Thou shall not see me blush,Nor change my countenance for this arrest.
It was a sultry summer night. In the grounds of one of the largest and most beautiful of the many elegant country seats to be found in the suburbs of Cincinnati two gentlemen were pacing leisurely to and fro.
They were friends who had met that day for the first time in several years; strongly attached friends, spite of a very considerable difference in their ages. They had had much to say to each other for the first few hours, but it was now several minutes since either had spoken.
The silence was broken by the younger of the two exclaiming in a tone of hearty congratulation, "This is a magnificent place, Beresford! It does my heart good to see you so prosperous!"
"It is a fine place, Travilla, but," and he heaved a deep sigh, "I sometimes fear my wealth is to prove anything but a blessing to my children; that in fact my success in acquiring it is to be the ruin of my first-born."
"Ah, I hope not! Is Rudolph not doing well?"
"Well?" groaned the father, dropping his head upon his breast, "he seems to be rushing headlong to destruction. Have you not noticed his poor mother's sad and careworn look? or mine? That boy is breaking our hearts. I could not speak of it to every one, but to you, my long-tried friend, I feel that I may unburden myself, sure of genuine sympathy—" And he went on to tell how his son, becoming early imbued with the idea that his father's wealth precluded all necessity of exertion on his part, had grown up in habits of idleness that led to dissipation, and going on from bad to worse, was now a drunkard, a gambler, and frequenter of low haunts of vice.
"Day and night he is a heavy burden upon our hearts," continued the unhappy father; "when he is with us we find it most distressing to behold the utter wreck his excesses are making of him, and when he is out of our sight it is still worse; for we don't know what sin or danger he may be running into. Indeed at times we are almost distracted. Ah, Travilla, much as I love my wife and children, I am half tempted to envy your bachelor exemption from such care and sorrow!"
Mr. Travilla's kind heart was deeply moved. He felt painfully conscious of his own inability to comfort in such sorrow; but spoke of God's power to change the heart of the most hardened sinner, his willingness to save, and his promises to those who seek his aid in the time of trouble.
"Thank you. I knew you would feel for us; your sympathy does me good," returned Mr. Beresford, grasping his friend's hand and pressing it between his own; "your words too; for however well we know these truths we are apt to forget them, even when they are most needed.
"But it is growing late, and you must be weary after your journey. Let me show you to your room."
Three days passed in which Rudolph was not once seen in his home, and his parents were left in ignorance of his whereabouts. They exerted themselves for the pleasure and entertainment of their guest, but he could see plainly that they were enduring torture of anxiety and suspense.
Late in the evening of the third day, Mr. Beresford said to him, "My carriage is at the door. I must go into town and search for my boy. I have done so vainly several times since he last left his home, but I must try again to-night. Will you go with me?"
Travilla consented with alacrity, and they set out at once.
While on their way to the city Mr. Beresford explained that, for some time past, he had had reason to fear that his son was frequenting one of its gambling-hells; that thus far he had failed in his efforts to gain admittance, in order to search for him; but to-day, a professed gambler, well known in the house; had come to him and offered his assistance.
"As his convoy, I think we shall get in," added Mr. Beresford. "I cannot fathom the man's motives, but suspect he owes a grudge to a newcomer, who, he says, is winning large sums from Rudolph. I shall drive to Smith's livery stable, leave my horse and carriage there, then walk on to the place, which is only a few squares distant. Our guide is to meet us at the first corner from Smith's."
This programme was carried out, their guide was in waiting at the appointed place, and at once conducted them to the gambling-house Mr. Beresford had spoken of. They were admitted without question or demur, and in another moment found themselves standing beside a table where a number of men were at play, nearly all so absorbed in their game as to seem entirely unconscious of the presence of spectators.
Two of them, pitted against each other, and both young, though there must have been several years' difference in their ages, particularly attracted Travilla's attention; and glancing at his friend, he saw that it was the same with him,—that his eyes were fixed upon the face of the younger of the two, with an expression of keen distress, while he trembled with emotion, and almost gasped for breath, as he leaned toward him, and whispered, "It is he—my son."
At the same instant the young man's face grew deadly pale, he started up with a wild, ringing cry, "I am ruined!" drew a pistol from his breast, and placed the muzzle to his mouth.
But Mr. Travilla, springing forward, struck it from his hand ere he could pull the trigger.
A scene of much excitement and confusion followed, in the midst of which young Beresford was led away by his father and Travilla.
A week later the latter gentleman reached Lansdale, arriving there in the early morning train. He put up at its principal hotel, and having refreshed himself by a few hours' sleep, a bath, and breakfast, inquired the way to Miss Stanhope's.
Elsie was just coming down the front stairway, as he appeared before the open door, and was about to ring for admittance.
"Oh, Mr. Travilla, my dear old friend! who would have expected to see you here?" she cried, in delighted surprise, as she bounded forward to meet him, with both hands extended in joyous greeting.
He took them in his, and kissed her first on one cheek, then on the other. "Still fresh and blooming as a rose, and with the same happy light in the sweet brown eyes," he said, gazing fondly into their tender depths.
"And you are the same old flatterer," she answered gayly, a rich color mantling her cheek. "Come in and sit down. But oh, tell me when did you see papa last? and mamma, and little Horace? Ah! the sight of you makes me homesick for them."
"I left them at Cape May, about a fortnight since, all well and happy, but missing you very much. I think papa will hardly be able to do without his darling much longer."
"Nor his darling without him. Oh, dear! sometimes I get to wanting him so badly that I feel as if I should have to write to him to come for me at once. But excuse me while I go and call Aunt Wealthy."
"Not yet; let us have a little chat together first."
Of course, after so long a separation, such old and tried friends would find a great deal to say to each other. The time slipped away very fast, and half an hour afterward Mr. Egerton, coming in without ringing—a liberty he sometimes took of late—found them seated close together on the sofa, talking earnestly, Elsie with her hand in that of her friend, and a face even brighter and happier than its wont.
Mr. Travilla had one of those faces that often seem to come to a stand-still as regards age, and to scarcely know any change for many years. He was at this time thirty-four, but would have passed readily for twenty-five. Egerton thought him no more than that, and at once took him for a successful rival.
"Excuse me, Miss Dinsmore," he said, bowing stiffly, "I should have waited to ring, but—"
"Oh, never mind, Mr. Egerton," she said; "let me introduce you to my old friend, Mr. Travilla—"
But she stopped in astonishment and dismay. Mr. Travilla had risen, and the two stood confronting each other like mortal foes.
Mr. Travilla was the first to speak. "I have met you before, sir!" he said with stern indignation.
