Mildred's New Daughter

“Ah, here we are,” he said, throwing open the door, alighting and handing them out one after the other.

“Why, who in the world can they be? And what is papa bringing them here for?” exclaimed a little girl, leaning out from an upper window and scanning with eager curiosity the new arrivals whom her father was marshalling up the front door steps, and at once admitted to the hall with his dead-latch key.

“What’s that? More company coming, Min?” queried another voice, and Olive’s head appeared beside that of her sister, just as the hack in which the little party had arrived turned and drove away. “Pooh! nobody of any consequence; they came in a hired hack.”

“But they were children – except one woman – their nurse, I suppose; and papa with them! There, I hear them coming up the stairs now, and I mean to find out all about it,” and with the words Minnie threw down her books and ran from the room, Olive following close at her heels.

They heard their father’s voice coming from the nursery, and rushed in there, asking breathlessly:

“Papa, whom have you got here? And what did you bring them for?”

“These children are your little cousins,” he answered pleasantly. “Come and speak to them, all of you. They are the children of your Uncle Henry, of whom you have often heard me speak. Ethel, here, Charles Augustus, is just about your age, and Blanche might be Lena’s twin; Harry is two years younger, and Nannette, a baby girl, the youngest of all.”

The greetings over:

“But, papa, where are Uncle Harry and – and their mother?” asked Minnie, more than half regretting her query as she saw the tears gathering in Ethel’s eyes.

“In heaven, I trust,” her father replied in low and not unmoved tones. “There, my dears, do what you can to make your cousins comfortable and happy, I must go and speak to your mamma.” So saying he left the room.

Mrs. Eldon, lying on the sofa in her dressing room, looked up in mild surprise as her husband entered.

“Why, Albert,” she said, closing her book with a yawn, “what fortunate circumstance brings you home at this unusual hour?” Then as he drew nearer: “What is it, my dear? Why, actually, there are tears in your eyes. Oh,” half starting up, “is there anything wrong with Albert or – ”

“No,” he said huskily, “but bad news from England reached us this morning. My brother Henry is no more; he and his wife died within a few minutes of each other. She had heart disease, we are told, was strongly attached to him, worn out with long and arduous nursing, and the shock of his decease was more than her enfeebled frame could bear.”

“How very sad! I am really sorry for you, my dear. And they left some children, did they not?”

“Yes, four little ones – a boy and three girls, the eldest only about eight years of age. They have grandparents, probably very well to do, somewhere in the West Indies, but no one knows their name or address. So the little orphans have been sent to us. The steamship came in this morning, only a few hours after the letter was received telling us all this, and which was forwarded by a vessel bound to a Canadian port but delayed somewhat in her voyage, so that, starting some days before the other, she reached port only a day or two ahead of her.”

“And you are going down to the vessel to get the children?”

“No; we went down – George and I – at once on learning that she was in, found the little folks there all right, and I have just brought them home with me.”

“But surely we are not to be expected to keep the whole four? Surely George and his wife will take two, as they have the same right as we to be at the expense and trouble.”

“I think so, eventually; but just at present, while the poor little things feel themselves strangers in a strange place, it would be hard for them to be separated; so I have engaged to keep the whole for a few days,” he replied; then seeing that she looked ill-pleased with the arrangement:

“But, I do not intend they shall be any trouble to you, my dear,” he added hastily. “The woman who had charge of them on the voyage will remain with them for a few days, and except when they are taken out for air and exercise, they can be kept in the nursery and adjoining rooms.”

“Well,” she sighed, returning to her book, “I suppose I may as well resign myself to the inevitable.”

“Do you think it more than their nearest relatives should do for our children, were they so sorely bereaved?” he asked.

“No, I suppose not; but I have given my consent and what more would you ask?”

“Nothing more, Augusta, except that you will encourage our children to be kind and considerate toward their orphan cousins.”

“Really I know of no one but their father who would expect them to be anything else,” she returned in a not particularly pleasant tone.

