Pocket Island Part 8

Liddy was essentially a home-loving girl and cared but little for company. A few friends, and good ones, might be considered as the text of her life, and even at school it had been the same. Her home duties and her father's needs were a sufficient kingdom, and over it she was a gracious queen. For the first three months after her mother's death she and her father lived a life of nearly silent sadness. Almost daily he visited the town, dreading far worse than Liddy ever knew lest he must return with sad tidings. He knew what was ever in her heart, and as her life-happiness was dear to him, he wasted no time in discussing war news with his friends in the village. When June came Liddy felt that a change in the morose current of their lives must be made, and in her peculiar way set about to carry out her idea. She knew his fiftieth birthday came during that month, and when the day arrived she said to him:

"Come home early to-night, father, I have a great, big favor to ask of you." All that afternoon she worked at her little plot, and when tea time came and he entered the house a surprise awaited him. The dining-table had been moved into the sitting-room, set with the best china, and in the center was a vase of flowers. Draped from the hanging lamp above it, and extending to each corner were ropes of ground pine, and around his plate was a double row of full-blown roses. It was a pretty sight, and when he looked at it he smiled and said: "Expecting company, Liddy?"

"Yes, you," was her answer; "and I've made a shortcake, and I picked the strawberries myself."

When he was seated in his accustomed chair he looked at the array of roses, and in a surprised voice remarked: "Why didn't you put some around your own plate, Liddy?"

"Because it's not my birthday," came the answer; "count them, father."

The thoughtful tribute touched him, and a look of sadness crept in his face. "I had forgotten how old I was," he said.

Liddy made no reply until she had poured his tea, and then she said, in her earnest way: "Now, father, I don't want you to think of that any more, or anything else that is past and gone. Please think how hard I worked all the afternoon to fix the table and how much I want to make you happy."

When it came time to retire, he said: "You haven't told me yet what that big favor is, Liddy!"

For answer she went to him and taking his face in her hands, she kissed him on either cheek and whispered: "Wait till to-morrow!"

CHAPTER XVIII.

A FEW BRIGHT DAYS.

The next evening after supper Liddy showed unusual cheerfulness. She had that day received three letters from the absent one, though of different dates, and all contained a.s.suring words. Then she had a little plan of loving intent mapped out in her mind and was eager to carry it out. Her father noticed her unusual mood and said: "It seems good to see you smile once more, Liddy."

"I am trying hard to feel happy," she answered, "and harder still to make you feel so as well." And then, drawing her chair close to him, she sat down and rested her face against his shoulder. It was one of her odd ways, and it must be now stated that when this winsome girl most earnestly desired to reach her father's heart, she always stroked his shoulder with her face.

"Well," he said, recognizing her method, "I know you have something on your mind; so tell me what it is right away!"

She made no immediate reply, but softly stroked him for a moment and then replied: "Yes, I do want something; I want a clock!" and then, straightening herself up, she continued earnestly: "I want a lot of things; I want a pretty clock to put on the mantel, and I want you to put the tall one up into the attic, for it gives me the blues; and say, father"---- and here again her face went to his shoulder, "I want a piano!"

"Is that all?" he answered, a droll smile creeping into his face.

"No," she said, "that isn't all; but it's all I dare ask for now."

"Better tell me the rest," he replied, stroking the head that still rested against his arm. "You haven't surprised me yet."

And then there was a very pretty scene, for the next instant that blue-eyed heart-breaker was sitting in her father's lap, with both arms around his neck.

"Do you mean it, father?" she whispered. "Can I have a piano?"

"Why, of course," he answered softly, "if you want one."

In a week the old cottage organ that had felt the touch of Liddy's childish fingers learning the scale, was keeping company with the tall clock in the attic, and in its place stood a piano. In the sitting-room a new clock that chimed the hours and halves ticked on the mantel. These were not all the changes, for when so much was won our heart-breaker renewed her a.s.sault by her usual method, and pretty portieres took the place of doors between parlor, hall and sitting-room, and delicate lace curtains draped the windows. Then Liddy surveyed her home with satisfaction and asked her father how he liked it.

"It makes a great change in the rooms," he replied, "and they seem more cheerful."

"Do you notice that it also makes the carpets look worn and shabby?"

said Liddy; "and the parlor furniture a little old-fas.h.i.+oned?"

Mr. Camp sat down in one of the parlor chairs and looked around. For a few moments he surveyed the room in silence and then said: "Liddy, did you ever hear the story of the bra.s.s fire-dogs? I don't think you have, so I will tell it. There was once a good woman who persuaded her husband to buy a pair of bra.s.s fire-dogs for the parlor, to take the place of the old iron ones. When the new ones were in place she polished them very brightly and asked him to look into the room. 'Don't you think,'

she said, 'they make the carpet look old and worn?' They certainly did, so he bought a new carpet. That in turn made the furniture seem shabby, so he was persuaded to renew that. By this time the curtains were not in harmony, and had to be changed. When it was all done he remarked: 'Wife, you said the fire-dogs would only cost me four dollars, but they have really cost me two hundred.'"

"But we had the bra.s.s fire-dogs already," said Liddy laughing, "so the story doesn't hit me." Then, going to him and putting one arm around his neck and stroking his face with the other hand, she continued: "The trouble is, father, you have got me instead of new fire-dogs; are you sorry?"

"You must judge for yourself," was his answer. "Is there anything else you wish?"

"Yes, there are two other things I want," was her reply, still stroking him; "I want to see you look happier, and feel happier, and I want some one to come back safe from the war."

