Mildred at Home: With Something About Her Relatives and Friends.

Chapter Thirteenth

 
"No day discolored with domestic strife;
No jealousy, but mutual truth believ'd,
Secure repose, and kindness undeceived."
 

– Dryden.

Months and years glided swiftly by, bringing to the Keiths only such changes as they will bring to all: added gray hairs and wrinkles, and a decrease of strength, vigor, and energy to the old people; to the younger married ones, an added staidness and dignity of demeanor and more olive-branches about their tables; while Annis had grown from the merry, romping child into a tall, slender maiden, even more comely than the child had been, but with a quieter step and often a dreamy, far-away look in the sweet blue eyes.

She was the joy of her parents' hearts, the very light of their eyes, the only child left at home; for Cyril, having completed his college course, had entered a theological seminary and was preparing to go into the ministry.

There had been all along a constant interchange of letters with their relatives at the Oaks, particularly brisk on the part of Annis and Elsie, and they each knew almost as much of the thoughts, feelings, and experiences of the other as though they had lived together all these years.

Letters from the Oaks were always joyfully welcomed, yet were esteemed as nothing in comparison with those that came occasionally from Ada and Don, the former of whom had become the happy mother of two children, whom she described as very sweet and lovable, adding that she had a great longing to show them to her father and mother. And it was perhaps not greater than the desire of the grandparents to see them, though that was far outweighed by their thirst for a sight of the mother's face.

Mildred was still the devoted daughter she had been in earlier days, nor less faithful in all that concerned the welfare of husband and children. She looked well to the ways of her household, nor ever ate the bread of idleness. She was a careful housekeeper, allowing no waste, yet most liberal in paying for every service done for her or hers, and never stinting in the provision for the wants of her family.

Her table was always bountifully provided, her house neat and clean, her children well and tastefully dressed, her husband's wardrobe carefully looked to; nor did she neglect the souls, minds, or bodies of her children. Their physical well-being was to her a matter of very great importance, and while assiduously cultivating their minds and hearts, letting them never want for mother-love and tender caresses, she watched over the health of each with untiring vigilance.

And she had her reward in their rosy cheeks, bounding steps, constant flow of animal spirits, and devoted love to their parents, especially their mother; also in their kindness and affection toward each other.

They were a very happy family, a joy of heart to Mr. and Mrs. Keith, as were Zillah's children also, she having greatly improved in her management as a mother since the babyhood of her first child.

It was spring-time again, the evenings still cool enough for a little fire to be very enjoyable. In Dr. Landreth's cosey sitting-room a bright wood fire blazed cheerily on the open hearth. The doctor himself sat over it alone and in meditative mood.

Mildred had left the room a moment before to see her children to bed, a duty she never neglected, and not only a duty, but a pleasure also, for it gave opportunity for many a sweet interchange of demonstrations of affection and many a childish confidence to mother which otherwise might have been withheld; also – the young hearts being warm, the feelings tender – she found it the best of all seasons for sowing good seed that might one day spring up and grow and bear fruit unto everlasting life.

The doctor's meditations seemed not unpleasant, if one might judge from the calm and placid expression of his countenance; yet occasionally there was a passing shade of doubt or anxiety.

He looked up with a smile as Mildred re-entered the room. "Come and sit by my side, dear wife," he said, "and let us have a little confidential chat. Do you know what I have been thinking, sitting here alone?" he asked, as she took the offered seat and his arm stole round her waist in very lover-like fashion.

"No, my dear; how should I?" she answered, with a smile. "Of your patients, I presume; some case of obscure and difficult diagnosis."

"Ah, you are wide of the mark," he returned, with a light laugh. "No; my thoughts were principally of the presiding genius of my happiest of homes, and I am ready to echo the words of the wise man, 'A prudent wife is from the Lord.' 'Whoso findeth a wife, findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favor of the Lord.'"

"You're satisfied with yours?" she said inquiringly, and with a glad look up into his face.

"More than satisfied! Milly, love, you are my greatest earthly treasure; dearer far to me now than the day we were married, though then I was sure I loved you as never man loved woman before."

