Kitabı oku: «Bessie at the Sea-Side», sayfa 11
XXI.
THE COLONEL IN TROUBLE
"BESSIE," said Harry, as the children were at their supper, and he saw his little sister sitting with her spoon in her hand and her eyes fixed on the table as if she had forgotten the bread and butter and berries before her, – "Bessie, what are you thinking of."
"Of Miss Adams," said the little girl.
"Nurse said she was talking to you ever so long," said Fred; "what was she saying?"
"I don't think she meant me to talk about it," said Bessie; "she didn't want nurse to hear, and so I shall only tell mamma and Maggie. You know I must tell mamma everything, and I couldn't help telling my own Maggie."
"She is a queer dick," said Fred, "pulling your hair, and tormenting you out of your life one time, and telling you secrets another. The idea of a grown woman telling secrets to a little snip like you!"
"No snip about it!" said Maggie; "and if I was everybody, I'd tell Bessie every one of my secrets."
"That's right, Maggie. You always stand up for Bessie and fight her battles; don't you?"
"But, Bessie," said Harry, "did Miss Adams tell you you mustn't repeat what she said?"
"No," said Bessie.
"Then there's no harm in telling."
"Oh, Harry!" said Fred. "If Bessie knows Miss Adams don't want her to talk about it, she ought not to tell any more than if she had promised; ought she, father?"
"Certainly not," said Mr. Bradford; "it would be unkind as well as dishonorable."
"Yes," said Maggie; "it is not to do to others as I would that they should do to me."
"Exactly, little woman," said her father, "and remember, dear children, that is a very safe rule to be guided by, when we do not feel sure whether a thing is fair or not."
"Bessie," said Fred, "tell us what ails the colonel. I suppose you know, for all the grown-uppers seem to be telling you their secrets."
"Why, that's not a secret! His leg is cut off."
"Don't think I don't know that. I mean, what makes him so grumpy? He isn't like the same fellow he was when he first came down here."
"Fred," said Bessie, giving him a reproving look, "you're not polite at all to talk that way about my soldier. He's not a fellow, only boys are fellows, and he's a big gentleman. And he's not that other thing you called him, – I sha'n't say it, because it is a very ugly word."
"And it's saucy to say it about the colonel," said Maggie.
"I don't care," said Fred. "It's true; isn't it, Hal? He used to be the best company in the world, – always ready to tell us boys stories by the hour, and full of his fun and jokes. But for the last few days he has been as solemn as an owl, with no fun to be had out of him, and if one can get him to talk, it always seems as if he were thinking of something else. He's as cross as a bear too. Now don't fire up, Bess; it's so. Starr, his man, says he was never half so impatient or hard to please all the time he was sick as he has been for the last ten days."
"Fred," said Mrs. Bradford, "you should not talk to a servant of his master's faults."
"He didn't, mother," said Harry, – "at least, not in a way you would think wrong. The colonel was dreadfully dull and out of sorts the other day, though he declared that nothing ailed him, and seemed quite provoked that we should ask, though any one could see with half an eye that something was the matter. Starr was hanging round, bringing him this and that, books and newspapers, coaxing him to have something to eat or drink. At last he asked him if there was nothing he could do for him, and the colonel thundered at him and said, 'Yes, leave me alone.' Then he got himself up on his crutches and went off, and would not let Starr help him. The man looked as if he had lost every friend he had in the world. So Fred told him he didn't believe the colonel meant anything. Starr said he was sure he did not, for he was the best master that ever lived. But he was troubled about it, for he was sure that something was wrong with him. Fred said perhaps his wounds pained him worse; but Starr said no, the wounds were doing nicely, and the colonel was not a man to make a fuss about them if they did pain him, for all the time he was suffering so dreadfully that no one thought he could live, he never heard a complaint or a groan from him. And it was then he said the colonel was far harder to please, and more impatient than when he was so ill."
"Maybe he wants to get back to his regiment," said Fred.
"No, it is not that, – at least, Mrs. Rush says it is not; for this morning, when I was standing in the hall, the doctor came out of the room with Mrs. Rush, and he said her husband had something on his mind, and asked if he were fretting to be with his regiment. And she said, 'Oh, no, the colonel never frets himself about that which cannot be.'"
"Didn't she tell him what it was?" asked Fred.
"No, but I guess she, too, thinks there's something wrong with him, for the doctor told her she must not let anything worry him, and she did not say a word. And when he went, and she turned to go back to her room, her face was so very sad."
