Chapter 7

  "For freedom's battle, once begun,
  Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son,
  Though baffled alt, is ever won."
  "The unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame."
  "With freedom's soil beneath our feet,
  And freedom's banner streaming o'er us."
  "And the King hath laid his hand
    On the watcher's head;
  Till the heart that was worn and sad,
    Is quiet and comforted."
It was a beautiful day at the close of May, 1836, and New Orleans was
holding a jubilant holiday. The streets were full of flowers and gay
with flying flags; bells were ringing and bands of music playing; and
at the earliest dawn the levee was black with a dense crowd of excited
men. In the shaded balconies beautiful women were watching; and on
the streets there was the constant chatter of gaudily turbaned
negresses, and the rollicking guffaws of the darkies, who had nothing
to do but laugh and be merry.
New Orleans in those days took naturally to a holiday; and a very
little excuse made her put on her festal garments, and this day she
had the very best of reasons for her rejoicing. The hero of San Jacinto
was coming to be her guest, and though he was at death's door with
his long-neglected wound, she was determined to meet him with songs
of triumph. As he was carried in his cot through the crowded streets
to the house of the physician who was to attend to his shattered bone,
shouts of acclamation rent the air. Men and women and little children
pressed to the cotside, to touch his hand, or to look upon his noble,
emaciated face. And though he had striven with things impossible, and
was worn to a shadow with pain and fever, he must have felt that
"welcome" an over-payment for all his toil and suffering.
Yet it was not alone General Houston that was honored that day by the
men of New Orleans. He represented to them the heroes of the Texan
Thermopylae at the Alamo, the brave five hundred who had fallen in
cold-blooded massacre at Goliad, and the seven hundred who had stood
for liberty and the inalienable rights of manhood at San Jacinto. He
was not only Sam Houston; he was the ideal in whom men honored all
the noblest sentiments of humanity.
A few friends accompanied him, and among them John Millard. On reaching
Texas John had gone at once to Houston's side; and in days and nights
of such extremity as they shared together, friendship grows rapidly.
Houston, like the best of great generals, had immense personal
magnetism, and drew close to him the brave and the honest-hearted.
John gave him the love of a son for a father, and the homage of a
Soldier for a great leader. He rode by his side to victory, and he
could not bear to leave him when he was in suffering and danger.
Phyllis expected John, and the Bishop went into the city to meet him.
O, how happy she was! She went from room to room re-arranging the lace
curtains, and placing every chair and couch in its prettiest position.
The table on such holidays is a kind of altar, and she spread it with
the snowiest damask, the clearest crystal, and the brightest silver.
She made it beautiful with fresh cool ferns and budding roses. Outside
Nature had done her part. The orange-trees filled the air with subtle
fragrance, and the warm south wind wafted it in waves of perfume
through the open doors and windows. Every vine was in its first beauty,
every tree and shrub had as yet its spring grace, that luminous emerald
transparency which seems to make the very atmosphere green. The garden
was wearing all its lilies and pansies and sweet violets, and the birds
were building, and shedding song upon every tree-top.
To meet her lover, when that lover comes back from the battle-field
with the light of victory on his brow, what women will not put on all
her beautiful garments? Phyllis's dark eyes held a wonderfully tender
light, and the soft, rich pallor of her complexion took just the shadow
of color from the dress of pale pink which fell in flowing lines to
her small sandaled feet. A few white narcissus were at her belt and
in her black hair, and a fairer picture of pure and graceful womanhood
never gladdened a lover's heart.
John had taken in and taken on, even in the few weeks of his absence,
some of that peculiar air of independence which seems to be the spirit
infusing every thing in Texan land. "I can't help it," he said, with
a laugh; "it's in the air; the very winds are full of freedom; they
know nothing will challenge them, and they go roving over the prairies
with a sound like a song."
The Bishop had come back with John, but the Bishop was one of those
old men who, while they gather the wisdom of age, can still keep their
young heart. After supper was over he said: "Phyllis, my daughter,
let them put me a chair and a table under the live oaks by the cabins.
