Schillie.—"Well, why, because."
"Oh hush, hush, cousin Schillie," said Lilly, who was always impetuous, and, throwing her arms round me, she continued, "Don't, dear Mama, my own Mother, don't cry, I cannot bear it. We shall see home again, we shall not always live here, we will be so good, we will do everything to please you. Oh Mother, my own darling Mother, don't cry so."
And so all my efforts were in vain, we were all upset, and the little house, so late the scene of merriment, now was filled with the voices of lamentation and woe. Each in their different way mourned and wept, but, as I said before, it was not so much for ourselves as for others.
We had been so busy, and had so much on our minds that we had thought of little else than mending our own condition, and doing all we could to make ourselves comfortable. To the olden heads it had been a time of great anxiety and trouble, while the younger ones had been forced out of their proper sphere of dependance, into that of companions, helpers, and advisers. We had, therefore, but little time to think of those who, it now struck us, on this Christmas-day, for the first time, would be suffering under fear and anxiety for our fate.
The same feelings that were so forcibly striking us of the relations, friends, and neighbours with whom we had always exchanged the happy Christmas greetings, would, we now began to feel, also strike them. In our family what gaps would be seen in the heretofore merry Christmas party. I looked round, Schillie was separated from her children, Gatty, Zoë, Winifred, Madame, even the poor servants, how many mourning households would there be? Not because we were missing from the Christmas party, as that was expected, but because they must be aware that something had occurred. They must now be suffering under that worst of all fears, doubt and apprehension. Eight months had passed since we had seen them, and six must have gone by since they had heard from us. There could be no doubt that, painful as our feelings were, they were now most to be pitied. Oh how we longed for the wings of a bird to fly over, and set them at rest. How the more we wept and talked about them, the more unbearable and painful grew this feeling. All that we had undergone; all that we seemed likely to undergo, appeared but as a drop on the ocean compared to the mourning and sorrow which we knew were filling the hearts of so many households, weeping, as they would be at the mysterious and unknown fate of those they loved so much. We were safe, we were well, we were comparatively happy, yet we could not tell this, and, perhaps at the time, the very time, we were celebrating our housewarming and Christmas dinner, they were lamenting us as dead.
Will it be wondered at that our Christmas-day ended in sorrow, and that we wept for those weeping for us. We talked over all they might be thinking and doing. Every speech, every sentence ending, "Oh if we could only tell them, if they could only peep into the rude hut, and see the healthy blooming faces contained therein, albeit each face was bedewed with tears, each voice was choking with sorrow." This picture would they see. The rustic rough house, with its wide open entrance, showing the table strewn with the wrecks of our feast, but brilliant with flowers and fruit. Lying on a rude grass cushion was the Mother, her hair all dishevelled with sorrow, her face lengthened with woe; close by her, with her face hidden from sight, was the little Mother; Madame leaning far back in her chair, with a handkerchief over her face, was weeping bitterly behind it; the six girls, in various groups, about the two Mothers, were each, though deeply sorrowful, trying in their own sweet ways, to speak of hope and comfort; the two boys, at a little distance, were sitting on the ground, Oscar grave and sorrowful, Felix weeping and crying while he fed his monkey to keep it quiet; the servants had retired. Beyond, through the door, was seen the deep blue quiet sea, over which we were so anxious to fly, while the rich dark foliage of the trees appeared cool and refreshing against the glowing sky. But this sadness could not last long in a party animated by christian hopes, sustained by christian faith; ere the hour for evening service arrived our sorrow grew lighter, each seemed to feel in the stored words an individual comfort, and we retired to rest committing the consolation of all near and dear to us to Him who had preserved us through so many and great dangers, for the sake of His Son Jesus Christ. Thus we sat for hours on this Christmas-day, but what was going on at home?
CHAPTER XXIII.
In a distant county, in the North of England, there was situated in a quiet country parish a rural rectory, surrounded by a garden, and adorned with the only good trees in the neighbourhood; it stood sheltered at the foot of a hill, the only rising ground to be seen amidst a flat and smoke-dried country. Within that rectory lived a venerable and venerated father, with a loving and adored mother, who had hitherto been surrounded at Christmas by the happy faces and smiling countenances of thirteen children, with their numerous offsprings.