Bromly Egerton went out from Mr. Dinsmore's presence with his temper at a white heat, for he had just been treated to some plain truths that were far from palatable; besides which it seemed evident that he had missed the prize he so coveted and had made such strenuous efforts to win. He had learned nothing new in regard to his own character, yet somehow it had never looked so black as now, when seen through the spectacles of an upright, honest, vice-detesting Christian gentleman. He writhed at the very recollection of the disgust, loathing, and contempt expressed in Mr. Dinsmore's voice and countenance as well as in his words.
He scarcely gave a thought to the loss of Elsie herself: he had no feeling for her at all worthy of the name of love; his base, selfish nature was, indeed, hardly capable of such a sentiment; especially toward one so refined, so guileless in her childlike innocence and purity that to be with her gave him an uncomfortable sense of his own moral inferiority.
No, the wounds under which he smarted were all stabs given to his self-love and cupidity. He had learned how honest men looked upon him; and he had failed in the cherished expectation of laying his hands upon a great fortune, which he had fondly hoped to have the opportunity of spending.
Rushing into the street, boiling with rage and shame, he hurried onward, scarcely knowing or caring whither he went; out into the open country, and on through woods and over hills he tramped, nor thought of turning back till the sun had set, and darkness began to creep about his path.
There was light in Miss Stanhope's parlor and strains of rich melody greeted his ear as he passed. He turned away with a muttered imprecation, crossed the street, and entered Mrs. Schilling's gate. She was sitting on her doorstep, resting after her day's work, and enjoying the cool evening air.
"Why, la me Mr. Egerton! is that you?" she cried, starting up, and stepping aside for him to pass in. "I'd really begun to think you was lost. The fire's been put and everything cleaned away this two hours. I kep' the table a-waitin' for you a right smart spell, but finally come to the conclusion that you must 'a' stayed to Miss Stanhope's or someone else, to tea."
"No, I've not had supper," he answered gruffly.
"You haint, eh? and I 'spose you're hungry, too. Well, sit down, and I'll hunt up something or 'nother. But I'm afraid you'll get the dyspepsy eatin' so late; why, it's nigh on to ten o'clock; and I was just a-thinking' about shutting' up and going off to bed."
"Well, you'll not be troubled with me long. I shall leave the place in a few days."
"Leave Lansdale, do you mean?"
"Yes."
"Why, what's up?"
"The time I had appropriated to rest and recreation. Business men can't play forever."
"Well, I shouldn't wonder. And Mr. Dinsmore's come after his daughter, too."
"What's that got to do with it?" he muttered. But she had left the room and was out of hearing.
Before closing his eyes in sleep that night, Egerton resolved to make a moving appeal to Elsie herself. He would write and find some means by which to get the letter into her hands. Directly after breakfast he sat down to his task, placing himself in a position to constantly overlook Miss Stanhope's house and grounds. He was hoping to get sight of Elsie, and anxious to watch Mr. Dinsmore's movements. Mrs. Schilling had informed him that "Miss Stanhope's friends didn't expect to leave till sometime a Monday; so she had learned from Phillis, through Lenwilla Ellawea, who had been sent over for a little of Phillis's light'ning, to raise some biscuits for breakfast," yet he had some fear that the information might prove unreliable, and Mr. Dinsmore slip away with his daughter that day.
That fear was presently relieved by seeing Simon bringing out the horses for the young ladies, and shortly after a livery-stable man leading up two fine steeds, evidently intended for the use of the gentlemen. He now laid down his pen, and kept close watch for a few moments, when he was rewarded by seeing the whole party come out, mount, and ride away; Mr. Dinsmore beside his daughter, Mr. Travilla with Lottie. Elsie, however, was so closely veiled that he could not so much as catch a glimpse of her face.
With a muttered oath, he took up his pen again, feeling more desirous than ever to outwit "that haughty Southerner," and secure the prize in spite of him.
Half an hour afterward Simon, who was at work gathering corn and tomatoes for dinner in the garden behind the house, heard some one calling softly to him from the other side of the fence. Turning his head, he saw Mr. Egerton standing there, motioning to him to draw near.
"Good-mornin', sah. What you want, sah?" inquired the lad, setting down his basket, and approaching the fence that separated them.
"Do you know what this is?" asked Egerton, holding up a small glittering object.
"Yes, sah; five-dollar gold piece, sah," replied the negro, bowing and chuckling. "What de gentleman want dis niggah do for to arn 'em?"
"To put this into Miss Dinsmore's hands," answered Egerton, showing a letter; "into her own hands, now, mind. If you do that, the five dollars are yours; and if you bring me an answer, I'll make it ten. But you are to manage it so that no one else shall see what you do. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sah, and I bet I do it up about right, sah."
Very anxious to win the coveted reward, Simon was careful to be on hand when the riding party returned. He stationed himself near Elsie's horse. Her father assisted her to alight, and as he turned to make a remark to Lottie, Simon, being on the alert, managed to slip the note into Elsie's hand, unperceived by Mr. Dinsmore, or the others.
She gave a start of surprise, turning her eyes inquiringly upon him, the rich color rushing all over her fair face and neck; as he could see, even through the folds of her thick veil.
Simon grinned broadly, as, by a nod and wink toward the opposite side of the street, he indicated whence the missive had come.
She turned and walked quickly toward the house, her heart beating very fast and loud, and her fingers tightly clasping the note underneath the folds of her long riding-skirt, as she held it up. She hurried to her room, shut and locked the door, and, throwing off her hat and veil, dropped into a seat, trembling in every limb with the agitation and excitement of her feelings. She longed intently to know what he had said to her; but she had never deceived or wilfully disobeyed her father, and should she begin now? The temptation was very great, and perhaps she would have yielded; but Mr. Dinsmore's step came quickly up the stairs, and the next moment he rapped lightly on the door.
She rose and opened it, at the same time slipping the note into her pocket.
"Why, my darling, what is the matter?" he asked, looking much concerned at the sight of her pale, agitated countenance.
"Oh, papa, if you would let me! if you only would!" she cried, bursting into tears, and putting her arms coaxingly about his neck.
"Let you do what, my child?" he asked, stroking her hair.
