"But happy they! the happiest of their kind!Whom gentler stars unite, and in one fateTheir hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend.. . . . . for naught but loveCan answer love, and render bliss secure."—Thomson's Seasons.
"But happy they! the happiest of their kind!Whom gentler stars unite, and in one fateTheir hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend.. . . . . for naught but loveCan answer love, and render bliss secure."—Thomson's Seasons.
"But happy they! the happiest of their kind!Whom gentler stars unite, and in one fateTheir hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend.. . . . . for naught but loveCan answer love, and render bliss secure."—Thomson's Seasons.
—Thomson's Seasons.
Asno invitations to the wedding were to be sent to relatives at a distance, it was thought quite as well not to inform them of Molly's engagement until after the marriage had taken place; beside, as the preparations were so hurried, no one had much time for correspondence.
Isadore Conly did not once during the three weeks write to Roselands, excusing herself on the double plea that her last letter remained unanswered, and that she was particularly busy about the trousseau.
She found little time to spare from that which was not taken up in walking or riding with Cyril.
He proposed writing to her mother immediately after declaring his love; but she begged him to delay a little till her grandfather and uncle should have time to consider how to bring their influence to bear upon Mrs. Conly in the way most likely to win her approval of his suit.
The day after the wedding saw a number ofletters directed to Roselands, dropped into the Viamede mail-bag, and a few days later they reached their destination.
The family—consisting of Mrs. Conly, Calhoun, Arthur, Virginia, Walter (who was at home for a few days on a furlough, being now a lieutenant in the U. S. Army), and several younger ones—were at breakfast when Pomp came in with the mail-bag.
Calhoun opened it and distributed the contents.
"Letters from Viamede at last," he remarked; "three for you, mother, from grandpa, uncle and—somebody else; one for Walter (Dick's handwriting! I didn't know he was there) and one for Virginia."
"From Isa," Virginia said as she glanced at the superscription; then tearing open the envelope, and glancing down the first page, "Molly is married! to a rich planter, too! Will wonders never cease!"
A simultaneous exclamation of surprise from all present.
"Nonsense, Isa's hoaxing you," said Walter, stirring his coffee. "Here, let me see the letter."
"No. Open your own."
"That's not in Isa's line," remarked Arthur, "but really it is very astonishing news. What does Dick say, Wal? He went down there to attend the wedding, I presume?"
"No; didn't know a word about it till he got there," Walter said, giving a hasty perusal to the not very lengthy epistle; "went to settle; good opening for a doctor; splendid country, everything lovely, likes brother-in-law immensely, is overjoyed at Molly's good luck, says she's as happy as a queen."
"Which may mean much or little," remarked Conly.
His mother cleared her throat emphatically, and all eyes turned to her. She held an open letter in her hand, and her face looked flushed and angry.
"Isa, too, it seems, has lost her heart," she said in a bitter, sarcastic tone; "and with her usual good sense, has bestowed it upon a poor clergyman. Doubtless he has heard of her Aunt Delaford's intentions—Elsie perhaps has given him the hint, he being a relative of hers—and thinks he is securing a fortune. But if Isa throws herself away in such fashion, Sister Delaford may change her mind."
Calhoun and Arthur both repelled with warmth the insinuation against Elsie; the latter adding that he thought Isa's personal charms were quite sufficient of themselves to captivate a man who was not in pursuit of wealth.
"And Isa," remarked Calhoun, "is so unworldly that wealth would be a matter of small consideration to her where her heart was concerned."
"A fact that should make her friends the more careful how they encourage her in taking a poor man," said the mother; "but my father and brother are both strongly in favor of this adventurer's suit."
"Adventurer, mother! I thought you said he was a clergyman!"
"Well, Calhoun, I don't see any contradiction there. But his name is Keith, and that explains it all, for my father was always very partial to those relatives of his first wife. Horace, too, of course."
"But as Isa is a good deal more nearly related to them, they are very fond of her, and, men not easily deceived or taken in, I think we may safely trust to their judgment. You won't oppose what they so highly approve, mother?"
"I don't know; must take time to think it over. Do you and Arthur come with me to the library," she said, rising with the letter in her hand. "I see you have both finished your breakfast."
They rose instantly, and followed her from the room, Walter looking after them and muttering discontentedly, "I think mother might take me into her counsels, too."
"You are too young and foolish," said Virginia.
"The first objection doesn't lie against you, though the second may," he retorted. "You'dbetter look to your laurels. Isa and Molly are both well ahead of you."
"What of that?" she said, reddening with vexation. "Isa's two years older than I, and taking a poor minister whom I wouldn't look at."
"Sour grapes," suggested her brother, teasingly. "And Molly's not a year older than you, and has married rich."
"A second-hand husband!" sneered Virginia; at which Walter laughed uproariously.
"O Virgie, Virgie, those grapes are terribly sour!" he said. "But do let us hear what Isa has to say about it."
"I haven't finished the letter; but there, take it; what do I care about her fine dresses and presents, and the splendors of Magnolia Hall?"
"Well," he cried presently, "Cousin Elsie did the thing handsomely! and he's a splendid fellow, if he is second-hand. No wonder Dick's pleased. I only wish my sisters might all do as well."
In the library Calhoun was saying, as he laid down his uncle's letter, which he had just read aloud, "Cousin Elsie is certainly the most generous of women! Mother, you could not have read this when you uttered that insinuation against her a few moments since?"
Mrs. Conly colored violently under her son's searching gaze.
