"A mighty pain to love it is
And 'tis a pain that pain to miss;
But of all pains, the greatest pain
It is to love, but love in vain."
--COWLEY.
One lovely afternoon in the second week of their stay at Viamede, Mr.
Dinsmore and his daughter were seated in the shade of the trees on the
lawn, she busied with some fancy-work while her father read aloud to her.
As he paused to turn a leaf, "Papa," she said, glancing off down the
bayou, "there is a steamer coming, the same that brought us, I think; and
see, it is rounding to at our landing. Can it be bringing us a guest?"
"Yes, a gentleman is stepping ashore. Why, daughter, it is Harold
Allison."
"Harold! oh, how delightful!" And rising they hastened to meet and welcome
him with truly Southern warmth of hospitality.
"Harold! how good of you!" cried Elsie. "Mamma wrote us that you were
somewhere in this region, and if I'd had your address, I should have sent
you an invitation to come and stay as long as possible."
"And you have done well and kindly by us to come without waiting for
that," Mr. Dinsmore said, shaking the hand of his young brother-in-law
with a warmth of cordiality that said more than his words.
"Many thanks to you both," he answered gayly. "I was conceited enough to
feel sure of a welcome, and did not wait, as a more modest fellow might,
to be invited. But what a lovely place! a paradise upon earth! And, Elsie,
you, in those dainty white robes, look the fit presiding genius."
Elsie laughed and shook her head. "Don't turn flatterer, Harold; though I
do not object to praise of Viamede."
"I have not heard from Rose in a long time," he said, addressing Mr.
Dinsmore. "She and the little folks are well, I hope?"
"I had a letter this morning, and they were all in good health when it was
written."
The servants had come trooping down from the house, and seizing Harold's
baggage had it all ready in the guest-chamber to which Aunt Phillis
ordered it. Aunt Chloe now drew near to pay her respects to "Massa
Harold," and tell him that his room was ready.
"Will you go to it at once? or sit down here and have a little chat with
papa and me first?" asked Elsie.
"Thank you; I think I shall defer the pleasure of the chat till I have
first made myself presentable for the evening."
"Then let me conduct you to your room," said Mr. Dinsmore, leading the way
to the house.
Elsie had come in the course of years to look upon the older brothers of
her stepmother as in some sort her uncles, but for Harold, who was so much
nearer her own age, she entertained a sincere sisterly regard. And he was
worthy of it and of the warm place his many noble qualities had won for
him in Mr. Dinsmore's heart.
They did all they could to make his visit to Viamede a pleasant one; there
were daily rides and walks, moonlight and early morning excursions on the
bayou, rowing parties; oftenest of the three alone, but sometimes in
company with gallant chivalrous men and refined, cultivated women and
charming young girls from the neighboring plantations.
One of these last, a beautiful brunette, Elsie had selected in her own
mind for Harold, and she contrived to throw them together frequently.
"Don't you admire Miss Durand?" she asked, after they had met several
times. "I think she is lovely; as good, too, as she is beautiful; and
would make you a charming wife."
He flushed hotly. "She is very handsome, very fascinating and talented,"
he said; "but would never suit me. Nor do I suppose I could win her if I
wished."
"Indeed! if you are so hard to please, I fear there will be nothing for
you but old bachelorhood," laughed Elsie. "I have picked her out for you,
and I believe you could win her if you tried, Harold; but I shall not try
to become a match-maker."
"No, I must select for myself; I couldn't let even you choose for me."
"Choose what?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, stepping out upon the veranda, where
Harold stood leaning against a vine-wreathed pillar, his blue eyes fixed
with a sort of wistful, longing look upon Elsie's graceful figure and fair
face, as she sat in a half-reclining posture on a low couch but a few
feet from him.
"A wife," he answered, compelling himself to speak lightly.
"Don't let her do it," said Mr. Dinsmore, taking a seat by his daughter's
side; "I've warned her more than once not to meddle with match-making."
And he shook his head at her with mock gravity.
"I won't any more, papa; I'll leave him to his own devices, since he shows
himself so ungrateful for my interest in his welfare," Elsie said, looking
first at her father and then at Harold with a merry twinkle in her eye.
"I don't think I've asked how you like your new home and prospects,
Harold," said Mr. Dinsmore, changing the subject.
"Very much, thank you; except that they take me so far from the rest of
the family."
A few months before this Harold had met with a piece of rare good fortune,
looked at from a worldly point of view, in being adopted as his sole heir
by a rich and childless Louisiana planter, a distant relative of Mrs.
Allison.
"Ah, that is an objection," returned Mr. Dinsmore; "but you will be
forming new and closer ties, that will doubtless go far to compensate for
the partial loss of the old. I hope you are enjoying yourself here?"