"Read this," she said, in a choking voice, taking the note from her pocket. "Oh, if you knew how much I want to! Mayn't I, papa? do, dear papa, say yes."
"No, Elsie; it grieves me to deny you, but it must go back unopened.Give it to me."
She put it into his hand and turned away with a sob.
"How did it come into your hands?" he inquired, going to her writing-desk for an envelope, pen and ink.
"Must I tell you, papa?" she asked; in a tone that spoke reluctance to give the information he required.
"Certainly."
"Simon gave it to me a few moments since."
He touched the bell, and, Chloe appearing in answer, bade her take that note to the house on the opposite side of the street.
"There is no message," he added; "it is directed to Mr. Egerton, and you have nothing to do but hand it in at the door."
"Yes, sah." And with a sorrowful, pitying glance at the wet eyes of her young mistress, the faithful old creature left the room.
"My poor little daughter, you feel now that your father is very cruel," Mr. Dinsmore said tenderly, taking Elsie in his arms again, "but some day you will thank me for all this."
She only laid her face down on his breast and cried bitterly, while he soothed her with caresses and words of fatherly endearment.
"Oh, papa, don't be vexed with me," she murmured at length. "I'm trying not to be rebellious, but it seems so like condemning him unheard."
"No, my child, it is not. I gave him the opportunity to refute the charges against him, but he has no proof to bring."
"Papa, he said it would break his heart to lose me," she cried with a fresh burst of grief.
"My dear child, he has no heart to break. If he could get possession of your property, he would care very little indeed what became of you."
Mr. Dinsmore spoke very decidedly, but, though silenced, Elsie was not convinced.
Egerton, watching through the half-closed blinds of his bed-room, had seen, with a chuckle of delight, the success of Simon's manoeuvre, and Elsie hurrying into the house; for the purpose—he had scarcely a doubt—of secretly reading and answering his note. He saw Chloe crossing the street, and thought that her young mistress had sent him a hasty line, perhaps to appoint the time and place of a clandestine meeting; for such confidence had he in his own powers of fascination for all the fair sex, that he could not think it possible she could give him up without a struggle.
Lenwilla went to the door, and in his eagerness to receive the message he ran out and met her on the landing. What was his disappointment and chagrin at sight of the bold, masculine characters on the outside, and only his own handwriting within!
"Sent back unopened! The girl must be a fool!" he cried, fairly gnashing his teeth with rage. "She could have managed it easily enough; she had the best chance in the world, for he didn't see her take it, I know."
He considered a moment, put on his hat, and, walking over to Dr.King's, inquired for Miss Lottie.
"Jist walk intil the parlor, sir," said Bridget, "an' I'll call the young lady."
Lottie came to him presently, with her kind face full of regret and sympathy.
He told his tale, produced his note, and begged her to be his messenger, saying he supposed Mr. Dinsmore had come upon Elsie before she had time to read it, and he thought it hard for both her and himself that she should not have the chance.
"Yes," said Lottie, "but I am very sure she would not read it without her father's permission, and you may depend upon it, she showed it to him of her own accord."
He shook his head with an incredulous smile. "Do you really think she has so little sense? Or is it that you believe she too has turned against me?"
"No, she has not turned against you, she believes in you still; nor is she wanting in sense; but she is extremely conscientious about obeying her father, and told me she meant to be entirely submissive, whatever it cost her."
"I can hardly think you are right," he said, with another of his incredulous smiles, "but even supposing she was silly enough to hand my note over to her father, I should like to give her an opportunity to retrieve her error, so won't you undertake"—
"Don't ask me to carry it to her," interrupted Lottie. "It would go against my conscience to tempt Elsie to do violence to hers, I do assure you, though I have no idea I should be successful. So you really must excuse me."
He tried argument and persuasion by turns, but Lottie stood firm in her refusal, and at length he went away, evidently very angry.
Lottie spent the evening with her friend, and when a fitting opportunity offered gave her an account of this interview with Egerton, Elsie telling her in return something of what had passed between her father and herself in regard to the note.
That Egerton had desired to tempt her to disobedience and deception did not tend to increase Elsie's esteem and admiration for him, but quite the reverse.
"I think he'll not prevent me from getting sight of her to-day," muttered Egerton, stationing himself at the front window the next morning, as the hour for church drew near.
He had not been there long, when he saw Miss Stanhope and Mr.Travilla, then Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie, come out of the house and crossthe lawn. He made a hasty exit and was in the act of opening Mrs.Schilling's front gate as the latter couple reached the one opposite.
"Put down your veil, Elsie; take my arm; and don't look toward that man at all," commanded her father, and she obeyed.
Egerton kept opposite to them all the way to the church, but without accomplishing his object. He followed them in and placed himself in a pew on the other side of the aisle, and a little nearer the front than Miss Stanhope's, so that, by turning half way round, he could look into the faces of its occupants. But Elsie kept hers partly concealed by her veil, and never once turned her eyes in his direction.
She was seated next her father, who seemed to watch her almost constantly—not with the air of a jailer, but with a sort of tender, protecting care, as one keeping guard over something belonging to him, and which he esteemed very sweet and precious,—while now and then her soft eyes were lifted to his for an instant with a look of loving reverence.
"Poor Elsie was well watched to-day," remarked Nettie King to her sister as they walked home together; "her father scarcely took his eyes off her for five consecutive minutes, I should think; and Mr. Egerton stared at her from the time he came in till the benediction was pronounced."
"Yes, I thought he was decidedly rude."
"Isn't Mr. Dinsmore excessively strict and exacting?"
"Yes, I think so; yet he dotes on her, and she on him. I never saw a father and daughter so completely wrapped up in each other."
They were now within sight of their own home, and Miss Stanhope's.
"Just look!" cried Nettie, "I do believe Egerton means to force himself upon their notice and compel Elsie to speak to him."
He was crossing the street so as to meet them face to face, just at the gate, giving them no chance to avoid the rencontre.
"Good-morning, Miss Dinsmore," he said in a loud, cordial tone of greeting, as they neared each other.
Elsie started and tightened her grasp of her father's arm, but neither looked up nor spoke.