"Twenty-five thousand is a mere trifle to her," she said, bridling, "and you perceive she promises Isa that dower in the event of her marrying that poor relation of her own."
"It is extremely generous, nevertheless!" exclaimed both her sons in a breath.
"And I do not think it by any means a bad match for Isa," Arthur went on—"a good man, of fine talent, receiving a very comfortable salary, a lovely home rent free, very little expense except for clothing, seeing they are—as uncle says—to have all the fruit, vegetables, nearly their whole living, in fact, from the Viamede fields and orchards; use of carriages and horses too, whenever they like."
"No, it isn't so bad," their mother acknowledged, "and if she gets her Aunt Delaford's money, she will really be very far from poor. But I dislike the thought of having her, with her beauty and talents, buried, as one may say, in that out-of-the-way corner of the world."
"But she chooses for herself, and ought to be the best judge of what is for her own happiness," Calhoun said. "So you will consent, mother?"
"Oh yes, yes, of course! But I'll take no blame from your Aunt Delaford; nor from Isa either, if ever she sees cause to repent."
So a letter was sent that made glad the hearts of the lovers, spite of some ungraciousness of tone.
Isa's letter, giving, as it did, a minute description of the trousseau, the wedding, Magnolia Hall, Mr. Embury and his children, and telling of the generous settlements upon the bride made by him and her cousin Elsie, was read and re-read by Mrs. Conly and Virginia with great interest, which was yet not altogether pleasurable.
They were glad that Molly had now a good home of her own, and particularly that her mother was to share it—a home so far away from Roselands that Enna was not likely to trouble them any more, for her feebleness of intellect made her something of a mortification to them of late years—yet the good fortune of the poor crippled niece and cousin was too great, too strongly in contrast with their own rather straitened circumstances, not to arouse some feelings of envy and jealousy in persons of their haughty and overbearing disposition.
"Dear me, I wonder why some people have all the good fortune and others none!" exclaimed Virginia angrily. "I should say fifty thousand was quite enough for Molly—especially in addition to the rich husband and loads of handsome presents—and that ten thousand would have been much better bestowed upon you or me, mamma."
"You've only to get married, sis, and probably she'll do the same handsome thing by you," remarkedWalter, who happened to be within hearing.
"Not she! I never had the good fortune to be one of her favorites."
"Well, Isa can't say that, for she's certainly doing the handsome thing by her."
"What?"
"So mother hasn't told you? She's promised that the day Isa marries her cousin, Cyril Keith, she'll hand over twenty-five thousand dollars to them."
"That was to get mamma's consent. Mamma, I wouldn't be bought if I were you," Virginia said scornfully.
"You wouldn't?" laughed Walter. "I tell you you'd sell yourself to-day to any man worth half a million, or even something less."
"Walter, you are perfectly insulting," cried Virginia, her eyes flashing and her cheek flushing hotly. "I wish your furlough ended to-day."
"Thank you, my very affectionate sister," he said, bowing low as he stood before her. "Why don't you wish I'd get shot in the next fight with the Indians? Well, I'll tell you what it is," he went on presently, "if I were one of Cousin Elsie's children—Ed, for instance—I'd enter a pretty strong protest against these wholesale acts of benevolence toward poor relations."
"She can afford it," said his mother loftily,"and I must say I should have a much higher appreciation of her generosity if she had given Isa the money without any conditions attached."
"But Isa wouldn't, or I greatly mistake."
"Do you mean to say you think there has been a conspiracy between them?" demanded his mother, growing very red and angry.
"No, no, mother, nothing of the kind! but Cousin Elsie is a woman of keen observation, delicate tact and great discernment; and she had Isa's happiness much at heart."
"Really," she sneered, "I have but just made the delightful discovery that I have a Solomon among my sons!"
"I think it was mean not to invite us to the wedding," said Virginia.
"No; that was right enough," corrected her mother; "being in deep mourning for her husband, she could not, of course, give Molly anything but the quietest sort of wedding."
"Well, Isa will come home to be married?"
"Of course; and I shall insist upon time to have everything done properly and without any one being hurried to death."
Immediately upon the reception of Mrs. Conly's letter giving consent to the match between her daughter and Cyril Keith, the work of adding to, repairing and improving the cottage destined to be the future home of the young couple was begun.
It was a matter of great interest, not to Cyril and Isa alone, but to the whole family of Dinsmores and Travillas; and their departure from Viamede was delayed some weeks that Elsie and her father and grandfather might oversee and direct the workmen.
It was going to be a really commodious and beautiful residence when completed. Elsie determined that it should be prettily furnished, too, and found great pleasure in planning for the comfort and enjoyment of these cousins.
And Molly's happiness was a constant delight to her. There was daily intercourse between Viamede and Magnolia Hall, Mr. Embury driving Molly over almost every day to see her relatives, and Dick bringing his mother, usually on horseback.
Dick was making his home with his sister for the present, at Mr. Embury's urgent request, and was showing himself a good and affectionate son to Enna.
The visits were returned, too, even Elsie going over frequently for a short call, because she saw that Molly very keenly enjoyed being in a position to extend hospitality to all her friends, and especially herself, as one to whom she had long been indebted for a happy home.
"Oh, cousin," Molly said to her one day when they were alone together in her beautiful boudoir, "I am so happy! my husband is sokind, so affectionate! I cannot understand how it is that he is so fond and even proud of me—helpless cripple that I am. But I have learned to be thankful even for that," she added, tears springing to her eyes, "because he says it was that that first drew his attention to me; and, strangely enough, his pity soon turned to admiration and love. Oh he has such a big, generous heart!"
