Part 8

"Don't you go for to fret yo' po' heart out, blessed chile," Chloe said, taking her nursling in her kind arms. "Yo' ole mammy lubs you like her life; so does yo' pa too; an' maybe he's gwine come in hyah 'bout de time you's ready fo' bed, to kiss an' make up ef you promises neber to do so no mo' as you been an' gone an' done dis hyah mornin'."

"Oh no, never, never!" Elsie sobbed, hiding her face for a moment on Aunt Chloe's shoulder. "I don't know how I ever dared to do it! I deserve to be punished very severely; no wonder papa is so displeased with me."

She was soon in bed, but did not, as usual with her, fall asleep at once; she lay for a good while listening to every sound, hoping even against hope that her father would relent and come to give her his forgiveness and a loving kiss ere she slept; but he did not, and at length she cried herself to sleep. It was the same thing over again in the morning; she hoped he would come to her to inquire of her penitence and good resolutions for the future, or send for her to go to him; but she waited and wished in vain, breakfasted in her own rooms--still too distrustful of her power of self-control to venture to join her parents in the breakfast-room--then prepared her task for the day; yet could not find courage to carry them to her father that he might hear her recitations.

She was glad the weather continued such as to keep visitors away; she hoped none would come till this trouble of hers was over; for how could she bear to have any one out of the family--even good, kind Mr. Travilla--know that she had so displeased her father? And while his displeasure lasted, how impossible it would be for any guest to fail to perceive it.

She tried one employment after an other--needlework, reading, music--but found no interest in any of them, and every now and then she would give way to a fit of violent weeping.

"Oh," she said to herself, "how long is it to last? Papa did not say, and I don't know when he will think I have been punished enough."

So the day wore wearily away, and night came again without any change for the better.

Sadly mourning over her estrangement from her father, and longing inexpressibly for his forgiveness and loving favor, a thought struck her.

"Ah, yes," she said half aloud, "I will write to papa the confession and plea for pardon he would not let me speak."

Opening her writing-desk, she selected a sheet of paper, took up her pen and dipped it in the ink; but, alas, how should she begin her note? By what title address the father who had forbidden her to call him that? How impossible to call him anything else! How disrespectful, how impertinent to omit a title altogether!

She laid down her pen, pushed the paper aside, and covering her face with her hands, wept long and bitterly, Chloe watching her with tear-dimmed eyes.

"Precious chile," she said at length, "what kin yo' ole mammy do fo' her pet?"

"Nothing, mammy, unless you could persuade my father to forgive and love me again."

"Po' dear, he'll do dat befo' long; I'se pow'ful sure ob dat. Massa so fond ob you he kaint hole out much longer hisself. Was you gwine write sumfin' to massa, honey?"

"Yes, but I can't, because he forbade me to call him father or papa, and--and oh, I don't know how to call him anything else. Oh, mammy, I don't believe I can sleep at all to-night without his forgiveness!"

"Den 'spose my chile go an' ax massa fo' it."

"No, I dare not, because he forbade me to take any greater liberty with him than a stranger guest might, or to come into his presence till I could be calm; and I know I could not yet."

"Den yo' ole mammy gwine fo' you; an' dis am de bes' time, kase I s'pect massa by hisself in de parlor," she said, rising and leaving the room.

As she had expected, she found Mr. Dinsmore alone in the parlor. Dropping a courtesy, she stood before him with folded hands, waiting in respectful silence for an invitation to speak.

"Well, Aunt Chloe, what is it?" he asked.

"Massa, my chile frettin' herself sick."

"She must not do that," he said, with a touch of sternness in his tone.

"Please, sah, s'pose my chile kaint help it?"

"She must help it. Tell her I say so."

"Oh, massa, ain't you gwine forgib my chile? She am mighty sorry she been an' gone an' done such t'ing; she ain't neber gwine do de like ob dat no mo'."

