CHAPTER XXVII. HOW MR. EFFINGHAM'S ROOM AT THE RALEIGH TAVERN WAS ILLUMINATED.
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In a moment the child was in his arms, clasped to his heart.
The fresh, bright-eyed little face—though now those eyes
were bathed in dews of happiness—lay on his bosom, and
two hot tears from the dry, weary eyes of the young man,
rolled down, and fell upon the child's hand. For some
minutes no word was uttered. Kate spoke first, and said,
earnestly:
“Oh! I'm so glad to see you, cousin Champ—indeed,
indeed, I am.”
“And I am as glad to see you, Katy,” he said, turning
away; but no longer with that painful expression of mockery;
“you came in like a sunbeam! I was so gloomy.”
And again the poor, weary eyes were bathed in moisture,
and the man's tears mingled with the child's.
“Come,” he said, at length, “how is it possible you are
here?”
And as he spoke, the young man caressed fondly the
bright locks of the little head.
“Oh!” said Kate; “I just came by myself. I was so
sorry, cousin Champ, when you went away, and have been
crying about it often since—I couldn't help it. For you
know you have always been so good to me. I couldn't help
loving you dearly, and crying when you left us. Then papa
got angry, and told cousin Alethea you had not done right;
and then, when the parson came, he abused you, and papa
quarrelled with him, and he's going away. Papa said no one
should abuse you, and that you were not half as much to
blame as they chose to say; and then went away to the
library, and didn't come back to tea.”
“But, Katy,” said Mr. Effingham, turning away, “this
does not explain how you—”
“Oh! I am coming to that at once, cousin Champ. You
know I love you dearly—and I couldn't bear to think you
were here all by yourself, and not happy. So as cousin
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Alethea was coming to town in the chariot, me and Willie
thought we'd come, too, and cousin Alethea said we might.”
“Is Alethea in town?”
“Yes, cousin Champ; she's down at the store, buying a
cake mould, and Willie was looking for a new whip. So I
just slipped out and ran up here, and asked if you were here,
of a gentleman—though I don't know if he is a real gentleman—
wearing such a funny red cloak. He laughed, and
was very good, and said you had just gone up to `number
6,' and I came up, and saw the figure on your door, and
tapped.”
“Heaven sent you, Katy,” said Mr. Effingham, pressing
his tremulous lips to the child's forehead. “God knows
what might have happened,” he added, in a murmur.
“What did you say, cousin Champ?”
“Nothing, dear.”
“What is this hard thing under your lace?” said the
child, whose arm had struck against the concealed weapon.
“Nothing, nothing!” he said, hastily. And rising suddenly,
he went to the open window, and hurled the pistol to
the distance of fifty feet. Then returning, after seeing it
fall into a pile of rubbish in the yard of the tavern, he took
the child in his arms again, and leaned his weary head upon
her shoulder.
“You don't seem to me well, cousin Champ,” said Kate,
tenderly, and endeavoring with the tact of a grown woman,
to come to the subject which she wished to reach, without
offending Mr. Effingham. “I don't think you are well, indeed
I don't, and they can't take very good care of you in
this place. I don't like it—it don't seem clean and nice.
And then I'm sure you haven't got any body who can bathe
your forehead as nicely as I can. Please come and go back
with us, cousin,” added the child, earnestly. “You can't
think how happy it would make me, and all—indeed I would
cry for joy.”
“I can't make you cry, dear,” said Mr. Effingham, with
a fond look.
“Well, then, I'll laugh.”
“I can't go now.”
“But you are sick.”
“No, no.”
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“Indeed—indeed, you're not well.”
“Perfectly, dear Katy—but I am as glad to see you as
if I wanted you to bathe my forehead.”
“You don't seem to think that, cousin,” said Kate, sighing,
and looking wistfully at him, “or you would not leave
us so long.”
“Why, I have not been here a week.”
“That's a long time—a long, long time indeed!”
Mr. Effingham softly smoothed the bright head.
“I was much longer away, when I went to England,”
he said, “and you did not write me a word to return, dear.
You did send me enough of love, however.”
“Yes, but I love you more now:—you didn't take much
notice of me when I was a little chicken, running about
the Hall—and then, and then, cousin—”
“What?”
“You know, you had to go England —”
“You mean —”
“Yes, dear cousin Champ,” said Kate, with a tremulous
but earnest voice, “I mean that you needn't have come here.
Don't be angry with me, please.”
“Angry with you!”
“For I love you so much. I don't think you ought to
stay here now, indeed, you would be better at the Hall.
Come now,” she said, with an earnest pleading look, which
made the little face inexpressibly lovely, “go back with me!
won't you? Oh! I'll be so good if you'll go back; and so will
Willie—for I will make him. Think how happy we would
be, dear cousin Champ—indeed we can't be happy at all,
while you are away. I can't.”
And the little head drooped, the fair curls falling down,
and veiling the child's cheeks. Mr. Effingham was silent,
but he unconsciously clasped the small hand lying on his
own more tightly, as if some invisible and hostile force were
pulling him the other way, and in the child lay his only hope
of resistance.