"He has indeed!" Elsie said. "But, Molly dear, you underrate yourself. I do not wonder that he admires and is proud of your brave, cheerful courage under your hard trial, and of your talents and the name you are making for yourself as both a translator and original writer; I hope you will not give up your work entirely now that there is no pecuniary necessity for it, for I think it is bringing a blessing to yourself and to others."
"No, oh no; I shall not give it up while I can believe it is doing something for the Master's cause. Louis does not wish me to while I enjoy it, and I find he is just the critic I need to help me to improve. I had a letter from Virgie yesterday," she went on with a happy laugh, "congratulating me on being no longer compelled to work, yet pitying me because I am a stepmother."
"That does not trouble you?" Elsie said, inquiringly.
"Oh no! The boys, Louis and Fred, are so much like their father—seeming to love me all the better for my helplessness (by the way, Louis, my husband, says it is a positive delight to him to take me in his arms and lift me about)—and the baby girls are as lovely and dear as they can be. I wouldn't for anything part with one of the whole four."
"Dear child!" Elsie said, embracing her with full heart and eyes, "I am so glad, so happy for you that it is so! And how your mother and brother seem to enjoy your good fortunes!"
"Yes; Dick is such a dear fellow! and mother—really it is just a pleasure to see how she delights in it all. And I think she couldn't be fonder of the children if she were their own grandmother."
"How glad, how thankful I am that we came to Viamede this winter," Elsie said, after a moment's silent musing; "grandpa has so entirely recovered his health in consequence, a favorable opening has been found for Dick, and four other people are made happy in mutual love who might, perhaps, never have met otherwise—all this, beside dear Mrs. Carrington having the melancholy pleasure of nursing her poor nephew through his last illness. How true is the promise, 'In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.'"
"You take a very unselfish delight in otherpeople's happiness, cousin," Molly remarked. "And Isa is very happy."
"Yes, and Cyril too," Elsie answered with a smile. "I sometimes think my Elsie half envies them—thinking of Lester so far away. But her turn will come too, I trust, poor, dear child!"
May was well advanced, the weather already very warm in the Teche country when at last our friends set out upon their return to their more northern homes.
Everything there was looking very lovely on their arrival. Friends, kindred and servants rejoiced over their return, all in good health.
Elsie and her children took up again the old, quiet life at Ion, missing Molly not a little, and feeling afresh, for a time, the absence of one far nearer and dearer.
Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore spent some weeks with their other children, then again made their home at Ion, at Elsie's urgent solicitation. In the loneliness of her widowhood she knew not how to do without her father.
In order to secure her cousin Elsie's presence at her wedding, Isa insisted upon a very quiet one, only relatives and very intimate friends to be invited to witness the ceremony; but to please her mother and Virginia, there was afterward a brilliant reception. The marriage took place the last of June, and the next two months were spent principally among Cyril's relatives at the North.
"The sea! the sea! the open sea!The blue, the fresh, the ever free!"—Proctor.
"The sea! the sea! the open sea!The blue, the fresh, the ever free!"—Proctor.
"The sea! the sea! the open sea!The blue, the fresh, the ever free!"—Proctor.
—Proctor.
Thesummer vacation brought Edward Travilla home just in time for his cousin Isa's wedding. He had grown so manly and so like his father in appearance that at sight of him his mother was much overcome.
His first, his warmest, tenderest greeting was for her. He held her to his heart, his own too full for speech, while she wept upon his shoulder.
But only for a moment; lifting her head, she gazed long and searchingly into his face, then, with a sigh of relief, "Thank God," she whispered, "that I can believe my boy has come back to me as pure and innocent as he went!"
"I hope so, mother; your love, your teachings and my father's have been my safeguard in many an hour of temptation," he answered with emotion.
"Did you not seek help from above, my son?" she asked gently.
"Yes, mother; you had taught me to do so, and I knew that you, too, were daily seeking it for me."
"Yes, my dear boy; I think there was scarce a waking hour in which I did not ask a blessing on my absent son."
The mother dried her tears; grandparents, brothers and sisters drew near and embraced the lad, servants shook him by the hand, and Ion was filled with rejoicing as never before since the removal of its master and head.
Tongues ran nimbly as they sat about the tea-table and on the veranda afterward; so much had happened to the young collegian, so many changes had taken place in the family connection since he went away, that there was a great deal to tell and to hear on both sides.
The voices were blithe, and there was many a silvery peal of laughter mingled with the pleasant, cheery talk.
Isa's and Molly's matches were discussed in a most kindly way, for Edward was quite curious to hear all about them and the preparations for the approaching wedding.
Cyril had arrived earlier in the day, was taking tea at Roselands, but would pass the night at Ion, which Edward was glad to hear, as he wished to make his acquaintance.
A summer at the sea-shore had been decided upon some weeks ago, and Edward, to his great gratification, had been empowered to select a cottage for the family to occupy during the season, his Aunt Adelaide and her husband assisting him with their advice.
He announced with much satisfaction that he had secured one that he thought would accommodate them well—several guests in addition, if mamma cared to invite any of her friends—and please every one.
"It is large, convenient, well—even handsomely furnished—and but a few yards from the shore," he said. "The country is pretty about there, too—pleasant walks and drives through green lanes, fields and woods."
"But where is it, Edward?" asked Violet.