"I trust not," he said; "I shall have to be very severe with her if she does. No, I am not ready to forgive her yet. Such conduct as she has been guilty of cannot be passed over with a trifling punishment. She must be made to realize that her offence is a very serious one."

A wave of his hand with the last word gave Chloe to understand that the interview was at an end.

Elsie's heart beat high betwixt hope and fear as she sat waiting and listening for Chloe's returning footsteps, and for her father's, which might perhaps accompany or precede them.

"Oh, mammy, what did he say? will he forgive me? may I go to him now and call him papa?" she asked, half-breathlessly and with an eager, longing look, as her nurse came in. Then reading the answer in Chloe's sad and troubled countenance, she dropped her face into her hands and sobbed aloud.

"Don't, chile; don't, honey darlin'; I'se sho it all come right befo' long," Chloe said tenderly, laying her hand caressingly on the drooping head. "But massa he say you mus' stop dis frettin' an' cryin'. I tole him s'pose you couldn't, but he say bery sternly, 'She must.' Kin you do it, darlin'?"

"I'll try; I must obey my father," she sighed, and lifting her head, wiped away her tears, and by a strong and determined effort stopped their flow and suppressed her sobs.

It was now time for her preparations for bed. She went through them in silence, tears now and again gathering in her eyes, but none suffered to fall.

"Papa must be obeyed," she kept repeating to herself.

She maintained her self-control for some time after laying her head upon her pillow, but sleep did not visit it, and as she lay there turning restlessly from side to side, mental distress again so overcame her that ere she was aware of it she was wetting her pillow with floods of tears and sobbing aloud.

It was now Mr. Dinsmore's own hour for retiring, and he was in his room, the door of communication with his little daughter's bedroom open as usual, so that the sound of her weeping came very distinctly to his ear.

The next moment Elsie felt herself lifted from the bed and set upon her feet; then her hand was taken in a close clasp and she led into the adjoining room, her own dressing-room.

Here the moon shone brightly in at a window, in front of which stood an easy-chair. Toward that her father led her, and seating himself therein was about to draw her to his knee; but she fell at his feet sobbing, "Pa--oh, I can't help forgetting and calling you that, or crying because you are angry with me; but I don't want to be disobedient, and I'm so, so sorry for all my naughtiness. Please, please forgive me; please let me call you father, or my heart will break!"

"You may. I remove the prohibition," he said, in a moved tone, lifting her up and drawing her to his breast; "and if you are indeed very penitent on account of your very bad behavior yesterday, and promise never to do such a thing again, I will forgive and receive you back into favor."

"Dear father, thank you," she sobbed, clinging about his neck. "I think I was never so sorry in all my life, and I am quite resolved never, never to do such a thing again; I am astonished at myself to think I ever dared to do it."

"So am I," he said; "and I am afraid you are hardly yet fully sensible of the enormity of your offence. I want you to reflect that in that act you were not only guilty of high-handed rebellion yourself, but were encouraging and upholding your brother in the same. Do you wonder that I have felt it my painful duty to punish you with some severity?"

"No, papa," she answered humbly, "I feel that I have deserved it all, and a great deal more. I wonder you didn't whip me too then and there, that Horace might see how very naughty you considered my interference, and that I must obey just the same as he."

"I probably should have done just that had you been a little younger," he said, "and I am not altogether sure that I ought to have suffered you to escape as it was. You may be very sure," he added gravely and with some sternness of tone, "that you will not, if the offence is ever repeated."

"Oh, it shall not be, papa, it never, never shall!" she exclaimed, holding up her face for a kiss, which he gave very heartily.

"To make sure of that, if you see such a conflict beginning (though I trust there will be no more of them), leave the room at once," he said.

They were silent for a moment, she with her head laid on his breast, her arm about his neck, while he held her close, softly smoothing the curls back from her brow with the free hand, and gazing down tenderly into the little pale face with its tear-swollen eyes.

"My poor darling, you have had a sad time of it," he remarked presently. "You have been crying a great deal, I see."

