"In this wild world the fondest and the best
Are the most tried, most troubled, and distress'd."
CRABBE.
It was about a week after this that Elsie's grandfather handed her a
letter directed to her in her father's handwriting, and the little girl
rushed away to her room with it, her heart beating wildly between hope
and fear. Her hand trembled so that she could scarcely tear it open, and
her eyes were so dimmed with tears that it was some moments before she
could read a line.
It was kind, yes, even affectionate, and in some parts tender. But ah! it
has brought no comfort to the little girl! else why does she finish with
a burst of tears and sobs, and sinking upon her knees, hide her face in
her hands, crying with a bitter, wailing cry, "Oh, papa! papa! papa!"
He told her of the estate he had purchased, and the improvements he had
been making; of a suite of rooms he had had prepared and furnished
expressly for her, close to his own apartments--and of the pleasant home
he hoped they would have there together, promising to dispense with a
governess and teach her himself, for that he knew she would greatly
prefer.
He drew a bright picture of the peaceful, happy life they might lead;
but finished by telling her that the condition was entire, unconditional
submission on her part, and the alternative a boarding-school, at a
distance from home and friends.
He had, on separating her from her nurse, forbidden her to hold any
communication with her, or even to ride in the direction of the Oaks--as
his estate was called--and Elsie had scrupulously obeyed him; but now he
bade her go and see the lovely home and beautiful apartments he had
prepared for her, and judge for herself of the happiness she might enjoy
there--loved, and caressed, and taught by him--and then decide.
"If she were ready to give up her wilfulness," he wrote, "she might
answer him immediately; and he would then return and their new home
should receive them, and their new life begin at once. But if she were
still inclined to be stubborn and rebellious, she must take a month to
consider, ere he would receive her reply."
Ah! to little Elsie it was a most enchanting picture he had drawn. To
live in her father's house--his own home and hers--to be his constant
and loved companion--to exchange Miss Day's teaching for his--to walk,
to ride, to sit with him--in a word, to live in the sunshine of his
love--oh, it would be paradise upon earth!
And then the alternative! Oh, how dreadful seemed to the shrinking,
sensitive child, the very thought of being sent away amongst entire
strangers, who could not be expected to care for her, or love her; who
would have no sympathy with her highest hopes and desires, and instead of
assisting her to walk in the narrow way, would strive to turn her feet
aside into the paths of worldly conformity and sin: for, alas! she well
knew it was only to the care of such persons her father would be likely
to commit her, wishing, as he did, to root out of her mind what he was
pleased to call the "narrow prejudices of her unfortunate early
training." Poor child! she shrank from it in terror and dismay.
But should she choose that which her poor, hungry heart so yearned
for--the home with her father--she must pledge herself to take as her
rule of faith and practice, _not_ God's holy word, which had hitherto
been her guide-book, but her father's wishes and commands, which she well
knew would often be entirely opposed to its teachings.
It was indeed a hard choice; but Elsie could not hesitate where the path
of duty was so plain. She seemed to hear a voice saying to her: "This is
the way, walk ye in it." "We ought to obey God rather than men."
"Ah!" she murmured, "I _cannot_ do this great wickedness and sin against
God, for if my earthly father's frown is so dreadful, so _very_ hard to
bear, how much worse would be my heavenly Father's? But, oh, that
boarding-school! How can I ever endure its trials and temptations? I am
so weak and sinful! Ah! if papa would but spare me this trial--if he
would only let me stay at home--but he will not--for he has _said_ I must
go, and never breaks his word;" and again her tears fell fast, but she
dashed them away and took up her Bible.
It opened at the fiftieth chapter of Isaiah, and her eye fell upon
these words: "For the Lord God will help me: therefore shall I not be
confounded: therefore have I set my face like a flint, and I know that
I shall not be ashamed. Who is among you that feareth the Lord, that
obeyeth the voice of his servant, that walketh in darkness and hath no
light? let him trust in the name of the Lord, and stay upon his God."