"Not far from Long Branch; and there are some half-dozen other sea-side places within easy driving distance."
There were exclamations of delight and impatience to be there from the younger ones, while the mother covered up with a smile and a few words of commendation to Edward the pain in her heart at the thought that her best beloved would not be with his wife and children beside the sea this summer, as in former years.
Her father and Rose were thinking of that, too, with deep sympathy for her.
In a moment the same thought presented itself to Edward and Violet, and they drew closer to their mother with loving, caressing looks and words. But memories of Lester, and their walks and talks together when last she was at the sea-shore, were filling the mind of the younger Elsie with emotions, half of pleasure,half of pain. When should they meet again? Then the sudden silence that had fallen upon the group about her mother, and a glance at that loved mother's face, reminded her also of the father who would return no more, and whose companionship had been so dear a delight to her and to them all.
It was Rosie who broke the silence at length; "Mamma, can we not go pretty soon?"
"Yes, daughter, in about a week."
The journey was made without accident, the cottage and its vicinity found to be all that Edward had represented.
They had brought some of their own servants with them, and had nothing to do with hotel or boarding-house life. Elsie had always loved the quiet and seclusion of home, and clung to it now, more than ever; yet for her children's sake she would not shut out society entirely; both Edward and his sisters were free to invite their young friends to partake of the hospitalities of their mother's house, but without noise or revelry, for which indeed, they themselves had no heart.
For a while the society of his mother and sisters was quite sufficient for Edward and his for them—they were all so strongly attached to each other and he had been so long away from home that it was very delightful to be together once more.
Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore were at that time visiting relatives in Philadelphia and its vicinity, and his grandfather's absence gave Edward the long coveted opportunity to try how nearly he could fill his father's place as his mother's earthly prop. It was a dear delight to have her lean upon his arm, rely upon his strength, consult him about business or family matters.
He was very proud and fond of his lovely sisters; prouder and fonder still of his sweet and beautiful mother. He quite longed to show her to all his college friends, yet would not for the world have her grief intruded upon by them with their thoughtless gayety.
During these weeks that they were entirely alone she gave herself up wholly to her children, seeking to secure to them the greatest possible amount of innocent enjoyment. No tasks were set, there was no attempt at regular employment, and almost the whole day was spent in the open air; together they sported in the surf, strolled on the beach, or sat in the sand revelling in the delicious sea breeze and the sight of the ever restless, ever changing, beautiful ocean, with its rolling, tumbling, dashing waves. They were there early in the morning, sometimes in season to watch the sun rise out of the water; and often again when the silvery moonlight lent its witchery to the scene.
But there came a day when the rain poureddown so continuously and heavily that they were glad to take refuge from it in the house.
They gathered in a room overlooking the sea, the ladies with their fancy work, Rosie with her doll, while Harold and Herbert helped little Walter to build block houses, and Edward read aloud a story selected by the mother, as entertaining and at the same time pure and wholesome.
She was careful in choosing their mental food; she would no sooner have suffered her children's minds to be poisoned than their bodies.
As Edward closed the book upon the completion of the story, "Mamma," said the younger Elsie, "do you quite approve of all the teachings the author has given there? or perhaps I should rather say the sentiments she has expressed."
"Not quite, but what is it you do not approve?" the mother answered with an affectionate and pleased look at the earnest face of the questioner. "I am glad to see that you are not ready to be carried about with every wind of doctrine."
"It is her comment upon her heroine's effort to escape from her trouble by asking help from God. She speaks as if, had the girl been older and wiser, she would have known that God had the welfare and happiness of other people to consult as well as hers, and couldn't be expected to sacrifice them for her sake."
"Well, daughter?"
"It seems to me to show a very low estimate of God's power and wisdom. Since he is infinite in both, can he not so order events as to secure the best good to all his creatures?"
"Yes, my child, I am sure he can, and we need never fear that he is not able and willing to help his people in every time of trouble. 'The name of the Lord isa strongtower: the righteous runneth into it, and is safe.' 'The righteous cry, and the Lord heareth, and delivereth them out of all their troubles.' He does not always answer just as we desire, it is true, but often in a better way, for we, in our folly and short-sightedness, sometimes ask what would prove in the end a curse instead of a blessing."
"Mamma, how happy we should be if we had perfect faith and trust," said Violet.
"Yes; if we fully believed the inspired assurance, 'We know that all things work together for good to them that love God,' we should not fret or grieve over losses, crosses or disappointments. Strive after such faith, my children, and pray constantly for it, for it is the gift of God."
There was a little pause, broken only by Walter's prattle, the plash of the rain and the murmur of the sea.
Edward seemed in deep thought. Taking a low seat at his mother's knee, "Mamma," hesaid, "I want to have a talk with you, and perhaps this is as good a time as any."
"Well, my dear boy, what is it?"
"Do you think, mamma, that I ought to go into the ministry?"
"My son," she said, looking at him in some surprise, "that is not a question to be decided in a moment, or without asking God's guidance."
"You would be willing, mother?"
"More than willing—glad and thankful—if I saw reason to believe that you were called of God to that work. To be truly anambassadorof Christ is, in my esteem, to stand higher than any of earth's potentates, yet if your talents do not lie in that direction I would not have you there. It is every man's duty to serve God to the utmost of his ability, but all are not called to the ministry; some can do far better service in other walks of life, and I should prefer to have a son of mine a good carpenter, mason or shoemaker, rather than a poor preacher."
"You do not mean poor in purse, mamma?" queried Harold, joining the little group.