"Indeed! that must be a mistake, sir, for upon my word and honor I never set eyes on you before."
"Your honor! the honor of a sharper, a black-leg, a ——"
"Sir, do you mean to insult me? by what right do you apply such epithets to me? Pray where did you ever meet me?"
"In a gambling-hell in Cincinnati; the time, one week ago to-night; the occasion, the playing of a game of cards between young Beresford and yourself in which you were the winner—by what knavery you best know—the stakes so heavy that, on perceiving that he had lost, the young man cried out that he was ruined, and in his mad despair attempted self-destruction. It is quite possible that you may not have observed me in the crowd that gathered about your wretched victim; but I can never forget the face of the man who had wrought his ruin."
Egerton's countenance expressed the utmost astonishment and incredulity. "I have not been in Cincinnati for two months," he averred, "and all I know of that affair I have learned from the daily papers. But I shall not stay here to be insulted by you, sir. Good-afternoon, Miss Dinsmore. I hope to be allowed an early opportunity to explain this, and to be able to do so to your entire satisfaction."
He bowed and withdrew, hastening from the house with the rapid step of one who is filled with a just indignation.
Mr. Travilla turned to Elsie. She was sitting there on the sofa, with her hands clasped in her lap, and a look of terror and anguish on her face, from which every trace of color had fled.
His own grew almost as pale, and his voice shook, as again sitting down beside her, and laying his hand on hers, he said, "My poor child! can it be possible that you care for that wretch?"
"Oh, don't!" she whispered hoarsely and turning away her face; "I cannot believe it; there must be some dreadful mistake."
Then, recovering her composure by a mighty effort, she rose and introduced her aunt, who entered the room at that moment.
Mr. Travilla sat for some time conversing with her, Elsie joining in occasionally, but with a tone and manner from which all the brightness and vivacity had fled; then he went away, declining a pressing invitation to stay to dinner, but promising to be there to tea.
The moment he was gone Miss Stanhope was busied in beating up her cushions, and Elsie flew to her room, where she walked back and forth in a state of great agitation. But the dinner-bell rang, and composing herself as well as she could, she went down. Her cheeks were burning, and she seemed unnaturally gay, but ate very little as her aunt noticed with concern.
The meal was scarcely over, when a ring at the door-bell was followed by the sound of Mr. Egerton's voice asking for Miss Dinsmore.
"Ah!" said Miss Stanhope with an arch smile, "he does not ask this hour for me; knowing it's the time of my siesta."
Elsie found Egerton pacing the parlor floor to and fro. He took her hand, led her to the sofa, and sitting down by her side, began at once to defend himself against Mr. Travilla's charge. He told her he had never been guilty of gambling; he had "sowed some wild oats," years ago—getting slightly intoxicated on two or three occasions, and things of that sort—but it was all over and repented of; and surely she could not think it just and right that it should be brought up against him now.
As to Mr. Travilla's story—the only way he could account for the singular mistake was in the fact that he had a cousin who bore the same name as himself, and resembled him so closely that they had been frequently mistaken for each other. And that cousin, most unfortunately, especially on account of the likeness, did both drink and gamble. He was delighted by the look of relief that came over Elsie's face, as he told her this. She cared for him, then; yet her confidence had been shaken.
"Ah, you doubted me, then?" he said in a tone of sorrowful reproach.
"Oh! I could not bear to think it possible. I was sure there must be a mistake somewhere," she said with a beautiful smile.
"But you are quite satisfied now?"
"Quite."
Then he told her he loved her very dearly, better than his own soul; that he found he could not live without her; life would not be worth having, unless she would consent to share it with him. "Would she, oh! would she promise some day to be his own precious little wife?"
Elsie listened with downcast, blushing face, and soft eyes beaming with joy; for the events of that day had revealed to her the fact that this man had made himself master of her heart.
"Will you not give to me a word of hope?" pleaded Egerton.
"I—I cannot, must not, without my father's permission," she faltered, "and oh! he forbade me to listen to anything of the kind. I am too young he says."
"When was that?"
"Three years ago."
"Ah! but you are older now; and you will let me write and ask his consent? I may say that you are not quite indifferent to me?"
"Yes," she murmured, turning her sweet, blushing face away from his ardent gaze.
"Thank you, dearest, a thousand thanks!" he cried, pressing her hand in his. "And now may I ask who and what that Mr. Travilla is?"
She explained, winding up by saying that he was much like a second father to her.
"Father!" he exclaimed, "he doesn't look a day over twenty-five."
"He is about two years younger than papa and doesn't look any younger, I think," she answered with a smile. "But strangers are very apt to take papa for my brother."
Egerton left an hour before Mr. Travilla came, and that hour Elsie spent in her own room in a state of great excitement,—now full of the sweet joy of loving and being loved, now trembling with apprehension at the thought of the probable effect of Mr. Travilla's story upon her father. She was fully convinced of Egerton's truth and innocence; yet quite aware that his explanation might not prove so satisfactory to Mr. Dinsmore.
"Oh, papa, papa!" she murmured, as she paced restlessly to and fro, "how can I obey if you bid me give him up? And yet I must. I know it will be my duty, and that I must."
"What a color you hab in your cheeks, darlin'! an' how your eyes do shine. I'se 'fraid you's gettin' a fever," said Chloe, with an anxious, troubled gaze into her young lady's face, as she came in to dress her for the evening.
"Oh, no, mammy, I am perfectly well," Elsie answered with a slight laugh. Then seating herself before the glass, "Now do your best," she said gayly, "for we are to have company to tea. I doubt if you can guess whom?"
"Den 'spose my pet saves her ole mammy de trouble. 'Taint massa, for sure?"
"No, not quite so welcome a guest; but one you'll be delighted to see.Mr. Travilla."
"Ki, darlin'! he not here?"
"Yes, he came this morning. Ah! I knew you'd be delighted."
Elsie knew that it would require the very strongest proof to convince her father of the truth of Mr. Egerton's story, but hoped to find Mr. Travilla much more ready to give it credence. She was proportionably disappointed when, on hearing it from her, he scouted it as utterly unworthy of belief, or even examination.
"No, my child," he said, "the man's face is indelibly impressed upon my memory, and I can not be mistaken in his identity."
Elsie's face flushed crimson, and indignant tears sprang to her eyes and trembled in her voice as she answered, "I never knew you so uncharitable before, sir. I could not have believed it of my kind-hearted, generous old friend."
He gave her a very troubled, anxious look, as he replied, "Why should you take it so to heart, Elsie? Surely this man is nothing to you."
"He is to be some day, if papa will permit," she murmured, turning away her blushing face from his gaze.
