Part 11

Maggie and Bessie stood waiting behind the house-keeper’s stout figure, till she had, as Maggie afterwards said, “finished up her scoldings,” when Bessie said rather timidly:--

“Mrs. Housekeeper?”

“Well, what’s wanted now?” asked the woman, turning sharply round; but, when she saw who was speaking to her, her face softened and her manner changed.

Now the worst of all this poor woman’s troubles was the long tedious sickness of her only child, a little girl about Bessie’s age, but not bright and happy, and able to run about and play like our little “princess.” This poor child had been ailing for more than six months, sometimes suffering a great deal, and always very weak; and her mother had not much time to give to her, since she was obliged to attend to her duties about the hotel of which she had charge.

When the child was well enough, she was put into a perambulator and taken out for fresh air; and she had just returned from one of these rides on the day before this, as Maggie and Bessie came in from a drive with the elders of their party. They had been to visit an Indian encampment just outside the city, and returned laden with all manner of pretty trifles purchased for the dear ones at home, and some for themselves.

They had each of them also a handful of flowers given to them by some friend; and, as they passed the sick child lying in her wagon, and turned towards her with a look of sympathy, Bessie saw her eyes fixed longingly on the sweet blossoms she held.

She stopped and turning to Maggie said,--

“I think I’ll give my flowers to that sick child, she looks as if she’d like them,” and then going to the child she put the flowers in her hand, and said, “Here are some flowers for you, and I am sorry you are sick.”

“And here’s a basket for you,” said Maggie, coming forward with her offering too; and she gave a pretty little basket, the work of the Indians, which she had bought for her own use: “you can put Bessie’s flowers in it, and it will look lovely. See, let me fix them for you,” and in two minutes her skilful little fingers had arranged the flowers most tastefully, greatly to the child’s delight.

“And am I to keep the basket?” asked the sick child.

“Oh, yes! for ever and ever if you like,” said Maggie; “and when the flowers are faded you can take them out and put some more in.”

“I don’t often have flowers,” said the child; “but I love them so: only I don’t like to take all yours,” she added, looking at Bessie.

“Oh! she is going to have half mine,” said Maggie; “you needn’t be troubled about that. Good-by now,” and she and Bessie ran after their parents, leaving the sick child brightened and happy.

Her mother had been standing near enough to hear and see all that had passed; and so you will not wonder that now, when she turned and saw Maggie and Bessie, her harsh look and tone became gentle and pleasant.

“Oh! it’s you, you little dears,” she said. “Now, is there ever a thing I can do for you?”

“Yes,” said Bessie. “We are so sorry for Matilda, and we wanted to know if you would let us pay for the pitcher she broke if we have money enough, and try her just once more?”

“I like to please you,” said the woman; “but Matilda is so careless I cannot put up with her.”

“But it really wasn’t her fault this time,” pleaded Bessie; “she says a man ran against her, and knocked it out of her hand when she was carrying it so carefully.”

“And we’ll pay for it if we have enough,” said Maggie.

“And her mother is sick,” said Bessie; “and you know we ought to be sorry and kind to sick people; and you know, too, we ought to forgive as we want to be forgiven. Couldn’t you do it for the sick mother’s sake? And maybe this will be a good lesson to Matilda.”

“I’ll keep her for your sake, and strive to be more patient with her too,” said the house-keeper; “and I think you’ll never lack for comfort and kindness when you’re sick yourselves: at least, not if the Lord repays what’s done for Him, as the good book says He does.”

“And how much must we pay for the pitcher?” asked Bessie.

“Not a penny. I don’t know as Matilda was to blame this time, and I didn’t listen to her story as I should, I own; but I’ve been so put about this morning. You go your ways, you little dears; and Matilda shall stay for your good word.”

Now the children did not know it, but probably the good word of the two little strangers would have gone but little way with the angry house-keeper, had it not been for the kindness done to her sick child the day before; but so it was, and so the one good thing sprang from the other.

