Elsie's Womanhood
by Martha Finley · English · Gutenberg #14874 · 501,972 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Elsie's Womanhood
Author: Martha Finley
Release date: February 2, 2005 [eBook #14874]
Most recently updated: December 19, 2020
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/14874
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ELSIE'S WOMANHOOD ***
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Emmy and the PG Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.
ELSIE'S
WOMANHOOD
A sequel to
"ELSIE'S GIRLHOOD"
By
MARTHA FINLEY
Complete Authorized Edition
Published by arrangement with
Dodd, Mead and Company
_A Burt Book_
BLUE RIBBON BOOKS, Inc.
_New York_
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by
DODD & MEAD
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
1903,
BY MARTHA FINLEY
1917,
BY CHARLES B. FINLEY
Preface.
The call for a sequel to "Elsie's Girlhood" having become too loud and
importunate to be resisted, the pleasant task of writing it was
undertaken.
Dates compelled the bringing in of the late war: and it has been the
earnest desire and effort of the author to so treat the subject as to
wound the feelings of none; to be as impartial as if writing history; and,
by drawing a true, though alas, but faint picture, of the great losses and
sufferings on both sides, to make the very thought of a renewal of the
awful strife _utterly abhorrent_ to every lover of humanity, and
especially of this, our own dear native land.
Are we not one people: speaking the same language; worshipping the one
true and living God; having a common history, a common ancestry; and
united by the tenderest ties of blood? And is not this great grand,
glorious old Union--known and respected all over the world--our common
country, our joy and pride? O! let us forget all bitterness, and live
henceforth in love, harmony, and mutual helpfulness.
For all I know of the Teche country I am indebted to Mr. Edward King's
"Old and New Louisiana"; for facts and dates in regard to the war, and in
large measure for Mr. Dinsmore's views as to its causes, etc.,
principally to Headley's "History of the Great Rebellion."
The description of Andersonville, and the life led by the prisoners there,
was supplied by one who shared it for six months. An effort was made to
obtain a sketch of a Northern prison also, but without success.
Yet what need to balance accounts in respect to these matters? The
unnatural strife is over, and we are again one united people.
M.F.
CHAPTER FIRST.
"Oh! there is one affection which no stain
Of earth can ever darken;--when two find,
The softer and the manlier, that a chain
Of kindred taste has fastened mind to mind."
--PERCIVAL'S POEMS.
In one of the cool green alleys at the Oaks, Rose and Adelaide Dinsmore
were pacing slowly to and fro, each with an arm about the other's waist,
in girlish fashion, while they conversed together in low, confidential
tones.
At a little distance to one side, the young son and heir had thrown
himself prone upon the grass in the shade of a magnificent oak, story-book
in hand. Much interested he seemed in his book, yet occasionally his eye
would wander from its fascinating pages to watch, with pride and delight,
the tiny Rosebud steady herself against a tree, then run with eager,
tottering steps and a crow of delight into her nurse's outstretched arms,
to be hugged, kissed, praised, and coaxed to try it over again.
As Rose and Adelaide turned at one end of the alley, Mr. Horace Dinsmore
entered it at the other. Hurriedly approaching the little toddler, he
stooped and held out his hands, saying, in tender, half-tremulous tones,
"Come, darling, come to papa."
She ran into his arms, crying, "Papa," in her sweet baby voice, and
catching her up, he covered her face with kisses; then, holding her
clasped fondly to his breast, walked on towards his wife and sister.
"What is it, Horace?" asked Rose anxiously, as they neared each other; for
she saw that his face was pale and troubled.
"I bring you strange tidings, my Rose," he answered low and sadly, as she
laid her hand upon his arm with an affectionate look up into his face.
Hers grew pale. "Bad news from home?" she almost gasped.
"No, no; I've had no word from our absent relatives or friends, and I'm
not sure I ought to call it bad news either; though I cannot yet think of
it with equanimity, it has come upon me so suddenly."
"What?" asked both ladies in a breath; "don't keep us in suspense."
"It has been going on for years--on his part--I can see it now--but, blind
fool that I was, I never suspected it till to-day, when it came upon me
like a thunderbolt."
"What? who?"
"Travilla; after years of patient waiting he has won her at last--our
darling--and--and I've given her to him."
Both ladies stood dumb with astonishment, while young Horace, who had come
running up in time to catch the last words, cried out with vehemence,
"Papa! what! give our Elsie away? how could you? how can we ever do
without her? But she shan't go, for she belongs to me too, and I'll
_never_ give consent!"
Mr. Dinsmore and the ladies smiled faintly.
"They seemed to think mine quite sufficient, Horace," replied his father,
"and I'm afraid will hardly consider it necessary to ask yours."
"But, papa, we can't spare her--you know we can't--and why should you go
and give her away to Mr. Travilla or anybody?"
"My son, had I refused, it would have caused her great unhappiness."
"Then she ought to be ashamed to go and love Mr. Travilla better than you
and all of us."
"I was never more astonished in my life!" cried Adelaide.
"Nor I," said Rose. "And he's a great deal too old for her."
"That is an objection," replied her husband, "but if not insuperable to
her, need not be to us."
"Think of your intimate friend addressing you as father!" laughed
Adelaide; "it's really too ridiculous."
"That need not be--is not an inevitable consequence of the match," smiled
Mr. Dinsmore, softly caressing the little one clinging about his neck.
Still conversing on the same subject, the minds of all being full of it to
the exclusion of every other, they moved on as if by common consent
towards the house.
"Do you think it can be possible that she is really and truly in love with
him?" queried Rose; "a man so much older than herself, and so intimate in
the family since her early childhood."
"Judge for yourself, my dear," said Mr. Dinsmore, as a turn in the path
brought them within a few yards of the lovers, who were moving slowly in
their direction so that the two parties must meet in another moment.
One glance at the beaming faces, the rich color coming and going in
Elsie's cheek, the soft, glad light in her sweet brown eyes, was a
sufficient reply to Rose's question. She looked at her husband with a
satisfied smile, which he returned.
But little Horace, leaving his father's side, rushed up to Elsie, and
catching her hand in his, cried, "I'll never give my consent! and you
belong to me. Mr. Travilla, you can't have her."
To the child's surprise Elsie only blushed and smiled, while Mr. Travilla,
without the slightest appearance of alarm or vexation, said, "Ah, my dear
boy, you may just as well; for she is willing to be mine and your papa has
given her to me."
But the others had come up, and inquiring looks, smiles and kindly
greetings were exchanged.
"Mr. Travilla," said Rose, half playfully but with a tear trembling in her
eye, "you have stolen a march upon us, and I can hardly forgive you just
yet."
"I regret that exceedingly, my dear madam," he answered, with a smile that
belied his words. "But Miss Adelaide, you will still stand my friend?"
"I don't know," she answered demurely; "there's only one serious objection
in my mind (if Elsie is satisfied); that I don't quite fancy having a
nephew some years older than myself."
"Ah! well, I shall be quite willing to be considered a brother-in-law."
"Company to dinner!" shouted Horace. "I see a carriage; don't you, papa?"
"It is your Uncle Edward's," said Mr. Travilla.
"Yes," said Adelaide, "Lora and her tribe are in it, no doubt; and
probably Mrs. Bowles too (Carrie Howard you know, Elsie). They have been
late in calling."
"Some good reason for it, and they are none the less welcome," remarked
Rose, quickening her pace.
The one party reached the house just as the other two had fairly alighted,
and a scene of joyous greeting ensued.
"You dear child! how good of you to come back to us again, and single
too," exclaimed Mrs. Bowles, clasping Elsie in a warm embrace; "I'd almost
given it up, and expected by every mail to hear you had become Lady or
Countess this, or Duchess that."
Elsie smiled and blushed, and meeting the eye of her betrothed fixed for
an instant upon her with an expression of unutterable content,
thankfulness, love and pride, smiled and blushed again.
Carrie caught the look and its effect upon her friend, and almost
breathless with astonishment, took the first opportunity, after all were
seated in the drawing-room, to prefer a whispered request to be taken to
Elsie's own private apartment for a moment, to see that her hair and dress
were in proper order.
They had come to spend the day, and bonnets and shawls had already been
carried away by the servants in attendance.
"Now girls, don't run off for an interminable chat by yourselves," said
Mrs. Howard, as the two rose and crossed the room together.
"No, Aunt Lora, we'll not stay long," said Elsie; "for I want to improve
every moment of your visit, in renewing my acquaintance with you and my
young cousins."
"Your family has grown, Lora," remarked her brother.
"Yes, rather faster than yours," she said, looking round with pride upon
her little group of four boys, and a girl yet in her nurse's arms. "Go and
speak to your uncle, Ned, Walter, Horace, and Arthur. You see I have given
you a namesake; and this little pet we call Rose Louise, for her two
aunties. Yours is Rose, too! and what a darling! and how little Horace has
grown!"
"Elsie, it can't be possible!" cried Carrie, the instant they found
themselves alone.
"What can't?" and Elsie's blush and smile were charming.
"That you and Mr. Travilla are lovers! I saw it in your faces; but, 'tis
too absurd! Why, he's your father's friend, and nearly as old."
"All the wiser and better for that, Carrie, dear. But he is young in
heart, and far from looking old, I think. I have grown so sick of your
silly, brainless fops, who expect women neither to talk sense nor
understand it."
"Ah, I dare say! and Mr. Travilla is the most sensible and polished of
men--always excepting my own spouse, of course. And you won't be taken
away from us; so I give my consent."
Elsie's only answer was a mirthful, amused look.
"Oh, but I am glad to see you back!" Carrie ran on. "It seems an age since
you went away."
"Thank you. And your husband? what is he like?"
"I was never good at description, but he is a fine specimen of a Kentucky
planter, and very fond of his wife. By the way, you must blame me that
Edward and Lora were so late in welcoming you home. I arrived only
yesterday morning, quite fatigued with my journey, and begged them to wait
till to-day, and bring me with them."
"That was right. We have not seen Enna yet, or Arthur. Grandpa and Mrs.
Dinsmore and Walter called yesterday. But there is the dinner-bell. Let me
conduct you to the dining-room."
They were just in time to sit down with the others.
Elsie quickly perceived by her Aunt Lora's look and manner, that she, too,
had heard the news, but no remark was make on the subject till the ladies
had retired to the drawing-room, leaving the gentlemen to the enjoyment of
their after-dinner cigars.
Then Mrs. Howard, facing round upon her niece as they entered the room,
exclaimed, "Elsie, you naughty child! are you not ashamed of yourself?"
"On account of what, auntie?"
"Such unconscious innocence!" cried Lora, throwing up the white and
jeweled hands she had rested lightly for an instant upon the young girl's
shoulder, while gazing steadily into the smiling, blushing, sparkling
face. "You haven't been planning and promising to give Adelaide and me a
nephew older than ourselves? I tell you, miss, I refuse my consent. Why,
it's absurd! the very idea! I used to think him almost an elderly
gentleman when you were a chit of eight or nine."
"I remember having had some such idea myself; but he must have been
growing young since then," returned Elsie, demurely.
"He seems to have been standing still (waiting for you, I suppose); but I
never was more astonished in my life!" said Lora, dropping into a chair.
"It has been a genuine surprise to us all," remarked Rose.
"To me as much as anyone, mamma," said Elsie. "I--had thought he was
engaged to you, Aunt Adie."
"To _me_, child!"
"Why, my dear, I surely told you about her engagement to my brother
Edward?" exclaimed Adelaide and Rose simultaneously.
"You tried, mamma, and it was all my own fault that I did not hear the
whole truth. And, Aunt Adie, I cannot understand how he could ever fancy
me, while he might have hoped there was a possibility of winning you."
"'Twould have been a much more suitable match," said Lora. "Though I'd
have preferred the one in contemplation, except that in the other case,
she would not be carried quite away from us. But suppose we proceed to
business. We should have a double wedding, I think."
"Oh, don't talk of it yet," said Rose, with a slight tremble in her voice,
and looking at Elsie's flushed, conscious face with eyes full of unshed
tears. "Adelaide's is to be within the next two months, and--we cannot
give up Elsie so suddenly."
"Of course not," said Adelaide; "and I should have serious objections to
being used as a foil to Elsie's youth and beauty."
The Howards and Mr. Travilla stayed to tea, and shortly before that meal
the party was increased by the arrival of Walter Dinsmore and Mrs. Dick
Percival.
Enna had lost flesh and color; and long indulgence of a fretful, peevish
temper had drawn down the corners of her mouth, lined her forehead, and
left its ugly pencilings here and there over the once pretty face, so that
it already began to look old and care-worn. She was very gayly dressed, in
the height of the fashion, and rather overloaded with jewelry; but powder
and rouge could not altogether conceal the ravages of discontent and
passion. She was conscious of the fact, and inwardly dwelt with
mortification and chagrin upon the contrast presented by her own faded
face to that of Elsie, so fair and blooming, so almost childish in its
sweet purity and innocence of expression.
"So you are single yet," Enna said, with a covert sneer; "and not likely
to marry either, so far as I've been able to learn. They'll soon begin to
call you an old maid."
"Will they?" said Mr. Dinsmore, with a laugh in which all present joined,
Enna herself excepted; "well, if she is a fair specimen of that
much-abused class, they are far more attractive than is generally
supposed."
"You needn't laugh," said Enna; "I was four years younger than she is now,
when I married. I wasn't going to wait till they began to call me an old
maid."
"To bear that reproach is not the worst calamity that can befall a woman,"
replied Mr. Dinsmore gravely; then changed the subject by a kind inquiry
in regard to Arthur.
"Slowly and steadily improving," answered Walter. "The doctors are now
satisfied that he is not permanently crippled, though he still uses a
crutch."
CHAPTER SECOND.
"Mutual love, the crown of all our bliss."
--MILTON'S PARADISE LOST.
After a half hour of waiting for her son's return, Mrs. Travilla sat down
to her lonely cup of tea. There was no lack of delicacies on the table,
and in all Edward's taste had been consulted. To make him comfortable and
happy was, next to serving her God, the great aim and object of his
mother's life; and, in a less degree, of that of every servant in the
house. They had all been born and brought up at Ion, and had all these
years known him as the kindest, most reasonable and considerate of
masters.
"Wish Massa Edard come. Dese waffles jes' prime to-night, an' he so fond
ob dem," remarked a pretty mulatto girl, handing a plate of them to her
mistress.
"Yes, Prilla, he expected to be at home, but is probably taking tea at the
Oaks or Roselands." And the old lady supped her tea and ate her waffles
with a serene, happy face, now and then lighted up by a pleased smile
which her attendant handmaiden was at a loss to interpret.
Having finished her meal, Mrs. Travilla threw a shawl about her shoulders
and stepped out upon the veranda; then, tempted by the beauty of the
night, walked down the avenue to meet her son or see if there were any
signs of his approach.
She had not gone half the distance ere the sound of horses' hoofs reached
her ear--distant at first but coming rapidly nearer, till a lady and
gentleman drew rein at the gate, while the servant who had been riding in
the rear dismounted and threw it open.
They came dashing up, but paused and drew rein again at sight of the old
lady standing there under the trees.
"Mother," cried her son, springing from the saddle, "you were not alarmed?
anxious? surely."
"No, no, Edward, but glad to see you and Elsie! my dear child, this is
very kind."
"Not at all, dear Mrs. Travilla; it is so lovely an evening for a ride; or
walk either," she added, giving her hand to her escort and springing
lightly to the ground.
Mr. Travilla put the hand into that of his mother. "Take her to your
heart, mother; she is mine--ours!" he said, in low tones tremulous with
joy.
The old lady folded the slight girlish form to her breast for a moment,
with a silence more eloquent than words.
"Thank God! thank God!" she murmured at length. "He has given me my
heart's desire;" and mingled caresses and tears fell upon Elsie's face.
"For many years I have loved you as my own child, and now I am to have
you. How bright our home will be, Edward. But we are darkening another.
Her father; can he--has he----"
"He has given her to me," answered the son quickly, "and she has--we have
given ourselves to each other. Let me give an arm to each of you and we
will go into the house."
* * * * *
The veranda at the Oaks was deserted, and the house very quiet, though
lights still shone here and there, as Mr. Travilla and Elsie rode up and
dismounted on their return from Ion.
A servant rose from the grass, where he had been lying at his ease; came
forward and led away his young mistress's pony, while the lover bade her a
tender good-night, sprang into the saddle again, and presently
disappeared, lost to view amid the trees and the windings of the road,
though the sound of horse's hoofs still came faintly to Elsie's ear as she
stood intently listening, a sweet smile irradiating every feature.
Absorbed in her own thoughts, and in the effort to catch those
fast-retreating sounds, she did not hear a step approaching from behind;
but an arm encircled her waist, and a low-breathed "My darling" woke her
from her reverie.
She looked up, her eyes beaming with affection; "Papa; I am rather late,
am I not?"
"Not very. Hark! the clock is but just striking ten. Come, let us sit down
here for a little. We have hardly had a chat together to-day." He sighed
slightly as he drew her closer to him.
"No, papa dear, there has been so much company," she answered, laying her
head on his shoulder. "And----"
"And what?" as she paused. "Your father used to know all that concerned
you one way or the other. Is he to be shut out from your confidence now?
Ah, I think he must have been for some time past."
"I could not tell you _that_, papa," she murmured, blushing visibly in the
moonlight. "Indeed, I hardly knew it myself till----"
"Till when?"
"The night of Sophie's wedding."
"Ah!" he said, musingly; "but I cannot get over my surprise; he is your
senior by so many years, and you have known him from childhood and looked
upon him as a sort of uncle. I wonder at your choice."
"But you don't object, papa?"
"No, if I must give you away--and I've always known that would come some
time--I would rather it should be to him than any one else, for I can
never doubt that he will be tender and true to my precious one, when she
leaves her father's home for his."
"Papa, papa, don't speak of it," she cried, winding her arms about his
neck, "I can't bear to think of it; that our home will no longer be the
same, that I can't come to you every night and be folded to your heart as
I have been ever since I was a little girl."
"Well, dearest," he said, after a moment, in which he held her very close
and caressed her with exceeding tenderness, "we shall not be far apart or
miss passing some time together many days of the year. And you are not in
haste to leave me?"
"Oh, no, no! why should I be? Please keep me a little while yet."
"I intend to: it will take at least a year to get used to the thought of
doing without you, and so long Travilla must be content to wait. Nor can
we give you up wholly even then; your suite of rooms shall still be yours,
and you must come now and then and occupy them for days or weeks at a
time.
"Now, daughter, good-night. Come to me to-morrow morning in my study, soon
after breakfast, I have something more of importance to say to you."
"I shall obey, and without fear," she answered gayly, "though I remember
once being quite frightened at a similar order; but that was when I was a
silly little girl and didn't know how dearly my own papa loved me."
"And when he was strangely stern to his own little child," he answered,
with another tender caress.
CHAPTER THIRD.
"So fair that had you beauty's picture took,
It must like her, or not like beauty look."
--ALLEYN'S HENRY VII.
Elsie paused at the half-open door of her father's private room.
Mr. Dinsmore, like most men, was fond of light and air; through the wide
open windows the morning breeze stole softly in, laden with sweets from
garden and lawn, and the rich carpet of oak and green was flecked with
gold where the sunbeams came shimmering down between the fluttering leaves
of a beautiful vine that had festooned itself about the one looking to the
east.
Mr. Dinsmore was seated at his desk with a pile of papers before
him--legal documents in appearance; he would open one, glance over its
contents, lay it aside, and take up another only to treat it in like
manner.
Elsie stood but a moment watching him with loving, admiring eyes, then
gliding noiselessly across the floor, dropped gracefully at his feet and
laying her folded hands upon his knee looked up into his face with an
arch, sweet smile.
"Mon père, I have come for my lecture, or whatever you have laid up in
store for me," she announced with mock gravity and a slight tremble of
pretended fear in her voice.
Dropping the paper he held, and passing one hand caressingly over her
shining hair, "My darling, how very, very lovely you are!" he said, the
words bursting spontaneously from his lips; "there is no flaw in your
beauty, and your face beams with happiness."
"Papa turned flatterer!" she cried, springing up and allowing him to draw
her to his knee.
"I'm waiting for the lecture," she said presently, "you know I always like
to have disagreeable things over as soon as possible."
"Who told you there was to be a lecture?"
"Nobody, sir."
"What have you been doing that you feel entitles you to one?"
"I don't remember."
"Nor I either. So let us to business. Here, take this chair beside me. Do
you know how much you are worth?"
"Not precisely, sir," she answered demurely, taking the chair and folding
her hands pensively in her lap; "but very little, I presume, since you
have given me away for nothing."
"By no means," he said, with a slight smile of amusement at her unwonted
mood. "It was for your own happiness, which is no trifle in my esteem. But
you belong to me still."
She looked at him with glistening eyes. "Thank you, dearest papa; yes, I
do belong to you and always shall. Please excuse my wilful
misunderstanding of your query. I do not know how much money and other
property I own, but have an idea it is a million more or less."
"My dear child!--it is fully three times that."
"Papa! is it indeed?"
"Yes, it was about a million at the time of your Grandfather Grayson's
death, and has increased very much during your mamma's minority and yours;
which you know has been a very long one. You own several stores and a
dwelling house in New Orleans, a fine plantation with between two and
three hundred negroes, and I have invested largely for you in stocks of
various kinds both in your own country and in England. I wish you to
examine all the papers, certificates of stock, bonds, deeds, mortgages,
and so forth."