"No; a poor sermonizer—one lacking the requisite talents, diligence or piety to proclaim God's truth with faithfulness and power."
"How can one tell to what work he is called, mamma?" Edward asked, with an anxious, perplexed look.
"By watching the leadings of God's providenceand by earnest prayer for his direction. Also I think if a lad has a decided bias for any one profession or employment it is a pretty sure indication that that is what he is called to; for we can almost always do best what we most enjoy doing."
"Then I think I should study medicine," said Harold, "for I should very greatly prefer that to anything else. And don't you think, mamma, that a doctor may do really as much good as a minister?"
"Quite as much if he be a devoted, earnest Christian, ready to do good as he has opportunity: therefore I entirely approve your choice."
"Thank you, mamma. So I consider it quite settled," Harold returned with a look of great satisfaction. "Now, Ed and Herbie, what will you be?"
"As Herbert never likes to be separated from you, I presume he too will choose medicine," the mother remarked, with a smiling glance at her third son, as he too came and stood at her side.
"I don't know, mamma; it seems to me doctors have a dreadfully hard life."
"Ah! I fancy a life of elegant leisure would suit you best, my laddie," laughed his eldest brother.
But the mother's look was grave and a little anxious.
Herbert saw it. "Don't be troubled about me, mamma dear," he said, putting his arms round her neck and gazing lovingly into her eyes. "I do mean to fight against my natural laziness. But do you think I ought to choose so very hard a life as Harold means to?"
"Not if you have talent for something useful which would better suit your inclinations. Can you think of any such thing?"
"Couldn't I be a lawyer?"
"You could never rise to eminence in that profession without a great deal of hard work."
"An author then?"
"The same answer will fit again," his mother returned with a slight smile. "Has not your Cousin Molly worked very hard for a number of years?"
Herbert drew a long, deep sigh, then brightening, "I might be a publisher," he said. "I don't suppose they work very hard, and they can have all the new books to read."
"Oh, Herbie," said Violet, "think of the great number of letters they must have to write, and manuscripts to read, beside many other things."
"No, my boy, you cannot do or be anything worth while without work, and a good deal of it," said his mother. "So I hope you will make it your earnest, constant prayer that you may have grace to overcome your besetting sin of indolence,and to 'be not slothful in business; fervent in spirit; serving the Lord'. The Bible bids us, 'Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might. Whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men.'"
"Edward, you have not told us yet what you wish to be," said his sister Elsie.
"My inclination," he answered in grave, earnest tones, "is to take my father's place in every way possible, first in the care of my darling, precious mother," taking her hand and lifting it to his lips, "after that in cultivating the Ion plantation and making myself a good, upright, useful church-member and citizen."
"A worthy ambition, my boy," the mother said with emotion; "my strong desire is that you may follow as closely as possible in the footsteps of your honored father. I never knew a better man, in the pulpit or out of it. His was a truly Christian manhood, and, like his Master, he went about doing good."
"Then, mother, with your approval my choice is made; and with your permission I shall spend some time in an agricultural college, after finishing the course where I am."
"You shall do as you wish; you shall have every advantage I can give you. My other boys also, if they will improve them."
"Your girls, too, mamma?" asked Rosie.
"Yes, indeed," mamma answered, bestowing a smile and a kiss upon the young questioner.
At that moment the tea-bell summoned them to their evening meal. Edward took his father's seat at the table, his father's place in asking a blessing upon the food.
As they left the table they perceived that the rain had ceased; the clouds had broken away from the setting sun, and its red light streamed over the dark waters like a pathway of fire.
They were all gathered on the porch, watching, as usual, the changing beauty of the sea and the clouds, when a young man, in the undress uniform of a lieutenant in the army, opened their gate, and came with a brisk, manly step up the walk leading to the house.
As he drew near, he lifted his military cap, bowed low to the ladies, then, stepping upon the porch, handed a card to Mrs. Travilla.
"Donald Keith," she read aloud, and holding out her hand with a sweet, welcoming smile, "How do you do, cousin?" she said; "I am very glad to see you. But to which branch do you belong?"
"I am a younger brother of the Reverend Cyril Keith, lately married to a Miss Conly," the young officer answered, as he took the offered hand. "He wrote me of your great kindness to him, and when I learned, a few hours since, who were the occupants of this cottage, Ifelt that I must come and thank you. I hope I do not intrude, cousin?"
"No, indeed; we are always ready to welcome relatives. Now let me introduce these other cousins—my boys and girls."
The young man spent the whole evening in the company of these new-found relatives, and went away highly delighted with them all.
He had several weeks' furlough, was staying at a hotel near by, and promised himself great enjoyment in the society of the dwellers in the cottage.
And they were pleased with him.
"He seems a very nice, clever fellow, mother," Edward remarked.
"Yes," she said, "he has very agreeable manners and talks well; and knowing that he comes of a godly race, I hope we shall find him in all respects a suitable companion for you and your sisters. I am glad of his coming for your sakes, for I fear you may have felt the want of young society."
"Oh, no, mamma," they all protested, "we could not have enjoyed ourselves better. It has been so nice to have you quite to ourselves."
"A mother is a mother still,The holiest thing alive."—Coleridge.
"A mother is a mother still,The holiest thing alive."—Coleridge.
"A mother is a mother still,The holiest thing alive."—Coleridge.
—Coleridge.
Thenext morning's mail brought a letter from Mr. Dinsmore, announcing his speedy coming with his wife, father, Mr. and Mrs. Edward Allison, and several of their children.