They left Montreal the next morning, and then came two long days of railway travelling, ending in Boston. Here they stayed only a few hours, and then started afresh about six o’clock in the evening, bound “for Narragansett Bay,” papa said, when he was asked where they were now going. Bessie was so thoroughly tired that she was soon glad to nestle her head against her father and go to sleep: a very comfortable sleep it was too, from which she did not wake even when she was carried from the cars to a carriage, and from the carriage into a certain house. Maggie, too, after refusing similar accommodation from Uncle Ruthven, and holding herself very upright, and stretching her eyes very wide open, at last gave in, and accepted the repeated offer of his arm as a pillow.

But they both roused up at last when they were brought into that house. Where were they now? and whose voices were those, so familiar and so dear, but not heard for many weeks?

Maggie opened her eyes with a start, wide-awake on the instant, and, immediately understanding all, gave a shriek of delight, sprang off the sofa where Uncle Ruthven had placed her, and was fast about Mrs. Rush’s neck, exclaiming,--

“It’s Newport! it is Newport! and this is Aunt May’s house, and papa has surprised us. Oh! lovely, lovely! Bessie! Bessie! wake up, and hear the good news.”

Bessie slowly opened her eyes at the call, not yet understanding; but as she saw the face that was bending over her, and knew that here was her “own dear solger,” whom she had so longed to see, she gave a long sigh of intense satisfaction, and, after her usual manner when her heart was full of love and tenderness, let two words speak for her,--

“Uncle Horace.”

There was no surprise in the tone, only unspeakable pleasure and affection; and she laid her head against his shoulder with an expression of utter content.

“This is the very best thing in all our travels,” said Maggie. “Where is May Bessie, Aunt May?”

“Fast asleep in her cradle, and I can’t let you peep at her to-night,” said Mrs. Rush. “We’ll keep that for the morning.”

Mamma said all other pleasures must be kept for the morning, save that of following May Bessie’s example; and Bessie, who could scarcely keep her eyes open, even for the purpose of looking at her beloved Colonel Rush, was quite ready to obey; but Maggie thought she had had sleep enough for one night, and would like at once to make acquaintance with all her new surroundings.

“But we are all going to rest, for it is nearly midnight,” said the colonel; which caused Maggie to change her mind, as she had no fancy for staying up alone; and she was now eager to go to sleep at once, so that “morning might come before she knew it,” and she went off saying,--

“I never saw children who had such heaps and heaps of happiness as we do. I don’t know how I’m ever going to make up enough gratitude for it.”

Perhaps her gratitude to the kind hand which showered so much happiness upon her was best shown in the sunny spirit with which she took both trials and blessings, and in her readiness to share the latter with all whom she met.

XII.

“_HAPPY DELIGHTS._”

“Woof! woof! woof! woof!”

Was it possible Flossie knew who was in that pretty room where Maggie and Bessie had been snugly tucked away last night? Certain it is that these sounds, accompanied by a violent scratching at the door, as if he were in a great hurry to have it opened, awakened our little sisters in the morning.

“Why!” said Maggie, in great surprise, “if that don’t sound like--why, Janie!” as her eyes fell upon the smiling face of Jane, looking at her over the foot-board of her bed.

“Why, Janie!” repeated Bessie in her turn. “Who is barking?” she added, as a fresh burst of scratching, and “woof, woof”-ing, came from the door.

“Shall I open it and see?” asked Jane; and she opened the door, when in rushed Flossie, who, jumping on the bed, went into an ecstasy of delight and welcome that fell little short of speaking. He wriggled and twisted and barked, and nearly wagged his tail off, and behaved altogether as if he were half frantic. His little mistresses almost smothered him; but he did not object, and put his cold nose in their faces, and wagged and wriggled harder than ever. Never was such a delighted little dog.

Before the children had time to ask any questions, Frankie came running in, exclaiming,--

“Hi! Maddie and Bessie. Flossie and me and Janie found you. All the peoples is downstairs to brekwis.”

Maggie was dismayed. All the people down to breakfast! and she had meant to be awake with the first streak of daylight. Frankie had to be squeezed and kissed of course; and then Jane and nurse were begged to wash and dress them as fast as possible.

“Why, what’s that noise?” asked Bessie while nurse was busy with her. “It sounds just like the sea.”

