LITTLE HOMESPUN
By Ruth Ogden
(Mrs. Charles W. Ide)
Author Of “A Loyal Little Red-Coat” “A Little Queen Of Hearts” “His Little Royal Highness” “Courage” etc.
With Numerous Original Illustrations By Mabel Humphrey
New York: Frederick A. Stokes Company
1897
CONTENTS
[ CHAPTER I.—TWO OLD CRONIES ]
[ CHAPTER II.—COURAGE TAKES HEART. ]
[ CHAPTER III.—A DELIGHTFUL DISCOVERY. ]
[ CHAPTER IV.—EVERYBODY HAPPY. ]
[ CHAPTER VI.—ARLINGTON BEFORE THE WAR. ]
[ CHAPTER VII.—ARLINGTON AFTERWARD. ]
[ CHAPTER VIII.—TO SAVE BREVET. ]
[ CHAPTER IX.—JOE HAS AN’ IDEA. ]
[ CHAPTER X.—BREVET SCORES A POINT. ]
[ CHAPTER XI.—A RED-LETTER AFTERNOON. ]
ONE MOMENT PLEASE.
In a way, this book, “Little Homespun,” is a story quite by itself. In another way it is a sequel to “Courage,” although you can “catch its thread” without having read a line of “Courage.” Now some grown people, and I presume some children, do not care for sequels at all, but I happen to know that the children who are good enough to read and care for my stories are fond of sequels. Those who have taken the trouble to write me, in little letters that are worth their weight in gold many times over, almost invariably ask for another book about the same people. Sometimes they tell me just what to put into the new story and what name to give it. So here lies my excuse if one is needed for writing “Little Homespun.” Besides, I could hardly help it, for there seemed to be quite a little yet to tell about Courage and Sylvia, and some new little friends of theirs. And one thing more—everything in this story that has to do with real people or actual events is absolutely true; a little book, named “Historic Arlington,” giving most of the information needed. Even old black Joe has his counterpart in Wesley Morris, one of the slaves of Mr. Custis, born on the estate, and employed for many years following the war as a workman about the grounds at Arlington.
“RUTH OGDEN.”
Oakdene
Sept. 1, 1897.
LITTLE HOMESPUN
CHAPTER I.—TWO OLD CRONIES
JUNE morning, clear and cool as October, and everything far and near fairly revelling in the early summer sunshine. The Potomac, blue as the sky above it, sparkling and dancing, the new young leaves on the oak trees shimmering and shining with the marvellous green of springtime, and the dear old Virginia homestead, overhanging the river, never looking more homelike and attractive in all its quiet life. The reason for this did not lie all in the sunshine either. Just outside the door, on the wide gallery, a darling old lady sat knitting, for as darling means “dearly beloved,” no other word could so truly describe her. Everybody worshipped her and regarded her—as well they might—with unspeakable devotion; for darling old ladies, as you very well know, do not grow on every bush—quite to the contrary—a great many old ladies (bless their tired old hearts!) grow fretful and nervous and fussy, and are hard to please, not to say cranky. But who would blame them for this for a minute? Just as likely as not you and I will be cranky enough ourselves, when we have borne the burden of fourscore years, and are pretty well worn out in mind and spirit and body. But here was an old lady who was not worn out. Her hair was white with “the incomparable whiteness of aged hair,” and there were the indelible marks of age on the sweet, earnest face, but this dear old lady was “sunny.” She had had her own full share of sorrows and worries, and she had taken them all very much to heart—as people must whose hearts are big enough to take things to at all—and as tender as hearts really ought to be. But somehow or other, she had learned the secret of not being overcome by the worries and the sorrows, and so, sitting there knitting that peerless June morning, she and the sunshine together seemed to glorify everything about them.
Presently a little specimen appeared in the doorway; a handsome little fellow too, though he did not have any curls, as most children do who find their way into story books, but his hair was golden, and, though cut quite short, as he insisted upon having it, had a little trick of straying down on his forehead in quite irresistible fashion.
“Well, what are we going to do to-day?” said his grandmother, gazing at him as fondly as only fond grandmothers can. In response the little fellow merely pointed to two straps of gold braid upon his shoulders, and looked as though, really “grandnana” should have known better than to ask.
“Oh! beg pardon, Brevet, I was so intent upon my knitting I had not noticed,” and she succeeded in foiling a smile that would at least have proved annoying; for, as every one about the place knew, the gold shoulder-straps, worn in imitation of a captain’s uniform in the army, meant but one thing, and that was that Captain Joe was coming down to carry Brevet-Captain up to Arlington for the day. Indeed at that moment a cheery “How’dy, Brevet!” rang out on the still morning air, and at the same moment a donkey and a two-wheeled cart driven by an old negro came to a stand at the gate.
“How’dy, Captain, I’m ready for you. Been expecting you ev’ry minute since breakfast. Good-bye, Grannana, take good care of yourself,” and a pair of chubby arms gave grandmamma just about as much of a hug as the old lady could bear up under.
“Good-mornin’, Miss Lindy,” said Captain Joe, stepping up to the gate and touching his cap deferentially. “I ’spose the little un tol’ you I’d like him up to Arlington fur de day if you could spare him.”
“No, Joe,” answered Mrs. Ellis, smiling, “Brevet does not think that necessary now-a-days. He simply dons the blue reefer with the shoulder-straps, and that means he has his orders for the day from his captain, and grandmammas are not expected to ask questions.” Brevet stood by, his hands upon his hips in most independent fashion, as much as to say, “That describes the case exactly.”
“Well, I reckon he don’ mean no harm, Miss Lindy,” said Joe, a little anxiously. “He’s dat much in earnest ’bout everythin’, dat he’s a Brevet-Cap’n sure ’nuff when he gets his straps on.” "Oh, that’s all right, Joe,”’ answered Mrs. Ellis, “but we’ll just send for you, if the day comes when we need to court-martial him for insubordination.”
Brevet did not at all understand this last remark, and so, touching his little blue cap in true soldier-fashion, turned on his heel and marched down to the donkey-cart as though in command of an army.
“Brevet,” said Joe seriously, as they jogged away from the gate, “You mus’ be ver’ careful ’bout bein’ spectful like to yo’ Grandnana, case if you don’ dere’s no tellin’ but any day yo’ Cap’n ’ll take away yo’ straps an’ den you’d jus’ be plain Marse Howard again I reckon.”
“Joe,” said Brevet solemnly, his voice trembling a little, “I could not bear it if you took away my straps,” and he laid a little brown hand protectingly upon one shoulder.
“Well, den you have a care, Honey, ‘bout Miss Lindy, an’ de nex’ time Joe invites you down to Arlington fur de day, you des ask yo’ Grandnana’s permission. Yo’re my Brevet-Cap’n sure ’nuff, but you’re yo’ Grandnana’s little pickaninny eb’ry day in de week, and don’ you forget it.”