"How you gladden my heart, my dearest and kindest of husbands," she said, in low, moved tones. "And my experience is the same as yours; I loved you dearly when we were married, but I love you ten times as dearly now. How sweet it is to live together as we do, with hearts so closely united, and ever sharing each other's joys and sorrows! Burdens thus divided are so much easier to bear, while joys are doubled in the sharing."

"Yes, it is so," he said.

 
"'Then come the wild weather – come sleet or come snow,
We will stand by each other, however it blow;
Oppression and sickness, and sorrow and pain,
Shall be to our true love as links to the chain.'"
 

They talked of their children, now three in number; of their various dispositions, and the best mode of managing and training each.

After that, breaking a pause in the conversation, the doctor said, "By the way, Milly, I received a letter to-day from a second cousin of mine, telling me that a daughter of hers, a young lady, is in poor health, needing change of climate and scene, her physician says, and asking if I am willing to take her under my care for a time, probably until next fall. My love, would you like to take her into the family?"

"I am quite willing if it is your wish, my dear," Mildred answered, but with a slight sigh; they were so happy and peaceful by themselves, and this stranger might prove an element of discord.

"It is not my wish if at all unpleasant to you, wife," he said, with affectionate look and tone. "I fear it may add to your cares and labors; yet Flora Weston may prove one of those bright, merry, winsome young things that are like a fresh breeze in a house."

"Perhaps so; and we are told to use hospitality one to another without grudging," Mildred added, with a pleasant look and smile. "Write her at once, Charlie, if you feel inclined. I am glad of an opportunity to show some attention to a relative of yours."

"Just like you, Milly," he responded, with a gratified look.

The letter was sent the next day, and a few weeks later Miss Weston arrived.

She seemed a rather commonplace girl, quiet and undemonstrative. Mildred found it a task to entertain her, even with the assistance her mother and sisters could give, and they did all that lay in their power. She did not sew, she cared very little for reading, she had strength for only very short walks; she was no talker, and seldom seemed to care to listen.

Annis soon voted her an intolerable bore, yet, to relieve Milly, spent several hours of every day in her society. The doctor did his share by taking her with him whenever he drove into the country. He made many attempts to draw her out, both then and when he had an evening at home, but, not succeeding, finally came to the conclusion that there was nothing in her.

He would have wholly regretted having invited her but that her health presently began to improve under his treatment.

Meanwhile Flora was silently observing all that went on in the family, especially studying Mildred; and at length her manner – which had at first been very cold and distant – gradually changed till there was at times a warmth of affection in it.

"You are so kind to me, Cousin Mildred," she said one day; "you have never neglected anything that could add to my comfort, and have always shown so much sympathy for my invalidism; far more than ever my own mother did," she added, in a bitter tone. "Mother is very good and pious, but she has never taken any care of her children's health; she is duly anxious about our souls, but neglects our bodies. I must acknowledge that I came here strongly prejudiced against you, simply because I had heard you were very pious, and the way I have been brought up had made me hate piety, hate the Bible and prayer."

"O Flora! and you the child of a Christian mother!" cried Mildred, in a shocked tone.

"Yes, I believe mother is a real Christian, and I don't wonder you are shocked at what I have said. But if she had brought me up as you do your children, I am sure I should have felt quite differently. Is it any wonder I hate the Bible when, instead of being entertained when good with beautiful stories out of it, I was always punished when particularly naughty by being forced to read a certain number of chapters in proportion to the extent of my delinquency, and commit so many verses to memory; besides being prayed over – a long tedious prayer, half of which I did not understand?"

"I have always tried to make the Bible a delight to my children," said Mildred, "and I think it is. O Flora, I feel very sorry for you that you do not appreciate its beauty and sweetness! Are you not old enough now to put away your unfortunate prejudice and learn to love it as God's own word given to teach us how to obtain eternal life – telling the old, old story, the sweet, sweet story of Jesus and His love?"

"I have begun to like it better since I came here," Flora answered, with an abashed look. "I have really enjoyed the Bible stories I have overheard you telling the children; and somehow religion seems a lovelier thing as I see it exhibited in your life and the lives of Cousin Charlie and your parents and sisters, than as my mother practises it."

"It grieves me to hear a daughter speak so of her mother," Mildred said gently.