“I do not expect it,” he said; “yet think it might be as well to call their attention to the fact that the little orphans are entitled to their kindly sympathy. But I am needed at my place of business and must return at once. Good-by till dinner time, my dear;” and with the last word he left the room.

“Dear me! as if we hadn’t children enough of our own!” exclaimed Mrs. Eldon in a petulant tone, and impatiently tossing aside her book as the sound of her husband’s footsteps died away in the distance. “Albert needn’t talk as if they were to be no trouble to me. Who else is to do the shopping for their clothes, decide how they are to be made and find somebody to do the work? for of course if they don’t look all right, people will talk and say we don’t treat them as well as we do our own.”

At that moment the patter of little feet was heard in the hall without, the door opened and her youngest two came rushing in.

“Oh, mamma,” they exclaimed half breathlessly, “papa has brought us some cousins, nice little things, and we like ’em and want you to see them too. Mayn’t we bring ’em in here?”

“Oh, yes, if you will only be quiet. Will you never learn not to be so noisy?”

“Maybe some day when we’re growed up like you and papa,” said Nora. “Come, Gus, let’s go and bring ’em,” and away they ran, to return in a few moments leading Blanche and Harry and followed by the nurse carrying Nannette; Ethel keeping close at her side.

They were pretty, winsome looking children, and Mrs. Eldon was roused to something like interest. She sat up and took Nannette on her lap for a few minutes, spoke kindly to the others, and asked some questions in regard to their former homes and the voyage across the ocean.

Most of the replies came from Ethel, and her timid, retiring, yet ladylike manner found favor with her interrogator.

“You are a nice little girl,” she said at length, smoothing her hair caressingly and giving her a kiss, “and so are your sisters. I am pleased with Harry, also, for he seems a manly little fellow, and I hope you and my little folks will get along happily together while you stay. There, run back to the nursery now, all of you, for it is time for me to dress.”

They all started to obey, but as they reached the door, “Oh, mamma,” cried Charles Augustus, turning toward her again, “mayn’t we go down to the yard? ’cause I want to show cousins the pups and rabbits.”

“Yes, yes! anything if you will go and leave me in peace,” she replied with some impatience.

“Come along then, Ethel and the rest of you,” cried Charlie, leading the way.

CHAPTER IV

The Eldon brothers lived in adjoining houses, large, handsome, and with more extensive grounds than are usually connected with a city residence; a low hedge separated those of the one from the other, and a gate in that gave to each household free access to both, which, by the way, was a convenience more esteemed by the brothers and their children than by the wives and mothers, who had few interests in common – Mrs. George Eldon occupying herself almost exclusively with home cares and economies and outside charities, while her sister-in-law was a butterfly of fashion, considering herself a martyr to social duties and leaving the care of house, children, and her husband’s comfort to those who could be hired to attend to them. As a natural consequence each secretly despised and avoided the other.

When the brothers parted at the wharf that day, the elder one went immediately to his place of business, where he found his wife waiting to speak with him in his private counting room.

“Ah,” she said as he entered, “I am glad you have come at last; for I have been waiting here for at least a full hour. Where on earth have you been?”

“Out seeing to some very important business; a matter demanding immediate attention,” he replied somewhat coldly.

“Something which your wife is not to know about, I presume?”

“I have not said so, nor have I the least intention to keep it secret from you. Let me read you this” – unfolding a letter as he spoke.

It was the one he had just received from England, telling of the decease of Captain and Mrs. Eldon, and the sending of their children to America. She listened in almost breathless surprise.

“You have hardly mentioned that brother for years, and I had almost forgotten his existence,” she remarked as he refolded the letter and laid it aside.

“Too true,” he responded with a heavy sigh, “and my heart reproaches me for my neglect. Poor Harry! if he had left that climate sooner he might perhaps have lived to be an old man; lived to support and bring up his children himself; but now all that I can do is to help in that work.”

“As if you hadn’t family enough of your own!” she exclaimed indignantly.

“I have two, my brother Albert six; and I have quite as large an income as he.”