“I’ll remember, Captain,” with most soldierlike submission, and then for awhile they drove along in silence. Happy thoughts of anticipation, however, soon chased the troubled look from Brevet’s little face, for there was nothing at all could compare with these occasional days spent with Joe at Arlington. It was owing to them that he had gained his dearly-loved title of Brevet and the blue soldier-cap and the shoulder-straps. Joe had been a member of a coloured regiment and had fought all through the war, and when at last he had come back and had settled down in his old cabin at Arlington, he was dubbed Captain, in recognition of his gallant services, by all the coloured folk of the neighbourhood. And Joe was by no means unworthy of the honour, for save for the fact that his regiment had been officered by white men, he might easily have risen to the command of a company. Time and time again in the face of the greatest danger he had been notoriously fearless, and had never in a single instance shown the white feather, which is more than can be said for many of his black comrades. And so from that time on it had been Captain Joe, and when some thirty years later little Howard Ellis came to make his home with his grandmother, and soon afterward came to know Joe, and to spend many a long summer day in his delightful company, what more natural than that the little fellow, with his great passion for everything military, should first aspire to some of the outward insignia, and then, having attained cap and shoulder-straps by favour of his grandmother, should later be dowered with the title of “Brevet-Captain,” by favour of Captain Joe himself?
“You see it’s des de name fur you, Honey,” Joe had explained, “case it’ll save any con-fus’n’ of us togedder, an’ at de same time it’s a very complimentin’ title. It means es how you have it des as a sort of honour, widout havin’ any of de ’sponsibilities of an out-an’-outer cap’n like me.”
From that day forward it was “Brevet-Captain,” very tenaciously insisted upon by Howard himself, but gradually allowed to be abbreviated to “Brevet” within the home circle. And so Captain Joe and Brevet, having long ago arrived at the most satisfactory mutual understanding, sat side by side in the donkey-cart, without feeling the slightest obligation to say a word.
The road from the Ellis homestead up to Arlington lies through the woods, and has all the charm of a road that has been left to follow its own way—and a sweet, wild way at that. There were no fences, either new or old, for none were needed. On each side a forest of oak, interspersed with an occasional maple or chestnut, stretched miles away, with seldom a glimpse of a clearing, while immediately bordering the road grew the veriest tangle of a natural hedge-row, abloom with some sort of sweet wild-flower from May to October. The original cut through the wood had been happily a wide one, and so sunshine and shower even, after all these years, still had abundant chance to slant this way and that across the road and coax every growing thing to perfection. Wood-violets, white and yellow and purple, peered out from under the taller growths of fern in the early springtime. June brought the sweet wild rose, unfolding bud after bud well into the summer, and the white berry-blossoms of the briars. With August came the berries themselves, ripening ungathered in riotous profusion, and following close upon them advance heralds of the goldenrod and the asters. It was in very truth a beautiful, dear old road, and it formed a beautiful setting for the little donkey-drawn cart slowly making its way along it. A pretty contrast, too, that of the old negro, still alert and sturdy notwithstanding his threescore years and ten, with the little golden-haired boy beside him. Together they seemed the embodiment of happy, confiding childhood and trustful, serene old age. On came the little cart, each of its occupants apparently intent upon his own thoughts, until at last Brevet commenced humming a sweet little refrain; very softly and slowly at first, as though not quite sure of his ground, then more distinctly as he felt himself master of the situation. Finally the refrain took to itself words; words that have since grown commonplace, but which had all the charm of novelty for Joe, and he listened with absorbed delight as Brevet sang cutely,—
“I’se a little Alabama Coon
And I hasn’t been born very long,
I ‘member seein’ a great big roun’ moon
I ’member hearin’ one sweet song;
When dey tote me down to de cotton-field,
Dar I roll and I tumble in de sun,
While my daddy pick de cotton mammy watch
me grow,
And dis am de song she sung:”
Brevet paused for the briefest part of a second to see how Joe was taking it.
“Go on, Honey, go on,” urged Joe.
“An’ dis am de song she sung:” repeated Brevet.
“Go to sleep my little pickaninny,
Br’er Fox’ll catch if yo’ don t;
Slumber on de bosom of yo’ ole Mammy Jinny
Mammy’s gwine to swatch yo’ if yo’ won’t.
Sh—Lu-la, lu-la lu-la lu-la lu!
Underneaf de silver Southern moon,
Rock-a-by, hush-a-by, Mammy’s little baby,
Mammy’s little Alabama Coon.”
"Again, Honey, again,” in a voice of actual command, so reluctant was Joe to have his keen enjoyment for one moment interrupted, and Brevet obeyed, keeping the air perfectly and singing with all his heart, too, as though himself a veritable little pickaninny, dwelling upon the many happy memories of babyhood in a cotton-field.
“I clar to yo’, Honey,” said Joe, his voice trembling with delight, “I can just see dat little baby. Seems ter me I neber done hear anythin’ so pretty, anythin’ dat fit each other like dat song an’ words. Whar eber did yo’ Tarn it, Honey?”
“Uncle Harry taught it to me, Joe.”
“Are der any more verses, Honey?”
“There’s one more, Joe, but Uncle Harry says it’s so ordinary it doesn’t belong with the first verse at all.”
“Well now, dat’s a pity,” said Joe, very regretfully, “but yo’ Uncle Harry he do beat all for gettin’ hol’ of sweet, catchin’ music an’ I kin des tell yo’, Honey, you done mus’ sing dat song to yo’ ole Cap’n eb’ry time we fin’ ourselves togedder fur half a shake of a lamb’s tail. Gib us yo’ han’ on it, Honey, dat you will.”
Brevet put his brown hand in Joe’s black one, his own face beaming with the pleasure he had given, and so the two boon companions jogged on, until, high on a hill before them, the pillars of a fine old house came into view, and a few moments later the donkey-cart drew up at a little cabin, just in the rear of the fine old house, a cabin that had been Joe’s home ever since he was as little a fellow as Brevet there beside him.
“I’ll look around while you put Jennie up,” explained Brevet, as soon as Joe had lifted him from the cart, and putting his hands in his pockets he walked up to the big house, straight through the hall, whose doors stood wide open, and out on to the porch in front. Brevet simply loved “to look around,” from that porch, and I do not think he ever stood there without his resolve to be a soldier some day surging up in a strong, new tide within him. Some of the rest of us, who are quite too old ever to think of being soldiers, and whose petticoats must at any age have stood in the way, know exactly how Brevet felt. You know, too, if you have ever been to Arlington, and, having been born and bred in these United States of ours, are the true little American you really ought to be. But in case you never have been to Arlington, and do not at all know why it should make you feel that you would like to be a soldier, then let me tell you before you have read another single line, that Arlington is the great National Cemetery, lying a few miles out from Washington, and where more than fifteen thousand soldiers lie buried. From the moment you enter the beautiful grounds, you see the low mounds stretching away on every side of you, and when you drive up in front of Arlington House itself, there is brave General Sheridan’s tomb right in front of you, so you cannot forget for a moment what a host of noble heroes they were, who fought in our great civil war thirty years ago, and how grand a thing it is lo be willing to lay down one’s life if need be, for the honour of one’s country. But perhaps you wonder that there should be a fine old house in a cemetery, and that Brevet should so love to go there, thinking a cemetery for your part rather sad and depressing, and wonder too why Joe should have chosen such a place for his home; all of which wonders it would take too much time to explain in this chapter, a chapter that was only meant to introduce you to Brevet and the Captain, so good-bye for just now to Arlington.
CHAPTER II.—COURAGE TAKES HEART.
This time, as before, there is a story to tell because of something braved and dared for Miss Julia’s sake; something that needed less nerve, perhaps, than the leap Courage took that night on the drawbridge, but something that called not only for a world of a different sort of courage, but for infinite patience as well, and that claimed the whole summer for its doing. The reason for it all lay in four little words—Miss Julia was dead. Beautiful, strong, radiant Miss Julia! why, no one had thought of death for her, save as years and years away in the serene twilight of a calm old age; and yet it had come, suddenly, after a week’s brief illness, and Courage was simply broken-hearted. She felt she had no right to her name now, and never should have again. Miss Julia had been teacher, mother, friend to her, one or the other almost since her babyhood, and to care for Miss Julia in return, now that she herself was grown up, to let every thing else “come second,” had been her only thought. And now to find her hands suddenly empty, and all the sunshine gone out of her life—was it strange that she felt despairing and desolate and that nothing whatever was left?
