"Oh! only those
Whose souls have felt this one idolatry,
Can tell how precious is the slightest thing
Affection gives and hallows! A dead flower
Will long be kept, remembrancer of looks
That made each leaf a treasure."
--Miss Landon.
The whole family connection living in the neighborhood had dined at Ion
that Christmas day, and several had stayed to tea. But all had now gone,
the good-nights had been said among the members of the home circle, and
Elsie Travilla was alone in her own apartments.
A little weary with the cares and excitement of the day, she was half
reclining on a sofa, in dressing-gown and slippers, her beautiful hair
unbound and rippling over her shoulders, beside her a jewel-box of ebony
inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
It stood open, and the lamplight falling upon its contents was flashed
back from many a costly gem set in rings, brooches, lockets and chains of
gold.
She took them up, one by one, gazing upon each for a minute or more with a
smile, a sigh, or a falling tear, ere she laid it almost tenderly back in
its place.
So absorbed was she in the contemplation of these mementoes of the past
and the memories called up by them, that she did not hear an approaching
footstep, and deemed herself quite alone, till a hand was laid gently on
her head, and a voice said tenderly, "My darling!"
"Dear papa!" she responded, glancing up into his face with tear-dimmed
eyes, as he stood at the back of her sofa, bending over her. "Let me give
you a chair," and she would have risen to do so, but he forced her gently
back.
"No; lie still. I will help myself." And coming round in front of her, he
seated himself close at her side.
"Why look at these, if it makes you sad, my child?" he asked, noticing her
occupation.
"There is sometimes a sweetness in the tears called forth by pleasant
memories of loved ones gone before, papa," she said. "These anniversaries
will recall the dear husband who always remembered his little wife so
kindly upon each, and there is a melancholy pleasure in looking over his
Christmas gifts, I have them all here, beginning with this--the very
first. Do you remember it, papa? And this Christmas day when he gave it to
me? the first Christmas that you were with me."
She was holding up a tiny gold thimble.
"Yes, I think I do," he said. "I certainly remember the day, the first
Christmas after my return from Europe, the first on which I heard myself
addressed as papa--the sweetest of child voices calling me that, and
wishing me a merry Christmas, as the dearest, loveliest of little girls
ran into my arms. Dear daughter, what a priceless treasure you have been
to me ever since!" he added, bending over her and softly smoothing her
hair. "It has always been a joy to call you mine."
She caught his hand in hers and pressed it to her lips. "Yes, dear, dear
father! and to me to be so called. We loved one another very dearly then,
each was all the other had, and I think our mutual love has never been
less because of the other many tender ties God has given us since."
"I am sure you are right, daughter, but at that time," he added with a
smile, "you were not willing to share your father's love with another; at
least with one other whom you suspected of trying to win it. Do you
remember how you slipped away to your bed without bidding your papa
good-night, and cried yourself to sleep?"
"Yes, foolish child that I was!" she said, with a low musical laugh; "and
how you surprised me the next morning by your knowledge of my fears, and
then set them all at rest, like the dear, kind father that you were and
always have been."
"No, not always," he sighed.
"Yes, papa, always," she said with playful tenderness. "I will insist upon
that; because even when most severe with me, you did what at the time you
deemed your duty, and believed to be for my good."
"Yes, that is true, my dear, forgiving child! and yet I can never think of
the suffering you endured during the summer that succeeded the Christmas
we have been talking of, without keen remorse."
"Yet, long before the next Christmas came I was happier than ever," she
said, looking up into his face with a smile full of filial love. "It was
the first in our own dear home at the Oaks, you remember, papa. You gave
me a lovely set of pearls--necklace and bracelets--and this," taking up a
pearl ring, "was Edward's gift. Mr. Travilla he was to me then, and no
thought of one day becoming his wife even so much as entered my head. But
years afterward he told me he had it in his mind even then; had already
resolved to wait till I grew up and win me for his wife if he could."
"Yes, he told me after you were grown and he had offered himself, that it
had been love at first sight with him, little child that you were when he
first made your acquaintance. That surprised me, though less than the
discovery that you fancied one so many years your senior."
"But so good, so noble, so lovable!" she said. "Surely, it was not half so
strange, papa, as that he should fancy a foolish young thing such as I was
then; not meaning that I am yet very greatly improved," she added, with a
half tearful smile.