Ah! here was comfort. "The Lord God will help me!" she repeated; and
bowing her face over the holy book she gave thanks for the precious
promise, and earnestly, tearfully pleaded that it might be fulfilled
unto her.
Then rising from her knees, she bathed her eyes and rang for Fanny to
prepare her for her ride. It was the usual hour for it, her horse was
already at the door, and very soon the little girl might have been seen
galloping up the road towards the Oaks, quite alone, excepting that Jim,
her constant attendant, rode some yards in the rear.
It was a pleasant summer morning; there had been just rain enough the
night before to cool the air and lay the dust, and everything was looking
fresh and beautiful--and had the little Elsie's heart been as light and
free from care as would have seemed natural to one of her age, she would
no doubt have enjoyed her ride extremely. It was but a short one, and the
place well known to her, for she had often passed it, though she had
never yet been in the grounds.
In a few moments she reached the gate, and Jim having dismounted and
opened it for her, she rode leisurely up a broad, gravelled carriage-way,
which wound about through the grounds, giving the traveller a number of
beautiful views ere he reached the house, a large building of dark-gray
stone, which stood so far back, and was so entirely hidden by trees and
shrubbery, as to be quite invisible from the highway. Now the road was
shaded on either hand by large trees, their branches almost meeting
overhead, and anon, an opening in their ranks afforded a glimpse of some
charming little valley, some sequestered nook amongst the hills, some
grassy meadow, or field of golden wheat, or a far-off view of the sea.
"Oh, how lovely!" murmured the little girl, dropping the reins on her
horse's neck and gazing about her with eyes now sparkling with pleasure,
now dimmed with tears; for, alas! these lovely scenes were not for her;
at least not now, and it might be, never; and her heart was very sad.
At length she reached the house. Chloe met her at the door, and clasped
her to her bosom with tears of joy and thankfulness.
"Bless de Lord for his goodness in sendin' my chile back to her ole mammy
again," she said; "I'se so glad, darlin', so berry glad!"
And as she spoke she drew the little girl into a pleasant room, fitted up
with books and pictures, couches and easy-chairs and tables, with every
convenience for writing, drawing, etc.
"Dis am Massa Horace's study," she said, in answer to the eager,
inquiring glance Elsie sent round the room, while she removed her hat
and habit, and seated her in one of the softly-cushioned chairs; "an'
de next room is your own little sittin' room, an' jes de prettiest ever
was seen, your ole mammy tinks; and now dat she's got her chile back
again she'll be as happy as de day am long."
"Oh, mammy," sobbed the child, "I am not to stay."
Chloe's look of delight changed to one of blank dismay.
"But you are comin' soon, darlin'?" she said inquiringly. "I tink Massa
Horace 'tends to be here 'fore long, sartain, kase he's had de whole
house fixed up so fine; an' I'se sure he never take so much trouble, an'
spend such loads ob money fixin' up such pretty rooms for you, ef he
didn't love you dearly, an' 'tend to have you here 'long with himself."
Elsie shook her head sorrowfully. "No, mammy, he says not unless I give
up my wilfulness, and promise to do exactly as he bids me; and if I will
not do that, I am to be sent away to boarding-school."
The last words came with a great sob, as she flung herself into Chloe's
outstretched arms, and hid her face on her bosom.
"Poor darlin'! poor little pet!" murmured the nurse, hugging her tight,
while her own tears fell in great drops on the golden curls. "I thought
your troubles were all over. I s'posed Massa Horace had found out you
wasn't bad after all, an' was comin' right home to live with you in dis
beautiful place. But dere, don't, don't you go for to break your little
heart 'bout it, dear; I'se sure de good Lord make um all come right in
de end."
Elsie made no reply, and for a little while they mingled their tears in
silence. Then she raised her head, and gently releasing herself from
Chloe's embrace, said, "Now, mammy, I must go all about and see
everything, for that was papa's command."