"There's an end to our good times!" sighed Violet.
"Shall you be so very sorry to see your grandpa?" her mother asked with a slight smile, knowing that her father was dearly loved by all her children, and by none more than by Violet herself.
"Oh no, mamma; nor grandma, nor any of them," was the quick reply; "only it was so nice to have you so entirely to ourselves."
"Haven't you enjoyed it too, mamma?" asked several voices, while every face turned eagerly and inquiringly to hers.
"Yes, indeed, my darlings," she said; "and yet so dearly do I love my father that my heart bounds at the very thought that he will be with me again in a few hours."
"Then, mamma, we are all glad for you," Elsie said: Violet adding, "and for ourselves,too; for it is nice to have grandpa and grandma with us; and Aunt Adelaide also; she is always so kind."
"Very different from Aunt Louise," remarked Edward. "Who would ever think they were sisters! Isa and Virginia are quite as unlike, too, though they are sisters. I hope Aunt Louise and her old-maid daughter won't visit us this summer!"
"Edward!" his mother said in a tone of reproof.
"Excuse me, mother," he said; "but if I dislike them, it is because they have always treated you so badly."
"They have never done me any injury, my son," she answered, with gentle gravity, "and I would not have you feel unkindly toward them; much less am I willing to hear you speak of them as you did just now. Virginia is not an old maid, and if she were I should be sorry to have you apply that epithet to her."
"She is several years older than I am, mother," he said, blushing.
"About three; and you are only a boy."
Edward felt this as the most cutting rebuke his gentle mother had ever administered to him, for he had begun to think of himself as a man, old enough and strong enough to be his mother's stay and support, and a guide to his younger brothers and sisters.
But sensible that he had deserved the reproof, he bore it in silence; yet could not rest until seizing an opportunity to speak to her without being overheard by others, "Dear mamma," he whispered, looking beseechingly into her eyes, "will you not forgive my thoughtless, uncharitable speech of this morning?"
"Certainly, my dear boy," she answered with one of her sweetest smiles, "and I trust you will try to cultivate more kindly feelings toward your grandpa's sister and niece, for his sake, and because it is a Christian duty."
Mr. Dinsmore and his party arrived that afternoon, and the next day were followed by Mrs. Conly and Virginia.
"We thought we would give you a surprise," was the greeting of the former: "the heat and threats of yellow fever drove us North. I scattered the younger children about among other relatives, leaving several at your house, Adelaide, then came on here with Virgie, knowing that Elsie would of course have room enough for us two."
"We will find room for you, Aunt Louise," Elsie said with pleasant cordiality, and trying hard to feel rejoiced at their coming.
A very difficult task, as they never were at the slightest pains to make themselves agreeable, and the house was already comfortably filled.
Edward waited only to shake hands hastilywith his aunt and cousin, then slipped away for a solitary stroll on the beach while he should fight down his feelings of disgust and irritation at this unwelcome and unwarrantable invasion of his mother's dwelling.
He had asked that morning if he might invite his college chum, Charlie Perrine, to spend a week or two with him, and had received a prompt and kind permission to do so. It seemed hard enough to have to entertain, instead, these relatives, between whom and himself there had always been a cordial dislike; for from early childhood he had perceived and strongly resented the envy, jealousy and ill-will indulged in by them toward his mother.
He paced hurriedly to and fro for some minutes, striving, with but indifferent success, to recover his equanimity, then stood still, gazing out to sea, half inclined to wish himself on board an outward-bound vessel in the offing.
Presently a hand took quiet possession of his arm, and turning his head he found his mother standing by his side.
"I am grieved to see my boy's face so clouded," she said in her sweet and gentle tones.
"Then, mother, it shall not be so any longer," he answered, resolutely forcing a smile. "I have been really trying to feel good-natured, but it is not easy under the circumstances. Not to me, I mean. I wish I had inherited your sweet disposition."
"Ah, you can judge only from outside appearances," she said with a sigh and a smile; "no one knows what a battle his neighbor may be fighting in his own heart, while outwardly calm and serene. I know you are disappointed because you fear you must give up inviting your friend for the present, but that will not be necessary, my dear boy. We can still manage to make room for him by a little crowding which will hurt no one. My room is so large that I can easily take Walter and all your sisters in with me, and if necessary we will pitch a tent for the servants."
"Or for Charlie and me, mother," he exclaimed in delight; "we should not mind it in the least; indeed it would be good fun to live so for a while."
At this moment they were joined by Elsie and Violet, both full of sympathy for Edward, and anxious to consult mamma as to the possibility of still making room for the comfortable accommodation of his friend.
They listened with delight to her proposed arrangement: it would be a great pleasure to them to share her room, if it would not inconvenience her, and she assured them it would not.
"I was afraid," said Elsie, "that Aunt Adelaide might hurry away to make room for the others, but now I hope she will not, for we all enjoy having her with us."
"No," Mrs. Travilla said, "we will keep her as long as we can. Ah, here come my father and grandfather. I think we shall astonish them with the news of the arrival."
"Cousin Donald is with them too," remarked Elsie. "Mamma, I think Virginia will be rather pleased to see so fine looking a gentleman haunting the house."
"Her sister's brother-in-law," said Vi. "Perhaps she will claim him as more nearly related to her than to us."
The young man had found favor with both Mr. Dinsmores, and the three were just returning from a pretty long tramp together which had caused them to miss seeing the arrival of Mrs. and Miss Conly.