"She's just the sweetest little woman that ever was made," said Fred, who was a great admirer of Mrs. Rush, "and I don't know what he can have to make him fret. I should think he had everything a man could want."
"Except the one great thing," said Grandpapa Duncan, in a low voice to himself.
Mr. Bradford, who had been listening to what his children were saying, but had not spoken, now walked out on the piazza, where he stood watching the clearing away of the storm. In a moment or two Bessie followed him, and silently held out her arms to him to be taken up.
"Papa," she said, as he lifted her, "do you think my soldier has a trouble in his mind?"
"I think he has."
"Wont you help him, papa?" said Bessie, who, like most little children, thought her father able to help and comfort every one.
"I could only show him where he could find help, my darling, and I do not think he cares to have me tell him."
"Then is there no one that can help him, papa?"
"Yes, there is One who can give him all the help he needs."
"You mean the One who lives up there?" said Bessie, pointing to the sky.
"Yes. Will my Bessie pray that her friend may receive all the help he needs from that great merciful Father?"
"Oh, yes, papa, and you'll ask him, and my soldier will ask him, and he'll be sure to listen; wont he?"
Mr. Bradford did not tell his little girl that the colonel would not ask such aid for himself; he only kissed her and carried her in. Bessie did not forget her friend that night when she said her evening prayers.
Maggie and Bessie went over to the hotel the next morning with their mother. After making a visit to their grandma, they thought they would go to see the colonel, so they ran away to his room. Mrs. Rush was there busy, and she told them the colonel was out on the piazza. He was reading the newspaper, but threw it down when they came, and was very glad to see them. Bessie looked at him earnestly, to see if she could see any signs of trouble about him. But he seemed much as usual, laughing and talking pleasantly with them. But she could not forget what Harry had said, and she turned her eyes so often upon him with a questioning look that he noticed it, and said, "Well, my pet, what is it? What do you want to know?"
"Does something trouble you?" asked Bessie.
"Trouble me!" he repeated. "What should trouble me?"
"I don't know," she answered; "but I thought maybe something did."
"What have I to trouble me?" he again asked, carelessly. "Have I not the dearest little wife and two of the dearest little friends in the world, as well as pretty much everything else a reasonable man could want? To be sure, another leg would be a convenience, but that is a small matter, and we will see what Palmer can do for me one of these days; he will make me as good as new again."
Bessie was not quite satisfied. Though the colonel spoke so gayly, she felt sure there had been something wrong, if there was not now. She still watched him wistfully, and the colonel, looking into her loving eyes, said, "If I were in any trouble, you would help me out of it, Bessie; would you not?"
"If I could," she answered; "but I couldn't do very much, I'm too little. But we know who can help us; don't we? and we can tell Him. Mamma has a book named 'Go and tell Jesus.' Aint that a pretty name? I asked her to read it to me, and she said I couldn't understand it now. When I am older, she will; but I can understand the name, and I like to think about it when I have been naughty or have a trouble."
"May your troubles never be worse than they are now, little one," said the colonel fondly, with a smile; "and one of your troubles is done with, Bessie. Do you know that your enemy, Miss Adams, is gone?"
"Oh, she is not my enemy any more," said Bessie; "we are friends now, and I am glad of it, for I don't like to be enemies with people."
"Ho, ho!" said the colonel. "How did that come about? I thought she wanted to make it up with you, but I did not see how it was to come about when you were off like a lamp-lighter every time she came near you."
Then Bessie told how Miss Adams' presence of mind had saved Franky from falling into the stream, "And then we talked a little," she said, "and I told her I was sorry I had been saucy, and kissed her, and so we are all made up."
"That was the way; was it?" said the colonel. "I do not think you were the one to ask pardon."
"Oh, she did too," said Bessie; "she said she was sorry she teased me."
"And what else did she say?"
"I don't think she meant me to talk about it, 'cause she didn't want nurse to hear."
"Then I wont ask you, honorable little woman."
"And she sent us home in the pony-carriage when the rain was coming, and ran all the way to our house herself, and mamma was very much obliged to her," said Maggie.
"Well," said the colonel, "I suppose I shall have to forgive her too, since she saved you from a wetting, and took a bad cold in your service. We all wondered how she came to be so drenched, but she would not tell us how it happened."
"Did she take cold?" asked Maggie. "Mamma said she would, but she said nothing ever hurt her."
"Something has hurt her this time. They say she was really ill when she went away this morning, and some of the ladies tried to persuade her to wait until she was better. But go she would, and go she did. Here comes Mrs. Rush to take me for a walk. Will you go with us?"