"My daughter acknowledges no acquaintance with you, sir," answered Mr.Dinsmore, haughtily, and Egerton turned and strode angrily away.
"There, Elsie, you see what he is; his behavior is anything but gentlemanly," remarked her father, opening the gate for her to pass in. "But you need not tremble so, child; there is nothing to fear."
Oh, what a feeble fort's a woman's heart,Betrayed by nature, and besieged by art.
"Dear child, what shall I do without you?" sighed Miss Stanhope, clasping Elsie in her arms, and holding her in a long, tender embrace; for the time of parting had come. "Horace, will you bring her to see me again?"
"Yes, aunt, if she wants to come. But don't ask me to leave her again."
"Well, if you can't stay with me, or trust her yourself, let Mr.Vanilla come and stand guard over us both. I'd be happy, sir, at anytime when you can make it convenient for me to see you here, withHorace and the child, or without them."
"Thank you, Miss Stanhope; and mother and I would be delighted to see you at Ion."
"Come, Elsie, we must go; the carriage is waiting and the train nearly due," said Mr. Dinsmore. "Good-bye, Aunt Wealthy. Daughter, put down your veil."
Egerton was at the depot, but could get neither a word with Elsie, nor so much as a sight of her face. Her veil was not once lifted, and her father never left her side for a moment. Mr. Travilla bought the tickets, and Simon attended to the checking of the baggage. Then the train came thundering up, and the fair girl was hurried into it, Mr. Travilla, on one side, and her father on the other, effectually preventing any near approach to her person on the part of the baffled and disappointed fortune-hunter.
He walked back to his boarding-house, cursing his ill luck and Messrs. Dinsmore and Travilla, and gave notice to his landlady that his room would become vacant the next morning.
As the train sped onward, again Elsie laid her head down upon her father's shoulder and wept silently behind her veil. Her feelings had been wrought up to a high pitch of excitement in the struggle to be perfectly submissive and obedient, and now the overstrained nerves claimed this relief. And love's young dream, the first, and sweetest, was over and gone. She could never hope to see again the man she still fondly imagined to be good and noble, and with a heart full of deep, passionate love for her.
Her father understood and sympathized with it all. He passed his arm about her waist, drew her closer to him, and taking her hand in his, held it in a warm, loving clasp.
How it soothed and comforted her. She could never be very wretched while thus tenderly loved, and cherished.
And, arrived at her journey's end, there were mamma and little brother to rejoice over her return, as at the recovery of a long-lost, precious treasure.
"You shall never go away again," said the little fellow, hugging her tight. "When a boy has only one sister, he can't spare her to other folks, can he, papa?"
"No, son," answered Mr. Dinsmore, patting his rosy cheek, and softly stroking Elsie's hair, "and it is just the same with a man who has but one daughter."
"You don't look bright and merry, as you did when you went away," said the child, bending a gaze of keen, loving scrutiny upon the sweet face, paler, sadder, and more heavy-eyed than he had ever seen it before.
"Sister is tired with her journey," said mamma tenderly; "we won't tease her to-night."
"Yes," said her father, "she must go early to bed, and have a long night's rest."
"Yes, papa, and then she'll be all right to-morrow, won't she? But, mamma, I wasn't teasing her, not a bit; was I, Elsie? And if anybody's been making her sorry, I'll kill him. 'Cause she's my sister, and I've got to take care of her."
"But suppose papa was the one who had made her sorry; what then?" asked Mr. Dinsmore.
"But you wouldn't, papa," said the boy, shaking his head with an incredulous smile. "You love her too much a great deal; you'd never make her sorry unless she'd be naughty; and she's never one bit naughty,—always minds you and mamma the minute you speak."
"That's true, my son; I do love her far too well ever to grieve her if it can be helped. She shall never know a pang a father's love and care can save her from." And again his hand rested caressingly on Elsie's head.
She caught it in both of hers and laying her cheek lovingly against it, looked up at him with tears trembling in her eyes. "I know it, papa," she murmured. "I know you love your foolish little daughter very dearly; almost as dearly as she loves you."
"Almost, darling? If there were any gauge by which to measure love, I know not whose would be found the greatest."
Mr. Dinsmore and his father-in-law had taken adjoining cottages for the summer, and though "the season" was so nearly over that the hotels and boarding-houses were but thinly populated and would soon close, the two families intended remaining another month. So this was in some sort a home-coming to Elsie.
After tea the Allisons flocked in to bid her welcome. All seemed glad of her coming, Richard, Harold, and Sophy especially so. They were full of plans for giving her pleasure, and crowding the greatest possible amount of enjoyment into the four or five weeks of their expected sojourn on the island.
"It will be moonlight next week," said Sophy; "and we'll have some delightful drives and walks along the beach. The sea does look so lovely by moonlight."
"And we'll have such fun bathing in the mornings," remarked Harold."You'll go in with us to-morrow, won't you, Elsie?"
"No," said Mr. Dinsmore, speaking for his daughter; "she must be here two or three days before she goes into the water. It will be altogether better for her health."
Elise looked at him inquiringly.
"You get in the air enough of the salt water for the first few days," he said. "Your system should become used to that before you take more."
"Yes, that is what some of the doctors here, and the oldest inhabitants, tell us," remarked Mr. Allison, "and I believe it is the better plan."
"And in the meantime we can take some rides and drives,—down toDiamond Beach, over to the light-house, and elsewhere," said EdwardAllison, his brother Richard adding, "and do a little fishing andboating."
Mr. Dinsmore was watching his daughter. She was making an effort to be interested in the conversation, but looking worn, weary, and sad.
"You are greatly fatigued, my child," he said. "We will excuse you and let you retire at once."
She was very glad to avail herself of the permission.
Rose followed her to her room, a pleasant, breezy apartment, opening on a veranda, and looking out upon the sea, whose dark waves, here and there tipped with foam, could be dimly seen rolling and tossing beneath the light of the stars and of a young moon that hung like a golden crescent just above the horizon.
Elsie walked to the window and looked out. "How I love the sea," she said, sighing, "but, mamma, to-night it makes me think of a text—'All Thy waves and Thy billows have gone over me.'"