Mr. Travilla uttered a groan, made two or three rapid turns across the room, and coming back to her side, laid his hand in an affectionate, fatherly manner upon her shoulder.
"My dear," he said with emotion, "I don't know when I have heard anything that distressed me so much; or that could give such pain and distress to your doting father."
"Mr. Travilla, you will not, you cannot be so unkind, so cruel, as to try to persuade papa to think as you do of—of Mr. Egerton?"
Her tone was half indignant, half imploring, and her eyes were lifted pleadingly to his face.
"My poor child," he said, "I could not be so cruel to you as to leave him in ignorance of any of the facts; but I shall not attempt to bias his judgment; nor would it avail if I did. Your father is an independent thinker, and will make up his mind for himself."
"And against poor Bromly," thought Elsie, with an emotion of anguish, and something akin to rebellion rising in her heart.
Mr. Travilla read it all in her speaking countenance. "Do not fear your father's decision, my little friend." he said, sitting down beside her again, "he is very just, and you are as the apple of his eye. He will sift the matter thoroughly, and decide as he shall deem best for your happiness. Can you not trust his wisdom and his love?"
"I know he loves me very dearly, Mr. Travilla, but—he is only human, and may make a mistake."
"Then try to leave it all in the hands of your heavenly Father, who cannot err, who is infinite in wisdom, power, and in His love for you."
"I will try," she said with a quivering lip. "Now please talk to me of something else. Tell me of that young man. Did you say he shot himself?"
"Young Beresford, my friend's son? No, he was prevented." And he went on to tell of Rudolph's horror and remorse on account of that rash act, and of the excesses that led to it; also of the trembling hope his parents and friends were beginning to indulge that he was now truly penitent, and, clothed in his right mind, was sitting at the Saviour's feet.
Elsie listened with interest. They had had the parlor to themselves for an hour or more, Miss Stanhope having received an unexpected summons to the bedside of a sick neighbor.
She was with them at tea, and during most of the evening, but left them alone together for a moment just before Mr. Travilla took his leave, and he seized the opportunity to say to Elsie that he thought she ought to refrain from further intercourse with Egerton till she should learn her father's will in regard to the matter.
"I cannot promise—I will think of it," she said with a look of distress.
"You write frequently to your papa?"
"Every day."
"I know you would not wish to deceive him in the least. Will you tell him what I conceive to be the facts in regard to Mr. Egerton? or shall I?"
"I cannot, oh, I cannot!" she murmured, turning away her face.
"Then I shall spare you the painful task, by, doing it myself, my poor child. I shall write to-night."
She was silent, but he could see the tumultuous heaving of her breast, and the tears glistening on the heavy drooping lashes that swept her pale cheek. His heart bled for her, while his indignation waxed hot against the hypocritical scoundrel who, he feared, had succeeded only too well in wrecking her happiness.
She had described to him Egerton's character as he had made it appear to her, telling of their conversations on religious subjects, his supposed conversion, etc., etc.; thus unintentionally enabling Travilla to see clearly through the man's base designs. He silently resolved to stay in Lansdale and watch over her until her father's arrival.
"You ride out daily?" he inquired.
"Yes, sir."
"May I be your escort to-morrow?"
She cast down her eyes, which she had lifted to his face for an instant, blushing painfully. It seemed an effort for her to reply, and the words came slowly, and with hesitation. "I—should be glad to have you, sir; you know I have always valued your society, but—Mr. Egerton always goes with us—Lottie King and me—of late; and—and I can hardly suppose either of you would now find the company of the other agreeable."
"No, Elsie; but what do you think your father would wish?"
"I know he would be glad to have me under your care, and if you don't mind the unpleasantness."
"My dear, I would cheerfully endure far more than that, to watch over your father's child. You will not let this unhappy circumstance turn you against your old friend? I could hardly bear that, little Elsie." And he drew her toward him caressingly.
"Oh, no, no! I don't think anything could do that; you've always been so good to me—almost a second father."
He released her hand with a slight involuntary sigh, as at that instant Miss Stanhope re-entered the room. The two were standing by the piano, Mr. Travilla having risen from one of the cushioned chairs to draw near to Elsie while talking to her. Miss Stanhope flew to the chair, caught up the cushion, shook it, laid it down again, and with two or three little loving pats restored it to its normal condition of perfect roundness. Mr. Travilla watched her with a surprised, puzzled look.
"Have I done any mischief, Elsie?" he asked in an undertone.
"Oh, no!" she answered with a faint smile, "it's only auntie's way."
Their visitor had gone, and Elsie turned to her aunt to say good-night.
"Something is wrong with you, child; can't you tell the trouble to your old auntie, and let her try to comfort you?" Miss Stanhope asked, putting an arm about the slender waist, and scanning the sweet face, usually so bright and rosy, now so pale and agitated, with a look of keen but loving scrutiny.
Then, in broken words, and with many a little half-sobbing sigh and one or two scalding tears, hastily brushed away, Elsie told the whole painful story, secure of warm sympathy from the kind heart to which she was so tenderly folded.
Miss Stanhope believed in Bromly Egerton almost as firmly as Elsie herself; what comfort there was in that! She believed too in the inspired assurances that "all things work together for good to them that love God," and that He is the hearer and answerer of prayer. She reminded her niece of them; bade her cast her burden on the Lord and leave it there, and cheered her with the hope that Bromly would be able to prove to her father that Mr. Travilla was entirely mistaken.
My heart has been like summer skies,When they are fair to view;But there never yet were hearts or skiesClouds might not wander through.
Walter Dinsmore was doing well at college, studying hard, and keeping himself out of bad company. In this last he might not have been so successful but for his brother's assistance; for, though choosing his own associates from among the dissolute and vile, Arthur resolutely exerted himself to preserve this young brother from such contamination. "I've enough sins of my own to answer for, Wal," he would say, sometimes almost fiercely, "and I won't have any of yours added to 'em; nobody shall say I led you into bad company, or initiated you into my own evil courses."
For months Arthur's spirits had been very variable, his frequent fits of gloom, alternating with unnatural gayety, exciting Walter's wonder and sympathy.
"I cannot imagine what ails him," he said to himself again and again; for Arthur utterly refused to tell him the secret of his despondency.
It had been almost constant since the receipt of Egerton's last epistle, and Walter was debating in his own mind whether he ought not to speak of it in his next letter to their mother, when one night he was wakened by a sudden blow from Arthur's hand, and started up to find him rolling and tossing, throwing his arms about, and muttering incoherently in the delirium of fever.
It was the beginning of a very serious illness. It was pronounced such by the physician called in by Walter at an early hour the next morning, and the boy sat down with a heavy heart to write the sad tidings to his parents.