"Oh, papa!" she cried, lifting her hands in dismay, "what a task. Please
excuse me. You know all about it, and is not that sufficient?"
"No, the property is yours; I have been only your steward, and must now
render up an account to you for the way in which I have handled your
property."
"You render an account to _me_, my own dear father," she said low and
tremulously, while her face flushed crimson; "I cannot bear to hear you
speak so. I am fully satisfied, and very, _very_ thankful for all your
kind care of it and of me."
He regarded her with a smile of mingled tenderness and amusement, while
softly patting and stroking the small white hand laid lovingly upon his.
"Could I--could any father--do less for his own beloved child?" he asked.
"Not you, I know, papa. But may I ask you a question?"
"As many as you like."
"How much are you worth? Ah! you needn't look so quizzical. I mean how
much do you own in money, land, etc.?"
"Something less than a million; I cannot tell you the exact number of
dollars and cents."
"Hardly a third as much as I! It doesn't seem right. Papa, take half of
mine."
"That wouldn't balance the scales either," he said laughingly; "and
besides, Mr. Travilla has now some right to be consulted."
"Papa, I could never love him again, if he should object to my giving you
all but a few hundred thousands."
"He would not. He says he will never touch a cent of your property; it
must be settled entirely upon yourself, and subject to your control. And
that is quite right; for he, too, is wealthy."
"Papa, I don't think I deserve so much; I don't want the care of so much.
I do wish you would be so good as to take half for your own, and continue
to manage the other half for me as you think best."
"What you deserve is not the question just now. This is one of the talents
which God has given you, and I think you ought, at least for the present,
to keep the principal and decide for yourself what shall be done with the
interest. You are old enough now to do so, and I hope do not wish to shirk
the responsibility, since God, in His good providence, has laid it upon
you."
He spoke very gravely and Elsie's face reflected the expression of his.
"No, I do not wish it now, papa," she said, in a low, sweet voice. "I
will undertake it, asking Him for wisdom and grace to do it aright."
They were busy for the next hour or two over the papers.
"There!" cried Elsie, at length, "we have examined the last one, and I
think I understand it all pretty thoroughly."
"I think you do. And now another thing; ought you not to go and see for
yourself your property in Louisiana?"
Elsie assented, on condition that he would take her.
"Certainly, my dear child, can you suppose I would ever think of
permitting you to go alone?"
"Thank you, papa. And if poor mammy objects this time, she may take her
choice of going or staying; but go I must, and see how my poor people are
faring at Viamede. I have dim, dreamy recollections of it as a kind of
earthly paradise. Papa, do you know why mammy has always been so
distressed whenever I talked of going there?"
"Painful associations, no doubt. Poor creature! it was there her
husband--an unruly negro belonging to a neighboring planter--was sold away
from her, and there she lost her children, one by accidental drowning, the
others by some epidemic disease. Your own mother, too, died there, and
Chloe I think never loved one of her own children better."
"No, I'm sure not. But she never told me of her husband and children, and
I thought she had never had any. And now, papa, that we are done with
business for the present, I have a request to make."
"Well, daughter, what is it?"
"That you will permit me to renew my old intimacy with Lucy Carrington; or
at least to call on her. You remember she was not well enough to be at the
wedding; she is here at Ashlands with her baby. Mr. and Mrs. Carrington
called here yesterday while you were out, and both urged me not to be
ceremonious with Lucy, as she is hardly well enough to make calls and is
longing to see me."
"And what answer did you give them?" he asked with some curiosity.
"That I should do so if possible; that meant if I could obtain your
permission, papa."
"You have it. Lucy is in some sort taken into the family now, and you are
safely engaged; to say nothing of your mature years," he added laughingly,
as she seated herself on his knee again and thanked him with a hug and
kiss.
"You dear good papa!"
"Some girls of your age, heiresses in their own right, would merely have
said, 'I'm going,' never asking permission."
"Ah, but I like to be ruled by you. So please don't give it up. Now about
Enna?"
"If I had any authority in the matter, I should say, you shall not give
her a cent. She doesn't deserve it from you or any one."
"Then I shall wait till you change your mind."
Mr. Dinsmore shook his head. "Ah! my little girl, you don't realize how
much some one else's opinions will soon weigh with you," he answered,
putting an arm about her and looking with fatherly delight into the sweet
face.
"Ah, papa!" she cried, laying her cheek to his, "please don't talk so; it
hurts me."
"Then, dearest, I shall not say it again, though indeed I was not
reproaching you; it is right, very right, that husband and wife should be
more than all the world beside to each other."
Elsie's cheek crimsoned. "It has not come to that yet, father dear," she
murmured, half averting her blushing face; "and--I don't know which of you
I love best--or how I could ever do without either: the love differs in
kind rather than in degree."
He drew her closer. "Thank you, my darling; what more could I ask or
desire?" A slight tap on the door and Mrs. Dinsmore looked in. "Any
admittance?" she asked playfully.
"Always to my wife," answered her husband, releasing Elsie and rising to
hand Rose a chair.
"Thanks, my dear, but I haven't time to sit down," she said. "Here is a
note of invitation for us all to spend the day at Roselands. Shall we go?"
"Certainly, if it suits you, Rose," replied Mr. Dinsmore; "and Elsie;" he
added, "will you go, daughter?"
"If you wish it, papa," she answered cheerfully; yet there was a slight
reluctance in her tone.
He gave her a kind, fond look. "You are your own mistress, and can accept
or decline as your judgment and wishes dictate."
"But you would rather have me go, papa?"
"I would, because it would seem more kind and courteous. But what is the
objection in your mind? Perhaps it could be removed."
"I wanted so much to see Lucy this morning," Elsie answered with a blush;
"but to-morrow will do."
"But both might be accomplished if mamma and Adelaide like to have Cæsar
drive them and the little ones over to Roselands. Then you and I will
mount our horses and away to Ashlands for a call, leaving there in good
time to join the dinner party at Roselands. How will that do?"
"Oh, bravely, you dear darling papa! always contriving for my enjoyment."
Mr. Dinsmore followed his wife from the room. "'Twill be an early return
of Carrington's call," he said, "but I have a little business with him."
"Yes, I'm very glad: it is a good plan; but don't hurry Elsie away. She
and Lucy will want a long talk."
"I promise to be careful to obey orders," he answered, sportively. "Is
that all?"
"Yes; only see that you don't stay too long, and keep the dinner waiting
at Roselands."
"Mamma," asked Elsie, bringing up the rear as they entered the
sitting-room, "can't you go, too--you and Aunt Adelaide? Four make as nice
a party as two, and the babies can be driven over quite safely, with their
mammies, to take care of them."
"No," said Rose, "I never accept such late invitations; I shall----"
"My dear," said her husband, "we would be very glad."
"No, no; the first arrangement is decidedly the best;" putting on an air
of pretended pique.
"Babies! do you call me a baby?" cried young Horace, who had sprung to his
feet with a flash of indignation in his great black eyes, "I'm nine years
old, Elsie. Rosie there's the only baby belonging to this house. Do you
think papa would let a baby have a pony like Gip? and a pistol of his own,
too?"
Elsie put her arms round his neck, and gave him a kiss, "I beg ten
thousand pardons."
"Elsie, my daughter, don't allow yourself to speak so extravagantly,"
interrupted her father.
"I will try not, papa," she answered. "I beg your pardon, Horace dear, and
assure you I think you are quite a manly young man. Now I must prepare for
my ride, papa. I shall be ready by the time the horses can be brought to
the door."
"Papa," said Horace, as the door closed upon his sister, "may I ride Gip
to-day?"
"If you promise me to keep close beside the carriage."
"Oh, papa, can't I ride on ahead a little, now and then, or fall a few
paces behind if I wish?"
"No; you may do just what I have given permission for, and nothing else."
CHAPTER FOURTH.
"Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye,
In ev'ry gesture, dignity and love."
--MILTON'S PARADISE LOST.
"But, Elsie, what of Mr. Travilla?" asked her father, as he handed her
into the saddle.
"He will not be here till evening, sir," she answered, the rose on her
cheek deepening slightly.
"Then I can have undisturbed possession for to-day at least," replied Mr.
Dinsmore, mounting. "We couldn't have a lovelier day for a ride."
"Nor better company," added Elsie, archly, keeping her horse's head on a
line with that of her father's larger Steed, as they followed the winding
carriage road at a brisk canter.
"Why, you conceited little puss?" returned Mr. Dinsmore laughing.
Elsie blushed more deeply this time. "Why, papa, you are the company
to-day, are you not? I wished to go, and you kindly arranged to accompany
me."
"Ah! and that is how you look at it? Well, I recall my rebuke, and thank
you for your--what shall I say--pretty compliment, or appreciation of my
society?"
"Both, if you like. Oh, how nice it is to be at home again in our own dear
native land."
"And what do you call your own dear native land?"
"What a strange question, papa! The great, grand old Union to be
sure--North and South, East and West--is it not all mine? Have you not
taught me so yourself?"
"Yes," he said musingly.
They rode on in silence for some minutes, and when he spoke again, it was
upon a subject entirely foreign to the last.
"The place looks natural," he remarked, as they turned into the avenue
leading to the fine old dwelling of the Carringtons.
"How kind, how very kind, to come so soon!" was Mrs. Carrington's cordial,
joyful salutation. "Mr. Dinsmore, I owe you a thousand thanks for not only
permitting your daughter to come, but bringing her yourself."
"You are very welcome, my dear madam," he answered courteously; "and,
indeed, I should like to see Mrs. Rose myself, when she is well enough and
feels that it will be agreeable to her."
A few moments' chat in the drawing-room, and Mr. Dinsmore drew out his
watch. "How long a talk do you want with your friend to-day, Elsie?" he
asked.
"Oh, just as long as I can be allowed, papa!" she cried, with much of the
old childish eagerness.
"Then the sooner you begin, the better, I think, for we ought to be on our
way to Roselands in an hour, or an hour and a quarter at the farthest."
Upon that the gentlemen retired to the library to talk over business
matters, and Mrs. Carrington led the way for Elsie to Lucy's room. But
pausing in the upper hall, she took the young girl in her arms, folding
her in a close, loving embrace, and heaping upon her tearful, tender,
silent caresses.
"My poor boy! my poor dear Herbert," she murmured at length, as she
released her hold. "Darling, I can never forget that you might have been
my daughter. But there--I will leave you. Lucy occupies her old rooms, and
yonder is her door; you know the way."
"But come in with me, dear Mrs. Carrington," urged Elsie, the tears
shining in her eyes.
"No, dear, not just yet. Lucy would prefer to see you quite alone at
first, I know." And she glided away in the opposite direction.
A soft, cooing sound came to Elsie's ear, mingled with fondling words, in
a negro voice, as she stood an instant waiting admittance. Lucy, a good
deal paler and thinner than the Lucy of old, lay back in an easy chair,
languidly turning the leaves of a new magazine.
"Open the door, mammy," she said, "I thought I heard a rap." Then at sight
of Elsie, the magazine was hastily tossed aside, and with a cry of joy,
"Oh, you darling! I thought I'd never see you again," she sprang forward,
caught her friend in a close embrace, and wept upon her neck.
Elsie soothed her with caresses and words of endearment, and presently she
calmed down, made her friend take a seat, and sinking back into her own,
wiped away the tears still welling up in her eyes, and with a little
hysterical laugh said, "Please don't look so concerned, or think I'm
unhappy with my dear old Phil, or going to die, or any such nonsense: it's
just my nerves; hateful, torturing things! I wish I'd never found out I
had any."
"You poor dear, I'm so sorry for your lost health," said Elsie, exchanging
her chair for a low ottoman at Lucy's feet, and taking the small thin
hands in hers, stroking and patting them caressingly; "I know nerves won't
be reasoned with, and that tears are often a great relief."
"And I've everything to make me happy," sobbed Lucy--"the best husband in
the world, and the darlingest of babies, to say nothing of mamma and papa,
and the rest, and really almost everything one could desire."
"Oh, the baby, yes!" cried Elsie, turning towards it with eager interest;
"the sweet, pretty darling. May I take him a moment, Lucy?"
"Certainly, if he's not too heavy--bring him here, mammy. I remember your
father would not allow you to lift or carry little Horace."
"Ah, but that was years ago! Ah, how lovely he is!" as the babe accepted
her mute invitation to come to her. "You are rich indeed, with this
treasure added to all your others. And you and your Phil don't quarrel
yet?"
"No indeed! not the first cross word yet. Mamma calls us her turtle-doves:
says we're always billing and cooing. Ah, Elsie, how beautiful you are!
I've always thought you just as lovely as possible, yet there's an added
something--I can't divine what--that increases even your peerless
attractions."
"O Lucy, Lucy, still a flatterer!" laughed her friend.
"Yet you've come back to us single," Lucy went on, ignoring the
interruption, "though we all know you had ever so many good offers. Pray,
do you intend to remain single all your days?"
At that, Elsie's face dimpled all over with blushes and smiles.
Lucy signed to the nurse to take the babe, and as the woman walked away
with it in her arms, turned eagerly to her friend.
"Now do tell me; for I'm sure you are not going to live single. Shall we
have the pleasure of hailing you as duchess yet?"
"No, Lucy; I intend to marry; am actually engaged, but not to a
foreigner."
"Dear me! I don't believe I could have resisted the title. That is," she
added, hastily, "if I'd been heart-whole like you: but after seeing my
Phil, of course I wouldn't give him up for all the nobles in Europe, Asia,
and Africa. But do tell me who is the fortunate man?"
"Suppose you try your skill at guessing."
"Perfectly useless, never had any. It must be somebody I don't know."
"My good little woman, you know him well."
"Either of Harry's brothers-in-law? Richard? Harold?"
"No, no, no; you are wide of the mark! Could you suppose papa would ever
consent to such a mixture of relationships? Why, it would make papa my
brother and mamma's brother her son-in-law."
"So it would. Well, I give it up and beg of you to put a speedy end to my
suspense."
Lucy bent her head to listen, and Elsie murmured the name low and softly,
the rose deepening on her cheek as she spoke. For a moment Lucy seemed
struck dumb with astonishment. Then, "Elsie!" she exclaimed, "I can't
believe it; you are only jesting."
Elsie shook her head with a low, musical, happy laugh.
"He's splendid, I don't deny that; but then--only think--your father's
most intimate friend from boyhood up; and almost as old."
"Some people seem like wine--to improve with age. But Mr. Travilla is not
old to me now. He has been standing still, I believe, while I have grown
up to him."
"And you really are in love with him?"
"He has all my heart, all the love I could give to any one, and I respect,
honor, and trust him as I do no one else but my father."
"And that reminds me; I was so afraid your father would not let you come
to see me. But--you are your own mistress now, of course."
"Papa tells me so sometimes," laughed Elsie, "and yet I know he would be
greatly surprised should I take the liberty of doing anything he would not
approve. I asked his permission to come, and he not only gave consent but
brought me himself."
"That was good in him; but I hope he won't hurry you away. I want to hear
about your European conquests, and have ever so much to say besides."
"No, he has kindly promised me time for a long talk. Besides, I can ride
over any day and supplement it with another."
Mr. Dinsmore was as good as his word; their chat had lasted more than an
hour when his summons came, yet Lucy declared it had not been half long
enough, and would not be satisfied to let Elsie go without a promise to
come again very soon.
* * * * *
"Roselands, too, looks very natural, and very homelike," remarked Mr.
Dinsmore, as they rode up its avenue.
"Yes, papa; and yet, do you know, it seems to me it has grown smaller and
less grand since I lived here as a child."
"Ah! did you think it very grand then, daughter?" he asked, turning to her
with a smile.
"I believe so, papa; but it is beautiful yet, even after all the fine
places we have seen in our own country and Europe."
Adelaide met them at the door. "Just in time," she said, "for there is the
dressing-bell. Your own old room, Elsie dear: you know the way and will
find Aunt Chloe in waiting. Horace, you will make yourself at home of
course."
It was strictly a family party, sociable and informal. Elsie had not met
Arthur since their return, and at the first moment scarcely recognized him
in the moustached and bewhiskered young man who rose and came forward,
with a slight limp, to meet her as she entered the drawing-room.
"How do you do?" he said, holding out his right hand, while steadying
himself with a cane held in the left. "I hope you're glad to get back to
America?"
"Arthur, is it? Yes; thank you: and I'm very glad your injuries have
proved less serious than was at first feared," she said, kindly meeting
his advances half-way.
"Oh yes," he replied, with attempted nonchalance, "I shall be all right by
and by."
Then retreating to the seat from which he had just risen, the corner of a
sofa by the side of his sister Adelaide, his eye following Elsie as she
crossed the room to pay her respects to her grandfather and others. "What
on earth you call that girl little for, I can't imagine," he remarked in
an undertone; "why she's quite above the average height; graceful as a
young fawn, too; splendid figure, and actually the most beautiful face I
ever saw. I don't wonder she turned the heads of lords and dukes on the
other side of the water. But what _do_ you call her little for?"
"I hardly know, Art; with me it's a term of endearment more than anything
else, I believe," replied his sister; "but there is something in the
expression of her face--something that has always been there, a sweet
simplicity and innocence--that moves one to a sort of protecting love as
to a little one who has not yet attained sufficient worldly wisdom to take
care of herself."
Old Mr. Dinsmore greeted his lovely granddaughter almost affectionately,
holding her hand in his for a moment, and looking from her to her father.
"Really, she's a girl to be proud of, Horace," he said with a paternal
smile. "But I've no need to tell you that."
"No, she is not bad looking," observed his wife with a slight sneer; "few
girls would be in such elegant attire; but it surprises me to see that,
with all her advantages and opportunities for improvement, she has not yet
lost that baby expression she always had. She'll never be half the woman
Enna is."
The days were past in which the lady mother had gloried in the fact that
anywhere Enna would have been taken for the elder of the two; and now the
contrast between her faded, fretful face and Elsie's fresh bloom was a
sore trial to madam's love, and pride in her household pet.
But no one deemed it necessary to reply to the unpleasant remark. Elsie
only smiled up into her father's face as he came forward and stood at her
side, and meeting his look of loving content and pride in her, just as she
was, and calling to mind how fully satisfied with her was another, whose
loving approbation was no less precious, turned away with a half-breathed
sigh of heartfelt happiness, finished her greetings, and, the dinner-bell
ringing at that moment, accepted Walter's offered arm to the dining-room.
Arthur was more and more charmed with his niece as he noted the modest
ease and grace of her manners, both at the table, and afterwards in the
drawing-room; listened to her music--greatly improved under the
instructions of some of the first masters of Europe--and her conversation
with his father and others, in which she almost unconsciously revealed
rich stores of varied information gathered from books, the discourse of
the wise and learned met in her travels, and her own keen yet kindly
observations of men and things. These, with the elegance of her diction,
and the ready play of wit and fancy, made her a fascinating talker.
Contrary to Elsie's expectations, it was decided by the elders of the
party that all should remain to tea.
As the others returned to the drawing-room on leaving the table, she stole
out upon the moonlighted veranda. Gazing wistfully down the avenue, was
she thinking of one probably even then on his way to the Oaks--thinking of
him and his disappointment at not finding her here?
"It's a nice night, this," remarked Arthur's voice at her side, "I say,
Elsie, suppose we bury the hatchet, you and I."
"I never had any enmity towards you, Arthur," she answered, still gazing
straight before her.
"Well, it's odd if you hadn't; I gave you cause enough, as you did me by
your niggardly refusal to lend me a small sum, on occasions when I was
hard up. But I'm willing to let by-gones be by-gones, if you are."
"Certainly; I should be glad to forget all that has been unpleasant in the
past."
"You have improved wonderfully since I saw you last: you were a pretty
girl then, but now you are without exception the most superbly beautiful,
graceful, accomplished, and intelligent woman I ever saw."
"I do not like flattery, Arthur," she answered, turning coldly away.
"Pooh! the truth's never flattery; I declare if we were not so nearly
related, I'd marry you myself."
"You forget," she said, half scornfully, "that it takes two to make a
bargain; three in this case; and two of us would never consent."
"Nonsense! I'd soon manage it by clever courting. A man can always get the
woman he wants if he's only sufficiently determined."
"In that you are mistaken. But why broach so disagreeable a subject, since
we are so nearly related that the very thought seems almost a sin and a
crime?"
"And so you're going to throw yourself away on old Travilla?"
Elsie faced him with flashing eyes. "No; it will be no throwing away of
myself, nor will I allow him to be spoken of in such disrespectful terms,
in my presence."
"Humph!" laughed Arthur. "Well, I've found out how to make you angry, at
all events. And I'm free to confess I don't like Travilla, or forgive him
all old scores."
Elsie scarcely seemed to hear. A horse was coming at a quiet canter up the
avenue. Both the steed and his rider wore a familiar aspect, and the young
girl's heart gave a joyous bound as the latter dismounted, throwing the
reins to a servant, and came up the steps into the veranda.
She glided towards him; there was an earnest, tender clasping of hands, a
word or two of cordial greeting, and they passed into the house and
entered the drawing room.
"Humph! not much sentiment there; act towards each other pretty much as
they always have," said Arthur to himself, taking a cigar from his pocket
and lighting it with a match. "I wonder now what's the attraction to her
for an old codger like that," he added watching the smoke as it curled
lazily up from the end of his Havana.