I am going to have a class-meeting there to-night. That will give me
the pleasure of making many hearts glad; and it will give John a couple
of hours to tell you all the wonderful things he is going to do."
And there, two hours afterward, John and Phyllis went to find him.
He was sitting under a great tree, with the servants in little ebony
squads around him at the doors of their white cabins; and singularly
white they looked, under the swaying festoons of gray moss and in the
soft light; for the moon was far up in the zenith, calm and bright
and worshipful. John and Phyllis stood together, listening to his
benediction; Then they walked silently back to the house, wonderfully
touched by the pathos of a little "spiritual" that an old negress
started, and whose whispering minor tones seemed to pervade all the
garden--
  "Steal away-steal away!
   Steal away to Jesus!"
And in those moments, though not a word was uttered, the hearts of
Phyllis and John were knitted together as no sensuous pleasure of dance
or song could ever have bound them. Love touched the spiritual element
in each soul, and received its earnest of immortality. And lovers,
who have had such experiences together, need never fear that chance
or change of life can separate them.
"John," said the Bishop, as they sat in the moonlight, "it is my turn
now. I want to hear about Texas and about Houston. Where did you meet
him?"
"I met him falling back from the Colorado. I crossed the Buffalo Bayou
at Vance's Bridge, just above San Jacinto, and rode west. Twenty miles
away I met the women and children of the western settlements, and they
told me that Houston was a little farther on, interposing himself and
his seven hundred men between the Mexican army and them. O, how my
heart bled for them! They were footsore, hungry, and exhausted. Many
of the women were carrying sick children. The whole country behind
them had been depopulated, and their only hope was to reach the eastern
settlements on the Trinity before Santa Anna's army overtook them.
I could do nothing to help them, and I hasted onward to join the
defending party. I came up to it on the evening of the 20th of April--a
desperate handful of men--chased from their homes by an overpowering
foe, and quite aware that not only themselves, but their wives and
children, were doomed by Santa Anna to an exterminating massacre."
"What was your first impression of Houston, John?"
"That he was a born leader of men. He had the true imperial look. He
was dressed in buckskin and an Indian blanket, and was leaning upon
his rifle, talking to some of his men. 'General,' I said, 'I am a
volunteer. I bring you a true heart and a steady rifle.'
"'You are welcome, sir,' he answered. 'We are sworn to win our rights,
or to die free men. Now, what do you say?'
"'That I am with you with all my soul.' Then I told him that there
were two regiments on the way, and that the women of Nashville were
raising a company of young men, and that another company would start
from Natchez within a week. 'Why, this is great news,' he said; and
he looked me steadily in the face till both our eyes shone and our
hands met--I know not how--but I loved and trusted him."
"I understand, John. When soldiers are few they draw close together.
Forlorn hopes have their glad hours, and when men press hands beneath
the fire of batteries they touch souls also. It is war that gives us
our brother-in-arms. The spiritual warfare knows this also, John.
  "'O, these are moments, rare fair moments!
    Sing and shout, and use them well.'"
"The little band were without commissary and without transport; they
were half-clad and half-armed, and in the neighborhood of a powerful
enemy. They had been living three days upon ears of dried corn, but
they had the will of men determined to be free and the hearts of
heroes. I told them that the eyes of the whole country were on them,
their sympathies with them, and that help was coming. And who do you
think was with them, father? The very soul and spirit of their
purpose?"
"Some Methodist missionary, doubtless."
"Henry Stephenson. He had been preaching and distributing Bibles from
San Antonia to the Sabine River, and neither soldier nor priest could
make him afraid. He was reading the Bible, with his rifle in his hand,
when I first saw him--a tall, powerful man, with a head like a dome
and an eye like an eagle."
"Well, well, John; what would you?"
  "'In iron times God sends with mighty power,
    Iron apostles to make smooth his way.'
What did he say to you?"
