Elsie's Kith and Kin Part 23

Always impulsive, and now full of mental distress, she did not pause a moment to consider, but, s.n.a.t.c.hing up a hat and coat lying conveniently at hand, stole noiselessly from the room, putting them on as she went.

She gained a side-door without meeting any one; and the grounds seemed deserted as she pa.s.sed round the house and entered the avenue, down which she ran with swift footsteps, after one hasty glance around to make sure that she was not seen.

She reached the great gates, pushed them open, stepped out, letting them swing to after her, and started on a run down the road.

But the next instant some one had caught her: a hand was on her shoulder, and a stern, astonished voice cried, "Lulu! is it possible this can be you? What are you doing out here in the public road alone, and in the darkness of evening? Where were you going?"

"I--I--don't want--to tell you, papa," she faltered.

"_Where_ were you going?" he repeated, in a tone that said an answer he would have, and that at once.

"Nowhere--anywhere to get away from this place, where everybody hates me!" she replied sullenly, trying to wrench herself free. "Please let me go, and I'll never come back to trouble you any more."

He made no reply to that, but simply took her band in a firm grasp, and led her back to the house, back to her own room, where he shut himself in with her, locking the door on the inside.

Then he dropped her hand, and began pacing the floor to and fro, seemingly in deep and troubled thought, his arms folded, his head bowed upon his breast.

A servant had brought in a light during Lulu's absence; and now, looking timidly up at her father, she saw his face for the first time since they had bidden each other farewell a year before. It struck her as not only very pale, stern, and grief-stricken, but very much older and more deeply lined than she remembered it: she did not know that the change had been wrought almost entirely in the last few hours, yet recognized it with a pang nevertheless.

"Papa is growing old," she thought: "are there gray hairs in his head, I wonder?" Then there came dimly to her recollection some Bible words about bringing a father's gray hairs down with sorrow to the grave. "Was her misconduct killing her father?" She burst into an agony of sobs and tears at the thought.

He lifted his head, and looked at her gravely, and with mingled sternness and compa.s.sion.

"Take off that hat and coat, get your night-dress, and make yourself ready for bed," he commanded, then, stepping to the table, sat down, drew the lamp nearer, opened her Bible, lying there, and slowly turned over the leaves as if in search of some particular pa.s.sage, while she moved slowly about the room, tremblingly and tearfully obeying his order.

"Shall I get into bed, papa?" she asked tremulously, when she had finished.

"No, not yet. Come here."

She went and stood at his side, with drooping head and fast-beating heart, her eyes on the carpet, for she dared not look in his face.

He seemed to have found the pa.s.sage he sought; and, keeping the book open with his left hand, he turned to her as she stood at his right.

"Lucilla," he said, and his accents were not stern, though very grave and sad, "you cannot have forgotten that I have repeatedly and positively forbidden you to go wandering alone about unfrequented streets and roads, even in broad daylight; yet you attempted to do that very thing to-night in the darkness, which, of course, makes it much worse."

"Yes, papa; but I--I didn't mean ever to come back."

"You were running away?"

"Yes, sir: I--I thought you would be glad to get rid of me," she sobbed.

He did not speak again for a moment; and when he did, it was in moved tones.

"Supposing I did desire to be rid of you,--which is very far from being the case,--I should have no right to let you go; for you are my own child, whom G.o.d has given to me to take care of, provide for, and train up for his service. You and I belong to each other as parent and child: you have no right to run away from my care and authority, and I have none to let you do so. In fact, I feel compelled to punish the attempt quite severely, lest there should be a repet.i.tion of it."

"Oh, don't, papa!" she sobbed. "I'll never do it again."

"It was an act of daring, wilful disobedience," he said, "and I must punish you for it. Also, for the fury of pa.s.sion indulged in this morning. Read this, and this, aloud," he added, pointing to the open page; and she obeyed, reading faltering, sobbingly,--

"'Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him.' ... 'Withhold not correction from the child: for if thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die.

Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and shalt deliver his soul from h.e.l.l.'"

"You see, my child, that my orders are too plain to be misunderstood,"

he said, when she had finished; "and they must be obeyed, however unwelcome to me or to you."

"Yes, papa; and--and I--I--'most want you to whip me for hurting the baby so. I suppose n.o.body believes I'm sorry, but I am. I could beat myself for it, though I didn't know it was the baby pulling at my skirt.

I thought it was Rosie's dog."

"It is not exactly for hurting the baby," he said; "if you had done that by accident, I should never think of punis.h.i.+ng you for it: but for the fury of pa.s.sion that betrayed you into doing it, I must punish you very severely.

"I shudder to think what you may come to, if I let you go on indulging your fiery, ungovernable temper: yes, and to think what it has already brought you to," he added, with a heavy sigh.

"You can never enter heaven unless you gain the victory over that, as well as every other sin: and, my daughter, there are but two places to choose from as our eternal home,--heaven and h.e.l.l; and I must use every effort to deliver your soul from going to that last--dreadful place!"

He rose, stepped to the window where her little riding-whip still lay, came back to her; and for the next few minutes she forgot mental distress in sharp, physical pain, as the stinging, though not heavy, blows fell thick and fast on her thinly covered back and shoulders.

She writhed and sobbed under them, but neither screamed, nor pleaded for mercy.

When he had finished, he sat down again, and drew the weeping, writhing child in between his knees, put his arm about her in tender, fatherly fas.h.i.+on, and made her lay her head on his shoulder; but he said not a word. Perhaps his heart was too full for speech.

Presently Lulu's arm crept round his neck. "Papa," she sobbed, "I--I do love you, and I--I'm glad you wouldn't let me run away,--and that you try to save me from losing my soul. But oh, I _can't_ be good! I wish, I _wish_ I _could!_" she ended, with a bitter, despairing cry.

He was much moved.

"We will kneel down, and ask G.o.d to help you, my poor, dear child," he said.

He did so, making her kneel beside him, while, with his arm still about her, he poured out a prayer so earnest and tender, so exactly describing her feelings and her needs, that she could join in it with all her heart. He prayed like one talking to his Father and Friend, who he knew was both able and willing to do great things for him and his.

When they had risen from their knees, she lifted her eyes to his face with a timid, pleading look.

He understood the mute pet.i.tion, and, sitting down again, drew her to his knee, and kissed her several times with grave tenderness.

"I wanted a kiss so badly, papa," she said. "You know, it is a whole year since I had one; and you never came home before without giving me one just as soon as we met."

"No; but I never before had so little reason to bestow a caress on you,"

he said. "When I heard of your deed of this morning, I felt that I ought not to show you any mark of favor, at least not until I had given you the punishment you so richly deserved. Do you not think I was right?"

"Yes, sir," she answered, hanging her head, and blus.h.i.+ng deeply.

"I will put you in your bed now, and leave you for to-night," he said.

"I must go back to my little suffering baby and her almost heart-broken mother."

He led her to the bed, and lifted her into it as he spoke.

"Papa, can't I have a piece of bread?" she asked humbly. "I'm _so_ hungry!"

"Hungry!" he exclaimed in surprise. "Had you no supper?"

"No, sir, nor dinner either. I haven't had a bite to eat since breakfast."