Four months at Glencairn

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Chapter I. Theydon Hall

August i, 1876, was a memorable day in our family, because it was a dividing line in our lives.

Everything was going on just as usual, and as things had been going on for years. We were in the schoolroom saying our lessons, when Mother suddenly called Cousin John, our tutor, in tones of the wildest alarm.

We all rushed — for Mother was evidently frightened. There, out in the hall, on their knees, were Mother and Mauma, trying to lift Father, who was stretched on the floor.

We thought he was dead — and so did Mother. We began to cry and scream, while Cousin John and Daddy Caesar, who had come in, got him on the sofa, and what with rubbing, and with water, camphor, and all the other things that country people always keep in the house, because the doctor lives jFour S@ontl)0 at (Slentatnt so far away, they got him, at last, to open his eyes and to look at ns.

Cousin John thought the sun had been too much for him, for Father had been out riding over the plantation since breakfast, and the day was very hot ; but Mother said he had not been quite well for weeks, and even when Father got up, and sat in his arm-chair, she still looked distressed and wanted to send to the city for a doctor.

Father laughed at her and said he was all right — not to be worried.

But he wasn’t all right at all, for after dinner he fainted again and Mother and Cousin John were a long time restoring him.

Then Mother didn’t ask Father, but wrote the note herself, and sent it to the doctor.

It was well she did, for Father just kept on fainting; and when the doctor came next day he said he had been sent for just in time — that Father had a nervous breakdown, and that it was absolutely imperative that he should drop all business and worry, and go away from home for at least five or six months.

If Father followed this advice, he assured him he would be a well man at the end of that time.

Then he left, leaving many prescriptions.

But how doctors do talk ! Here was Father worrying himself sick because of his tangled finances, and to be told to drop everything — and in the fall, too, of all times — and to take a rest of five or six months — it was simply nonsense — so he told Mother.

But Mother and Cousin John talked reason to him until they got him reluctantly to consent.

Cousin John came grandly to the front. He offered to take care of the house, and of all of us ; to oversee everything on the plantation — the hands and jFont gj ontflg at (Slencatttt 3

the crops — in fact, he was a true friend in this time of need.

But . Mother was miserable, as she was not satisfied with this arrangement at all.

She felt obliged to go with Father, as he still fainted upon the slightest exertion. She would not allow him to get out of her sight.

But to leave her seven children in the care of so young a man as Cousin John, even with Mauma here to help, didn’t meet with her approval. She was certainly torn between her two duties.

Then, to the astonishment of the whole family, Grandmother Chase wrote to announce that she herself would come and take charge of us.

# Thanks to Mauma, our colored nurse, we had long since, found out from scraps of kitchen conversation indulged in while we were around, that when in the long ago Father had gone courting Mother, Grandmother Chase had “turned up her nose” at him.

Mauma was authority, for she had been Mother’s maid before she married Father; so, being on the spot, she had taken notes.

She also told that there was a Mr. Roderick living in Atlanta, immensely rich, who thought a lot of Mother, and Grandmother had picked him out for her son-in-law; so that when Father came, a poor planter, she did not relish the idea of Mother’s marrying him in the least, no matter what his family was.

Well, she held out, and Mother fretted until Grandfather Chase, who was living then, interfered.

“Ole Marster could tell a man wen ’e saw ’em ; so ’e said, if Mistiss wanted to marry Marse Philip T’eydon ’e gib ’e consent.”

That was all Mother wanted, so the engagement was announced and Grandmother gave in, but not gracefully. She would not give Mother a grand jFout e©oMf)S at <2>lencafnt wedding or anything; but this exactly suited Father, who really had but little money, and so was spared unnecessary expense. Grandmother said “Nannie had made ’e bed and should lie on it,” was another of Mauma’s yarns; so very little help had she ever given, even when after Grandfather’s death she had plenty to spare.

When we repeated all this, we got well lectured by Mother for listening to kitchen gossip, and we believe Mauma got hauled over the coals, too.