"Nothing specially to me; but as we were lying around resting and
watching he spoke to all. 'Boys!' he said, 'I have been reading the
word of the living God. We are his free-born sons, and the name of
our elder brother, Christ, can't be mixed up with any kind of tyranny,
kingly or priestly; we won't have it. We are the children of the
knife-bearing men who trampled kingly and priestly tyranny beneath
their feet on the rocks of New England. We are fighting for our rights
and our homes, and for the everlasting freedom of our children. Strike
like men! The cause commends the blow!'"
"And I wish I had been there to strike, John; or, at least, to
strengthen and succor those who did strike."
"We had no drums, or fifes, or banners in our little army; none of
the pomp of war; nothing that helps and stimulates; but the preacher
was worth them all."
"I can believe that. When we remember how many preachers bore arms
in Cromwell's camps, there isn't much miracle in Marston Moor and
Worcester fight. You were very fortunate to be in time for San
Jacinto."
"I was that. Fortune may do her worst, she cannot rob me of that
honor."
"It was a grand battle."
"It was more a slaughter than a battle. You must imagine Santa Anna
with two thousand men behind their breastworks, and seven hundred
desperate Texans facing them. About noon three men took axes, and,
mounting their horses, rode rapidly away. I heard, as they mounted,
Houston say to them, 'Do your work, and come back like eagles, or
you'll be behind time for the fight.' Then all was quiet for an hour
or two. About the middle of the afternoon; when Mexicans are usually
sleeping or gambling, we got the order to 'stand ready.' In a few
moments the three men who had left us at noon returned. They were
covered with foam and mire, and one of them was swinging an ax. As
he came close to us he cried out, 'Vance's Bridge is cut down! Now
fight for your wives and your lives, and remember the Alamo!'
"Instantly Houston gave the order, 'Charge!' And the whole seven
hundred launched themselves on Santa Anna's breastworks like an
avalanche. Then there was three minutes of smoke and fire and blood.
Then a desperate hand-to-hand struggle. Our men had charged the
breastwork, with their rifles in their hands and their bowie-knives
between their teeth. When rifles and pistols had been discharged they
flung them away, rushed on the foe, and cut their path through a wall
of living Mexicans with their knives. 'Remember the Alamo!' 'Remember
the Goliad!' were the cries passed from mouth to mouth whenever the
slaughter slackened. The Mexicans were panic-stricken. Of one column of
five hundred Mexicans only thirty lived to surrender themselves as
prisoners of war."
"Was such slaughter needful, John?"
"Yes, it was needful, Phyllis. What do you say, father?"
"I say that we who shall reap where others sowed in blood and toil,
must not judge the stern, strong hands that labored for us. God knows
the kind of men that are needed for the work that is to be done. Peace
is pledged in war, and often has the Gospel path been laid o'er fields
of battle. San Jacinto will be no barren deed; 'one death for freedom
makes millions free!'"
"Did you lose many men, John?"
"The number of our slain is the miracle. We had seven killed and thirty
wounded. It is incredible, I know; and when the report was made to
Houston he asked, 'Is it a dream?'"
"But Houston himself was among the wounded, was he not?"
"At the very beginning of the fight a ball crashed through his ankle,
and his horse also received two balls in its chest; but neither man
nor horse faltered. I saw the noble animal at the close of the
engagement staggering with his master over the heaps of slain. Houston,
indeed, had great difficulty in arresting the carnage; far over the
prairie the flying foe were followed, and at Vance's Bridge--to which
the Mexicans fled, unaware of its destruction--there was an awful
scene. The bayou was choked with men and horses, and the water red as
blood."
"Ah, John; could you not spare the flying? Poor souls!"
"Daughter, keep your pity for the women and children who would have
been butchered had these very men been able to do it! Give your
sympathy to the men who fell in their defense. Did you see Stephenson
in the fight, John?"
John smiled. "I saw him after it. He had torn up every shirt he had
into bandages, and was busy all night long among the wounded men. In
the early dawn of the next day we buried our dead. As we piled the
last green sod above them the sun rose and flooded the graves with
light, and Stephenson turned his face to the east, and cried out, like
some old Hebrew prophet warrior:
  "'Praise ye the Lord for the avenging of Israel, when the people
  willingly offered themselves.'...