"It is not so bad as that, I hope, dear," said Rose, folding her tenderly in her arms; "think how we all love you, especially your father. I don't know how we could any of us do without you, darling. I can't tell you how sadly we have missed you this summer."
"Mamma, I do feel it to be very, very sweet to be so loved and cared for. I could not tell you how dear you and my little brother are to me, and as for papa—sometimes I am more than half afraid I make an idol of him; and yet—oh, mamma," she murmured, hiding her face in Rose's bosom, "why is it that I can no longer be in love with the loves that so fully satisfied me?"
"'Thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.' It is part of woman's curse that she must ever crave that sort of love, often yielding to her craving, to her own terrible undoing. Be patient, darling, and try to trust both your heavenly and your earthly father. You know that no trial can come to you without your heavenly Father's will, and that He means this for your good. Look to Him and he will help you to bear it, and send relief in His own good time and way. You know He tells us it is through much tribulation we enter the kingdom of God; and that whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth. 'If ye be without chastisements, whereof all are partakers, then are ye bastards and no sons!"
"Ah, yes, mamma; better the hardest of earthly trials, than to be left out of the number of his adopted children. And this seems to be really my only one, while my cup of blessings is full to overflowing. I fear I am very wicked to feel so sad."
"Let us sit down on this couch while we talk; you are too tired to stand," said Rose, drawing her away from the window to a softly-cushioned lounge. "I do not think you can help grieving, darling, though I agree with you that it is your duty to try to be cheerful, as well as patient and submissive; and I trust you will find it easier as the days and weeks move on. You are very young, and have plenty of time to wait; indeed, if all had gone right, you know your papa would not have allowed you to marry for several years yet."
"You know all, mamma?"
"Yes, dear; papa told me; for you know you are my darling daughter too, and I have a very deep interest in all that concerns you."
A tender caress accompanied the words, and was returned with equal ardor.
"Thank you, best and kindest of mothers; I should never want anything kept from you."
"Your father tells me you have behaved beautifully, though you evidently felt it very hard to be separated so entirely and at once fr—"
"Yes, mamma," and Elsie's lip quivered, and her eyes filled, "and oh, I can't believe he is the wicked man papa thinks him. From the first he seemed to be a perfect gentleman, educated, polished, and refined; and afterward he became—at least so I thought from the conversations we had together—truly converted, and a very earnest, devoted Christian. He told me he had been, at one time, a little wild, but surely he ought not to be condemned for that, after he had repented and reformed."
"No, dear; and your father would agree with you in that. But he believes you have been deceived in the man's character; and don't you think, daughter, that he is wiser than yourself, and more capable of finding out the truth about the matter?"
"I know papa is far wiser than I, but, oh, my heart will not believe what they say of—of him!" she cried with sudden, almost passionate vehemence.
"Well, dear, that is perfectly natural, but try to be entirely submissive to your father, and wait patiently; and hopefully too," she added with a smile; "for if Mr. Egerton is really good, no doubt it will be proved in time, and then your father will at once remove his interdict. And if you are mistaken, you will one day discover it, and feel thankful, indeed, to your papa for taking just the course he has."
"There he is now!" Elsie said with a start, as Mr. Dinsmore's step was heard without, and Chloe opened the door in answer to his rap.
"What, Elsie disobeying orders, and mamma conniving at it!" he exclaimed in a tone that might mean either jest or serious reproof. "Did I not bid you go to bed at once, my daughter?"
"I thought it was only permission, papa, not command," she answered, lifting her eyes to his face, and moving to make room for him by her side. "And mamma has been saying such sweet, comforting things to me."
"Has she, darling? Bless her for it! I know you need comfort, my poor little pet," he said, taking the offered seat, and passing his arm round her waist. "But you need rest too, and ought not to stay up any longer."
"But surely papa knows I cannot go to bed without my good-night kiss when he is in the same house with me," she said, winding her arms about his neck.
"And didn't like to take it before folks? Well, that was right, but take it now. There, good-night. Now mamma and I will run away, and you must get into bed with all speed. No mistake about the command this time, and disobedience, if ventured on, will have to be punished," he said with playful tenderness, as he returned her embrace, and rose to leave the room.
"The dear child; my heart aches for her," he remarked to his wife, as they went out together, "and I find it almost impossible yet to forgive either that scoundrel Jackson or my brother Arthur."
"You have no lingering doubts as to the identity and utter unworthiness of the man?"
"Not one; and if I could only convince Elsie of his true character she would detest him as thoroughly as I do. If he had his deserts, he would be in the State's Prison; and to think of his daring to approach my child, and even aspire to her hand!"
Elsie lay all night in a profound slumber, and awoke at an early hour the next morning, feeling greatly refreshed and invigorated. The gentle murmur of old ocean came pleasantly to her ear, and sweetly in her mind arose the thought of Him whom even the winds and the sea obey; of His never failing love to her, and of the many great and precious promises of His word. She remembered how He had said, "Your Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things," and, content to bear the cross He had sent her, and leave her future in His hands, she rose to begin the new day more cheerful and hopeful than she had been since learning her father's decision in regard to Egerton.
Throwing on a dressing-gown over her night dress, she sat down before the open window with her Bible in her hand. She still loved, as of old, to spend the first hour of the day in the study of its pages, and in communion with Him whose word it is.
Chloe was just putting the finishing touches to her young lady's toilet when little Horace came running down the hall, and rapping on Elsie's door, called out, "Sister, papa says put on a short dress, and your walking shoes, and come take a stroll on the beach with us before breakfast."
"Yes, tell papa I will. I'll be down in five minutes."
She came down looking sweet and fresh as the morning; a smile on the full red lips, and a faint tinge of rose color on the cheeks that had been so pale the night before.
"Ah, you are something like yourself again," said Rose, greeting her with a motherly caress, as they met in the lower hall. "How nice it is to have you at home once more."
"Thank you, mamma, I am very glad to be here; and I had such a good restful sleep. How well you look."
"And feel too, I am thankful to be able to say. But there, your father is calling to you from the sitting-room."
Elsie hastened to obey the summons, and found him seated at his writing desk.
"Come here, daughter," he said, "and tell me if you obeyed orders last night."