“You can't think how your being away has made me
feel—indeed, you can't,” continued the child, in a low voice,
and glancing at his face with wistful, dewy eyes; “you know
I never liked any body I loved to go away, and after papa,
I love you better than any body in the world. Ever since
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you went, and papa got angry, I have felt as if I was going
to fall sick—I was so sorry! Papa didn't look like he was
well either, and sometimes I think I saw cousin Alethea
looking sorry. When Tom was packing up your portmanteau,
I thought you were going away, and put in it —”
“Did you put that Bible—”
“Yes, cousin Champ—for I knew you would like to read
out of my little Bible.”
Mr. Effingham rose, and going to his dressing-table, took
the small volume from his portmanteau.
“Here Katy,” he said, turning aside his head as he
spoke, “I have not time to read it now.”
“Oh, but keep it!”
“No—I don't wish to.”
“Not when I ask you to, cousin Champ?”
“No—no—not now,” said Mr. Effingham, with a shadow
on his face.
Kate looked inexpressibly hurt, and two tears which she
could not restrain, rolled down her cheeks. Mr. Effingham
strode up and down the apartment—passed his hand wearily
over his forehead, gazed wistfully at the child, and the book
she held, and then away from her again. He stopped finally
before the window, and looked out. Then he felt a little
hand, warm and soft, take his own; and turning round, the
child was again in his arms, pressed to his heart.
“Katy,” he said, with a troubled voice, “I cannot
keep your Bible now—I have not time to read it—and some
one coming in here might take it.”
Mr. Effingham's face clouded. The thought had occurred
to him that some one of the rude, jeering actors
might touch it—and at that moment he felt as if he would
preserve it from such profanity at the hazard of his life.
“Keep it, dear,” he added, tenderly, “I will read it if
I ever—when, I mean, I come back to the Hall. Now,
don't ask me to take it back any more, Katy—indeed, I
cannot.”
The child put the volume into the pocket of her frock,
with an expression of quiet, uncomplaining sorrow, which was
very touching.
“I'll promise to read it every day, when I get back,
dear,” said Mr. Effingham, “now don't feel badly.”
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“Oh! if you would only come back,” she said, hiding
her head in his bosom, and crying, “Oh! cousin Champ!
if you would only come back! Oh, please do—please leave
this place, and don't be angry with papa any more. They
said you came—to see—to see—a—lady, cousin Champ.
You know you've seen her now, and if she is good, and I
know you would not like her if she was bad—if she is good
she wouldn't have you to distress us to come and see her!
Oh, where is she? I'll go and tell her myself, if you'll let
me, how much we want you to come back to us, and I know
you will not think I am presuming. Now, do let me go:—
I'm sure she will not be angry with a little child like me—
where is she, cousin Champ?”
Mr. Effingham held the child upon his lap, overcome
with gloomy and yet hopeful thoughts. She looked into his
face, and saw the troubled expression.
“Oh, come—come!” she said, in an earnest, pleading
voice, “indeed you are not well. Oh, cousin Champ, you
will not refuse me—your pet—please come—now cousin
Champ—we'll all go back so nicely in the chariot—and—
won't you?”
He looked at her for some minutes in silence, and said:
“Katy, do you believe in guardian angels?”
“I don't know—if you mean—”
“Then, do you believe in angels?”
“Yes! oh, yes!”
“And in heaven?”
“Yes: mamma is in heaven, and papa,” she said.
“What do you think it is like?” he continued, gazing
on the tender face, “a great city of pearls, and diamonds,
and gold? Come, don't be surprised at my speaking so
abruptly. Do you think there is really a heaven, and
angels?”
“Oh, yes, cousin Champ—and I'm sure it is not made
of gold and diamonds—I mean I don't think it is. I think
it's a place where we all love each other more than we can
on earth—and God, too.”
“Can we love more than we do on earth?” he said,
thoughtfully.
“Oh, yes—I believe we can—and then we will not have
any thing in heaven to make us sorry. We won't be sick,
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and grieved, and all, but be happy, and love God for ever
and ever.”
Mr. Effingham made no reply; he only murmured to himself.
“Angels are good—like little children before they get
bad,” added Kate, earnestly; “there's a verse about `the
Kingdom of Heaven,' and it's being filled with good people,
like little children. Must I show it to you?”
“No, no—I believe not,” said Mr. Effingham, “I don't
know that reading the Bible would do me any good. I believe
what that verse says already, dear,” he added, looking
with moist eyes at the child, “and I meant that when I
asked you about heaven; `Suffer little children to come
unto me and forbid them not—for of such is the kingdom of
heaven.' Is not that the verse? I knew it was. Well, I
wish I had died at your age.”
“Oh!” said Kate, in a low voice, “I am not good
enough—I'm very bad.”
“You are heavenly in comparison with me.”
“Oh, cousin Champ!”