  "'My heart is toward the governors of Israel, that offered themselves
  willingly among the people. Bless ye the Lord.'...
  "'So let all thine enemies perish, O Lord: but let them that love
  him be as the sun when he goeth forth in his might.'"
"Verses from a famous old battle hymn, John. How that Hebrew book fits
itself to all generations! If is to humanity what the sunshine is to
the material world, new every day; as cheering to one generation as
to another, suitable for all ages and circumstances."
"I asked him where the verses were, and learned them. I want to forget
nothing pertaining to that day. Look here!" and John took a little
box out of his pocket and, opening it, displayed one grain of Indian
corn. "Father, Phyllis, I would not part with that grain of corn for
any money."
"It has a story, I see, John."
"I reckon it has. When Santa Anna, disguised as a peasant, and covered
with the mud of the swamp in which he had been hiding, was brought
before Houston, I was there. Houston, suffering very keenly from his
wound, was stretched upon the ground among his officers. The Mexican
is no coward. He bowed with all his Spanish graces and complimented
Houston on the bravery of his small army, declaring; 'that he had never
before understood the American character.' 'I see now,' he said, laying
both his hands upon his breast, 'that it is impossible to enslave
them.' Houston put his hand in his pocket and pulled out part of an
ear of corn. 'Sir,' he asked, 'do you ever expect to conquer men
fighting for freedom who can march four days with an ear of corn for a
ration?' Young Zavala looked at the corn, and his eyes filled. 'Senor,'
he said, 'give me, I pray you, one grain of that corn; I will plant and
replant it until my fields wave with it.' We answered the request with
a shout, and Houston gave it away grain by grain. Phyllis shall plant
and watch mine. In two years one grain will give us enough to sow a
decent lot, and, if we live, we shall see many a broad acre tasseled
with San Jacinto corn."
"You must take me to see your general, John."
"Bishop, we will go to-morrow. You are sure to like him--though, it
is wonderful, but even now he has enemies."
"Not at all wonderful, John. No man can be liked by every one. God
himself does not please all; nay as men are, I think it may stand with
divinity to say He cannot."
"He will like to see you, sir. He told me himself, that nearly all
the Texan colonies brought not only their religion, but their preachers
with them. He said it was these Protestant preachers who had fanned
and kept alive the spirit of resistance to Spanish tyranny and to Roman
priest-craft."
"I have not a doubt of it, John. You cannot have a free faith in an
enslaved country. They knew that the way of the Lord must be prepared.
        "'Their free-bred souls
    Went not with priests to school,
  To trim the tippet and the stole,
    And pray by printed rule.
  "'And they would cast the eager word
    From their hearts fiery core,
  Smoking and red, as God had stirred
    The Hebrew men of yore.'"
During the next two weeks many similar conversations made the hours
to all three hearts something far more than time chopped up into
minutes. There was scarcely a barren moment, and faith and hope and
love grew in them rapidly toward higher skies and wider horizons. Then
General Houston was so much relieved that he insisted on going back to
His post, and John returned to Texas with him.
But with the pleasant memories of this short, stirring visit, and
frequent letters from John and Richard, the summer passed rapidly to
Phyllis. Her strength was nearly restored, and she went singing about
the house full of joy and of loving-kindness to all living things.
The youngest servant on the place caught her spirit, and the flowers
and sunshine and warmth all seemed a part of that ampler life and
happiness which had come to her.
Richard returned in the fall. He had remained a little later than he
intended in order to be present at Antony's marriage. "A very splendid
affair, indeed," he said; "but I doubt if Lady Evelyn's heart was in
it." It was rather provoking to Phyllis that Richard had taken entirely
a masculine view of the ceremony, and had quite neglected to notice
all the small details which are so important in a woman's estimate.
He could not describe a single dress. "It seemed as if every one wore
white, and made a vast display of jewelry. Pshaw! Phyllis, one wedding
is just like another."