"I am fully satisfied with you just as you are," he said, bending down
over her and touching his lips two or three times to her forehead, "My
darling, my first-born and best-beloved child! no words can express the
love and tenderness I feel for you, or my pity for the grief which is
beyond my power to relieve."
"Dear papa, your sympathy is very sweet," she said in tremulous tones,
"very, very sweet in itself, and it helps me to a fuller realization of
the depth of meaning in those sweet words, 'Like as a father pitieth his
children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him.'"
"You cannot be wholly miserable while that precious love and pity are
yours, my dear child, even if all earthly loves should be taken from you,
which may God forbid should ever happen."
"No, papa; dearly as I loved my husband, I am happy in that divine love
still mine, though parted from him; and dearly as I love you and my
children, I know that were you all taken from me, I could still rejoice in
the love of Him who died for me, and who has said, 'I am with you alway,
even unto the end of the world.' 'I will never leave thee nor forsake
thee.' 'I have loved thee with an everlasting love.'"
Silence fell between them for some moments, both seemingly wrapped in
thought; then Mr. Dinsmore said inquiringly, "You will go to Roselands
to-morrow?"
"Yes, papa, if you go, as I heard you say you intended, and nothing
happens to prevent. Rosie was particularly delighted with Cal's
invitation," she added, smiling up at him, "because I had been telling the
story of those Christmas holidays that we have been discussing, to her and
the other children, and naturally she wants to look upon the scene of all
those important events."
"It will not be by any means her first visit to Roselands," he remarked in
a tone of surprise.
"Oh, no, sir! only the first after hearing of those interesting episodes
in her mother's life."
"But the house is not the same."
"No, sir; yet the hall and parlors, your rooms and mine are about where
and what they were in the old house."
"Ah! well I hope Rosie will enjoy it. And that you may do so, I shall
leave you now, begging you to go at once to bed. Good-night, daughter."
"Good-night, my dearest, best of fathers," she responded, putting her arms
round his neck as he stooped to give her a parting caress.
Calhoun and Arthur Conly were now joint proprietors at Roselands. "Aunt
Maria," an old negress born and bred on the estate, was their housekeeper,
and managed so well that they found themselves as comfortable as in the
days of their mother's administration.
They, with one younger sister and brother, were all of the once large
family now left to occupy the old home, and these younger two were there
now only for the Christmas holidays, and at their close would return to
distant boarding-schools. Ella, the sister, was eighteen; Ralph two years
younger.
The house whence the mother and grandfather had been carried out to their
last long home but a few months before, could not be made the scene of
mirth and jollity, but to a day of quiet social intercourse with near and
dear relatives and friends none could object; so the family at Ion had
been invited to dine there the next day, and had accepted the invitation.
Lulu had been greatly interested in Grandma Elsie's party of children as
it told of had been invited to Ion for these holidays; but she did not
covet such a father as Mr. Dinsmore; he was much too strict and severe,
she thought, with all his petting and caressing, and she would far rather
have her own papa. Still Grandma Elsie's lot, when a little girl, seemed
to her an enviable one, so beautiful and so rich, and with a nice old
mammy always ready to wait on and do everything for her; and she (Lulu)
was sure she wouldn't have minded much when such a father as Mr. Dinsmore
was vexed with her; he wouldn't have found it so easy to manage her; no
indeed! She almost thought she should enjoy trying her strength in a tilt
with him even now.
Lulu was a rebel by nature, and ever found it difficult to combat the
inclination to defy authority and assert her entire independence of
control.
But fortunately this inclination was in great measure counterbalanced by
the warmth of her affections. She was ready to love all who treated her
with justice and kindness, and her love for her father was intense. To
please him she would do or endure almost anything; that more than any
other influence had kept her on her good behavior all these weeks.
She had sometimes rebelled inwardly, but there had been no greater
outward show of it than a frown or a pout, which soon vanished under the
kind and gentle treatment she received at the hands of Grandma Elsie and
Mamma Vi.
Captain Raymond would have been much gratified could he have seen how, not
only she, but all his children, were improving morally, mentally and
physically in the wholesome atmosphere of their new home.