“But we are left,” pleaded a chorus of little voices, and Courage seemed to see four brighteyed little children; bright-eyed because God had made them so, but with faces almost as sad as her own. “Yes, we are left,” they continued pleading. “Miss Julia was going to do so much for us this summer; could not you do it in her place for her sake?”
Courage shook her head gravely as in answer to her own thoughts.
“No, I cannot,” she said, firmly. “Everything that I leaned on is gone; nothing is left to me—nothing.”
“But could you not try just for her sake?” chorused the little voices over and over in her heart, day after day, in all the sad hours of waking, and sometimes even in sleeping, until at last she bravely brushed the tears away and made answer, “Yes, for her sake I will!”
She remembered the day of her six-year-old christening, when her remarkable name had been given her and she had asked: “Is courage something that people have, Papa? Have I got it?” and he had told her, “Courage is something that people have, dear, something fine, and I hope you will have it.”
Yes, she would try, even in this dark hour, to live up to her father’s hope for her, and so her resolve was taken.
But the four bright-eyed little children knew nothing of any resolve; they would not have understood what it meant if they had, and as for their singing a pathetic little chorus in any one’s heart, they were altogether unconscious of that as well. But one thing they did know, and that was they should never see Miss Julia again in this world, and they thought they also knew that a beautiful plan she had made for them could never be carried out. The wisest thing, therefore, for these four little people was to put, so far as possible, all thought of the plan from their minds, and Mary, the eldest of the four, said as much to the others.
“Oh, don’t let us think about it any more,” she urged, earnestly. “If we only could have Miss Julia back what would we care for anything else? Besides, when you think what has happened, it seems selfish, and as though we did not have any hearts, to grieve over our own little plans for a moment.”
“But it wasn’t just over our own little plan,” insisted her younger brother Teddy, “it was Miss Julia’s plan for us, and I don’t think it strange a bit that we should grieve over it.”
“Neither do I,” urged Allan, who came next to Teddy in age. “Of course us boys, not going to the sewing-school, did not know Miss Julia as well as you, but I just guess there wasn’t a boy who thought more of her than I did. What’s more I loved her; not making a fuss over her, to be sure, like you girls, still I did really love her,” (emphasising the word by a shake of his head, and firm pursing of his lips). “All the same, I think it’s natural we should feel awfully disappointed.” Gertrude who was seven, and the youngest of the four, nodded in approval of the stand Allan had taken, and continued nodding, as he added, “We haven’t travelled so much, seems to me, or had so much change in our lives as to settle back to the idea of a hot summer here in town, instead of going to the country, without feeling it a bit; that is, I don’t think we have.”
Mary sighed and said nothing, as though ready to admit, after all, that perhaps it was natural that they should take their disappointment somewhat to heart, but the tears that had sprung suddenly into her eyes were from real longing for Miss Julia and not from the disappointment.
This quiet talk in which the little Bennetts were indulging, was being carried on from the backs of two horses—the two girls mounted upon one and the two boys astride the other—but they happened to be the quietest horses in the world; horses that never budged in fact, tailless and headless, and that belonged to the carpenter who lived on the first floor. The Bennetts lived on the top floor; but whenever there was anything to be talked over, down they trooped to the yard and climbed and helped each other to the backs of these high seats, and when all were able to declare themselves perfectly comfortable the conclave would commence. The little Bennetts were great talkers. They simply loved to discuss things, and this shows, when you stop to consider it, that they must be, on the whole, an amiable little family, for some little people that we hear of are quite too impatient and self-assertive to be willing to discuss things at all. But whatever may have been the faults of the little Bennetts they did have respect for each other’s opinions, and were generally ready to admit that two heads were better than one, and “Four heads,” to quote little Gertrude, “four times as better.” This habit of discussion, for it really amounted to that, was partly no doubt the outcome of a little strategy on the part of their mother. Mary and Teddy and Allan and Gertrude were just a “pair of steps,” as the saying goes, and sometimes the little living-room on the fourth floor seemed all too small for the noisy company, and then Mrs. Bennett would exclaim, and as though the most novel sort of an idea had occurred to her:
“Children, why don’t you run down to the yard and have a good talk?”
There was no resisting this appeal, such untold delights were implied in Mrs. Bennett’s tone and manner, and the children seldom failed to act upon the advice, and what was more, seldom failed to light upon some interesting thing to talk about; and then, always as a last resort, some one could tell a story. The some one was generally Teddy, for he had the wildest imagination, and could upon any and every occasion invent most thrilling romances, which were quite as much of a surprise to himself as to his hearers. And so the children had come to love their perch in the corner of the city yard, with the uncertain shade of an old alanthus flickering over them in summer, and the bright sun streaming full upon them in its leafless winter days. And this was how it chanced that the Bennett children found themselves in their old haunt that breezy May morning, and were easing their heavy little hearts by frankly admitting to one another how very great indeed was their disappointment.
Better so, I think. Wrinkles come earlier and plow deeper, and thoughts are apt to grow bitter and morbid, when one broods and broods, and will not take hearts near and dear into one’s confidence. The day never dawns when truly brave hearts cry out for pity, but sympathy is a sweet and blessed thing the world over, and God meant not only that we should have it, but that, if need be, we should reach our hands and grasp it.
There was one little Bennett, however, who did not share in the general depression. Too short a time in the world to know aught of its joys or sorrows, Baby Bennett lay comfortably in his mother’s lap, having just dropped off to sleep after a good half hour of rocking, Mrs. Bennett, who had herself grown drowsy with her low crooning over the baby, glanced first at the bustling little clock on the mantel shelf, and then, leaning her head against the back of the chair, closed her eyes; but instead of falling asleep she fell to thinking, and then her face grew very sad and tears made their way from beneath her closed eyelids. So, you see, the mother-heart was heavy as well as the-child-hearts in the Bennett family, and for the same reason. It was not because they were not learning to face and accept the thought that Miss Julia, whom they so dearly loved, could not return to them; they were trying to be as brave as Miss Julia herself would have had them. But this was the day, the very day that they were all to have started, and they could not seem to forget it for a moment; neither could somebody else, and soon there came a gentle knock at Mrs. Bennett’s door.
“Come in,” she answered, forgetting the tears in her eyes; and, laying the baby in its little clothes-basket of a bed, she turned to greet the newcomer. Courage had mounted the four flights of stairs very bravely, but the sight of the tears in Mrs. Bennett’s eyes disarmed her, and, sinking into the nearest chair, she found she would best not try to speak for a moment.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss Courage, that you should have seen me,” said Mrs. Bennett, with a world of regret in her voice; “it is so much harder for you than for anybody, but this was the day, you know, almost the very hour.”
“Yes, I know,” Courage faltered; “that was why I came.”
“It’s like you, Miss Courage; you’ve Miss Julia’s own thoughtfulness, but I’m thinking it will be easier for us all when this day’s over. I got rid of the trunk last week; it seemed to make us all so disheartened to have it standing round.”
“You didn’t sell it, did you?”
“No, indeed I did not, for it may be the children will have a chance yet some day, for a bit of an outing.”
