Then she proceeded to cover a ball of old ravellings with some bright flannels, and fasten a long cord to it, for the little girl and Trip to play together with; and just to try its effects, she threw it time and again, and laughed to see Trip scamper after it.
“Why, what a fool I am!” she said, when she had consumed about half an hour playing with Trip.
Miss Avery was beginning to feel young again.
CHAPTER VIII. A BRIGHT SATURDAY AFTERNOON.
THE keeping-room wore quite a festive air. Some purple and white lilacs in an old china vase adorned the table, and Miss Avery, conscious of stores of attraction in her cupboard, had been waiting impatiently for her little visitor, when she heard a knock at the front door, and it was a race between her and Trip which should get to it first.
Trip’s joyful barks filled the house, while Miss Avery pulled and jerked the old front door, which, being rheumatic and unused to opening, hung obstinately back, and at last flew open with a bounce that was like to upset them both.
“There, now!” said the little one. “It’s Saturday afternoon, and I can stay till sundown; aint you glad?” she asked, looking up at Miss Avery with great clear wide blue eyes.
“To be sure I am,” said Miss Avery, heartily, as she hung up the little bonnet; and then, taking down the china lamb from the mantel, she said, “See there! that’s what I used to play with when I was a little girl; you shall play with it when you come to see me.”
“Oh, how beautiful! May I take it?” said the child.
“Yes,” said Miss Avery: and stooping shyly towards her, as she handed the toy, she said, —
“Haven’t you got another kiss for me?”
“Oh dear, yes,” said the little one, throwing her arms round her neck. “I’ve got twenty kisses for you; for I really love you, ‘cause you are so good.”
“No, no, I’m not good,” said Miss Avery, with a half-sigh; “I’m a poor, homely, cross old woman.”
“No, you’re not; you’re not cross a bit. Nobody shall say you are cross, shall they, Trippy? Trip knows how good you are, don’t he, Trippy?” And Trip barked an energetic testimony of Miss Avery’s goodness.
Miss Avery felt the sweet flattery of a child’s love with a new and strange delight, and all the lines of her face softened and lighted up so that she looked almost handsome.
The small visitor now chattered on like a little brook over stones, running here and there, and asking questions about everything she saw.
“What funny chamber stairs!” she said, as she peeped into the entry; “they look just like pieces of pie. Can Trippy and I go and see what is up there?”
“Oh yes; I’ll show you,” said Miss Avery; and she took the little girl and Trip the round of the chambers above.
One of them was kept with a special nicety. The window-curtains were spotless and white, the bed was neatly made; there was a writing-table with books and papers on it.
“This was my brother’s room,” said Miss Avery.
“Where is he?” said the little one, innocently.
“I don’t know,” said Miss Avery, and her countenance fell.
The little one picked up a book on the table, and opened it, and read on the fly-leaf, —
“EBEN AVERY.”
“Why, that’s my papa’s name!” she said; “his name’s Eben Avery.”
Miss Avery turned pale and sat down in a chair, putting her hand to her head. The room seemed to go round for a moment; but in a moment more she commanded herself, and said, —
“Your papa’s name Ebon Avery? Where is he?”
“He’s travelling now. I don’t know where he and mamma are, but he’s coming here by-and-by. We used to live way, way, way off, out in California; but papa is coming to live here in Hindford.”
“O you dear child! you dear child!” said Miss Avery, catching her in her arms with a sort of dry sob. “Why, I’m your own aunty! Your father was my brother Eben. This used to be his room when he was a boy. Thank the Lord I see you!” she said.
“Well, there now! I knew you must be my aunty,” said the little one, cheerily, “you are so good to me; you are my ownty downty aunty, and I shall love you always;” and this was confirmed by a shower of kisses.
“Yes, yes,” said Miss Avery. “I wasn’t good to your poor father; I was cross to him. I didn’t mean to be cross, but I was; but I’ll never be cross to you, my darling. I’ll make it all up to you.”
“I don’t believe you ever was cross to papa or anybody else,” said the child, sturdily.