The children were quite ready, and, mamma's permission gained, they went off with their friends.
But although this was the last they saw of Miss Adams, it was not the last they heard of her. Mrs. Bradford was right. Miss Adams had been wet to the knees in the brook, and much heated by her long run; and then again thoroughly drenched in the rain, and when she reached home, the foolish girl, for the sake of making people wonder at her, would not change her clothes. She took a violent cold, but, as the colonel had said, insisted on travelling the next morning, and went on till she was so ill that she was forced to give up. She had a long illness, from which it was thought she would never recover, but she afterwards said that this was the happiest thing that had ever happened to her in her life.
Sometime after this, about Christmas time, came a letter and a little parcel to Bessie. The letter said, —
"My dear Little Bessie, —
"Tell your mother I scorned her advice the day we were caught in the rain, and paid well for my folly, for I was very ill; but there was a good, kind doctor, who came and cured me, and now he is going to 'take care of me and my money, and make me behave myself.' He thinks he can make the 'kitchen lady' less of a mad-cap; but I do not know but that my long illness has done that already. While I lay sick, I had time to think, and to feel sorry that I had acted so wildly and foolishly as to leave myself without a true friend in the world. I shall never forget you, Bessie, and I hope you will sometimes think kindly of me, and that you may do so, will you ask your mother to let you wear this bracelet in remembrance of
Clara Adams."
The little parcel contained a very beautiful and expensive bracelet with a clasp which made it smaller or larger, according to the size of the arm of the wearer.
But Mrs. Bradford did not think it a suitable thing for her little girl, and she told Bessie she should put it away till she was grown up.
"I sha'n't wear it then, mamma," said Bessie; "she never sent Maggie one, and I don't want to wear what she don't. We can both look at it sometimes, and then we can both think of Miss Adams: but we can't both wear it, and we don't want to be dressed different alike."
XXII.
THE BROKEN NOSE
"THERE comes mamma with Mamie Stone," said Maggie, as they were going back to the hotel with Colonel and Mrs. Rush.
When Mamie saw the little girls, she ran to meet them, saying she was going home to spend the morning with them; and Mrs. Bradford took them all back with her. While Maggie and Bessie said their lessons, Mamie amused herself with Franky and Nellie and the baby; and she was delighted when nurse made her sit down on the floor, and putting the baby in her lap, let her hold her for a few minutes. Afterwards they all had a good play together, a doll's tea-party, and a fine swing.
Mamie stayed to dinner, and was very good all day; and very soon after dinner, Mr. Stone came to take his daughter home. He was a grave, serious man, and it was rather unusual to see him with such a bright smile, and looking so happy. He said a few words in a low tone to Mrs. Bradford and Mrs. Duncan, and they seemed pleased too, and shook hands with him.
"Yes," he said, in answer to something Mrs. Bradford said to him, "I am glad of it; it is the best thing in the world for Mamie."
"What is it, papa?" said Mamie, springing forward; "have you got something for me?"
"Yes," he answered. "Will you come home and see it?"
"What is it, – a new toy?"
"The very prettiest plaything you ever had in your life," he answered, with a smile.
Mamie clapped her hands. "Can Maggie and Bessie come too?" she asked, turning to Mrs. Bradford.
"Not to-day," said Mrs. Bradford, "but they shall come soon."
Mamie went away with her father, while Maggie and Bessie stood and watched her as she went skipping along by his side, looking very happy and eager.
But when an hour or two later they went down on the beach and found Mamie, she seemed anything but happy. Indeed, she looked as if nothing pleasant had ever happened to her in her life. She was sitting on a stone, the marks of tears all over her cheeks and now and then giving a loud, hard sob. It was more than sulkiness or ill-humor; any one who looked at the child could see that she was really unhappy. Martha, her nurse, was sitting a little way off knitting, and not taking the least notice of her.
Maggie and Bessie ran up to her. "What is the matter, Mamie?" asked Maggie.
"My nose is broken," sobbed Mamie, "and my father and mother don't love me any more."
"Oh," exclaimed Maggie, paying attention only to the first part of Mamie's speech, "how did it get broken?"
"Baby did it."
"What baby? Not ours?"
"No, an ugly, hateful little baby that's in my mother's room."
"How did it do it?"
"I don't know; but Martha says it did, and she says that's the reason my papa and mamma don't love me any more."
"Don't they love you?" asked Bessie.