While doing so he was startled by hearing Arthur pronounce Elsie's name in connection with words that seemed to imply that some danger threatened her. He rose and went to the bedside, asking, "What's wrong with Elsie, Art?"
"I say, Tom Jackson, she'll never take you. Horace won't consent."
"I should think not, indeed!" muttered Walter. Then leaning over his brother, "Art, I say, Art! what is it all about? Has Tom Jackson gone to Lansdale?"
No answer, save an inarticulate murmur that might be either assent or dissent.
The doctor had promised to send a nurse and, as Walter now glanced about the room, the thought occurred to him that it would seem very disorderly to the woman. Arthur's clothes lay in a heap over the back of a chair, just as he had thrown them down on retiring.
"I can at least hang these in the closet," thought Walter, picking up the jacket.
A letter fell from the pocket upon the floor.
"Jackson's handwriting, I declare!" he exclaimed, with a start of surprise, as he stooped to pick it up. It was without an envelope, written in a bold, legible hand, and unintentionally he read the date, "Lansdale, Ohio, Aug. — 185-," and farther down the page some parts of sentences connected with the "D—— family" … "can't help themselves" … "the girl loves me and believes in me."
He glanced at the bed. Arthur's eyes were closed. He looked down at the letter again; there was the signature "T. J., alias B. E."
"It's a conspiracy; there's mischief brewing, and I believe I ought to read it," he muttered; then, turning his back toward the bed, perused every word of it with close attention.
It was sufficient to give him a clear insight into the whole affair.Elsie's letters had of late spoken quite frequently of Mr. BromlyEgerton, and so he was the "T. J., alias B. E." of this epistle, theTom Jackson who had been the ruin of Arthur.
"The wretch! the sneaking, hypocritical scoundrel!" muttered Walter between his teeth, and glancing again at the bed, though the epithet was meant to apply to Jackson and not to Arthur. "What can I do to circumvent him? Write to Horace, of course, and warn him of Elsie's danger." And though usually vacillating and infirm of purpose, on this occasion Walter showed himself both prompt and decided. The next mail carried the news of his discovery to Elsie's natural protector,—her father, who with Rose, the Allison family, and little Horace, was still at Cape May.
This letter and the three from Lansdale were handed Mr. Dinsmore together. He opened Elsie's first. The contents puzzled, surprised, and alarmed him. They were merely a few hastily written lines of touching entreaty that he would not be angry, but would please forgive her for giving her heart to one of whom he knew nothing, and daring to let him speak to her of love; and that he would not believe anything against him until he had heard his defence.
With a murmured "My poor darling! you have been too long away from your father," Mr. Dinsmore laid it down and opened the one directed in a strange hand; rightly supposing it to come from the person to whom she alluded.
Egerton spoke in glowing terms of his admiration for Elsie's character and personal charms, and the ardent love with which they had inspired him, and modestly of his own merits. Ignoring all knowledge of her fortune, he said that he had none, but was engaged in a flourishing business which would enable him to support her in comfort and to surround her with most of the elegancies and luxuries of life to which she had been accustomed. Lastly he alluded in a very pious strain to the deep debt of gratitude he owed her as the one who had been the means of his hopeful conversion; said she had acknowledged that she returned his affection, and earnestly begged for the gift of her hand.
Mr. Dinsmore gave this missive an attentive perusal, laid it aside, and opened Mr. Travilla's.
Rose was in the room, putting little Horace to bed. She had heard his little prayer, given him his good-night kiss, and now the child ran to his father to claim the same from him.
It was given mechanically, and Mr. Dinsmore returned to his letter. The child lingered a moment, gazing earnestly into his father's face, troubled by its paleness and the frown on his brow.
"Papa," he said softly, leaning with confiding affection upon his knee, "dear papa, are you angry with me? have I been a naughty boy, to-day?"
"No, son; but I am reading; don't disturb me now."
Mr. Dinsmore's hand rested caressingly on the curly head for an instant and the boy turned away satisfied. But Rose was not. Coming to her husband's side the next moment, and laying her hand affectionately on his shoulder, "What is it, dear?" she asked, "has anything gone wrong with our darling, or at home?"
"Trouble for her, I fear, Rose. Read these," he answered with emotion, putting Elsie's, Egerton's, and Travilla's letters into her hands, then opening Walter's.
"Travilla is right! the man is an unmitigated scoundrel!" he cried, starting up with great excitement. "Rose, I must be off by the next train; it leaves in half an hour. I shall go alone and take only a portmanteau with me. Can it be got ready in season?"
"Yes, dear, I will pack it at once myself. But what is wrong? Where are you going? and how long will you be away?"
"To my brother's first—Arthur is seriously ill, and I must get hold of evidence that Walter can supply—then on to Lansdale with all speed to rescue Elsie from the wiles of a gambling, swindling, hypocritical, fortune-hunting rascal!"
At a very early hour of the next morning, Walter Dinsmore was roused from his slumbers by, a knock at his door.
"Who's there?" he asked, starting up in bed.
"I, Walter," answered a well-known voice, and with a joyful exclamation he sprang to the door, and opened it.
"Horace! how glad I am to see you! I hardly dared hope you could get here so soon."
"Your news was of the sort to hasten a man's movements," returned Mr. Dinsmore, holding the lad's hand in a warm brotherly grasp. "How are you? and how's Arthur now?"
"About the same. Hark! you may hear him moaning and muttering. This is our study. I have had that cot-bed brought in here, and given up the bedroom to him and the nurse; though I'm with him a good deal too."
"You have a good nurse, and the best medical advice?"
"Yes."
"You must see that he has every comfort, Walter; let no expense be spared, nothing left undone that may alleviate his sufferings or assist his recovery. What is the physician's opinion of the case?"
"He is not very communicative to me; may be more so to you. You'll stay and see him when he calls, won't you?"
"What time? I must be off again by the first train. I want to reachLansdale to-morrow."
"It will give you time to do that. He calls early."
"Now take me to Arthur; and then I must see that letter, and hear all you have to tell me in regard to that matter."
"What does Elsie say?" asked Walter, with intense interest; "do you think she cares for him?"
"I'm afraid she does," and Mr. Dinsmore shook his head sadly.
"Oh, dear! but you won't allow—"
"Certainly not; 'twould be to entail upon her a life of misery."
"It's her fortune he's after, that's evident, and indeed I would hurry to Lansdale, if I were you, lest they might take it into their heads to elope. Such a shame as it would be for him to get her—the dear, sweet darling!"
"I have no fear that Elsie could ever be so lost to her sense of filial duty; nor, I am sure, have you, Walter," answered Mr. Dinsmore gravely.
