The Golden House

Nono could but disconsolately begin again his homeward walk, and try to forget his pet in the thought of the future opening before little Decima. He betook himself to the highroad, and trudged along as cheerily as he could. Drops of blood on the snow suddenly arrested his attention. They formed a regular line leading into the far distance, where a familiar black object was getting over the ground at a marvellous rate. It must be Blackie! Nono gave a long whistle by which he was accustomed to call his four-footed friend. The black object stopped. The whistle was repeated, and in a few moments the little pig was awkwardly capering about his master, almost tying his tail into knots, as it was twisted round and round as an expression of delight.

Blackie had evidently escaped from confinement and uncongenial society. Where he had been, of course he could not tell. His poor nose was sadly torn where the ring had been wrenched away as he broke loose from his imprisonment. Nono was glad that Blackie had lost his badge of servitude; and as to needing a rope to be led by, the poor creature was willing enough to follow Nono wherever he might choose to lead him. A kind countryman returning from the city with an empty waggon gave the odd pair a good lift, and took them along so rapidly that towards evening they reached the shoemaker's cottage. Nono thought best to be set down there, and he was hardly on the ground with Blackie beside him when there was an impromptu concert of singing and scolding that brought the inmates of the house at once to the door.

Of course the travellers were warmly welcomed. There was great eagerness to hear Nono's adventures, and he was at once besieged with all sorts of questions. When he had told his story, the shoemaker got up and bowed respectfully to the absent princess, whom Nono had so vividly described that she seemed actually standing there in the cottage. "There be some good people left in high places!" exclaimed honest Crispin. "It's of no use talking against the royal family while such a princess is above ground." So some dim socialistic ideas that had been troubling the mind of the poor shoemaker died a violent death, and the warm loyalty of his youth took the upper hand.

Nono and Blackie were hospitably housed for the night, and treated almost as if they were ambassadors from court, with a flavour of royalty about them.

It is needless to tell with what joy the travellers were received the next day at the golden house, or what rapid preparations were made for Decima's departure. The princess should see that Jan and Karin were prompt to avail themselves of her kindness.

Jan took an unusual holiday, and actually was for the first time in a railroad car, with Decima cuddled close at his side.

Decima Desideria, who had a keen sense of her own fitness to come to honour, really seemed to think the children's hospital had been established for her special benefit, and that her presence there, and the ado that had been made about her, were quite natural matters, with which gratitude had very little connection. Once made mistress of one of the little white beds, and surrounded by every comfort, her arrogance and her exactions would probably have known no bounds, if she had not wonderingly seen about her from day to day deformed children, suffering children, and almost idiots, as tenderly cared for as herself. It somehow came into her head to be thankful that she at least had but to lie in her bed, without great pain, that she could understand all that was said to her, and could even be learning to knit and crochet, which she was doing with extreme satisfaction.

How Decima longed to see the good princess! When at last that much-talked-of princess came and stood by her bed, and beamed down love and tenderness, the little invalid was softened into real gratitude, which she managed brokenly to express, with tears in her eyes. Then the kind princess talked to her cheerfully and naturally of the great Shepherd of the lambs, as of some one whom she knew and who was really dear to her.

At the golden house religion had been lived and inculcated; at the hospital it seemed the felt, ever-pervading atmosphere. Heavenly comfort was sung in the sweet hymns, breathed in the trustful prayers, spoken of as something always in mind, and acted out in the sweet offices of love towards the unfortunate. Such surroundings were life-giving to the poor little invalid. Her fretfulness gave way, and a sweet quietness succeeded her nervous irritation. After the weary turmoil of the past in the noisy, crowded home, there was now a serene peace for her, as if the angels had taken her under their sheltering wings.

CHAPTER XIV.

WHERE?

Alma was sitting in her own room, with her treasure-house before her. Its door was still fast locked, as was her purse for all applications for pecuniary help. Closed, too, seemed the door of her heart to the great Friend who still lovingly knocked without. His question, "Where is the guest-room?" had been met by a long, unbroken silence.

Now Alma's mind was on her future plans. She had shaken the little cottage, and had been quite dissatisfied with the result. She rose hastily. A drawer in her writing-desk was impulsively unlocked. She took out a jewel-case where a diamond ring, and a brooch set with the same precious stones, and a watch with a monogram in pearls, were lying side by side. She looked admiringly at them, and carefully examined them all. The ring, the brooch, and the little watch were then deliberately let down the chimney of the golden house, as if they had been black sweeps on a lawful errand. They were given, "offered," she felt, and her design was now far on its way to its accomplishment. There could be no more earthquake-like shakings of that cottage. That amusement must be abandoned.