At that her face flushed painfully, and her lip quivered. "Please, papa, don't be angry," she said in tremulous tones. "I tried to stop as soon as you sent me word that I must. I didn't shed any more tears till after I got into bed; but then I was so, so hungry for my good-night kiss that they would come in spite of all I could do."

"Don't be afraid," he said; "I have forgiven all your offences, and this is the seal," kissing her fondly several times.

"Dear papa, thank you. Oh, how dearly I do love you! how sweet your caresses are to me!" she exclaimed. Then after a moment's silence, "Are mamma and Horace quite well, papa?" she asked.

"Yes; both would have been in to see you if their plans had met my approval. Horace was much concerned when I explained to him that because his sister was so very naughty as to try to take him away from me when I was punishing him for being stubborn and disobedient, she had to be punished too; and for that reason he could not see her."

"I am very much ashamed of having set him so bad an example, papa," she said with a sob, and blushing deeply.

"It was to neutralize that example, not to mortify you, that I deemed it necessary to tell him. Now, my love, my darling, it is high time you were in bed and asleep," he added, repeating his caresses; then setting her on her feet again, he led her back to her bed, laid her in it, and with a fatherly blessing and a kiss on lip and cheek and forehead, left her to her slumbers.

At first she seemed too full of joy and thankfulness to close an eye; yet ere she was aware of it the happy waking thoughts had merged themselves in blissful dreams.

Chapter Eleventh.

CROSSING THE PLAINS.

News was several times received from Rupert and Don during their slow and toilsome journey across the States of Illinois and Missouri, but when the last frontier town was left behind and with it such luxuries of civilization as mails and post-offices, the door of communication was closed: they could neither hear from home nor be heard from there till the trackless wilderness should be crossed and the land of golden promise reached.

The Keiths had an ox-team and wagon for the transportation of their baggage--clothing, camp equipage, mining tools, and some luxuries, among which were a few books. Also a saddle-horse, which they rode by turns; though Rupert oftener than Don, who had more strength for driving and more taste for it.

This emigrant band, of which they formed a part, comprised some twenty men, several with wives and children; a dozen wagons drawn by oxen, and two or three horses beside that which was the joint property of Rupert and Don.

Rupert's health had steadily improved from the time of leaving home, so that the bulletins to the dear ones there had been sources of great joy, though joy mingled with grief at the thought of the months or perhaps years that must pass by ere they could hope to see the loved wanderers again.

Rupert, who was of a very kindly disposition, always on the lookout for opportunities to be of service to others, had already become a general favorite with his fellow-travellers.

Was a little child crying with the weariness of confinement to the cramped quarters of the wagon, he would take it on his horse before him, and give it the rest of a brisk canter in the open air and with an unobstructed view on all sides.

Older ones were frequently taken up behind him; at other times he dismounted, and joining them as they plodded along beside or in the rear of the wagons, beguiled the tediousness of the way with story or song.

So slow was the movement of the oxen, so wearisome the constant sitting or lying in the jolting wagons, that a robust child would very often prefer walking during the greater part of the day; and even little girls were known to have walked hundreds of miles in making the trip across the plains.

But it was necessary to keep near the wagons because of danger from wild beasts and roving bands of Indians.

Rupert, and indeed every man in the party, was always armed ready to repel an attack or to bring down game that came within shooting distance, thus adding a welcome variety to their bill of fare. There were wild geese and turkeys, prairie fowl, rabbits, squirrels, deer, bisons, and bears, all to be had for the shooting.

After leaving Independence they camped out every night, building a fire to cook their evening meal and keep off wild beasts, except when there was reason to fear that Indians were in the neighborhood; then the fire was not kindled, as the smoke would be likely to reveal their vicinity to the lurking foe; but instead, sentinels were posted, who kept vigilant watch while the others slept.

Occasionally in the day-time, when no game had come near, two or three of the men would mount their horses and gallop away over the prairie in search of it, finding it no very difficult task to overtake the slow-moving wagon-train, even after a ride of several miles, and an absence, it might be, of an hour or more.