The news seemed to give more surprise than pleasure.
"It was very thoughtless in Louise," the old gentleman said with some vexation, "but it is just like her. I think we must find rooms for them at one of the hotels, Elsie; for I don't see how your house is to accommodate us all."
"I do, grandpa," was her smiling rejoinder, "so make yourself perfectly easy on that score."
"I hope our excursion is not to be interfered with, cousin?" Donald said inquiringly: for arrangements had been made for a long drive that afternoon, taking in several of the neighboring sea-side resorts, and as his three ladycousins had promised to be of the party, he was loath to give it up.
"No," she said, "Aunt Adelaide and Aunt Louise will doubtless be well pleased to be left alone together for a few hours, after a separation of several years."
"Besides, both my aunt and cousin will need a long nap to refresh them after the fatigue of their journey," remarked Edward.
The young people exchanged congratulatory glances. They were all eager for the drive. It was just the day for it, they had all decided—the roads in excellent condition after the late rain, a delicious sea-breeze blowing, and light fleecy clouds tempering the heat of the July sun.
They set off directly after an early dinner—all the Dinsmores and Travillas, Mr. Allison and his children and Mr. Keith—in two covered carriages, and well provided with waterproofs for protection against a possible shower.
They were a pleasant, congenial party, the older people cheerful and companionable, the children full of life and spirits.
They had visited Seagirt, Spring Lake and Asbury Park, and were passing through Ocean Beach, when Edward, catching sight of a young couple sauntering leisurely along on the sidewalk, uttered an exclamation, "Why, there's Charlie Perrine!" then calling to the driver to stop, he sprang out and hurried toward them.
"His college chum—and how glad they are to meet," Violet said as the two were seen shaking hands in the most cordial manner.
Then Perrine introduced Edward to his companion, and the lad's sisters noticed that his face lighted up with pleased surprise as he grasped her hand.
"Why, I know her!" cried Donald. "Excuse me one moment, ladies;" and he too sprang out and hastened to join the little group on the sidewalk.
He and the lady met like very intimate friends, greeting each other as "Donald" and "Mary:" then he led her to the side of the carriage and introduced her. "My cousin Mary Keith, Uncle Donald's daughter; our cousins, Miss Elsie and Miss Violet Travilla."
The girls shook hands and exchanged glances of mutual interest and admiration. Mary had a very bright, pleasant face, dark eyes and hair, plenty of color, lady-like manners, and a stylish figure well set off by inexpensive but tasteful attire.
The other carriage, containing the older people, had now come up and halted beside the first.
There were more introductions, then Mary was persuaded to take Edward's place in the carriage with her young cousins, and drive with them to the Colorado House, where she wasstaying, while he and his friend followed on foot.
Here the whole party alighted, seated themselves on the porch and chatted together for a half hour.
"How long do you stay here, Cousin Mary?" Mrs. Travilla asked.
"Another week, Cousin Elsie; I have engaged my room for that length of time: and I wish you would let one of your girls stay with me, or both if they will, though I'm afraid that would crowd them. I should be so glad if you would. I want to become acquainted with them: and besides I have just lost my roommate, and don't like to be left alone."
After a little consultation between the elders of the party, it was decided that Violet should accept the invitation, her mother promising to send her a trunk in the morning, and Mary agreeing to return the visit later in the season, when her cousin's cottage would have parted with some of its present occupants.
Edward, too, would remain and room with Charlie Perrine, on the same floor with the girls, so that Violet would feel that she had a protector.
"I hope it will be a pleasant change for you, dear child," the mother whispered in parting from Violet, "and if you grow tired of it, you know you can come home at any time. And Edward,"she added, turning to him, "I trust your sister to your care, particularly in bathing: don't let her go in without you, and don't either of you venture far out or into any dangerous spot."
"We will be very careful, mamma," they both replied, "so do not feel in the least uneasy."
"I shall owe you a grudge for this." Donald was saying in a rueful aside to Mary.
"Why, you needn't," she returned; "you can come too, if you wish, unless you object to my society."
"That wouldn't mend matters," he answered, with a glance at the younger Elsie.
"Nonsense! I've found out already that she's engaged. Didn't you know it?"
"Not I. Well, it takes a woman to find out the secrets of her sex!"
"Then you own that a woman can keep a secret?" was her laughing rejoinder. "But do tell me," in a still lower tone, "has cousin lost her husband lately?"
"Within a year, and they were devotedly attached."
"Oh poor thing! But isn't she sweet?"
"Yes, indeed! it didn't take even me long to find that out."
The carriages rolled away amid much waving of handkerchiefs by the travellers and the little party left behind; then Mary carried Violetoff to her room for a long talk before it should be time to dress for tea, while the lads strolled away together along the beach, their tongues quite as busy as the other two: for there were various college matters to discuss, beside plans for fishing, boating, riding, and driving.
And Edward must sound his mother's praises and learn whether Charlie did not think her the very loveliest woman he ever saw.
"Yes," Charlie said with a sigh, "you are a lucky fellow, Ned. I hardly remember my mother—was only five years old when she died."
"Then I pity you with all my heart!" Edward exclaimed; "for there's nothing like a mother to love you and stand by you through thick and thin."
He turned his head away to hide the tears that sprang unbidden to his eyes, for along with his pity for his friend came a sudden recollection of that dreadful event in his childhood when by an act of disobedience he had come very near killing his dearly loved father. Ah, he should never forget his agony of terror and remorse, his fear that his mother could never love him again, or the tenderness with which she had embraced him, assuring him of her forgiveness and continued affection.
