CHAPTER XII.
"Anger resteth in the bosom of fools."--ECCLES. vii. 9.
"Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correctionshall drive it far from him."--PROV. xxii. 15.
"He seems to feel terribly about it, poor man!" remarked Zoe with abackward glance at the retreating form of Capt. Raymond, as he leftthem and pursued his way to the house.
"Yes, and no wonder," said Edward. "Not for worlds would I be the fatherof such a child as Lulu!"
"Nor I her mother," said Zoe. "So I'm glad it was you I got for ahusband instead of Capt. Raymond."
"Only for that reason?" he queried, facing round upon her in mockastonishment and wrath.
"Oh, of course!" she returned, laughing, then sobering down with asudden recollection of the sorrow in the house. "But, O Ned! howheartless we are to be joking and laughing when poor Vi and the captainare in such distress!"
"I'm afraid you are right," he assented with a sigh. "Yet I am quitesure we both feel deeply for them, and are personally grieved for theinjury to our darling little niece."
"Yes, indeed! the pretty pet that she is!" returned Zoe, wiping hereyes.
Gracie was on the veranda looking for her father, and, catching sight ofhim in the avenue, ran to meet him.
"How is baby now? Can you tell me?" he asked, taking her hand, andstooping to give her a kiss.
"Just the same, I suppose, papa," she said. "Oh, it's very hard to seeit suffer so! isn't it, papa?"
He nodded a silent assent.
"Papa," she asked, lifting her tearful eyes to his face with a pleadinglook, "have you seen Lulu yet?"
"No."
"O papa! do go now! It must be so hard for her to wait so long to seeyou, when you've just come home."
"I doubt if she wants to see me," he said, with some sternness of lookand tone.
"O dear papa! don't punish her very hard. She didn't hurt the baby onpurpose."
"I shall try to do what is best for her, my little girl, though I verymuch doubt if that is exemption from punishment," he said with aninvoluntary sigh. "But if she is in haste to see me," he added, "thereis nothing, so far as I am aware, to prevent her from coming to me."
"But she's afraid, papa, because she has been so very, very naughty."
"In that case, is it not kinder for me to keep away from her?"
"O papa! you know she always wants things--bad things--over."
"The bad thing she has brought upon the poor baby will not be over verysoon," he said sternly. "I must go now to it and your mamma."
He did so; and sharing Violet's deep grief and anxiety, and perceivingthat his very presence was a comfort and support to her, he remained ather side for hours.
Hours, that to Lulu seemed like weeks or months. Alone in her room, inan agony of remorse and fear, she waited and watched and listened forher father's coming, longing for, and yet dreading it, more than wordscould express.
"What would his anger be like?" she asked herself. "What terriblepunishment would he inflict? Would he ever love her again, especially ifthe baby should die?
"Perhaps he would send her away to some very far-off place, and never,never come near her any more."
Naturally of a very impatient temperament, suspense and passive waitingwere well-nigh intolerable to her. By turns she walked the floor, fellon her knees by the bedside, and buried her face in a pillow, or threwherself into a chair by table or window, and hid it on her folded arms.
"Oh! would this long day, this dreadful, _dreadful_ waiting for--_what_?ever come to an end?" she asked herself over and over again.
Yet, when at last the expected step drew near, she shuddered, trembled,and turned pale with affright, and, starting to her feet, looked thisway and that with a wild impulse to flee: then, as the door opened, shedropped into her chair again, and covered her face with her shakinghands.
She heard the door close: the step drew nearer, nearer, and stoppedclose at her side. She dared not look up, but felt her father's eyesgazing sternly upon her.
"Miserable child!" he said at length, "do you know what your terribletemper has wrought?--that in your mad passion you have nearly or quitekilled your little sister? that, even should she live, she may be alife-long sufferer, in consequence of your fiendish act?"
"O papa, don't!" she pleaded in broken accents, cowering and shrinkingas if he had struck her a deadly blow.
"You deserve it," he said: "indeed, I could not possibly inflict a worsepunishment than your conduct merits. But what is the use of punishingyou? nothing reforms you! I am in despair of you! You seem determined tomake yourself a curse to me instead of the blessing I once esteemed you.What am I to do with you? Will you compel me to cage or chain you uplike a wild beast, lest you do some one a fatal injury?"
A cry of pain was her only answer, and he turned and left the room.
"Oh!" she moaned, "it's worse than if he had beaten me half to death! hethinks I'm too bad, even to be punished; because nothing will make megood: he says I'm a curse to him, so he must hate me; though he used tolove me dearly, and I loved him so too! I suppose everybody hates menow, and always will. I wish I was dead and out of their way. But, oh!no, I don't; for I'm not fit to die. Oh! what shall I do? I wish it wasI that was hurt instead of the baby. I'd like to go away and hide fromeverybody that knows me; then I shouldn't be a curse and trouble to papaor any of them."
