"A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded,
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded."
Byron.
The next morning Mr. and Mrs. Ormsby started on their bridal trip--a
visit to his relatives, to Aunt Wealthy and the old Ohio home.
Their departure left the house strangely empty and desolate, to the
consciousness of mother and sisters especially, and Frank Osborne's
advent seemed quite a boon. An old friend who could tell them much
of others left behind in Ohio, a thorough gentleman, well educated,
refined and polished in manner, and an earnest, devoted Christian, he
proved a most agreeable companion.
All these years he had fancied himself in love with Mildred, and it was
that, more than anything else, which had drawn him thither; yet the
first sight of Ada had wholly changed the direction of his inclination.
He had thought Mildred charming in younger days, and could not see that
she had lost in attractiveness--the years seemed rather to have added
to her loveliness; her form was more finely developed, her countenance
sweeter and more intellectual, while she had lost none of the freshness
and bloom of youth: yet he found a superior fascination about Ada, and
being of an ardent temperament, open and frank in disposition, his
manner toward her soon made this apparent to the older members of the
family.
Mildred was perhaps the first to perceive it, and that without the
slightest feeling of envy or jealousy: she would be glad if Frank
proved to be one who could fill Ada's heart; and if an objection to
the possibility that presented itself arose in any one's mind, it was
merely on the score of unwillingness to part with another member of the
newly broken family circle.
They had urged Frank to make a lengthened visit, and he had promised to
remain for some days or a week or two.
He had been but recently licensed to preach, and was yet without
charge. The first Sunday after his arrival he filled Mr. Lord's pulpit,
by invitation, greatly to the delight and edification of his hearers.
The next week he preached for a vacant church a few miles distant from
Pleasant Plains, and shortly after consented to take charge of it for
the next six months.
A worldly-minded man, seeking wealth and fame, would have deemed it
a most uninviting field of labor; but Frank Osborne was one of those
who are willing to bear hardness as good soldiers of Jesus Christ, and
whose aspiration is to win souls rather than earthly riches or fame.
Yet the thought of being near enough to his old friends for frequent
intercourse may have had its influence also.
The return of the bride and groom after an absence of some six weeks
was a joyful occasion. They were received in their own cottage home,
which loving hands had set in perfect order, and rendered beautiful
and delightful with the bloom and perfume of flowers. When the tender,
loving greetings had been exchanged they made the tour of the house
attended by every member of the family, each one anxious to witness and
have a share in their pleasure.
The workers had anticipated, as the reward of their labors, great
demonstrations of delight from Zillah, and were not disappointed; she
seemed to lack words to properly express her admiration of the effects
produced or her appreciation of this evidence of their kindness and
love.
Nor was Wallace far behind in bestowing a like meed of praise and
thanks.
The welcoming feast had been prepared and was partaken of in the house
of the parents. After that Zillah began her housekeeping, enjoying it
exceedingly; for she was no novice at the business, was defthanded and
quick in her motions, had her mother and older sister near enough to be
consulted at any time; and utensils, furniture, and the snug cottage
itself were all so new, so fresh and clean.
Then Wallace was pleased with everything she did, and the work of a
family of two seemed scarce more than play to one used to the numerous
household on the other side of the street.
There was a great deal of running back and forth, a constant
interchange of good offices. During the hours that business kept
Wallace at the office, Zillah and Ada were almost sure to be together
in one home or the other.
It was not long before the former discovered that Frank Osborne was a
frequent visitor at her father's, and began to suspect what was the
particular attraction that drew him thither.
"I was not at all displeased at the time, as things turned out, that
Mr. Lord went fishing on my wedding day and forgot to marry me, but now
I begin to feel quite grateful to him," she said teasingly to Ada one
day as they sat alone together, with their sewing, in her own pretty
parlor.
"Why so?" Ada asked, blushing consciously in spite of herself.
"Because in after years it will seem very fitting that my
brother-in-law had the tying of the knot between Wallace and me."
"That strikes me as very much like counting your chickens before they
are hatched," returned Ada demurely. "If you are hinting at me, please
understand that I've always meant to be the old-maid daughter to stay
at home and take care of the dear father and mother."