“And a wife that doesn’t spend the half that his does,” she added drawing herself up with dignity.

“Quite true, and, therefore, I should take certainly not less than half the burden of providing for Harry’s helpless little ones.”

“No doubt you will do your full share,” she said coldly, “and your wife will be expected to do more than hers in the way of seeing that the children are trained and taught, fed and clothed; things that such a butterfly of fashion as Mrs. Albert does not trouble her head about for her own offspring, and certainly would not for others.”

“Well, my dear, fortunately for us we will not be called upon to give an account for her sins of omission or commission; but I have heard you say, certainly more than once or twice, that you consider it a duty to care for the poor with purse, time, and effort; and surely relationship to your husband should not be looked upon as a bar to such ministrations on the part of his wife. My brother, I am happy to say, is more than willing to do his full share, and I certainly do not want him to do more.”

He was magnanimous enough not to mention her orphan niece whom he was supporting and educating, and she had the grace to feel somewhat ashamed of her display of unwillingness to do a little for his fatherless and motherless nephew and nieces. But she did not condescend to say so much in words.

“Well, how soon are we to expect them?” she asked.

“They are already here,” he replied, “and the errand from which I have just returned was to the vessel that brought them. Albert proposes to keep the whole four for a few days, till they have had time to become somewhat acquainted with us, and parted with the good woman – the wife of a soldier in Canada – who had charge of them on the voyage.”

“And after that?”

“We propose to make a division – each taking two; our wives, of course, having a vote as to which two each of them may prefer to take.”

“And they have been already sent up to your brother’s, I suppose? I wonder how Augusta likes it.”

“Surely she can hardly be without some feeling of compassion for the sorely bereaved little ones,” he returned with emotion.

“They are to be pitied,” she said, her voice softening somewhat. “Well, I came for a little money to spend in doing good – helping some of the unfortunates in our midst. Can you spare it?”

“Certainly,” he replied, opening his his purse and handing her a small roll of banknotes.

“Thank you,” she said; “I’ll see to it that your bounty is not wasted.”

“I’m sure of it, Sarah; I never knew you to be wasteful.”

She smiled at that, understanding it as a well deserved compliment; then took a hasty leave, as she perceived that someone was at the door seeking an interview with Mr. Eldon.

“Well, it’s a bad business,” she sighed to herself as she hurried along the street; “as if it was not enough to be plagued with my own brother’s child, I must have his too. And really there’s no necessity for it; it would be a charity to pay somebody to take charge of the four, saving them the trial of being separated and helping the caretaker to make a living; decidedly I think it is a brilliant idea and that I shall have no difficulty in persuading Augusta to join me in insisting upon having it carried out.”

Mrs. Augusta was in her dressing room, just completing her dinner toilet, when to her intense surprise a tap at her door was followed by the entrance of her sister-in-law.

“Ah, you had no idea it was I coming upon you so unceremoniously,” remarked the caller with a grim smile, and seating herself without waiting to be invited; “but I came to have a bit of chat with you about this invasion of our homes by uninvited young guests. I for one see no reason why we should be expected to take charge of them, our husbands being amply able to pay someone else to do so, someone who may be glad to add in that way to a meagre income.”

“Why, Sarah, that’s a brilliant idea! If only such a person – one whom George and Albert would be willing to trust – can be found,” exclaimed Mrs. Augusta, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. “Have you anyone in mind?”

“Yes, I have thought of that poor Irish curate, Coote, who is so continually applying for help. Wasteful creatures he and his wife must be to need it so often, with never a chick or child of their own to support.”

“I should think so; and I can’t bear him – red-headed, pompous, dictatorial, domineering creature that he is! He should never have charge of a child of mine.”

“Well, don’t, I beg of you, be silly enough to say that to your husband or mine.”

“Of course not; if they can’t see for themselves, why should you or I enlighten them? Still I do feel a little sorry at the thought of giving him a chance to domineer over those poor little orphans.”