“Yes, I was; but I’ve been very sorry ever since, and I hope he won’t lay it up against me,” said Miss Avery, humbly.
“Oh, indeed, papa will love you, I know’! Papa is always good to everybody; and as full of fun! he’s always making people laugh and have good times.”
“He never told you what a cross old sister I was?”
“Oh, indeed, he didn’t! he said how you used to sit up with him and nurse him when he was sick.”
“Did he remember that? Well, I did love Eben, though I didn’t always act like it.”
“I’m ever so glad,” remarked Blue Eyes, “that you are my aunty, ‘cause now you’ll come and live with us. You and I and Trip, — we’ll live together; won’t it be fun?”
Miss Avery laughed, — she hadn’t felt so gleeful for years, and then, when she had opened all her drawers and all her cupboards, anti shown everything she had in the house, and answered questions without end, the happy party came down again and produced Trip’s ball, and soon she and little Blue Eyes and Trip were engaged in a real romp, and the old house rang with peals of laughter and barks, and there was such a scampering and pattering and skurrying about as hadn’t been known for years. Miss Avery got her hair loosened and her cheeks red, and laughed till she had to sit down and hold her sides.
When tired of this fun, Miss Avery recovered her dignity, and set herself seriously to getting tea, in which business Blue Eyes and Trip assisted according to their ability.
The little round table was set in the keeping-room, and some nice biscuits were baked in the baker before the fire, and tea was made, and finally, as a crowning glory, the plate of frosted cakes, gay with many-colored sugar-plums, was put on the table.
Miss Avery was not disappointed in the sensation they produced. The little one clapped her hands, and laughed and admired, and Trip barked, and altogether they had a merry time of it.
They sat down at table, with Trip between them decorously mounted on his cushion, and Miss Avery said grace, and Trip looked as sober and devout as if he had two legs instead of four, a feat which Blue Eyes warmly commended.
“Trip knows just how to behave at table, don’t he?” she said; “that’s because you’ve taught him, aunty.”
“Yes, Trip is a good dog,” said Miss Avery; “you see he waits till I fix his supper for him.”
It was a joyous tea-party, and full justice was done to the cakes, and Miss Avery went back into long histories of the old days when Eben was a boy, and the house stood on a farm far out from the city, and they used to have hens and chickens, and pigs and ducks, and all sorts of nice things. Miss Avery seemed to grow young again as she told the story.
“Now, dear, what is your name?” she said; “you never really told me your name.”
“Well, my real name is Margaret; but they call me lots of other things, — Daisy, and Dot, and Puss, and Mr. Symons calls me Patty Coram and Chatterbox; he’s a funny man, Mr. Symons is.”
“Margaret — I knew it — it’s mother’s name,” said Miss Avery. “Dear, your grandmother was a good woman — you are named after her — I hope you’ll be like her.”
When the sun sank low, the child started for home with two cakes, that she could not eat, stuffed in her small pocket.
There were kisses exchanged, and promises to come again. As she trotted gaily off, Miss Avery gazed after her till the last of her little pink dress faded in the distance.
“Thank the Lo
rd! thank the Lord!” she said. “He has been good to me.”
CHAPTER IX. A JOYFUL SUNDAY.
MISS AVERY woke next morning with a vague sense of some sudden good fortune, and gradually the events of the day before came over her.
She was no more alone in the world, with nobody to love and nobody loving. She rejoiced in her little niece as one that findeth great spoil.
She stepped about alertly getting her breakfast; she went up stairs and set open the windows of Eben’s room.
The purple and white lilacs looked in inquisitively as to say, —
“What now?”
“He’ll come here; Eben will come back now. Well, he’ll see I’ve kept his room for him,” said Miss Avery, as she smoothed a wrinkle on the bed anti flecked a little dust from the table.
The first bells were ringing for church; to her they seemed joy-bells; and Miss Avery dressed herself to go out with a light heart. Trip ran to her quivering with eagerness. Miss Avery’s heart was touched for him.
