"Oh, doctor," said Esther, "father's lying here, very much injured; and they think he'll die," said she, giving way to a fresh burst of grief.

"Very much injured--die--how is this?--I knew nothing of it--I haven't been here before this week."

Esther hereupon briefly related the misfortunes that had befallen her father.

"Dear me--dear me," repeated the kind old doctor.

"There, my dear; don't fret--he'll get better, my child--I'll take him in hand at once. My dear Mrs. Ellis, weeping won't do the least good, and only make you sick yourself. Stop, do now--I'll go and see him immediately, and as soon as possible you shall be admitted."

They had not long to wait before a message came from Doctor Burdett, informing them that they could now be permitted to see the sufferer.

"You must control yourselves," said the doctor to the sobbing women, as he met them at the door; "you mustn't do anything to agitate him--his situation is extremely critical."

The girls and their mother followed him to the bedside of Mr. Ellis, who, ghastly pale, lay before them, apparently unconscious.

Mrs. Ellis gave but one look at her husband, and, with a faint cry, sank fainting upon the floor. The noise partially aroused him; he turned his head, and, after an apparent effort, recognized his daughters standing beside him: he made a feeble attempt to raise his mutilated hands, and murmured faintly, "You've come at last!" then closing his eyes, he dropped his arms, as if exhausted by the effort.

Esther knelt beside him, and pressed a kiss on his pale face.

"Father!--father!" said she, softly. He opened his eyes again, and a smile of pleasure broke over his wan face, and lighted up his eyes, as he feebly said, "G.o.d bless you, darlings! I thought you'd never come. Where's mother and Caddy?"

"Here," answered Esther, "here, by me; your looks frightened her so, that she's fainted." Doctor Burdett here interposed, and said: "You must all go now; he's too weak to bear more at present."

"Let me stay with him a little longer," pleaded Esther.

"No, my child, it's impossible," he continued; "besides, your mother will need your attention;" and, whilst he spoke, he led her into an adjoining room, where the others had preceded her.

CHAPTER XXIV.

Charlie Distinguishes Himself.

Charlie had now been many weeks under the hospitable roof of Mrs. Bird, improving in health and appearance. Indeed, it would have been a wonder if he had not, as the kind mistress of the mansion seemed to do nought else, from day to day, but study plans for his comfort and pleasure. There was one sad drawback upon the contentment of the dear old lady, and that was her inability to procure Charlie's admission to the academy.

One morning Mr. Whately called upon her, and, throwing himself into a chair, exclaimed: "It's all to no purpose; their laws are as unalterable as those of the Medes and Persians--arguments and entreaty are equally thrown away upon them; I've been closeted at least half a dozen times with each director; and as all I can say won't make your _protege_ a shade whiter, I'm afraid his admission to the academy must be given up."

"It's too bad," rejoined Mrs. Bird. "And who, may I ask, were the princ.i.p.al opposers?"

"They all opposed it, except Mr. Weeks and Mr. Bentham."

"Indeed!--why they are the very ones that I antic.i.p.ated would go against it tooth and nail. And Mr. Glentworth--surely he was on our side?"

"He!--why, my dear madam, he was the most rabid of the lot. With his sanctified face and canting tongue!"

"I'm almost ashamed to own it--but it's the truth, and I shouldn't hesitate to tell it--I found the most pious of the directors the least accessible; as to old Glentworth, he actually talked to me as if I was recommending the committal of some horrid sin. I'm afraid I shall be set down by him as a rabid Abolitionist, I got so warm on the subject. I've cherished as strong prejudices against coloured people as any one; but I tell you, seeing how contemptible it makes others appear, has gone a great way towards eradicating it in me. I found myself obliged to use the same arguments against it that are used by the Abolitionists, and in endeavouring to convince others of the absurdity of their prejudices, I convinced myself."

"I'd set my heart upon it," said Mrs. Bird, in a tone of regret; "but I suppose I'll have to give it up. Charlie don't know I've made application for his admission, and has been asking me to let him go. A great many of the boys who attend there have become acquainted with him, and it was only yesterday that Mr. Glentworth's sons were teasing me to consent to his beginning there the next term. The boys," concluded she, "have better hearts than their parents."

"Oh, I begin to believe it's all sham, this prejudice; I'm getting quite disgusted with myself for having had it--or rather thinking I had it. As for saying it is innate, or that there is any natural antipathy to that cla.s.s, it's all perfect folly; children are not born with it, or why shouldn't they shrink from a black nurse or playmate? It's all bosh,"

concluded he, indignantly, as he brought his cane down with a rap.

"Charlie's been quite a means of grace to you," laughingly rejoined Mrs.

Bird, amused at his vehemence of manner. "Well, I'm going to send him to Sabbath-school next Sunday; and, if there is a rebellion against his admission there, I shall be quite in despair."

It is frequently the case, that we are urged by circ.u.mstances to the advocacy of a measure in which we take but little interest, and of the propriety of which we are often very sceptical; but so surely as it is just in itself, in our endeavours to convert others we convince ourselves; and, from lukewarm apologists, we become earnest advocates. This was just Mr.