Gracie had gained largely in strength and vivacity, her cheeks were
rounder and rosier than when she came to Ion, her eyes brighter; and
though not yet equal to violent exercise, she could enjoy quiet plays, and
would often laugh right merrily.
She had grown very fond of Dr. Conly, or Cousin Arthur as he told her to
call him, and he of his little patient. She was frequently hovering about
him during Christmas day; and received a special invitation to Roselands.
"You and your mamma are to be my particular guests," he said, "and if you
fail to enjoy yourselves it shall be from no fault of mine."
"We shall not fail," Violet said with confidence. "How could we with Cal
and yourself for our hosts?"
The day proved propitious, all went and all enjoyed their visit, though to
the older ones there was at first a feeling of subdued sadness in
thinking of the old grandfather, whose chair was now vacant, and who had
been wont to greet their coming with words of cordial welcome.
It was after dinner that Rose claimed her mother's promise.
"Well," said Elsie, glancing dreamily about, "this parlor where we are all
sitting occupies the same part of the house, and is almost exactly like
the one where the scenes I told you of took place."
"What scenes?" asked Dr. Conly, drawing near, with a look of interest.
Mr. Dinsmore, too, turned to listen.
"I have been telling the children about the Christmas holidays at
Roselands the first winter after my father's return from Europe," she
answered. "It was before you were born, Cousin Arthur, while your mother
was still a very young girl."
"Mamma," asked Rosie, "where was grandpa sitting when you went to him and
confessed that you had let Carry Howard cut off one of your curls?"
"Near yonder window. Do you remember it, papa?" she asked, looking
smilingly at him.
"Yes, I think I have forgotten very little that ever passed between us.
You were a remarkably honest, conscientious child--would come and confess
wrong-doing that I should never have known or suspected, even when you
thought it likely I should punish you severely for it."
"Now, mamma," said Rosie, "won't you go into the hall with us and show us
just where papa caught you, and kissed you, and gave you the gold thimble?
And then your room and grandpa's?"
"Arthur, have we your permission to roam over the house?" Elsie asked,
turning to him.
"Yes; provided you will let me go along, for I am as much interested as
the children."
"Come, then," she said, rising and taking Walter's hand, Rosie, Lulu, and
Gracie keeping close to her, and Mr. Dinsmore and Arthur following.
Pausing in the hall, she pointed out the precise spot where the little
scene had been enacted between herself and him who was afterward her
husband, telling the story between a smile and a tear, then moved on up
the stairs with her little procession.
Opening a door, "This was my room," she said, "or rather my room was here
before the old house was burned down. It looks just the same, except that
the furniture is different."
Then passing on to another, "This was papa's dressing-room. I have passed
many happy hours here, sitting by his side or on his knee. It was here I
opened the trunk full of finery and toys that he brought me a few days
before that Christmas.
"Papa," turning smilingly to him, and pointing to a closed door on the
farther side of the room, "do you remember my imprisonment in that
closet?"
"Yes," he answered, with a remorseful look, "but don't speak of it. How
very ready I was to punish you for the most trifling fault."
"Indeed, papa," she answered earnestly, "it was no such trifle, for I had
disobeyed a plain order not to ask a second time for permission to do what
you had once forbidden."
"True; but I now see that a child so sensitive, conscientious and
affectionate as you were, would have been sufficiently punished by a mild
rebuke."
"A year or two later you discovered and acted upon that," she said, with
an affectionate look up into his face. "But at this time you were a very
young father; and when I remember how you took me on your knee, by the
fire there, and warmed my hands and feet, petting and fondling me, and
what a nice evening I had with you afterward, I could almost wish to go
through it all again."
"Hark! what was that?" exclaimed Rosie.
Every one paused to listen.
There was a sound of sobbing as of a child in sore distress, and it
seemed to come from the closet.
"There's somebody shut up there now," Walter said in a loud, excited
whisper. "Grandpa, can't she be let out?"
Arthur strode hastily across the room and threw the closet door wide open.
There was no one there. They glanced at each other in surprise and
perplexity.
"Ah, ha, ah, ha! um, h'm! ah, ah! the lassie's no there, eh?" said a voice
behind them, and turning quickly at the sound, whom should they see but
Mr. Lilburn standing in the open doorway leading to the hall.
"But we know all about her now, sir," said Arthur with a laugh, in which
he was joined by every one present.