“The wind is high this morning,” said nurse, who had had her orders.

“How much it sounds like my dear sea,” said Bessie, unsuspectingly, as she glanced up at the window and saw the branches of the trees waving about in what was, as Mammy said, rather a high wind. “Can’t we have the window open, so we could hear it plainer? I could most think it was the sea.”

“It’s cool this morning. Wait for open windows till you’re dressed and downstairs,” said nurse.

Bessie said no more; but she kept turning her head and listening to the sound, which seemed to her to be distinct from that of the wind, and which sounded so very much like her beloved sea.

Meanwhile, Maggie was quite taken up with asking questions; hearing how grandmamma, Aunt Annie, the boys, Jane, and Flossie, had come to Newport by last night’s boat, reaching there early in the morning, before she had been roused from that ridiculously long sleep. Nothing less than having the whole family beneath their hospitable roof, would satisfy Colonel and Mrs. Rush; and they had contrived to carry their point.

Maggie’s “heaps of happiness” were rising higher and higher. When they were ready, Jane took them downstairs; but she led them by a back corridor, and seemed to take pains to keep them away from windows and doors which opened upon the outside of the house. Certainly she and nurse acted in a rather strange and “mysterious” manner that morning. But at last she had them safely at the door of the breakfast room, where she left them.

The whole party were still seated round the table, though the meal was about over when they entered; and they were going from one to another, offering kisses, smiles, and welcomes, when Bessie’s eyes fell through the open sash of a large bow-window, drawn there by that same sound she had heard upstairs.

For an instant she stood speechless with astonishment and delight; then, stretching out her hands towards the window, with her whole face lighting up, she cried,--

“It is, it is, it is the very, very sea! my own true sea!”

Yes: there it was, the “true sea,” as she called it, or more properly the seashore she loved so much. Her friends watched her for a moment with smiling interest. They had expected to see her so pleased; and, wishing to be present when she first beheld it, Mrs. Rush had so arranged that she and Maggie should be on the other side of the house on the first morning, and nurse and Jane had been told to keep them as much as possible from the sight and sound of the sea.

The Colonel rose, and, taking her hand, led her out upon the broad piazza, where she might see the whole extent of land and water which the magnificent view afforded.

The house stood on very high ground, overlooking a cliff in front, which fell sheer down to the water. To the left, was a broad, sweeping curve of beach, on which the waves were breaking; the long white rollers, with their curling tops, following one another in grand procession, and making beautiful and solemn music as their march was ended. Away to the right lay a wilder, but hardly a grander, scene. Here were great, rugged rocks, among and over which dashed and foamed the waves, whose course they barred. Some were hidden beneath the surface of the water, and the feathery foam which boiled and bubbled over their jagged faces, alone told where they lay. Beyond, and far away, stretched the boundless ocean, the sea Bessie so loved; the white crests of its waves flashing and sparkling in the glorious sunshine of that bright morning; the blue and cloudless sky, overhead. And the hymn which the grand old king was sounding in Bessie’s ear, was still that she had so loved two summers ago, the chant of praise which bids all who can hear, “remember our Father who made it.”

She stood holding the Colonel’s hand, gazing and listening, as though eye and ear could not take their fill; breakfast was unheeded, and it was not till grandmamma reproachfully asked if she was to be forgotten for the sea, that Bessie could be persuaded to turn away.

Maggie, too, was delighted to be once more at the seashore; but she had not the longing for it that Bessie had, and all places were about equally pleasant to her, provided she had those she loved with her.

But now May Bessie was brought, and even the sea was for the time forgotten in the pleasure of seeing her and noticing how much she had grown and improved. When a little life is counted by months, two of these make a great difference, and it was as long as that since Maggie and Bessie had seen Mrs. Rush’s baby. She was a sweet, bright, little thing; and it might have been thought that she had seen the children every day, so speedily did she make friends with them. Indeed, Bessie was sure the baby recognized them, and intended to show she was glad to see them; and no one cared to disturb this belief, in which she took great satisfaction. It was funny to see the patronizing airs which little Annie put on towards the younger baby, and the care which she showed for her. She called her “Dolly,” and seemed to think it hard and strange that she was not allowed to pull and carry her about as she would have done a real doll. Aunt Patty, who had taken a great fancy to Mrs. Rush, had made several toys and pretty things for her baby’s use, and among them was a worsted doll, in all respects like the lost Peter Bartholomew.