Meantime Donald was speaking in glowing terms of Cousin Mary. "One of the best girlsin the world," he pronounced her—"so kind-hearted, so helpful and industrious. Uncle's circumstances are moderate," he said; "Aunt's health has been delicate for years, and Mary, as the eldest of eight or nine children, has had her hands full. I am very glad she is taking a rest now, for she needs it. A maiden sister of her mother's is filling her place for a few weeks, she told me: else she could not have been spared from home."
"You make me glad that I left Violet with her," Mrs. Travilla said, with a look of pleased content.
Edward and his chum returned from their walk, made themselves neat, and were waiting on the piazza before the open door, as Mary and Violet came down at the call to tea.
The dining-room was furnished with small tables each accommodating eight persons. Our four young friends found seats together. The other four places at their table were occupied by two couples—a tall, gaunt, sour-visaged elderly man in green spectacles, and his meek little wife, and a small, thin, invalid old gentleman, who wore a look of patient resignation, and his wife, taller than himself by half a head.
A fine head of beautiful grey hair was the only attractive thing about her, her features were coarse and her countenance was fretful. She occupied herself in filling and emptying herplate with astonishing rapidity, and paid little or no attention to her husband, who was so crippled by rheumatism as to be almost helpless, having entirely lost the use of one hand, and so nearly that of his lower limbs that he could not walk without assistance.
He had a nurse, a young German, who was with him constantly day and night, helped him about and waited upon him, but in a very awkward fashion. The man's clumsiness was, however, borne with patience by the sufferer, and did not seem to trouble the wife.
She eyed Violet curiously between her immense mouthfuls, and whispered to her husband, loud enough for the child to hear, "Isn't that a pretty girl, William? such a handsome complexion! I reckon she paints."
The sudden crimsoning of Vi's cheek contradicted that suspicion instantly, and the woman corrected herself. "No, she don't, I see. I wonder who she is?"
"Hush, hush, Maria!" whispered her husband, "don't you see she hears you?" and he gave the young girl such a fatherly look, gentle and tender, that quick tears sprang to her eyes: it was so strong a reminder of one whose look of parental love she should never meet again on earth.
People at other tables were noticing her too, remarking upon her beauty and grace, and asking each other who she was.
"We'll soon find out, mamma; don't you see she is with Miss Keith? and she will be sure to introduce her to us," said a nice looking girl about Vi's age, addressing a sweet faced lady by whose side she sat.
They all met in the parlor shortly afterward, and Vi, Mrs. Perkins, her daughter Susie, and her son Fred, a lad of nineteen or twenty, were formally presented to each other.
"I don't want to get into a crowd; I don't care to make acquaintances," Vi had said, half tearfully.
Mary understood and respected the feeling, but answered, "Yes, dear cousin, I know: but do let me introduce Mrs. Perkins and her children. She is so sweet and lovely, a real Christian lady; and her son and daughter are very nice. We have been together a great deal, and I feel as if they were old friends."
Vi did not wonder at it after talking a little with Mrs. Perkins, who had made room for her on the sofa by her side; her thought was, "She is a little like mamma; not quite so sweet nor half so beautiful; though she is very pretty."
Several other ladies had come in by this time, the invalidgentleman'swife among the rest. "Mrs. Moses," Vi heard some one call her.
"How do you do, Miss?" she said, drawing forward an arm chair and seating herself directlyin front of Violet. "You're a new-comer,ain'tyou?"
"I came this afternoon," Vi answered, and turned to Mrs. Perkins with a remark about the changing beauty of the sea and clouds; for they were near an open window that gave them a view of old ocean.
"Where are you from?" asked Mrs. Moses.
"The South, Madame."
"Ah! I should hardly have suspected it: you've such a lovely complexion, and how beautiful your hair is! like spun gold."
The German servant-man appeared in the doorway.
"Mrs. Moshes, Herr wants to see you."
"Yes, I hear." Turning to Vi again, "Well, you must have had a long, tiresome journey; and I suppose you didn't come all alone?"
Vi let the inquiry pass unnoticed, but the woman went on, "I've never been South, but I'd like to go; perhaps I shall next winter. It might help William's rheumatism."
"Your husband wants you, Mrs. Moses," remarked Mary Keith.
"Oh yes; he's always wanting me. I'll go presently."
"Cousin," said Mary, "shall we take a stroll on the beach?"
Violet caught at the suggestion with alacrity, and they went at once, the rest of their party,and Mrs. Perkins and hers, accompanying them.
"That poor man!" sighed Mary. "I thought if we all left her, perhaps she would go to him."
"Isn't it strange?" said Susie, "he seems to love her dearly, and she to care nothing about him. And he is so nice and good and patient, and she so disagreeable."
"A very poor sort of wife, I think," pursued Mary. "She will not even sleep on the same floor with him, for fear of being disturbed when pain keeps him awake. Day and night he is left to the care of that awkward, blundering German. But there! I ought to be ashamed of myself for talking about an absent neighbor."
"I don't think you are doing any harm, Cousin Mary," said Charlie, "for we can all see how utterly selfish the woman is."
"What! are you two cousins?" asked Edward in surprise.
"First cousins, sir," returned Charlie, laughing, "sisters' children. Can't you and I claim kin, seeing she's cousin to both of us?"
A sudden dash of rain prevented Edward's reply, and sent them all scurrying into the house.