“I have decided they are all to have it yet, Mrs. Bennett, this very summer, and just as Miss Julia planned, too. That’s what I came to tell you, if you will trust them to me.”
“Trust you! Oh, my dear! but it would be too much care for those young shoulders; too much by far.”
“Mrs. Bennett,” said Courage, so earnestly as to carry conviction, “I thought so at first, too, but the plan has grown to be just as dear to me as it was to Miss Julia, and now, if you do not let me carry it out, I do not see how I can ever live through this first summer.”
“Then indeed I will let you,” and then she added slowly, and with an accent on every word, “and you are just Miss Julia’s own child!” and Courage thought them the very sweetest words she had ever heard, or ever could hear again.
“May I tell the children?” she asked, eagerly. “Where are they?”
Mrs. Bennett did not answer. I believe she could not, but she opened the window and Courage knew that meant the children were below in their favourite corner.
“Oh, let me call them, please,” resting one hand on Mrs. Bennett’s arm and leaning far out over the sill.
“Children! come up stairs for a moment, I have something to tell you. Come up quickly.” Courage hardly knew her own voice, it rang out so cheerily.
“Oh, Miss Courage!” chorused four little voices, only this time the sound was in her ears as well as in her heart, and as she watched the children tumble helter-skelter from the horses in the yard way down below her, a smile that was almost merry drove the shadows from her face.
CHAPTER III.—A DELIGHTFUL DISCOVERY.
Why, whatever’s going on here?” exclaimed Brevet.
“Oh, yes,” said Joe, turning slowly round, for he knew what had attracted Brevet’s attention. “I done notice it on de way up ter Ellismere fo’ you dis mornin’, an’ den I was so took up with dat fascinatin’ song of yo’s as we drove back, dat I didn’t want to interrupt you long ’nuff to call yo’ attention to it. Looks as dough dere mus’ be some one come ter live in de pretty little house, doesn’t it?”
“Why, yes, it does,” said Brevet, very much interested; “and you don’t know who it is, Joe?”
“No, I hasn’t knowed nuffin’ ’bout it, till I seed de whole place lookin’ so pert like dis mornin’,” and Joe brought old Jennie to a standstill that they might more fully take in the situation.
“Don’t you think I ought to find out, Joe?”
“Why, yes, Honey, seems ter me it would be sort of frien’ly,” and suiting the action to the word he took Brevet by the arms and dropped him down over the cart-wheel.
The change that had come over this point in the road was indeed remarkable. A little house that had remained untenanted for years, in the midst of an overgrown enclosure, stood this bright June morning with every door and window open to the air and sunshine. The vines which had half hidden it from view had already been cut away, and on every hand were signs that the place was being brought into liveable shape with all possible expedition. No one was in sight, so Brevet noiselessly pushed open the gate, and, making his way to the little front porch, reached upward and lifted the brass knocker of the open door. The unexpected sound instantly brought a neatly-dressed, elderly-looking woman from some room in the rear.
“How’dy,” said Brevet, instantly put at his ease by the kindness of the woman’s face.
“What did you say, dear?” she asked, with a puzzled frown.
“I said how’dy,” explained Brevet, wondering that the woman’s face still wore the puzzled look. “We just stopped to ask who was coming. We go by here very often, Joe and I,” pointing to the cart, “and we were wondering what was up seeing this place open that’s been closed so long.”
“It can’t be that Miss Julia’s self is a comin’ can it?” called Joe, for the little house was not set so far back from the road but that he could hear every word spoken between the woman and Brevet.
“Why, did you know Miss Julia?” she asked, stepping at once to the gate, with Brevet following close behind her.
“No, Miss; dat is not personally, but I knowed dat Miss Julia owned dis little plantation, an’ I often wonder dat she never done come to live on it. I can ‘member when her Uncle Dave was livin’, an’ it was den des de homiest little homestead in de country.”
“You have not heard then of Miss Julia’s death?”
“No,” exclaimed Joe, with as much feeling in his voice as though Miss Julia had indeed been an old friend; “you don’ tell me! I’se often heard what a reg’lar lady she was, and often wished I done have a chance to lay eyes on her.”
“She was a very good friend to me,” said the woman, sorrowfully, “and she had expected to come down here this summer and open the house, and bring a little family of city children with her who had never spent a day in the real country in their lives.” "You don’t say so!” said Joe, shaking his head sadly. “It’s strange what times de Lord chooses to call de good folks out of dis worl’.” And then he added, after a moment of respectful silence, “But de place here, am it sold to some new party?”
“No; Miss Julia left it in her will to a young lady who was just the same as a daughter to her, and she has decided to come down in Miss Julia’s place this summer.”
“And bring the little children?” asked Brevet, eagerly.
“And bring the little children,” answered the woman, her face brightening. “I have come down to make everything ready for them, and they are coming on Friday.”
“Oh, do you think I could know them?”
“Of course you can know them. You must come and see them so soon as ever they come. But you must tell me your name so that I can tell them about you.”
“My name is Howard Ellis, but that name isn’t any use now. Everybody calls me Brevet since I and the Captain here have grown to be such friends. It means kind of an officer in the army, and when I grow up I’m going to West Point and learn how to be a real officer, and not just kind of a one at all. But till then everybody’s going to call me Brevet. And now what is your name please, and the children’s, because I want to tell my grandnana all about you?”
“Well, my name is Mary Duff, dear, and the children are named Bennett—Mary and Teddy and Allan and Gertrude Bennett.”
“Oh, are two of them boys?” and Brevet’s face was radiant. “I haven’t had a boy to play with ever hardly, but I s’pose they’re older boys than me,” he added, a little crestfallen; “almost all boys are.”
“Well, Teddy is not very much older, just a little, and Allan is just about your age I should say. Never you fear, Brevet, you’ll have beautiful times with them all, I know.”
“When shall I come then?” wishing to have matters very definitely arranged. “Do you think they would like to have me here to help them feel at home right off at the very first?”
“Well, I should not wonder but they would like that very much indeed.”
“Then I will come on Friday.”
“You mean you will ask your grannana, Brevet,” said Joe, significantly.
“Oh, yes; I mean I will ask if I may come.” This last very quickly and eagerly, remembering his little lecture of the morning.
“Well, it’s des a comfort to see de ole place in shape once more, an’ I trus’ you an’ de young lady an’ de chilluns will have des a beautiful summer. P’r’aps some day,” and Joe’s eyes twinkled with the thought, “dey’ll all come up and spen’ de day with me at Arlington. Brevet here alway des loves to come. You know Arlington’s where all de soldiers am buried. I used to be a slave on de place ‘fo’ de wah, an’ dere ain’t much happened dere fur de las’ fifty years dat I hasn’t some knowledge of, and dey done tell me” (indulging in a little complacent chuckle) “dat it’s mighty interestin’ ter spen’ de day with Joe at Arlington.”
“Well, indeed I should think it would be,” said Mary, very much interested, “and I wish you would stop and see Miss Courage about it the first time you drive by.”
“Thank you very much, Miss; and now. Brevet, your grannana will be watchin’ fur us an’ we had bes’ be joggin’ on I’m thinkin’.”
“All right, Captain,” clambering into the cart, and then Joe and Brevet courteously touched their caps, in true military fashion, and old Jenny jogged on.
“Miss Courage did she say?” asked Brevet, the moment they were out of hearing, just as Joe knew he would.
“Yes; it soun’ like dat, Honey, but some day we must make inquiries. Dere mus’ be some ‘splanation of a name like dat.”