So when this letter came from Grandmother saying she was coming, no one knew what to make of it.

The news was received with undisguised dismay by us. Grandmother had openly disapproved of all of us, except Bessie, who is just like her, and therefore she is not a favorite among the young people of Theydon Hall.

On her few previous visits to us, our lives were made miserable at the unfavorable contrasts drawn between us and those marvelous, immaculate little Rodericks, that lived near her. The magnificent Roderick establishment, their finely trained servants, the accomplishments of their children, their courtly manners, was the everlasting theme of her conversation, all meaning, to put it in our language, “Now, Nannie, you see what you have lost.”

But Mother was game, and never seemed to mind it in the least, and as for those children, she told Grandmother she would not have hers such prigs for worlds.

There was one little bit of comfort, though. Auntie was coming, too. She had just graduated and needed a change after her busy year at college.

We had not seen Aunt Eva for years, not since she was a little girl herself, and used to be proud when we called her “Auntie,”

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Well, one morning the telegram came saying they would arrive on that very day.

Cousin John lived with us, and while Father was sick it was very nice to have any one so strong and kind to lean on.

Father was lots better. The medicines the doctor had prescribed had done him good, and then the weather was a little cooler, so we began to see some fun in all this, and our spirits began to rise.

Before lessons we had been out in the grove, and each of us boys had chosen an old tree, and, calling it after one of those Roderick children, we had chunked it well, so as to get rid of some of the wrath that their very names called up in us — and well we knew their praises would be chanted to us.

Lessons were short that morning. We were dismissed in good time for scrubs and clean clothes.

Grumbling at our hard luck, we had slicked down our unruly locks and were ready to greet our guests, when Bessie called that they had turned the curve in the road and were driving into the avenue.

Father went down the steps to help them out of the carriage, and Mother, just behind him, stood ready to embrace them.

Mauma had planted herself in the way, to show off Margaret, who had been added to our family since Grandmother’s last visit.

Bessie and Tom were on the steps, while we four were on the piazza, having a lively scuffle, under cover of the confusion, to see which one should be the foremost and get the first kiss.

Phil had Paul by the band of his knickerbockers, held firmly in front of him ; Paul was revenging himself by rapid backward kicks. But “Look out,” I whispered, “Grandmother is ascending the steps now.”

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We quieted down and received our kiss and also our snub.

“My ! how tanned these children are, Daughter.”

But sweet Auntie caught all four of us in a loving hug and kissed the “brown berries’’ with all her heart.

Then in the cool sitting room we sat for a few minutes, while Grandmother expressed great surprise to see how well Father looked.

Mother said he had improved wonderfully since she last wrote, that the tonic he was taking was acting like a charm.

“Why, yes, Daughter, you have alarmed me unnecessarily. I am sorry, for it certainly did not suit me to leave home this fall.”

“But the doctor says he must have a change,” said Mother.

We were very shy, and sat with our eyes riveted on Auntie, who was the loveliest piece of mortal flesh we had ever seen. She was busy talking to Father.

Then Cousin John came in and was introduced. He must have thought Auntie very beautiful, too, for he was forever stealing a look at her.

Well, we had the grandest week that had ever come into our lives. Auntie just devoted herself to us.

We had holiday, and every day after breakfast we all went to the grove with Auntie and Cousin John, and there we had so much fun. Cousin John could play and joke and tell such funny stories. Then he would read poetry to Auntie, and they would fuss over how some passages should be read. She would take the book and read it herself in her sweet voice, and he would give in always — she was always right — and to think how we had thought he couldn’t do anything but teach, and keep us afraid of him; we jFout Qiontfjs! at (Slencaim 7 never dared to enter that schoolroom without having our lessons well prepared, Phil excepted. We had even doubted if he could laugh. It was certainly a revelation.