"Not at all, Richard. Who married them?"
"There was a Bishop, a dean; and a couple of clergymen present. I
imagine the knot was very securely tied."
"Was the squire present?"
"No. They were married from the earl's town house. The squire was
unable to take the journey. He was very quiet and somber about the
affair."
"George Eltham, I suppose, was Antony's chief friend?"
"He was not there at all. The Elthams went to the Continent shortly
before the wedding. It troubled the squire."
"Why? What particular difference could it make?"
"He said to me that it was the beginning of a change which he feared.
'George will leave t' firm next. Antony ought to have married Cicely
Eltham. I know Eltham--he'll be angry at Cicely having been passed
by--and he'll show it, soon or later, I'm sure.'"
"But Antony had a right to please himself."
"I fancy that he had been very attentive to Miss Eltham. I remember
noticing something like it myself the summer you and I were first at
Hallam."
"Elizabeth says, in her last letter, that they are in Paris."
"Probably they are back in England by this time. Antony has taken a
very fine mansion at Richmond."
"Is the bride pretty?"
"Very--only cold and indifferent, also. I am almost inclined to say
that she was sad."
Then they talked of John's visit, and the subject had a great
fascination for Richard. Perhaps Phyllis unconsciously described Texas,
and Texan affairs, in the light of her own heart; it is certain that
Richard never wearied of hearing her talk upon the subject; and the
following spring he determined to see the country of which he had heard
so much. John met him with a fine horse at the Buffalo Bayou, and they
took their course direct west to the Colorado.
To one coming from the old world it was like a new world that had been
lying asleep for centuries. It had such a fresh odor of earth and
clover and wild flowers. The clear pure air caused a peculiar buoyancy
of spirits. The sky was perfectly blue, and the earth freshly green.
The sunrises had the pomp of Persian mornings, the nights the soft
bright glory of the Texan moon. They rode for days over a prairie
studded with islands of fine trees, the grass smooth as a park, and
beautiful with blue salvias and columbines, with yellow coronella and
small starry pinks, and near the numerous creeks the white feathery
tufts of the fragrant meadow-sweet. It looked like miles and miles
of green rumpled velvet, full of dainty crinklings, mottled with pale
maroon, and cuir, purple, and cream-color.
"How beautiful is this place!" cried Richard, reverently; "surely this
is one of the many mansions of our Father! One would be ashamed to
be caught sinning or worrying in it!"
As they reached the pine sands the breeze was keener, and their spirits
were still more joyous and elastic. The golden dust of the pine flower
floated round in soft clouds, and sunk gently down to the ground. Was
it not from the flower of the pine the old gods of Olympus extracted
the odorous resin with which they perfumed their nectar? And then,
shortly afterward, they came to the magnificent rolling prairies of
the Colorado, with their bottomless black soil, and their timbered
creeks, and their air full of the clean dainty scent of miles of wild
honeysuckle.
"Now, Richard, drink--drink of the Colorado. It has a charm to lure
you back to Texas, no matter how far away you stray. Soon or later
'the mustang feeling' will seize you, and you'll leave every thing
and come back. Do you see yonder hilly roll, with the belt of timber
at its foot?"
"Yes, I see it."
"On its summit I am going to build a home--a long, low log-house,
spreading out under the live oaks, and draped with honeysuckles.
Phyllis helped me to draw the plan of it when I saw her last. The house
will be built, and the vines planted by the end of this year. Then
she has promised to come. I hope you will be glad, Richard."
"I shall be glad to see her and you happy."
But although the pretty nest was built, and the vines growing
luxuriantly, it was not until the close of 1838, nearly two years and
a half after San Jacinto, that the lovers could venture to begin their
housekeeping. The Indians hung persistently about the timber of the
Colorado, and it was necessary to keep armed men constantly on the
'range' to protect the lives of the advance corps of Anglo-American
civilization. During this time John was almost constantly in the
saddle, and Phyllis knew that it would be folly to add to his
responsibility until his service was performed.
