CHAPTER XIII.

DELIA SLEEPER’S SHIP COMES IN.

Becky received the warm thanks and congratulations of the happy mother and son with a grateful heart. She had been enabled to repay, in some part, the love and care they had bestowed upon her. She had conquered the stubborn father, and lifted the cross from the shoulders of the patient wife. But she felt that she had been but an instrument shaped by their hands for the work, and to them she unselfishly gave the credit of her triumph. Not all, however; one other, who had been her counsellor and guide; one to whom all her thoughts and actions had been confessed; one who, with almost supernatural wisdom had taught her wayward feet to tread the path of duty; who out of her own needs, had sought peace in the boundless love of a heavenly Father, and had brought her child into the same tender embrace,--the stricken mother, who for two long years, helpless upon her bed, had borne all so meekly and patiently; to her the grateful daughter gave a generous share of the glory which surrounded this unexpected reconciliation.

That night mother and daughter shared the same couch. Aunt Hulda, who had a great antipathy to strange beds, banished herself from her accustomed pillow without a word of complaint, glad to make the child, who had wound herself about the queer spinster as no other had ever been able to, happy at any cost. Alone with her mother, Becky’s tongue flew fast and furious with the recital of her wanderings and workings, until the weariness of the long, strange day overpowered her nimble organ of speech. In the middle of a sentence, she dropped asleep, her mother’s hand fast clasped in hers, all forgotten, even her accustomed prayer unspoken. But it lay there in the warm, beating, affectionate heart, and the mother’s lips bore it to the heavenly throne, joined to her own earnest plea that blessings from the Unseen hand might strew the path of life with much of happiness for her own precious child.

Having eased his unhappy conscience of the heavy load it had borne so long, the conquered captain went home in a dazed sort of amazement at the act which he had committed. He could not regret it, would not have recalled his words had he the power. There was a warming up of his stubborn spirit when he thought of the girl who had so craftily spread for him the net in which he had been captured, but no desire to loose his bonds, and escape. It was all for the best; they would be a happy family after the first meeting. But the first meeting bothered the captain. What could he say to this son who had been shut out from home so many years? It was a serious question, and one he could not readily answer. He went home thinking about it: went to bed, still thinking; and at last fell asleep, to dream of it.

Mrs. Thompson came home, escorted to her door by Harry; said “Good night,” with a happy heart,--it was to be their last parting in this strange manner; was not surprised to find her husband missing when she entered the sitting-room, nor surprised to find him snoring when she entered the sleeping-room, but had a quiet laugh to herself as she thought how ashamed the captain tried to appear of his good actions. She would not disturb him for the world; said nothing to him of the last night’s work, the next morning, as he fidgeted at the breakfast table, and looked everywhere but in her face.

The captain did not leave the house, but gave his whole attention to the preparation of the speech with which he was to meet his long-absent son. On one thing he was determined--he would be a father still. He had been disobeyed; it was for the son to ask pardon. He would be cool, dignified, collected. He watched the bridge road uneasily. At half past eight he saw Becky leave the gate with her school-books in her hands, and after came Harry. He left the window at once. It was coming; it would soon be over. He sat on the sofa, covered his eyes with his hand, and waited. He did not need to look--he felt their coming. Now they were on the bridge; now they had passed the school-house, were crossing the road, were at the door. Yes, a ring! Mrs. Thompson rose from her chair, looked at her husband, with his face hidden, smiled, and passed into the entry. Be a man, captain; be a father, cool, dignified, collected! The door opened; the captain rose to his feet.

“Good morning, captain. Here I am, and here’s Harry.” Becky Sleeper’s voice.

He looked at her smiling face, beyond her to the manly form of his son, advancing with outstretched hand, then grasped that hand, and shook it with nervous energy.

“Harry, my boy, welcome home. I have been a poor father to you. Forgive and try me again!”

He burst into tears, and sobbed like a child. The hard heart was melted, and the cool, collected, dignified plans, on which he had so much depended, were dissipated at the touch of Nature.

Mrs. Thompson quietly drew Becky into the dining-room, and shut the door, leaving father and son to become better acquainted. The conference was so long that Becky slipped out of the side door, fearful of being late to school, after a promise given to Mrs. Thompson that she would come in and take tea with the reunited family. She kept her promise, and had the satisfaction of seeing Harry in his right place, the captain in a jovial fit of good nature, and Mrs. Thompson’s handsome face radiant with the warm glow of a contented heart.

The captain was not quite content with this quiet reconciliation, but must kill the fatted calf in honor of his son’s return; and three days afterwards the good people of Cleverly were surprised by the intelligence that the Thompsons were to give a party.