Well, after a week of all this, while Father and Mother were preparing for the four months’ trip, and Grandmother was fuming and fretting and ordering all the servants about the place, it suddenly came to an end, this way:

I had gone up to the house for a copy of Tennyson for Auntie. Grandmother and Mother were sitting in the hall, sewing, and Father lying on the sofa out there.

“What do you want with Tennyson, Harold?” asked Grandmother.

I told her Auntie wanted it to read something to Cousin John.

“Where is Eva?” she asked.

“In the grove, Grandmother.”

She arose, got the field glass, and stood at the window looking down the grove. She looked a long time, and she didn’t seem to be pleased, but I didn’t see anything to be mad about.

I heard Father chuckle softly under his breath, but I didn’t know what it meant.

I hurried on with the book, for they were waiting for me. We stayed out in the grove playing and listening to them read until the sun found our shady place and drove us in.

Grandmother was still looking severe, but we discreetly kept well out of her way.

Father and Mother were expecting to leave on Friday, and this was Wednesday.

We had been well instructed as to our behavior during their absence. School was to begin again on Monday, so that would help to keep us out of mischief.

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So imagine the consternation of the family when on Thursday morning Grandmother announced at breakfast that she had decided to return to Atlanta — going that very day. She was all packed then. There was nothing the matter with Father, she said — the heat had only prostrated him that morning he had been taken sick, and a change for him was entirely unnecessary.

We nearly clapped our hands with delight.

“Yes, Grandmother/’ Paul piped, “the country is too dull for you, and Auntie can take care of us just as well. You can go home.”

But Grandmother withered him with a look.

Father and Mother were too outdone to talk. Auntie, I believe, had been crying, for her face was flushed; while Cousin John was struck dumb with astonishment; so Grandmother had all the conversation to herself, but she was equal to it.

Well, go she did, and Auntie with her ; and now we were in the same dilemma again.

“What was to be done with the children?”

But on Sunday the trouble seemed settled for us. Father suddenly fainted again, and it took Mother and Cousin John a long, long time to bring him back to consciousness.

Cousin John wrote for the doctor, the same one from the city, and fortunately he got to us that afternoon, for Father did not look right at all. The doctor shook his head, asked many questions, then said to Mother, “Why did you delay? Why did you not go at once? I told you it was important, and here you have delayed two weeks. This is serious now. Your husband is an ill man, madam.”

Poor Mother looked as if he had struck her.

The doctor stayed all night, but Father grew worse, rather than better, and by morning he was so ill the doctor told Cousin John if there were any reljfotir ggontflg at (SH encattn 9

atives at a distance, who might wish to come, a telegram should be sent at once.

So Mother told Cousin John to telegraph for Uncle James Theydon, Father’s only brother.

School did not begin, for Cousin John did not leave Father’s bedside, and sorrowful and awfully lonesome days those were for us.

Uncle James came Tuesday afternoon.

Father was still living, but unconscious. He did not notice Uncle.

Mother* I believe, forgot that she had any children during that dreadful time.

Mauma looked after us right well though, but oh ! we were utterly miserable.

One afternoon in the following week Uncle James strolled into the schoolroom, which was a basement room opening into the garden.

We four were in there, trying to keep still and feeling especially unhappy.

We had hardly seen him up to this afternoon, for at meal times he would send Cousin John out and stay with Father himself, “lest there be two to nurse,” he said. Cousin John was getting thin and pale.

Well, this afternoon, Uncle walked in, and, seeing us all sitting in the deserted room, limp and listless, his eyes shone suddenly, as if tears had come into them, and, sweeping us all up in one grasp, he said, “Poor little youngsters! Don’t you be so miserable. Father is not dead, and I don’t believe he is going to die. Something in here tells me so,” tapping his heart. “Nothing has ever downed him yet, and I don’t believe this will. He is so plucky. Cheer up ! Don’t cross the bridge till you get there. I think he is better to-day. I bet you anything the doctor will say so, too, when he comes.”