One afternoon, when they had been many weeks passing through that great wilderness, so that they were now much nearer California than the homes they had left behind, they were crossing a seemingly boundless rolling prairie.

Their provisions were getting low, and fowls and larger game alike had kept out of shooting range all day.

"It's five o'clock," Rupert Keith said, looking at his watch and addressing a man named Morton, who was riding by his side, "and will soon be too late for a shot at anything. Suppose we dash off over those hills yonder and see if we can't scare up something."

"Agreed," replied Morton. Then called to another horseman, "Halloo, Smith! will you join Keith and me in a run over those hills in search of game?"

"That I will!" was the rejoinder, and away they galloped, and were in a few moments lost to the view of the rest of their party, who continued moving onward in their accustomed leisurely fashion.

An hour or more had passed; the prairie still stretched away on every side; the distant hills to the southward, beyond which the horsemen had gone, were still in view, and the eyes of almost every one in the train were turned ever and anon in that direction, hoping for their return well-laden with venison or wild fowl.

At length a shout was raised, "Here they come!" but was followed instantly by the affrighted cry, "Indians! Indians!" for a party of the latter were in full chase.

Don was walking beside his team, two little girls quite near him. He caught them up and almost threw them into his wagon, telling them to lie down and keep quiet and still; then turned and pulled out a revolver.

Others had acted with equal quickness, and were ready--some from their wagons, some from the ground--to fire upon the advancing foe.

There was a brief, sharp fight; the Indians were driven off, carrying their killed and wounded with them.

Then it was found that Rupert was missing, Smith badly wounded, one or two others slightly, while Don lay insensible and bleeding on the ground near his wagon.

They at first thought him dead, but he had only fainted from loss of blood, and they presently succeeded in bringing him to.

"Rupert? my brother--where is he?" he asked in the first moment of consciousness.

"Those red devils have done for him, Don," Morton answered, with a tremble in his voice; "the shot that tumbled him from his horse was the first intimation we had that they were upon us."

Don groaned and hid his face.

"Don't take it so hard," said a pitying woman's voice; "he's gone to a better place; we all know that; nobody could be with him a day and not see that he was a real Christian."

"That's so." "True enough, Mrs. Stone." "I only wish we were all as ready for heaven," responded one and another.

Then Morton suggested that they ought to be moving on; the Indians might return in larger force; it would not do to encamp where they were, and night was coming on.

To this there was a general assent. Don was carefully and tenderly lifted into his wagon and gently laid down upon the softest bed that could be improvised for him; then a volunteer driver from among the young men of the party took his seat and drove on, doing his best to make the motion easy to the sufferer. They were the last of the train, but not far behind the wagon next in front of them.

In spite of all the care and kindness shown him, Don's bodily sufferings were acute, yet by no means equal to his mental distress; his sense of bereavement--a bereavement so sudden, so shocking--and anguish at the thought of the poignant grief of his parents when the dreadful news should reach their ears.

The emigrants pushed on for several hours before they ventured to stop and encamp. When at last they did, the cessation of motion gave some slight relief to poor Don, and the food brought him by the kind-hearted woman who had tried to comfort him with the assurance of his brother's readiness for death, revived somewhat his failing strength; but it was a night of pain and grief, in which Don would have given much to be at home again, especially if he might have had Rupert there alive and well.

The night passed quietly; there was no new alarm, and early in the morning the emigrants pursued their way, pressing forward as rapidly as circumstances would permit, and keeping a sharp lookout for Indians.

Before they started--indeed, as soon as he was awake, Morton came to ask how Don was, and how he had passed the night.

Don answered briefly, then burst out, "Oh, Morton, are you quite sure that--that my brother was killed? May he not have been only stunned by the shot and the fall from his horse?"

Morton shook his head. "No, I looked back several times, and he never moved."

"Oh," groaned Don, "if only I were not helpless, I should go and search for him, for I do not feel at all sure that he is not still alive."