CHAPTER IV.—EVERYBODY HAPPY.
It is strange and beautiful,” thought Courage as she moved busily about her room, putting one thing and another into a trunk that stood open before the fireplace; “strange and beautiful how difficulties take to themselves wings, when you once make up your mind what is right to do and then go straight ahead and do it.”
“Miss Courage,” said a young coloured girl, who was leaning over the bed trying to fold a black dress in a fashion that should leave no creases to show for its packing, “I felt all along there was nothing else for you to do.”
“Then, Sylvia, why did you not say so?” Courage asked, a little sharply. “You knew how hard it was for me to come to any decision. It was not because you were afraid to say so, was it?”
“Afraid?” and a merry look shone for a moment in Sylvia’s eyes. “No, I don’t believe I ever could grow afraid of the little curly-headed girl I used to work for when we were both children together. No, indeed; it was only because I thought you ought to see it so yourself. It seemed as though it was just as plain a duty as the hand before your face, and I felt sure you would come to it, as you have, if we only gave you time enough.” It was a comfort to Courage to feel that Sylvia so thoroughly understood her. Indeed, they were far more to each other than mistress and maid; they were true friends these two, whose only home for a while had been Larry Starr’s brave lighter, and for both of whom he had cared in the same kind, fatherly way. Of course you do not understand about Larry or Larry’s lighter, unless you have read “Courage,” but then on the other hand there is no reason why you need to understand. Nor was Sylvia the only one who approved of what Courage had done. The Elversons, Miss Julia’s brother and his wife, and with whom Courage and Miss Julia had lived, were as glad as glad could be to have Courage carry out Miss Julia’s plan; and so in fact was everybody who saw how sad and lonely Courage was, and what a blessing anything that would occupy her thoughts must be to her. And so, in the light of all this, you can see how sad it would have been if Courage had yielded to her fears, and persistently turned away from a duty, in very truth as plain as the hand before your face, as Sylvia had put it. But Courage had not turned away, nor for one instant wavered from the moment her resolve was taken.
And now at last the day for the start had dawned. The little Bennetts had been awake at sunrise. Fancy having three months of Christmas ahead of you—for it seemed just as fine as that to them. It was a wonder they had slept at all. They had read about brooks and hills and valleys, and woods where all manner of beautiful wild things were growing; of herds of cow’s grazing in grassy pastures; of loads of hay with children riding atop of them, and of the untold delights of a hay-loft. And now they were going to know and enjoy every one of these delights for themselves. Why, they could not even feel sad about leaving their mother, and indeed she was as radiant as they at the thought of their going.
“You see,” she explained to them, “I shall have the baby for company, and such a beautiful time to rest; and your father and I will take a sail now and then down the bay, or go to the park for the day in the very warm weather; and then it is going to be such a comfort to have your father home for two whole months, and that couldn’t have happened either, you know, if you had not been going away for the summer.” The children’s father, Captain Bennett, was one of the pilots who earn their living by bringing the great ocean steamers into the harbour, and often he would be aboard the pilot-boat, at sea for weeks at a time, waiting his turn to take the helm of one of the incoming steamers, and then, as like as not, he would have to put straight to sea again, for there were many to keep, and there was need for every hard-earned dollar. But the Captain’s chance for a vacation had come with the children’s. He could afford to take it, since four of his little family were to be provided for, for the entire summer, and so every one was happy and every one believed that somehow Miss Julia must know and be so glad for them all.
But this was the day for the start, as I told you, and the children had started. They were in the waiting-room at the foot of Cortlandt Street, where Courage was to meet them.
“And here she is,” exclaimed Mary, with a great sigh of relief, being the first to espy Courage coming through the gate of the ferry-house, “and doesn’t she look lovely!” Mary was right; Courage did look lovely as, with Sylvia close behind her, she walked the length of the waiting-room to where the little group were standing. Other people thought so too, as she passed, and watched her with keenest interest. Her stylish black dress and black sailor hat were wonderfully becoming, and the face that had been so pale and sad was flushed with pleasure now, and with the rather uncomfortable consciousness that she and her little party could scarcely fail to be the observed of all observers. Mrs. Bennett was there, of course, to see them off, and the baby and the Captain, and it must be confessed that the eyes of both father and mother grew a little misty as they said “Good-bye” to their little flock. The girl contingent was a trifle misty, too, but the baby was the only one who really cried outright. However, I half believe that was because he wanted a banana that hung in a fruit stand near by, and not at all because the children were going to leave him; some babies seem to have so very little feeling. But now it was time to go aboard the boat, and the Captain and Mrs. Bennett saw the last of the little party as they disappeared within the ferry-boat cabin, and then in fifteen minutes more the same little party was ranged along one side of a parlor car on the “Washington Limited”; then the wheels slowly and noiselessly commenced to turn and they were really off; all of the little party’s hearts thrilling with the thought, and all sitting up as prim as you please, in their drawing-room chairs, quite overawed with the magnificence of their surroundings and the unparalleled importance of the occasion.
Courage, very much amused, watched them for a few moments and then suggested that they should settle themselves for the journey. Bags were stowed away in the racks overhead, coats and hats banished to coat hooks, and one thing and another properly adjusted, until at last four little pair of hands having placed four little footstools at exactly the desired angle, four pair of brand-new russet shoes found a resting-place rather conspicuously atop of them, and the four children leaned comfortably back in the large, upholstered chairs as though now at last permanently established for the entire length of the journey. But of course no amount of adjusting and arranging really meant anything of that sort, or that they could be able to sit still for more than five minutes at a time, and Courage and Sylvia soon had to put their wits to work to think up ways of keeping the restless little company in some sort of order. But fortunately none of the fellow-passengers appeared disturbed thereby. On the contrary, they seemed very much interested, and finally a handsome old gentleman came down the aisle, and leaning over the chair in which Courage was sitting, said courteously:
“My dear young lady, if you will pardon an old man’s curiosity, and do not for any reason mind telling me, I should very much like to know what you are doing, and where you are going with this little family?”
“And I am very glad to tell you,” answered Courage cordially, for since that summer spent with Larry there had always been such a very warm corner in her heart for all old people; and Teddy, who was sitting next to Courage, had the grace to offer the old gentleman a chair. Then for some time he listened intently, his kind old face glowing with pleasure as Courage told him all about the children, and finally of the cosy little cottage awaiting their coming down in Virginia.
“But in doing all this,” Courage concluded, “I am simply carrying out the plans of my dearest friend, Miss Julia Everett.”
“Oh, you don’t mean it!” the old gentleman exclaimed, his voice trembling. “I knew Miss Everett well. She always stopped with me when she came to Washington.”
“Can it be that you are old Colonel Anderson?”
“Yes, I am Colonel Anderson, and I suppose I am old,” he added, smiling; “and can it be you are young Miss Courage, of whom I have heard so often?”
“Yes, I am Courage, but you will excuse me, won’t you, for speaking as I did? I only had happened to hear Miss Julia——”
Courage hesitated.
“Oh, yes, dear child, I understand perfectly. You used to hear Miss Julia speak of me as old Colonel Anderson, and so I am, and I am not ashamed of it either, although I could not resist the temptation to tease you a little, which was very rude of me. But now, can it be that it is to Miss Julia’s estate near Arlington that you are going—to the home that her Uncle Everett left her when she was just a little slip of a girl, years before the war?”
“Yes, that is exactly where, but I have never seen it.”
