"Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,
'Tis woman's whole existence."
--_Byron._
Finding her own thoughts full of Molly and her troubles to the exclusion
of everything else, Elsie presently dismissed her little ones to their
play, spent a few moments in consulting her best Friend, then went in
search of her father.
She would not betray Molly even to him, but it would be safe, helpful,
comforting to confide her own doubts, fears and anxieties.
She found him in the library, and alone. He was standing before a window
with his back toward her as she entered, and did not seem to hear her
light footsteps till she was close at his side; then turning hastily, he
caught her in his arms, strained her to his breast, and kissed her again
and again with passionate fondness.
"What is it, papa?" she asked in surprise, looking up into his face and
seeing it full of emotion that seemed a strange blending of pain and
pleasure.
"My darling, my darling!" he said in low, tremulous tones, holding her
close, and repeating his caresses, "how shall I ever make up to you for
the sorrows of your infancy? the culpable, heartless neglect with which
your father treated you then? I see I surprise you by referring to it
now, but I have been talking with one of the old servants who retains a
vivid remembrance of your babyhood here, and your heart-rending grief
when forced away from your home and almost all you had learned to love.
Such a picture of it has she given me that I fairly long to go back to
that time and take my baby girl to my heart and comfort her."
"Dear papa, I hardly remember it now," she said, laying her head down on
his breast; "and oh I have the sweetest memories of years and years of
the tenderest fatherly love and care!--love and care that surround me
still and form one of my best and dearest earthly blessings. If the Lord
will, may we long be spared to each other, my dear, dear father!"
His response was a fervent "Amen," and sitting down upon a sofa, he drew
her to a seat by his side.
"I have come to you for help and advice in a new difficulty, papa," she
said. "I fear I have made a sad mistake in allowing Mr. Embury's visits
here; and yet--I cannot exclude from my house gentlemen visitors of
unexceptionable character."
"No; and he appears to be all that, and more--a sincere, earnest
Christian. But what is it that you regret or fear? Elsie is engaged,
Violet very young, and for Isa--supposing there were any such
prospect--it would be a most suitable match."
"But Molly?"
"Molly!" he exclaimed with a start. "Poor child! she could never think
of marriage!"
"No, papa, but hearts don't reason and love comes unbidden."
"And you think she cares for him?"
"It would not be strange if she should; he is a very agreeable man,
and--Did you notice them last night? I thought his actions decidedly
loverlike, and there was something in her face that made me tremble for
the poor child's future peace of mind."
"Poor child!" he echoed; "poor, poor child! I am glad you called my
attention to it. I must give Embury a hint: he cannot, of course, be
thinking what he is about: for I am sure he is not the heartless wretch
he would be if he could wreck her happiness intentionally."
"Thank you, dear papa. You will know exactly how to do it without the
least compromise of the dear girl's womanly pride and delicacy of
feeling, or offending or hurting him.
"You spoke just now of Isa," she went on presently. "I should be glad if
she and Mr. Embury fancied each other; such a match would be very
pleasing to Aunt Louise on account of his wealth and social position,
little as she would like his piety, but--"
"Well, daughter?"
"Have you noticed how constantly Cyril seeks her companionship? how
naturally the others leave those two to pair off together? They sit and
read or chat together by the hour out yonder under the trees; scarce a
day passes without its long, lonely ramble or ride. He talks to her of
his work too, in which his whole heart is engaged; listens attentively
to all she says--turning in the most interested way to her for an
opinion, no matter what subject is broached; listens with delight to her
music too, and sometimes reads his sermons to her for the benefit of her
criticism, or consults her in regard to his choice of a text."
Mr. Dinsmore's countenance expressed extreme satisfaction. "I am glad of
it," he said; "they seem made for each other."
"But Aunt Louise, papa?"
"Will not fancy a poor clergyman for a son-in-law, yet will consider
even that better than not seeing her daughter married at all. And if the
two most intimately concerned are happy and content, what matter for the
rest?"
"Oh papa!" Elsie returned with a smile that had something of old-time
archness in it, "have not your opinions in regard to the rights of
parents and the duties of children changed somewhat since my early
girlhood?"
"Circumstances alter cases," he answered with a playful caress. "I
should never have objected to so wise a choice as Isa's--always
supposing that she has made the one we are talking of."
"And you will not mind if Aunt Louise blames you? or me?"
"I shall take all the blame and not mind it in the least."
Yes, Cyril Keith and Isadore Conly were made for each other, and had
become conscious of the fact, though no word of love had yet been
spoken.