As it frequently happens, one change brings another. While the
preparations were making for Phyllis's marriage, a letter arrived from
Hallam which Richard could not refuse to answer in person. "My father
is dying," wrote Elizabeth, "and he wishes much to see you." So the
marriage was hurried forward, and took place in the last days of
September. Some marriages do not much affect the old home, but that
of Phyllis was likely to induce many changes. She would take with her
to Texas Harriet and several of the old servants; and there was no
one to fill her place as mistress of the house, or as her brother's
companion. So that when she thought of the cheery rooms, closed and
silent, she was glad that Richard had to leave them, until the first
shock of their separation was over.
She went away with a pretty and cheerful eclat. A steamer had been
chartered to take the party and all their household belongings from
New Orleans to Texas, for Phyllis was carrying much of her old life
into her new one. The deck was crowded with boxes of every description;
the cabin full of a cheerful party who had gone down to send away the
bride with blessings and good wishes. It seemed all sad enough to
Richard. After our first youth we have lost that recklessness of change
Which throws off the old and welcomes the new without regret. The past
had been so happy, what the future might be none could tell.
He turned his face eastward without much hope. Elizabeth's letter had
been short and inexplicit. "She would see him soon; letters never fully
explained any thing." He arrived at Hallam toward the end of October,
and having come by an earlier packet than had been named, he was not
expected, and there was no one at the coach to meet him. It was one
of those dying days of summer when there is a pale haze over the brown
bare fields of the gathered harvests. Elizabeth was walking on the
terrace; he saw her turn and come unconsciously toward him. She was
pale and worn, and an inexpressible sadness was in her face. But the
surprise revealed the full beauty and tenderness of her soul. "O,
Richard! Richard! my love! my love!" and so saying, she came forward
with hands outstretched and level palms; and the rose came blushing
into her cheeks, and the love-light into her eyes; and when Richard
kissed her, she whispered, "Thank God you are come! I am so glad!"
People are apt to suppose that in old countries and among the wealthy
classes years come and go and leave few traces. The fact is that no
family is precisely in the same circumstances after an interval of
a year or two. Gold cannot bar the door against sorrow, and tapestry
and eider-down have no covenant with change. Richard had not been many
hours in Hallam when he felt the influence of unusual currents and
the want of customary ones. The squire's face no longer made a kind
of sunshine in the big, low rooms and on the pleasant terraces. He
was confined to his own apartments, and there Richard went to talk
to him. But he was facing death with a calm and grand simplicity. "I'd
hev liked to hev lived a bit longer, Richard, if it hed been _His
will_; but he knows what's best. I s'all answer willingly when he
calls me. He knows t' right hour to make t' change; I'd happen order
it too soon or too late. Now sit thee down, and tell me about this
last fight for liberty. Phyllis hes fair made my old heart burn and
beat to t' varry name o' Texas. I'm none bound by Yorkshire, though
I do think it's the best bit o' land on t' face o' t' world. And I
like to stand up for t' weakest side--that's Yorkshire! If I hed known
nowt o' t' quarrel, I'd hev gone wi' t' seven hundred instead o' t'
two thousand; ay, would I!" Decay had not touched his mind or his
heart; his eyes flashed, and he spoke out with all the fervor of his
youth: "If I'd nobbut been a young man when a' this happened, I'm varry
sure I'd hev pitch'd in and helped 'em. It's natural for Englishmen to
hate t' Spaniards and Papists. Why, thou knows, we've hed some tussles
wi' them ourselves; and Americans are our children, I reckon."
"Then Texans are your grandchildren; Texas is an American colony."
"They hed t' sense to choose a varry fine country, it seems. If I was
young again, I'd travel and see more o' t' world. But when I was thy
age folks thought t' sun rose and set i' England; that they did."
He was still able, leaning upon Richard's arm, to walk slowly up and
down his room, and sometimes into the long, central gallery, where
the likenesses of the older Hallams hung. He often visited them,
pausing before individuals: "I seem ta be getting nearer to them,
Richard," he said, one day; "I wonder if they know that I'm coming."
