr. Dinsmore--were alone in the sitting-room,one pleasant afternoon early in September, when this remark was made forthe third or fourth time; alone except that little Annis was playingabout the floor, apparently absorbed with Toy and her doll.

  Mrs. Keith was sewing, her cousin who had been pacing to and fro, nowstanding before her.

  She lifted her head with a startled look.

  "Horace, don't forget that you and Mildred are cousins."

  He colored slightly, then laughingly answered to her thought rather thanher words,

  "Don't be alarmed, Marcia; I'm not thinking of her in that way at all."

  His face suddenly clouded as with some gloomy recollection.

  "Marcia," he said, taking a chair near her side, "my visit is drawing toa close and there is something I must tell you before I go; I came withthe purpose of doing so, but hitherto my heart has failed me. We seem tobe alone in the house and perhaps there will be no better time thanthis."

  "I think not," she said, "we can secure ourselves from intrusion bylocking the door."

  He rose, turned the key, and came back.

  He did not speak again for a moment, but sat watching Annis with apeculiar expression which excited his cousin's surprise and curiosityand not for the first time either; she had noted it before; the childseemed to both attract and repel him.

  More than once Mrs. Keith had seen him snatch her up suddenly with agesture of strong affection, only to set her down the next minute andturn away as if from something painful to look upon.

  "What is it you see in my baby, Horace?" she asked, laying her handaffectionately upon his arm.

  "She is a sweet, pretty little thing, yet it gives me more pain thanpleasure to look at her," he said sighing and passing his hand acrosshis brow.

  "You cannot imagine why it should," he went on, smiling sadly into hiscousin's wondering face, "because there is a page in my past life thatyou have never read."

  His features worked with emotion. He rose and paced the floor back andforth several times; then coming to her side again,

  "Marcia, I have been a husband; I am a father; my little girl--whom Ihave never seen--must be just about the age of Annis."

  "You, Horace? you are but twenty years old!" dropping her work to lookup at him in utter amazement.

  "I knew you would be astonished--that you could hardly credit it--but itis true."

  Then resuming his seat he poured out in impassioned language, the storyalready so well known to the readers of the Elsie books--of his visitto New Orleans three years before this, his hasty and clandestinemarriage to the beautiful heiress, Elsie Grayson, their speedyseparation by her guardian and big father, the subsequent birth of theirlittle daughter and the death of the young mother, following so soonthereafter.

  Her work forgotten, her hands lying idly in her lap, her eyes gazingintently into his, Mrs. Keith listened in almost breathless silence, thetears coursing down her cheeks during the saddest passages.

  "My poor Horace! my poor, dear cousin!" she said when he had finished."Oh, it was hard, very hard! Why did you never tell me before."

  "I could not, Marcia," he answered in tremulous tones, "it is the firsttime I have spoken my darling's name since--since I knew that she waslost to me forever."

  "Forever! oh do not say that! You have told me she was a sweet Christiangirl, and none who trust in Jesus can ever be lost."

  "But to me; I am no Christian," he sighed.

  "But you may become one. The invitation is to you, 'Come unto me;' andthe blessed assurance, 'Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise castout.'"

  He sat silent, his face averted, his head bowed upon his hands.

  She waited a moment, then spoke again.

  "Your child, Horace?"

  "She is at Viamede with the guardian."

  "And you have never seen her?"

  "No."

  "Oh how can you bear it? doesn't your heart yearn over her? don't youlong to have her in your arms?"

  "No; why should I? she robbed me of her--my darling wife."

  "But you do not know that? and certainly it was innocently, if at all."

  "That has always been my feeling."

  "You ought not to allow yourself to feel so," she said almostindignantly. "Poor little motherless darling! must she be worse thanfatherless too?"

  "What would you have, Marcia?" he asked coldly, his face still turnedfrom her, "what could I do with a child? And she is well off where sheis; better than she could be anywhere else;--under the care of a piousold Scotch woman who has been house-keeper in the Grayson family formany years, and that of her mammy who nursed her mother before her: afaithful old creature so proud and fond of her young mistress that Idoubt if she would have hesitated to lay down her life for her."

  "That is well so far as it goes, Horace, but do you wish your child togrow up a stranger to you? would you have no hand in the moulding of hercharacter, the training of her mind?"

  "I had not thought of that," he said sighing, "but I do not feelcompetent to the task."

  "But it is your work; a work God himself has appointed you in giving youthe child; a work for which he will give wisdom if you seek it of him.

  "'If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, who giveth to all menliberally and upbraideth not: and it shall be given him.'

  "And if you neglect it, my dear cousin,--bear with me, while I sayit--it will be at your peril."

  "How do you mean, Marcia?"

  "The day may come when you will want that child's love and obedience:when you will covet them more than any other earthly good, and perhaps,find that they are denied you."

  "It is possible you may be right in regard to the first," he saidhaughtily, his dark eyes flashing, as he turned his face towards heragain, "but as to the other--her obedience--it will be strange indeed ifI cannot compel it. She may have a strong will, but she will find thatmine is yet stronger."

  "Horace," said his cousin earnestly, "if you refuse or neglect to do afather's duty by her, what right can you have to claim a child's dutyfrom her?"

  "I am not conscious of having neglected my duty toward her thus far," hesaid, still haughtily. "As I have already explained, she is where, in myjudgment, she is better off for the present, than she could be anywhereelse. What changes may come in the future I do not know."

  "Forgive me if I have seemed to blame you undeservedly," Mrs. Keith saidwith tears in her eyes; "but ah, my heart yearns over that poor baby!"

  She caught up her own and kissed it passionately as she spoke.