Chloe silently led the way through halls, parlors, drawing-room,
library, dining, sitting and bed-rooms, servants' apartments, kitchen,
pantry, and all; then out into the grounds, visiting in turn vegetable
and flower gardens, lawn, hot-houses and grapery; and finally, bringing
the little girl back to her papa's study, she led her from there into
his bed-room and dressing-room, and then to her own apartments, which
she had reserved to the last. These were three--bed-room, sitting-room,
and dressing-room--all beautifully furnished with every comfort and
convenience.
Elsie had gazed on all with a yearning heart, and eyes constantly
swimming in tears. "Ah! mammy," she exclaimed more than once, "what a
lovely, _lovely_ home! how happy we might be here!"
The sight of her father's rooms and her own affected her the most, and
the tears fell fast as she passed slowly from one to another. Her own
little sitting-room was the last; and here sinking down in an easy-chair,
she gazed about her silently and tearfully. On one side the windows
looked out upon a beautiful flower-garden, while beyond were hills and
woods; on the other, glass doors opened out upon a grassy lawn, shaded by
large trees, and beyond, far away in the distance, rolled the blue sea;
all around her she saw the evidences of a father's thoughtful love; a
beautiful piano, a harp, a small work-table, well furnished with every
requisite; books, drawing materials--everything to give pleasure and
employment; while luxurious couches and easy-chairs invited to rest and
repose. Several rare pictures, too, adorned the walls.
Elsie was very fond of paintings, and when she had gazed her fill upon
the lovely landscape without, she turned from one of these to another
with interest and pleasure; but one was covered, and she was in the act
of raising her hand to draw aside the curtain, when her nurse stopped
her, saying, "Not now, darlin', try de piano first."
She opened the instrument as she spoke, and Elsie, running her fingers
over the keys, remarked that it was the sweetest-toned she had ever
heard.
Chloe begged her to play, urging her request on the plea that it was so
very long since she had heard her, and she might not have another
opportunity soon.
Just at that instant a little bird on a tree near the door poured forth
his joy in a gush of glad melody, and Elsie, again running her fingers
lightly over the keys, sang with touching sweetness and pathos--
"Ye banks an' braes o' bonny Doon,
How can ye look sae bright an' fair?
How can you sing, ye little bird,
An' I sae weary, full of care?" etc.
The words seemed to come from her very heart, and her voice, though sweet
and clear, was full of tears.
Chloe sobbed aloud, and Elsie, looking lovingly at her, said softly,
"Don't, dear mammy! I will sing a better one;" and she played and sang--
"He doeth all things well."
Then rising, she closed the instrument, saying, "Now, mammy, let me see
the picture."
Chloe then drew aside the curtain; and Elsie, with clasped hands and
streaming eyes, stood for many minutes gazing upon a life-sized and
speaking portrait of her father.
"Papa! papa!" she sobbed, "my own darling, precious papa! Oh! could you
but know how dearly your little Elsie loves you!"
"Don't now, darlin'! don't take on so dreadful! It jes breaks your ole
mammy's heart to see her chile so 'stressed," Chloe said, passing her arm
around the little girl's waist, and laying her head on her bosom.
"Oh, mammy, will he ever smile on me again? Shall I ever live with him in
this dear home?" sobbed the poor child. "Oh! it is hard, hard to give it
all up--to have papa always displeased with me. Oh, mammy, there is such
a weary aching at my heart--is it _never_ to be satisfied?"
"My poor, poor chile! my poor little pet, I'se _sure_ it'll all come
right by-an'-by," replied Chloe soothingly, as soon as emotion would
suffer her to speak. "You know it is de Lord that sends all our
'flictions, an' you must 'member de pretty words you was jes a singin',
'He doeth _all_ things well.' He says, 'What I do thou knowest not now,
but thou shalt know here after.' De great God can change your father's
heart, and 'cline him to 'spect your principles, and I _do_ blieve he
will do it."