"I don't mean to be unkind or disrespectful toward her," replied Flora, "but I wish to make you understand how I came to feel such a prejudice against piety, and against you because I had been told you were very pious.

"I am quite sure mother is good and sincere, and not at all puffed up and self-righteous; but I think she makes great mistakes which prejudice people against her religion.

"Now, my father is not a pious man, and some things mother does, and her refusal to do some other things, have so turned him against religion that he never goes inside of a church-door.

"For one thing, mother won't dress like other ladies. He wants to see her well dressed, but she makes it a part of her religion to go looking old-fashioned and really dowdy. Father buys her handsome things, and she won't wear them; she gives them away or cuts them up for the children, and I don't wonder he won't go to church with her. I am pretty sure he might have become a regular attendant if she would only have dressed to suit him.

"And sometimes she gets out of her warm bed, in a cold winter night, and goes off into a room where there is no fire, and stays there for an hour or more – in her bare feet and her night-dress – praying. Then she comes back chilled through; probably has a dreadful cold the next day, and that makes father mad, and he lays it all to her religion.

"I love my mother, Cousin Mildred, but I can't help blaming her for at least a part of my sufferings. As I have told you, she has never taken any care of her children's health; if our food was improperly cooked, it was a matter of no importance; and just so if our clothing, beds, or bedding were left unaired, or if any other sanitary measure were disregarded. We were often forced to eat and sleep in a close, almost stifling atmosphere; we wore our winter clothes into the heat of summer, and our thin summer clothing far on into the damp, cold days of autumn and early winter.

"Then, too, when I began to complain of this dreadful pain in my back, no notice was taken, and I was expected to do as much as if I were perfectly well and strong; she would not hire as much help as she might, as father was quite willing she should, and I was often left to do everything while she spent hours at a time in her closet.

"I've thought sometimes that life would have been easier for me if I'd had a worldly-minded mother who would have taken some care of my health. And I expected to find you the same kind of Christian, but you are very different."

"I fear the difference is not all in my favor," Mildred said.

"But don't you think health ought to be taken care of?" asked Flora. "I have noticed that you are very careful of your children's, as well as of their morals and manners."

"Yes," Mildred said, "I think the Bible teaches very plainly that we are to be careful of our bodies. 'What? know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye have of God, and ye are not your own?' Health is one of God's good gifts and not to be despised; it is one of the greatest of temporal blessings; besides, to be careless of it is to lessen our ability to work for God, and probably to shorten our lives; which we certainly have no right to do.

"But, Flora, perhaps I am not so different from your mother as you think; I, too, love to spend an hour alone in communion with my best Friend; and I do not find it time lost, for thus I gather strength for the duties, trials, and temptations of life. I never could meet them without the strength and wisdom that He gives in answer to prayer."

"But you don't seem to neglect other duties for that," Flora said, with an earnest, inquiring look at Mildred.

"I hope not," was the answer; "the Bible tells us there is a time for everything, and it bids us 'be diligent in business;' but also 'fervent in spirit, serving the Lord.' It tells us, 'In everything give thanks,' and also bids us 'pray without ceasing;' so that it is evident that we need not always retire into the closet to talk with our heavenly Father, but that while our hands are busy with the work He has given us to do, we may, and should be, ever and anon lifting up our hearts in silent prayer to Him.

"O Flora, what a blessed privilege it is to be permitted to do that at all times and in all places! when in doubt to ask Him for wisdom and guidance, though it be in regard to but a seemingly trivial matter (for great events often hang upon trifles), when tempted to indolence, petulance, censoriousness, or any other sin, to be able on the instant to send up a cry for strength to resist; a cry to Him who is the hearer and answerer of prayer, and who has all power in heaven and in earth. Or if danger threatens one's self or one's dear ones, what a relief to be able to call at once for help to One who is mighty to save!"

Flora was in a, for her, surprisingly talkative mood. "Cousin Mildred," she said, "I have been admiring the good behavior of your children ever since I came here. They are so obedient, so gentle-mannered, and so polite to you and their father, to each other, and indeed to everybody. How have you managed to make them so?"