  "Ah!" she sighed, pressing the little creature to her bosom, "whateverwould my darlings do without a father's and a mother's love!"

  He walked to the window and stood there for several minutes. Then comingback,

  "Marcia," he said, "will you do me the favor to write about this toAunt Wealthy and tell her I have always felt ashamed of my behaviorduring my visit to you both, two years ago. I could not bring myself toexplain then the cause of my--what shall I call it? sullenness? It musthave looked like it to you and her and to all who saw me.

  "But you will understand it now and perhaps have some charity for me."

  "We had then, Horace," she said, "we were sure it was some secret griefthat made you so unlike your former self. Yes, I will write to AuntWealthy. May I tell your story to Mildred also?"

  "Not now, please. When I am gone she may hear it."

  "Excuse another question. Do you know anything of your little one'slooks?"

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nbsp; "I have heard nothing; but if she at all resembles her mother, she mustbe very pretty."

  "And you have never even asked! O Horace!"

  "I'm afraid you think me very heartless," he said, coloring. "But youmust make some allowance for my being a man. Women, I think, feel moreinterest in such things than we of the sterner sex do."

  "Then I think my husband must be an exceptional man, for he loves hischildren very dearly, and takes great pride in their beauty andintelligence."

  "I daresay; it might have been the same with me under happiercircumstances," he answered in a bitter tone.

  Little feet came pitpatting through the hall, little voices were askingfor mother.

  Mr. Dinsmore opened the door and admitted the inseparable three.

  "Mother, I'm cold," said Fan shivering, and her teeth chattering as shespoke.

  "Cold, darling? Come here."

  "She's got a chill," remarked Cyril sagely. "I'm as warm as toast. It'sreal hot in the sun where we've been playing."

  "I'm afraid she has; her nails are quite blue," Mrs. Keith said, takingone small hand in hers. "Come, dear; mother will put you to bed andcover you up nice and warm, and give you something hot to drink."

  "Me too, mother," said Don, creeping to her side and laying his head onher shoulder, "I'm so tired and my head aches so bad."

  His cheeks were flushed, his hands hot and dry.

  "You, too, mother's little man?" she exclaimed. "Mother is so sorry foryou both. Have you been cold, Don?"

  "Yes, ma'am, and it creeps down my back now."

  "Take care of Annis, Cyril," said Mrs. Keith, and excusing herself toher cousin, she led the sick ones away.

  Coming back after some little time, "I found Ada down, too," she sighed."She had crept away by herself, without a word to any one--poor, dearchild! 'not wanting to trouble mother,' and there she lay shaking tillthe very bed shook under her."

  "It's dreadful!" cried Mr. Dinsmore, "positively dreadful, Marcia! Howcan you stand it! I believe there has hardly been a week since I camewhen you were all well."

  "Ah, that's because there are so many of us!" she answered, laughing,though tears sprang to her eyes.

  "Why do you stay here! I'd pack up everything and be off instanter."

  "Necessity knows no law," she said. "Cyril, son, can you go down to thespring and get some fresh water for the sick ones?"

  "Yes, ma'am; I'll take the biggest bucket; cause folks always want todrink so much water when the chill's on 'em."

  "Cyril knows that by experience," his mother remarked as the boy leftthe room.

  "Why do you speak of staying here as a necessity, Marcia?" asked hercousin. "You had as large a fortune from your mother as I from mine."

  "Riches take wings, Horace, and a large family and unfortunateinvestments supplied them to mine."

  She spoke cheerfully, jestingly, as though it were but occasion formirth, but his tone was full of concern as he answered,

  "Indeed I never knew that. It is a thousand pities! I wonder you can beso content and light-hearted as you seem."

  "Ah, I have so much left! All my chiefest treasures,--husband, children,many great and precious promises for both this life and the next."

  "Ah, but if you stay here, how long are you likely to keep husband andchildren? not to speak of the danger to your own life and health."

  "Sickness and death find entrance everywhere in this sad world," shesaid; her voice trembling slightly, "and in all places we are under thesame loving care. It seems our duty to stay here, and the path of dutyis the safest. It is thought that in a few years this will become ahealthy country."

  "I hope so, indeed, for your sake, but it is a hard one for you in otherways. I am not so unobservant as not to have discovered that you do agreat deal of your own work. And I don't like that it should be so,Marcia."

  "You are very kind," she answered, smiling up brightly into his face ashe stood looking down upon her with a vexed and anxious expression, "Itis very nice to have you care so much for me, Horace."

  "There's nobody in the world I care more for, Marcia," he said, "andgoing over some of our late talk, in my mind, I have thought there isnobody to whom I should so much like to commit the care and training ofmy child. I mean, of course, if your hands were not already full andmore than full with your own."

  "They are not so full that I would not gladly do a mother's part byher," she answered with emotion, "were it not for the danger of bringingher to this climate."

  "Yes, that is the difficulty. It would never do, so miasmatic and socold and bleak during a great part of the year; especially for one bornso far south. But I thank you, cousin, all the same."

  "We have not much sickness here except ague," she remarked presently,"but there are several varieties of that--chills and fever occurring atregular intervals--generally every other day at about the same hour;dumb ague, shaking ague, and sinking or congestive chills; which lastare the only very alarming kind, sometimes proving fatal in a fewhours."

  "Indeed! you almost frighten me away," he said half seriously, half injest. "That is not a very common form, I hope?"

  "No, rather rare."

  "Don't you send for the doctor?"

  "Not often now; we did at first, but it is so frequent a visitor that wehave learned to manage it ourselves."

  The sickly season had fairly set in, and more afraid of it than he likedto acknowledge, Mr. Dinsmore hastened his departure, leaving for theEast by the next stage.