"No, Horace; and it's the greatest relief and comfort to me just now to know how truly obedient and affectionate she is to you."
Horace Dinsmore omitted nothing that he could do to add to the comfort of his brothers, saw the physician and learned from him that he had good hopes of a naturally vigorous constitution bringing Arthur safely through the attack from which he was suffering, examined the evidence Walter was able to furnish that Bromly Egerton and Tom Jackson were one and the same—a man in whom every vice abounded—found time to show an interest in Walter's studies and pastimes, and was ready to leave by the train of which he had spoken.
Jackson had not been wary enough to disguise his hand in either the letter that had fallen from Arthur's pocket, or the one written to Mr. Dinsmore, and a careful comparison of the two had proved conclusively that they were the work of the same person. The broken sentences that occasionally fell from Arthur's lips in his delirious ravings furnished another proof not less strong. Also Walter had managed to secure an excellent photograph of Jackson, which Mr. Dinsmore carried with him, safely bestowed in the breast-pocket of his coat. He had studied it attentively and felt sure he should be able instantly to recognize the original.
Bromly Egerton lay awake most of the night following his passage at arms with Mr. Travilla, considering the situation, and how he would be most likely to secure the coveted prize. He remembered perfectly well all that Arthur Dinsmore had said about the difficulty of deceiving or outwitting his brother, and the impossibility of persuading Elsie to disobedience. Of the latter, he had had convincing proof that day, in her firm refusal to engage herself to him without first obtaining her father's consent. The conclusion he came to was, that should he remain inactive until Mr. Dinsmore's arrival, his chances of success were exceedingly small; in fact that his only hope lay in running away with Elsie, and afterwards persuading her into a clandestine marriage.
Their ride was to be taken shortly after an early breakfast, there being a sort of tacit understanding that he was to accompany the young ladies; but before Elsie had left her room, Chloe came up with a message. "Marse Egerton in de parlor, darlin', axin could he see my young missis for five minutes, just now."
Elsie went down at once. Her visitor stood with his back toward the door, apparently intently studying the pattern of her great-great-grandmother's sampler, but turning instantly at the sound of the light, quick footstep, came eagerly toward her with outstretched hand.
"Excuse this early call, dearest, but—ah, how lovely you are looking this morning!" and bending his head he drew her toward him.
But she stepped back, avoiding the intended caress, while a crimson tide rushed over the fair face and neck, and her eyes sought the carpet.
"We are not engaged, Mr. Egerton; cannot be till papa has given consent."
"I beg ten thousand pardons," he said, coloring violently in his turn, and feeling his hopes grow fainter.
"Will you not take a seat?" she asked, gently withdrawing her hand from his.
"Thank you, no; I have but a moment to stay. My errand was to ask if we could not so arrange it as, for once at least, to have our ride alone together? Miss Lottie is a very nice girl, but I would give much to have my darling all to myself to-day."
"I would like it much too, very much, but papa bade me always have a lady friend with me; and—and besides," she added with hesitation, and blushing more deeply than before, "papa's friend. Mr. Travilla, is to go with us. I—I have promised that he shall be my escort to-day."
Egerton was furious, and had much ado to conceal the fact; indeed, came very near uttering a horrible oath, and thus forever ruining his hopes. He bit his lips and kept silent, but Elsie saw that he was angry.
"Do not be offended or hurt," she said; "do not suppose that I followed my own inclination in consenting to such an arrangement. No, I only acted from a sense of duty; knowing that it was what papa would wish."
"And you would put his wishes before mine? Love him best, I presume?"
"He is my father, and entitled to my obedience, whether present or absent."
"But what very strict ideas you must have on that subject! do you really think it your duty to obey his wishes as well as his command?"
"I do; that is the kind of obedience he has taught me, that the Bible teaches, and that my love for him would dictate. I love my father very dearly, Mr. Egerton."
"I should think so, indeed; but you must pardon me if at present I am far more concerned about your love for me," he said, with a forced laugh. "As for this Travilla, I can hardly be expected to feel any great cordiality toward him after his attack upon me yesterday; and I am free to confess that it would not cause me great grief to learn that some sudden illness or accident had occurred to prevent his spoiling our ride to-day."
"Your feelings are perfectly natural; but, believe me, Mr. Travilla has the kindest of hearts, and when he learns his mistake will be most anxious to do all in his power to make amends for it. Will you stay and take breakfast with us?" For at that instant the bell rang.
"No, thank you," he said, moving toward the door. "But promise me,Elsie, that I shall be your escort after this until your father comes.Surely love may claim so small a concession from duty."
She could not resist his persuasive look and tone, but with a smile and a blush gave the promise for which he pleaded.
Procuring as fine a horse as his landlord could furnish, Mr. Travilla rode to Miss Stanhope's, and alighting at the gate, walked up to the house.
He found its mistress on the front porch, picking dead leaves from her vines. She had mounted a step ladder to reach some that otherwise were too high up for her small stature. Turning at the sound of his approach, "Good-morning, sir," she said. "You see I'm like the sycamore tree that climbed into Zaccheus. Shortness is inconvenient at times. My, what a jar!" as she came down rather hard, missing the last step—"I feel it from the crown of my foot to the sole of my head. Here, Simon, take away this ladder-step; the next time I want it I think I'll do without; I'm growing so old in my clumsy age. Walk in and take a seat, Mr. Torville. Or shall we sit here? It's pleasanter than indoors I think."
"I agree with you," he said, accepting her invitation with a smile at the oddity of her address. "You have a fine view here."
They sat there conversing for some time before Elsie made her appearance, Mr. Travilla both charmed and amused with his companion, and she liking him better every moment. When Elsie did come down at last, looking wondrous sweet and fair in a pretty, coquettish riding hat and habit, her aunt informed her that she had been urging "Mr. Vanilla" to come and make his home with them while in town, and that he had consented to let her send Simon at once for his trunk.
"If it will be agreeable to my little friend to have me here?" Mr. Travilla said, taking her hand in his with the affectionate, fatherly manner she had always liked so much in him.
Her face flushed slightly, but she answered without an instant's hesitation that she hoped he would come.
The horses were already at the gate, Egerton was seen crossing the street, and Lottie came tripping in at a side entrance. She had heard a good deal of Mr. Travilla from Elsie, and seemed pleased to make his acquaintance.
Egerton came in, he and Mr. Travilla exchanged the coldest and most distant of salutations, and the party set off; Mr. Travilla riding by Elsie's side, Egerton and Lottie following a little in their rear.