“Well, you will love it when you do. It is the dearest little spot in the world. I will drive out some day and take luncheon with you and the children, if I should happen to have an invitation. I could tell you some interesting things about the old place.”
“Oh, will you come?” exclaimed Mary and Gertrude in one breath, for with a curiosity as pardonable, I think, as that of old Mr. Anderson, all of the children had grouped themselves about Courage, and had listened with keenest interest to every word spoken. And so one more happy anticipation was added to the many with which their happy hearts were overflowing.
At last the train steamed into Washington, although at times it had seemed to the children as though it never would, and then a carriage was soon secured, and, three on a seat, the little party crowded into it, and they were off for their eight mile drive to Arlington.
CHAPTER V.—HOWDY
And meantime what excitement in the little cottage down in Virginia! Everything was in readiness and everybody was on the tiptoe of expectation. Everybody meant Mary Duff, (it was she, you know, who had cared for little Courage through all her babyhood, and who had been sent down to get everything in order), and besides Mary Duff, Mary Ann the cook, old Joe and Brevet.
It must be confessed, Brevet had had a little difficulty in winning his grandmother’s consent to this visit, but he had been able to meet every objection with such convincing arguments, that he had come off victor in the encounter.
“You see, Grandnana,” he had confidentially explained, with his pretty little half-southern, half-darkey accent, “I is a perfec’ stranger to them now I know, but then everything is strange to them down here, so don’t you s’pose it would be nice for me to be right there waiting at the gate, where I can call out ‘How’dy’ just so soon as ever they come in sight, and so for me not to be a stranger to them more’n the first minute, and have them find there are folks here who are very glad to know them right from the start? Besides, the lady—Mary Duff was her name—told me she just knew those little Bennetts would love to see me, and that she would surely expect me down to-day for certain.”
And so “Grandnana” succumbed, not having the heart to nip such noble hospitality in the bud, and at two o’clock precisely, the best carriage wheeled up to the door and Mammy and Brevet were quickly stowed away within it, to say nothing of a basketful of good things covered with a huge napkin of fine old damask. But who is Mammy? you ask, and indeed you should have been told pages ago, for no one for many years had been half so important as Mammy in the Ellis household. She is an old negro woman, almost as old as Joe himself, and when on the first of January, 1863, President Lincoln issued the proclamation that made all the slaves free, she was among the first to turn her back upon the plantation where she was raised, and make her way to Washington. It was there that Mrs. Ellis had found her, when in search of a nurse for her two little boys, and from that day to this she has been the faithful worshipper of the whole Ellis family. Now in her old age her one and only duty has been to care for Brevet, a care constantly lessening as that little fellow daily proves his ability to look out more and more for himself.
Brevet was not to be allowed, however, on the occasion of this first visit to their new neighbours, to make the trip alone. “Grandnana” had been very firm about that, somewhat to his chagrin, and so, if the truth be told, Mammy’s presence in the comfortable, old-fashioned carriage was at first simply tolerated. But that state of affairs did not last long. Try as he would, Brevet was too happy at heart to cherish any grievance, imaginary or otherwise, for many minutes together; and soon he and Mammy were chatting away in the merriest fashion, and the old nurse was looking forward to the unusual excitement of the day, with quite as much expectation as her little charge of seven. Had she not devoted the leisure of two long mornings of preparation to the shelling of almonds and the stoning of raisins, and then when the day came, with eager trembling hands, packed all the good things away in the great, roomy hamper that seemed now to look at her so complacently from the opposite seat of the phaeton? Yes, indeed, it was every whit as glad a day for Mammy as Brevet, and she peered out from the carriage just as anxiously as they drove up to the gate and Mary Duff came out to greet them. But Mammy had something to say before making any motion to leave the carriage.
“Are you quite sure, Miss, dat dis yere little pickaninny of ours ain’t gwine to be in any one’s way or nuffin?” she asked, bowing a how-do-you-do to Mary, and keeping a restraining hand upon Brevet.
“Oh, perfectly sure.”
“He done told us you wanted him very much,” but in a half-questioning tone, as though what Brevet “done told them” was sometimes “suspicioned” of being slightly coloured by what he himself would like to do, notwithstanding his general high standard of truthfulness.
“Brevet is perfectly right—we do want him very much,” Mary answered, heartily.
“Even if you have to take his old Mammy ‘long wid him, kase Miss Lindy wasn’t quite willin to ‘low him ter come by hisself?”
“And we’re very glad to see you, Mammy,” Mary answered cordially, and so the last of Mammy’s scruples, which were not as real as Mammy herself tried to think them, were put to rest, and Brevet was permitted to scramble out of the carriage, while Mary Duff lent a hand to Mammy’s more difficult alighting.
“Is dere ere a man ‘bout could lift dis yere basket ter de house for us?” she asked, looking helplessly up to the hamper, “kase Daniel dere has instructions from de Missus neber to leave de hosses less’n dere ain’t no way to help it.”
“Well, I guess dere is,” chuckled a familiar voice behind her back, and Mammy turned to discover Joe close beside her.
“Well, I klar, you heah!” she exclaimed. “Why, it seems like de whole county turn out to welcome dese yere little Bennetts. Seems, too, like some of us goin’ to be in de way sure ‘nuff.”
“Howsomever, some on us don’ take up so much room as oders,” grunted Joe, surmising, and quite correctly, too, that Mammy considered his presence on the scene something wholly unnecessary and undesirable. “I’se heah to help wid de trunks, Mammy,” he then added; “what you heah to help wid?”
Mammy, scorning the insinuation, turned to Mary Duff as they walked up the path.
“You know, Honey, de Lord ain’t lef’ no choice ter most on us as ter what size we’ll be, but pears like you’d better be a fat ole Mammy like me, than such a ole bag o’ bones as Joe yonder.”
But Joe by that time was depositing his basket in the hall-way of the cottage, and was fortunately quite beyond the fire of this personal attack. Mary Duff was naturally much amused at the real but harmless jealousy of these old coloured folk, and realised for perhaps the five hundredth time what children we all are, be race and nationality what they may.
Meantime Brevet had taken his position on the top rail of the gate, with one arm around a slim little cedar that stood guard beside it.
“May I stand right out here, Miss Duff,” he called back to Mary, “so as to see them a long way off?”
“Bless your heart, yes!” Mary answered, quite certain in her mind that since Courage herself was a little girl she never had seen such a dear child. Brevet’s watch was a brief one.
“They are coming! Hear the wheels! They are coming,” he cried exultingly, with almost the next breath. In just two minutes more they really had come, and Brevet was calling out “How’dy, how’dy, how’dy” at the top of his strong little lungs, to the wide-eyed amazement of the Bennetts, who had never heard this Southern abbreviation of the Northern “How-do-you-do.” Then jumping down from his perch, he ran up to the carriage, repeating over again his cordial welcoming “How’dy.”
“How’dy, dear little stranger!” replied Courage, waving a greeting to Mary; “and who are you I would like to know?”
“I’m Howard Stanhope Ellis, but that’s not what you’re to call me, I have another name. It’s the name they give—” but he did not finish his sentence, for charming little fellow though he was, he could not be allowed to monopolise things in this fashion, and Mary gently pushed him aside to get him out of her way.
“And so here you are at last,” she said joyously; “welcome home, Miss Courage. How are you, Sylvia?” while she bent down with a cordial kiss for each friendly little Bennett. Meantime Courage was making friends with Brevet, and a moment later the children were crowding close about him.