There was a sharp prick from Alma's conscience in the midst of her evident satisfaction. Her father had said this jewellery would some day belong to her, and had even, at her special request, allowed her to have the now sacrificed treasures in her own keeping. "They were to be mine. They are mine," she said to herself. "I have offered them. I shall never wear them now. My mother in heaven would approve of what I have done." Here her conscience gave her a cruel pang. She was inclined to open again the velvet-lined box, and lay the jewellery where it had so long rested, but that was impossible without opening the little locked door of the treasure-house. That she had vowed to herself she would not do before the time appointed – a time she was now most anxious should soon arrive.

At this moment Alma heard the sound of footsteps. She thrust the case into its drawer, locked it and dropped the key into her pocket like one disturbed in a dishonest act rather than in a noble deed. There was a loud knock at the door. Alma opened it, and Frans stood before her.

"What do you want here?" she said impatiently.

"I can't find papa," said Frans. "I wanted to tell him that it went 'bully' for me at the examination this morning. I thought perhaps your highness might like to know it too. The teachers seem to think I shall stand 'tip-top' in my report."

"I don't believe you will deserve it," said Alma sharply. "I never see you studying."

"But I have studied lately, more than I ever studied in my life. I didn't go to bed a single night last week before one o'clock."

"You ought to be ashamed to tell it!" said Alma reprovingly. "You know papa don't allow you to sit up late."

"I shall tell him about it myself, and I know papa will excuse me," said Frans, in high spirits.

The colonel did excuse Frans, and was delighted to hear of his success, though he did not fail to say it was hard to make up by such forced studying for neglect during the term, and a thing that he hoped would never be needed again.

Frans was in a glorious good-humour during the short time he allowed himself for lunch, and made his pony fly as he hurried back to school immediately afterwards.

The school was in a village about twenty minutes' ride from the colonel's home. The afternoon session was over, and yet Frans did not return. The colonel was very anxious about his son. He feared that he had been induced to celebrate his success in some wild frolic, and sent in a messenger to search after him.

The report came back that Frans had done very badly at school during the latter part of the day, and had ridden off at full speed, evidently in a very bad humour at his failure.

Later in the evening the pony came home, riderless, and sorrow settled on the household at Ekero.

"It is only some foolish trick that Frans is playing upon us!" Alma had said at first, but as the hours wore away she too had become really anxious.

The colonel, who went himself at once to the village, came home late, discouraged and distressed. Telegraphing and sending off messengers in every direction had been in vain. The morning brought terrible news. A theft had been committed in a shop near the schoolhouse the evening before, and an older pupil of bad repute had disappeared. It was generally whispered that he and Frans had gone off together.

Alma's feelings can easily be imagined. Shame, anger, righteous indignation, and real distress were strangely mingled together. Her father left home as soon as these horrible rumours were told him. Alma was alone all day, save when she was called on to hear the moans of the housekeeper over her "dear boy who had gone wrong; such a sweet boy as he had always been towards her."

At such a mention of himself Frans would have been much astonished, as this faithful friend of the family had not failed to set his shortcomings fully before him. She now reproached Alma for not making home more pleasant for her brother, for "worrying and worrying at him until he had no peace of his life. Such a knowing boy as he was, too, with the ways and doings of beasts and birds at his tongue's end. As for the Swedish kings, he could tell stories about them all a long midsummer day, if a body had patience to listen. And he not do well at an examination!" and the housekeeper snapped her fingers in contempt of the whole pedagogical corps.

To these various forms of lamenting Alma listened in convicted silence. She was glad of any company in the dismal loneliness of the house, and felt she deserved much blame, if not all the burden of responsibility that was cast upon her, for Frans's misdoings.

The colonel had been unwearied in his efforts to find his son; but when he was at last convinced that he had gone off in company with a boy suspected of actual theft, he would not seek for his son to be brought home to public trial and possible conviction. The authorities might find the boys if they could, he would take no further steps in the matter.

The colonel locked himself into his room, and not even Alma's gentle knock was answered. Like the housekeeper, he had a deep sense of Alma's coldness and bitterness towards her brother, and he understood how Frans must have dreaded to meet her after his disgrace at the examination. He understood, too, how much Frans must have feared his displeasure; but that such a mother's son should be so degraded as to consort with a thief and possibly share his guilt! The thought was madness. He pictured the desperate boy, flying perhaps to a far country, to suffer, and sin and go down to the lowest depths of degradation. The prayer burst forth from the depths of the colonel's heart, "God have mercy on my son! God have mercy on me, a sinner!" There was a thoroughgoing penitence in that closed room. The colonel's whole life stood before him, with all its shortcomings and its sins. To the world it had been an outwardly blameless life, but within there had been an uncertain faith, a half-heartedness, an indecision in his inner life, that ill befitted one who so well knew the love and purity of his heavenly Father. He cast himself upon his knees, to rise forgiven, and strengthened to lead a decided, devoted Christian life. With his own humiliation came back his tenderness towards his absent, erring boy.