Whately's case: he had begun to canva.s.s for the admission of Charlie with a doubtful sense of its propriety, and in attempting to overcome the groundless prejudices of others, he was convicted of his own.

Happily, in his case, conviction was followed by conversion, and as he walked home from Mrs. Bird's, he made up his mind that, if they attempted to exclude Charlie from the Sabbath-school, he would give them a piece of his mind, and then resign his superintendency of it.

On arriving at home, he found waiting for him a young lady, who was formerly a member of his cla.s.s in the Sabbath-school. "I've come," said she, "to consult you about forming an adult cla.s.s in our school for coloured persons. We have a girl living with us, who would be very glad to attend, and she knows two or three others. I'll willingly take the cla.s.s myself. I've consulted the pastor and several others, and no one seems to antic.i.p.ate any objections from the scholars, if we keep them on a separate bench, and do not mix them up with the white children."

"I'm delighted to hear you propose it," answered Mr. Whately, quite overjoyed at the opening it presented, "the plan meets my warmest approval.

I decidedly agree with you in the propriety of our making some effort for the elevation and instruction of this. .h.i.therto neglected cla.s.s--any aid I can render----"

"You astonish me," interrupted Miss Ca.s.s, "though I must say very agreeably. You were the last person from whom I thought of obtaining any countenance. I did not come to you until armed with the consent of almost all the parties interested, because from you I antic.i.p.ated considerable opposition," and in her delight, the young girl grasped Mr. Whately's hand, and shook it very heartily.

"Oh, my opinions relative to coloured people have lately undergone considerable modification; in fact," said he, with some little confusion, "quite a thorough revolution. I don't, think we have quite done our duty by these people. Well, well, we must make the future atone for the past."

Miss Ca.s.s had entered upon her project with all the enthusiasm of youth, and being anxious that her cla.s.s, "in point of numbers," should make a presentable appearance, had drafted into it no less a person than Aunt Comfort.

Aunt Comfort was a personage of great importance in the little village of Warmouth, and one whose services were called into requisition on almost every great domestic occasion.

At births she frequently officiated, and few young mothers thought themselves entirely safe if the black good-humoured face of Aunt Comfort was not to be seen at their bedside. She had a hand in the compounding of almost every bridecake, and had been known to often leave houses of feasting, to prepare weary earth-worn travellers for their final place of rest. Every one knew, and all liked her, and no one was more welcome at the houses of the good people of Warmouth than Aunt Comfort.

But whilst rendering her all due praise for her domestic acquirements, justice compels us to remark that Aunt Comfort was not a literary character. She could get up a shirt to perfection, and made irreproachable chowder, but she was not a woman of letters. In fact, she had arrived at maturity at a time when negroes and books seldom came in familiar contact; and if the truth must be told, she cared very little about the latter. "But jist to 'blege Miss Ca.s.s," she consented to attend her cla.s.s, averring as she did so, "that she didn't 'spect she was gwine to larn nothin' when she got thar."

Miss Ca.s.s, however, was of the contrary opinion, and antic.i.p.ated that after a few Sabbaths, Aunt Comfort would prove to be quite a literary phenomenon.

The first time their cla.s.s a.s.sembled the white children well-nigh dislocated their necks, in their endeavours to catch glimpses of the coloured scholars, who were seated on a backless bench, in an obscure corner of the room.

Prominent amongst them shone Aunt Comfort, who in honour of this extraordinary occasion, had retrimmed her cap, which was resplendent with bows of red ribbon as large as peonies. She had a Sunday-school primer in her hand, and was repeating the letters with the utmost regularity, as Miss Ca.s.s p.r.o.nounced them. They got on charmingly until after crossing over the letter O, as a matter of course they came to P and Q.

"Look here," said Aunt Comfort, with a look of profound erudition, "here's anoder O. What's de use of having two of 'em?"

"No, no, Aunt Comfort--that's Q--the letter Q."

"Umph," grunted the old woman, incredulously, "what's de use of saying dat's a Q, when you jest said not a minute ago 'twas O?"

"This is not the same," rejoined the teacher, "don't you see the little tail at the bottom of it?"

Aunt Comfort took off her silver spectacles, and gave the gla.s.ses of them a furious rub, then after essaying another look, exclaimed, "What, you don't mean dat 'ere little speck down at the bottom of it, does yer?"

"Yes, Aunt Comfort, that little speck, as you call it, makes all the difference--it makes O into Q."

"Oh, go 'way, child," said she, indignantly, "you isn't gwine to fool me dat ar way. I knows you of old, honey--you's up to dese 'ere things--you know you allus was mighty 'chevious, and I isn't gwine to b'lieve dat dat ar little speck makes all the difference--no such thing, case it don't--deys either both O's or both Q's. I'm clar o' dat--deys either one or tother."

Knowing by long experience the utter futility of attempting to convince Aunt Comfort that she was in the wrong, by anything short of a miracle, the teacher wisely skipped over the obnoxious letter, then all went smoothly on to the conclusion of the alphabet.

The lesson having terminated, Miss Ca.s.s looked up and discovered standing near her a coloured boy, who she correctly surmised was sent as an addition to her cla.s.s. "Come here, and sit down," said she, pointing to a seat next Aunt Comfort. "What is your name?"