And such a party! The Thompson mansion was lighted from bottom to top, and along the entire reach of the various outbuildings, the trees were hung with lanterns. A blaze of light outside, a scene of joyous festivity within. Nobody was forgotten. Parson Arnold, in clerical black and white, with his wife in a new silk dress,--the gift of Mrs. Thompson,--benignly circulated among their flock. Mr. Drinkwater was there, crowding Deacon Proctor into a corner, with the discussion of a theological point. Poor Mr. York was there, with a feeble cough, and dilated nostrils eagerly sniffing the air, as the door of the dining-room occasionally opened, while his buxom wife was busily at work with Silly, in the kitchen; and little Jenny York was there, perched on the arm of a sofa, drinking in with rare delight all this flow of mirth, and light, and gay attire, and pleasant conversation. The scholars, dressed in their best, played and romped about the many-roomed mansion to their hearts’ content. And Teddy, the captain’s favorite, dressed in a new suit,--his patron’s gift,--proudly moved among the company, with his sister on his arm. And Becky--light and joyous Becky--was the queen; everywhere she met smiles and kind words of congratulation, for, somehow, her share in the bringing about of this happy night had been noised abroad, and all were anxious to do her honor. A dozen times that night Captain Thompson had clasped her hand.

“It’s all your work, Becky!”

A dozen times the face of Harry Thompson had beamed upon her, “Thanks to you, Becky!” And every look of the happy mother, as she moved among her guests, was a silent prayer of thankfulness to Becky.

It was a gay night for Cleverly; and when the door of the dining-room was thrown open, and the guests assembled about the tables,--whose crooked legs seemed ready to snap under their burdens of good cheer,--a night of feasting such as Cleverly had never before witnessed.

At this stage of the proceedings, Teddy, dazzled by the tempting array of edibles, quite forgot his gallantry, and slipping from Becky’s side, went in pursuit of a far-off frozen pudding. His place was quickly supplied by Harry Thompson.

“Well, pet, enjoying yourself, I hope.”

“Enjoying myself! Why, Harry, I never was so happy in all my life--never!”

“I have a message for you from a dear friend--Alice Parks.”

“Indeed! Have you heard from her lately?”

“Yes, I received a letter from her to-day; and it’s so full of praises of one Becky Sleeper, that I am really jealous.”

Becky made no reply. Somehow, she did not feel quite so happy now. It seemed to her that they were getting along very pleasantly, without having this young lady added to their company. He was jealous, too, of her evident fondness for the little girl she had befriended. He must be very much in love with her, then. She looked up, and met such a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, that she laughed aloud at her own folly.

“O, Harry, you do like to torment me. I hope you won’t plague her so, when you get her.”

“When I get her? O, no, Becky, I shall be a different man, a very different man--when I get her.”

Still the same mischievous look. What could he mean? Was it all settled, then? Was he sure of her? She turned away, sick at heart, disappointed at she knew not what. She only wished she was at home.

“Here, Becky, come with me. I have purloined a big dish of goodies, and hidden it under the sofa in the sitting-room. Come with me; we shall be alone in there.”

It was the voice of the captain; a welcome relief to her embarrassed position. Smilingly she took the arm of her friend, and soon they were comfortably snuggled together on the sofa, and the captain’s teasing offspring forgotten.

“Ah, Becky, there’s lots of young and gay fellows about to-night; but I know you will spare a few moments for the old man,” said the captain, as he produced his “goodies” from beneath the sofa.

“Indeed I will. O, you are so kind to make Harry’s coming home so pleasant to all of us!”

“Yes, chatterbox; and you were kind to give me the opportunity to do it. But tell me, what shall we do with him, now we’ve got him home?”

“Why keep him, of course. You don’t think he’ll run away--do you?”

“I’m afraid he will. He’s talking now of going to Boston to study law. It’s all nonsense. He needn’t do anything but just spend my money.”

“He never would be satisfied with such a life as that. He’d make a splendid lawyer, I know.”

“Yes; but he can study with Squire Barnes, here at home. There’s few lawyers can beat him in an argument. If I could only find some way to keep him here! He’s old enough to marry.”

Becky winced.

“Perhaps he’s thinking of that, and wants to be in Boston, near Alice Parks.”

“Alice Fiddlesticks!” shouted the captain, upsetting his plate. “Don’t talk nonsense, Becky.”

“He had a letter from her to-day,” said Becky, innocently unmindful of the fact that she might be betraying a secret.

“He did--did he?” said the captain, growing red in the face. “I’ll put a stop to that. He shan’t marry that girl; I won’t have it. I’ll just have him in here, and know what he means.”

He jumped to his feet, dropping his plate.

“O, captain, don’t say anything to him to-night,” cried Becky, seizing the captain’s arm, and preventing his leaving the room. “He would hate me if I made trouble between him and you; and I love him so dearly! Don’t captain, don’t. You’ll break my heart.”

The little goose dropped the captain’s arm, and fled to the sofa, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed aloud. The captain stared at her. It was evident to him she did love Harry; and his hatred of Miss Alice Parks grew stronger. But it was no time for a scene; and he sat himself down beside Becky, put his arm around her, and penitently promised to be quiet, and not interfere. He gradually succeeded in bringing Becky into a lighter mood; and as the refreshed company from the dining-room drifted that way, the party on the sofa were hugely enjoying a joke the captain had perpetrated for the benefit of his companion.

In due time the dining-room was cleared of the fragments of the feast, the tables rolled against the walls, and, with Harry as master of ceremonies, a succession of familiar in-door pastimes was inaugurated for the younger members of the company. “Fox and Geese,” “Blind Man’s Buff,” and “Hunt the Slipper,” gave pleasant entertainment to the light-hearted revellers.