There was indeed nothing sentimental in the conduct of Mr. Travilla or
Elsie: deep, true, heartfelt happiness there was on both sides, but calm
and quiet, indulging in little demonstration, except when they were quite
alone with each other. There was no secret made of the engagement, and it
was soon known to all their friends and acquaintance. Mr. Travilla had
always been in the habit of visiting the Oaks daily, and finding himself
very much at home there; and he continued to come and go as formerly, all
welcoming him with great cordiality, making him, if possible, more one of
themselves than ever, while there was little change in Elsie's manner,
except that all her late reserve had fled, and given place to the old ease
and freedom, the sweet, affectionate confidences of earlier days.
Mr. Dinsmore's determination to delay the marriage for a year was
decidedly a keen disappointment to the middle-aged lover, who had already
endured so long and patient a waiting for his prize; yet so thankful and
joyous was he that he had at last won her for his own, that, finding
remonstrance and entreaties alike unavailing, he presently accepted the
conditions with a very good grace, comforting himself with the certainty
of the permanence of her love. Elsie had no coquettish arts, was
simple-hearted, straightforward, and true, as in her childhood, and their
confidence in each other was unbounded.
CHAPTER FIFTH.
"Joy never feasts so high
As when the first course is of misery."
--SUCKLING.
Adelaide's marriage was fixed for Christmas eve, and Mr. Dinsmore and
Elsie decided to take their trip to Louisiana at once, that they might be
able to return in season for the wedding, at which Elsie was to be first
bridesmaid.
It was Elsie herself who broke the news of her intended journey to her
faithful old nurse, explaining why she felt it her duty to go, and kindly
leaving to Chloe's own decision whether she would accompany her or not.
The dusky face grew very sad for a moment, tears springing to the dark
eyes; but the voice was almost cheerful as she answered, "Yes, you's
right, honey darlin' you's all right to go and see 'bout dem poor souls
and let 'em see dere beau'ful young missus; and your ole mammy 'll go
'long too, for she neber could stay and let her chile run all dem risks on
de boats an' cars an' she no dar to take care ob her."
"That's right, my own dear old mammy. I shall be glad to have you along,
and hope you will find it pleasanter than you expect; but we must trust
the Lord to take care of us all; for He only can prevent the accidents you
fear."
"Yes, yes, honey, dat's de truff; an' we'll trust Him an' not be 'fraid,
'cause don't He say, 'Not a hair ob your head shall perish.'"
"'What time I am afraid I will trust in Thee,'" murmured Elsie, softly.
"Ah, the joy, the peace, of knowing that His presence and His love will
ever go with us everywhere; and that He has all power in heaven and in
earth."
A week later, Mr. Dinsmore was showing his daughter the beauties of New
Orleans, where they had arrived without accident or loss. They remained in
the city long enough to attend thoroughly to the business which had called
them there, and to see everything worth looking at.
Elsie's plantation was in the Teche country, the very loveliest part of
grand old Louisiana. In order that suitable preparations might be made for
their reception, word had been sent that they might be expected on a
certain day.
"We have allowed more time than necessary for this place," said Mr.
Dinsmore to his daughter one evening on returning to their hotel, after
seeing the last of the lions of the Crescent City; "we have two days to
spare; what shall be done in them?"
"Let us go on to Viamede at once then, papa," replied Elsie, promptly. "I
have been regretting that we sent notice of our coming. I doubt if it
would not have been wiser to take them by surprise."
"There would not be the same preparations for your comfort," replied her
father, taking a seat by her on the sofa, for they were in their own
private parlor; "you may find unaired bed-linen and an empty larder,
which, beside inconveniencing yourself, would sorely mortify and trouble
Aunt Phillis and her right-hand woman, Sarah, the cook."
"I should be sorry you should have an inhospitable reception, papa, but
fires are soon kindled and linen aired, and is not the pantry kept
supplied with canned and preserved fruits? and are there not fresh fruits,
vegetables, chickens, and eggs at hand for immediate use?"
"Yes, certainly; and we are not likely to suffer. We Will, then, leave
here to-morrow, if you wish, taking the steamer for Berwick Bay. But why
prefer to come upon them unexpectedly?"
Elsie smiled, and blushed slightly. "You know I never have any
concealments from you, papa, and I will be frank about this," she said. "I
don't think I apt to be suspicious, and yet the thought has come to me
several times within the last few days, that the overseer has had every
opportunity to abuse my poor people if he happens to be of a cruel
disposition. And if he is ill-treating them I should like to catch him at
it," she added, her eyes kindling, and the color deepening on her cheek.
"And what would you do in that case?" her lather asked, with a slight
smile, drawing her close to him and touching his lips to the blooming
cheek.
"Dismiss him, I suppose, papa; I don't know what else I could do to punish
him or prevent further cruelties. I should not like to shoot him down,"
she added, laughingly; "and I doubt if I should have strength to flog
him."
"Doubt?" laughed her father, "certainly you could not, single-handed;
unless his politeness should lead him to refrain from any effort to defend
himself; and I, it would seem, am not expected to have anything to do with
the matter."
A deeper blush than before now suffused Elsie's fair cheek. "Forgive me,
dear papa," she said, laying her head on his shoulder, and fondly stroking
his face with her pretty white hand. "Please consider yourself master
there as truly as at the Oaks, and as you have been for years; and
understand that your daughter means to take no important step without your
entire approval."
"No, I do not go there as master, but as your guest," he answered, half
playfully, half tenderly.
"My guest? That seems pleasant indeed, papa; and yet I want you to be
master too. But you will at least advise me?"
"To the best of my ability, my little girl."
"Thank you, my dear kind father. I have another reason for wishing to
start to-morrow. I'm growing anxious and impatient to see my birthplace
again: and," she added low and tenderly, "mamma's grave."
"Yes, we will visit it together for the first time; though I have stood
there alone again and again, and her baby daughter used to be taken there
frequently to scatter flowers over it and play beside it. Do you remember
that?"
"Yes, sir, as an almost forgotten dream, as I do the house and grounds and
some of the old servants who petted and humored me."
While father and daughter conversed thus together in the parlor, a dusky
figure sat at a window in the adjoining bedroom, gazing out upon the
moonlighted streets and watching the passers-by. But her thoughts, too,
were straying to Viamede; fast-coming memories of earlier days, some all
bright and joyous, others filled with the gloom and thick darkness of a
terrible anguish, made her by turns long for and dread the arrival at her
journey's end.
A light touch on her shoulder, and she turned to find her young mistress
at her side.
"My poor old mammy, I bring you news you will be sorry to hear," said
Elsie, seating herself upon the ample lap, and laying her arm across the
broad shoulders.
"What dat, honey?"
"We start to-morrow for Viamede; papa has sent John to engage our passage
on the steamer."
"Dat all, darlin'?" queried Chloe, with a sigh of relief, "if we's got to
go, might's well go quick an' hab it ober."
"Well, I'm glad you take so sensible a view of it," remarked Elsie,
relieved in her turn; "and I hope you will find much less pain and more
pleasure than you expect in going back to the old home."
The next morning, as Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter sat upon the deck of
the steamer, enjoying the sunlight, the breeze, and the dancing of the
water, having cleared their port and gotten fairly out into the gulf, a
startling incident occurred.
Chloe stood at a respectful distance, leaning over the side of the vessel,
watching the play of the wheel and the rainbow in the spray that fell in
showers at its every revolution. An old negro busied about the deck; drew
near and addressed her:
"Well, auntie, you watchin' dat ole wheel dar? Fust time you trable on dis
boat, eh?"
Chloe started at the sound of the voice, turned suddenly round and faced
the speaker, her features working with emotion: one moment of earnest
scrutiny on the part of both, and with a wild cry, "Aunt Chloe! my ole
woman," "Uncle Joe! it can't be you," they rushed into each other's arms,
and hung about each other's neck, weeping and sobbing like two children.
"Papa! what is it?" exclaimed Elsie, greatly surprised at the little
scene.
"Her husband, no doubt: he's too old to be a son."
"Oh, how glad, how glad I am!" and Elsie started to her feet, her eyes
full of tears, and her sweet face sparkling all over with sympathetic joy.
"Papa, I shall buy him! they must never be parted again till death comes
between."
A little crowd had already gathered about the excited couple, every one on
deck hurrying to the spot, eager to learn the cause of the tumult of joy
and grief into which the two seemed to have been so suddenly thrown.
Mr. Dinsmore rose, and giving his arm to Elsie, led her towards the
throng, saying in answer to her last remark, "Better act through me, then,
daughter, or you will probably be asked two or three prices."
"O papa, yes; please attend to it for me--only--only I must have him, for
dear old mammy's sake, at whatever cost."
The crowd opened to the lady and gentleman as they drew near.
"My poor old mammy, what is it? whom have you found?" asked Elsie.
But Chloe was speechless with a joy so deep that it wore the aspect of an
almost heart-breaking sorrow. She could only cling with choking sobs to
her husband's arm. "What's all this fuss, Uncle Joe?" queried the captain.
"Let go the old darkie; what's she to you?"
"My wife, sah, dat I ain't seed for twenty years, sah," replied the old
man, trying to steady his trembling tones, obeying the order, but making
no effort to shake off Chloe's clinging hold.
"Leave him for a little now, mammy dear; you shall never be parted again,"
whispered Elsie in her nurse's ear. "Come with me, and let papa talk to
the captain."
Chloe obeyed, silently following her young mistress to the other side of
the deck, but ever and anon turning her head to look back with wet eyes at
the old wrinkled black face and white beard that to her were so dear, so
charming. His eyes were following her with a look of longing, yearning
affection, and involuntarily he stretched out his arms towards her.
"Off to your work, sir," ordered the captain, "and let's have no more of
this nonsense."
Old Joe moved away with a patient sigh.
"The woman is your property, I presume, sir?" the captain remarked in a
respectful tone, addressing Mr. Dinsmore.
"Yes, my daughter's, which amounts to the same thing," that gentleman
replied in a tone of indifference; then changing the subject, made some
inquiries about the speed and safety of the boat, the length of her trips,
etc.
The captain answered pleasantly, showing pride in his vessel. Then they
spoke of other things: the country, the crops, the weather.
"Sit down, mammy," said Elsie pityingly, as they reached the settee where
she and her father had been sitting; "you are trembling so you can
scarcely stand."
"O darlin', dat's true 'nuff, I'se mos' ready to drop," she said
tremulously, coming down heavily upon a trunk that stood close at hand.
"Oh, de good Lord hab bring me face to face wid my ole Uncle Joe; oh, I
neber 'spected to see him no more in dis wicked world. But dey'll take 'im
off again an' dis ole heart'll break," she added, with a bursting sob.
"No, no, mammy, you shall have him, if money can accomplish it."
"You buy 'im, darlin'? Oh, your ole mammy can neber t'ank you 'nuff!" and
a low, happy laugh mingled with the choking sobs. "But dey'll ask heaps ob
money."
"You shall have him, let the price be what it will," was Elsie's
assurance. "See papa is bargaining with the captain now, for they look at
Uncle Joe as they talk."
Chloe regarded them with eager interest; yes, they were looking at Uncle
Joe, and evidently speaking of him.
"By the way," Mr. Dinsmore remarked carelessly, "does Uncle Joe belong to
you? or is he merely a hired hand?"
"He's my property, sir."
"Would you like to sell?"
"I am not anxious; he's a good hand, faithful and honest: quite a
religious character in fact," he concluded with a sneer; "overshoots the
mark in prayin and psalm-singing. But do you want to buy?"
"Well yes; my daughter is fond of her old mammy, and for her sake would be
willing to give a reasonable sum. What do you ask?"
"Make me an offer."
"Five hundred dollars."
"Five hundred? ridiculous! he's worth twice that."
"I think not, he is old--not far from seventy and will soon be past work
and only a burden and expense. My offer is a good one."
"Make it seven hundred and I'll take it."
Mr. Dinsmore considered a moment. "That is too high," he said at length,
"but for the sake of making two poor creatures happy, I will give it."
"Cash down?"
"Yes, a check on a New Orleans bank."
"Please walk down into the cabin then, sir, and we'll conclude the
business at once."
In a few moments Mr. Dinsmore returned to his daughter's side, and placing
the receipted bill of sale in her hands, asked, "Have I given too much?"
"Oh, no, papa, no indeed! I should have given a thousand without a
moment's hesitation, if asked it--five, ten thousand, if need be, rather
than have them parted again," she exclaimed, the bright tears shining in
her eyes. "Mammy, my poor old mammy, Uncle Joe belongs to me now, and you
can have him always with you as long as the Lord spares your lives."
"Now bress de Lord!" cried the old woman devoutly, raising her streaming
eyes and clasped hands to heaven; "de good Lord dat hears de prayers ob
His chilen's cryin' to Him when dere hearts is oberwhelmed!"
"Go break the news to Uncle Joe, mammy," said Elsie; "see, yonder he
stands looking so eager and wistful."
Chloe hurried to his side, spoke a few rapid words; there was another
long, clinging, tearful embrace, and they hastened to their master and
mistress to pour out their thanks and blessings upon them, mingled with
praises and fervent thanksgivings to the Giver of all good.
The joy and gratitude of the poor old couple were very sweet, very
delightful to Elsie, and scarcely less so to her father.
"Mammy dear, I never saw you wear so happy a face," Elsie said, as Chloe
returned to her after an hour or two spent in close conversation with her
newly recovered spouse.
"Ah, honey, your ole mammy tinks she neber so glad in all her life!" cried
the poor old creature, clasping her hands together in an ecstasy of joy
and gratitude while the big tears shone in her eyes. "I'se got ole Uncle
Joe back agin, an' he not de same, he bettah man, Christian man. He say,
'Aunt Chloe we uns trabble de same road now, honey: young Joe proud,
angry, swearing drinkin' boy, your Ole Joe he lub de Lord an' try to sarve
Him wid all he might. And de Lord good Massa. De debbil berry bad one.'"
"Dear mammy, I am very glad for you; I think nothing else could have made
you so happy."
Chloe, weeping again for joy, went on to tell her young mistress that
Uncle Joe had discovered a grandchild in New Orleans, Dinah by name,
waiting-maid in a wealthy family.
"But how is that, mammy? Papa and I thought all your children died young."
"No, darlin', when Massa Grayson buy me in New Orleans, an' de odder
gentleman buy Uncle Joe, we hab little girl four years ole, an' de ole
missus keep her," sobbed Chloe, living over again the agony of the
parting, "an' Dinah her chile."
"Mammy, if money will buy her, you shall have her, too," said Elsie
earnestly.
The remainder of the short voyage was a happy time to the whole of our
little party, Chloe, with her restored husband by her side, now looking
forward to the visit to Viamede with almost unmingled pleasure.
As they passed up the bay, entered Teche Bayou and pressed on, threading
their way through lake and lakelet, past plain and forest, plantation and
swamp, Elsie exclaimed again and again at the beauty of the scenery. Cool
shady dells carpeted with the rich growth of flowers, miles upon miles of
lawns as smoothly shaven, as velvety green and as nobly shaded by
magnificent oaks and magnolias, as any king's demesne; lordly villas
peering through groves of orange trees, tall white, sugar-houses and the
long rows of cabins of the laborers; united to form a panorama of
surpassing loveliness.
"Is Viamede as lovely as that, papa?" Elsie would ask, as they steamed
past one fine residence after another.
"Quite," he would reply with a smile, at length adding, "There is not a
more beautiful or valuable estate in the country; as you may judge for
yourself, for this is it."
"This, papa? Oh it is lovely, lovely! and everything in such perfect
order," she cried delightedly as they swept on past a large sugar-house
and an immense orange orchard, whose golden fruit and glossy leaves shone
brightly in the slanting rays of the nearly setting sun, to a lawn as
large, as thickly carpeted with smoothly shaven grass and many-hued
flowers, and as finely shaded with giant oaks, graceful magnolias, and
groves of orange trees, as any they had passed. The house--a grand old
mansion with spacious rooms, wide cool halls and corridors--was now in
full view, now half concealed by the trees and shrubbery.
The boat rounded to at a little pier opposite the dwelling, and in another
moment our friends had landed, and leaving the servants to attend to the
baggage were walking on towards the house.
CHAPTER SIXTH.
"Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods?
Draw near them then in being merciful,
Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge."
--SHAKESPEARE.
"Papa, it seems an earthly paradise," said Elsie, "and like a dream that I
have seen all before."
"A dream that was a reality. And it is all your own, my darling," he
answered with a proud, fond look into the bright animated face, keenly
enjoying her pleasure.
"But what, what is going on there?" she asked, gazing intently in the
direction of the negro quarter, where a large crowd of them, probably all
belonging to the plantation, were assembled.
At that instant something rose in the air and descended again, and a wild
shriek, a woman's wail of agony, rent the air.
Elsie flew over the ground as though she had been a winged creature, her
father having to exert himself to keep pace with her. But the whip had
descended again and again, another and another of those wild shrieks
testifying to the sharpness of its sting, ere they were near enough to
interfere.
So taken up with the excitement of the revolting scene were all present,
that the landing and the approach of our friends had not been observed
until Elsie, nearing the edge of the crowd, called out in a voice of
authority, and indignation, "Stop! not another blow!"
The crowd parted, showing a middle-aged negress stripped to the waist and
tied to a whipping post, writhing and sobbing with pain and terror, while
a white man stood over her with a horse-whip in his uplifted hand, stayed
in mid-air by the sudden appearance of those in authority over him.
"How dare you! how _dare_ you!" cried Elsie, stamping her foot, and
drawing a long, sobbing breath. "Take her down this instant."
"Mr. Spriggs, what is the meaning of this?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, in tones
of calm displeasure; "did I not forbid all cruel punishment on this
estate?"
"I've got to make 'em work; I'm bound they shall, and nothing but the
whip'll do it with this lazy wretch," muttered Spriggs, dropping his whip
and stepping back a little, while two stalwart fellows obeyed Elsie's
order to take the woman down, a murmur at the same time running from lip
to lip, "It's Marse Dinsmore, and our young missus."
Elsie shuddered and wept at sight of the bleeding back and shoulders.
"Cover her up quickly, and take her away where she can lie down and rest,"
she said to the women who were crowding round to greet and welcome
herself. "I will speak to you all afterwards, I'm glad to be here among
you." Then leaning over the sufferer for an instant, with fast-dropping
tears, "Be comforted," she said, in tones of gentle compassion, "you shall
never have this to endure again."
"Come, daughter, speak to these eager people, and let us go into the
house," said Mr. Dinsmore.
"Yes, papa, in one moment."
Drawing herself up to her full height, and flashing one look of scorn and
indignation out of her dark eyes upon the crest-fallen Spriggs, she
addressed him with the air of a queen. "You, sir, will meet me in the
library at eight o'clock this evening."
Turning to the men, "Dig up that post, and split it into kindling-wood for
the kitchen fire."
Her father, while shaking hands with the blacks, speaking a kindly word to
each, regarded her with mingled curiosity and admiration; thoroughly
acquainted with his child as he had believed himself to be, he now saw her
in a new character.
She took his arm, and he felt that she was trembling very much. He
supported her tenderly, while the women flocked about them, eagerly
welcoming her to Viamede; kissing her hand, and declaring with tears in
their eyes, that it was just their "dear dead young missus come back to
them, like a beautiful white angel."
The first who claimed her attention, introduced herself as "Aunt Phillis
de housekeepah. An' I'se got eberyting ready for you, honey; de beds is
aired, de fires laid in de drawin'-room, an' library, an' sleepin' rooms,
an' de pantry full ob the nicest tings dis chile an' ole Aunt Sally know
how to cook; an' I sent Jack right to de house to start de fires de fust
minute dese ole eyes catch sight ob massa an' young missus, an' knows dey
heyah."
"My dear child, all this is quite too much for you," said Mr. Dinsmore,
attempting to draw his daughter away.
"Just a moment, papa, please," she answered in a slightly unsteady voice;
"let me speak to them all." He yielded, but cut short the garrulity of
some who would have liked to mingle reminiscences of her baby-hood with
their rejoicing over her return, telling them they must reserve such
communication for a more suitable time, as their young mistress was faint
and weary, and must have rest.
The appearance of Chloe and her recovered husband upon the scene, now
created a diversion in their favor, and he presently succeeded in leading
Elsie to the house.
A young mulatto girl followed them into the drawing-room, where a bright
wood-fire was blazing on the hearth, asking if she should take Miss
Elsie's things.
"Yes," Mr. Dinsmore said, removing his daughter's hat and shawl, and
handing them to her.
She left the room; and taking Elsie in his arms, and gently laying her
head upon his breast, "Let the tears have their way, darling," he said,
"it will do you good."
For several minutes the tears came in floods. "Oh, papa," she sobbed, "to
think that my people, my poor people, should be so served. It must never,
never be again!"
"No," he said, "we will find means to prevent it. There, you feel better
now, do you not?"
"Yes, sir. Papa dear, welcome, welcome to my house; the dearest guest
that could come to it." And wiping away her tears, she lifted her loving
eyes to his, a tender smile playing about the sweet lips.
"Save one," he answered half-playfully, passing his hand caressingly over
her hair, and bending down to press his lips on brow, and cheeks, and
mouth. "Is not that so?"
"No, my own dear father, save none," with a charming blush, but eyes
looking steadily into his; "when he comes, it shall be as master, not
guest. But now tell me, please, what can I do with this Spriggs? I should
like to pay him a month's wages in advance, and start him off early
to-morrow morning."
