O lady! there be many things
That seem right fair above;
But sure not one among them all
Is half so sweet as love;--
Let us not pay our vows alone,
But join two altars into one.
--O. W. HOLMES
Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast,
And the heart, and the hand, all thy own to the last.
--MOORE.
Mr. Horace Dinsmore was quite remarkable for his conversational
powers, and Rose, who had always heretofore found him a most
entertaining companion, wondered greatly at his silence on this
particular evening. She waited in vain for him to start some topic of
conversation, but as he did not seem disposed to do so, she at length
made the attempt herself, and tried one subject after another.
Finding, however, that she was answered only in monosyllables, she too
grew silent and embarrassed, and heartily wished for the relief of
Elsie's presence.
She had proposed summoning the child to accompany them as usual, but
Mr. Dinsmore replied that she had already had sufficient exercise, and
he would prefer having her remain at home.
They had walked some distance, and coming to a rustic seat where they
had often rested, they sat down. The moon was shining softly down upon
them, and all nature seemed hushed and still. For some moments neither
of them spoke, but at length Mr. Dinsmore broke the silence.
"Miss Allison," he said, in his deep, rich tones, "I would like to
tell you a story, if you will do me the favor to listen."
It would have been quite impossible for Rose to tell why her heart
beat so fast at this very commonplace remark, but so it was; and she
could scarcely steady her voice to reply, "I always find your stories
interesting, Mr. Dinsmore."
He began at once.
"Somewhere between ten and eleven years ago, a wild, reckless boy
of seventeen, very much spoiled by the indulgence of a fond, doting
father, who loved and petted him as the only son of his departed
mother, was spending a few months in one of our large Southern cities,
where he met, and soon fell desperately in love with, a beautiful
orphan heiress, some two years his junior.
"The boy was of too ardent a temperament, and too madly in love, to
brook for a moment the thought of waiting until parents and guardians
should consider them of suitable age to marry, in addition to which he
had good reason to fear that his father, with whom family pride was a
ruling passion, would entirely refuse his consent upon learning that
the father of the young lady had begun life as a poor, uneducated boy,
and worked his way up to wealth and position by dint of hard labor and
incessant application to business.
"The boy, it is true, was almost as proud himself, but it was not
until the arrows of the boy-god had entered into his heart too
deeply to be extracted, that he learned the story of his charmer's
antecedents. Yet I doubt if the result would have been different had
he been abundantly forewarned; for oh, Miss Rose, if ever an angel
walked the earth in human form it was she!--so gentle, so good, so
beautiful!"
He heaved a deep sigh, paused a moment, and then went on:
"Well, Miss Rose, as you have probably surmised, they were privately
married. If that sweet girl had a fault, it was that she was too
yielding to those she loved, and she did love her young husband with
all the warmth of her young guileless heart; for she had neither
parents nor kinsfolk, and he was the one object around which her
affections might cling. They were all the world to each other, and for
a few short months they were very happy.
"But it could not last; the marriage was discovered--her guardian and
the young man's father were both furious, and they were torn asunder;
she carried away to a distant plantation, and he sent North to attend
college.
"They were well-nigh distracted, but cherished the hope that when
they should reach their majority and come into possession of their
property, which was now unfortunately entirely in the hands of their
guardians, they would be reunited.
"But--it is the old story--their letters were intercepted, and the
first news the young husband received of his wife was that she had
died a few days after giving birth to a little daughter."
Again Mr. Dinsmore paused, then continued:
"It was a terrible stroke! For months, reason seemed almost ready to
desert her throne; but time does wonders, and in the course of years
it did much to heal his wounds. You would perhaps suppose that he
would at once--or at least as soon as he was his own master--have
sought out his child, and lavished upon it the wealth of his
affections: but no; he had conceived almost an aversion to it; for he
looked upon it as the cause--innocent, it is true--but still the cause
of his wife's death. He did not know till long years afterwards
that her heart was broken by the false story of his desertion and
subsequent death. Her guardian was a hard, cruel man, though faithful
in his care of her property.
"With him the child remained until she was about four years old when
a change was made necessary by his death, and she, with her faithful
nurse, was received into her paternal grandfather's family until her
father, who had then gone abroad, should return. But my story is
growing very long, and you will be weary of listening. I will try to
be as brief as possible.
"The little girl, under the care of her nurse and the faithful
instructions of a pious old Scotchwoman--who had come over with the
child's maternal grandparents, and followed the fortunes of the
daughter and granddaughter, always living as housekeeper in the
families where they resided--had grown to be a sweet, engaging child,
inheriting her mother's beauty and gentleness. She had also her
mother's craving for affection, and was constantly looking and longing
for the return of her unknown father, which was delayed from time to
time until she was nearly eight years of age.