“My, but I’m glad to see you all,” he exclaimed, with an emphasising shake of his head, “and I think I know who’s who too. I believe this is Gertrude,” laying one little brown hand on Gertrude’s sleeve, “and you are Mary, because Mary’s the oldest, and you Teddy, because Teddy comes next, and you—you are Allan.” Brevet had learned his lesson from Mary Duff quite literally by heart, and altogether vanquished by his’ joyous, friendly greeting, the children vied with each other in giving him the loudest kiss and the very hardest hug, but from that first moment of meeting it was an accepted fact that Allan held first place. There was no gainsaying the special joyousness of his “And you—you are Allan.” The boy play-fellow for whom he had hitherto longed in vain had come, and to little Brevet it seemed as though the millennium had come with him.
All this while Joe and Mammy, barely tolerating each other’s presence, waited respectfully in the background, so that Mary had a chance to explain who they were, as Courage stood in the path, delightedly looking up at the dear little house that was to be her home. But Sylvia had already made their acquaintance. After paying the driver and making sure that nothing had been left in the carriage, she went straight toward them. “I thought I should find some of my own people down here in Virginia,” she said, cordially extending a hand to each as she spoke, “but I did not expect they would be right on the spot, the very first moment, to welcome me,” "Miss Duff done tol’ us ‘bout Miss Sylvy bein’ of de party,” said Joe with great elegance of manner, while Mammy looked daggers at him, for replying to a remark which she considered addressed chiefly to herself. It was queer enough, the attitude of these two oldtime slaves toward each other, and yet to be accounted for, I think, in their eagerness to be of use to those whom they claimed the privilege of serving; and each was conscious, by a subtle intuition, of a determination to outwit the other if possible in this regard—which was all very well, if they only could have competed in the right sort of spirit.
But there is no more time in this chapter for Mammy or Joe, nor anything else for that matter. Indeed, it would take quite a chapter of itself if I should try to tell you of the unpacking of Grandma Ellis’s basket, and then of the children’s merry supper; but it seems to me there are more important things for me to write about, and for you to read about, than things to eat and of how the children ate them. By nine o’clock quiet reigned in the little cottage, and “the children were nestled as snug in their beds” as the little folk in “The Night before Christmas.” Joe and Mammy and Brevet had long ago gone home, and Courage and Mary Duff were sitting together in the little living-room, while Sylvia, in the hall just outside, was busy arranging the books they had brought with them, on some hanging shelves.
“I think this has been the happiest day in all my life,” said Courage. “I have simply forgotten everything in the pleasure of those children.” And then, sitting down at the little cottage piano and running her hands for a few moments over the keys, she sang softly,—
“For all the Saints, who from their labour rest,
Thy name, O Jesus, be forever blest.”
The sweet, familiar hymn brought Sylvia to the door.
“Miss Courage,” she said, standing with her arms folded behind her back, as she had always a way of standing when deeply interested, “you have forgotten yourself and your sorrow to-day, but not for one moment have you really forgotten Miss Julia,” and Courage knew that this was true, and closed the little piano with tears in her eyes and a wondrous joy and peace in her heart.
CHAPTER VI.—ARLINGTON BEFORE THE WAR.
No sooner were our little New Yorkers settled in their pretty summer home than they naturally desired that it should have a name, and after much discussion, according to the Bennett custom, they all agreed that “Little Homespun,” one of the names that Courage had suggested, seemed to fit the cosy, unpretentious little home better than anything else that had been thought of. No sooner were they settled either before they became friends firm and fast of the household up at Ellismere. It needed but very little time to bring that about, because everything was—to use a big word because no smaller one will do—propitious. You can imagine what it meant to Courage—taking up her home in a new land, and with cares wholly new to her—to have a dear old lady like Grandma Ellis call upon her, as she did the very first morning after her arrival. Of course Courage had to explain how it was she had come way down there to Virginia with the little Bennett children in charge. Indeed, almost before she knew it, and in answer to Grandma Ellis’s gentle inquiries, she had told her all there was to tell—about Miss Julia, about herself and Mary Duff and Sylvia, and finally, as always with any new friend, the why and wherefore of her own unusual name. The tears stood in Grandma Ellis’s eyes many times during the narration, and her face was aglow with love and sympathy and admiration as Courage brought her story to a close.
“And now, my dear,” she had said, “I want you should know what little there is to tell about us. We live just three miles from here, and in the same old Virginia homestead where my husband was born. We, means my son Harry, and Brevet and myself. Brevet, as you already know, perhaps, has neither father nor mother. His mother died when he was six months old, and his father, my oldest son, was drowned when the Utopia went down, off the coast of Spain five years ago. We are doing our best, Harry and I, to make up to Brevet for his great loss; but it is sad that the little fellow should only know the love of an old grandmama like me, and never of his own young mother. But I do not want to burden you with my sorrows, dear child; I only want you to know we must all be the best of friends the whole summer through. It seems to me we just need each other, and in order to commence right, you must all come and spend the day with us to-morrow.”
And on the morrow they all did go up to Ellismere, Mary Duff and Sylvia with the others; the children went again the day after that, and then all hands from Ellismere came down to Homespun for the day, and so what with constant coming and going from one house to the other, in just two weeks’ time it was as though they had known each other always. And then it was that Joe arranged with Courage for the day to be spent at Arlington.
“The Ellis’s will all come,” Joe explained, “Mammy wid de res’ of ‘em, I suppose,” (but very much as though he preferred she should not) “and I done wish de Colonel could be persuaded to drive out from Washington, case ‘tween us we knows mos’ dere is of interest happened at Arlington. He use’ to visit at de big house when General Lee lived in it ’fo’ de wah, an’ I was a slave on de place.”
“You don’t mean Colonel Anderson, do you, Joe?”
“De berry same, Miss.”
“Well, then, of course he’ll come. He is an old, old friend of Miss Julia’s. I met him on the train when we came down and he asked me to invite him out some time,” and so Courage wrote a note of invitation that very day which Joe, with his own hands, carried into Washington. It was written on pretty blue paper, which had “Homespun” engraved at the top of the sheet and Tiffany’s mark on the envelope as well. It must be confessed that Courage had a little extravagant streak in her; that is, she loved to have everything just about as nearly right as she could. Sister Julia had encouraged the little streak, knowing the peculiar pleasure that the reasonable indulgence of a refined taste brings into life, “but, dear,” she had often said to Courage, “there is one thing to look out for, and that is that the more you gratify your own taste the more you must give to the people who have no taste at all, or very little of anything that makes life enjoyable,” all of which good advice Courage had taken to heart and remembered. But extravagant streak or no, the stylish little blue note accomplished its purpose, for at precisely nine o’clock the next morning Colonel Anderson wheeled up at Joe’s cabin, in his high, old-fashioned carriage, and at almost the same moment arrived the Homespun buckboard with its load of eight (for Sylvia and Mary Duff were to be in as many good times as possible) and a moment later Grandma Ellis, Harry, Brevet and old Mammy drove upon the scene.
“Now, how would we best manage things, Joe?” asked Colonel Anderson, after everybody had had a. little chat with everybody else, and luncheon baskets and wraps had been safely stowed away in Joe’s cabin.
“Well, seems ter me we’d better take a look over de house first, den take a stroll through de groun’s an’ come back to de shade of dat ol’ ches’nut yonder for de story. You can’t make a story bery interestin’ when you hab a walkin’ aujence, an’ de aujence what’s walkin’ can’t catch on ter de story bery well either.”