When the door was opened at last to Alma, she saw the traces of sorrow and deep emotion on her father's face. She threw herself into his arms, exclaiming, "Dear, dear papa!" She could say no more. He gently closed the door by which she had entered. No human being ever knew the words that then passed between them, but they were henceforward to be bound together by a new and a holier tie than ever before.

CHAPTER XV.

THE BIRTHDAY GIFT

In the midst of the shadow over the household at Ekero, Alma's birthday had come. No festivities could be thought of. No birthday table was decked for her with flowers and gifts. Her father had not even remembered the fact that she was now eighteen years old until the evening came on. The housekeeper, a thorough Swede in all things, could not forget such an anniversary; but she was in no mood towards Alma to prompt to any particular kindness in that direction, or any festal preparations.

The father and daughter were sitting quietly together in the study in the evening. "Alma," he began, "I have just remembered that it must be your birthday. It has been a sad, neglected birthday for you, my child; but it shall not pass altogether without notice. Give me the jewel-case that has been in your charge, and the key too, dear. I have, of course, meant that you should have these things that were so peculiarly associated with your dear mother's younger days. The watch you can wear at once, as your own does not seem to keep good time. Hers was an excellent time-keeper, and it will remind you to be exact and true, and gentle and holy, like your dear mother. I shall take real pleasure in seeing you wear it. Go, daughter, at once! I am glad I thought of something that will please you on your birthday."

Alma obeyed mechanically, and returned quickly with the empty case in her hand, hoping that when the critical moment came she should be able to explain herself satisfactorily. She gave the casket into her father's hands, and waited in a silence so natural under the circumstances that he did not notice it.

There was no sparkle from the dark cushions, but a sudden, astonished sparkle in the colonel's eyes. "Empty, Alma! What does this mean?" he exclaimed.

"I have given them away," she said, blushing very deeply.

"Given them away!" repeated the colonel, slowly and sternly.

"I have given them for a good object, very dear to my heart. I am sure you would approve of it. Please, papa, do not ask me any more about it now. I do not want to tell you yet. It is a secret. I have promised, just to myself, and almost to God, never to tell any one until a certain thing is accomplished – until I can fully succeed."

"What is the matter with you, child? Have you lost your senses? You had no right to give away things intrusted to your care. I have told you that, by your mother's simple will, all she had was left at my disposition. Am I to be disappointed in both my children?" and the colonel bowed his head upon his hands.

"Dear papa, you are not to be disappointed in me! I have done nothing wrong." Here Alma's conscience gave her a sharp prick. Suddenly she broke out, after a moment's pause, "I want to be like the princess. I am sure that would please you, papa! You know she sold her jewels for a home for the sick poor."

The colonel answered seriously: "The princess is a saintly woman, and you would do well to follow her example. She sold her jewels to build a home for the aged sick, but she did not do it, princess and grown woman as she was, until she had asked the consent of her mother and her brother the king. What have you done, my child? What have you been thinking of? You must explain yourself fully. I have a right to demand it!"

Alma again left the room, to return with the little yellow house in her hands. "Here is my savings-box, papa," she said; "Nono made it for me."

A flush of pleasure came over the face of the colonel. "So exactly like Karin's cottage!" he exclaimed. "What a clever little boy! I like him."

"I thought – I thought," said Alma, encouraged by her father's smile – "I thought I would like to have a home for sick little children. I wanted to save my money to do something really good and lasting, instead of fooling it away by giving a little here and there, that did not after all do much good to anybody. I have saved all I could, and have given nothing away for anything else, but it went very slowly, and then I thought of those ornaments that were to be mine, and – I really did not think you would care." Here Alma blushed, and added, "I hoped you would not mind!" and her tears fell fast.

"My poor child!" said the colonel, as he put his arm around her and drew her to his side. "So this is the explanation of the change that had passed over you, and had given me so much pain! – my little Alma, who loved so dearly to give, and who has lately been so hard and cold that the very idea of an appeal from a poor family seemed to close her heart and stiffen her face into determined opposition. You cannot be a princess, dear, and do some great thing. I am afraid there was more pride than holy love in your plan. You should not think of yourself when you want to do good, but of your heavenly Master and his suffering brothers. Remember that! That was your dear mother's way. Self seemed dead in her. If she could but have lived to teach you by her beautiful example! It is not in seeking to do some great thing that we are in the right path. The little things that come to us day by day and hour by hour are safest for most Christians, and surely so for beginners. Where is the key to this locked little house?"