"I am indeed, thank you." This answer was true, yet Harold felt himself
flush as he spoke, for there was one serious drawback upon his felicity;
he could seldom get a word alone with Elsie; she and her father were so
inseparable that he scarcely saw the one without the other. And Harold
strongly coveted an occasional monopoly of the sweet girl's society. He
had come to Viamede with a purpose entirely unsuspected by her or her
apparently vigilant guardian.
He should perhaps, have confided his secret to Mr. Dinsmore first, but his
heart failed him; and "what would be the use?" he asked himself, "if Elsie
is not willing? Ah, if I could but be alone with her for an hour!"
The coveted opportunity offered itself at last, quite unexpectedly. Coming
out upon the veranda one afternoon, he saw Elsie sitting alone under a
tree far down on the lawn. He hastened towards her.
"I am glad to see you," she said, looking up with a smile and making room
for him on the seat by her side. "You see I am 'lone and lorn,' Mr. Durand
having carried off papa to look at some new improvement in his sugar-house
machinery."
"Ah! and when will your father return?"
"In about an hour, I presume. Shall you attend Aunt Adie's wedding?" she
asked.
"Yes, I think so. Don't you sometimes feel as if you'd like to stay here
altogether?"
"Yes, and no; it's very lovely, and the more charming I believe, because
it is my own; but--there is so much more to bind me to the Oaks, and I
could never live far away from papa."
"Couldn't you? I hoped---- Oh, Elsie, couldn't you possibly love some one
else better even than you love him? You're more to me than father, mother,
and all the world beside. I have wanted to tell you so for years, but
while I was comparatively poor your fortune sealed my lips. Now I am rich,
and I lay all I have at your feet; myself included; and----"
"Oh, Harold, hush!" she cried in trembling tones, flushing and paling by
turns, and putting up her hand as if to stop the torrent of words he was
pouring forth so unexpectedly that astonishment had struck her dumb for an
instant; "oh! don't say any more, I--I thought you surely knew that--that
I am already engaged."
"No. To whom?" he asked hoarsely, his face pale as death, and lips
quivering so that he could scarcely speak.
"To Mr. Travilla. It has been only for a few weeks, though we have loved
each other for years. Oh, Harold, Harold, do not look so wretched! you
break my heart, for I love you as a very dear brother."
He turned away with a groan, and without another word hastened back to the
house, while Elsie, covering her face with her hands, shed some very
bitter tears.
Heart-broken, stunned, feeling as if every good thing in life had suddenly
slipped from his grasp, Harold sought his room, mechanically gathered up
his few effects, packed them into his valise, then sat down by the open
window and leant his head upon his hand.
He couldn't think, he could only feel that all was lost, and that he must
go away at once, if he would not have everybody know it, and make the idol
of his heart miserable with the sight of his wretchedness.
Why had he not known of her engagement? Why had no one told him? Why had
he been such a fool as to suppose he could win so great a prize? He was
not worthy of her. How plainly he saw it now, how sorely repented of the
conceit that had led him on to the avowal of his passion.
He had a vague recollection that a boat was to pass that afternoon. He
would take passage in that, and he hoped Mr. Dinsmore's return might be
delayed till he was gone. He would away without another word to Elsie; she
should not be disturbed by any further unmanly manifestation of his bitter
grief and despair.
The hour of the passing of the boat drew near, and valise in hand, he left
his room and passed down the stairs. But Elsie was coming in from the
lawn, and they met in the lower hall.
"Harold," she cried, "you are not going? You must not leave us so
suddenly."
"I must," he said in icy tones, the stony eyes gazing into vacancy; "all
places are alike to me now, and I cannot stay here to trouble you and
Horace with the sight of a wretchedness I cannot hide."
Trembling so that she could scarcely stand, Elsie leaned against the wall
for support, the hot tears coursing down her cheeks. "Oh, Harold!" she
sobbed, "what an unhappy creature I am to have been the cause of such
sorrow to you! Oh why should you ever have thought of me so?"
Dropping his valise, his whole manner changing, he turned to her with
passionate vehemence. "Because I couldn't help it! Even as a boy I gave up
my whole heart to you, and I cannot call it back. Oh, Elsie, why did I
ever see you?" and he seized both her hands in a grasp that almost forced
a cry of pain from her white, quivering lips. "Life is worthless without
you. I'd rather die knowing that you loved me than live to see you in the
possession of another."
"Harold, Harold, a sister's love I can, I do give you; and can you not be
content with that?"
"A sister's love!" he repeated scornfully. "Offer a cup with a drop of
water in it, to a man perishing, dying with thirst. Yes, I'm going away, I
care not whither; all places are alike to him who has lost all interest in
life."