“Trippy, you poor doggie! I’m sorry, but I can’t take you to church,” she said, as he stood wagging his tail, and looking eagerly at her. “It’s Sunday, Trippy, and you can’t go to church with me, though you arc a great deal more up to your light than some who do go.”
Miss Avery explained this over to Trippy, but it didn’t seem to convince him; and when she left the house, he stood on his hind legs at the window barking frantically.
Miss Avery’s mind in sermon-time wandered to her little niece. She saw her blue eyes, and felt her caresses and kisses, and her heart was glad within her; and she caught herself in sermon-time projecting how she would make some “crullers,” and sift sugar over them for the child’s delectation when she came to see her old aunty.
“I’m afraid I shall make an idol of that child,” she said to herself when she found where her thoughts had been wandering.
When she got home Trippy was outrageous in his joy.
“It’s worth going out for, to have any cre’tur so glad to see one,” she said. “Ah, Trippy! you was a Providence. If it had not been for you, Trippy, she wouldn’t ‘a’ ben here, Trippy! Trippy! you’ve ben a real blessing to me. Now to-morrow she’ll come again, the dear little thing!”
The next day Miss Avery looked eagerly at the old clock. and counted the minutes to recess-time, but no little Blue Eyes came. She wondered and waited in vain.
The solemn old clock ticked and struck, and Miss Avery strained her ears for the sound of the little footsteps. Never had the house seemed so lonely; but no little footsteps came.
“Why, I couldn’t have believed I’d ‘a’ missed her so,” said Miss Avery to Trip, and Trip looked as if he thought so too. “Well, she’ll be here to-morrow, anyway,” she said, as she lay down to sleep at night.
CHAPTER X. WHERE IS BLUE EYES?
BUT to-morrow came and told the same story, — no little girl. Miss Avery lay awake at night wondering and wishing she knew; but when the third day passed, and she did not come, Miss Avery put on her bonnet and marched up to Mr. Symons’s, and knocked at the front door, and inquired for Mrs. Symons.
That good lady, a little fat easy woman, appeared, for some cause, agitated and worried.
Miss Avery was a very square, direct, exact sort of a person in her dealings, and never wasted words, so she came to the point directly.
“Good-morning, Mrs. Symons,” she said. “I came to inquire for my brother’s little girl.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Symons, “then you know? Well, I declare! I told Mr Symons you ought to know; but dear me! I don’t know what we shall all do. She’s taken down with scarlet fever — got it at school, I s’pose — taken Monday morning — I expect she sat by some child that had it in school or Sunday-school; any rate she’s got it, and we don’t know where to look for a nurse.”
Miss Avery here interposed brief!, —
“I will come and nurse her. It’s my place. I will take care of her.”
“Oh, you will? Well, if you feel able. I ain’t used to sickness, you see, and I” —
“I am used to sickness,” said Miss Avery, briefly, “and if I undertake a thing, I do it. I’ll just go home and take my things and lock up the house and be here in an hour. I shall have to bring my little Trip with me. I can’t leave him alone in the house; but he never makes any trouble, and she’s fond of him, and loves to have him round.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Symons, “we’ll do the best we can.”
“And I shall do the best I can,” said Miss Avery, resolutely.
And in a few hours she was established at the bedside of her little patient, with her old-fashioned watch on the stand, and her gargles and medicines all arranged in order, with a soft pair of list shoes upon her feet, the very image of regularity, neatness, and order.
The little one woke from a heavy sleep, opened her eyes and smiled.
“You here, aunty?” she said, and she reached her arms up to her; and Aunt Avery stooped down and kissed her once and again.
“I’m so glad you’ve come!” said the child. “My throat hurts me so, and I’m so hot!”
“I came to help you, daring. I’ll take care of you till you are well again.”
The child dozed off in a heavy stupor. After awhile, Miss Avery put a spoonful of the rose-leaf gargle in her mouth, and she woke again, and looked earnestly at Miss Avery.