Nor did the happy occasion end here. Mr. Clairborn, the chorester, had been running about the room, watching Mr. Arnold with a feverish excitement he found hard to control. At last that worthy individual, to set a good example to his parishioners, tucked his good wife under his arm and departed. Then Mr. Clairborn ran to the sofa and from behind it took a long green bag, of peculiar shape, and from the bag he took--a fiddle, to the amazement of certain staid neighbors, who thought the man crazy. Of these people he took not the least notice, but, with his instrument in full view, marched to the head of the dining-room.

Instantly there was a shout, “A dance! a dance!” A dance in Deacon Thompson’s house! He’d soon put a stop to that. Anxious looks were cast in his direction; but he was busy talking to Mrs. York, and took not the least notice of what was going on about him.

“Hull’s Victory; take your partners!” shouted Mr. Clairborn.

The captain did not move; the company did. There was a moment’s bustle, and then Mr. Clairborn’s bow went dancing across his fiddle, and twenty happy couples danced up and down the dining-room. Then came “Virginia Reel.” “Money Musk,” “Fisher’s Hornpipe,” and a regular succession of good old contra dances, with a merry accompaniment of glib tongues and happy laughter. O, captain, you are laying yourself open to a severe reckoning at the next church meeting. Little cared the stubborn captain what might come of his folly. “Eat, drink, and be merry.” The lost son was home again. They might make a bonfire of his old house; but they should never forget this night.

In the height of their merriment, a strange figure dashed into their midst. It was Aunt Hulda.

“Stop, quick! Where’s Becky Sleeper?”

The music ceased, and all gazed at the weird figure which, with glaring eyes and dishevelled hair, stood in their midst.

“Here, Aunt Hulda, what’s the matter?” and Becky stepped from her place among the dancers.

“O, Becky! Becky! home, quick! Your mother’s had another shock!”

Becky screamed, and ran after Aunt Hulda, who immediately turned and left the house. There was no more dancing: the company quietly dispersed. When the last guest had departed, Mrs. Thompson put on her shawl, and with Harry and the captain, started for the house across the bridge. The church clock struck eleven.

At that very moment the train entered the depot at Foxtown, and from it jumped a stout, long-bearded weather-bronzed man.

Aunt Hulda was right. A second stroke of paralysis had fallen upon Delia Sleeper, sealing the lips that had so often of late uttered tender words of love to the heart-broken child, who now lay weeping upon her breast. There was no sign of life upon that pale face, save in the eyes that wandered from face to face, and sought the open door with a wishful look. They were all about her,--Aunt Hulda, Mrs. Thompson, Harry, the captain, Teddy,--all anxiously waiting the verdict of Dr. Allen. Soon the doctor made his appearance, soberly examined his patient, gave a few whispered instructions to Aunt Hulda, and left the room, followed by the captain.

“O, mother, speak to me! only speak to me!” sobbed Becky. “Tell me you forgive me for leaving you. I didn’t know this was coming--indeed I didn’t. Forgive me dear, dear mother!”

No sound from the lips, but the eyes sought the dear face with a troubled look.

“Nay, Becky,” said Mrs. Thompson, “you have done no wrong. It was your mother’s wish that you should go to-night.”

The roving eyes thanked the good woman for her interpretation of their language.

“No, no; it was wrong to leave her. She’ll die, and leave me--I know she will.”

“Hush, Becky,” said Aunt Hulda. “The doctor said she’d rally. Great care is necessary. Another shock would be fatal.”

Thus admonished, Becky grew very quiet, but knelt at the side of the bed, with her eyes fastened upon her mother’s. Mrs. Thompson tried to take her from the room, but she waved her off. Notwithstanding the doctor’s whispered hope, dread forebodings filled the hearts of all the watchers of that pale face, with its gleaming eyes. For an hour that room was as quiet as if beneath a spell. No one there could be of the least assistance; yet not one departed. So quiet, that the far-off noise of wheels at that late hour startled them; and a sudden light dilated the watchful eyes upon the bed. They fastened upon the door, full of expectancy and hope.

The wheels drew nearer, nearer yet; they stopped before the house. A moment after there came a hurried tread; the door was thrown open, and in the room stood the long-expected husband,--Cyrus Sleeper.

“Delia, wife! home, home at last!”

Those wishful eyes fastened upon his face an instant, gleamed brighter still, and then closed--closed forever. Their work was done.

Faithful eyes; let them be covered. They have watched and waited for the ship; it has come, freighted with treasure; but not to enrich that loving heart. The ship has come, to meet another leaving an earthly port--God’s invisible bark, bearing one more purified soul out into the sea of eternity, unto the haven of heavenly bliss. Speedy shall be thy voyage, gentle mother. Behind thee are tears and lamentations, and the memory of thy patient endurance of adversity’s long trial; before thee lies the new life. Freed from earthly bonds, eager to do thy Maker’s work in the great hereafter, loving spirits, with glad hosannas, shall welcome thy coming to the port of peace.