"Yes, papa, I did."
"I am writing a few lines to Aunt Wealthy, to tell her of our safe arrival. Have you any message to send?" and laying down his pen he drew her to his knee.
"Only my love, papa, and—and that she must not be anxious about me, as she said that she should. That I am very safe and happy in the hands of my heavenly Father—and those of the kind earthly one He has given me," she added in a whisper, putting her arms about his neck, and looking in his face with eyes brimful of filial tenderness and love.
"That is right, my darling," he said, "and you shall never want for love while your father lives. How it rejoices my heart to see you looking so bright and well this morning."
"I feat I have not been yielding you the cheerful obedience I ought, papa," she murmured with tears in her eyes, "but I am resolved to try to do so in future; and have been asking help where I know it is to be obtained."
"I have no fault to find with you on that score, my dear child," he said tenderly, "but if you can be cheerful, it will be for your own happiness, as well as ours."
She kept her promise faithfully, and had her reward in much real enjoyment of the many pleasures provided for her.
Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore were still youthful in their feelings, and joined with great zest in the sports of the young people, going with them in all their excursions, taking an active part in all their pastimes, and contriving so many fresh entertainments, that during those few weeks life seemed like one long gala day.
Mr. Travilla was with them most of the time. He had tarried behind in Philadelphia, as Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter passed through, but followed them to Cape Island a few days later.
The whole party left the shore about the last of September, theAllisons returning to their city residence, Mr. Travilla to hisSouthern home, and the Dinsmores travelling through Pennsylvania andNew York, from one romantic and picturesque spot to another; finishingup with two or three weeks in Philadelphia, during which Rose andElsie were much occupied with their fall and winter shopping.
Mr. Dinsmore took this opportunity to pay another flying visit to his two young brothers. He found Arthur nearly recovered, and at once asked a full explanation of the affair of Tom Jackson, alias Bromly Egerton; his designs upon Elsie, and Arthur's participation in them.
"I know nothing about it," was the sullen rejoinder.
"You certainly were acquainted with Tom Jackson, and how, but through you, could he have gained any knowledge of Elsie and her whereabouts?"
"I don't deny that I've had some dealings with Jackson, but yourEgerton I know nothing of whatever."
"You may as well speak the truth, sir; it will be much better for you in the end," said Mr. Dinsmore, sternly, his eyes flashing with indignant anger.
"And you may as well remember that it isn't Elsie you are dealing with. I'm not afraid of you."
"Perhaps not, but you may well fear Him who has said, 'a lying tongue is but for a moment.' How do you reconcile such an assertion as you have just made with the fact of your having that letter in your possession?"
"I say it's a cowardly piece of business for you to give the lie to a fellow that hasn't the strength to knock you down for it."
"You would hardly attempt that if you were in perfect health, Arthur."
"I would."
"You have not answered my question about the letter.
"I wrote it myself."
"A likely story; it is in a very different hand from yours."
"I can adopt that hand on occasion, as I'll prove to your satisfaction."
He opened his desk, wrote a sentence on a scrap of paper, and handed it to Mr. Dinsmore. The chirography was precisely that of the letter. While slowly convalescing, Arthur had prepared for this expected interview with Horace, by spending many a solitary hour in laboriously teaching himself to imitate Jackson's ordinary hand, in which most of the letters he had received from him were written. The sentence he had first penned was, "I did it merely for my own amusement, and to hoax Wal."
"I don't believe a word of it," said Mr. Dinsmore, looking sternly at him. "Arthur, you had better be frank and open with me. You will gain nothing by denying the hand you have had in this disgraceful business. You can hardly suppose me credulous enough to believe an assertion so perfectly absurd as this. I have no doubt that you sent that villain to Lansdale to try his arts upon Elsie; and for that you are richly deserving of my anger, and of any punishment it might be in my power to deal out to you.
"It has been no easy matter for me to forgive the suffering you have caused my child, Arthur; but I came here to-day with kind feelings and intentions. I hoped to find you penitent and ready to forsake your evil courses; and in that case, intended to help you to pay off your debts and begin anew, without paining father with the knowledge that his confidence in you has been again so shamefully abused. But I must say that your persistent denial of your complicity with that scoundrel Jackson does not look much like contrition, or intended amendment."
Arthur listened in sullen silence, though his rapidly changing color showed that he felt the cutting rebuke keenly. At one time he had resolved to confess everything, throw himself upon the mercy of his father and brother, and begin to lead an honest, upright life; but a threatening letter received that morning from Jackson had led him to change his purpose, and determine to close his lips for a time.
Mr. Dinsmore paused for a reply, but none came.
Walter looked at Arthur in surprise. "Come, Art, speak, why don't you?" he said. "Horace, don't look so stern and angry, I know he means to turn over a new leaf; for he told me so. And you will help him, won't you?"
"I ask no favors from a man who throws the lie in my teeth," mutteredArthur angrily.
"And I can give none to one who persists in denying his guilt," replied Mr. Dinsmore. "But, Arthur, I give you one more chance, and for our father's sake I hope you will avail yourself of it. If you go on as you have for the last three or four years, you will bring down his gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. I presume you have put yourself in Jackson's power; but if you will now make a full and free confession to me, and promise amendment, I will help you to get rid of the rascal's claims upon you, and start afresh. Will you do it?"
"No, you've called me a liar, and what's the use of my telling you anything? you wouldn't believe it if I did."
She is not sad, yet in her gaze appearsSomething that makes the gazer think of tears.
The family at Roselands were gathered about the breakfast-table. A much smaller party than of yore, since Horace had taken Elsie and set up an establishment of his own, and the other sons were away at college and two daughters married; leaving only Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, Adelaide and Enna to occupy the old home.
"I presume you have the lion's share as usual, papa," observed the last named, as her father opened the letter-bag which Pomp had just brought in.
"And who has a better right, Miss Malapert?" retorted the old gentleman. "Yes, here are several letters for me; but as there is one apiece for the rest of you, nobody need complain. Here, Pomp, hand this to your mistress. From Walter, I see."
"Yes," she answered, opening it, "and a few lines from Arthur too. I'm glad he's able to write again, poor fellow!"