Mr. Dinsmore shook his head gravely. "It would not do, my child. The
sugar-making season will shortly begin; he understands the business
thoroughly; we could not supply his place at a moment's notice, or
probably in a number of months, and the whole crop would be lost. We must
not be hasty or rash, but remember the Bible command, 'Let your moderation
be known unto all men.' Nor should we allow ourselves to judge the man too
hardly."
"Too hardly, papa! too hardly, when he has shown himself so cruel! But I
beg pardon for interrupting you."
"Yes, too hardly, daughter. He is a New Englander, used to see every one
about him working with steady, persevering industry, and the indolent,
dawdling ways of the blacks, which we take as a matter of course, are
exceedingly trying to him. I think he has been very faithful to your
interests, and that probably his desire and determination to see them
advanced to the utmost, led, more than anything else, to the act which
seems to us so cruel."
"And could he suppose that I would have blood wrung from my poor people
that a few more dollars might find their way into my purse?" she cried in
indignant sorrow and anger. "Oh, papa, I am not so cruel, you know I am
not."
"Yes, my darling, I know you have a very tender, loving heart."
"But what shall I do with Spriggs?"
"For to-night, express your sentiments and feelings on the subject as
calmly and moderately as you can, and enjoin it upon him to act in
accordance with them. Then we may consider at our leisure what further
measures can be taken."
"Papa, you are so much wiser and better than I," she said, with loving
admiration, "I'm afraid if you had not been here to advise me, I should
have sent him away at once, with never a thought of crops or anything
except securing my people from his cruelties."
"You should never allow yourself to act from mere impulse, except it be
unquestionably a right one, and the case admitting of no time for
deliberation. As to my superior wisdom," he added with a smile, "I have
lived some years longer than you, and had more experience in the
management of business matters."
"I am very sorry, my darling, that the pleasure of your return to the home
of your infancy should be so marred. But you have scarcely taken a look
yet at even this room. What do you think of it?"
She glanced about her with freshly aroused curiosity and interest. "Papa,
it is just to my taste!"
The firelight gleamed upon rare old cabinets, gems of art in painting and
statuary, and rich, massive, well-preserved, though old-fashioned sofas,
chairs, tables, etc. But it was already growing dark, deep shadows were
gathering in the more distant parts of the spacious apartment, and only
near the fire could objects be distinctly seen. Elsie was about to ring
for lights, when Sarah, the mulatto girl, appeared, bringing them, Chloe
following close in the rear.
"Have you fires and lights in the library, the dining-room, and your
master's rooms and mine?" inquired Elsie.
"De fires is lit, Miss Elsie."
"Then add the lights at once, and put them in all the principal rooms of
the house. We will have an illumination in honor of our arrival, papa,"
she said, in a sprightly tone, turning to him with one of her sweetest
smiles, "and besides, I want to see the whole house now."
"Are you not too much fatigued, daughter? and would it not be better to
defer it till to-morrow?"
"I don't think I'm too tired, papa; but if you forbid me----"
"No, I don't forbid or even advise, if you are sure you feel equal to the
exertion."
"Thank you, sir, I think I'll be better able to sleep if I've seen at
least the most of it; old memories are troubling me, and I want to see how
far they are correct You will go with me?"
"Certainly," he said, giving her his arm. "But while the servants are
obeying your order in regard to the lights, let us examine these paintings
more attentively. They will repay close scrutiny, for some of them are by
the first masters. Your Grandfather Grayson seems to have been a man of
cultivated taste, as well as great business talent."
"Yes, papa. What is it, mammy?"
"Does you want me, darlin'?"
"No, not now. Go and enjoy yourself with your husband and old friends."
Chloe expressed her grateful thanks, and withdrew.
Elsie found the paintings and statuary a study, and had scarcely finished
her survey of the drawing-room and its treasures of art, when Aunt Phillis
came to ask if they would have tea served up immediately.
Elsie looked at her father.
"Yes," he said; "you will feel stronger after eating, and it is about our
usual time."
"Then let us have it, Aunt Phillis. How is that poor creature now?" asked
her young mistress.
"Suse, honey? oh, she'll do well 'nuff; don't do her no harm to take some
ob de lazy blood out. Massa Spriggs not so terrible cross, Miss Elsie; but
he bound de work git done, an' Suse she mighty powerful lazy, jes' set in
de sun an' do nuffin' from mornin' to night, ef nobody roun' to make her
work."
"Ah, that is very bad; we must try to reform her in some way. But perhaps
she's not well."
"Dunno, missus; she's always 'plaining ob de misery in her back, an'
misery in her head; but don't ebery one hab a misery, some kind, most
days? an' go on workin' all de same. No, missus, Suse she powerful lazy
ole nigga."
With that Phillis retired, and shortly after, tea was announced as ready.
Elsie played the part of hostess to perfection, presiding over the tea-urn
with ease and grace, and pressing upon her father the numerous dainties
with which the table was loaded. She seemed to have recovered her spirits,
and as she sat there gayly chatting--of the room, which pleased her as
entirely as the other, and of her plans for usefulness and pleasure during
her stay, he thought he had never seen her look happier or more beautiful.
"What rooms have you prepared for your mistress, Aunt Phillis?" asked Mr.
Dinsmore, as they rose from the table.
"De same whar she was born, massa, an' whar her dear bressed ma stay when
she livin' heyah."
A slight shadow stole over Elsie's bright face. "That was right," she
said, low and softly. "I should prefer them to any others. But where are
papa's rooms?"
"Jes' across de hall, Miss Elsie."
"That is a good arrangement," said Mr. Dinsmore. "Now, daughter, I think
we should repair to the library. It is near the hour you appointed for Mr.
Spriggs."
"Just as handsome, as tastefully, appropriately, and luxuriously furnished
as the others," was Elsie's comment on the library. "I seem to see the
same hand everywhere."
"Yes, and it is the same all over the house," replied her father. "The
books here will delight you; for a private library it is a very fine one,
containing many hundred volumes, as you may see at a glance; standard
works on history, and the arts and sciences, biographies, travels, works
of reference, the works of the best poets, novelists, etc."
"Ah, how we will enjoy them while here! But it seems a sad pity they
should have lain on those shelves unused for so many years."
"Not entirely, my child; I have enjoyed them in my brief visits to the
plantation, and have always allowed the overseer free access to them, on
the single condition that they should be handled with care, and each
returned promptly to its proper place when done with. But come, take this
easy chair by this table; here are some fine engravings I want you to look
at."
Elsie obeyed, but had scarcely seated herself when the door was thrown
open and a servant's voice announced, "Massa Spriggs, Massa Dinsmore and
Miss Elsie."
Spriggs, a tall, broad-shouldered, powerfully-built man, with dark hair
and beard and a small, keen black eye, came forward with a bold free air
and a "Good-even', miss, good-even', sir;" adding, as he helped himself to
a seat without waiting for an invitation, "Well, here I am, and I s'pose
you've somethin' to say or you wouldn't have appointed the meetin'."
"Yes, Mr. Spriggs," said Elsie, folding her pretty hands in her lap and
looking steadily and coldly into his brazen face, "I have this to say;
that I entirely disapprove of flogging, and will have none of it on the
estate. I hope you understand me."
"That's plain English and easy understood, Miss Dinsmore, and Dinsmore,
and of course you have a right to dictate in the matter; but I tell you
what, these darkies o' yours are a dreadful lazy set, specially that Suse;
and it's mighty hard for folks that's been used to seein' things done up
spick and span and smart to put up with it."
"But some amount of patience with the natural slowness of the negro is a
necessary trait in the character of an overseer who wishes to remain in my
employ."
"Well, miss, I always calculate to do the very best I can by my employers,
and when you come to look round the estate, I guess you'll find things in
prime order; but I couldn't ha' done it without lettin' the darkies know
they'd got to toe the mark right straight."
"They must attend to the work, of course, and if they won't do so
willingly, must under compulsion; but there are milder measures than this
brutal flogging."
"What do you prescribe, Miss Dinsmore?"
"Deprive them of some privilege, or lock them up on bread and water for a
few days," Elsie answered; then turned an appealing look upon her father,
who had as yet played the part of a mere listener.
"I have never allowed any flogging on my estate," he observed, addressing
Spriggs, "and I cannot think it at all necessary."
There was a moment of silence, Spriggs sitting looking into the fire, a
half-smile playing about his lips; then turning to Elsie, "I thought,
miss, you'd a mind this evening to dismiss me on the spot," he remarked
inquiringly.
She flushed slightly, but replied with dignity, "If you will comply with
my directions, sir, pledging yourself never again to be so cruel, I have
no desire to dismiss you from my service."
"All right then, miss. I promise, and shall still do the best I can for
your interests; but if they suffer because I'm forbidden to use the lash,
please remember it's not my fault."
"I am willing to take the risk," she answered, intimating with a motion of
her hand that she considered the interview at an end; whereupon he rose
and bowed himself out.
"Now, papa, for our tour of inspection," she cried gayly, rising as she
spoke, and ringing for a servant to carry the light. "But first please
tell me if I was sufficiently moderate."
"You did very well," he answered, smiling. "You take to the role of
mistress much more naturally than I expected."
"Yet it does seem very odd to me to be giving orders while you sit by a
mere looker-on. But, dear papa, please remember I am still your own child,
and ready to submit to your authority, whenever you see fit to exert it."
"I know it, my darling," he said, passing an arm about her waist, as they
stood together in front of the fire, and gazing fondly down into the sweet
fair face.
Aunt Chloe answered the bell, bringing a lamp in her hand.
"That is right, mammy," Elsie said. "Now lead the way over the house."
As they passed from room to room, and from one spacious hall or corridor
to another, Elsie expressed her entire satisfaction with them and their
appointments, and accorded to Aunt Phillis the meed of praise due her
careful housekeeping.
"And here, my darling," Mr. Dinsmore said at length, leading the way
through a beautiful boudoir and dressing-room into an equally elegant and
attractive bedroom beyond, "they tell me you were born, and your beloved
mother passed from earth to heaven."
"An' eberyting in de room stands jees' as dey did den, honey," said Aunt
Chloe. And approaching the bed, her eyes swimming in tears, and laying her
hand upon the pillow, "jes' here my precious young missus lie, wid cheeks
'mos' as white as de linen, an' eyes so big an' bright, an' de lubly curls
streamin' all roun', an' she say, weak an' low, 'Mammy, bring me my baby.'
Den I put you in her arms, darlin', an' she kiss you all ober your tiny
face, an' de tears an' sobs come fast while she say, 'Poor little baby; no
fader no mudder to lub her! nobody but you, mammy; take her an' bring her
up to lub de dear Lord Jesus.'"
Silent tears rolled down Elsie's cheeks as she looked and listened; but
her father drew her to his breast and kissed them away, his own eyes
brimming, his heart too full for speech.
Presently he led her back to the boudoir, and showed her the portraits of
her maternal grandparents, and one of her mother, taken at ten or twelve
years of age.
"What a lovely little girl she was," murmured Elsie, gazing lovingly upon
it.
"Very much like what her daughter was at the same age," he answered. "But
come, this, too, will interest you." And lifting the lid of a dainty
work-basket, he pointed to a bit of embroidery, in which the needle was
still sticking, as though it had been laid down by the deft fingers but a
few moments ago.
Elsie caught it up and kissed it, thinking of the touch of those dear dead
fingers, that seemed to linger over it yet.
CHAPTER SEVENTH.
"She was the pride
Of her familiar sphere, the daily joy
Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze,
And in the light and music of her way
Have a companion's portrait,"
--WILLIS' POEMS.
Elsie had fallen asleep thinking of the dear mother whose wealth she
inherited, and whose place she was now filling; thinking of her as
supremely blest, in that glorious, happy land, where sin and sorrow are
unknown. Thinking, too, of Him, through whose shed blood she had found
admittance there.
The same sweet thoughts were still in the loving daughter's mind, as she
woke to find the morning sun shining brightly, a fire blazing cheerily on
the hearth, and Aunt Chloe coming in with a silver waiter filled with
oranges prepared for eating in the manner usual in the tropics.
She had gathered them the night before, taken off the peel, leaving the
thick white skin underneath except on the top of each, where she cut it
away from a spot about the size of a silver quarter of a dollar. She then
placed them on a waiter, with the cut part uppermost, and set them where
the dew would fall on them all night. Morning found them with the skin
hard and leathery, but filled with delicious juice, which could be readily
withdrawn from it.
At that sight, a sudden memory seemed to flash upon Elsie, and starting up
in the bed, "Mammy!" she cried, "didn't you do that very thing when I was
a child?"
"What, honey? bring de oranges in de mornin'?"
"Yes, I seem to remember your coming in at that door, with just such a
waiterful."
"Yes, darlin', de folks allus eats dem 'foah breakfast. Deys jes' lubly,
Miss Elsie; massa say so, lubly and delicious." And she brought the waiter
to her bedside, holding it out for her young mistress to help herself.
"Yes, mammy dear, they look very tempting, but I won't eat with unwashed
hands and face," said Elsie gayly. "And so papa has stolen a march upon me
and risen first?"
"Yes, darlin', massa out on the veranda, but he say 'Let your missus sleep
long as she will.'"
"My always kind and indulgent father! Mammy, I'll take a bath; and then
while you arrange my hair, I'll try the oranges. Go now and ask papa when
he will have his breakfast, and tell Aunt Phillis to see that it is ready
at the hour he names."
Chloe obeyed, and an hour later Elsie met her father in the breakfast-room
so glad, so gay, so bright, that his heart swelled with joy and pleasure
in his child, and all fears that she had overfatigued herself vanished
from his mind.
She was full of plans for the comfort and profit of her people, but all to
be subject to his approval "Papa dear," she said as soon as their morning
greetings had been exchanged, "I think of sending for a physician to
examine Suse and tell us whether there is reason for her complaints. She
must not be forced to work if she is really ill."
"I think it would be well," he replied. "There is an excellent physician
living about three miles from here."
Elsie was prompt in action by both nature and training, and instantly
summoning a servant, despatched him at once on the proposed errand.
"And now what next?" smilingly inquired her father.
"Well, papa, after breakfast and prayers--how some of the old servants
seemed to enjoy them last night--I think of going down to the quarter to
see what may be needed there. Unless you have some other plan for me," she
added quickly.
"Suppose we first mount our horses and ride over the estate, to learn for
ourselves whether Mr. Spriggs has been as faithful as he would have us
believe."
"Ah yes, papa; yours is always the better plan."
Their ride in the clear, sweet morning air was most delightful, and both
felt gratified with the fine appearance of the crops and the discovery
that Spriggs' boast was no idle one; everything being in the nicest order.
They took the quarter on the way to the house, and dismounting, entered
one neatly whitewashed cabin after another, kindly inquiring into the
condition and wants of the inmates, Elsie making notes on her tablets that
nothing might be forgotten.
Everywhere the visit was received with joy and gratitude, and an almost
worshipful homage paid to the sweet young mistress whom they seemed to
regard as akin to the angels: probably in a great measure because of her
extraordinary likeness to her mother, of whom, for so many years they had
been accustomed to think and speak as one of the heavenly host.
Spriggs' victim of the previous day was in bed, complaining much of a
misery in back and head and limbs.
"De doctah hab been heyah," she said, "an' leff me dese powdahs to take,"
drawing a tiny package from under her pillow.
Elsie spoke soothingly to her; said she should have some broth from the
house, and should be excused from work till the doctor pronounced her
quite fit for it again; and left her apparently quite happy.
It was the intention of our friends to spend some weeks at Viamede.
"I want you to have every possible enjoyment while here, my darling," Mr.
Dinsmore said, as they sat together resting after their ride, in the wide
veranda at the front of the house, looking out over the beautiful lawn,
the bayou, and the lovely scenery beyond. "There are pleasant neighbors
who will doubtless call when they hear of our arrival."
"I almost wish they may not hear of it then," Elsie said half laughing; "I
just want to be left free from the claims of society for this short time,
that I may fully enjoy being alone with my father and attending to the
comfort of my people. But excuse me, dear papa, I fear I interrupted you."
"I excuse you on condition that you are not again guilty of such a breach
of good manners. I was going on to say there are delightful drives and
walks in the vicinity, of which I hope we will be able to make good use;
also, we will have a row now and then on the bayou, and many an hour of
quiet enjoyment of the contents of the library."
"Yes, papa, I hope so; I do so enjoy a nice book, especially when read
with you. But I think that, for the present at least, I must spend a part
of each day in attending to the preparation of winter clothing for
house-servants and field hands."
"I won't have you doing the actual work, the cutting out and sewing, I
mean," he answered decidedly; "the head work, calculating how much
material is needed, what it will cost, etc., may be yours; but you have
servants enough to do all the rest."
"But, papa, consider; over three hundred to clothe, and I want it all done
while I am here to oversee."
"Have not some of the house-servants been trained as seamstresses?"
"Yes, sir, two of them, mammy tells me."
"Very well; she knows how to run a sewing-machine. Send for one when you
order your material; both can be had in the nearest town. Aunt Chloe can
soon teach the girls how to manage it; Uncle Joe, too; he has had no
regular work assigned him yet, and the four can certainly do all without
anything more than a little oversight from you; yes, without even that."
"What a capital planner you are, papa," she said brightly; "I never
thought of getting a machine or setting Uncle Joe to running it; but I am
sure it's just the thing to do. Mammy can cut and the girls baste, and
among them the machine can easily be kept going from morning to night.
I'll make out my orders and send for the things at once."
"That is right, daughter; it pleases me well to note how you put in
practice the lesson of promptness I have always tried to teach you. I will
help you in making your estimate of quantities needed, prices to be paid,
etc., and I think we can accomplish the whole before dinner. Come to the
library and let us to work."
"You dear, kind father, always trying to help me and smooth the least
roughness out of my path, and make life as enjoyable to me as possible,"
she said, laying her hand on his arm and looking up into his face with
eyes beaming with filial love, as they rose and stood together for a
moment.
"A good daughter deserves a good father," he answered, smoothing with soft
caressing motion the shining hair. "But have you the necessary data for
our estimates?"
"The number to be clothed, papa? I know how many house-servants, how many
babies and older children at the quarter, but not the number of field
hands."
"That will be easily ascertained. I will send a note to Spriggs, who can
tell us all about it."
Mr. Dinsmore's plans were carried out to the letter, and with entire
success. This was Saturday; the orders were sent that afternoon, and on
Monday morning the work began. Aunt Chloe proved fully equal to the
cutting of the garments, and Uncle Joe an apt scholar under her patient,
loving teaching, and a willing worker at his new employment. There was
scarcely need of even oversight on the part of the young mistress. She
would drop in occasionally, commend their industry, and inquire if
anything were wanting; then felt free for books, rides or walks, music or
conversation with her father.
But she was often down at the quarter visiting the sick, the aged and
infirm, seeing that their wants were supplied, reading the Bible to them,
praying with them, telling of the better land where no trouble or sorrow
can come, and trying to make the way to it, through the shed blood of
Christ, very plain and clear. Then she would gather the children about her
and tell them of the blessed Jesus and His love for little ones.
"Does He lub niggahs, missus?" queried one grinning little wooly head.
"Yes, if they love Him: and they won't be negroes in heaven."
"White folks, missus? Oh, dat nice! Guess I go dar; ef dey let me in."
But we are anticipating somewhat, though Elsie found time for a short
visit to the sick and aged on the afternoon of even that first day at
Viamede. The next was the Sabbath, and as lovely a day as could be
desired. The horses were ordered for an early hour, and father and
daughter rode some miles together to morning service, then home again.
As the shadows began to lengthen in the afternoon, Elsie was sitting alone
on the veranda, her father having left her side but a moment before, when
an old negro, familiarly known as Uncle Ben, came round the corner of the
house, and slowly approached her.
Very sweet and fair, very beautiful she looked to his admiring eyes. She
held a Bible in her hand, and was so intent upon its perusal that she was
not aware of his coming until he had drawn quite near. Ascending the
steps, and standing at a respectful distance, hat in hand, he waited till
she should notice and address him.
Glancing up from her book, "Ah, Uncle Ben, good evening," she said. "What
can I do for you?"
"Missus," he answered, making a low salam, "all de darkies is gadered
togedder under a tree 'round de house yondah, and dey 'pint me committee
to come an' ax de young missus would she be so kind for to come an' read
the Bible to dem, an' talk, an' pray, an' sing like she do for de sick
ones down to de quarter? Dey be berry glad, missus, an' more dan obliged."
"Indeed I will, uncle," Elsie said, rising at once and going with him,
Bible in hand; "I had been thinking of doing this very thing."
She found a rustic seat placed for her under a giant oak, and garlanded
with fragrant flowers. Aunt Phillis, Aunt Chloe, Uncle Joe, and the rest
of the house-servants, gathered in a semicircle around it, while beyond,
the men, women, and children from the quarter sat or lay upon the grass,
enjoying the rest from the toils of the week, the quiet, the balmy air
laden with the fragrance of the magnolia and orange, and all the sweet
sights and sounds of rural life in that favored region.
Every one rose at the appearance of their young mistress, and there were
murmurs of delight and gratitude coming from all sides. "Now bress de
Lord, she read the good book for us." "She good an' lubly as de angels."
"Missus berry kind, de darkies neber forget."
Elsie acknowledged it all with a smile and a few kindly words, then
commanding silence by a slight motion of the hand, addressed them in a
clear, melodious voice, which, though not loud, could be distinctly heard
by every one of the now almost breathless listeners.