"At last he came; but ah, what a bitter disappointment awaited the
poor child! His mind had been poisoned against her, and instead of
the love and tenderness she had a right to expect, he met her with
coldness--almost with aversion. Poor little one! she was nearly
heartbroken, and for a time scarcely dared venture into her father's
presence. She was gentle, submissive, and patient; he cold, haughty,
and stern. But she would love him, in spite of his sternness, and at
length she succeeded in winning her way to his affections, and he
learned to love her with passionate tenderness.
"Still her troubles were not over. She was sincerely pious, and
conscientiously strict in many things which her father deemed of
little importance; especially was this the case in regard to the
observance of the Sabbath. He was a man of iron will, and she, though
perfectly submissive in other respects, had the firmness of a martyr
in resisting any interference with her conscience.
"Well, their wills came in collision. He required her to do what she
considered a violation of God's law, although he could see no harm
in it, and therefore considered her stubborn and disobedient. He was
firm, but so was she. He tried persuasions, threats, punishments--all
without effect. He banished her from his arms, from the family circle,
deprived her of amusements, denied her to visitors, broke off her
correspondence with a valued friend, sent away her nurse; and finding
all these acts of severity ineffectual, he at length left her, telling
her he would return only when she submitted; and even refusing her a
parting caress, which she pleaded for with heart-breaking entreaties."
Mr. Dinsmore's voice trembled with emotion, but recovering himself, he
went on:
"Don't think, Miss Allison, that all this time the father's heart was
not bleeding; it was, at every pore; but he was determined to conquer,
and mistook the child's motives and the source of her strength to
resist his will.
"He had bought a beautiful estate; he caused the house to be
handsomely fitted up and furnished, especially lavishing trouble and
expense upon a suite of rooms for his little girl, and when all was
completed, he wrote to her, bidding her go and see the lovely home
he had prepared for her reception as soon as she would submit,--and
presenting, as the only alternative, banishment to a boarding-school
or convent until her education was finished. This was the one drop
which made the cup overflow. The poor suffering child was prostrated
by a brain fever which brought her to the very gates of death. Then
the father's eyes were opened; he saw his folly and his sin, and
repented in sackcloth and ashes; and God, in His great mercy, was
pleased to spare him the terrible crushing blow which seemed to have
already fallen;--for at one time they told him his child was dead. Oh,
never, never can he forget the unutterable anguish of that moment!"
Mr. Dinsmore paused, unable to proceed. Rose had been weeping for some
time. She well knew to whose story she was listening, and her gentle,
loving heart was filled with pity for both him and for his child.
"I have but little more to tell," he resumed; "the child has at length
entirely recovered her health; she is dearer to her father's heart
than words can express, and is very happy in the knowledge that it is
so, and that henceforward he will strive to assist her to walk in the
narrow way, instead of endeavoring to lead her from it.
"Their home has been a very happy one; but it lacks one thing--the
wife and mother's place is vacant; she who filled it once is
gone--never to return!--but there is a sweet, gentle lady who has
won the hearts of both father and daughter, and whom they would fain
persuade to fill the void in their affections and their home.
"Miss Rose, dare I hope that you would venture to trust your happiness
in the hands of a man who has proved himself capable of such cruelty?"
Rose did not speak, and he seemed to read in her silence and her
averted face a rejection of his suit.
"Ah, you cannot love or trust me!" he exclaimed bitterly. "I was
indeed a fool to hope it. Forgive me for troubling you; forgive my
presumption in imagining for a moment that I might be able to win you.
But oh, Rose, could you but guess how I love you--better than aught
else upon earth save my precious child! and even as I love her better
than life. I said that our home had been a happy one, but to me it can
be so no longer if you refuse to share it with me!"
She turned her blushing face towards him for a single instant, and
timidly placed her hand in his. The touch sent a thrill through her
whole frame.
"And you will dare trust me?" he said in a low tone of intense joy.
"Oh, Rose! I have not deserved such happiness as this! I am not worthy
of one so pure and good. But I will do all that man can do to make
your life bright and happy."
"Ah, Mr. Dinsmore! I am very unfit for the place you have asked me
to fill," she murmured. "I am not old enough, or wise enough to be a
mother to your little girl."
"I know you are young, dear Rose, but you are far from foolish," he
said tenderly, "and my little girl is quite prepared to yield you a
daughter's love and obedience; but I do not think she will be a care
or trouble to you; I do not intend that she shall, but expect to take
all that upon myself. Indeed, Rose, dearest, you shall never know any
care or trouble that I can save you from. No words can tell how dear
you are to me, and were it in my power I would shield you from every
annoyance, and give you every joy that the human heart can know. I
have loved you from the first day we met!--ah, I loved you even before
that, for all your love and kindness to my darling child; but I
scarcely dared hope that you could return my affection, or feel
willing to trust your happiness to the keeping of one who had shown
himself such a monster of cruelty in his treatment of his little
gentle daughter. Are you not afraid of me, Rose?"
His arm was around her waist, and he was bending over her, gazing down
into her face, and eagerly awaiting her answer.
