"O what passions then
What melting sentiments of kindly care,
On the new parents seize."
--THOMPSON'S AGAMEMNON.
"There is none
In all this cold and hollow world, no fount
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within
A mother's heart!"
--MRS. HEMANS.
Finding it so evidently the wish of both her husband and his mother, Elsie
quietly and at once assumed the reins of government.
But with that mother to go to for advice in every doubt and perplexity,
and with a dozen or more of well-trained servants at her command, her
post, though no sinecure, did not burden her with its duties; she still
could find time for the cultivation of mind and heart, for daily walks and
rides, and the enjoyment of society both at home and abroad.
Shortly after the return of the newly married pair, there was a grand
party given in their honor at Roselands; another at Ashlands, one at
Pinegrove, at the Oaks, and several other places; then a return was made
by a brilliant affair of the kind at Ion.
But when at last this rather wearying round was over, they settled down to
the quiet home life much more congenial to both; always ready to entertain
with unbounded hospitality, and ignoring none of the legitimate claims of
the outside world, they were yet far more interested in the affairs of
their own little one, made up of those nearest and dearest.
They were an eminently Christian household, carefully instructing their
dependents in the things pertaining to godliness, urging them to faith in
Jesus evidenced by good works; trying to make the way of salvation very
clear to their often dull apprehension, and to recommend it by their own
pure, consistent lives.
Night and morning all were called together--family and house servants--and
Mr. Travilla read aloud a portion of Scripture, and led them in prayer and
praise. Nor was a meal ever eaten without God's blessing having first been
asked upon it.
There was but one drawback to Elsie's felicity--that she no longer dwelt
under the same roof with her father; yet that was not so great, as a day
seldom passed in which they did not meet once or oftener. It must be very
urgent business, or a severe storm, that kept him from riding or driving
over to Ion, unless his darling first appeared at the Oaks.
Aunt Wealthy and Lottie came to Ion within a fortnight after the return
from Viamede; and while the former divided the rest of her stay at the
South between Ion and the Oaks, Lottie spent nearly the whole of hers with
Elsie.
In May, Harry Duncan came for his aunt, and Miss King returned with them
to her paternal home. Our friends at Ion and the Oaks decided to spend
their summer at home this year.
"We have traveled so much of late years," said Rose, "that I am really
tired of it."
"And home is so dear and sweet," added Elsie. "I mean both Ion and the
Oaks, Edward and papa; for somehow they seem to me to be both included in
that one dear word."
"That is right," responded her father.
"Yes; we seem to be all one family," said Mr. Travilla, contentedly,
fondling Rosebud, whom he had coaxed to a seat upon his knee; "and like a
good spouse, I vote on the same side with my wife."
"I too," said his mother, looking affectionately upon them both. "I have
no inclination to travel, and shall be much happier for having you all
about me."
The summer glided rapidly by, and vanished, leaving at Ion a priceless
treasure.
It was a soft, hazy, delicious September morning; Elsie sat in her pretty
boudoir, half-reclining in the depths of a large velvet-cushioned easy
chair. Her husband had left her a minute before, and she was--no, not
quite alone, for her eyes were turning with a sweet, new light in them,
upon a beautiful rosewood crib where, underneath the silken covers and
resting on pillows of eider-down, lay a tiny form, only a glimpse of the
pink face and one wee doubled-up fist to be caught through the lace
curtains so carefully drawn about the little sleeper.
A familiar step was heard in the outer room. The door opened quietly, and
Elsie looking up cried, "Papa," in a delighted yet subdued tone.
"My darling," he said, coming to her and taking her in his arms. "How nice
to see you up again; but you must be careful, very, very careful, not to
overexert yourself."
"I am, my dear father, for Edward insists on it, and watches over me, and
baby too, as if really afraid we might somehow slip away from him."
"He is quite right. There, you must not stand, recline in your chair
again, while I help myself to a seat by your side. How are you to-day?"
"I think I never felt better in my life, papa; so strong and well that it
seems absurd to be taking such care of myself."
"Not at all; you must do it. You seem to be alone with your babe. I hope
you never lift her?"
"No, sir, not yet. That I shall not has been my husband's second order.
Mammy is within easy call, just in the next room, and will come the
instant she is wanted."
"Let me look at her; unless you think it will disturb her rest."
"Oh, no, sir." And the young mother gently drew aside the curtain of the
crib.
The two bent over the sleeping babe, listening to its gentle breathing.
"Ah, papa, I feel so rich! you don't know how I love her!" whispered
Elsie.
"Don't I, my daughter? don't I know how I love you?" And his eyes turned
with yearning affection upon her face, then back to that of the little
one. "Six weeks old to-day, and a very cherub for beauty. Aunt Chloe tells
me she is precisely my daughter over again, and I feel as if I had now an
opportunity to recover what I lost in not having my first-born with me
from her birth. Little Elsie, grandpa feels that you are his; his precious
treasure."
The young mother's eyes grew misty with a strange mixture of emotion, in
which love and joy were the deepest and strongest. Her arm stole round her
father's neck.
"Dear papa, how nice of you to love her so; my precious darling. She is
yours, too, almost as much as Edward's and mine. And I am sure if we
should be taken away and you and she be left, you would be the the same
good father to her you have been to me."
"Much better, I hope. My dear daughter, I was far too hard with you at
times. But I know you have forgiven it all long ago."
"Papa, dear papa, please don't ever again talk of--of forgiveness from me;
I was your own, and I believe you always did what you thought was for my
good; and oh, what you have been, and are to me, no tongue can tell."
"Or you to me, my own beloved child," he answered with emotion.