"I shall read to you of Jesus and some of His own words," she said, "but
first we will ask Him to help us to understand, to love, and to obey His
teachings."
Then folding her hands and lifting her eyes to the clear blue sky above,
she led them in a prayer so simple and childlike, so filial and loving in
spirit and expression, that the dullest understood it, and felt that she
spoke to One who was very near and dear to her.
After that she read with the same distinct utterance the third chapter of
John's Gospel, and commented briefly upon it. "You all want to go to
heaven?" she said, closing the book.
"Yes, Miss Elsie." "Yes missus, we all does."
"But to be able to go there you must know the way, and now I want to make
sure you do know it. Can you tell me what you must do to be saved?"
There were various answers. "Be good," "Mine de rules an' do 'bout right."
"Pray to de Lord," etc., etc.
Elsie shook her head gravely. "All that you must do, and more besides.
What does Jesus say? 'God so loved the world, that He gave His only
begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have
everlasting life.' We must believe _in_ Jesus--believe all that the Bible
tells us about Him, that He was very God and very man, that He came down
from heaven, was born a little babe and laid in a manger, that He grew up
to be a man, went about doing good, and at last suffered and died the
cruel death of the cross; and all to save poor lost sinners.
"But even that is not enough: the devils believe so much; they know it is
all true. But beside this, we must believe _on_ Christ Jesus. He offers to
be our Saviour. 'Come unto Me ... and I will give you rest.' 'Him that
cometh unto Me, I will in no wise cast out,' And you must come, you must
take the eternal life He offers you; you must rest on Him and Him only.
"Suppose you were out on the bayou yonder, and the boat should upset and
float beyond your reach, or be swept away from you by the wind and waves,
and you couldn't swim; but just as you are sinking, you find a plank
floating near; you catch hold of it, you find it strong and large enough
to bear your weight, and you throw yourself upon it and cling to it for
life. Just so you must cast yourself on Jesus, and cling to Him with all
your strength: and He will save you; for He is able and willing 'to save
to the uttermost all that come unto God by Him.'
"He will wash away your sins in His own precious blood, and dress you in
the beautiful robe of His perfect righteousness; that is, set His goodness
to your account, so that you will be saved just as if you had been as good
and holy as He was. Then you will love Him and try to do right to please
Him; not to buy heaven; you cannot do that, for 'all our righteousnesses
are as filthy rags,' and we cannot be saved unless we trust only in Jesus
and His righteousness."
Something in the faces before her caused Elsie to turn her head. Her
father stood with grave, quiet air, but a few feet from her.
"Papa," she said, in an undertone, and blushing slightly, "I did not know
you were here. Will you not speak to them? you can do it so much better
than I."
She sat down, and stepping to her side he made a brief and simply worded
address on the necessity of repentance and faith in Jesus, "the only
Saviour of sinners," His willingness to save _all_ who come to Him, and
the great danger of delay in coming. Then with a short prayer and the
singing of a hymn, they were dismissed.
With murmured thanks and many a backward look of admiring love at their
already almost idolized young mistress, and her father, who had won their
thorough respect and affection years ago, they scattered to their homes.
"You must have a shawl and hat, for the air begins to grow cool," said Mr.
Dinsmore to his daughter.
"Yes, massa, I'se brought dem," said Chloe, hurrying up almost out of
breath, with the required articles in her hand.
"Thank you, mammy, you are always careful of your nursling;" Elsie said,
smilingly, as the shawl was wrapped carefully about her shoulders and the
hat placed upon her head.
Her father drew her hand within his arm and led her across the lawn.
"There is one spot, very dear to us both, which we have not yet visited,"
he said, low and feelingly, "and I have rather wondered at your delay in
asking me to take you there."
She understood him. "Yes, sir," she said, "I should have done so last
evening, but that you looked weary. It has hardly been out of my mind
since we came, and I have only waited for a suitable time."
"None could be better than the present," he answered.
On a gently sloping hillside, and beneath the shade of a beautiful
magnolia, they found what they sought: a grave, with a headstone on which
was carved the inscription:
"Fell asleep in Jesus,
March 15, 18--,
ELSIE, WIFE OF HORACE DINSMORE,
and only remaining child of
WILLIAM AND ELSPETH GRAYSON,
Aged 16 years, and 2 weeks.
'Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.'"
They read it standing side by side.
"How young," murmured the daughter, tears filling her eyes, "how young to
be a wife, a mother, and to die and leave husband and child! Oh, papa, how
I used to long for her, and dream of her--my own precious mamma!"
"When, my darling?" he asked in moved tones, drawing her tenderly to him
and passing an arm about her waist.
"Before I knew you, papa, and before you began to love me so dearly and be
father and mother both, to me, as you have been for so many years," The
low, sweet voice was tremulous with emotion, and the soft eyes lifted to
his were brimming over with tears of mingled grief and joy, gratitude and
love.
"I have tried to be," he said; "but no one could supply her place. What a
loving, tender mother she would have been! But let us forget our loss in
the bliss of knowing that it is so well with her."
It was a family burying-ground; there were other graves; those of our
Elsie's grandparents, and several of their sons and daughters who had died
in infancy or early youth; and in the midst uprose a costly monument,
placed there by Mr. Grayson after the death of his wife. The spot showed
the same care as the rest of the estate, and was lovely with roses and
other sweet flowers and shrubs.
"My mother's grave!" said Elsie, bending over it again. "Papa, let us
kneel down beside it and pray that we may meet her in heaven."
He at once complied with the request, giving thanks for the quiet rest of
her who slept in Jesus, and asking that, when each of them had done and
suffered all God's holy will here on earth, they might be reunited to her
above, and join in her glad song of praise to redeeming love.
Elsie joined fervently in the "Amen," and rising, they lingered a moment
longer, then wended their way in sweet and solemn silence to the house.
They sat together in the library after tea, each occupied with a book. But
Elsie seemed little interested in hers, looking off the page now and then,
as if in deep and troubled thought. At length closing it, she stole round
to the side of her father's easy chair, and taking possession of a
footstool, laid her head on his knee.
"I have my little girl again to-night," he said, passing his hand
caressingly over her hair and cheek.
"I almost wish it was, papa."
"Why? is anything troubling you, dearest?" And he pushed his book aside,
ready to give his whole attention to her.
"I am anxious about my poor people, papa; they are so ignorant of the
truths necessary to salvation; and what can I teach them in three or four
weeks? I have almost decided that I ought--that I must stay as many
months."
"And that without even consulting your father? much less considering his
permission necessary to your action?" Though the words seemed to convey
reproach, if not reproof, his tone was gentle and tender.
"No, no, papa! I must cease to think it my duty if you forbid it."
"As I do most positively, _I_ cannot stay, and I should never think for a
moment of leaving you here!"
"But, papa, how then am I to do my duty by these poor ignorant creatures?
how can I let them perish for lack of knowledge whom Christ has put into
my care?"
"Procure a chaplain, who shall hold regular services for them every
Sabbath, and do pastoral work among them through the week. You will not
grudge him his salary."
"Papa, what an excellent idea! Grudge him his salary? No, indeed; if I can
get the right man to fill the place, he shall have a liberal one. And then
he will be a check upon Mr. Spriggs, and inform me if the people are
abused. But how shall I find him?"
"What do you do when in want of something you do not know exactly how to
procure?"
"Pray for direction and help," she answered, low and reverently.
"We will both do that, asking that the right man may be sent us; and I
will write to-morrow to some of the presidents of the theological
seminaries, asking them to recommend some one suited for the place."
"Papa," she cried, lifting a very bright face to his, "what a load you
have taken from my mind."
CHAPTER EIGHTH.
"A mighty pain to love it is
And 'tis a pain that pain to miss;
But of all pains, the greatest pain
It is to love, but love in vain."
--COWLEY.
One lovely afternoon in the second week of their stay at Viamede, Mr.
Dinsmore and his daughter were seated in the shade of the trees on the
lawn, she busied with some fancy-work while her father read aloud to her.
As he paused to turn a leaf, "Papa," she said, glancing off down the
bayou, "there is a steamer coming, the same that brought us, I think; and
see, it is rounding to at our landing. Can it be bringing us a guest?"
"Yes, a gentleman is stepping ashore. Why, daughter, it is Harold
Allison."
"Harold! oh, how delightful!" And rising they hastened to meet and welcome
him with truly Southern warmth of hospitality.
"Harold! how good of you!" cried Elsie. "Mamma wrote us that you were
somewhere in this region, and if I'd had your address, I should have sent
you an invitation to come and stay as long as possible."
"And you have done well and kindly by us to come without waiting for
that," Mr. Dinsmore said, shaking the hand of his young brother-in-law
with a warmth of cordiality that said more than his words.
"Many thanks to you both," he answered gayly. "I was conceited enough to
feel sure of a welcome, and did not wait, as a more modest fellow might,
to be invited. But what a lovely place! a paradise upon earth! And, Elsie,
you, in those dainty white robes, look the fit presiding genius."
Elsie laughed and shook her head. "Don't turn flatterer, Harold; though I
do not object to praise of Viamede."
"I have not heard from Rose in a long time," he said, addressing Mr.
Dinsmore. "She and the little folks are well, I hope?"
"I had a letter this morning, and they were all in good health when it was
written."
The servants had come trooping down from the house, and seizing Harold's
baggage had it all ready in the guest-chamber to which Aunt Phillis
ordered it. Aunt Chloe now drew near to pay her respects to "Massa
Harold," and tell him that his room was ready.
"Will you go to it at once? or sit down here and have a little chat with
papa and me first?" asked Elsie.
"Thank you; I think I shall defer the pleasure of the chat till I have
first made myself presentable for the evening."
"Then let me conduct you to your room," said Mr. Dinsmore, leading the way
to the house.
Elsie had come in the course of years to look upon the older brothers of
her stepmother as in some sort her uncles, but for Harold, who was so much
nearer her own age, she entertained a sincere sisterly regard. And he was
worthy of it and of the warm place his many noble qualities had won for
him in Mr. Dinsmore's heart.
They did all they could to make his visit to Viamede a pleasant one; there
were daily rides and walks, moonlight and early morning excursions on the
bayou, rowing parties; oftenest of the three alone, but sometimes in
company with gallant chivalrous men and refined, cultivated women and
charming young girls from the neighboring plantations.
One of these last, a beautiful brunette, Elsie had selected in her own
mind for Harold, and she contrived to throw them together frequently.
"Don't you admire Miss Durand?" she asked, after they had met several
times. "I think she is lovely; as good, too, as she is beautiful; and
would make you a charming wife."
He flushed hotly. "She is very handsome, very fascinating and talented,"
he said; "but would never suit me. Nor do I suppose I could win her if I
wished."
"Indeed! if you are so hard to please, I fear there will be nothing for
you but old bachelorhood," laughed Elsie. "I have picked her out for you,
and I believe you could win her if you tried, Harold; but I shall not try
to become a match-maker."
"No, I must select for myself; I couldn't let even you choose for me."
"Choose what?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, stepping out upon the veranda, where
Harold stood leaning against a vine-wreathed pillar, his blue eyes fixed
with a sort of wistful, longing look upon Elsie's graceful figure and fair
face, as she sat in a half-reclining posture on a low couch but a few
feet from him.
"A wife," he answered, compelling himself to speak lightly.
"Don't let her do it," said Mr. Dinsmore, taking a seat by his daughter's
side; "I've warned her more than once not to meddle with match-making."
And he shook his head at her with mock gravity.
"I won't any more, papa; I'll leave him to his own devices, since he shows
himself so ungrateful for my interest in his welfare," Elsie said, looking
first at her father and then at Harold with a merry twinkle in her eye.
"I don't think I've asked how you like your new home and prospects,
Harold," said Mr. Dinsmore, changing the subject.
"Very much, thank you; except that they take me so far from the rest of
the family."
A few months before this Harold had met with a piece of rare good fortune,
looked at from a worldly point of view, in being adopted as his sole heir
by a rich and childless Louisiana planter, a distant relative of Mrs.
Allison.
"Ah, that is an objection," returned Mr. Dinsmore; "but you will be
forming new and closer ties, that will doubtless go far to compensate for
the partial loss of the old. I hope you are enjoying yourself here?"
"I am indeed, thank you." This answer was true, yet Harold felt himself
flush as he spoke, for there was one serious drawback upon his felicity;
he could seldom get a word alone with Elsie; she and her father were so
inseparable that he scarcely saw the one without the other. And Harold
strongly coveted an occasional monopoly of the sweet girl's society. He
had come to Viamede with a purpose entirely unsuspected by her or her
apparently vigilant guardian.
He should perhaps, have confided his secret to Mr. Dinsmore first, but his
heart failed him; and "what would be the use?" he asked himself, "if Elsie
is not willing? Ah, if I could but be alone with her for an hour!"
The coveted opportunity offered itself at last, quite unexpectedly. Coming
out upon the veranda one afternoon, he saw Elsie sitting alone under a
tree far down on the lawn. He hastened towards her.
"I am glad to see you," she said, looking up with a smile and making room
for him on the seat by her side. "You see I am 'lone and lorn,' Mr. Durand
having carried off papa to look at some new improvement in his sugar-house
machinery."
"Ah! and when will your father return?"
"In about an hour, I presume. Shall you attend Aunt Adie's wedding?" she
asked.
"Yes, I think so. Don't you sometimes feel as if you'd like to stay here
altogether?"
"Yes, and no; it's very lovely, and the more charming I believe, because
it is my own; but--there is so much more to bind me to the Oaks, and I
could never live far away from papa."
"Couldn't you? I hoped---- Oh, Elsie, couldn't you possibly love some one
else better even than you love him? You're more to me than father, mother,
and all the world beside. I have wanted to tell you so for years, but
while I was comparatively poor your fortune sealed my lips. Now I am rich,
and I lay all I have at your feet; myself included; and----"
"Oh, Harold, hush!" she cried in trembling tones, flushing and paling by
turns, and putting up her hand as if to stop the torrent of words he was
pouring forth so unexpectedly that astonishment had struck her dumb for an
instant; "oh! don't say any more, I--I thought you surely knew that--that
I am already engaged."
"No. To whom?" he asked hoarsely, his face pale as death, and lips
quivering so that he could scarcely speak.
"To Mr. Travilla. It has been only for a few weeks, though we have loved
each other for years. Oh, Harold, Harold, do not look so wretched! you
break my heart, for I love you as a very dear brother."
He turned away with a groan, and without another word hastened back to the
house, while Elsie, covering her face with her hands, shed some very
bitter tears.
Heart-broken, stunned, feeling as if every good thing in life had suddenly
slipped from his grasp, Harold sought his room, mechanically gathered up
his few effects, packed them into his valise, then sat down by the open
window and leant his head upon his hand.
He couldn't think, he could only feel that all was lost, and that he must
go away at once, if he would not have everybody know it, and make the idol
of his heart miserable with the sight of his wretchedness.
Why had he not known of her engagement? Why had no one told him? Why had
he been such a fool as to suppose he could win so great a prize? He was
not worthy of her. How plainly he saw it now, how sorely repented of the
conceit that had led him on to the avowal of his passion.
He had a vague recollection that a boat was to pass that afternoon. He
would take passage in that, and he hoped Mr. Dinsmore's return might be
delayed till he was gone. He would away without another word to Elsie; she
should not be disturbed by any further unmanly manifestation of his bitter
grief and despair.
The hour of the passing of the boat drew near, and valise in hand, he left
his room and passed down the stairs. But Elsie was coming in from the
lawn, and they met in the lower hall.
"Harold," she cried, "you are not going? You must not leave us so
suddenly."
"I must," he said in icy tones, the stony eyes gazing into vacancy; "all
places are alike to me now, and I cannot stay here to trouble you and
Horace with the sight of a wretchedness I cannot hide."
Trembling so that she could scarcely stand, Elsie leaned against the wall
for support, the hot tears coursing down her cheeks. "Oh, Harold!" she
sobbed, "what an unhappy creature I am to have been the cause of such
sorrow to you! Oh why should you ever have thought of me so?"
Dropping his valise, his whole manner changing, he turned to her with
passionate vehemence. "Because I couldn't help it! Even as a boy I gave up
my whole heart to you, and I cannot call it back. Oh, Elsie, why did I
ever see you?" and he seized both her hands in a grasp that almost forced
a cry of pain from her white, quivering lips. "Life is worthless without
you. I'd rather die knowing that you loved me than live to see you in the
possession of another."
"Harold, Harold, a sister's love I can, I do give you; and can you not be
content with that?"
"A sister's love!" he repeated scornfully. "Offer a cup with a drop of
water in it, to a man perishing, dying with thirst. Yes, I'm going away, I
care not whither; all places are alike to him who has lost all interest in
life."
He threw her hands from him almost with violence, half turned away, then
suddenly catching her in his arms, held her close to his heart, kissing
passionately, forehead, cheek, and lips. "Oh, Elsie, Elsie, light of my
eyes, core of my heart, why did we ever meet to part like this? I don't
blame you. I have been a fool. Good-bye, darling." And releasing her, he
was gone ere she could recover breath to speak. It had all been so sudden
she had had no power, perhaps no will, to resist, so sore was the tender,
loving heart for him.
He was barely in time to hail the boat as it passed, and at the instant he
was about to step aboard, Mr. Dinsmore rode up, and springing from the
saddle, throwing the reins to his servant, cried out in astonishment,
"Harold! you are not leaving us? Come, come, what has happened to hurry
you away? Must you go?"
"Yes, I must," he answered with half-averted face. "Don't call me a
scoundrel for making such a return for your hospitality. I couldn't help
it. Good-bye. Try to forget that I've been here at all; for Rose's sake,
you know."
He sprang into the boat; it pushed off, and was presently lost to sight
among the trees shading the bayou on either hand.
Mr. Dinsmore stood for a moment as if spellbound; then turned and walked
thoughtfully towards the house. "What did it all mean?" he asked himself;
"of what unkind return of his or Elsie's hospitality could the lad have
been guilty? Elsie! ha! can it be possible?" and quickened his pace,
glancing from side to side in search of her as he hurried on.
Entering the hall, the sound of a half-smothered sob guided him to a
little parlor or reception-room seldom used. Softly he opened the door.
She was there half-reclining upon a sofa, her face buried in the cushions.
In a moment he had her in his arms, the weary, aching head on his breast,
while he tenderly wiped away the fast-falling tears.
"My poor darling, my poor little pet, don't take it so to heart. It is
nothing; he will probably get over it before he is a month older."
"Papa, is it my fault? did I give him undue encouragement? am I a
coquette?" she sobbed.
"Far from it! did he dare to call you that?"
"No, no, oh, no; he said he did not blame me; it was all his own folly."
"Ah! I think the better of him for that; though 'twas no more than just."
"I thought he knew of my engagement."
"So did I. And the absurdity of the thing! Such a mixture of relationships
as it would have been! I should never have entertained the thought for a
moment. And he ought to have spoken to me first, and spared you all this.
No, you needn't fret; he deserves all he suffers, for what he has
inflicted upon you, my precious one."
"I hardly think that, papa; he was very generous to take all the blame to
himself; but oh, you have eased my heart of half its load. What should I
ever do without you, my own dear, dear father!"
The pleasure of our friends, during the rest of their stay at Viamede, was
somewhat dampened by this unfortunate episode, though Elsie, for her
father's sake, did her best to rally from its effect on her spirits, and
to be cheerful and gay as before.
Long, bright, loving letters from home, and Ion coming the next day, were
a great help. Then the next day brought a chaplain, who seemed in all
respects so well suited to his place as to entirely relieve her mind in
regard to the future welfare of her people. He entered into all her plans
for them, and promised to carry them out to the best of his ability.
So it was with a light heart, though not without some lingering regrets
for the sad ones and the loveliness left behind, that she and her father
set out on their homeward way.
Mr. Dinsmore's man John, Aunt Chloe, and Uncle Joe, went with them; and it
was a continual feast for master and mistress to see the happiness of the
poor old couple, especially when their grandchild Dinah, their only living
descendant so far as they could learn, was added to the party; Elsie
purchasing her, according to promise, as they passed through New Orleans
on their return trip.
Dinah was very grateful to find herself installed as assistant to her
grandmother, who, Elsie said, must begin to take life more easily now in
her old age. Yet that Aunt Chloe found it hard to do, for she was very
jealous of having any hands but her own busied about the person of her
idolized young mistress.
A glad welcome awaited them at home, where they arrived in due season for
Adelaide's wedding.
Sophie and Harry Carrington had returned from their wedding trip, and were
making their home with his parents, at Ashlands; Richard, Fred, and May
Allison, came with their brother Edward; but Harold, who was to meet them
at Roselands, was not there. He had engaged to act as second groomsman,
Richard being first, and there was much wondering over his absence; many
regrets were expressed, and some anxiety was felt.
But Elsie and her father kept their own counsel, and breathed no word of
the episode at Viamede, which would have explained all.
Harold's coming was still hoped for by the others until the last moment,
when Fred took his place, and the ceremony passed off as satisfactorily as
if there had been no failure on the part of any expected, to participate
in it.
It took place in the drawing-room at Roselands, in presence of a crowd of
aristocratic guests, and was considered a very grand affair. A round of
parties followed for the next two weeks, and then the happy pair set sail
for Europe.
CHAPTER NINTH.