Elsie sobbed out her dread of the boarding-school, with its loneliness
and its temptations.
"Now don't you go for to be 'fraid of all dat, darlin'," replied her
nurse. "Has you forgotten how it says in de good book, 'Lo, I am with you
_always_, even unto the end of the world'? an' if _he_ is with you, who
can hurt you? Jes _nobody_."
A text came to Elsie's mind: "The eternal God is thy refuge, and
underneath are the everlasting arms!" and lifting her head, she dashed
away her tears.
"No," she said, "I will _not_ be afraid; at least I will _try_ not to
be. 'The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the Lord
is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?' But, oh! mammy,
I must go now, and I feel as if I were saying farewell to you and
this sweet home forever; as if I were never to live in these pretty
rooms--never to see them again."
"Hush! hush, darlin'! 'tain't never best to borrow trouble, an' I'se sure
you'll come back one ob dese days," replied Chloe, forcing herself to
speak cheerfully, though her heart ached as she looked into the soft,
hazel eyes, all dimmed with tears, and marked how thin and pale the dear
little face had grown.
Elsie was passing around the room again, taking a farewell look at each
picture and piece of furniture; then she stood a moment gazing out over
the lawn, to the rolling sea beyond.
She was murmuring something to herself, and Chloe started as her ear
faintly caught the words: "In my Father's house are many mansions."
"Mammy!" said the child, suddenly turning and taking her hand, "look
yonder!" and she pointed with her finger. "Do you see that beautiful,
tall tree that casts such a thick shade? I want to be buried right there,
where papa can see my grave when he sits in here, and think that I am
with him yet. When I am gone, mammy, you must tell him that I told you
this. It would be so pleasant to be there--it is such a lovely spot, and
the distant murmur of the sea seems like a lullaby to sing the weary one
to rest." She added, dreamily, "I would like to lie down there now."
"Why, what you talkin' 'bout, Miss Elsie? My chile musn't say such
tings!" exclaimed Chloe in great alarm. "Your ole mammy 'spects to die
long 'nough 'fore you do. You's berry young, an? 'tain't worth while to
begin talkin' 'bout dyin' yet."
Elsie smiled sadly.
"But you know, mammy," she said, "that death often comes to the youngest.
Mamma died young, and so may I. I am afraid it isn't right, but sometimes
I am so sad and weary that I cannot help longing very much to die, and go
to be with her and with Jesus; for they would always love me, and I
should never be lonely any more. Oh! mammy, mammy, must we part?--shall
I ever see you again?" she cried, throwing herself into her nurse's arms.
"God bless an' keep you, darlin'!" Chloe said, folding her to her heart;
"de good Lord take care ob my precious lamb, an' bring her back to her
ole mammy again, 'fore long."
Elsie shut herself into her own room on her return to Roselands, and was
not seen again that day by any one but her maid, until just at dusk
Adelaide rapped softly at her door.
Elsie's voice, in a low, tremulous tone, answered, "Come in," and
Adelaide entered.
The little girl was just in the act of closing her writing-desk, and her
aunt thought she had been weeping, but the light was so uncertain that
she might have been mistaken.
"My poor darling!" she said in low, pitiful accents, as, passing her arm
around the child's waist, she drew her down to a seat beside herself upon
the sofa.
Elsie did not speak, but dropping her head upon Adelaide's shoulder,
burst into tears.
"My poor child! don't cry so; better days will come," said her aunt
soothingly, running her fingers through Elsie's soft curls.
"I know what has been the trial of to-day," she continued, still using
the same gentle, caressing tone, "for I, too, had a letter from your
papa, in which he told me what he had said to you. You have been to see
your new home. I have seen it several times and think it very lovely, and
some day I hope and expect you and your papa will be very happy there."
Elsie shook her head sorrowfully.