"No, they don't," said Mamie, passionately. "Mamma tried to push me away, and papa scolded me and took me out of the room. He never scolded me before, and he was so angry, and it's all for that hateful little baby. Oh, dear, oh, dear! what shall I do?"
"Wasn't you naughty?" asked Maggie.
"I sha'n't tell you," said Mamie.
"Then I know you was. If you hadn't been, you'd say, 'No!'"
Mamie did not answer. Bessie walked round her, looking at her nose, first on one side, then on the other.
"I don't see where it's broken," she said. "It looks very good. Will it blow now?"
"I don't know," said Mamie. "I'm afraid to try. Oh, dear!"
"Does it hurt?" asked Bessie.
"No, not much; but I expect it's going to."
"Maybe we can feel where it's broken," said Maggie. "Let's squeeze it a little."
"I wont let you," said Mamie. "But I'll let Bessie, 'cause she's so softly."
Bessie squeezed the nose, first very gently, then a little harder, but it seemed all right, and felt just as a nose ought to feel. Then Mamie let Maggie squeeze; but she pinched harder than Bessie had done, and hurt it a little.
"Oh, you hurt! Go away!" said Mamie, and set up an angry cry.
Martha, who had been talking to Jane, rose at this. "Come, now," she said, "just have done with this. I wont have any more crying, you bad child."
"Go away!" screamed Mamie, as Martha came near; "you're bad yourself. Oh, I want my mamma!"
"Your mamma don't want you then, little broken nose. Have done with that crying."
"I'll tell mamma of you," said Mamie.
"Oh, you needn't be running with your tales now. Your mamma has got some one else to attend to."
"That's a shame, Martha," said Jane. "She's just teasing you, Miss Mamie; your mamma does care for you."
"Martha," said Bessie, "I'm glad you're not my nurse; I wouldn't love you if you were."
"There's no living with her. She'll be cured of her spoiled ways now," said Martha, as she tried to drag the struggling, screaming child away. But Mamie would not stir a step. She was in a great rage, and fought and kicked and struck Martha; but just then Mrs. Bradford was seen coming towards them.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
"She's just going on this way because of the baby, ma'am," said Martha.
"Mamie," said Mrs. Bradford, "you don't look like the happy little girl who left us a short time ago."
Mamie stopped screaming, and held out one hand to Mrs. Bradford, but Martha kept fast hold of the other, and tried to make her come away.
"Let her come to me, Martha," said the lady; "I want to speak to her."
Martha looked sulky, but she let go of Mamie, and walked away muttering. Mrs. Bradford sat down on the rock and took Mamie on her lap.
"Now, Mamie, what is the matter?" she asked, kindly. "I thought I should find you so pleasant and happy."
"My nose is broken," sobbed Mamie, "and oh, dear! my papa and mamma don't love me any more. I would not care if my nose was broken, if they only loved me."
"They do love you just as much as they ever did," said Mrs. Bradford, "and your nose is not broken. How should it come to be broken?"
"There's an ugly baby in mamma's room," said Mamie. "The bad little thing did it."
"Oh, nonsense!" said Mrs. Bradford, "how could such a little thing break your nose? Even if it were to give you a blow, which I am sure it did not, that tiny fist could not hurt you much."
"Martha said it did," said Mamie.
"Then Martha told you what was not true. That is a very foolish, wicked way which some people have of telling a little child that its nose is broken, when a baby brother or sister comes to share its parents' love. And it is quite as untrue to say that your father and mother do not love you any longer. They love you just as much as they ever did, and will love you more if you are kind to the baby, and set it a good example."
"But I don't want it to be mamma's," said Mamie. "I'm her baby, and I don't want her to have another."
"But you are six years old," said Mrs. Bradford. "You surely do not want to be called a baby now! Why, Franky would be quite offended if any one called him a baby. This morning, when you were playing with my little Annie, you said you did wish you had a baby at home, to play with all the time; and now, when God has sent you the very thing you wanted, you are making yourself miserable about it."
"But it isn't a nice, pretty baby like yours," said Mamie. "It don't play and crow like little Annie, and it don't love me either. It made a face and rolled up its fist at me."
"Poor little thing!" said Mrs. Bradford, "it did not know any better. Such very small babies do not know how to play. For some time this little sister must be watched and nursed very carefully by its mother, for it is weak and helpless; but when it is a little older, though it must be cared for still, it will begin to hold up its head and take notice, and play and crow, as Annie does. Then she will know you, and be pleased when you come, if you are kind to her. By and by you may help to teach her to walk and talk. Think what a pleasure that will be! The first words Franky spoke were taught to him by Maggie, and the first one of all was 'Mag.'"