"My plots fall short, like darts which rash hands throw
With an ill aim, and have too far to go."
--SIR ROBERT HOWARD.
"I'm so glad it's all over at last!"
"What, my little friend?" and Mr. Travilla looked fondly into the sweet
face so bright and happy, where the beauties of rare intellect and moral
worth were as conspicuous as the lesser ones of exquisite contour and
coloring.
"The wedding and all the accompanying round of dissipation. Now I hope we
can settle down to quiet home pleasures for the rest of the winter."
"So do I, and that I shall see twice as much of you as I have of late. You
can have no idea how I missed you while you were absent. And I am more
than half envious of our bride and groom. Shall our trip be to Europe,
Elsie?"
"Are we to take a trip?" she asked with an arch smile.
"That will be as you wish, dearest, of course."
"I don't wish it now, nor do you, I know; but we shall have time enough to
settle all such questions."
"Plenty; I only wish we had not so much. Yet I don't mean to grumble; the
months will soon slip away and bring the time when I may claim my prize."
They were riding towards the Oaks; the sun had just set, and the moon was
still below the horizon.
Elsie suddenly reined in her horse, Mr. Travilla instantly doing likewise,
and turned a pale, agitated face upon him. "Did you hear that?" she asked
low and tremulously.
"What, dear child? I heard nothing but the sound of our horses' hoofs, the
sighing of the wind in the tree-tops, and our own voices."
"I heard another; a muttered oath and the words, 'You shall never win her.
I'll see to that.' The tones were not loud but deep, and the wind seemed
to carry the sounds directly to my ear," she whispered, laying a trembling
little hand on his arm, and glancing nervously from side to side.
"A trick of the imagination, I think, dearest; but from whence did the
sounds seem to come?"
"From yonder thicket of evergreens and--I knew the voice for that of your
deadly foe, the man from whom you and papa rescued me in Landsdale."
"My child, he is expiating his crime in a Pennsylvania penitentiary."
"But may he not have escaped, or have been pardoned out? Don't, oh don't,
I entreat you!" she cried, as he turned his horse's head in the direction
of the thicket. "You will be killed."
"I am armed, and a dead shot," he answered, taking a revolver from his
breast pocket.
"But he is in ambush, and can shoot you down before you can see to aim at
him."
"You are right, if there is really an enemy concealed there," he
answered, returning the revolver to its former resting-place; "but I feel
confident that it was either a trick of the imagination with you, or that
some one is playing a practical joke upon us. So set your tears at rest,
dear child, and let us hasten on our way."
Elsie yielded to his better judgment, trying to believe it nothing worse
than a practical joke; but had much ado to quiet her agitated nerves and
recover her composure before a brisk canter brought them to the Oaks, and
she must meet her father's keen eye.
They found Arthur in the drawing-room, chatting with Rose. He rose with a
bland, "Good-evening," and gallantly handed Elsie to a seat. Arthur was a
good deal changed since his recall from college; and in nothing more than
in his manner to Elsie; he was now always polite; often cordial even when
alone with her. He was not thoroughly reformed, but had ceased to gamble
and seldom drank to intoxication.
"Thank you; but indeed I must go at once and dress for tea," Elsie said,
consulting her watch. "You are not going yet?"
"No, he will stay to tea," said Rose.
"But must go soon after, as I have an engagement," added Arthur.
Elsie met her father in the hall. "Ah, you are at home again," he remarked
with a pleased look; "that is well; I was beginning to think you were
making it very late."
"But you are not uneasy when I am in such good hands, papa?"
"No, not exactly; but like better to take care of you myself."
The clock was just striking eight as Arthur mounted and rode away from his
brother's door. It was not a dark night, or yet very light; for though the
moon had risen, dark clouds were scudding across the sky, allowing but an
occasional glimpse of her face, and casting deep shadows over the
landscape.
In the partial obscurity of one of these, and only a few rods ahead of
him, when about half-way between the Oaks and Roselands, Arthur thought he
discovered the figure of a man standing by the roadside, apparently
waiting to halt him as he passed.
"Ha! you'll not take me by surprise, my fine fellow, whoever you may be,"
muttered Arthur between his set teeth, drawing out a revolver and cocking
it, "Halloo there! Who are you; and what d'ye want?" he called, as his
horse brought him nearly opposite the suspicious looking object.
"Your money or your life, Dinsmore," returned the other with a coarse
laugh. "Don't pretend not to know me, old chap."
"You!" exclaimed Arthur, with an oath, but half under his breath. "I
thought you were safe in----"
"State prison, eh? Well, so I was, but they've pardoned me out. I was a
reformed character, you see; and then my vote was wanted at the last
election, ha! ha! And so I've come down to see how my old friends are
getting along."
"Friends! don't count me among them!" returned Arthur, hastily;
"jail-birds are no mates for me."
"No, I understand that, the disgrace is in being caught. But you'd as well
keep a civil tongue in your head; for if you're covering me with a
revolver, I'm doing the same by you."
"I'm not afraid of you, Tom," answered Arthur, with a scornful laugh, "but
I'm in a hurry; so be good enough to move out of the way and let me pass."
For the other had now planted himself in the middle of the road, and laid
a heavy hand upon the horse's bridle-rein.
"When I've said my say; no sooner. So that pretty niece of yours, my
former fiancée, is engaged to Travilla? the man whom, of all others, I
hate with a hatred bitterer than death. I would set my heel upon his head
and grind it into the earth as I would the head of a venomous reptile."
"Who told you?"
"I overheard some o' their sweet talk as they rode by here not two hours
ago. He robbed me of her that he might snatch the prize himself; I saw his
game at the time. But he shall never get her," he concluded, grinding his
teeth with rage.
"Pray, how do you propose to prevent it?"
"I'll call him out."
Arthur's laugh rang out mockingly upon the still night air. "Southern
gentlemen accept a challenge only from gentlemen; and as for Travilla,
besides being a dead shot, he's too pious to fight a duel, even with his
own class."
"He'll meet me in fair fight, or I'll shoot him down, like a dog, in his
tracks." The words, spoken in low tone, of concentrated fury, were
accompanied with a volley of horrible oaths.
"You'd better not try it!" said Arthur; "you'd be lynched and hung on the
nearest tree within an hour."
"They'd have to catch me first."
"And they would, they'd set their bloodhounds on your track, and there'd
be no escape. As to the lady having been your fiancée--she never was; she
would not engage herself without my brother's consent, which you were not
able to obtain. And now you'd better take yourself off out of this
neighborhood, after such threats as you've made!"
"That means you intend to turn informer, eh?"
"It means nothing of the kind, unless I'm called up as a witness in court;
but you can't prowl about here long without being seen and arrested as a
suspicious character, an abolitionist, or some other sort of
scoundrel--which last you know you are," Arthur could not help adding in a
parenthesis. "So take my advice, and retreat while you can. Now out o' the
way, if you please, and let me pass."
Jackson sullenly stood aside, letting go the rein, and Arthur galloped
off.
In the meantime, the older members of the family at the Oaks were quietly
enjoying themselves in the library, where bright lights, and a cheerful
wood-fire snapping and crackling on the hearth, added to the sense of
comfort imparted by handsome furniture, books, painting, statuary, rich
carpet, soft couches, and easy chairs.
The children had been sent to bed. Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore sat by the centre
table, the one busy with the evening paper, the other sewing, but now and
then casting a furtive glance at a distant sofa, where Mr. Travilla and
Elsie were seated side by side, conversing in an undertone.
"This is comfort, having you to myself again," he was saying, as he
watched admiringly the delicate fingers busied with a crochet needle,
forming bright meshes of scarlet zephyr. "How I missed you when you were
gone! and yet, do you know, I cannot altogether regret the short
separation, since otherwise I should have missed my precious budget of
letters."
"Ah," she said, lifting her merry brown eyes to his face for an instant,
then dropping them again, with a charming smile and blush, "do you think
that an original idea, or rather that it is original only with yourself?"
"And you are glad to have mine? though not nearly so sweet and fresh as
yours." How glad he looked as he spoke.
"Ah!" she answered archly, "I'll not tell you what I have done with them,
lest you grow conceited. But I have a confession to make," and she laughed
lightly. "Will you absolve me beforehand?"
"Yes, if you are penitent, and promise to offend no more. What is it?"
"I see I have aroused your curiosity, I shall not keep you in suspense. I
am corresponding with a young gentleman. Here is a letter from him,
received to-day;" drawing it from her pocket as she spoke, she put it into
his hand.
"I have no wish to examine it," he said gravely, laying it on her lap. "I
can trust you fully, Elsie."
"But I should like you to read it; 'tis from Mr. Mason, my chaplain at
Viamede, and gives a lengthy, and very interesting account of the
Christmas doings there."
"Which I should much prefer to hear from your lips, my little friend."
"Ah, read it, please; read it aloud to me; I shall then enjoy it as much
as I did the first time; and you will learn how truly good and pious Mr.
Mason is, far better than from my telling. Not that he talks of himself,
but you perceive it from what he says of others."
He complied with her request, reading in the undertone in which they had
been talking.
"A very well written and interesting letter," he remarked, as he refolded
and returned it. "Yes, I should judge from it that he is the right man in
the right place. I presume the selection of gifts so satisfactory to all
parties must have been yours?"
"Yes, sir; being with them, I was able to ascertain their wants and
wishes, by questioning one in regard to another. Then I made out the list,
and left Mr. Mason to do the purchasing for me. I think I can trust him
again, and it is a great relief to my mind to have some one there to
attend to the welfare of their souls and bodies."
"Have you gotten over your fright of this evening?" he inquired tenderly,
bending towards her, and speaking lower than before.
"Almost if--if you have not to return to Ion to-night. Must you, really?"
"Yes; mother would be alarmed by my absence; and she seldom retires till I
am there to bid her good-night."
"Then promise me to avoid that thicket," she pleaded anxiously.
"I cannot think there is any real danger," he said, with a reassuring
smile, "but I shall take the other road; 'tis but a mile further round,
and it would pay me to travel fifty to spare you a moment's anxiety,
dearest."
She looked her thanks.
He left at ten, his usual hour, bidding her have no fear for him, since no
real evil can befall those who put their trust in Him whose watchful,
protecting care is ever about His chosen ones.
"Yes," she whispered, as for a moment his arm encircled her waist, "'What
time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee.' It is comparatively easy to trust
for myself, and God will help me to do it for you also."
She stood at the window watching his departure, her heart going up in
silent prayer for his safety. Then, saying to herself, "Papa must not be
disturbed with my idle fancies," she turned to receive his good-night with
a face so serene and unclouded, a manner so calm and peaceful, that he had
no suspicion of anything amiss.
Nor was it an assumed peace and calmness; for she had not now to learn to
cast her care on the Lord, whom she had loved and served from her very
infancy; and her head had not rested many moments upon her pillow ere she
fell into a deep, sweet sleep, that lasted until morning.
While Elsie slept, and Mr. Travilla galloped homeward by the longer route,
the moon, peering through the cloud curtains, looked down upon a dark
figure, standing behind a tree not many yards distant from the thicket
Elsie had besought her friend to shun. The man held a revolver in his
hand, ready cocked for instant use. His attitude was that of one
listening intently for some expected sound.
He had stood thus for hours, and was growing very weary. "Curse the
wretch!" he muttered, "does he court all night? How many hours have I been
here waiting for my chance for a shot at him? It's getting to be no joke,
hungry, cold, tired enough to lie down here on the ground. But I'll stick
it out, and shoot him down like a dog. He thinks to enjoy the prize he
snatched from me, but he'll find himself mistaken, or my name's n----" The
sentence ended with a fierce grinding of the teeth. Hark! was that the
distant tread of a horse? He bent his ear to the earth, and almost held
his breath to listen. Yes, faint but unmistakable; the sounds filled him
with a fiendish joy. For years he had nursed his hatred of Travilla, whom
he blamed almost exclusively for his failure to get possession of Elsie's
fortune.
He sprang up and again placed himself in position to fire. But what had
become of the welcome sounds? Alas for his hoped-for revenge; they had
died away entirely. The horse and his rider must have taken some other
road. More low-breathed, bitter curses: yet perchance it was not the man
for whose life he thirsted. He would wait and hope on.
But the night waned: one after another the moon and stars set and day
began to break in the east; the birds waking in their nests overhead grew
clamorous with joy, yet their notes seemed to contain a warning tone for
him, bidding him begone ere the coming of the light hated by those whose
deeds are evil. Chilled by the frosty air, and stiff and sore from long
standing in a constrained position, he limped away, and disappeared in the
deeper shadows of the woods.
Arthur's words of warning had taken their desired effect; and cowardly, as
base, wicked, and cruel, the man made haste to flee from the scene of his
intended crime, imagining at times that he even heard the bloodhounds
already on his track.
CHAPTER TENTH.
"At last I know thee--and my soul,
From all thy arts set free,
Abjures the cold consummate art
Shrin'd as a soul in thee."
--SARA J. CLARK.
The rest of the winter passed quietly and happily with our friends at Ion
and the Oaks, Mr. Travilla spending nearly half his time at the latter
place, and in rides and walks with Elsie, whom he now and then coaxed to
Ion for a call upon his mother.
Their courtship was serene and peaceful: disturbed by no feverish heat of
passion, no doubts and fears, no lovers' quarrels, but full of a deep,
intense happiness, the fruit of their long and intimate friendship, their
full acquaintance with, and perfect confidence in each other, and their
strong love. Enna sneeringly observed that "they were more like some staid
old married couple than a pair of lovers."
Arthur made no confidant in regard to his late interview with Jackson;
nothing more was heard or seen of the scoundrel, and gradually Elsie came
to the conclusion that Mr. Travilla, who occasionally rallied her
good-naturedly on the subject of her fright, had been correct in his
judgment that it was either the work of imagination or of some practical
joker.
Arthur, on his part, thought that fear of the terrors he had held up
before him would cause Jackson--whom he knew to be an arrant coward--to
refrain from adventuring himself again in the neighborhood.
But he miscalculated the depth of the man's animosity towards Mr.
Travilla, which so exceeded his cowardice as at length to induce him to
return and make another effort to destroy either the life of that
gentleman or his hopes of happiness; perhaps both.
Elsie was very fond of the society of her dear ones, yet occasionally
found much enjoyment in being alone, for a short season, with Nature or a
book. A very happy little woman, as she had every reason to be, and full
of gratitude and love to the Giver of all good for His unnumbered
blessings, she loved now and then to have a quiet hour in which to count
them over, as a miser does his gold, to return her heartfelt thanks, tell
her best, her dearest Friend of all, how happy she was, and seek help from
Him to make a right use of each talent committed to her care.
Seated in her favorite arbor one lovely spring day, with thoughts thus
employed, and eyes gazing dreamily upon the beautiful landscape spread out
at her feet, she was startled from her reverie by some one suddenly
stepping in and boldly taking a seat by her side.
She turned her head. Could it be possible? Yes, it was indeed Tom Jackson,
handsomely dressed and looking, to a casual observer, the gentleman she
had once believed him to be. She recognized him instantly.
A burning blush suffused her face, dyeing even the fair neck and arms. She
spoke not a word, but rose up hastily with the intent to fly from his
hateful presence.
"Now don't, my darling, don't run away from me," he said, intercepting
her. "I'm sure you couldn't have the heart, if you knew how I have lived
for years upon the hope of such a meeting: for my love for you, dearest
Elsie, has never lessened, the ardor of my passion has never cooled----"
"Enough, sir," she said, drawing herself up, her eyes kindling and
flashing as he had never thought they could; "how dare you insult me by
such words, and by your presence here? Let me pass."
"Insult you, Miss Dinsmore?" he cried, in affected surprise. "You were not
wont, in past days, to consider my presence an insult, and I could never
have believed fickleness a part of your nature. You are now of age, and
have a right to listen to my defense, and my suit for your heart and
hand."
"Are you mad? Can you still suppose me ignorant of your true character and
your history for years past? Know then that I am fully acquainted with
them; that I know you to be a lover of vice and the society of the
vicious--a drunkard, profane, a gambler, and one who has stained his hands
with the blood of a fellow-creature," she added with a shudder. "I pray
God you may repent and be forgiven; but you are not and can never be
anything to me."
"So with all your piety you forsake your friends when they get into
trouble," he remarked with a bitter sneer.
"Friend of mine you never were," she answered quietly; "I know it was my
fortune and not myself you really wanted. But though it were true that
you loved me as madly and disinterestedly as you professed, had I known
your character, never, _never_ should I have held speech with you, much
less admitted you to terms of familiarity--a fact which I look back upon
with the deepest mortification. Let me pass, sir, and never venture to
approach me again."
"No you don't, my haughty miss! I'm not done with you yet," he exclaimed
between his clenched teeth, and seizing her rudely by the arm as she tried
to step past him. "So you're engaged to that fatherly friend of yours,
that pious sneak, that deadly foe to me?"
"Unhand me, sir!"
"Not yet," he answered, tightening his grasp, and at the same time taking
a pistol from his pocket. "I swear you shall never marry that man: promise
me on your oath that you'll not, or--I'll shoot you through the heart; the
heart that's turned false to me. D'ye hear," and he held the muzzle of his
piece within a foot of her breast.
Every trace of color fled from her face, but she stood like a marble
statue, without speech or motion of a muscle, her eyes looking straight
into his with firm defiance.
"Do you hear?" he repeated, in a tone of exasperation, "speak! promise
that you'll never marry Travilla, or I'll shoot you in three
minutes--shoot you down dead on the spot, if I swing for it before night."
"That will be as God pleases," she answered low and reverently; "you can
have no power at all against me except it be given you from above."
"I can't, hey? looks like it; I've only to touch the trigger here, and
your soul's out o' your body. Better promise than die."
Still she stood looking him unflinchingly in the eye; not a muscle moving,
no sign of fear except that deadly pallor.
"Well," lowering his piece, "you're a brave girl, and I haven't the heart
to do it," he exclaimed in admiration. "I'll give up that promise; on
condition that you make another--that you'll keep all this a secret for
twenty-four hours, so I can make my escape from the neighborhood before
they get after me with their bloodhounds."
"That I promise, if you will be gone at once."
"You'll not say a word to any one of having seen me, or suspecting I'm
about here?"
"Not a word until the twenty-four hours are over."
"Then good-bye. Your pluck has saved your life; but remember, I've not
said I won't shoot him or your father, if chance throws them in my way,"
he added, looking back over his shoulder with a malicious leer, as he left
the arbor, then disappearing from sight among the trees and shrubbery
beyond.
Elsie's knees shook and trembled under her; she sank back into her seat,
covering her face and bowing her head upon her lap, while she sent up
silent, almost agonizing petitions for the safety of those two so
inexpressibly dear to her. Some moments passed thus, then she rose and
hastened, with a quick nervous step, to the house. She entered her
boudoir, and lay down upon a couch trembling in every fibre, every nerve
quivering with excitement. The shock had been terrible.
"What de matter wid my chile? what ails you, honey?" asked Aunt Chloe,
coming to her side full of concern.
"I think one of my bad headaches is coming on, mammy. But oh, tell me, is
Mr. Travilla here?--and papa! where is he?"
"Here daughter," his voice answered, close at hand, "and with a note for
you from Mr. Travilla, who has not shown himself to-day."
She took it eagerly, but with a hand that trembled as if with sudden
palsy, while the eyes, usually so keen-sighted, saw only a blurred and
confused jumble of letters in place of the clear, legible characters
really there.
"I cannot see," she said, in a half-frightened tone, and pressing the
other hand to her brow.
"And you are trembling like an aspen leaf," he said, bending over her in
serious alarm. "My child, when did this come on? and what has caused it?"
"Papa, I cannot tell you now, or till to-morrow, at this hour; I will
then. But oh, papa dear, dear papa!" she cried, putting her arm about his
neck and bursting into hysterical weeping, "promise me, if you love me
promise me, that you will not leave the house till I have told you. I am
sick, I am suffering; you will stay by me? you will not leave me?"
"My darling, I will do anything I can to relieve you, mentally or
physically," he answered in tones of tenderest love and concern. "I shall
not stir from the house, while to do so would increase your suffering. I
perceive there has been some villainy practised upon you, and a promise
extorted, which I shall not ask you to break; but rest assured, I shall
keep guard over my precious one."
"And Mr. Travilla!" she gasped. "Oh, papa, if I only knew he was safe!"
"Perhaps the note may set your mind at rest on that point. Shall I read it
for you?"
"Yes, sir," she said, putting it into his hand with a slight blush, "he
never writes what I should be ashamed or afraid to have my father see."
It was but short, written merely to explain his absence, and dated from a
neighboring plantation, where he had gone to assist in nursing a sick
friend whom he should not be able to leave for some days. There were words
of deep, strong affection, but as she had foreseen, nothing that she need
care to have her father know or see.
"Does not this news allay your fears for him?" Mr. Dinsmore asked
tenderly.
"Yes, papa," she answered, the tears streaming from her eyes. "Oh, how
good God is to me! I will trust Him, trust Him for you both, as well as
myself." She covered her face with her hands while shudder after shudder
shook her whole frame.
Mr. Dinsmore was much perplexed, and deeply concerned. "Shall I send for
Dr. Barton?" he asked.
"No, no, papa! I am not ill; only my nerves have had a great, a terrible
shock; they seem all unstrung, and my temples are throbbing with pain."