"Oh, yes, but folks often miss their vocation. However, I trust you
will not; and I think you were cut out for a minister's wife. And O Ada
dear," she went on, dropping her work to put her arms about her sister,
"I want you to know the bliss of wedded love. I never was so happy in
my life as now. And I do believe Frank is almost as nice as Wallace,
or at least nicer than anybody else except Wallace," she corrected
herself hastily, and with a merry laugh; "so don't reject him, there's
a dear."
"Not until he asks," Ada said a trifle disdainfully. "My promises can
go no further than that at present. I have an idea that he was formerly
one of Mildred's admirers. So let him try for her; she is far better
fitted than I for the duties and responsibilities of the position."
"Now don't be naughty and proud," Zillah said gayly; "you may as well
take Mildred's leavings as I, and I can assure you they may be very
nice indeed. What may have been in the past," she added more gravely,
"I do not know, but very sure I am that now there is no fancy on either
side."
"A letter for you, Ada!" cried Fan, coming running in at the open door.
Ada took it quietly and broke the seal.
"Now here's an offer worth having," she remarked with biting sarcasm,
as she turned the page and glanced at the signature, then held it so
that Zillah could see what it was. "The bald eagle is still in search
of a mate."
"I told you so," was Zillah's laughing rejoinder.
"Lend me an envelope, will you?" Ada said, rising with the letter in
her hand, a look of quiet, half-scornful determination in her face;
"and he shall not be kept long waiting for his answer."
"What shall you say?" Zillah asked as she brought the envelope, pen,
and ink.
"Nothing. Silence cannot be construed to mean consent in this instance.
There, Fan, please return it to the office," as she sealed the envelope
and handed it to the child; the letter inside, Nicholas Ransquattle's
address on the outside.
The needles were plied in silence for a few moments; then Zillah said,
with a little amused laugh, "You made short work with him."
"It seems to be the way of the family," returned Ada, joining in the
laugh.
"Well, only treat Frank as differently as possible--that is, with the
greatest favor--and I'll forgive you for this."
Frank was too wise to speak hastily, therefore the more likely to win
at the last.
One day in the ensuing autumn Mrs. Keith received a letter from her
cousin Horace Dinsmore, saying that he was travelling with his little
daughter in the region of the Great Lakes, and could not persuade
himself to pass so near Pleasant Plains without paying her a visit:
they might be expected in a day or two after the receipt of this
communication.
This news was received with great delight by the entire family.
Mildred's heart bounded at the thought of again clasping little Elsie
in her arms; for through all these years of separation the little fair
one had been cherished in her very heart of hearts.
Every preparation was at once set on foot for entertaining the coming
guests in the most hospitable manner.
There had been an occasional interchange of letters which had kept
each of the two families informed of any event of unusual importance
occurring in the other. Horace had written his cousin Marcia on his
return from Europe two years and a half before this, again upon his
recovery from serious illness a year later, and several times since.
In one of his late letters he had spoken very feelingly of his child's
recovery from an illness that had nearly cost her life, expressing his
gratitude to God for her restoration to health, and that the trial had
been blessed to himself in leading him to Christ.
Mrs. Keith had loved him from his early childhood with a sisterly
affection, and now there was a new tie between them; for they were
disciples of the same Master, servants of the same Lord. And it was in
answer to long continued, fervent supplication on her part that this
priceless blessing had come to him. What wonder that her heart bounded
at the thought of soon seeing him and little Elsie, whom she was ready
to love almost as she loved her own offspring, because she was Horace's
child, and because of all that Mildred had said of her loveliness of
character and person.
The letter telling of his conversion had brought a double delight to
both Mildred and her mother, in the joy a Christian must ever feel in
the salvation of a soul, the consecration of another heart and life to
the service of Christ, and in the assurance that the darling Elsie was
no longer left to an unsatisfied hunger for parental love; this the
tone of his letter made very evident; his heart seemed overflowing with
the tenderest fatherly affection; and indeed he said plainly that her
death would have been worse to him than the loss of everything else he
possessed.
But he did not go into particulars in regard to the nature or exciting
cause of her illness.
On the deck of a steamer rapidly ploughing her way down Lake Michigan,
sat a gentleman with a little girl on his knee. His arm encircled her
waist, hers was about his neck. He was a very handsome man, apparently
considerably under thirty years of age; hardly old enough, a stranger
would judge, to be the father of the bewitchingly beautiful child he
held, though there seemed a world of fatherly affection in the clasp of
his arm and the tenderness of his gaze into the sweet face now resting
on his shoulder, while the soft brown eyes looked out dreamily over the
water, now lifted to his with an expression of confiding filial love
and reverence.