"Yes," said Adelaide. "Rose says Horace has been up there and found him nearly recovered. She writes that they are coming home."
"When?" asked Enna.
"Why, to-day! the letter has been delayed," said her sister, looking at the date. "I shall ride over directly, to see that all is in order for them at the Oaks."
"There is no need," remarked her mother. "Rose will have written toMrs. Murray."
"I presume so, still I shall go; it will be pleasant to be there to welcome them when they arrive."
"How fond you are of Rose," said Mrs. Dinsmore in a piqued tone; "you wouldn't do more for one of your own sisters, I believe, than for her."
"I wouldn't do less, mamma, and I am very fond of her; we are so perfectly congenial."
"And Elsie's a great pet of yours, too," said Enna sneeringly. "Well, I shall put off my call till to-morrow, when the trunks will have been unpacked, and I shall have a chance to see the fashions. Elsie will have loads of new things; it's perfectly absurd the way Horace heaps presents upon her, and pocket-money too. Such loads of jewelry as she has,—two or three gold watches, and everything else in proportion."
"He may as well; she can never spend the half of her income," remarked Mr. Dinsmore. "Unless she takes to gambling," he added, in a tone that seemed to say that his purse had suffered severely from some one's indulgence in that vice.
Mrs. Dinsmore winced, Enna looked vexed and annoyed, and Adelaide sad and troubled; but when she spoke it was in answer to Enna.
"Yes, Elsie will have a great many beautiful things to show us, of course; but, though she wears nothing outré, she has never been, and I think never will be a mirror of fashion. It would suit neither her own taste nor Horace's; and you know, fond of her as he is, he will never allow her to have a will of her own in dress or anything else. So it is well their tastes harmonize."
"I wouldn't be his child for all her money," said Enna.
"There would be some fighting if you were," said her father, laughing.
"I never could tell whether he tyrannized over Rose in the same style or not," observed Mrs. Dinsmore interrogatively.
"All I know about it is that they seem perfectly happy in each other," answered Adelaide; "but I don't suppose Horace considers a husband's authority by any means equal to a father's."
Something delayed Adelaide, and it was nearly two hours after they rose from the table ere she was fairly on her way to the Oaks.
"Why, they are here before me!" she exclaimed half aloud as she came in sight of the house.
There were piles of luggage upon the veranda, and the whole family, including all the house servants, were gathered round a large open trunk from which Mrs. Dinsmore and Elsie were dealing out gifts—dresses, aprons, bonnets, hats, gay handkerchiefs, etc., etc.; the darkies receiving them with a delight that was pleasant to see.
Mr. Dinsmore too was taking his part in the distribution, and as Adelaide rode up little Horace was in the act of throwing a gay shawl about the shoulders of his nurse, who caught him in her arms and hugged and kissed him over and over, calling him "honey," and "pet," and "you ole mammy's darlin' ole chil'!"
So much engaged were they all that no one perceived Adelaide's approach till she had reined in her horse close to the veranda, and throwing her bridle to her attendant, sprung lightly to the ground.
But then there was a shout of welcome from little Horace, followed instantly by joyous exclamations and embraces from the others.
"Dear me, what a long stay you made of it!" said Adelaide. "You can have no idea how I missed you all; even down to this little man," patting Horace's rosy cheek. "You look remarkably well, Rose; and the two Horaces also; but Elsie, I think, has grown a little pale, thin, and heavy-eyed. What ails you, child? Pining for your native air—no, home air—I presume. Is that it?"
"Hardly pining for it, auntie, but very glad to get back, nevertheless," Elsie answered, with a blush and a smile.
"And you are not pale now. But don't let me interrupt your pleasant employment. I wish I had been in time to see the whole of it."
"You are in season for your own gifts. Will you accept a trifle from me?" said her brother, putting a jewel-case into her hand.
"Coral! and what a beautiful shade!" she cried. "Thank you; they are just what I wanted."
"I thought they would contrast prettily with this, auntie," saidElsie, laying a dress-pattern of black silk upon her lap.
"And these are to be worn at the same time, if it so pleases you," added Rose, presenting her with collar and undersleeves of point lace.
"Oh, Rose, how lovely! and even little Horace bringing auntie a gift!" as the child slipped something into her hand.
"It's only a card-case; but mamma said you'd like it, Aunt Adie."
"And I do; it's very pretty. And here's a hug and a kiss for the pet boy that remembered his old-maid auntie."
"Old maid, indeed! Adelaide, I'll not have you talking so," said Rose. "There's nothing old-maidish about you; not even age yet; a girl of twenty-six to be calling herself that! it's perfectly absurd. Isn't it, my dear?"
"I think so, indeed," replied Mr. Dinsmore. "Here, Jim, Cato, and the rest of you carry in these trunks and boxes, and let us have them unpacked and put out of sight."
"Oh, yes!" said Adelaide, "I want to see all the fine things you have brought, Rose. Mamma, Enna, and I are depending upon you and Elsie for the fashions."
"Yes, we had all our fall and winter dresses made up in Philadelphia; we prefer their styles to the New York; they don't go to such extremes, you know; and besides—hailing from the Quaker city as I do, it's natural I should be partial to her plainer ways—but we brought quantities of patterns from both places; knowing that nothing was likely to be too gay for Enna. We will let Elsie display hers first. I feel in a special hurry, dear, to show your aunt those elegant silks your papa and I helped you to select. I hope you will see them all on her, one of these days, Adelaide.
"That child's complexion is so perfect, that she can wear anything," she added in an aside, as they followed Elsie to her apartments; "there's a pale blue that she looks perfectly lovely in; a pearl-color too, and a delicate pink, and I don't know how many more. One might think we expected her to do nothing but attend parties the coming season."
Elsie seemed to take a lively interest in displaying her pretty things to her aunt, and in looking on for a little, while Rose did the same with hers; but at length, though the two older ladies were still turning over and discussing silks, satins, velvets, laces, ribbons, feathers, and flowers, her father noticed her sitting in the corner of a sofa, in an attitude of weariness and dejection, with a pale cheek, and a dreary, far-off look in her eyes that it pained him to see.