"My poor, poor darling! strange that with all my care and watchfulness you
should have been subjected to such a trial. Some ruffian has been trying
to extort money from you, I presume, by threatened violence to yourself,
Travilla, and me. Where were you?"
"In my arbor, sir."
"And alone?"
"Yes, papa; I thought myself safe there."
"I forbid you to go there or to any distance from the house, alone, again.
You must always have some one within call, if not close at your side."
"And my father knows I will obey him," she said, tremulously lifting his
hand to her lips.
He administered an anodyne to relieve the tortured nerves, then sitting
down beside her, passed his hand soothingly over hair and cheek, while
with the other he held one of hers in loving, tender clasp. Neither spoke,
and at length she fell asleep; yet not a sound, refreshing slumber, but
disturbed by starts and moans, and frequent wakings to see and feel that
he was still there. "Papa, don't go away; don't leave me!" was her
constant cry.
"My darling, my precious one, I will not," was his repeated assurance; "I
will stay with you while this trouble lasts."
And all that day and night he never left her side, while Rose came and
went, full of anxiety and doing everything that could be done for the
sufferer's relief.
It was a night of unrest to them all; but morning found her free from
pain, though weak and languid, and still filled with distress if her
father was absent for more than a few moments from her side. She inquired
of him at what hour she had come in the day before: then watched the time
and, as soon as released from her promise, told them all.
Great was his indignation; and, determined that, if possible, the villain
should be apprehended and brought to justice, he sent word at once to the
magistrates: a warrant was issued, and several parties were presently out
in different directions in hot pursuit.
But with the twenty-four hours' start Jackson had made good his escape,
and the only advantage gained was the relief of knowing that he no longer
infested the neighborhood.
"But when may he not return?" Elsie said with a shudder. "Papa, I tremble
for you, and for--Mr. Travilla."
"I am far more concerned for you," he answered, gazing upon her pale face
with pitying, fatherly tenderness. "But let us cast this care, with all
others, upon our God. 'Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is
stayed on Thee; because he trusteth in Thee.'"
CHAPTER ELEVENTH.
"Of truth, he truly will all styles deserve
Of wise, good, just; a man both soul and nerve."
--SHIRLEY.
The story reached Mr. Travilla's ears that evening, and finding he could
be spared from the sick-room, he hastened to the Oaks. His emotions were
too big for utterance as he took his "little friend" in his arms and
clasped her to his beating heart.
"God be thanked that you are safe!" he said at last. "Oh, my darling, my
darling, what peril you have been in and how bravely you met it! You are
the heroine of the hour," he added with a faint laugh, "all, old and
young, male and female, black and white, are loud in praise of your
wonderful firmness and courage. And, my darling, I fully agree with them,
and exult in the thought that this brave lady is mine own."
He drew her closer as he spoke, and just touched his lips to the shining
hair and the pure white forehead resting on his breast.
"Ah!" she murmured low and softly, a dewy light shining in her eyes, "why
should they think it anything wonderful or strange that I felt little
dread or fear at the prospect of a sudden transit from earth to heaven--a
quick summons home to my Father's house on high, to be at once freed from
sin and forever with the Lord? I have a great deal to live for, life
looks very bright and sweet to me; yet but for you and papa, I think it
would have mattered little to me had he carried out his threat."
"My little friend, it would have broken my heart: to lose you were worse
than a thousand deaths."
They were alone in Elsie's boudoir, but when an hour had slipped rapidly
away there came a message from Mr. Dinsmore to the effect that their
company would be very acceptable in the library.
They repaired thither at once, and found him and Rose laying out plans for
a summer trip. The matter was under discussion all the rest of the evening
and for some days after, resulting finally in the getting up a large party
of tourists, consisting of the entire families of the Oaks and Ion, with
the addition of Harry and Sophie Carrington, and Lora with her husband and
children; servants of course included.
They kept together for some time, visiting different points of interest in
Virginia, Pennsylvania, and New York; spending several weeks at Cape May;
where they were joined by the Allisons of Philadelphia; Mr. Edward and
Adelaide among the rest, they having returned from Europe shortly before.
At length they separated, some going in one direction, some in another.
Lora went to Louise, Rose to her father's, Mrs. and Mr. Travilla to
friends in Cincinnati and its suburbs, and Elsie to pay a long-promised
visit to Lucy in her married home, a beautiful country-seat on the banks
of the Hudson. Her father saw her safely there, then left her for a
fortnight; their fears in regard to Jackson having been allayed by the
news that he had been again arrested for burglary, and Lucy and her
husband promising to guard their precious charge with jealous care.
At the end of the fortnight Mr. Dinsmore returned for his daughter, and
they went on together to Lansdale to visit Miss Stanhope.
Elsie had set her heart on having her dear old aunt spend the fall and
winter with them in the "sunny South," and especially on her being present
at the wedding; and Miss Stanhope, after much urging and many
protestations that she was too old for such a journey, had at last
yielded, and given her promise, on condition that her nephew and niece
should come for her, and first spend a week or two in Lansdale. She
entreated that Mr. Travilla and his mother might be of the party. "He was
a great favorite of hers, and she was sure his mother must be a woman in a
thousand."
They accepted the kindness as cordially as it was proffered; met the
others at the nearest point of connection, and all arrived together.
It was not Lottie King who met them at the depot this time, but a
fine-looking young man with black moustache and roguish dark eye, who
introduced himself as Harry Duncan, Miss Stanhope's nephew.
"Almost a cousin! Shall we consider you quite one?" asked Mr. Dinsmore,
warmly shaking the hand held out to him in cordial greeting.
"Thank you, I shall feel highly honored," the young man answered in a
gratified tone, and with a glance of undisguised admiration and a
respectful bow directed towards Elsie. Then turning with an almost
reverential air and deeper bow to Mrs. Travilla, "And, madam, may I have
the privilege of placing you alongside of my dear old aunt, and addressing
you by the same title?"
"You may, indeed," was the smiling rejoinder. "And my son here, I suppose,
will take his place with the others as cousin. No doubt we are all
related, if we could only go back far enough in tracing out our
genealogies."
"To Father Adam, for instance," remarked Mr. Travilla, laughingly.
"Or good old Noah, or even his son Japheth," rejoined Harry, leading the
way to a family carriage sufficiently roomy to hold them all comfortably.
"Your checks, if you please, aunt and cousins; and Simon here will attend
to your luggage. Servants' also."
Elsie turned her head to see a young colored man, bowing, scraping, and
grinning from ear to ear, in whom she perceived a faint resemblance to the
lad Simon of four years ago.
"You hain't forgot me, miss?" he said. "I'm still at de ole place wid Miss
Wealthy."
She gave him a smile and a nod, dropping a gold dollar into his hand along
with her checks; the gentlemen said, "How d'ye do," and were equally
generous, and he went off chuckling.
As they drew near their destination, a quaint little figure could be seen
standing at the gate in the shade of a maple tree, whose leaves of mingled
green and scarlet, just touched by the September frosts, made a brilliant
contrast to the sober hue of her dress.
"There she is! our dear old auntie!" cried Elsie with eager delight, that
brought a flush of pleasure to Harry's face.
Miss Stanhope's greetings were characteristic. "Elsie! my darling! I have
you again after all these years! Mrs. Vanilla too! how kind! but you tell
me your face is always that. Horace, nephew, this _is_ good of you! And
Mr. Torville, I'm as glad as the rest to see you. Come in, come in, all of
you, and make yourselves at home."
"Does Mrs. Schilling still live opposite to you, Aunt Wealthy?" asked
Elsie as they sat about the tea-table an hour later.
"Yes, dearie; though she's lost all commercial value," laughed the old
lady; "she's taken a second wife at last; not Mr. Was though, but a
newcomer, Mr. Smearer."
"Dauber, auntie," corrected Harry, gravely.
"Well, well, child, the meaning's about the same," returned Miss Stanhope,
laughing afresh at her own mistake, "and I'd as soon be the other as one."
"Mrs. Dauber wouldn't though," said Harry. "I noticed her face grow as red
as a beet the other day when you called her Mrs. Smearer."
"She didn't mind being Mrs. Sixpence, I think," said Elsie.
"Oh yes, she did; it nettled her a good deal at first, but she finally got
used to it; after finding out how innocent auntie was, and how apt to
miscall other names."
"But I thought she would never be content with anybody but Mr. Wert."
"Well, she lost all hope there, and dropped him at once as soon as Dauber
made his appearance."
Mr. Dinsmore inquired about the Kings. Elsie had done so in a private chat
with her aunt, held in her room directly after their arrival.
"The doctor's as busy as ever, killing people all round the country; he's
very successful at it," replied Miss Stanhope; "I've the utmost confidence
in his skill."
"You are a warm friend of his, I know, aunt," said Mr. Dinsmore, smiling,
"but I would advise you not to try to assist his reputation among
strangers."
"Why not, nephew?"
"Lest they should take your words literally, auntie."
"Ah, yes, I must be careful how I use my stumbling tongue," she answered
with a good-humored smile. "I ought to have always by, somebody to correct
my blunders. I've asked Harry to do me that kindness, and he often does."
"It is quite unnecessary with us; for we all know what you intend to say,"
remarked Mrs. Travilla, courteously.
"Thank you, dear madam," said Miss Stanhope; "I am not at all sensitive
about it, fortunately, as my nephew knows, and my blunders afford as much
amusement to any one else as to me; when I'm made aware of them."
"Nettie King is married, papa," said Elsie.
"Ah! Lottie also?"
"No, she's at home and will be in, with her father and mother, this
evening," said Aunt Wealthy. "I've been matching to make a hope between
her and Harry, but find it's quite useless."
"No, we're the best of friends, but don't care to be anything more,"
remarked the young gentleman, coloring and laughing.
"No," said Mr. Travilla, "it is said by some one that two people with hair
and eyes of the same color should beware of choosing each other as
partners for life."
"And I believe it," returned Harry. "Lottie and I are too much alike in
disposition. I must look for a blue-eyed, fair-haired maiden, whose mental
and moral characteristics will supply the deficiencies in mine."
"Gray eyes and brown; that will do very well, won't it?" said the old lady
absently, glancing from Elsie to Mr. Travilla and back again.
Both smiled, and Elsie cast down her eyes with a lovely blush, while Mr.
Travilla answered cheerily, "We think so, Miss Stanhope."
"Call me Aunt Wealthy; almost everybody does, and you might as well begin
now as any time."
"Thank you, I shall avail myself of the privilege in future."
The weather was warm for the time of year, and on leaving the table the
whole party repaired to the front porch, where Harry quickly provided
every one with a seat.
"That is a beautiful maple yonder," remarked Mr. Travilla.
"Yes, sir," returned Harry; "we have a row of them all along the front of
the lot; and as Mrs. Dauber says, they are 'perfectly gordeous' in the
fall."
"The maple is my favorite among the shade leaves," remarked Miss Stanhope,
joining in the talk, "from the time it trees out in the spring till the
bare become branches in the fall. Through this month and next they're a
perpetual feast to the eye."
"Aunt, how did you decide in regard to that investment you wrote to
consult me about?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, turning to her.
"Oh, I concluded to put in a few hundreds, as you thought it safe, on the
principle of not having all my baskets in one egg."
"Small baskets they would have to be, auntie," Harry remarked quietly.
"Yes, my eggs are not so many, but quite enough for an old lady like me."
As the evening shadows crept over the landscape the air began to be
chilly, and our friends adjourned to the parlor.
Here all was just as when Elsie last saw it; neat as wax, everything in
place, and each feather-stuffed cushion beaten up and carefully smoothed
to the state of perfect roundness in which Miss Stanhope's soul delighted.
Mrs. Travilla, who had heard descriptions of the room and its appointments
from both her son and Elsie, looked about her with interest: upon the old
portraits, the cabinet of curiosities, and the wonderful sampler worked by
Miss Wealthy's grandmother. She examined with curiosity the rich
embroidery of the chair cushions, but preferred a seat upon the sofa.
"Dr. and Mrs. King and Miss Lottie!" announced Simon's voice from the
doorway, and the three entered.
Lively, cordial greetings followed, especially on the part of the two
young girls. Mrs. Travilla was introduced, and all settled themselves for
a chat; Lottie and Elsie, of course, managing to find seats side by side.
"You dearest girl, you have only changed by growing more beautiful than
ever," cried Lottie, squeezing Elsie's hand which she still held, and
gazing admiringly into her face.
Elsie laughed low and musically.
"Precisely what I was thinking of you, Lottie. It must be your own fault
that you are still single. But we won't waste time in flattering each
other, when we have so much to say that is better worth while."
"No, surely; Aunt Wealthy has told me of your engagement."
"That was right; it is no secret, and should not be from you if it were
from others. Lottie, I want you to be one of my bridesmaids. We're going
to carry Aunt Wealthy off to spend the winter with us, and I shall not be
content unless I can do the same by you.'
"A winter in the 'sunny South!' and with you; how delightful! you dear,
kind creature, to think of it, and to ask me. Ah, if I only could!"
"I think you can; though of course I know your father and mother must be
consulted; and if you come, you will grant my request?"
"Yes, yes indeed! gladly."
Aunt Chloe, always making herself useful wherever she went, was passing
around the room with a pile of plates, Phillis following with cakes and
confections, while Simon brought in a waiter with saucers and spoons, and
two large moulds of ice cream.
"Will you help the cream, Harry?" said Miss Stanhope. "There are two
kinds, you see, travilla and melon. Ask Mrs. Vanilla which she'll have; or
if she'll take both."
"Mrs. Travilla, may I have the pleasure of helping you to ice cream?" he
asked. "There are two kinds, vanilla and lemon. Let me give you both."
"If you please," she answered, with a slightly amused look; for though
Aunt Wealthy had spoken in an undertone, the words had reached her ear.
"Which will you have, dearies?" said the old lady, drawing near the young
girls' corner, "travilla cream or melon?"
"Lemon for me, if you please, Aunt Wealthy," replied Lottie.
"And I will take Travilla," Elsie said, low and mischievously, and with a
merry twinkle in her eye.
"But you have no cake! your plate is quite empty and useless," exclaimed
the aunt. "Horace," turning towards her nephew, who was chatting with the
doctor at the other side of the room, "some of this cake is very plain;
you don't object to Elsie eating a little of it?"
"She is quite grown up now, aunt, and can judge for herself in such
matters," he answered smiling, then turned to finish what he had been
saying to the doctor.
"You will have some then, dear, won't you?" Miss Stanhope inquired in her
most coaxing tone.
"A very small slice of this sponge cake, if you please, auntie."
"How young Mr. Travilla looks," remarked Lottie, "younger I think, than he
did four years ago. Happiness, I presume; it's said to have that effect. I
believe I was vexed when I first heard you were engaged to him, because I
thought he was too old; but really he doesn't look so; a man should be
considerably older than his wife, that she may find it easier to look up
to him; and he know the better how to take care of her."
"I would not have him a day younger, except that he would like to be
nearer my age, or different in any way from what he is," Elsie said, her
eyes involuntarily turning in Mr. Travilla's direction.
They met the ardent gaze of his. Both smiled, and rising he crossed the
room and joined them. They had a half hour of lively chat together, then
Mrs. King rose to take leave.
Mr. Travilla moved away to speak to the doctor, and Lottie seized the
opportunity to whisper to her friend, "He's just splendid, Elsie! I don't
wonder you look so happy, or that he secured your hand and heart after
they had been refused to dukes and lords. You see Aunt Wealthy has been
telling me all about your conquests in Europe," she added, in answer to
Elsie's look of surprise.
"I am, indeed, very happy, Lottie," Elsie replied in the same low tone; "I
know Mr. Travilla so thoroughly, and have not more perfect confidence in
papa's goodness and love to me, than in his. It is a very restful thing to
have such a friend."
Dr. King's circumstances had greatly improved in the last four years, so
that he was quite able to give Lottie the pleasure of accepting Elsie's
invitation, and at once gave his cordial consent. Mrs. King at first
objected that the two weeks of our friends' intended stay in Lansdale
would not give sufficient time for the necessary additions to Lottie's
wardrobe; but this difficulty was overcome by a suggestion from Elsie. She
would spend two or three weeks in Philadelphia, attending to the
purchasing and making up of her trousseau, she said, and Lottie's dresses
could be bought and made at the same time and place.
The two weeks allotted to Lansdale of course passed very rapidly;
especially to Harry, to whom the society of these new-found relatives was
a great pleasure, and who on their departure would be left behind, with
only Phillis for his housekeeper.
The latter received so many charges from Aunt Wealthy in regard to careful
attention to "Mr. Harry's" health and comfort, that at length she grew
indignant, and protested that she loved "Mr. Harry as if he was her own
child--didn't she nuss him when he was a little feller? and there was no
'casion for missus to worry an' fret as if she was leavin' him to a
stranger."
It was not for want of a cordial invitation to both the Oaks and Ion that
Harry was left behind; but business required his presence at home, and he
could only promise himself a week's holiday at the time of the wedding.
CHAPTER TWELFTH
"Bring flowers, fresh flowers for the bride to wear;
They were born to blush in her shining hair;
She's leaving the home of her childhood's mirth;
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth;
Her place is now by another's side;
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride."
--MRS. HEMANS.
A fair October day is waning, and as the shadows deepen and the stars
shine out here and there in the darkening sky, the grounds at the Oaks
glitter with colored lamps, swinging from the branches of the trees that
shade the long green alleys, and dependent from arches wreathed with
flowers. In doors and out everything wears a festive look; almost the
whole house is thrown open to the guests who will presently come thronging
to it from nearly every plantation for miles around.
The grand wedding has been talked of, prepared for, and looked forward to
for months past, and few, if any, favored with an invitation, will
willingly stay away.
The spacious entrance hall is brilliantly lighted, and on either hand
wide-open doors give admission to long suites of richly, tastefully
furnished rooms, beautiful with rare statuary, paintings, articles of
vertu, and flowers scattered everywhere, in bouquets, wreaths, festoons,
filling the air with their delicious fragrance.
These apartments, waiting for the guests, are almost entirely deserted;
but in Elsie's dressing-room a bevy of gay young girls, in white tarletan
and with flowers in their elaborately dressed hair, are laughing and
chatting merrily, and now and then offering a suggestion to Aunt Chloe and
Dinah, whose busy hands are arranging their young mistress for her bridal.
"Lovely!" "Charming!" "Perfect!" the girls exclaim in delighted, admiring
chorus, as the tirewomen having completed their labors, Elsie stands
before them in a dress of the richest white satin, with an overskirt of
point lace, a veil of the same, enveloping her slender figure like an airy
cloud, or morning mist, reaching from the freshly gathered orange blossoms
wreathed in the shining hair to the tiny white satin slipper just peeping
from beneath the rich folds of the dress. Flowers are her only ornament
to-night, and truly she needs no other.
"Perfect! nothing superfluous, nothing wanting," says Lottie King.
Rose, looking almost like a young girl herself, so sweet and fair in her
beautiful evening dress, came in at that instant to see if all was right
in the bride's attire. Her eyes grew misty while she gazed, her heart
swelling with a strange mixture of emotions: love, joy, pride, and a touch
of sadness at the thought of the partial loss that night was to bring to
her beloved husband and herself.
"Am I all right, mamma?" asked Elsie.
"I can see nothing amiss," Rose answered, with a slight tremble in her
voice. "My darling, I never saw you so wondrously sweet and fair," she
whispered, adjusting a fold of the drapery. "You are very happy?"
"Very, mamma dear; yet a trifle sad too. But that is a secret between you
and me. How beautiful you are to-night."
"Ah, dear child, quite ready, and the loveliest bride that ever I saw,
from the sole of your head to the crown of your foot," said a silvery
voice, as a quaint little figure came softly in and stood at Mrs.
Dinsmore's side--"no, I mean from the crown of your foot to the sole of
your head. Ah, funerals are almost as sad as weddings. I don't know how
people can ever feel like dancing at them."
"Well, auntie dear, there'll be no dancing at mine," said Elsie, smiling
slightly.
"I must go and be ready to receive our guests," said Rose, hearing the
rumble of carriage wheels. "Elsie, dear child," she whispered, "keep calm.
You can have no doubts or fears in putting your future in----"
"No, no, mamma, not the slightest," and the fair face grew radiant.
As Rose passed out at one door, Miss Stanhope following, with a parting
injunction to the bride not to grow frightened or nervous, Mr. Dinsmore
entered by another.
He stood a moment silently gazing upon his lovely daughter; then a slight
motion of his hand sent all others from the room, the bridesmaids passing
into the boudoir, where the groom and his attendants were already
assembled, the tirewomen vanishing by a door on the opposite side.
"My darling!" murmured the father, in low, half tremulous accents, putting
his arm about the slender waist, "my beautiful darling! how can I give you
to another?" and again and again his lips were pressed to hers in long,
passionate kisses.
"Papa, please don't make me cry," she pleaded, the soft eyes lifted to
his, filled almost to overflowing.
"No, no, I must not," he said, hastily taking out his handkerchief and
wiping away the tears before they fell. "It is shamefully selfish in me to
come and disturb your mind thus just now."
"No, papa, no, no; I will not have you say that. Thank you for coming. It
would have hurt me had you stayed away. But you would not have things
different now if you could? have no desire to."
"No, daughter, no; yet, unreasonable as it is, the thought will come,
bringing sadness with it, that to-night you resign my name, and my house
ceases to be your only home."
"Papa, I shall never resign the name dear to me because inherited from
you: I shall only add to it; your house shall always be one of my dear
homes, and I shall be your own, own daughter, your own child, as truly as
I ever have been. Is it not so?"