“I’d like to go to heaven sometime,” she broke out; “but I don’t want to go now. I want to see papa and mamma again.”
“Yes indeed, darling; I trust you will,” said Miss Avery, who felt her heart sink within her at the very suggestion.
“Have you brought Trip?” faintly whispered the child.
“Oh yes; here he is,” said Miss Avery. And sure enough, Trip, standing on his hind legs, was gazing on his little playmate, with his great soft eyes full of sympathy. She smiled faintly, and reached her little hand. He licked it, and she laughed. “It tickles,” she said. “Let him stay where I can see him,” she added; and so Trip had his cushion put in a chair by her bedside, where he conducted himself in a sympathizing and Christian manner, restraining his natural impetuosity, and behaving with the utmost quietness.
Now and then he would step gently and softly on the bed, and steal up and put his cold nose to the little hot face; and then she woke from her feverish stupor, and said, “Dear Trippy, is that you?”
“The cre’tur knows something is the matter as well as I do.” said Miss Avery.
Something was the matter, and a very grave something; for the disease was of a virulent type, and for days and nights it was uncertain how it would go with the child. Miss Avery was every moment at her post.
She had all her life been combating dust, dirt, disorder, rats, and flies; but now she was in a more awful combat, — fighting hand-to-hand with death!
One night the symptoms grew worse. The hands and feet of the little sufferer became cold as ice, and the doctor said that if there was no rallying she could not live till morning.
Miss Avery was grimly resolute and watchful, and incessant in her care, but there was a dreadful sinking in her heart.
“I can’t — I can’t spare her, — oh, I can’t!” she said; and then there came into her head a verse she sung every week at prayer-meeting: —
“The dearest idol I have known,
Whate’er that idol be,
Help me to tear it from thy throne,
And worship only thee.”
“Oh, I can’t — I can’t say that?” she said. She turned in a sort of blind way, and opened a Bible and read, —
“My daughter is even now dead, but come and lay thine hand on her, and she shall live.”
She fell on her knees, rested her head on the bed, and cried out, —
“O Jesus, help me — help me! I can’t give her up!” It was a paroxysm, a rush of the whole soul; all there was in the woman was in it; and a moment after, the words passed through her mind, as if a gentle voice had spoken them, —
She rose again, with a strange new sense of relief and trust. It was as if she had indeed touched the hem of His garment.
She bent over the child, and felt her hands; they were warmer; a little moisture stood on her forehead; she looked better. The tide of life had passed the lowest ebb, and was beginning to flow back, and by morning there was a decided improvement. “Well, Miss Avery, you’ve fought it out bravely,” said the doctor, when he felt the child’s pulse in the morning. “I think we shall keep her. The crisis is over, and, with good nursing like yours, we shall have her on her feet in a week.”
CHAPTER XI. THE THANKSGIVING DINNER.
THE telegram that was to have summoned Eben Avery to the bedside of his little daughter missed him, coming one hour after he had left the place of address. It was not till the danger was over, and recovery fairly established, that he heard of the child’s state. Theft he and his wife hurried to Hindford.
Miss Avery was sitting in the well-ordered room, with her little patient in her lap.
For the first time the child had been dressed that day in her ordinary clothes, and was reposing after the fatigue in those fond, faithful old arms that had borne her through her sickness.
“Here she is?” said a voice outside the chamber door, and immediately a stout, cheery, middle-aged man had his arms round both of them, and was kissing both indiscriminately.
“Eben! Eben!”
“Sister!”
“Papa!”
“Mamma!” were the sounds that rose all together; and then a pretty little woman claimed her share, and kissed both Miss Avery and the child.
It was a confused, laughing, crying, joyful sort of meeting, and Trip barked distractedly, not knowing what to make of it.
“There, now, let’s sit down and be quiet,” said Eben Avery “We mustn’t make such a racket among us. Come, Sister Zarviah, let me take her a minute.” And Miss Avery put the little one into his arms, and her face for the moment was radiant with its expression of tender feeling.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 573