"Papa, I am having a delightful time," she said, softly stroking his
face and beard with her small white hand.
"I am very glad, my darling, that you enjoy it so much, and I trust it
is doing you good," he answered.
"Yes, papa, but I don't need it; I'm as well as can be now."
"Free from disease, but not yet quite so strong as papa would like to
see you," he said, with a smile and a tender caress.
"Shall we be long on this boat, papa?"
"Until some time to-morrow morning, when, if all goes well, we expect
to land at Michigan City, where we will take the stage for Pleasant
Plains, the home of our cousins the Keiths. Do you remember your Cousin
Mildred?"
"A very little, papa; I don't remember her looks, except that they were
pleasant to me when she used to take me on her lap and hug and kiss me."
"Your grandpa wrote me that she was very kind to you. She is the only
one of the family you have ever met."
"Please tell me about the rest, papa. Are Cousin Milly's father and
mother my uncle and aunt?"
"You may say Uncle Stuart and Aunt Marcia to them, though they are
really your cousins. Well, what is it?" seeing a doubtful, troubled
look in the eyes lifted to his.
"Please papa, don't be vexed with me," she murmured, dropping her eyes
and blushing deeply, "but would it--be quite--quite true and right to
call them so when they are not really?"
He drew her closer and softly kissing the glowing cheek, "I should
prefer to have you call them aunt and uncle," he said, "and I cannot
see anything wrong or untrue in doing so; but if it is a question of
conscience with you, my darling, I shall not insist."
"Thank you, dear papa," she said, looking up gratefully and drawing a
long sigh of relief; "but I want to do as you wish; please tell me why
you do not think it wrong."
"They may adopt you as their niece, you them as your uncle and aunt,"
he answered, smiling down at the grave, earnest little face.
"What a nice idea, papa!" she exclaimed with a low, musical laugh, her
face growing bright and glad; "that makes it all right, I think. I knew
about adopted children and adopted parents, but I didn't think of any
other adopted relations."
"But do you not see that that must follow as a matter of course?"
A middle-aged colored woman had drawn near carrying a light shawl.
"De air gettin' little bit cool, I tink, massa," she remarked, in a
respectful tone. "I'se 'fraid my chile cotch cold."
"Quite right, Aunt Chloe," he returned, taking the shawl from her and
wrapping it carefully about the little girl.
But he had scarcely done so when a sudden storm of wind came sweeping
down upon the lake, from the northwest, and drove them into the cabin.
There were other passengers, but the saloon was not crowded, and for a
time proved a pleasant enough retreat. Supper was served presently and
partaken of in tolerable comfort, though the lake was growing rough,
and the vessel rolling and pitching in a way that made it a little
difficult to keep the dishes on the table and eat and drink without
accident. But, as they were not supposed to be in danger, the little
mishaps merely gave occasion for mirth and pleasantry.
But ere long the storm increased in violence, the wind blowing a gale,
accompanied with thunder, lightning, and torrents of rain. The faces of
men and women grew pale and anxious, conversation had almost ceased,
and scarce a sound was heard but the war of the elements mingled with
the heavy tread of the sailors and the hoarse commands of the captain
and mate.
The little girl, seated on a sofa by her father's side, crept closer to
him, with a whispered, "Papa, is there any danger?"
"I'm afraid there is, my darling," he said, putting his arm about her
and drawing her closer still; "but we will trust in Him who holds
the winds and the waters in the hollow of his hand. I do not need to
remind my little Elsie that no real evil can befall us if we are his
children."
"No, papa; and oh, how sweet it is to know that."
"It is your bedtime," he said, glancing at his watch.
"But you will not send me away from you to-night, dear papa?" and she
looked pleadingly into his face.
"No, my precious child! no, indeed! not for all I am worth would I
let you out of my sight in this storm, but I will go with you to your
state-room."
He half led, half carried her, for the vessel was now plunging so madly
through the water, with such rolls and lurches, that it was no easy
matter for a landsman to keep his feet.
They found Aunt Chloe in the state-room waiting to disrobe her nursling
and prepare her for her night's rest; but Mr. Dinsmore dismissed her,
saying Elsie should not be undressed, as there was no knowing what
might occur before morning.