"There is no great secret about it," Mildred said, smiling. "We try to teach them politeness and consideration for others by both precept and example; my husband is always quite as polite and attentive to me as he could be to any strange lady guest. I try to be the same to him, and we both treat our children in the same manner; we never give a command when a request will answer as well, and we seldom meet with any hesitation in obedience; but if we do, I assure you we resort to command, and enforce it, too."

"Do you teach them they must obey because you are their parents?" asked Flora, with a look of keen curiosity.

"Certainly we do," Mildred answered, in some surprise.

"I once read a description of a very nice kind of mother," explained Flora – "at least the author evidently meant her for a model – and one thing he said in her praise was that she never claimed a right to her child's obedience on the plea that she was his mother."

"Then," said Mildred gravely, "he was either unacquainted with the teachings of God's Word, or had no respect for them, for there are very many passages that teach children the duty of obedience to parents, and others that command parents to see to it that their children are obedient to them.

"There is the fifth commandment, 'Honor thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.' Again, 'Children, obey your parents in the Lord: for this is right.' 'Honor thy father and mother; which is the first commandment with promise.' 'My son, keep thy father's commandment, and forsake not the law of thy mother,' and many others.

"Then to parents, 'Correct thy son, and he shall give thee rest; yea, he shall give delight unto thy soul,' and many others of like import; while Solomon tells us, 'A child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame.'

"And how sorely Eli was punished for not restraining his sons when they made themselves vile. Also God says, in commendation of Abraham, 'I know him, that he will command his children and his household after him, and they shall keep the way of the Lord to do justice and judgment.' And do you not remember that under the Levitical law the punishment of a refusal to be obedient to parents was death?"

"Is that so? I had quite forgotten it," said Flora.

Mildred opened a Bible, and turning to the twenty-first chapter of Deuteronomy, read aloud, "'If a man have a stubborn and rebellious son, which will not obey the voice of his father, or the voice of his mother, and that, when they have chastened him, will not hearken unto them: then shall his father and his mother lay hold on him, and bring him out unto the elders of his city, and unto the gate of his place; and they shall say unto the elders of his city, This our son is stubborn and rebellious, he will not obey our voice; he is a glutton, and a drunkard. And all the men of his city shall stone him with stones, that he die; so shalt thou put evil away from among you; and all Israel shall hear and fear.'"

"I acknowledge that you have proved your case against my author," said Flora thoughtfully; "either he was ignorant of the teachings of Scripture on that point, or he chose to disregard them; which nobody has a right to do."

"No, that is true," said Mildred; "as the Word of God, whose creatures we are, it should be to all of us the rule of faith and practice; a tribunal from which there is no appeal; whose decisions are final."

"I have noticed," remarked Flora, "that you all seem to regard it in that light, and to have a great love for it too."

"Yes," said Mildred; "and no wonder; its precious promises have been our comfort and support in many trials – some of them very heavy. I think those sweet promises were all that kept my mother's heart from breaking when she heard that her two sons had been killed by the Indians."

"It must have been dreadful," Flora said, with sympathy; "but it wasn't true?"

"Not of both, but of one," Mildred answered, with emotion. "Oh, my dear, dear brother!" she cried, in a sudden burst of grief.

Flora went to her and put her arms about her. "Don't weep so," she said; "think how happy he is where he has gone, and how safe; no one can ever make him suffer again."

"I know; and what a comfort it is!" said Mildred; "what joy in the thought that we shall all meet at last in that blessed land, never to part again, and to be forever with the Lord!"

From that day Flora seemed a changed girl, ready to talk and to take an interest in those about her, to appreciate and respond to their efforts to entertain her, and particularly demonstrative and affectionate toward Mildred.

Chapter Fourteenth.
THE RETURN

 
"Joy never feasts so high
As when the first course is of misery."
 

– Suckling.

On a pleasant October day the three families – including Miss Weston – were gathered at Mr. Keith's for a family tea-party; no very unusual occurrence.

The railroad had recently reached Pleasant Plains, and a few minutes before the call to tea the whistle of the afternoon train from the West had been heard.

They had but just seated themselves about the table, and Mr. Keith had asked a blessing on the food, when the door opened, and a stranger entered unannounced.

Every one looked up in surprise as he stood silently gazing at the mother.