“Let them behave themselves and they will do fairly well, I have no doubt,” returned Mrs. Sarah with a frown. “They must be taught to expect to support themselves from the time they can be made capable of doing so, and lessons in self-control and the endurance of some hardship will be a decided benefit to them.”

“So we will endeavor to believe, at all events,” laughed Mrs. Augusta.

Then they consulted together as to the best plan for approaching their husbands on the subject; and decided that their wisest course would be to say nothing at present, but wait till some trouble between the newcomers and their own children should so annoy the gentlemen that they would be ready to purchase peace at almost any price.

CHAPTER V

Things went pretty smoothly with the little orphans while their friend Mrs. McDougal stayed. She managed to keep the peace between them and their cousins by soothing and petting her young charges and interesting all the occupants of the nursery with her fairy tales, her stories of Wallace, the Bruce, and Robin Hood and his merry men.

But all too soon came the day when she must leave Philadelphia and go to the husband who was wearying for his good wife; a sad, sad day to the poor little fatherless and motherless children! They clung to her until the last moment, and she had to tear herself away leaving the whole four weeping bitterly.

Their uncles were kind, but because of business cares seldom seen; the aunts took little notice of the young strangers, each being absorbed in her usual round of occupation, while the treatment of the cousins, older and younger, varied with their varying moods – sometimes they were kind, disposed to pet and humor their forlorn little relatives, and again – without any apparent reason for a change – treated them with coldness and indifference.

That was hard to bear, and caused many a fit of home-sickness and bitter weeping for the loss of the dear father and mother whom they would never see more upon earth.

Ethel, who was, in spite of her tender years, a very womanly little girl, earnestly strove to act a mother’s part to her younger sisters and little brother – soothing and comforting them in their griefs and seldom giving vent to her own except in the darkness and silence of night when none but God, her Heavenly Father, could see and know it. Her pillow was often wet with tears as she sobbed herself to sleep while pouring all her sorrows into His sympathizing ear, as both her mother and Mrs. McDougal had taught her to do, repeating to her again and again that command and precious promise, “Call upon Me in the day of trouble; I will deliver thee and thou shalt glorify Me.”

“Oh, if I could only find our dear grandpa and grandma,” she sometimes said to herself; “they would love us as dear mamma and papa did, and take us home to live with them, and we would be, oh, so happy!”

Then she would comfort herself with the hope that perhaps some day they would be found, and she and her brother and sisters be taken to the sweet and lovely home she could remember as a half forgotten dream, where no one would think them in the way; but they would be loved and petted and made much of, instead of being barely tolerated as those of whose presence their entertainers would gladly be relieved.

But scarcely a week had elapsed after the departure of their beloved caretaker, Mrs. McDougal, when the little orphans were subjected to yet another trial in the removal of Blanche and Harry to the house of their uncle George and the custody of his cold-mannered, unsympathetic wife.

The enforced separation was a bitter thing to both themselves and the other two. But tears and cries brought only reproof and punishment; especially to Harry, who proved, under the tyrannical rule of his uncle’s wife, a very determined little rebel, bringing upon himself punishments so many and severe that to hear of them, as she did in one way and another, almost broke Ethel’s heart.

She sorrowed for Blanche too, and for Nannette and herself; for their situation was only slightly better than that of their brother and sister.

Things grew worse and worse with all four until at length their uncles, wearied out with complaints from their wives and feeling that it was sad to have the children separated, began to talk of trying to find a good home for them elsewhere.

Then Mrs. George Eldon broached her idea that it would be a help to poor Mr. Coote if he and his wife were paid to take charge of the little orphans, and at the same time a pleasant change for the children, as the whole four could be together.

She did not add the information that she had already written privately to Coote, telling of her plan and advising him to casually call in upon her husband and his brother, speak of his cramped circumstances and remark that he was thinking of trying to get a few boarding pupils to help himself and wife eke out their small income.

The uncles hesitated over Mrs. George’s suggestion, but finally consented to let the experiment be tried, provided Coote and his wife might like to try it; or if not they, someone else likely to prove a suitable person could be found.