May Bessie had not the same objections to this gentleman that little Annie had to hers, but opened great eyes, and cooed and crowed at him; and altogether showed more pleasure in him than in any other plaything she possessed. Not so Annie, when he was introduced to her.

“See here, baby. Who is this?” said Mrs. Bradford, wishing to see if she would recognize it, and she held up the doll before the eyes of her by no means gratified baby daughter.

The pet drew up her rose-bud of a mouth into the most comical expression of astonishment and disgust at the sight of the old object of her dislike; for, as was quite natural, she took it to be the very same Peter Bartholomew. Then, taking him from her mother’s hand, she gravely marched with him to the hearth-rug, and, tucking him beneath it, sat down upon it, saying, “Tit on Peter,” in a tone of triumph, as though she thought she had now altogether extinguished the unlucky offender. Great was her indignation when, later in the day, she was brought in from her drive, and found Peter Bartholomew No. 2 had reappeared. Finding the hearth-rug was not a safe hiding-place, she was from this time constantly contriving ways and means for putting him out of sight; but only to find that he as constantly turned up again. In vain did she throw him out of windows, and behind doors; poke him through the banisters, and let him fall in the hall below: tuck him behind sofa-cushions, and squeeze him into the smallest possible corners, with all manner of things piled on top of him: he still proved a source of trouble to her. The other children found great amusement in this, and in pretending to hunt for Peter, while they knew very well where he was.

But on the third day they really hunted in vain. Peter Bartholomew the second seemed to be as thoroughly “all don,” as his namesake who had been left on the far-away Southern railroad; and the nurses joined in the search with no better success. Annie seemed to have accomplished her object this time; and the little one herself could not be persuaded to say where she had put him. Her mother tried to make her tell; but the child seemed really to have forgotten, and the matter was allowed to rest.

However, Peter came to light at last, to light very nearly in earnest. In Mrs. Rush’s nursery was a large, open fireplace, where wood was always laid ready for lighting when a fire should be needed for the baby. One cool morning, about a week after Peter’s disappearance, May Bessie’s nurse lit the fire, when Annie, who sat upon Mammy’s knee, suddenly exclaimed, as the smoke began to curl up the chimney,--

“Oh, dear, dear! Peter ’moke.”

“You monkey,” said nurse, “I believe you’ve put him behind the wood;” and the two nurses hastened to scatter the fire, when, sure enough, Peter Bartholomew was drawn forth, slightly scorched and smelling somewhat of “’moke,” but otherwise unhurt. Annie took it hard, however, and was so grieved at his reappearance that Mrs. Rush, who was in the nursery, said he had better be put away while she stayed. Probably the lighting of the fire recalled to baby’s mind where she had put the lost Peter.

But we must go back to the first morning of their stay at Newport. The ladies were all rather tired with their journey and were disposed to rest; but the children, refreshed by a good night’s sleep, were quite ready to start out with the gentlemen for a ramble on the beach.

“Do you like this as well as Quam Beach?” asked the Colonel of Bessie, as she sat beside him on a rock, with his arm drawn close about her, as in the old days of two summers since: those days when she had come, a little Heaven-sent messenger, across his path, to guide his wandering feet into the road which leads to Eternal Life. Was it any wonder that, thinking of this, he looked down with a very tender love on the dear little one, over whose work the angels of Heaven had rejoiced?

They had both sat silent for some time, the rest of the party having wandered to a short distance, when the Colonel asked this question,--

“Do you like this as well as Quam Beach, Bessie?”

“Oh, yes, sir! better,” said Bessie. “I never _did_ see such a lovely, lovely place as this, or feel such nice air. It’s the best place we went to in all our travels; and then we have you and most all the people we love here. I am so very contented.”

She looked so indeed, as she sat smiling and happy, looking out over the sapphire blue waters, and watching the white-capped waves which broke almost at her feet.