Finding it almost a necessity to devote himself to Miss King for the time being, Egerton! took a sudden resolution to make a partial confidante of her, hoping thus to secure a powerful ally. He told her of the state of affairs between Elsie and himself, of Mr. Travilla's "attack upon him;" how "utterly mistaken" it was, and how he presumed "the mistake" had occurred; giving the story he had told Elsie of the cousin who bore so strong a likeness to him, and so bad a character. He professed the most ardent, devoted affection for Elsie, and the most torturing fears lest her father, crediting him with his cousin's vices, should forbid the match and crush all his hopes.
The warm-hearted, innocent girl believed every word, and rushing into her friend's room on their return, threw her arms about her, and hugging her close, told her she knew all, was so, so sorry for her, and for poor Egerton; and begged her not to allow anything to make her give him up and break his heart.
Elsie returned the embrace, shed a few tears, but answered not a word.
"You do believe in him? and won't give him up; will you?" persistedLottie.
"I do believe in him, and will not give him up unless—unless papa commands it," Elsie answered in a choking voice.
"I wouldn't for that!" cried Lottie.
"'Children, obey your parents,'" repeated her friend, tears filling the soft brown eyes, and glistening on the drooping lashes. "It is God's command."
"But you are not a child any longer."
"I am papa's child; I always shall be. Oh, it would break my heart if ever he should disown me and say, 'You are no longer my child!'"
"How you do love him!"
"Better than my life!"
Mr. Travilla was already established at Miss Stanhope's, and very glad to be there, that he might keep the more careful and constant watch and ward over his "little friend." Thoroughly convinced of the vileness of the wretch who had won her unsuspicious heart, he could scarce brook the thought of leaving her alone with him, or of seeing him draw close to her side, touch her hand, or look into the soft, sweet eyes so full of purity and innocence. Yet these things no one but her father might forbid, and Mr. Travilla would not force his companionship upon Elsie when he saw or felt that it was distasteful to her. The lovers were frequently left to themselves in the parlor or upon the porch, though the friendly guardian, dreading he hardly knew what, took care always to be within call.
Elsie longed for, yet dreaded her father's coming. She knew he would not delay one moment longer than necessary after receiving their letters, yet he reached Lansdale almost a day sooner than she expected him.
Sitting alone in her room, she heard his voice and step in the hall below. She flew down to meet him.
"Oh, papa, dear, dear papa!"
"My darling, precious child!" And her arms were about his neck, his straining her to his heart. The next moment she lifted her face, and her eyes sought his with a wistful, pleading, questioning look. He drew her into the sitting-room, and Miss Stanhope closed the door, leaving them alone.
"My darling," he said, "you must give him up; he is utterly unworthy of you."
"Oh, papa! would you break my heart?"
"My precious one, I would save you from a life of misery."
"Ah, papa! you would never say that if you knew how—how I love him," she murmured, a deep blush suffusing her face.
"Hush! it horrifies me to hear you speak so of so vile a wretch,—a drinking, swearing gambler, swindler, and rake; for I have learned that he is all these."
"Papa, it is not true! I will not hear such things said of him, even by you!" she cried, the hot blood dyeing her face and neck, and the soft eyes filling with indignant tears.
He put his finger upon her lips. "My daughter forgets to whom she is speaking," he said with something of the old sternness, though there was tender pity also in his tones.
"Oh, papa, I am so wretched!" she sobbed, hiding her face on his breast. "Oh, don't believe what they say; it isn't, it can't be true."
He caressed her silently, then taking the photograph from his pocket, asked, "Do you know that face?"
"Yes, it is his."
"I knew it, and it is also the face of the man whose character I have just described."
"Oh, no, papa!" and with breathless eagerness she repeated the story with which Egerton had swept away all her doubts. She read incredulity in her father's face, "You do not believe it, papa?"
"No, my child, no more than I do black is white. See here!" and he produced Egerton's letter to him, and the one to Arthur, made her read and compare them, and gave her the further proofs Walter had furnished.
She grew deathly pale, but was no more ready to be convinced than he. "Oh, papa, there must be some dreadful mistake! I cannot believe he could be guilty of such things. The cousin has been personating him, has forged that letter, perhaps; and the photograph may be his also."
"You are not using your good common-sense, Elsie; the proof is very full and clear to my mind. The man is a fortune-hunter, seeking your wealth, not you; a scoundrel whose vices should shut him out of all decent society. I can hardly endure the thought that he has ever known you, or dared to address a word to you, and it must never be again."
"Must I give him up?" she asked with pale, quivering lips.
"You must, my daughter; at once and for ever."
A look of anguish swept over her face, then she started, flushed, and trembled, as a voice and step were heard on the porch without.
"It is he?" her father said inquiringly, and her look answered, "Yes."
He rose to his feet, for they had been sitting side by side on the sofa while they talked. She sprang up also, and clinging to his arm, looked beseechingly into his face, pleading in a hoarse whisper, "Papa, you will let me see him, speak to him once more?—just a few words—in your presence—oh, papa!"
"No, my darling, no; his touch, his breath, are contamination; his very look is pollution, and shall never rest upon you again if I can prevent it. Remember you are never to hold any communication with him again—by word, letter, or in any other way; I positively forbid it; you must never look at him, or intentionally allow him a sight of your face. I must go now, and send him away." He held her to his heart as he spoke; his tone was affectionate, but very firm, and decided; he kissed her tenderly, two or three times, placed her in an easy-chair, saying, "Stay here till I come to you," and left the room.
For a moment she lay back against the cushions like one stunned by a heavy blow; then, roused by the sound of the voices of the two she loved best on earth, started and leaned forward in a listening attitude, straining her ear to catch their words. Few of them reached her, but her father's tones were cold and haughty, Egerton's at first persuasive, then loud, angry, and defiant.
He was gone, she had heard the last echo of his departing footsteps, and again her father bent over her, his face full of tender pity. She lifted her sad face to his, with the very look that had taunted him for years, that he could never recall without a pang of regret and remorse—that pleading, mournful gaze with which she had parted from him in the time of their estrangement.
It almost unmanned him now, almost broke his heart. "Don't, my darling, don't look at me so," he said in low, moved tones, taking her cold hands in his. "You don't know, precious one, how willingly your father would bear all this pain for you if he could."
She threw herself upon his breast, and folding her close to his heart, he caressed her with exceeding tenderness, calling her by every fond, endearing name.
For many minutes she received it all passively, then suddenly raising her head, she returned one passionate embrace, withdrew herself from his arms, and hurried from the room.
He let her go unquestioned; he knew she went to seek comfort and support from One nearer and dearer, and better able to give it than himself. He rose and walked the room with a sad and troubled countenance, and a heart filled with grief for his child, with anger and indignation toward the wretch who had wrecked her happiness.