He threw her hands from him almost with violence, half turned away, then
suddenly catching her in his arms, held her close to his heart, kissing
passionately, forehead, cheek, and lips. "Oh, Elsie, Elsie, light of my
eyes, core of my heart, why did we ever meet to part like this? I don't
blame you. I have been a fool. Good-bye, darling." And releasing her, he
was gone ere she could recover breath to speak. It had all been so sudden
she had had no power, perhaps no will, to resist, so sore was the tender,
loving heart for him.
He was barely in time to hail the boat as it passed, and at the instant he
was about to step aboard, Mr. Dinsmore rode up, and springing from the
saddle, throwing the reins to his servant, cried out in astonishment,
"Harold! you are not leaving us? Come, come, what has happened to hurry
you away? Must you go?"
"Yes, I must," he answered with half-averted face. "Don't call me a
scoundrel for making such a return for your hospitality. I couldn't help
it. Good-bye. Try to forget that I've been here at all; for Rose's sake,
you know."
He sprang into the boat; it pushed off, and was presently lost to sight
among the trees shading the bayou on either hand.
Mr. Dinsmore stood for a moment as if spellbound; then turned and walked
thoughtfully towards the house. "What did it all mean?" he asked himself;
"of what unkind return of his or Elsie's hospitality could the lad have
been guilty? Elsie! ha! can it be possible?" and quickened his pace,
glancing from side to side in search of her as he hurried on.
Entering the hall, the sound of a half-smothered sob guided him to a
little parlor or reception-room seldom used. Softly he opened the door.
She was there half-reclining upon a sofa, her face buried in the cushions.
In a moment he had her in his arms, the weary, aching head on his breast,
while he tenderly wiped away the fast-falling tears.
"My poor darling, my poor little pet, don't take it so to heart. It is
nothing; he will probably get over it before he is a month older."
"Papa, is it my fault? did I give him undue encouragement? am I a
coquette?" she sobbed.
"Far from it! did he dare to call you that?"
"No, no, oh, no; he said he did not blame me; it was all his own folly."
"Ah! I think the better of him for that; though 'twas no more than just."
"I thought he knew of my engagement."
"So did I. And the absurdity of the thing! Such a mixture of relationships
as it would have been! I should never have entertained the thought for a
moment. And he ought to have spoken to me first, and spared you all this.
No, you needn't fret; he deserves all he suffers, for what he has
inflicted upon you, my precious one."
"I hardly think that, papa; he was very generous to take all the blame to
himself; but oh, you have eased my heart of half its load. What should I
ever do without you, my own dear, dear father!"
The pleasure of our friends, during the rest of their stay at Viamede, was
somewhat dampened by this unfortunate episode, though Elsie, for her
father's sake, did her best to rally from its effect on her spirits, and
to be cheerful and gay as before.
Long, bright, loving letters from home, and Ion coming the next day, were
a great help. Then the next day brought a chaplain, who seemed in all
respects so well suited to his place as to entirely relieve her mind in
regard to the future welfare of her people. He entered into all her plans
for them, and promised to carry them out to the best of his ability.
So it was with a light heart, though not without some lingering regrets
for the sad ones and the loveliness left behind, that she and her father
set out on their homeward way.
Mr. Dinsmore's man John, Aunt Chloe, and Uncle Joe, went with them; and it
was a continual feast for master and mistress to see the happiness of the
poor old couple, especially when their grandchild Dinah, their only living
descendant so far as they could learn, was added to the party; Elsie
purchasing her, according to promise, as they passed through New Orleans
on their return trip.
Dinah was very grateful to find herself installed as assistant to her
grandmother, who, Elsie said, must begin to take life more easily now in
her old age. Yet that Aunt Chloe found it hard to do, for she was very
jealous of having any hands but her own busied about the person of her
idolized young mistress.
A glad welcome awaited them at home, where they arrived in due season for
Adelaide's wedding.
Sophie and Harry Carrington had returned from their wedding trip, and were
making their home with his parents, at Ashlands; Richard, Fred, and May
Allison, came with their brother Edward; but Harold, who was to meet them
at Roselands, was not there. He had engaged to act as second groomsman,
Richard being first, and there was much wondering over his absence; many
regrets were expressed, and some anxiety was felt.
But Elsie and her father kept their own counsel, and breathed no word of
the episode at Viamede, which would have explained all.
Harold's coming was still hoped for by the others until the last moment,
when Fred took his place, and the ceremony passed off as satisfactorily as
if there had been no failure on the part of any expected, to participate
in it.
It took place in the drawing-room at Roselands, in presence of a crowd of
aristocratic guests, and was considered a very grand affair. A round of
parties followed for the next two weeks, and then the happy pair set sail
for Europe.