He was so confident, and looked so big and handjFoitr 00ontf)0 at ©Iencaittt some, we felt roused immediately, and ever so much relieved. Uncle infused his faith into us, and I wanted to run and tell Mother right away that Father wasn’t going to die, but he wouldn’t let me.”

And Uncle was right. The doctor did say that very thing, and Father began to rally and improve from that day; and he (the doctor) preached rest, and a trip abroad once more.

Mother needed a change, too, now; besides, she never would have let him go alone ; so there seemed nothing for it but that they would have to leave us at Theydon Hall with Cousin John and Mauma. Indeed, such was their plan, when the doctor knocked that up by saying to Cousin John, “You look to me like a candidate for fever, young man. Take my advice and freshen up a few weeks in the mountains, or go with Mr. Theydon.”

Then all noticed how badly Cousin John did look, and insisted that he should go.

“What shall we do with the children?” was the one thought with our parents during those convalescent days.

Finally Grandmother Chase wrote that she would take the three youngest children if Mauma came along to care for them.

Uncle James was never present while these discussions were going on.

“It would look too much like a hint,” Father said.

Uncle was busy seeing after the plantation affairs.

But one day he said to Father, “Don’t you feel strong enough for your trip yet, Brother? Why don’t you go?” Then Father told him.

“Well, that’s just like me,” he exclaimed. “So stupid! Why didn’t I think? It’s because Sarah does all the thinking for me, I guess. Well, don’t let that keep you another day. I’ll take them all

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back to Glencairn when I go. I’ll be delighted to have them, too; so, don’t you have a moment’s uneasiness about them, for they’ll be taken care of all right.”

And Father and Mother were thankful to have it so; only Mother said, not seven — only four, should go — we four — to Glencairn, and the three little ones to Grandmother in Atlanta.

But it wasn’t settled yet. Uncle James and Bessie had struck up a mighty affection for one another — her beauty always charmed strangers — and he wouldn’t hear of her not coming with us.

“We have a big house and plenty of servants. It won’t worry us in the least, and I particularly want Bessie.”

Grown up people never know how much they bother children. Now, in our home, there was a distinct division between those in the schoolroom and those in the nursery.

The schoolroom children were known as “Us” — and the nursery as “They,” — and to have a “They” tagging on after “Us” would be horrible, to say the least, and Bessie especially.

We retired to our schoolroom to grumble over it, when in she walked, feeling large and supposing herself promoted to “Us.”

“Did you know that I am going with you to Glencairn? Uncle James wants me particularly.”

“Bessie, if I were you,” I said persuasively, “I’d go to Atlanta. You’ll have lots more fun there.”

“Besides,” added Phil, opening his eyes and speaking in mysterious tones, “Did you know, Bessie, that Aunt Sarah is a Yankee? Yankee — mind you,” in most impressive tones.

“What is a Yankee?” she asked, opening her eyes wide and growing very serious.

“It’s a — a — I just don’t quite know, but I think it’s jFour s@otttbs! at Olettcatrtt a kind of a beast,” piped Paul. “It takes your things from you — I know that. It took Father's fine horses and all the old silver and beautiful furniture, and stuck bayonets through the pictures. I wouldn’t go there, if I were you, for anything in this world. We are big and can defend ourselves, but you are so little.”

“Will she take my doll if I go?” she half whispered, evidently very much impressed, but a hearty laugh at the window made us turn, then duck our heads and flush crimson, for there stood Uncle James.

This was the reason why Uncle James was a stranger to us, though living in the same state. Uncle had gone north just after the war and had married Miss Sarah Chadwick, a New York woman, whom he had met years before when he was at West Point and she a mere girl on a visit there.

Father’s home and plantation had suffered greatly at the hands of the marauding army, and he was still so irascible over it that upon hearing of this forthcoming marriage to a “Yankee woman” he had written a letter to Uncle that made him furious ; and his reply had incensed Father in return, so that all communication between them had ceased; and they had neither seen nor heard of each other from that time, now nine years ago, until the telegram came summoning Uncle to Father’s bedside.