“I am—well, well,” he said, suddenly checking himself:
and he murmured, “Why should I deprive myself of this
child's heart.”
“Indeed, indeed, you are not well,” said Kate, gazing
with a long, sad look, on the troubled and gloomy face, “and
I think something has grieved you.”
“No, no—”
“Let me read a little to you, please—I know you'll
like—”
“No, no; I'm not fit to hear reading now, dear,” he
said, but more softly, and with less decision in his tone.
Kate noted this change, with that marvellous quickness
of children, and said:
“Oh, yes; let me read you just a little about heaven.
When I read it, I never feel sorry afterwards; and, if I am
sick, it makes me feel almost well and happy. Sometimes I
think about my being a little child, without any father or
mother—any real father, I mean, though papa is my father—
and I feel like crying; but I read a little in my Bible,
and think that papa and mamma are in heaven, and that, if
I am good, I'll go to heaven, too; and, then, I feel as if it
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wasn't much matter whether I felt sick and badly or not, so
I kept myself good; for I will see them in heaven, if I
obey God.”
The weary and storm-tossed soul listened to these simple
words, and felt a strange emotion at his heart, as if that
heart had been frozen, and was slowly melting.
“For you know,” Kate went on, earnestly, “this world is
not a good place, and we can't be very happy here, though
some things are very sweet and pleasant. We have to suffer
a great deal here, and we must get mighty tired. But we
ought not to complain when we have heaven to think of,
where all will be happiness and joy. We feel wrong towards
people very often, at least I do, and people behave badly to
us, and make us suffer; but we ought to bear all this, when
we think of living and loving dearly in heaven, for ever and
for ever. Oh! let me read you where it says heaven is a
place `where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary
are at rest.'”
And, without waiting for a reply, the child opened her
little Bible, and read, in a low, subdued, earnest voice, some
verses, which the young man listened to in silence. Kate
closed the book, and leaning her head on his shoulder, said:
“That sounds to me so sweet, that it makes me happy.”
“Yes, yes,” murmured Mr. Effingham, covering his eyes.
“Do you like to hear me read?” she asked, wistfully.
“Yes,” he murmured again.
“Then,” said Kate, with an expression of entreaty,
which lit up her tender little face, like a light from heaven,
and putting her arm round his neck as she spoke—“then
come and go back! Oh, please come and go back, and I'll
read to you whenever you want to hear me; and, oh! we'll
be so happy, cousin Champ! I can't be happy while you are
here, and I think that you are not well, may be, and haven't
any body to do little things for you. Don't stay in this place,
and be all by yourself. I'm sure cousin Alethea's sorry if
she said any thing to make you angry; indeed, I know she is,
for she said to papa that she ought not to have said something
to you. Papa is dreadfully distressed at your going away,
and, indeed—indeed—” (here the child's voice faltered) “I
shall be so unhappy—so—so—Oh, cousin Champ, do come and
go with me! Oh, please don't stay! You can't find any body
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to love you as much as we do, and till you come back the
Hall will look dark to me.”
The little arm around his neck drew him toward the
door; the beseeching voice went to his heart, and melted all
his pride, and hardness, and stubborn coldness; the half jest
he had uttered about his guardian angel, seemed to become
a heavenly reality—to be there in the person of that child,
entreating him to go away with her.
“Oh, come!” cried Kate, clinging closer and closer to
him, and turning her moist, tender eyes upon his own;
“come with me, cousin Champ—come back with us—oh!
you are coming. I knew you would. You wouldn't refuse
me, I know.”
And she placed one hand on the door to open it.
Before she could touch the knob the door opened, and a
servant appeared on the threshold.
“A gentleman to see you, sir; ask him up, sir?” he
said, bowing.
Mr. Effingham hesitated, and was silent. It might have
been imagined that he feared to leave the child—to go beyond
the reach of her voice, the brightness of her eyes.
“Well, well,” he said, after a moment's silence, “whoever
it is I will see him. Stay here, dear—wait till I come
back—I will return directly. Say I will be down immediately,”
he added, to the servant.
Then stooping, and pressing his lips to the child's forehead,
he said, tenderly and softly:
“Stay till I return, Katy; I will soon send this gentleman
off, whoever he may be. I cannot lose you so soon, and
I think, before you go—if I do not go with you—you may
read me some more.”
Kate looked inexpressibly delighted, and this expression
of joy seemed to touch and please Mr. Effingham extremely.
He threw a last fond glance on the child, and saying again
that he would be back in a moment, went out and closed the
door. Kate sat down overcome with joy and pride: her
smile seemed to illuminate the whole apartment, dimming
the very radiance of the sunlight.
Ten minutes passed thus, when suddenly a knock at the
door made her heart throb; and rising quickly to her feet,
she said, before she was aware of it, “Come in!”
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Cooke, John Esten, 1830-1886 [1854], The Virginia comedians, or, Old days in the Old Dominion. Edited from the mss. of C. Effingham, Esq. [pseud] (D. Appleton and Co, New York) [word count] [eaf520v1T].