"Not _now_, I know," said Adelaide, "for I have no need to ask what your
decision has been; but I am hoping and praying that God may work the same
change in your father's views and feelings which has been lately wrought
in mine; and then he will love you all the better for your steadfast
determination to obey God rather than man."
"Oh, Aunt Adelaide! will it _ever_ be?" sighed the poor child; "the time
seems so very long! It is so dreadful to live without my papa's love!"
"He does love you, Elsie, and I really think he suffers nearly as much
as you do; but he thinks he is right in what he requires of you, and he
is so very determined, and so anxious to make a gay, fashionable woman
of you--cure you of those absurd, puritanical notions, as he expresses
it--that I fear he will never relent until his heart is changed; but God
is able to do that."
"Oh, Aunt Adelaide!" said the little girl mournfully, "pray for me, that
I may be enabled to wait patiently until that time shall come, and never
permitted to indulge rebellious feelings towards papa."
Adelaide kissed her softly. "Poor child!" she whispered, "it is a hard
trial; but try, dearest, to remember who sends it."
She was silent a moment; then said, reluctantly, "Elsie, your papa has
entrusted me with a message to you, which I was to deliver after your
visit to the Oaks, unless you had then come to the resolution to comply
with his wishes, or rather, his commands."
She paused, and Elsie, trembling, and almost holding her breath, asked
fearfully, "What is it, Aunt Adelaide?"
"Poor darling!" murmured Adelaide, clasping the little form more closely,
and pressing her lips to the fair brow; "I wish I could save you from it.
He says that if you continue obdurate, he has quite determined to send
you to a convent to be educated."
As Adelaide made this announcement, she pitied the child from the bottom
of her heart; for she knew that much of Elsie's reading had been on the
subject of Popery and Papal institutions; that she had pored over
histories of the terrible tortures of the Inquisition and stories of
martyrs and captive nuns, until she had imbibed an intense horror and
dread of everything connected with that form of error and superstition.
Yet, knowing all this, Adelaide was hardly prepared for the effect of
her communication.
"Oh, Aunt Adelaide!" almost shrieked the little girl, throwing her arms
around her aunt's neck, and clinging to her, as if in mortal terror,
"Save me! save me! Oh! tell papa I would rather he would kill me at once,
than send me to such a place."
And she wept and sobbed, and wrung her hands in such grief and terror,
that Adelaide grew absolutely frightened.
"They will not dare to hurt you, Elsie," she hastened to say.
"Oh, they will! they will!--they will try to make me go to mass, and
pray to the Virgin, and bow to the crucifixes; and when I refuse, they
will put me in a dungeon and torture me."
"Oh, no, child," replied Adelaide soothingly, "they will not _dare_ to do
so to _you_, because you will not be a nun, but only a boarder, and your
papa would be sure to find it all out."
"No, no!" sobbed the little girl, "they will hide me from papa when he
comes, and tell him that I want to take the veil, and refuse to see him;
or else they will say that I am dead and buried. Oh, Aunt Adelaide, beg
him not to put me there! I shall go crazy! I feel as if I were going
crazy now!" and she put her hand to her head.
"Poor, poor child!" said Adelaide, weeping. "I wish it was in my power to
help you. I would once have advised you to submit to all your father
requires. I cannot do that now, but I will return some of your lessons to
me. It is God, my poor darling, who sends you this trial, and he will
give you strength according to your day. _He_ will be with you, wherever
you are, even should it be in a convent; for you know he says: '_I_ will
_never_ leave thee, nor forsake thee;' and 'not a hair of your head shall
fall to the ground without your Father.'"
"Yes, I know! I know!" Elsie answered, again pressing her hands to her
head; "but I cannot think, and everything seems so dreadful."
Adelaide was much alarmed, for Elsie looked quite wild for a moment; but
after staying with her for a considerable time, saying all she could to
soothe and comfort her--reminding her that it would be some weeks ere the
plan could be carried out, and that in that time something might occur to
change her father's mind, she left her, though still in deep distress,
apparently calm and composed.