"You are very tired, daughter," he said, going to her side, and smoothing her glossy brown hair with tender caressing motion, as he spoke; "go and lie down for an hour or two. A nap would do you a great deal of good."
"I don't like to do so while Aunt Adie is here, papa," she said, looking up at him with a smile, and trying to seem fresh and bright.
"Never mind that; you can see her any day now. Come, you must take a rest." And drawing her hand within his arm, he led her to her boudoir and left her there, comfortably established upon a sofa.
"A hat trimmed in that style would be becoming to Elsie," remarked Adelaide, continuing the conversation with Rose, and turning to look at her niece as she spoke. "Why, she's not here."
"Papa took her away to make her lie down," said little Horace.
"Rose, does anything ail the child?" asked Adelaide, in an undertone.
"She does not seem to be out of health; but you know we are very careful of her; she is so dear and sweet, and has never looked very strong."
"But there is something wrong with her, is there not? she does not seem to me quite the gay, careless child she was when you went away. Horace," and she turned to him, as he re-entered the room, "may I not know about Elsie? You can hardly love her very much better than I do, I think."
"If that is so, you must love her very much indeed," he answered with a faint smile. "Yes, I will tell you." And he explained the matter; briefly at first, then more in detail, as she drew him on by questions and remarks.
Her sympathy for Elsie was deep and sincere; yet she thought her brother's course the only wise and kind one, and her indignation waxed hot against Arthur and Egerton.
"And Elsie still believes in the scoundrel?" she said inquiringly.
"Yes, her loving, trustful nature refuses to credit the proofs of his guilt, and only her sweet, conscientious submission to parental authority has saved her from becoming his victim."
"She is a very good, submissive, obedient child to you, Horace."
"I could not ask a better, Adelaide. I only wish it were in my power to make obedience always easy and pleasant to her, poor darling."
"I hope you have something for me there, my dear," Rose remarked to her husband at the breakfast-table the next morning, as he looked over the mail just brought in by his man John.
"Yes, there is one for you; from your mother, I think; and, Elsie, do you know the handwriting of this?"
"No, papa, it is quite strange to me," she answered, taking the letter he held out to her, and which bore her name and address on the back, and examining it critically.
"And the post-mark tells you nothing either?"
"No, sir; I cannot quite make it out, but it doesn't seem to be any place where I have a correspondent."
"Well, open it and see from whom it comes. But finish your breakfast first."
Elsie laid the letter down by her plate, and putting aside, for the present, her curiosity in regard to it, went on with her meal. "From whom can it have come?" she asked herself, while listening half absently to extracts from Mr. Allison's epistle; "not from him surely, the hand is so very unlike that of the one he sent me in Lansdale."
"You have not looked at that yet," her father said, seeing her take it up as they rose from the table. "You may do so now. I wish to know who the writer is. Don't read it till you have found that out," he added, leading her to a sofa in the next room, and making her sit down there, while he stood by her side.
She felt that his eye was upon her as she broke open the envelope and, taking the letter from it, glanced down the page, then in a little flutter of surprise and perplexity turned to the signature. Instantly her face flushed crimson, she trembled visibly, and her eyes were lifted pleadingly to his.
He frowned and held out his hand.
"Oh, papa, let me read it!" she murmured low and tremulously, her eyes still pleading more eloquently than her tongue.
"No," he said, and his look and gesture were imperative.
She silently put the letter into his hand, and turned away with a low sob.
"It is not worth one tear, or even an emotion of regret, my child," he said, sitting down beside her. "I shall send it back at once; unread, unless you prefer to have me read it first."
"No, papa."
"Very well, then I shall not. But, Elsie, do you not see now that he is quite capable of imitating the handwriting of another?"
"Yes, papa; but that does not prove that he did in the case you refer to."
"And he has acted quite fairly and honestly in using that talent to elude my vigilance and tempt you to deception and disobedience, eh?"
"He is not perfect, papa, but I can't believe him as bad as you think."
"There are none so blind as those that won't see, Elsie; but, remember"—and his tone changed from one of great vexation to another sternly authoritative—"I will be obeyed in this thing."
"Yes, papa," she said, and rising, hastily left the room.
"Try to be very patient with her, dear," said Rose, who had been a silent, but deeply interested spectator of the little scene; "she suffers enough, poor child!"
"Yes, I know it, and my heart bleeds for her; yet she seems so wilfully blind to the strongest proofs of the fellow's abominable rascality that at times I feel as if I could hardly put up with it at all. The very pain of seeing her suffer so makes me out of all patience with her folly."
"Yes, I understand it, but do not be stern with her; she surely does not deserve it while she is so perfectly submissive to your will."
"No, she does not, poor darling," he said with a sigh. "But I must make haste to write some letters that ought to go by the next mail."
He left the room, and Mrs. Dinsmore, longing to comfort Elsie in her trouble, was about to go in search of her, when Mrs. Murray, who was still housekeeper at the Oaks, came to ask advice or direction about some household matters.
Their consultation lasted for half an hour or more, and in the meanwhile Mr. Dinsmore finished his correspondence and went himself to look for his daughter. She was in the act of opening her writing-desk as he entered the room.
"What are you doing, daughter?" he asked.
"I was about to write a letter to Sophy, papa."
"It would be too late for to-day's mail; so let it wait, and come with me for a little stroll into the grounds. Aunt Chloe, bring a garden hat and sunshade. You would like to go, daughter?"
"Yes, sir. Papa, you are not vexed with me? You don't think I want to be disobedient or wilful?" There were tears in her voice and traces of them on her cheeks.
"No, darling!" he said, drawing her to him, "and you did not in the least deserve to be spoken to in the stern tone that I used. But—can you understand it?—my very love for you makes me angry and impatient at your persistent love for that scoundrel."
"Papa, please don't!" she said in a low, pained tone, and turning away her face.
"Ah, you do not like to hear a word against him!" he sighed; "I can't bear to think it, and yet I fear you care more for him than for me, your own father, who almost idolizes you. Is it so?"
"Papa," she murmured, winding her arms about his neck, and laying her head on his breast, "if I may have but one of you, I could never hesitate for a moment to choose to cling here where I have been so long and tenderly cherished. I know what your love is,—I might be mistaken and deceived in another. And besides, God commands me to honor and obey you."