It was easy to see that this suggestion was a wise one, so with the exception of Grandma Ellis and Mammy, for whom comfortable rocking-chairs were at once placed under the chestnut tree, the little party made its way into the old colonial house.
“Arlington House is rather a cheerless looking place now, I admit,” sighed Colonel Anderson, as they walked through the large empty rooms, “but wait till we have the story and we’ll fill it full enough.”
“Yes, but don’t let us wait any longer than we have to,” answered Courage, and as this was the sentiment of the entire party, they hurried from the house for the walk that was to follow. The four little Bennetts kept close to each other all the way, Mary, the eldest, leading little Gertrude by the hand. They were very quiet, too, wondering and overawed by the unbroken lines of graves on every side.
“I wonder if Teddy and I will have to go to a war when we grow up,” said Allan at last, half under his breath, with a perceptible little shiver and as though barely mustering courage to speak.
“We’ll go if there is a war, I can tell you that,” Teddy replied, rather scornfully.
“Then we’ll be buried here, I suppose,” and Allan shook his head hopelessly, as though standing that moment at the foot of their two soldier-graves.
“And so will I,” affirmed Brevet, who had kept his place close beside his favourite Allan from the start. “I’ll speak to be buried right by both of you, too, just as though I was one of your family,” and Brevet stood as he spoke with his arms folded and his brows knit, in solemn and soldier-like fashion.
Now and then the little party would group itself around Colonel Anderson as he read the inscription from some monument or headstone, telling of the valour of the man whose grave it marked and often of the brave deed dared that cost the hero his life. And so some idea was gained of the beauty and significance of the great soldier cemetery, and then all hurried back to Grandma Ellis, and Colonel Anderson began his story.
An odd assortment of rush-bottomed chairs had been brought from Joe’s cabin for the grown-ups, and the children were scattered about on shawls and carriage rugs on the ground.
“Now, it isn’t easy,” said Colonel Anderson thoughtfully, “to know just where to commence.”
“Den I’ll tell you,” said Joe, who was seated at the Colonel’s elbow. “Dere ain’t no such proper place ter begin as at de beginnin’. Tell ‘em as how der was a time when Arlington was a great unbroken forest, an’ how way back early in de eighteen hundreds, George Washington Parke Custis came by de lan’ through his father and built Arlington House.”
“If you are going as far back as that, Joe, you ought to go farther, and tell how there was an old house here even before this one, which was built way back early in the seventeen hundreds. It was a little house, with only four rooms, and it stood down yonder near the bank of the river, and was bought with the land by John Custis from the Alexanders. John Custis, you know, children, was Martha Washington’s son, for she was a widow with two children when she married General Washington; and George Washington Parke Custis, who lived for awhile in the little house before he built this beautiful big one, was her grandson. He was a fortunate young fellow, as the world counts being fortunate, for he had more money than he knew what to do with. As soon as this fine house was completed, George Custis was married and brought his bride to his new home, where for the next fifty years they lived the most happy and contented life imaginable. They had one daughter, a very beautiful young lady, as I myself clearly remember, for my birthday and her wedding-day fell together, and that was why I was allowed to attend the wedding. My mother and Miss Mollie’s mother were the warmest friends, but I was only a boy of ten, and would have been left at home, I think, but for the coincidence of the birthday. I remember my mother told me Miss Custis said she would like me always to think of her wedding-day, when my birthday came round, and I can tell you, children, I always do, even though I am an old man and have started in the seventies.” "An’ so do I,” chimed in Joe; “I neber done think of one without de oder, so closely are dey ’sociated in my min’.”
“Why, were you there too, Joe?” asked Brevet, with a merry little twinkle in his eyes, for if there was one story more often told than any other for Brevet’s edification, it was the story of Miss Mary Custis’s wedding.
“Sho’ as yo’ born, Honey,” quite overlooking Brevet’s insinuation in his absorbing interest in the subject. “It was a bery busy day for me, de day Miss Mollie was married.”
“How ole was you, Joe, ‘bout dat time?” asked Mammy, her old eyes a-twinkle with mischief as well as Brevet’s, for Joe’s age, as every one knew, was a mere matter of guesswork, so careful was he that no one should ever come to a knowledge of the same.
“Seems ter me dat question ain’t no wise relavent,” replied Joe, bristling up a little, “but de Colonel and I warn’t so bery far apart when we was chilluns.”
“Why, were you friends then?” asked Allan Bennett.
“Well, that day made us friends,” answered Colonel Anderson, “and this was the way it happened. Everything was ready for the wedding. As many of the guests as it would hold were assembled in the drawing-room, the room on the left of the front door there as you go in, but the clergyman had not arrived. Then it was that Mr. Custis, beginning to grow nervous, called to Joe there, who stood on the porch, as fine as silk in his best clothes and white cotton gloves, ready to open the carriage doors for the guests as they arrived.
“‘Joe,’ called Mr. Custis, ‘run down the road, and see if you see a sign of a carriage anywhere in sight,’ and, children, what do you suppose Joe did? Well, he just stood stock still, looking down at his bright polished boots, and he never budged an inch.”
“It’s de truf,” said Joe, shaking his head regretfully, for the children were looking to him for confirmation of the story.
“You see the boots were very shiny,” continued the Colonel, in a tone of apology for Joe, “and the roads were very very muddy, so that he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Fortunately for Joe, I imagine, Mr. Custis had not waited to see him start, taking for granted, of course, that he would obey at once, and then what did I do but spring down the steps and run on Joe’s errand for him, only too thankful if I could do anything to prove my gratitude for being allowed to be present at that, to me, greatest of occasions. I had to wait less than five minutes before I discovered the open chaise, which had been sent into Washington to bring the dominie, tearing up the road.
“‘They’re coming, they’ll be here in a minute,’ I called, hurrying back to Joe, and then he rushed away in his new shiny boots and delivered my message to Mr. Custis, pretending, as the rogue confessed to me afterward, to be quite out of breath from the haste with which he had come. And then in the next moment Mr. Meade, for that was the clergyman’s name, was really there, but he came in at the back door and slipped upstairs as quickly as he could, followed by Joe and myself. You see he had driven right into the heart of a heavy thunder shower, just outside of Washington, and was drenched to the skin. There was nothing for it but that he must make a change of clothing as quickly as he could, so Joe, who knew where Mr. Custis kept his clothes, ran hither and thither, bringing one article after another, and I helped the minister into them—but my, how he did look! Mr. Custis was short and stout, and Mr. Meade was tall and thin, and I didn’t see how any one could keep their faces straight with such a guy of a minister. They couldn’t have done it either, if they had seen how he looked, could they, Joe?”
“No, Colonel, not for a minute,” chuckled Joe. "But why didn’t they see?” questioned eager little Allan.
“Why, because, of course, he had brought his gown with him, and it covered him all up,” for Brevet, able to anticipate much of the familiar story, was glad to have a hand in its telling.
“I wish you could know how the house looked in those days,” said the Colonel with a sigh of regret, echoed by a much louder and deeper sigh on the part of Joe. “It was full of the most beautiful things. There was a magnificent array of old family portraits; among them two or three of George and Martha Washington. Then there was a marvelous old sideboard that held many beautiful things that had belonged to Washington. I remember in particular some great silver candlesticks with snuffers and extinguishers, and silver wine-coolers, and some exquisite painted china, part of a set that had been given to Washington by the Society of the Cincinnati.”
“I do not think you have told the children,” interrupted Grandma Ellis, “who it was that Miss Custis married.”
