Part 5 (1/2)
There was a long family consultation that night after the child had been shown to her bed, and for the first time in her whole life made to repeat the simple prayer: ”Now I lay me down to sleep,” which she did reluctantly, and with many shrugs. But the quiet, earnest voice of Mrs.
Evans subdued her, and she at last submitted with a very good grace. It was finally decided before the family separated for the night, that the new-comer should for a time, at least, become an inmate of the home circle, and through Willie's solicitations she should be considered his exclusive property. He would be her teacher, guiding all her studies, filling her little untutored mind with the knowledge he had gained, as well as endeavoring to correct her faults; while she in return would be his companion, drawing him in his carriage and amusing him generally. It was with a light heart that the poor lame boy lay down to sleep that night. Bright visions of coming happiness flitted through his mind, and succeeded in driving away his usually quiet slumbers.
The next morning he arose early and soon after ”Lily,” as he persisted at the time in calling her, notwithstanding f.a.n.n.y's sarcastic protestations, appeared in a neat chintz frock and pink ap.r.o.n which had not been taken out from their hiding place since the baby boy had grown too large for their use. Her hair was smoothly parted back from the forehead and her face was beaming and animated. She bounded quickly to Willie's side as she entered the room where breakfast was waiting, and inquired eagerly: ”Do I look pretty?” ”To be sure you do; just as pretty as any other girl!”
”I want to tell you something,” she leaned over to whisper as she was being lifted to her seat by the side of her future companion; ”I love _you_, but I _hate_ f.a.n.n.y!” ”You must not hate any one,” replied Willie.
”f.a.n.n.y is my sister and you are going to be, so we must _all_ love each other.” ”I can't,” and the little dumpy figure raised itself to its fullest dimensions as she looked into the face of f.a.n.n.y, who was coming into the room with the coffee. ”I _won't_ love _her_, but I love _you_,”
and she clasped the little white hand fervently in her own.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
CHAPTER V.
DEATH IN THE LITTLE COTTAGE.
Phebe was not mistaken in her heart's emotions, as the years proved. She _did_ love Willie with all of the ardor of her young affections. His wish was her law; his reproofs her severest chastis.e.m.e.nts. But the stern, cold f.a.n.n.y found no place in her love. She trembled under her frowns and anger only to hasten from them that she might hide the bitterness which her secret tears could alone soothe. There was no need of all this. f.a.n.n.y did not _hate_ the child; no, not even dislike her; but there was no summer within her soul--no glad suns.h.i.+ne in her obdurate heart. Yet beneath the icy covering the world saw, which chilled and frosted the tendrils of love her woman's nature possessed, there was a clear silvery fountain of emotion, which would have driven away many a dark hour, with the merry music of its gus.h.i.+ng waters, had not a thick cloud of selfishness shut it in, and the frosts of discontent sealed it from human vision. But G.o.d saw it all, and looked pityingly into the perverted heart where its rich treasures lay hidden.
”The child is very well,” she would say, ”as good as children usually are, I suppose, but of no use. She does not pay for the salt she eats.”
”I do not agree with you,” replied the mother. ”See how much happier your brother is since he has a companion to talk to and confide in. _I_ was too old to understand his little wants, or even to sympathize with his poor heart's sorrows. I feel it all now. This is the lesson I have learned since Phebe has been with us. We were too selfish, f.a.n.n.y--your mother and yourself. It may be I was at fault in not tilling and uprooting the evils in your young heart when it was in my power to do so, my daughter, and I am willing to confess it to you now. There should be more flowers growing in the garden of our souls, and less hardy, st.u.r.dy shrubs that yield no fragrance and woo no summer birds to come and make music for us. Life has changed its aspects for me within a few short months. It seems all spread out where I can look back upon it; _not_ sparkling and glowing with good works and love and gentleness, as it should be; but there are dark places--cold, chill damps that creep over me at times when I scan the crooked paths over which I have led you, while one so smooth and flowery, so full of pleasant places and radiant with beauty, is plainly discernable close beside it, into which our feet should have turned. G.o.d forgive me!” she murmured, while a tear glistened for one moment in her clear blue eyes. ”I did not mean to do you a wrong; I was worldly and ambitious for your _temporal_ good, but blinded to your spiritual prosperity. G.o.d forgive me!”
”I cannot see where you have committed any such a great sin,” replied the daughter with much feeling. ”I have no doubt but that you intended to to do your duty, and must say my opinion is that you succeeded well.
We had to toil hard to gain our present ease and comfort, but no one can accuse us of either crime or dishonesty, Mother. I did not speak of the child because I did not want her here. I only think she might make herself more useful. I am willing she should read when Willie wants her to, but she would never do anything else if she could help it.”
The door was suddenly opened and Phebe came rus.h.i.+ng in, with a light buoyant step, her cheeks glowing with exercise and her dark eyes sparkling with joy and animation.
”O Mother! Father is in Boston, but will not be home for two or three days. You can _never_ guess what he has for Willie,” and the happy child danced about the floor in the exuberance of her glee.
”What business have you to open our letters?” inquired f.a.n.n.y, beneath the dark cloud that had gathered during the short recital.
The mirth of the little girl suddenly ceased as she looked at her interrogator for a moment, but made no reply. Willie, however, appeared in the door and answered for her.
”The letter was written to _us_, wasn't it, Phebe?”
”It was written to _you_; and Father is going to bring him a large dog all trained to draw him. O Willie, was there ever anything so nice!” Her quick anger was gone, and the brightness of the joyous antic.i.p.ations of the _something_ that was to bring so much to one she so dearly loved daguerreotyped itself on her expressive features. Willie saw it all, and when he had seated himself by the side of his mother on the lounge he beckoned Phebe to him.
”You are sorry about something, my little sister,” he said; ”tell me what it is.”
”No, no; I am not sorry. I was only thinking. You will not want little Phebe when Rover comes. And--and I _do_ like to draw you so much!” and her lips quivered as she strove to keep back the tears.
”Why, my pretty sister, your eyes were so bright when I first told you, and I thought that my new possessions were going to make _you_ as happy as myself; and only a moment ago you exclaimed, 'was there ever anything so _nice_!' Can you not think so now? It is true I shall not need you for my horse,” he continued, laughing. ”But just think how dreary it will be to ride alone, with no one to speak to or enjoy the suns.h.i.+ne and cool breezes with me, or gather the pretty flowers along the road, or the lilies from off the lake! No, no, Phebe; I _cannot_ go alone, and Father may take the dog back, if you will not go with me. Or perhaps you imagine that Rover can talk, as well as do many other remarkable things.
Besides you must have forgotten that Father wrote that the wagon is large enough for two such 'chicks' as we are. So do not feel badly; you are to go with me, and Rover is to draw us both.”
Mrs. Evans clasped them in her arms and drew them tenderly to her.
”My dear children, will you always love each other as you do now? Will you always be his sister Phebe, and never take away the affection that makes him so happy? I shall not always be with with you, my children; but before I leave you, promise me, Phebe, that you will _never_ forsake him, and I will trust you, young as you are. The time will come when both of you will pa.s.s beyond these years of childhood, and great changes may come to you; there will be separations, and other homes where it may be you will live apart. But, Phebe, he is your brother; remember _I_ have given him to you. It is a sacred trust, but you understand it. Will it be kept safe and firm when he has no mother to lean upon, and no hand but yours to attend to his wants? Phebe, I love you, and thank G.o.d every day that he sent the lonely 'mariner' to our home, and for the sake of that love will you be true to my dear boy?”