To him she was the sweetest and loveliest of her sex, in whom he found a
stronger union of beauty, grace, accomplishments, sound sense and
earnest piety than in any other young lady of his acquaintance; while to
her he was the impersonation of all that was truly noble, manly and
Christian.
They were dreaming love's young dream, and found intense enjoyment each
in the other's society, especially amid all the loveliness of nature
that surrounded them.
Cyril's was a whole-hearted consecration to his divine Master and that
loved Master's work, but this human love interfered not in any way with
that, for it is of God's appointment.
"'And the Lord God said, It is not good that the man should be alone; I
will make him an help meet for him.' 'Whoso findeth a wife findeth a
good thing, and obtaineth favour of the Lord.'"
"How like you that is, papa dear," Elsie said; "but it would be easier
to me to bear blame myself than to have it heaped upon you. I suppose,
though, that it would be useless to attempt any interference with the
course of true love?"
"Yes; we will simply let them alone."
Mr. Dinsmore rode over to Magnolia Hall that afternoon to seek an
interview with its owner; but learned that he was not at home, and might
not be for a day or two. No one knew just when he would return. So the
only course now left seemed to be to wait till he should call again at
Viamede.
He had been an almost daily visitor of late, and often sent some token
of remembrance by a servant--fruit, flowers, game or fish, or it might
be a book from his library which was not found in theirs.
But now one, two, three days passed and nothing was seen or heard of
him.
Sad, wearisome days they were to Molly: mental labor was next to
impossible; she could not even read with any enjoyment; her heart was
heavy with grief and unsatisfied longing, intensified by her mother's
constant reiteration, "You've offended him, and he'll never come again;
you've thrown away the best chance a girl ever had; and you'll never
see another like it."
Then it was unusually long since she had heard from Dick; and she had
waited for news from a manuscript which had cost her months of hard
work, and on which great expectations were based, till her heart was
sick with hope deferred.
It was on the morning of the fourth day that Molly, having persuaded her
mother to go for a walk with her grandfather and Mrs. Carrington,
summoned a servant and desired to be taken out into the grounds.
She sat motionless in her chair gazing in mournful silence on all the
luxuriant beauty that surrounded her, while the man wheeled her up one
walk and down another.
At length, "That will do, Joe," she said; "you may stop the chair under
that magnolia yonder, and leave me there for an hour."
"I'se 'fraid you git tired, Miss Molly, and nobody roun' for to wait on
you," he remarked when he had placed her in the desired spot.
"No; I have the bell here, and it can be heard at the house. I have a
book, too, to amuse myself with: and the gardener yonder is within
sight. You need not fear to leave me."
He walked away and she opened her book. But she scarcely looked at it.
Her thoughts were busying themselves with something else, and her eyes
were full of tears.
A quick, manly step on the gravel walk behind her startled her and sent
a vivid color over face and neck.
"Good morning, Miss Percival; I am fortunate indeed in finding you here
alone," a voice said, close at her side.
"Good morning, Mr. Embury," she returned, with a vain effort to steady
her tones, and without looking up.
He took possession of a rustic seat close to which her chair was
standing. "Molly, my dear Miss Molly," he said, in some agitation, "I
fear I have unwittingly offended."
"No, no, no!" she answered, bursting into tears in spite of herself.
"There, what a baby I am!" dashing them angrily away. "I wish you
wouldn't come here and set me to crying."
"Let me tell you something, let me ask you one question; and then if you
bid me, I will go away and never come near you again," he said, taking
her hand and holding it fast. "Molly, I love you. I want you to be my
wife. Will you?"
"Oh you don't mean it! you can't mean it! no man in his senses would
want to marry me--a poor helpless cripple!" she cried, trying to pull
the hand away, "and it's a cruel, cruel jest! Oh how can you!" and
covering her face with the free hand, she sobbed as if her heart would
break.
"Don't, don't, dear Molly," he entreated. "I am not jesting, nor am I
rushing into this thing hastily or thoughtlessly. Your very helplessness
draws me to you and makes you doubly dear. I want to take care of you,
my poor child. I want to make up your loss to you as far as my love and
sympathy can; to make your life bright and happy in spite of your
terrible trial."
"You are the noblest, most unselfish man I ever heard of," she said,
wiping away her tears to give him a look of amazement and admiration;
"but I cannot be so selfish as to take all when I can give nothing in
return."