She lifted her head, and looked about her. It was growing dusk. Quick asa flash came the thought that now was her time; now, while almosteverybody was so taken up with the critical condition of the injuredlittle one; now, before the servants had lighted the lamps in rooms andhalls.
She would slip down a back stairway, out into the grounds, and away, shecared not whither.
Always impulsive, and now full of mental distress, she did not pause amoment to consider, but, snatching up a hat and coat lying convenientlyat hand, stole noiselessly from the room, putting them on as she went.
She gained a side-door without meeting any one; and the grounds seemeddeserted as she passed round the house and entered the avenue, downwhich she ran with swift footsteps, after one hasty glance around tomake sure that she was not seen.
She reached the great gates, pushed them open, stepped out, lettingthem swing to after her, and started on a run down the road.
But the next instant some one had caught her: a hand was on hershoulder, and a stern, astonished voice cried, "Lulu! is it possiblethis can be you? What are you doing out here in the public road alone,and in the darkness of evening? Where were you going?"
"I--I--don't want--to tell you, papa," she faltered.
"_Where_ were you going?" he repeated, in a tone that said an answer hewould have, and that at once.
"Nowhere--anywhere to get away from this place, where everybody hatesme!" she replied sullenly, trying to wrench herself free. "Please let mego, and I'll never come back to trouble you any more."
He made no reply to that, but simply took her band in a firm grasp, andled her back to the house, back to her own room, where he shut himselfin with her, locking the door on the inside.
Then he dropped her hand, and began pacing the floor to and fro,seemingly in deep and troubled thought, his arms folded, his head bowedupon his breast.
A servant had brought in a light during Lulu's absence; and now, lookingtimidly up at her father, she saw his face for the first time sincethey had bidden each other farewell a year before. It struck her as notonly very pale, stern, and grief-stricken, but very much older and moredeeply lined than she remembered it: she did not know that the changehad been wrought almost entirely in the last few hours, yet recognizedit with a pang nevertheless.
"Papa is growing old," she thought: "are there gray hairs in his head, Iwonder?" Then there came dimly to her recollection some Bible wordsabout bringing a father's gray hairs down with sorrow to the grave. "Washer misconduct killing her father?" She burst into an agony of sobs andtears at the thought.
He lifted his head, an
d looked at her gravely, and with mingledsternness and compassion.
"Take off that hat and coat, get your night-dress, and make yourselfready for bed," he commanded, then, stepping to the table, sat down,drew the lamp nearer, opened her Bible, lying there, and slowly turnedover the leaves as if in search of some particular passage, while shemoved slowly about the room, tremblingly and tearfully obeying hisorder.
"Shall I get into bed, papa?" she asked tremulously, when she hadfinished.
"No, not yet. Come here."
She went and stood at his side, with drooping head and fast-beatingheart, her eyes on the carpet, for she dared not look in his face.
He seemed to have found the passage he sought; and, keeping the bookopen with his left hand, he turned to her as she stood at his right.
"Lucilla," he said, and his accents were not stern, though very graveand sad, "you cannot have forgotten that I have repeatedly andpositively forbidden you to go wandering alone about unfrequentedstreets and roads, even in broad daylight; yet you attempted to do thatvery thing to-night in the darkness, which, of course, makes it muchworse."
"Yes, papa; but I--I didn't mean ever to come back."
"You were running away?"
"Yes, sir: I--I thought you would be glad to get rid of me," she sobbed.
He did not speak again for a moment; and when he did, it was in movedtones.
"Supposing I did desire to be rid of you,--which is very far from beingthe case,--I should have no right to let you go; for you are my ownchild, whom God has given to me to take care of, provide for, and trainup for his service. You and I belong to each other as parent and child:you have no right to run away from my care and authority, and I havenone to let you do so. In fact, I feel compelled to punish the attemptquite severely, lest there should be a repetition of it."
"Oh, don't, papa!" she sobbed. "I'll never do it again."
"It was an act of daring, wilful disobedience," he said, "and I mustpunish you for it. Also, for the fury of passion indulged in thismorning. Read this, and this, aloud," he added, pointing to the openpage; and she obeyed, reading faltering, sobbingly,--
"'Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod ofcorrection shall drive it far from him.' ... 'Withhold not correctionfrom the child: for if thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die.Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and shalt deliver his soul fromhell.'"
"You see, my child, that my orders are too plain to be misunderstood,"he said, when she had finished; "and they must be obeyed, howeverunwelcome to me or to you."
"Yes, papa; and--and I--I--'most want you to whip me for hurting thebaby so. I suppose nobody believes I'm sorry, but I am. I could beatmyself for it, though I didn't know it was the baby pulling at my skirt.I thought it was Rosie's dog."
"It is not exactly for hurting the baby," he said; "if you had done thatby accident, I should never think of punishing you for it: but for thefury of passion that betrayed you into doing it, I must punish you veryseverely.
