Christmas at Cedar Hill

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

"'I hope we shall do so by-and-by,' she replied; 'but we must go to England first.'"

"We went a long, long journey in palanquins and on horseback, and down the river to Calcutta, where a great many people were very kind to us, for papa had distinguished himself very much in the battle where he was killed. Before long we set sail for England, leaving behind us all the servants except Jones, who was going home to see her relations. Oh, how I cried at parting with my poor bearer! I do not remember much about the voyage, except that it seemed very long. I thought only of mamma, who was very ill all the time, and grew worse and worse, till just a week before we reached England she died, and was buried in the sea. How dreadful it was to see my dear, dear mamma's body thrown into the deep water! It seemed so much worse than seeing her buried in the ground. I knew that she was in heaven just the same, but still it has always been a grief to me that I could never know exactly where my father and mother lay, for papa was buried on the battle-field, and mamma lies in the ocean. They were all very kind to me on the ship, but I was very sad, and cried all the time; and Jones thought I would die too."

"Well, we arrived in London at last, and Jones took me to my uncle's house, which was a very fine one in a grand square."

"The drawing-room in which my aunt sat was the handsomest I had ever seen, but somehow it never looked pleasant to me. My aunt received me very kindly, kissing me a great many times, and telling me that she hoped I would be happy with her, but I could not help thinking that she did not look very happy herself. I grieved sadly at parting from Jones, but I was a little comforted by her promising to come and see me as often as she could. When she was gone, my aunt took me on her lap, called me her dear little girl, and asked me a great many questions about papa and mamma, and my brother Charles. It made me cry to talk of them, and before I had got over my tears my uncle came home. He was a big man with a red face and grizzled features, and I noticed that my aunt seemed frightened when she heard his step, and hastily wiped her eyes."

"'Hallo. What does all this mean?' he asked, as he entered the room and saw me sitting there."

"'This is my brother's little girl, from India, my dear,' she answered, in a timid, submissive tone."

"'Umph! And what is she crying for? We want no cry babies here, little miss. Quite enough of that sort of thing already.'"

"This was all the welcome he gave me. I felt as though I should choke, and heartily wished myself back in the ship. By-and-by we were called to dinner, which was splendidly set out in a beautiful dining room, hung with pictures. My uncle did not speak a word all through dinner, except to give an order or find fault about something; and my aunt hardly spoke except to ask what I would have. Even then my uncle contradicted her, and said I was to take what was given me and not to choose for myself. It was plain even to me that he was in very bad humor about something. Presently my uncle said it was time for me to go to bed. So we left him drinking his wine all alone, and my aunt took me up to my room, where I was to sleep."

"It was small, but very pleasant, and there was a picture of a pretty little boy over the mantel-piece, which she told me was a portrait of my father, painted when he was young. Aunt undressed me herself, and heard me say my prayers, and after I was in bed, she sat down and talked to me in a very affectionate manner for some time. She told me she had no children of her own, and she would try to be a mother to me. She told me also that I must be very good, and try to please my uncle, who was very particular; and I promised to do my best."

"Try as I might, I never could succeed. He never had a kind word for me, end it seemed as if he were angry at my being in the house at all. My aunt petted me a great deal when he was away, but if she did so before him, he scolded her, and told her that she made a fool of me—that I should have to work for my bread when I grew up, and she was not to make me into a useless fine lady, like herself. Fool was his favorite word, and he applied it to my aunt oftener than to any one else. What made his conduct seem worse, was that before company, he treated us both with the greatest kindness and politeness; so that many people thought him the best of men. Indeed I heard a lady say as she went away from one of our dinner parties—my uncle often gave dinner parties—'What a pity it is that Mr. Morley has such a dull, cross-looking wife! He seems such an admirable man!'"