It seemed to them quite a providence when a day or two later Coote called at their place of business and made known his desire for just such an opportunity for increasing his meagre means, asking if they could recommend him to someone who had the guardianship of children in need of a good home where they would receive parental care and training.

The brothers exchanged glances of relief and pleasure.

“Yes, Mr. Coote,” replied the elder Mr. Eldon, “we ourselves are wanting just such a home and caretaking for the orphan children of a deceased brother; four little ones – the eldest eight, the youngest about three years of age.”

“Possible?” cried Coote, simulating delighted surprise, laughing in a gleeful way and rubbing his hands together with a look of great satisfaction. “Well, sirs, you may rest assured that if committed to my care and that of my estimable wife they will not long miss their departed parents, and will be trained up in so godly a manner that they will no doubt be reunited to them in a better world.”

“Not too soon, I hope,” observed Mr. Albert dryly. “I desire them to live to years of maturity, becoming happy, honorable, and useful citizens of this free land which we have adopted as our own.”

“Oh, certainly, sir,” responded Coote, “and I’m thinking they’ll be more likely to live and thrive in the wholesome air of the country town in which I am located than here in the city.”

“I hope so indeed,” said the elder Mr. Eldon; “but if we trust them to you and Mrs. Coote it must be with the distinct understanding that they are to be well fed and clothed, and to receive truly parental care and affection.”

“Oh, certainly, certainly, sir,” again responded Coote; “my wife and I will look upon and treat the poor little orphans quite as if they were our own.”

“Better, I trust, than some people treat their own,” returned Mr. Eldon. “Well, sir, if my brother approves, we will, I think, give you an opportunity to show yourself a kind and wise guardian to these little ones who, as the offspring of our deceased brother, are very near and dear to us.”

In reply Mr. Coote gave renewed assurances that he felt a great interest in the little orphans, and that he and his wife would be as father and mother to them, doing for them all that the best of parents could do.

The uncles then consented to put them in his care for an indefinite period, reserving the right to remove them if at any time they saw reason to be dissatisfied with the treatment they received.

“I certainly shall give you no occasion for it,” remarked Coote suavely; “as I have said, my wife and I will be as tender and careful of the little darlings as though, they were our own flesh and blood.”

“How soon will you be ready for them?” asked Mr. George Eldon.

“At once, sir, at once. And if you please I should greatly prefer to take them with me on my return this afternoon. It would save me another trip to the city, and in my circumstances that expense would count.”

“And since the change has to be made it would perhaps be as well to make it at once,” remarked Mr. Eldon thoughtfully, adding, “I hope the poor little creatures may be happier with you, Mr. Coote, than they have been with us, if only for the simple reason that the whole four will be together; for I never saw children fonder of each other than they are.”

“Nor I,” assented his brother; “and Ethel, young as she is, seems very like a mother to Harry and Nannette, poor child! I am really sorry to part with her. I’ll go up with you, Coote, explain matters to her, bid good-by to the whole four, and see them off.”

Things had gone very wrong that morning with Blanche and Harry, and Ethel was nearly heartbroken over the sore punishment meted out to them by Mrs. George. That made the news her Uncle Albert brought her much less distressing than it would otherwise have been; for how, she asked herself, was it possible things could go worse anywhere than here? And it seemed a blessing indeed that she and all three of the younger ones would be together again.

She loved Uncle Albert, clung tearfully to him for a moment when he had told her of the new arrangement, then almost cheerfully gathered together the few small possessions of herself, brother, and sisters.

By direction of the aunts the children’s trunk had been already packed with the most of their clothing, so that it was the work of but a few minutes to get everything in readiness for their hasty departure.

The little ones were almost dazed by the suddenness of the thing, and scarcely realized what had happened till they found themselves in the cars alone with their new and unknown guardian. Their Uncle Albert had gone with them to the train, and in bidding them good-by he laid a box of candies in Ethel’s lap, saying, “That is for you and your brother and sisters to eat on the way;” and bestowed a large, luscious orange on each, of the four.