The next instant she sprang up with a joyful cry and threw herself into his outstretched arms, weeping hysterically.

"Don!" was the simultaneous exclamation from the others, and they gathered about him laughing and crying in joyous excitement.

Yes, it was Don, and no other – Don who went away a smooth-faced boy, and had come back a bearded man.

With what a rapture of delight they embraced and welcomed him; yet delight mingled with grief, for how could they forget that two had gone out from them, and but one had returned? Celestia Ann stood outside of the circle, leaning her back against the wall and gazing at Don, the big tears streaming down her homely but kindly face; at length, stepping forward, she caught his hand in a vise-like grasp, saying, "It's Mister Don, sure enough, though I wouldn't a knowed him by his looks. They've all been a-huggin' and kissin' of you, and now it's my turn," catching him round the neck and giving him a resounding kiss. "You'll not mind, will you? seein' as I've know'd ye ever since you was a little feller – a mere baby, as one may say."

"I am very glad to find you here still, Celestia Ann," Don said, with a good-humored laugh; "and I don't object to the heartiness of your welcome; for I haven't had a kiss from a woman since I left home, until to-day."

"Well, no; I reckon not; I shouldn't never b'lieve you was the kind of a feller to be a-kissin' strange women folks. But now why on airth don't ye all set down and eat? Mr. Don must be awful hungry a-comin' all the way from Californy here."

"Most assuredly, if he has had nothing to eat since he started," laughed the doctor, resuming his place at the table, all the others doing likewise.

Then they remembered to introduce the returned wanderer to Flora, who had been a silent but not unmoved spectator of the little scene.

Far more talking than eating ensued.

Don did greater justice to the viands than most of the others, who were much occupied in looking at and listening to him; his mother especially. She feasted her eyes on his face, and lost not a tone of the voice she had for years feared she might never hear again this side the grave.

And he was perforce the chief speaker, though he had many questions to ask of relatives, friends, and acquaintance.

Parents, sisters, and brothers-in-law wanted to know all he had seen, done, and suffered, and plied him with questions till his mother remarked they were making him talk too much and giving him no chance to eat.

"And it is the very best meal I have sat down to since I went away nearly four years ago; I ought to be allowed to do it justice," laughed Don.

They were a long while at the table; yet Celestia Ann showed no impatience, though usually in great haste to "get the table cleared and the dishes washed up."

But at last they all withdrew to the parlor.

It was verging upon ten o'clock, yet no one seemed to have thought of bed, though Don might well have been supposed to be tired with his long and wearisome journey. Mildred and Zillah had taken their babies home, seen them safely to bed, and, leaving them in the care of their nurses, returned to the circle gathered in the parlor of their father's house.

Don was telling some of his adventures, and no one but Celestia Ann in the kitchen noticed the ringing of the door-bell.

She, hastening to answer it, found a tall man, wearing a very heavy beard and mustache, standing there.

"Good-evening," he said, with a polite inclination of the head; "is my – is Mrs. Keith in?"

Celestia Ann staggered back, turning very pale in the light of the lamp that hung suspended from the ceiling. "I – I should say I knowed that voice if – if the feller that owned it hadn't been killed dead by the Injuns more'n three years back; leastways so we hearn tell," she gasped. "Be ye Rupert Keith, or his ghost?"

"I am no ghost, Celestia Ann," he said with a smile. "Reports are sometimes quite untrue, as was the one you speak of."

She grasped his hand, and burst out sobbing for very joy.

"There, there!" he said kindly, "I am afraid mother will hear and be alarmed. If she should hurry out and find me here – so unexpectedly, it might be more than she could well bear."

"Yes, she'd ought to be prepared; 'specially as she's had one great surprise a'ready to day in Don's comin' – "

"What, is Don here? just returned?" he cried. "Oh, but that is good news! They're in the parlor, I think; I'll go into the sitting-room and get you to call Dr. Landreth out (the rest will suppose he's wanted to see a patient), and he can prepare my mother."

"A first-rate plan, Mr. Rupert," said Celestia Ann. Waiting till he reached the door of the sitting-room, she opened that of the parlor.

"Doctor," she said, "there's a man out here a-wantin' to speak to ye."