"Don't you undress, either, Aunt Chloe," he added, as she kissed the
child good-night and turned to go. "Lie down in your berth and sleep if
you can; but so that you will be ready to leave it the instant you are
called. Give John the same direction from me, and tell him to keep near
the door of my state-room."
Left alone with his little girl, he knelt with her by his side, his arm
supporting her while he commended both her and himself, as well as the
others on the vessel, and dear ones far away, to the protecting care of
Him who neither slumbers nor sleeps. Then lifting the child in his arms
he held her to his heart for a moment, caressing her with exceeding
tenderness.
"My darling, you shall lie in your father's arms to-night," he said, as
he laid her in the lower berth and stretched himself by her side.
"That will be so nice," she said, creeping close and laying her cheek
to his; "it would make me glad of the storm, if I were quite, quite
sure that the boat will get safe into port. But O papa! if it shouldn't
I am so glad that you are not here without me."
"Why, my pet?"
"Because if you--if anything happens to you, I want to be with you and
share it. Papa, papa, don't try to save me if you cannot be saved too,
for I couldn't bear to live without you!" she concluded with a low cry
of mingled grief, terror, and entreaty, as she clung about his neck,
dropping tears on his face.
"God grant we may not be parted," he returned, holding her close. "We
will cling together through whatever comes. But now dearest, try to
go to sleep, fearing nothing, for you are not only in the arms of your
earthly father, but the Everlasting Arms are underneath and around both
you and me. We have asked our heavenly Father to take care of us, and
we know that he is the hearer and answerer of prayer."
"And I'm sure Miss Rose prays for us too, papa," she whispered, "she
loves us so dearly; and I do believe God will spare us to her. But if
he does not see best to do that, he will take us to himself, and O
dear, dear papa! I think it would be very sweet for you and me to go to
heaven together!"
"Very sweet indeed, my precious one! very bitter for either to be left
here bereft of the other. But let us not anticipate evil. Still," he
added after a moment's thought, "it is right and wise to be prepared
for any event; so, dear one, should I be lost and you saved, tell Mr.
Travilla I gave you to him; that I want him to adopt you as his own. I
know he will esteem it the greatest kindness I could possibly have done
him, and will be to you a father tender, loving, and true; a better one
than I have been." His tones grew husky and tremulous.
"Papa, papa, don't!" she cried, bursting into sobs and tears, and
clinging to him with an almost deathlike grasp. "I can't bear it! I
don't want to live without you! I won't! I will drown too, if you do!"
"Hush, hush, darling! do not talk so; that would not be right; we must
never throw away our lives unless in trying to save others," he said,
soothing her with the tenderest caresses. "But there, I didn't mean to
distress you so; and something seems to tell me we shall both be saved.
Let me wipe away your tears. There, do not cry any more; give papa
another kiss, then lay your head down upon his breast and go to sleep."
She obeyed; he clasped her close with one arm, while the other hand was
passed caressingly again and again over her hair and cheek. Presently
her quietude and regular breathing told him that she slept.
He lay very still that her slumbers might not be disturbed, but thought
was busy in his brain, thought of the past, the present, the future; of
the fair young girl away in a distant city, expecting soon to become
his bride; of the beloved child sleeping on his breast; of the father
who regarded him with such pride and affection as his first-born, "his
might and the beginning of his strength;" how would his death affect
them in case he were lost this night? Ah, Rose might console herself
with another lover; his father had other sons; but Elsie? ah, he was
sure his place in her heart could never be filled; Travilla would be
kind and tender, but--as she herself had once said--he was not her own
father and could never be, even if he gave her to him. What a precious,
loving child she was! how deep and strong her filial affection! she
seemed to have no memory for past severity on his part (ah, what
would he not give to be able to blot it from his own remembrance, or
rather that it had never been!), but to dwell with delight upon every
act, word, and look of love he had ever bestowed upon her. Ah, the
bitterness of death, should it come, would be the parting from her;
the leaving her behind to meet life's dangers and trials bereft of his
protecting love and care.
But insensibly waking thought merged into dreams; then his senses were
wrapped in profounder slumber, and at length he awoke to find that the
storm had passed, the sun arisen, and the vessel was nearing port.