"Yes, yes, my precious little comforter."
"And you are not going to give me away--ah, papa, I could never bear that
any more than you; you are taking a partner in the concern," she added
with playful tenderness, smiling archly through gathering tears.
Again he wiped them hastily away. "Did ever father have such a dear
daughter?" he said, gazing fondly down into the sweet face. "I ought to be
the happiest of men. I believe I am----"
"Except one," exclaimed a joyous voice, at sound of which Elsie's eyes
brightened and the color deepened on her cheek. "May I come in?"
"Yes, Travilla," said Mr. Dinsmore; "you have now an equal right with me."
Travilla thought his was superior, or would be after the ceremony, but
generously refrained from saying so. And had Mr. Dinsmore been questioned
on the subject, he could not have asserted that it had ever occurred to
him that Mr. Allison had an equal right with himself in Rose. But few
people are entirely consistent.
Mr. Travilla drew near the two, still standing together, and regarded his
bride with a countenance beaming with love and delight. The sweet eyes
sought his questioningly, and meeting his ardent gaze the beautiful face
sparkled all over with smiles and blushes.
"Does my toilet please you, my friend?" she asked. "And you, papa?"
"The general effect is charming," said Mr. Travilla; "but," he added, in
low, tender tones saying far more than the words, "I've been able to see
nothing else for the dear face that is always that to me."
"I can see no flaw in face or attire," Mr. Dinsmore said, taking a more
critical survey; "you are altogether pleasing in your doting father's
eyes, my darling. But you must not stand any longer. You will need all
your strength for your journey." And he would have led her to a sofa.
But she gently declined. "Ah, I am much too fine to sit down just now, my
dear, kind father, I should crush my lace badly. So please let me stand. I
am not conscious of weariness."
He yielded, saying with a smile, "That would be a pity; for it is very
beautiful. And surely you ought to be allowed your own way to-night if
ever."
"To-night and ever after," whispered the happy groom in the ear of his
bride.
A loving, trustful look was her only answer.
A continued rolling of wheels without, and buzz of voices coming from
veranda, hall, and reception rooms, could now be heard.
"The house must be filling fast," said Mr. Dinsmore, "and as host I should
be present to receive and welcome my guests, Travilla," and his voice
trembled slightly, as he took Elsie's right hand and held it for a moment
closely clasped in his; "I do not fear to trust you with what to me is a
greater treasure than all the gold of California. Cherish my darling as
the apple of your eye; I know you will."
He bent down for another silent caress, laid the hand in that of his
friend, and left the room.
"And you do not fear to trust me, my little friend?" Travilla's tones,
too, were tremulous with deep feeling.
"I have not the shadow of a fear," she answered, her eyes meeting his with
an earnest, childlike confidence.
"Bless you for those words, dearest," he said; "God helping me you never
shall have cause to regret them."
A door opened, and a handsome, dark eyed boy, a miniature likeness of his
father, came hurrying in. "Elsie! Papa said I might come and see how
beautiful you are!" he cried, as if resolutely mastering some strong
emotion, "but I'm not to say anything to make you cry. I'm not to hug you
hard and spoil your dress. Oh, but you do look like an angel, only
without the wings. Mr. Travilla, you'll be good, _good_ to her, won't
you?" and the voice almost broke down.
"I will, indeed, Horace; you may be sure of that. And you needn't feel as
if you are losing her, she'll be back again in a few weeks, please God."
"But not to live at home any more!" he cried impetuously. "No, no, I
wasn't to say that, I----"
"Come here and kiss me, my dear little brother," Elsie said tenderly; "and
you shall hug me, too, as hard as you like, before I go."
He was not slow to accept the invitation, and evidently had a hard
struggle with himself, to refrain from giving the forbidden hug.
"You may hug me instead, Horace, if you like," said Mr. Travilla; "you
know we're very fond of each other, and are going to be brothers now."
"Yes, that I will, for I do like you ever so much," cried the boy,
springing into the arms held out to him, and receiving and returning a
warm embrace, while the sister looked on with eyes glistening with
pleasure.
"Now, in a few minutes I'll become your brother Edward; and that's what I
want you to call me in future. Will you do it?"
"Yes, sir; if papa doesn't forbid me."
A light tap at the door leading into the boudoir, and Walter put in his
head. "The company, the clergy-man, and the hour have come. Are the bride
and groom ready?"
"Yes."
Releasing the child, Mr. Travilla drew Elsie's hand within his arm. For
an instant he bent his eyes with earnest, questioning gaze upon her face.
It wore an expression that touched him to the heart, so perfectly
trustful, so calmly, peacefully happy, yet with a deep tender solemnity
mingling with and subduing her joy. The soft eyes were misty with unshed
tears as she lifted them to his.
"It is for life," she whispered; "and I am but young and foolish; shall
you never regret?"
"Never, _never_; unless you grow weary of your choice."
The answering smile was very sweet and confiding. "I have not chosen
lightly, and do not fear because it is for life," was its unspoken
language.
And truly it was no hasty, ill-considered step she was taking, but one
that had been calmly, thoughtfully pondered in many an hour of solitude
and communion with that unseen Friend whom from earliest youth she had
acknowledged in all her ways, and who had, according to His promise,
directed her paths. There was no excitement, no nervous tremor, about her
then or during the short ceremony that made them no more twain but one
flesh. So absorbed was she in the importance and solemnity of the act she
was performing, that little room was left for thought of anything
else--her personal appearance, or the hundreds of pairs of eyes fixed upon
her; even her father's presence, and the emotions swelling in his breast
were for the time forgotten. Many marked the rapt expression of her face,
and the clear and distinct though low tones of the sweet voice as she
pledged herself to "love, honor, and obey." Mr. Travilla's promise "to
love, honor, and cherish to life's end," was given no less earnestly and
emphatically.
The deed was done; and relatives and friends gathered about them with
kindly salutations and good wishes.
Mr. Dinsmore was the first to salute the bride. "God bless and keep you,
my daughter," were his tenderly whispered words.
"Dear, dear papa," was all she said in response, but her eyes spoke
volumes. "I am yours still, your very own, and glad it is so," they said.
Then came Rose with her tender, silent caress, half-sorrowful,
half-joyful, and Mrs. Travilla with her altogether joyous salutation, "My
dear daughter, may your cup of happiness be ever filled to overflowing;"
while Mr. Dinsmore to hide his emotion turned jocosely to Travilla with a
hearty shake of the hand, and "I wish you joy, my son."
"Thank you, father," returned the groom gravely, but with a twinkle of
merriment in his eye.
Aunt Wealthy, standing close by awaiting her turn to greet the bride,
shook her head at her nephew. "Ah, you are quite too old for that, Horace.
Mr. Vanilla, I wish you joy; but what am I to call you now?"
"Edward, if you please, Aunt Wealthy."
"Ah, yes, that will do nicely; it's a good name--so easily forgotten.
Elsie, dearie, you went through it brave as a lion. May you never wish
you'd lived your lane like your auld auntie."
"As if single blessedness could ever be real blessedness!" sneered Enna,
coming up just in time to catch the last words.
"Our feelings change as we grow older," returned Miss Stanhope, in her
gentle, refined tones, "and we come to look upon quiet and freedom from
care as very desirable things."
"And I venture to say that old age is not likely to find Mrs. Percival so
happy and contented as is my dear old maiden aunt," remarked Mr. Dinsmore.
"Yet we will hope it may, papa," said Elsie, receiving Enna's salutation
with kindly warmth.
But the list of relatives, near connections, and intimate friends, is too
long for particular mention of each. All the Dinsmores were there, both
married and single; also most of the Allisons. Harold had not come with
the others, nor had he either accepted or rejected the invitation.
On first raising her eyes upon the conclusion of the ceremony, had Elsie
really seen, far back in the shadow of the doorway, a face white, rigid,
hopeless with misery as his when last they met and parted? She could not
tell; for if really there, it vanished instantly.
"Did Harold come?" she asked of Richard when he came to salute the bride
and groom.
"I think not; I haven't seen him, I can't think what's come over the lad
to be so neglectful of his privileges."
Harry Duncan was there, too, hanging upon the smiles of merry, saucy,
blue-eyed May Allison; while her brother Richard seemed equally enamored
with the brunette beauty and sprightliness of Lottie King.
Stiffness and constraint found no place among the guests, after the event
of the evening was over.
In the great dining-room a sumptuous banquet was laid; and thither, after
a time, guests and entertainers repaired.
The table sparkled with cut-glass, rare and costly china, and solid silver
and gold plate. Every delicacy from far and near was to be found upon it;
nothing wanting that the most fastidious could desire, or the most lavish
expenditure furnish. Lovely, fragrant flowers were there also in the
utmost profusion, decorating the board, festooning the windows and
doorways, in bouquets upon the mantels and antique stands, scattered here
and there through the apartment, filling the air with their perfume; while
a distant and unseen band discoursed sweetest music in soft, delicious
strains.
The weather was warmer far than at that season in our northern clime, the
outside air balmy and delightful, and through the wide-open doors and
windows glimpses might be caught of the beautiful grounds, lighted here
and there by a star-like lamp shining out among the foliage. Silent and
deserted they had been all the earlier part of the evening, but now group
after group, as they left the bountiful board, wandered into their green
alleys and gay parterres; low, musical tones, light laughter, and merry
jests floating out upon the quiet night air and waking the echoes of the
hills.
But the bride retired to her own apartments, where white satin, veil, and
orange blossoms, were quickly exchanged for an elegant traveling dress,
scarcely less becoming to her rare beauty.
She reappeared in the library, which had not been thrown open to the
guests, but where the relations and bridesmaids were gathered for the
final good-bye.
Mr. Dinsmore's family carriage, roomy, easy-rolling, and softly cushioned,
stood at the door upon the drive, its spirited gray horses pawing the
ground with impatience to be gone. It would carry the bride and groom--and
a less pretentious vehicle their servants--in two hours to the seaport
where they were to take the steamer for New Orleans; for their honeymoon
was to be spent at Viamede, Elsie still adhering to the plan of a year
ago.
Her adieus were gayly given to one and another, beginning with those least
dear; very very affectionately to Mrs. Travilla, Aunt Wealthy, Rose, and
the little Horace (the sleeping Rosebud had already been softly kissed in
her crib).
Her idolized father only remained; and now all her gayety forsook her, all
her calmness gave way, and clinging about his neck, "Papa, papa, oh papa!"
she cried, with a burst of tears and sobs.
"Holy and pure are the drops that fall,
When the young bride goes from her father's hall;
She goes unto love yet untried and new--
She parts from love which hath still been true."
It was his turn now to comfort her. "Darling daughter," he said, caressing
her with exceeding tenderness, "we do not part for long. Should it please
God to spare our lives, I shall have my precious one in my arms in a few
short weeks. Meantime we can have a little talk on paper every day. Shall
we not?"
"Yes, yes, dear, dear, precious father."
Mr. Travilla stood by with a face full of compassionate tenderness.
Putting one hand into her father's, Elsie turned, gave him the other, and
together they led her to the carriage and placed her in it. There was a
hearty, lingering hand-shaking between the two gentlemen. Mr. Travilla
took his seat by Elsie's side, and amid a chorus of good-byes they were
whirled rapidly away.
"Cheer up, my dear," said Rose, leaning affectionately on her husband's
arm; "it is altogether addition and not subtraction; you have not lost a
daughter but gained a son."
"These rooms tell a different tale," he answered with a sigh. "How
desolate they seem. But this is no time for the indulgence of sadness. We
must return to our guests, and see that all goes merry as a marriage bell
with them till the last has taken his departure."
CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.
"My bride,
My wife, my life. O we will walk this world
Yok'd in all exercise of noble aim
And so through those dark gates across the wild
That no man knows."
--TENNYSON'S PRINCESS.
Elsie's tears were falling fast, but an arm as strong and kind as her
father's stole quietly about her, a hand as gentle and tender as a woman's
drew the weary head to a resting-place on her husband's shoulder, smoothed
back the hair from the heated brow, and wiped away the falling drops.
"My wife! my own precious little wife!"
How the word, the tone, thrilled her! her very heart leaped for joy
through all the pain of parting from one scarcely less dear. "My husband,"
she murmured, low and shyly--it seemed so strange to call him that, so
almost bold and forward--"my dear, kind friend, to be neither hurt nor
angry at my foolish weeping."
"Not foolish, dear one, but perfectly natural and right. I understand it;
I who know so well what your father has been to you these many years."
"Father and mother both."
"Yes; tutor, friend, companion, confidant, everything. I know, dear little
wife, that you are sacrificing much for me, even though the separation
will be but partial. And how I love you for it, and for all you are to
me, God only knows."
The tears had ceased to flow; love, joy, and thankfulness were regaining
their ascendancy in the heart of the youthful bride; she became again
calmly, serenely happy.
The journey was accomplished without accident. They were favored with
warm, bright days, clear, starlit nights; and on as lovely an afternoon as
was ever known in that delicious clime, reached Viamede.
Great preparations had been made for their reception; banners were
streaming, and flags flying from balconies and tree-tops. Mr. Mason met
them at the pier with a face beaming with delight; Spriggs with a stiff
bow. A gun was fired and a drum began to beat as they stepped ashore; two
pretty mulatto girls scattered flowers in their path, and passing under a
grand triumphal arch they presently found themselves between two long rows
of smiling, bowing negroes, whose fervent ejaculations: "God bless our
dear young missus an' her husband!" "God bless you, massa an' missus!"
"Welcome home!" "Welcome to Viamede!" "We've not forgot you, Miss Elsie;
you's as welcome as de daylight!" affected our tender-hearted heroine
almost to tears.
She had a kind word for each, remembering all their names, and inquiring
after their "miseries"; every one was permitted to take her small white
hand, many of them kissing it with fervent affection. They were introduced
to their "new master," too (that was what she called him), and shaken
hands with by him in a cordial interested way that won their hearts at
once.
Aunt Phillis was in her glory, serving up a feast the preparation of which
had exhausted the united skill of both Aunt Sally and herself. Their
efforts were duly appreciated and praised, the viands evidently greatly
enjoyed, all to their intense delight.
Mr. Mason was invited to partake with the bride and groom, and assigned
the seat of honor at Mr. Travilla's right hand. Elsie presided over the
tea-urn with the same gentle dignity and grace as when her father occupied
the chair at the opposite end of the table, now filled by her husband. Her
traveling dress had been exchanged for one of simple white, and there were
white flowers in her hair and at her throat. Very sweet and charming she
looked, not only in the eyes of her husband, who seemed to find her fair
face a perpetual feast, but in those of all others who saw her.
On leaving the table they repaired to the library, where Mr. Mason gave a
report of the condition of the people and his work among them, also
assuring Mrs. Travilla that Spriggs had carefully carried out her wishes,
that the prospect for the crops was fine, and everything on the estate in
excellent order.
She expressed her gratification, appealing to Mr. Travilla for his
approval, which was cordially given; said she had brought a little gift
for each of the people, and desired they should be sent up to the house
about sunset the next evening to receive it.
The chaplain promised that her order should be attended to, then retired,
leaving husband and wife alone together.
"All very satisfactory, my little friend, was it not?" said Mr. Travilla.
"Yes, sir, very. I'm so glad to have secured such a man as Mr. Mason to
look after the welfare of these poor helpless creatures. And you like the
house, Mr. Travilla, do you not?"
"Very much, so far as I have seen it. This is a beautiful room, and the
dining-room pleased me equally well."
"Ah, I am eager to show you all!" she cried, rising quickly and laying her
hand on the bell-rope.
"Stay, little wife, not to-night," he said, "you are too much fatigued."
She glided to the back of the easy chair in which he sat, and leaning over
him, said laughingly, "I'm not conscious of being fatigued, but I have
promised to obey and----"
"Hush, hush!" he said flushing, "I meant to have that left out; and did I
not tell you you were to have your own way that night and ever after?
You've already done enough of obeying to last you a lifetime. But please
come round where I can see you better." Then, as she stepped to his side,
he threw an arm about her and drew her to his knee.
"But it wasn't left out," she said, shyly returning his fond caress; "I
promised and must keep my word."
"Ah, but if you can't, you can't; how will you obey when you get no
orders?"
"So you don't mean to give me any?"
"No, indeed; I'm your husband, your friend, your protector, your lover,
but not your master."
"Now, Mr. Travilla----"
"I asked you to call me Edward."
"But it seems so disrespectful."
"More so than to remind me of the disparity of our years? or than to
disregard my earnest wish? Then I think I'll have to require the keeping
of the promise in this one thing. Say Edward, little wife, and never again
call me Mr. Travilla when we are alone."
"Well, Edward, I will try to obey; and if I use the wrong word through
forgetfulness you must please excuse it. But ah, I remember papa would say
that was no excuse."
"But I shall not be so strict--unless you forget too often. I have
sometimes thought my friend too hard with his tender-hearted, sensitive
little daughter."
"Don't blame him--my dear, dear father!" she said, low and tremulously,
her face growing grave and almost sad for the moment. "He was very strict,
it is true, but none too strict in the matter of requiring prompt and
implicit obedience, and oh, so kind, so loving, so tender, so
sympathizing. I could, and did go to him with every little childish joy
and sorrow, every trouble, vexation, and perplexity; always sure of
sympathy, and help, too, if needed. Never once did he repulse me, or show
himself an uninterested listener.
"He would take me on his knee, hear all I had to say, clasp me close to
his heart, caress me, call me pet names, joy, sorrow with, or counsel me
as the case required, and bid me always come freely to him so, assuring me
that nothing which concerned me, one way or another, was too trivial to
interest him, and he would be glad to know I had not a thought or feeling
concealed from him. I doubt if even you, my friend, have ever known all
that papa has been and is to me: father, mother, everything--but
husband," she added with a blush and smile, as her eyes met the kindly,
tender look in his.
"Ah, that is my blessed privilege," he whispered, drawing her closer to
him. "My wife, my own precious little wife! God keep me from ever being
less tender, loving, sympathizing to you than your father has been."
"I do not fear it, my husband. Oh, was ever woman so blessed with love as
I! Daughter, and wife! they are the sweetest of all names when addressed
to me by papa's lips and yours."
"I ought not to find fault with his training, seeing what credit you do
it. However, you seemed to me as near perfection as possible before he
began. Ah, my little friend, for how many years I loved you with scarcely
a hope it would ever be returned in the way I wished. Indeed I can hardly
yet believe fully in my own happiness," he concluded with a joyous laugh.
The next day Elsie had the pleasure of showing her husband over the house
first, and then the estate. Their life at Viamede, for the few weeks of
their stay, seemed much like a repetition of her visit there the year
before with her father. They took the same rides, walks and drives; glided
over the clear waters of the bayou in the same boat; sought out each spot
of beauty or interest he had shown her; were, if possible, even more
constantly together, reading, writing, or engaged with music in library or
drawing-room, seated side by side on veranda or lawn enjoying
conversation, book or periodical; or, it might be, silently musing, hand
in hand, by the soft moonlight that lent such a witchery to the lovely
landscape. A pleasanter honeymoon could hardly have been devised.
In one thing, however, they were disappointed: they had hoped to be left
entirely to each other; but it was impossible to conceal their presence at
Viamede from the hospitable neighbors, and calls and invitations had to be
received and returned. But, both being eminently fitted to shine in
society, and each proud to display the other, this state of things did
not, after all, so greatly interfere with their enjoyment.
In fact, so delightful did they find their life in that lovely country
that they lingered week after week till nearly six had slipped away, and
letters from home began to be urgent for their return. Mr. Dinsmore was
wearying for his daughter, Mrs. Travilla for her son, and scarcely less
for the daughter so long vainly hoped for.
Every day a servant was despatched to the nearest post-office with their
mail, generally returning as full handed as he went. Mr. Dinsmore's
letters were, as he had promised, daily, and never left unanswered. The
old love was not, could not be forgotten in the new. Elsie was no less a
daughter because she had become a wife; but Edward was always a sharer in
her enjoyment, and she in his.
They were sitting on the veranda one morning when Uncle Ben rode up and
handed the mail-box to his master. Mr. Travilla hastened to open it, gave
Elsie her letters and began the perusal of his own.
A softly breathed sigh called his attention to her.
"What is it, little wife?" he asked; "your face is grave almost to
sadness."
"I was thinking," she answered, with her eye still upon her father's
letter open in her hand. "Papa says," and she read aloud from the sheet,
"How long you are lingering in Viamede. When will you return? Tell
Travilla I am longing for a sight of the dear face his eyes are feasting
upon, and he must remember his promise not to part us.
"I am writing in your boudoir. I have been thinking of the time (it seems
but yesterday) when I had you here a little girl, sitting on my knee
reciting your lessons or listening with almost rapt attention to my
remarks and explanations. Never before had tutor so dear, sweet, and
interesting a scholar!"
"A fond father's partiality," she remarked, looking up with a smile and
blush. "But never, I am sure, was such another tutor; his lucid
explanations, intense interest in the subject and his pupil, apt
illustrations, and fund of information constantly opened up to me, made my
lessons a delight."
"He has made you wonderfully well informed and thorough," said her
husband.
She colored with pleasure.
"Such words are very sweet, coming from your lips. You appreciate papa."
"Yes, indeed, and his daughter too, I hope," he answered, smiling fondly
upon her. "Yes, your father and I have been like br
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