"Oh, I hope it isn't a call to the country," remarked Mildred, as her husband made haste to obey the summons.

The conversation in the parlor went on, no one supposing the caller a person in whom any of them had an interest.

As the doctor entered the sitting-room the stranger rose and held out his hand. "Very glad to see you again, Dr. Landreth. You have not forgotten me?" he said inquiringly, and with a humorous look.

"I am afraid I have, sir; if ever I had the pleasure of your acquaintance," was the reply, as the offered hand was taken, and the doctor gazed doubtfully into the bronzed and bearded face.

"Ah, Charlie, is your memory so short?" Rupert asked in a half-reproachful tone, holding fast his brother-in-law's hand and looking him steadily in the eyes.

"Why!" gasped the doctor, "it isn't, it can't be – "

"Yes, it can be, and it is," laughed Rupert, though his voice trembled with emotion; "God has mercifully spared me and brought me back again to my father's house. Are all well? Can you prepare my mother for the news that I am yet alive and here?"

"In a moment – when I have myself so far recovered from the shock as to be fully able to control my voice," answered the doctor jocosely, but with a very perceptible tremble in his tones. "My dear fellow, if I am so overcome with happiness, what will she be?"

"Joy seldom kills?" Rupert said interrogatively.

"Rarely; and yet it has been fatal in some instances. We must move with caution."

He stepped into the hall, opened the parlor door, and called softly to his wife.

She came to him at once. "What is it? has baby wakened?"

He gently drew the door to behind her before he answered. Then taking her in his arms, "Milly, love," he said tenderly, and she noticed that his voice was unsteady, "can you bear very great joy?"

She gave him a startled look. "What is it? O Rupert? No, no, that cannot be!"

"Yes, dearest, news has come that his – that the report of his death was false – "

"Is he here?" she gasped. "O Charlie, don't keep me in suspense! take me to him."

"I did not say he was here, love; only that he was still alive at last reports."

But through the half-open door of the sitting-room she had caught a glimpse of a tall form that wore a strangely familiar look, and breaking from her husband's arms she ran to see who it was; ran into the arms of her long lost and deeply mourned brother, outstretched to receive her.

He held her close, she weeping hysterically on his breast. "Dear, dear brother! where, where have you been so long, so very long! while we wept and mourned for you as dead?"

"A captive among the Indians," he answered. "Tell me, has there been any break in the dear circle since I went away?"

"No, we are all here."

"Thank God for that!" he said with reverent gratitude. "And now I must see my mother; I can wait no longer."

"Just one moment: I will send father out and break the good news to her as gently and cautiously as I can," Mildred said, and glided away through the hall and into the parlor, her eyes full of glad tears, her face radiant with joy.

"Some one in the sitting-room wishes to see you, father," she whispered to him; then turning to the others, as he rose and went out, she was opening her lips to speak when Annis exclaimed, "Why, Milly, you look as if you had found a gold mine!"

"Better than that," cried Mildred, dropping on her knees by her mother's side and putting her arms about her. "Mother, dear, can you bear the best of good tidings?"

"What is it, child? tell me at once; nothing is so hard to bear as suspense," said Mrs. Keith, turning pale. "Has Ada come home? Don't keep me from her a moment," and she rose hastily, as if to hurry from the room.

"No, mother, not that; but still better and stranger news," Mildred said, gently forcing her back into her seat; "a gentleman just returned from the far West brings the news that our Rupert was only taken prisoner by the Indians, not killed."

Mrs. Keith seemed about to faint; a sudden, death-like pallor overspread her face, and Don threw his arm round her.

"Mother, dear, it is good news; what could be better?" he said, his voice quivering with excitement and joy.

"Yes," she responded, her color coming back; "oh, can it be possible that my son yet lives? 'Oh that men would praise the Lord for his goodness and for his wonderful works to the children of men!'"

Then starting to her feet, "Is the gentleman here? I must see him, speak to him, hear all he can tell me of my dear boy."

"Oh, wait just a moment, mother, dear," Mildred said, springing up and laying a detaining hand on her mother's arm; "father has gone out to speak to him. Ah, here he is," as Mr. Keith re-entered the room, his face shining with joy, every feature quivering with emotion.