There were only these two, and they had been devoted brothers; and glad they were to clasp hands and to meet once more in the same old close relationship.

No questions were asked about Aunt Sarah neither had Uncle been communicative.

Well, as I said, there stood Uncle James at the open window, just behind us, and he had evidently heard all we had been saying.

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“We were just teasing Bessie,” I said, as soon as I recovered from my confusion.

“You naughty children,” he laughed. Then, turning to Bessie, he said, “Don’t you be afraid to come, little Beauty. Aunt Sarah is tame — pretty tame. I have her well in hand. I’ll shake my finger at her, if she so much as dares to touch your doll.” Then, whistling softly, he walked away.

When Bessie told Mother all of this, she was simply shocked, and scolded us roundly.

We were to make no allusion to Aunt Sarah being from the north, and were to remember that we were her guests.

She apologized to Uncle James for us, and said we were such little ignoramuses he would have to overlook and excuse many things.

We did not succeed in scaring Bessie oflf, though.

Phil declared he would not go if she did.

“Will you kindly tell me how you are going to manage this, my son?” I asked, laughing.

“Oh, don’t let us worry any more about this,” said Nan, “Bessie is not so bad.” And as it was inevitable, we took her advice.

So now, after one month’s delay, it was all settled.

Grandmother did a great thing for us ; it made us all forgive her. She sent an immense box of new, pretty, stylish clothes for each one of us in it.

“ ’E bite ain’t as bad as ’e bark,” said sage Mauma, which Mother said was impertinence.

“We hurt her pride,” Father laughed.

We had never thought much about clothes until Grandmother’s visit. She and Auntie had made themselves merry over their fit and styles.

“Do you feel yourself above patterns, Sister?” asked Aunt Eva — and another time “Have you lost i4 JFour S©ontl)S at ©lettcafrit your shears? You use a hatchet to cut their clothes out with, don’t you?”

And we heard Grandmother say, “Boys’ pants are never gathered into a band, Daughter.”

Mother always laughed good naturedly and said she didn’t worry about our clothes ; these were good enough for the plantation — they were clean, at any rate, but that she had always taught us to take care of our hair, teeth and nails, and no fault could be found with us in that respect, she was sure.

But these criticisms had made us self conscious as to our clothes, and consequently we hailed this grand box with delight.

This visit to Glencairn was a great event in the lives of all of us. We had not been from Theydon Hall since before the twins, Nan and Phil, were born.

Mother felt very nervous at the thought of our separation from her and anxious, too, about our behavior when at Uncle’s ; in fact, this became a subject of jest at home before we left.

If Mother happened to pass through a room where we were, she would stop and most earnestly impress on us how good we must be, and not to give any trouble while at Glencairn.

“Remember,” she would say, “your Aunt Sarah is not accustomed to children. Now, my darlings, don’t disgrace yourselves.”

And we promised, for the thousandth time, that we would be as immaculate as the little “Rodericks.”

At last Father said, irritably, “Good gracious, Nannie, why are you worrying yourself so? What on earth do you expect the children to do ?”

“Oh, I am so afraid they will annoy Mrs. Theydon. You don’t know how badly I feel about this visit, Philip. It’s an outrage, nothing more nor less, jFout Months at ©lencatcn 15 for us to send five children to stay four months, perhaps longer, under the care of a woman that we have decidedly ignored all these years, and nothing but actual necessity ever induced me to consent.”

“Oh, no,” said Father, “I don’t feel badly about it at all. It’s Jim’s home, and naturally he wants my children to be with him.”

“Yes,” said Mother, “it’s his home, but Mrs. Theydon is the mistress there, and she is the one to bear all the trouble they are sure to give.”

“Pshaw,” said Father, “it will do them good to have some young people in the house. I have always wished that my children knew Glencairn.”