"Do you call yourself--with your sweet face, cheery disposition,
brilliant talents, and conversational powers that render you the most
entertaining and charming of companions--nothing? I think you a greater
prize than half the women who have the free use of all their limbs."
"You are very kind to say it."
"No, I am not, for it is the simple, unvarnished truth. Molly, if you
can love me, I should rather have you than any other woman on earth. How
your presence would brighten my home! I give all indeed! you will be
worth more to me than all I have to give in return. O Molly, have you no
love to bestow upon poor me?"
She had ceased the struggle to free her hand from the strong yet tender
clasp in which it was held, but her face was averted and tears were
falling fast. His words had sent a thrill of exquisite joy to her heart,
but instantly it changed to bitter sorrow.
"You cannot have counted the cost," she said. "I am poor; I have nothing
at all but the pittance I earn by my pen. And think: I can never walk by
your side: I cannot go about your house and see that your comfort is not
neglected, or your substance wasted. I cannot nurse you in sickness or
wait upon you in health as another woman might. Oh cannot you see that I
have nothing to give you in return for all you--in your wonderful
generosity--are offering to me?"
"Your love, dear girl, and the blessed privilege of taking care of you,
are all I ask, all I want--can you not give me these?"
"Oh, why do you tempt me so?" she cried.
"Tempt you? would it be a sin to love me? to give yourself to me when I
want you so much, so very much?"
"It seems to me it would be taking advantage of the most unheard-of
generosity. What woman's heart could stand out against it?"
"Ah, then you do love me!" he exclaimed, in accents of joy, and lifting
her hand to his lips. "You will be mine? my own dear wife? a sweet
mother to my darlings. I have brought them with me, that their beauty
and sweetness, their pretty innocent ways, may plead my cause with you,
for I know that you love little children." He was gone before she could
reply, and the next moment was at her side again, bearing in his arms
two lovely little creatures of three and five.
"These are my babies," he said, sitting down with one upon each knee.
"Corinna," to the eldest, "don't you want this sweet lady to come and
live with us and be your dear mamma?"
The child took a long, searching look into Molly's face before she
answered; then, with a bright, glad smile breaking like sunlight over
her own, "Yes, papa, I _do_!" she said, emphatically. "Won't you come,
pretty lady? Madie and I will be good children, and love you ever so
much." And she held up her rosebud mouth for a kiss.
Molly gave it very heartily.
"Me, too--you mustn't fordet to tiss Madie," the little one said.
Molly motioned the father to set the child in her lap, and, putting an
arm about Corinna, petted and fondled them both for a little, the mother
instinct stirring strongly within her the while.
"There, that will do, my pets; we must not tire the dear lady," Mr.
Embury said presently, lifting his youngest and setting her on her feet
beside her sister. "Go back now to your mammy. See, yonder she is,
waiting for you."
"What darlings they are," Molly said, following them with wistful,
longing eyes.
"Yes. Ah, can your heart resist their appeal?"
"How could I, chained to my chair, do a mother's part by them?" she
asked mournfully, and with a heavy sigh.
"Their physical needs are well attended to," he said, again taking her
hand, while his eyes sought hers with wistful, pleading tenderness; "it
is motherly counsels, sympathy, love they want. Is it not in your power
to give them all these? I would throw no burdens on you, love; I only
aim to show you that the giving need not necessarily be all on my side,
the receiving all on yours."
"How kind, how noble you are," she said, in moved tones. "But your
relatives? your other children? how would they feel to see you joined
for life to a--"
"Don't say it," he interrupted, in tones of tenderest compassion. "My
boys will be drawn to you by your helplessness, while they will be very
proud of your talents and your sweetness. I have no other near relatives
but two brothers, who have no right to concern themselves in the matter,
nor will be likely to care to do so. But, O, dearest girl, what shall I,
what can I say to convince you that you are my heart's desire? that I
want you, your love, your dear companionship, more than tongue can tell?
Will you refuse them to me?"
She answered only with a look, but it said all he wished.
"Bless you, darling!" he whispered, putting his arm about her, while her
head dropped upon his shoulder, "you have made me very happy."
Molly was silent, was weeping, but for very gladness; her heart sang for
joy; not that a beautiful home, wealth, and all the luxury and ease it
could purchase, would now be hers, but that she was loved by one so
noble and generous, so altogether worthy of her highest respect, her
warmest affection, the devotion of her whole life, which she inwardly
vowed should be his. She would strive to be to him such a wife as Elsie
had been to her husband, such a mother to his children as her sweet
cousin was to hers.