“Yes,” said the Colonel, smiling. “I thought it would add to your contentment to have all your people here to meet you, if I could bring it about.”

“Yes,” said Maggie, who came dancing up in time to hear these last words. “It was so very considerate of you and Aunt May. Oh! this is the very happiest world I ever lived in. I wish, I _wish_, I could live a thousand years in it.”

“But Maggie,” said Bessie, “then you’d be so very long away from heaven.”

“Well, yes,” said Maggie; “but then I’d hope to go to heaven after the thousand years, and I’d try to be very good all the time.”

“But long before the thousand years were past, all whom you love would have gone away to that still happier home our Lord has prepared for us,” said the Colonel, “and then you would be lonely and wish to follow, would you not, Maggie?”

“Yes,” answered Maggie, a shade of thoughtfulness coming over her sunny face. “I’m sure I would if all my dear friends went to heaven, and maybe some of them wouldn’t want to live a thousand years.”

“And it’s so hard always to be good,” said Bessie, “and sometimes even _we_ have troubles, and are sick, even though we are so happy ’most all the time.”

“Yes,” said Maggie, “so we do. I’m not sick much ’cept when I have the earache: but maybe I’d be lame and deaf and blind and hump-backed, and all kind of things, before I was a thousand years old; and that would be horrid. I wouldn’t like to have a great many troubles either; so I guess it’s better it is fixed for me just as God chooses.”

“We may be sure of that, dear,” said the Colonel. “God knows what is best for us, and rules our lives for our good and His glory.”

“I’m not sure I mind so very much about the being naughty now and then,” said Maggie. “I know I ought to, but I’m afraid I don’t. I s’pose when I have so much to make me happy I ought to be full of remorse all the time for ever being naughty, but somehow I can’t be. And I do have afflictions sometimes. Oh!” she added, as the thought of her last severe trouble came over her, “we forgot to give Uncle Horace the things we prepared for him. You see, Uncle Horace, one day I found such a very nice proverb, ‘though lost to sight to memory dear;’ and Bessie and I thought we would like to practise it on you; so I finished up that poem I began, and Bessie drew a picture for you, and here is the poem,” and Maggie drew from her pocket the poem, nicely finished and copied out.

“Thank you very much, dear,” said the Colonel. “I am very much pleased; but I thought that the poem was lost, or that you had been robbed of it.”

“Papa got it back for me,” said Maggie.

“Yes,” said Bessie; “and I was with papa when he asked Mr. Temple for it; and I was sorry for Mr. Temple, even though he did tease you so, Maggie.”

“Why, papa didn’t scold him, did he?” asked Maggie.

“No,” answered Bessie; “he only said, ‘Mr. Temple, may I trouble you for that paper belonging to my little girl;’ but he _mannered_ him, and I wouldn’t like papa to have such a manner to me, and Mr. Temple looked ashamed. He is a very unpleasant gentleman; but I was sorry for him.”

“But where is the picture?” asked Colonel Rush.

“Here,” said Bessie, and in her turn she produced a paper from her pocket and unfolded it before the Colonel’s eyes. “It is Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden,” she went on to say: “here they are, and there is the tree with the serpent on it, and there is another with birds and squir’ls on it. The squir’ls are eating nuts, and the birds are pecking peaches, and they are having a nice time.”

“This is very interesting,” said the Colonel, not thinking it necessary to tell her that peaches and nuts did not usually grow on the same tree; “and what is this in the corner, Bessie?”

“That is the bower they made for a home to live in,” said Bessie; “and there is Adam’s wheelbarrow and Eve’s watering-pot. I s’pose she helped Adam take care of the garden: don’t you, sir?”

“And this?” asked the Colonel, pointing to another object which he had vainly been endeavoring to make out. “It is a pigeon house, I think.”

“Oh, no, sir!” said Bessie, rather mortified. “It is a flag, the flag of England. I was going to put the ’merican flag: but I thought it would be more a compliment to you to put your own country’s; and so I did. There’s the lion;” and she pointed out something which looked rather more like a spider than a lion; feeling the while, poor little soul, rather hurt that her compliment had not been appreciated without explanation.