Miss Stanhope opened the door and looked in.
"You have had no dinner, Horace. It will be ready in a few moments."
"Thank you, aunt. I will go up to my room first and try to get rid of some of the dust and dirt I have brought with me."
"Stay a moment, nephew. I am sorely troubled for the child. You don't approve of her choice?"
"Very far from it. I have forbidden the man ever to come near her again."
"But you won't be hard with her, poor dear?"
"Hard with her, Aunt Wealthy? hard and cruel to my darling whom I love better than my life? I trust not; but it would be the height of cruelty to allow this thing to go on. The man is a vile wretch guilty of almost every vice, and seeking my child for her wealth, not for herself. I have forbidden her to see or ever to hold the slightest communication with him again."
"Well, it is quite right if your opinion of him is correct; and I hardly think she is likely to refuse submission."
"I have brought up my daughter to habits of strict, unquestioning obedience, Aunt Wealthy," he said, "and I think they will stand her in good stead now. I have no fear that she will rebel."
A half hour with her best Friend had done much to soothe and calm our sweet Elsie; she had cast her burden on the Lord and He sustained her. She knew that no trial could come to her without His will, that He had permitted this for her good, that in His own good time and way He would remove it, and she was willing to leave it all with Him; for was He not all-wise, all-powerful, and full of tenderest, pitying love for her?
She had great faith in the wisdom and love of her earthly father also, and doubted not that he was doing what he sincerely believed to be for her happiness,—giving her present pain only in order to save her from keener and more lasting distress and anguish in the future.
It was well for her that she had such trust in him and that their mutual love was so deep and strong; well too that she was troubled with no doubts of the duty of implicit obedience to parental authority when not opposed to the higher commands of God. Her heart still clung to Egerton, refusing to credit his utter unworthiness, and she felt it a bitter trial to be thus completely separated from him, yet hoped that at some future, and perhaps not distant day, he might be able to convince her father of his mistake.
Mr. Dinsmore felt it impossible to remain long away from his suffering child; after leaving the table, a few moments only were spent in conversation with his aunt and Mr. Travilla, and then he sought his darling in her room.
"My poor little pet, you have been too long away from your father," he said, taking her in his arms again. "I shall never forgive myself for allowing it. But, daughter, why was this thing suffered to go on? Your letters never spoke of this man in a way to lead me to suppose that he was paying you serious attention; and indeed I did not intend to permit that from any one yet."
"Papa, I did not deceive you intentionally, I did not mean to be disobedient," she said imploringly. "Lottie and I were almost always together, and I did not think of him as a lover till he spoke."
"Well, dearest, I am not chiding you; your father could never find it in his heart to add one needless pang to what you are already suffering." His tone was full of pitying tenderness.
She made no answer; only hid her face on his breast and wept silently. "Papa," she murmured at length. "I—I do so want to break one of your rules; oh, if you would only let me, just this once!"
"A strange request, my darling," he said, "but which of them is it?"
"That when you have once decided a matter I must never ask you to reconsider. Oh, papa, do, do let me entreat you just this once!"
"I think it will be useless, daughter, only giving me the pain of refusing, and you of being refused; but you may say on."
"Papa, it is, that I may write a little note to—to Mr. Egerton," she said, speaking eagerly and rapidly, yet half trembling at her own temerity the while, "just to tell him that I cannot do anything against your will, and that he must not come near me or try to hold any sort of intercourse with me till you give consent; but that I have not lost my faith in him, and if he is innocent and unjustly suspected, we need not be wretched and despairing; for God will surely some day cause it to be made apparent. Oh, papa, may I not? Please, please let me! I will bring it to you when written, and there shall not be one word in it that you do not approve." She had lifted her face, and the soft, beseeching eyes were looking pleadingly into his.
"My dearest child," he said, "it is hard to refuse you, but I cannot allow it. There, there! do not cry so bitterly; every tear I see you shed sends a pang to my heart. Listen to me, daughter. Believing what I do of that man, I would not for a great deal have him in possession of a single line of your writing. Have you ever given him one?"
"No, papa, never," she sobbed.
"Or received one from him?"
"No, sir."
"It is well." Then as if a sudden thought had struck him, "Elsie, have you ever allowed him to touch your lips?" he asked almost sternly.
"No, papa, not even my cheek. I would not while we were not engaged; and that could not be without your consent."
"I am truly thankful for that!" he exclaimed in a tone of relief; "to know that he had—that these sweet lips had been polluted by contact with his—would be worse to me than the loss of half my fortune." And lifting her face as he spoke, he pressed his own to them again and again.
But for the first time in her life she turned from him as if almost loathing his caresses, and struggled to release herself from the clasp of his arm.
He let her go, and hurrying to the farther side of the room, she stood leaning against the window-frame, with her back toward him, shedding very bitter tears of mingled grief and anger.
But in the pauses of her sobbing a deep sigh struck upon her ear. Her heart smote her at the sound; still more as she glanced back at her father and noted the pained expression of his eye as it met hers. In a moment she was at his side again, down upon the carpet, with her head laid lovingly on his knee.
"Papa, I am sorry." The low, street voice was tremulous with grief and penitence.
"My poor darling, my poor little pet!" he said, passing his hand with soft, caressing movement over her hair and cheek, "try to keep your love for your father and your faith in his for you, however hard this rule may seem."
"Ah, papa, my heart would break if I lost either," she sobbed. Then lifting her tear-dimmed eyes with tender concern to his face, which was very pale and sad, "Dear papa," she said, "how tired you look! you were up all night, were you not?"
"Last night and the one before it."
"That you might hasten here to take care of me," she murmured in a tone of mingled regret and gratitude. "Do lie down now and take a nap. This couch is soft and pleasant, and I will close the blinds and sit by your side to keep off the flies."
He yielded to her persuasions, saying as he closed his eyes, "Don't leave the room without waking me."
She was still there when he woke, close at his side and ready to greet him with an affectionate look and smile, though the latter was touchingly sad and there were traces of tears on her cheeks.
"How long have I slept?" he asked.
"Two hours," she answered, holding up her watch, "and there is the tea-bell."
What thou bidst,Unargued I obey; so God ordained.
"I hope you don't intend to hurry this child away from me, Horace?" remarked Miss Stanhope inquiringly, glancing from him to Elsie, as she poured out the tea.
"I'm afraid I must, Aunt Wealthy," he answered, taking his cup from her hand, "I can't do without her any longer, and mamma and little brother want her almost as badly."
"And what am I to do?" cried Miss Stanhope, setting down the teapot, and dropping her hands into her lap. "It just makes a baby of me to think how lonely the old house will seem when she's gone. You'd get her back soon, for 'tisn't likely I've got long to live, if you'd only give her to me, Horace."