“They are noisy and wild,” continued Mother, not at all convinced, “and we have allowed them so much liberty that I do feel anxious about their behavior away from us. Brother James is very kind, but I see he will never hold them in check.”

“Well,” said Father, “take warning, children, any wild pranks complained of at Glencairn — positively no Santa Claus at Christmas.”

And we promised again, as we had done dozens of times before, to be, oh, so good.

We had a great many pets — birds, squirrels, rabbits, lambs, dogs, puppies, cats, kittens, colts and ponies.

We told Daddy Caesar and Maum Hannah over and over again how to care for them.

They assured us we would find them all there on our return.

We wanted to take the dogs with us to hunt, but Mother said, “No, indeed.”

We were allowed to take our guns, and the girls their favorite dolls.

We were wildly excited over the packing of our trunks, and helped to carry them out into the hall, ready to begin our journey the next day.

Chapter II. The Trip

But little sleep came to us that night, and early morning found us up and stirring.

After breakfast, time hung a little heavily, we were so impatient to begin our journey — our very first.

We went the round of our pets, stroking, patting and kissing them our farewell.

There were many final instructions to be given to Daddy Caesar and Maum Hannah, for they were to be the caretakers of all about the house and premises, and to Daddy George, who was to oversee the crops.

At last, we were sent off to dress. When we gathered in the hall, there was much amusement on the part of the grown people over our admiration of ourselves in our new suits.

“ I am sure,” shouted Nan, frisking about us, “that we must look just exactly like those little Rodericks.”

“Your aunt has shown great taste in her selection of your suits,” Cousin John said very gravely.

Which remark made Father and Uncle James exchange glances and laugh behind Cousin John’s back.

But I didn’t see anything funny about it.

Finally we set off. Father, Mother, Uncle James, Cousin John, Nan, Bessie and Tom in the huge old-fashioned family coach, while we three boys went 16 jFouc QPontfcs at ©lencatrn 17 in the wagon with the trunks. Mauma, with the baby, sat outside with Daddy George, who is our coachman.

The servants and the plantation hands came to the grove to bid us all “good bye,” and to express their wishes that Father would come back home again well and strong.

As we made a turn in the road — the last place from which our house could be seen, I took a farewell look at the dear old place. There it stood — the big, brick house set in a grove of magnificent oaks, with long, gray moss swinging from the branches.

I felt that great things were going to take place before I saw those walls again. What, I couldn’t imagine.

All of our lives, up to four weeks back, had just been a perpetual round of a little study and a little play — and I could remember when we numbered three, then four, five, six, and now seven. These were events, varied by sundry birthdays and Christmases, that were always made gala days.

But all that was just They don Hall — and now the gates had suddenly swung open and we were going into the great, big world to untried experiences.

All these thoughts were running through my mind while we were driving down to the river landing, eight miles from the Hall.

We had often been there, alone, and with Father.

The boat was waiting, and we sailed down the river to the city.

Mother had hoped that Tom would go to sleep, but instead “Little Sunbeam,” as we all called him at home, was grieving at the coming separation.

“Look at Tom, Mother,” whispered Nan. And there he sat by Mauma, who had Margaret in her

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arms, with quivering lips and great tears hanging on his lashes and dropping on his cheeks.

“Bring my darling to me, Nan,” said Mother, and then he began to sob in earnest, with his face hidden against her shoulder.

We all came crowding around to comfort him. He is the household idol, adored by white and black, this beautiful little child, who has never been naughty, who is always sunny and bright, and who loves everybody and everything — and is, withal, so lovely to look at, with his fair skin, big blue eyes and golden curls.

It hurt us to see him cry. Simultaneously we three boys stood up and began to search in various pockets for those dead mice and dead frogs, fish hooks and lines, marbles, cake crumbs and apple cores that tradition says boys always carry in their pockets ; but, alas, the suits were brand new — nothing could we find to divert him, nothing there but our clean handkerchiefs. Sighing, we sat down again.