He held her close to his heart for a moment, as something too dear and precious ever to be given up to another, then drawing her hand within his arm, while Chloe placed the hat on her head, and gave her the parasol, he led her out into the grounds.
It pained him to notice the sadness of her countenance, sadder than he had seen it for many days, and he exerted himself to entertain her and divert her thoughts, calling her attention to some new plants and flowers, consulting her taste in regard to improvements he designed making, and conversing with her about a book they had been reading.
She understood his thoughtful kindness, was grateful for it, and did her best to be interested and cheerful.
"It is so nice to have you treat me as your companion and friend as well as your daughter, papa," she said, looking up at him with a smile.
"Your companionship is very dear and sweet to me, daughter," he answered. "But I think we had better go in now; the sun is growing hot."
"Oh, here you are!" cried a girlish voice as they turned into a shaded walk leading to the house. "I've been looking everywhere and am glad to have found you at last. Really, if a body didn't know your relationship, he or she might almost imagine you a pair of lovers."
"Don't be silly, Enna. How do you do?" said Mr. Dinsmore, shaking hands with her and giving her a brotherly kiss.
"As usual, thank you," she answered, turning from him to Elsie, whom she embraced with tolerable warmth, saying, "I'm really glad to have you here again. I missed you more than I would have believed. Now come in and show me all your pretty things. I'm dying to see them. Adelaide says you've brought home such quantities of lovely laces, silks, velvets, ribbons, flowers, feathers and what not, that one might imagine you'd nearly bought out the Philadelphia merchants."
"No, they had quite a stock still left," replied Elsie, smiling; "but, as mamma says, papa was very indulgent and liberal to us both; and I shall take pleasure in showing you his gifts."
"How do you like my present to Adelaide? asked Mr. Dinsmore.
"Oh, very much; but when my turn comes please remember I want amethysts."
"Ah, then I have been fortunate in my selection," he said, quite unsuspicious of the fact that Enna had instructed Elsie beforehand in regard to her wishes, should Horace intend making her a present. Elsie had quietly given the desired hint, but merely as though the idea had originated with herself.
The jewelry was highly approved, as also a rich violet silk from Rose, and a lace set from Elsie.
Adelaide had been intrusted with quite as rich gifts for her father and mother; nor had Lora been forgotten; Elsie had a handsome shawl for her, Mr. Dinsmore a beautiful pair of bracelets, and Rose a costly volume of engravings.
"Do you think Aunt Lora will be pleased?" asked Elsie.
"They're splendid! It must be mighty nice to have so much money to spend. But come now, show me what you got for yourselves."
She spent a long while, first in Rose's apartment, then in Elsie's, turning over and admiring the pretty things, discussing patterns, and styles of trimming, and what colors and modes would be becoming to her, trying on some of the dresses, laces, sacques, shawls, bonnets, and hats—without so much as saying by your leave, when the article in question belonged to her niece—that she might judge of the effect; several times repeating her remark that it must be delightful to have so much money, and that Elsie was exceedingly fortunate in being so enormously wealthy.
"Yes; it is something to be thankful for," Elsie said at length, "but, Enna, it is also a great responsibility. We are only stewards, you know, and sometimes I fear it is hardly right for me to spend so much in personal adornment."
"That wouldn't trouble me in the least; but why do you do it, if you are afraid it's wrong?"
"Papa does not think so; he says the manufacturers of these rich goods must live as well as others, and that for one with my income, it is no more extravagant to wear them than for one with half the means to wear goods only half as expensive."
"And I'm sure he's perfectly right; and of course you have no choice but to obey. Well, I presume I've seen everything now, and I'm actually weary with my labors," she added, throwing herself into an easy-chair. "You've grown a little pale, I think, and your eyes look as if you'd been crying. What ails you?"
"I am not at all ill," returned Elsie, flushing.
"I didn't say you were, but something's wrong with you, and you can't deny it; you don't seem as gay as you used to before you went away."
She paused, but receiving no reply, went on. "Come now, it isn't worth while to be so close-mouthed with me, Miss Dinsmore; for I happen to know pretty much all about it already. You've fallen in love with a man that your father thinks is a scamp and though you don't believe it, you've given him up, in obedience to orders, like the cowardly piece that you are. Dear me, before I'd be so afraid of my father!"
"No, you neither fear nor love your father as I do mine; but fear of papa has very little to do with it. I love him far too well to refuse to submit to him in this, and I fear God, who bids me obey and honor him. But, Enna, how did you learn all this?"
"Ah, that is my secret."
Elsie looked disturbed. "Won't you tell me?"
"Not I."
"Is it generally known in the family?"
"So far as I am aware, no one knows it but myself."
"Ah!" thought Elsie, "I did not believe Aunt Adelaide or Walter would tell her; but I wonder how she did find it out."
"I wouldn't give up the man I loved for anybody," Enna went on in a sneering tone. "I say parents have no business to interfere in such matters; and so I told papa quite plainly when he took it upon him to lecture me about receiving attentions from Dick Percival, and threatened to forbid him the house."
"Oh, Enna!"
"You consider it wickedly disrespectful and rebellious no doubt, but I say I'm no longer a child, and so the text, 'Children obey your parents'—which I know is just on the end of your tongue—doesn't apply to me."
"The Bible doesn't say obey till you are of age, then do as you please. You are not seventeen yet, and Isaac was twenty when he submitted to be bound and laid upon the altar."
"Well, when I go to the altar, it shall be leaning on Dick's arm," said Enna, laughing. "I don't care if he is wild; I like him, and intend to marry him too."
"But are you not afraid?"
"Afraid of what?"
"That he will run through his property in a few years, and perhaps become an habitual drunkard and abusive to his wife."
"I mean to risk it anyhow," returned Enna sharply, "so it is not worth while for my friends to waste their breath in lecturing me on the subject."
"Oh, Enna! you can't expect a blessing, if you persist in being so undutiful; I think it would be well for you if your father were more like mine."
"Indeed! I wouldn't be your father's daughter for anything."
"And I am glad and thankful that I am."