"No, indeed, Aunt Wealthy; she's a treasure I can't spare to any one. She belongs to me, and I intend to keep her," turning upon his daughter a proud, fond look and smile, which was answered by one of sweet, confiding affection.
"Good-evening!" cried a gay, girlish voice. "Mr. Dinsmore, I'd be delighted to see you, if I didn't know you'd come to rob us of Elsie."
"What, you too ready to abuse me on that score, Miss Lottie?" he said laughingly, as he rose to shake hands with her. "I think I rather deserve thanks for leaving her with you so long."
"Well, I suppose you do. Aunt Wealthy, papa found some remarkably fine peaches in the orchard of one of his patients, and begs you will accept this little basketful."
"Why, they're beautiful, Lottie!" said the old lady, rising and taking the basket from her hand. "You must return my best thanks to your father. I'll set them on the table just so. Take off your hat, child, and sit down with us. There's your chair all ready to your plate, and Phillis's farmer's fresh fruit-cake, to tempt you, and the cream-biscuits that you are so fond of, both."
"Thank you," said Lottie, partly in acknowledgment of the invitation, partly of Mr. Travilla's attention, as he rose and gallantly handed her to her seat, "I can't find it in my heart to resist so many temptations."
"Shall I bring a dish for de peaches, mistis?" asked Chloe, who was waiting on the table.
"Yes."
"Oh, let us have them in that old-fashioned china fruit-basket I've always admired so much, Aunt Wealthy!" cried Lottie eagerly. "I don't believe Elsie has seen it at all."
"No, so she hasn't; but she shall now," said the old lady, hastening toward her china-closet. "There, Aunt Chloe, just stand on the dish, and hand down that chair from this top shelf. Or, if you would, Horace, you're taller, and can reach better. I'm always like the sycamore tree that was little of stature, and couldn't see Zaccheus till he climbed into it."
"Rather a new and improved version of the Bible narrative, aunt, isn't it?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, with an amused look, as he came toward her. "And I fear I'm rather heavy to stand on a dish; but will use the chair instead, if you like."
"Ah! I've put the horse before the cart as usual, I see;" she said, joining good-humoredly in the laugh the others found it impossible to suppress. "It's an old trick of my age, that increases with my advancing youth, till I sometimes wonder what I'm coming to; the words will tangle themselves up in the most troublesome fashion; but if you know what I mean, I suppose it's all the same."
"Why, Aunt Wealthy, this is really beautiful," said Mr. Dinsmore, stepping from the chair with the basket, in his hand.
"Yes, it belonged to your great-grandmother, Horace, and I prize it highly on that account. No, Aunt Chloe, I shall wipe it out and put the peaches into it myself; it will take but a moment, and it's too precious a relic to trust to any other hands than my own."
Lottie was apparently in the gayest spirits, enlivening the little party with many a merry jest and light, silvery laugh, enjoying the good things before her, and gratifying her hostess with praises of their excellence. Yet through it all she was furtively watching her friends, and grieved to notice the unwonted paleness of her cheek, the traces of tears about her eyes, that her cheerfulness was assumed, and that if she ate anything it was only from a desire to please her father, who seemed never to forget her for a moment, and to be a good deal troubled at her want of appetite. In all these signs Lottie read disappointment of Egerton's hopes, and of Elsie's, so far as he was concerned.
"So I suppose her father has commanded her to give him up," she said to herself. "Poor thing! I wonder if she means to be as submissive as she thought she would."
The two presently slipped away together into the garden, leaving the gentlemen conversing in the sitting-room, and Miss Stanhope busied with some household care.
"You poor dear, I am so sorry for you!" whispered Lottie, putting her arm about her friend. "Must you really quite give him up?"
"Papa says so," murmured Elsie, vainly struggling to restrain her tears.
"Is it that he believes Mr. Travilla was not mistaken?"
"Yes, and—and he has heard some other things against him, and thinks his explanation of Mr. Travilla's mistake quite absurd. Oh, Lottie, he will not even allow us one parting interview and says I am never to see Mr. Egerton again, or hold any communication with him in any way. If I should meet him in the street I am not to recognize him; must pass him by as a perfect stranger, not looking at him or permitting him to see my face, if I can avoid doing so."
"And will you really submit to all that? I don't believe I could be so good."
"I must; papa will always be obeyed."
"But don't you feel that it's very hard? doesn't it make you feel angry with your father and love him a little less?"
"I was angry for a little while this afternoon," Elsie acknowledged with a blush, "but I am sure I have no right to be; I know papa is acting for my good,—doing just what he believes will be most likely to secure my happiness. He says it is to save me from a life of misery, and certainly it would be that to be united to such a man as he believes Mr. Egerton is."
"But you don't believe it, Elsie?"
"No, no, indeed! I have not lost my faith in him yet, and I hope he may some day be able to prove to papa's entire satisfaction that he is really all that is good, noble, and honorable."
"That is right; hope on, hope ever."
"Ah, I don't know how we could live without hope," Elsie said, smiling faintly through her tears. "But I ought not to be wretched—oh, very far from it, with so many blessings, so many to love me! Papa's love alone would brighten life very much to me. And then," she added in a lower tone, "'that dearer Friend that sticketh closer than a brother,' and who has promised, 'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.'"
"And He will keep His promise, child," said Aunt Wealthy, joining them in the arbor where they had seated themselves. "I have proved His faithfulness many times, and I know that it never fails. Elsie, dear, your old auntie would save you from every trial, but He is a far wiser and truer friend, and will cause all things to work together for your good, and never allow you to suffer one unneeded pang." She softly stroked her niece's sunny hair, as she spoke, and the kind old face was full of pitying tenderness.
"Come back to the house now, dears," she added, "I think the dew is beginning to fall, and I heard my nephew asking for his daughter."
"How much longer may we hope to keep you, Elsie?" Lottie asked as they wended their way toward the house.
"Papa has set Monday evening for the time of leaving."
"And this is Friday; so we shall have but two more rides together. Oh, dear! how I shall miss you when you're gone."
"And I you. I shall never forget what pleasant times we have had together; Aunt Wealthy and you and I. You musn't let her miss me too much, Lottie." And Elsie turned an affectionate look upon her aged relative.
"As if I could prevent it! But I'll do my best; you may rest assured of that."
"You are dear girls, both of you," said Miss Stanhope with a very perceptible tremble in her voice, "and you have brightened my home wonderfully; if I could only keep you!"
"Well, auntie, you're not likely to lose me altogether for some time yet," returned Lottie gayly, though the tears shone in her eyes.