Life is at best but a succession of moods that, like a pendulum, ever vibrate between mirth and sadness. Circ.u.mstances will almost invariably force the vibrations to greater extremes, but just as surely will its opposite mood return. Though clouds darken to-day, the sun will s.h.i.+ne to-morrow; and if sorrow comes, joy will follow; while ever above the rippled sh.o.r.es of laughter floats the mist of tears.

In some respects Liddy was a peculiar girl. While loving those near her with almost pathetic tenderness and constantly striving to show it, she shrank like a scared child from any public exhibition of that feeling.

She had another peculiarity that might be called a whim--she loved to try experiments upon her own feelings to see what effect they would have. It was this that had been the real cause of her desire to attend the military funeral that had taken place in Southton a few months previous. Since her mother's death Liddy had remained at home nearly all the time. She seldom went to the village, because to do so awakened unpleasant memories. To drive past the now vacant academy or near the depot was to awaken unhappy thought and force her into a sad mood. The seclusion of her home seemed more in harmony with her feelings. She had but few intimate friends, and even those jarred upon her now, and her father was the best, and the only one she cared to be with. One day in mid-summer, she surprised him with a strange request.

"Father," she said, "I want to go fis.h.i.+ng. I don't mean to tramp through the brush along a brook, but I want you to take me to some pretty pond where there are trees all around, and where I can sit in a boat on the shady side and fish. We will take a basket of lunch and have a nice time. If we cannot catch fish we can pick pond lilies. Will you go?"

As there was nothing that loving father would not do for his only child, it is needless to say that the trip was made.

When Liddy began to catch fish, and he noticed how excited she became, he said, with quiet humor: "Which would you rather do, Liddy, put your fish in the boat or hang them up in the trees? Tut, tut!" he continued, as he saw a deep shadow creep over her face, "you will have Charlie to bait your hook next summer, never fear!"

That night she wrote to her soldier boy: "I coaxed father to take me fis.h.i.+ng to-day. I wanted to see if it wouldn't bring me nearer to you or you to me. I came home in a sad mood, however, though I learned one thing, and that is wherein lies the fascination of fis.h.i.+ng. It's the constant expectation of getting a bite that takes your mind away from all else."

With the autumn evenings came the time for open fires, and Liddy had hard work to keep her spirits up. There were so many tender a.s.sociations lurking in the firelight, and so much that brought back the past and gone hours of happiness that it was painful instead of cheerful. Thanksgiving time and the holidays were days of sadness instead of joy. The long eighteen months of constant dread and suspense had worn upon her nerves and was slowly changing her from a light-hearted, happy girl to a saddened, waiting woman. The winter slowly dragged its weary length, and one evening, about a year from the time she had attended the military funeral, she broke down entirely. She had tried piano practice for a time and then reading, but neither availed to occupy her thoughts or drive away the gloom. Finally she sat down beside her father, who was reading, and said piteously:

"Father, please talk to me; tell me stories, scold me--anything! I am so utterly wretched I am ready to cry!"

"My child," he answered tenderly, stroking the fair head that was resting against his arm, "don't let your mind brood so much upon your own troubles; try and think how many there are who have more to bear than you have."

The delicate reproach, though not intended as such by him, was the last straw, for the next instant her head was down in his lap and she was sobbing like a child. When the little shower was over she raised her face and whispered:

"Don't think it's all Charlie, father, or that I forget mother, or how much you have to bear; for I do not. It's all combined, and the silent room upstairs added to the dread, that is breaking my heart."

When the day that marked the anniversary of her parting from Manson arrived she tried another experiment upon herself. The promise she had made him that day seemed a sacred bond, and she resolved to go alone to Blue Hill and see how it would affect her. The day was almost identical to the one two years previous, and when, late in the afternoon, she arrived at the top, the spot seemed unchanged. The trees were thick with the same fresh foliage, the birds were there, and around the rock where they had sat grew the same blue violets. Under a tree was the little lattice table, just as they had left it. She sat down on the rock and tried to live over the thoughts and feelings of that day. They all came back, like so many spectres of a past and gone happiness, and as, one by one, they filed by in thought, the utter silence and solitude of the place seemed to increase. The only sound was the faint whisper of the breeze in the hemlocks, and as she listened and looked into the shadow beyond where the trees grew thicker, a strange feeling of fear began to a.s.sail her heart and a new and horrible dread crept into her thoughts.

She had not heard from the absent one for two weeks--what if the dreaded fate had already come and he was at this very moment near her in spirit?

And as all the horror of this thought forced itself upon her, she suddenly rose to her feet, and almost running, left the spot.

When she arrived home and looked into her mirror she saw a strange expression on her face and her lips were pale. "I could not go there again," she said to herself; "I should go mad if I did."

During the next few weeks the dread seemed to grow upon her day by day.

She did not dare tell her father of her trip to Blue Hill, but he noticed that she was getting thin and that her eyes were growing hollow.

Then came the news of the battle of Peach Creek and that Company E were engaged in it; but no names of the killed or wounded, if any, reached her, and no letter from Manson.

Each day her father drove to the village and he was always met at the gate upon his return by a sad-faced girl whose blue eyes wore a look of piteous appeal. He tried to comfort her all he could; but it did no good. She could not talk; she could scarcely eat or sleep, but went about her daily work as if in a trance. Occasionally in the evening she would give way to tears, and for three weeks she existed in a state of wretchedness no pen can describe. Then one evening her father handed her a letter in a strange handwriting and turned his face away, for he knew its contents.

"Tell me the worst, father," she almost screamed, "tell me quick; is he alive?"