"Well, I think you may," said Morton; "for even supposing he was not killed by that first shot and the fall, the Indians would be sure to finish him when they went back, for they went off in that direction."

Don turned away his face with a heavy sob. It did indeed seem almost impossible that Rupert could have escaped death, and yet--and yet--oh, if he were but able to go in search of him! Perhaps he was a captive doomed to death by slow torture. Oh, to fly to his aid! rescue or perish with him!

But no one else in all the company thought there was the least chance that he was alive, and to go in quest of him would not only greatly delay them (a great misfortune, considering the fact that their stock of provisions was so low), but would risk all their lives, as the Indians were probably still prowling about that spot, and might attack them in great force.

The poor boy's only comfort was, that wherever and in whatever circumstances his brother might be, he was under the care of an almighty Friend, who would never leave nor forsake him, and in being able to plead for him with that Friend.

The rest of the journey was of course a very sad one to poor Don, though every one was kind to him, doing all that was possible for his relief and comfort, partly for Rupert's sake, partly for Don's own, for he too had ever shown a pleasant, obliging, kindly disposition toward others.

His wounds had nearly healed, and he had recovered almost his usual strength by the time their destination was reached.

Arrived there, he wrote at once to his parents, telling of Rupert's loss, his own condition, and asking if they were willing that, being now upon the ground, he should stay for a time and look for gold.

But as months must elapse ere he could hope to receive an answer, he set to work determined to do his best in the mean time.

He did not find the life a whit less toilsome and trying than his parents had warned him it would be, nor were his surroundings any more agreeable; the roughest of men, drinking, smoking, swearing, quarrelsome creatures, were often his daily companions; the foulest language assailed his ears; gambling and drunken brawls went on in his presence; robberies, murders, and lynchings were of frequent occurrence; the Sabbath was openly desecrated; men--even those who had been all their previous lives accustomed to the restraints of religion--here acted as if they had never heard of God, or heaven, or hell.

And there were few creature comforts to be had; all the necessaries of life were sold at astonishingly high prices, so that gold, even when found, could not be kept, but melted away like snow in the sun.

It was not long before Don's thoughts were turned yearningly toward the home he had been so eager to forsake.

He was tolerably fortunate in his quest: but alas! all the gold in the world could not compensate for the loss of all the sweetness and beauty of life; all the happiness to be found in a well-regulated home, where love to God and man was the ruling principle of action; where were neatness and order, gentleness and refinement; where sweet-toned voices spoke kindly affectionate words; affectionate smiles were wont to greet his coming, and loved eyes to look lovingly into his.

Chapter Twelfth.

"There is that speaketh like the piercings of a sword."--Prov. 12:18.

Many months had passed, bringing no news from their Westward-bound sons, and, in spite of their trust in God, Mr. and Mrs. Keith were often not a little anxious.

Miss Stanhope had returned to her home in the fall after the boys' departure. Her pleasant, cheery companionship was much missed, and but for Mildred and Zillah being so near, the mother would have seen many a lonely hour, though she found agreeable occupation for a part of each day in teaching Annis, keeping her from school, and constituting herself her governess.

This took up the morning hours, while the married daughters were engaged with household cares and duties; then the afternoons, if the weather permitted any of them to go from home, were usually spent together at one or another of the three houses, the ladies busy with their needles, the children playing about the room.

Both Mildred's and Zillah's cares were increasing, for each had now a little daughter; so that there were four little ones to claim the love of the grandparents and help to win their thoughts from the anxious following of the absent sons; in that way they were proving great comforts as well as cares.

So the winter slipped quietly away without any startling event to mark its progress.

But in March Mrs. Keith had an attack of pneumonia, which greatly alarmed the family and kept her in bed for a fortnight. She was about again, but still feeble, and, in consequence of her weakness of body, more than ever anxious and distressed about Rupert and Don, from whom no news had yet been received since the letter written from Independence so many, many months ago.