"I shudder to think what you may come to, if I let you go on indulgingyour fiery, ungovernable temper: yes, and to think what it has alreadybrought you to," he added, with a heavy sigh.
"You can never enter heaven unless you gain the victory over that, aswell as every other sin: and, my daughter, there are but two places tochoose from as our eternal home,--heaven and hell; and I must use everyeffort to deliver your soul from going to that last--dreadful place!"
He rose, stepped to the window where her little riding-whip still lay,came back to her; and for the next few minutes she forgot mentaldistress in sharp, physical pain, as the stinging, though not heavy,blows fell thick and fast on her thinly covered back and shoulders.
She writhed and sobbed under them, but neither screamed, nor pleaded formercy.
When he had finished, he sat down again, and drew the weeping, writhingchild in between his knees, put his arm about her in tender, fatherlyfashion, and made her lay her head on his shoulder; but he said not aword. Perhaps his heart was too full for speech.
Presently Lulu's arm crept round his neck. "Papa," she sobbed, "I--I dolove you, and I--I'm glad you wouldn't let me run away,--and that youtry to save me from losing my soul. But oh, I _can't_ be good! I wish, I_wish_ I _could!_" she ended, with a bitter, despairing cry.
He was much moved.
"We will kneel down, and ask God to help you, my poor, dear child," hesaid.
He did so, making her kneel beside him, while, with his arm still abouther, he poured out a prayer so earnest and tender, so exactly describingher feelings and her needs, that she could join in it with all herheart. He prayed like one talking to his Father and Friend, who he knewwas both able and willing to do great things for him and his.
When they had risen from their knees, she lifted her eyes to his facewith a timid, pleading look.
He understood the mute petition, and, sitting down again, drew her tohis knee, and kissed her several times with grave tenderness.
"I wanted a kiss so badly, papa," she said. "You know, it is a wholeyear since I had one; and you never came home before without giving meone just as soon as we met."
"No; but I never before had so little reason to bestow a caress on you,"he said. "When I heard of your deed of this morning, I felt that I oughtnot to show you any mark of favor, at least not until I had given youthe punishment you so richly deserved. Do you not think I was right?"
"Yes, sir," she answered, hanging her head, and blushing deeply.
"I will put you in your bed now, and leave you for to-night," he said."I must go back to my little suffering baby and her almost heart-brokenmother."
He led her to the bed, and lifted her into it as he spoke.
"Papa, can't I have a piece of bread?" she asked humbly. "I'm _so_hungry!"
"Hungry!" he exclaimed in surprise. "Had you no supper?"
"No, sir, nor dinner either. I haven't had a bite to eat sincebreakfast."
"Strange!" he said; "but I suppose you were forgotten in the excitementand anxiety every one in the house has felt ever since the baby's sadfall. And they may have felt it unnecessary to bring any thing to you,as you were quite able to go to the dining-room for it."
"I couldn't bear to, papa," she said, with tears of shame and grief;"and, indeed, I wasn't hungry till a little while ago; but now I feelfaint and sick for something to eat."
"You shall have it," he replied, and went hastily from the room, toreturn in a few minutes, bringing a bowl of milk and a plentiful supplyof bread and butter.
He set them on the table, and bade her come and eat.
"Papa, you are very kind to me, ever so much kinder than I deserve," shesaid tremulously, as she made haste to obey the order. "I think somefathers would say I must go hungry for to-night."
"I have already punished you in what I consider a better way, because itcould not injure your health," he said; "while going a long time withoutfood would be almost sure to do so. It is not my intention ever topunish my children in a way to do them injury. Present pain is all I amat all willing to inflict, and that only for their good."
"Yes, papa, I know that," she said with a sob, setting down her bowl ofmilk to wipe her eyes; "so, when you punish me, it doesn't make me quitloving you."
"If I did not love you, if you were not my own dear child," he said,laying his hand on her head as he stood by her side, "I don't think Icould be at the trouble and pain of disciplining you as I have to-night.But eat your supper: I can't stay with you much longer, and I want tosee you in bed before I go."
As she laid her head on her pillow again, there was a flash oflightning, followed instantly by a .crash of thunder and a heavydownpour of rain.
"Do you hear that?" he asked. "Now, suppose I had let you go when Icaught you trying to run away, how would you feel, alone out of doors,in the darkness and storm, no shelter, no home, no friends, no father totake care of you, and provide for your wants?"
"O papa! it would be very, very dreadful!" she sobbed, putting her armround
his neck as he bent over her. "I'm very glad you brought me back,even to punish me so severely; and I don't think I'll ever want to runaway again."
"I trust not," he said, kissing her good-night; "and you must not leavethis room till I give you permission. I intend that you shall spend somedays in solitude,--except when I see fit to come to you,--that you mayhave plenty of time and opportunity to think over your sinful conductand its dire consequences."
Elsie's Kith and Kin Page 12