Mamie stopped crying, and sat leaning her head against Mrs. Bradford as she listened.
"But I know my father and mother don't love me so much now," she said. "Mamma did try to push me away, and papa scolded me so, and he never did it before."
"Then I am sure you deserved it. I am afraid you must have been very naughty. Now tell me all about it," said Mrs. Bradford, smoothing back Mamie's disordered hair, and wiping her heated, tear-stained face with her own soft, cool handkerchief. "Perhaps we can cure some of your troubles by talking a little about them. When your father came for you this afternoon, it seemed to me that half his own pleasure came from the thought that the baby was to bring so much happiness to you. That did not look as if he did not love you; did it?"
"No, but he was angry with me."
"Tell me what happened after you went home with him?"
Mamie put her finger in her mouth and hung her head, but after a moment she looked up and said, —
"He took me into mamma's room, and there was a woman there I did not know, and that baby was in the bed with mamma."
"And what then?"
"Mamma told me to come and see my darling little sister, and I cried and said I would not have her for my sister, and she should not stay there. And papa said I was naughty, and that woman said she would not have such a noise there, and I must go away if I was not quiet, and that made me madder. I wasn't going to be sent out of my own mamma's room for that baby. If she was its nurse, she could take it away. It hadn't any business there, and then – then – "
Mamie was beginning to feel ashamed, and to see that the most of her trouble came from her own naughtiness.
"Well, dear," said Mrs. Bradford, gently, "and then?"
"And then I tried to pull the baby away, and I tried to slap the bad little thing."
"Oh, Mamie!" exclaimed Maggie and Bessie.
"That was the reason your papa was angry, was it not?" asked Mrs. Bradford.
"Yes, ma'am. Mamma pushed me away, and papa carried me out of the room, and oh, he did scold me so! He called Martha, and told her to take me away. Then she said my nose was broken, and papa and mamma would not love me any more, because the baby had come. Oh! I would be good, if they would let me go back to mamma, and she would love me."
"She does love you just as much as ever. You see, my child, you frightened and disturbed her when you tried to hurt that tender little baby. She cares for you just as much as she did before, and I am sure she is grieving now because you were naughty, and had to be sent away from her. And your papa, too, when you see him, only tell him you mean to be a good child, and kind to the baby, and you will find you are still his own little Mamie, whom he loves so dearly, and for whose comfort and pleasure he is always caring. I am sorry Martha has told you such cruel, wicked stories. There is not a word of truth in them, and you must always trust your father and mother. I am sure your dear little sister will be as great a delight to you as Annie is to Maggie and Bessie, and that you will learn to love her dearly; but you must be kind and loving yourself, dear, not selfish and jealous, if you should have to give up a little to baby. It was jealousy which made you so unhappy. Jealousy is a wicked, hateful feeling, one which is very displeasing in the sight of God, and which makes the person who gives way to it very miserable."
"It was Martha who made her jealous," said Maggie. "Martha is a very bad nurse; she is not fit to have the care of a child. Nurse said so, and that she told wicked stories; so she does, for I have heard her myself she is very deceptious."
"Well," said her mother, "I hope Mamie will be too wise to mind what Martha says after this."
"I will try to be good," said Mamie, "and I do love you, Mrs. Bradford. Do you think, when the baby is older, I can hold her on my lap like I did Annie?"
"I have not a doubt of it. I cannot tell you in how many ways she will be a pleasure to you, if you teach her to be fond of you, and she will be, as your father said, the very prettiest plaything you have ever had. There comes your papa now;" and Mamie, looking up, saw her father coming towards them.
Mr. Stone looked grave and troubled, and turned his eyes anxiously towards Mamie as he spoke to Mrs. Bradford.
"Here is a little girl who thinks she has not behaved well, and wishes to tell you so," said Mrs. Bradford.
Mr. Stone held out his arms to Mamie, and in another moment she was clinging round his neck, with her face against his.
"Oh, I will be good! Will you please love me again?"
"Love you? and who ever thought of not loving you?" said Mr. Stone. "Poor little woman, you did not think your father would ever cease to love his own Mamie? Not if a dozen daughters came. No, indeed, my pet; and now do you not want to go and see your poor mamma again, and be a good, quiet girl? She is feeling very badly about you."
So Mamie went off with her father, feeling quite satisfied that her nose was as good as ever, and that her father and mother loved her just as much as they had done before the baby came to claim a share of their hearts.