"I remember reading of a good man who, when he was dying, said to some
presence invisible to mortal eyes, 'Go! and tell my dead, I come!'"
"I would like to send a message to my father and mother, and to my
dear wife, and my dead son, Edward. It would be a varry pleasant thing
to see a face you know and loved after that dark journey."
"I have read that
  "'Eyes watch us that we cannot see,
    Lips warn us that we may not kiss,
  They wait for us, and starrily
    Lean toward us, from heaven's lattices.'"
"That's a varry comforting thought, Richard. Thou sees, as I draw near
to t' other life, I think more about it; and t' things o' this life
that used to worry me above a bit, hev kind of slipped away from me."
It seemed to be very true that the things of this life had slipped
away from him. Richard expected him every day to speak about Hallam
and Elizabeth; but week after week passed, and he did not name the
estate. As Christmas drew near he was, however, much excited. Lady
Evelyn was expected, and she was to bring with her Antony's son, who
had been called after the squire. He longed to see the child, and at
once took him to his heart. And he was a very beautiful boy, bright
and bold, and never weary of lisping, "Gran'pa."
One night, after the nurse had taken him away, the squire, who was
alone with Richard, said, "I commit that little lad to thy care,
Richard; see he hes his rights, and do thy duty by him."
"If his father dies I will do all I am permitted to do."
"For sure; I forgot. What am I saying? There's Antony yet. He wants
Hallam back. What does ta say?"
"I should be glad to see him in his place."
"I believe thee. Thou wilt stand by Elizabeth?"
"Until death."
"I believe thee. There's a deal o' Hallam in thee, Richard. Do thy
duty by t' old place."
"I will. You may trust me, uncle."
"I do. That's a' that is to be said between thee and me. It's a bit
o' comfort to hev heard thee speak out so straightfor'ard. God bless
thee, nephew Richard!"
He brightened up considerably the week before Christmas, and watched
Elizabeth and Lady Evelyn deck his room with box and fir and holly.
The mother was quiet and very undemonstrative, but she attached herself
to the dying man, and he regarded her with a pitying tenderness, for
which there appeared to be no cause whatever. As she carried away her
boy in her arms on Christmas-eve, he looked sadly after her, and,
touching Elizabeth's hand, said, "Be varry good to her, wilt ta?"
They had all spent an hour with him in honor of the festival, and about
seven o'clock he went to bed. Richard knew that the ladies would be
occupied for a short time with some Christmas arrangements for the
poor of the village, and he remained with the squire. The sick man
fell into a deep sleep, and Richard sat quiet, with his eyes fixed
upon the glowing embers. Suddenly, the squire spoke out clear and
strong--"Yes, father, I am coming!"
In the dim chamber there was not a movement. Richard glanced at the
bed. His uncle's eyes were fixed upon him. He went to his side and
grasped his hand.
"Did you hear him call me?"
"I heard no one speak but you."
"My father called me, Richard."
Richard fully believed the dying man. He stooped to his face and said,
cheerfully, "You will not go alone then, dear uncle; I am glad for
your sake!"
"Ay; it's nearly time to go. It's a bit sudden at last; but I'm ready.
I wish Antony hed got here; tell them to come, and to bring t' little
lad."
There was no disputing the change in the face, the authority of the
voice. Gently they gathered around him, and Elizabeth laid the sleeping
child on a pillow by his side. Richard saw him glance at the chubby
little hand stretched out, and he lifted it to the squire's face. The
dying man kissed it, and smilingly looked at Elizabeth. Then he let
his eyes wander to Richard and his daughter-in-law.
"Good-bye, all!" he whispered, faintly, and almost with the pleasant
words upon his lips he went away.
In a few hours the Christmas waits came singing through the park, and
the Christmas bells filled the air with jubilant music; but Squire
Henry Hallam had passed far beyond the happy clamor. He had gone home
to spend the Christmas feast with the beloved who were waiting for
him; with the just made perfect; with the great multitude which no
man can number.