Presently it came, in calm, gentle tones; "No, Horace; 'perfect love
casteth out fear,' and I cannot judge you hardly for what may
have been only a mistaken sense of duty, and has been so bitterly
repented."
"Heaven bless you, dearest, for these words," he answered with
emotion, "they have made me the happiest of men."
Horace Dinsmore wore upon his little finger a splendid diamond ring,
which had attracted a good deal of attention, especially among the
ladies; who admired it extremely, and of which Miss Stevens had hoped
to be one day the happy and envied possessor. Taking Rose's small
white hand in his again, he placed it upon her slender finger.
"This seals our compact, and makes you mine forever," he said,
pressing the hand to his lips.
"With the consent of my parents," murmured Rose, a soft blush mantling
her cheek.
Elsie was still in her papa's private parlor, for though it was long
past her usual hour for retiring, she had not yet done so; her father
having left a message with Chloe to the effect that she might, if she
chose, stay up until his return.
Chloe had dropped asleep in her chair, and the little girl was
trying to while away the time with a book. But she did not seem much
interested in it, for every now and then she laid it down to run to
the door and listen. Then sighing to herself, "They are not coming
yet," she would go back and take it up again. But at last she started
from her seat with an exclamation of delight that awoke Chloe; for
this time there could be no doubt; she had heard his well-known step
upon the stairs.
She moved quickly towards the door--stopped--hesitated, and stood
still to the middle of the room.
But the door opened, and her father entered with Miss Rose upon his
arm. One look at his radiant countenance, and Rose's blushing, happy
face told the whole glad story. He held out his hand with a beaming
smile, and Elsie sprang towards him.
"My darling," he said, stooping to give her a kiss, "I have brought
you a mother."
Then taking Rose's hand, and placing one of Elsie's in it, while he
held the other in a close, loving grasp, he added: "Rose, she is your
daughter also. I give you a share in my choicest treasure."
Rose threw her arm around the little girl and kissed her tenderly,
whispering: "Will you love me, Elsie, dearest? you know how dearly I
love you."
"Indeed I will; I do love you very much, and I am very glad, dear,
darling Miss Rose," Elsie replied, returning her caress.
Mr. Dinsmore was watching them with a heart swelling with joy and
gratitude. He led Rose to a sofa, and seating himself by her side,
drew Elsie in between his knees, and put an arm round each. "My two
treasures," he said, looking affectionately from one to the other.
"Rose, I feel myself the richest man in the Union."
Rose smiled, and Elsie laid her head on her father's shoulder with a
happy sigh.
They sat a few moments thus, when Rose made a movement to go,
remarking that it must be growing late. She felt a secret desire to
be safe within the shelter of her own room before the return of the
riding party should expose her to Miss Stevens' prying curiosity.
"It is not quite ten yet," said Mr. Dinsmore, looking at his watch.
"Late enough though, is it not?" she answered with a smile. "I think I
must go. Good-night, dear little Elsie." She rose, and Mr. Dinsmore,
gently drawing her hand within his arm, led her to her room, bidding
her good-night at the door, and adding a whispered request that she
would wait for him to conduct her down to the breakfast room in the
morning.
"Must I go to bed now, papa?" asked Elsie, as he returned to the
parlor again.
"Not yet," he said; "I want you." And, sitting down, he took her in
his arms. "My darling, my dear little daughter!" he said; "were you
very lonely this evening?"
"No, papa; not very, though I missed you and Miss Rose."
He was gazing down into her face; something in its expression seemed
to strike him, and he suddenly turned her towards the light, and
looking keenly at her, said, "You have been crying; what was the
matter?"
Elsie's face flushed crimson, and the tears started to her eyes again.
"Dear papa, don't be angry with me," she pleaded. "I couldn't help it;
indeed I could not."
"I am not angry, darling; only pained that my little girl is not
so happy as I expected. I hoped that your joy would be unclouded
to-night, as mine has been; but will you not tell your father what
troubles you, dearest?"
"I was looking at this, papa," she said, drawing her mother's
miniature from her bosom, and putting it into his hand; "and mammy was
telling me all about my own mamma again; and, papa, you know I love
Miss Rose, and I am very glad she is coming to us, but it seems as
if--as if--" She burst into a flood of tears, and hiding her face on
his breast, sobbed out, "Oh, papa, I can't help feeling as though
mamma--my own dear mamma--is farther away from us now; as if she is
going to be forgotten."
There were tears in his eyes, too; but gently raising her head, he
pushed back the curls from her forehead, and kissing her tenderly,
said, in low, soothing tones, "No, darling; it is only a feeling, and
will soon pass away. Your own dear mother--my early love--can never be
forgotten by either of us. Nor would Rose wish it. There is room in
my heart for both of them, and I do not love the memory of Elsie less
because I have given a place in it to Rose."
There was a momentary silence; then she looked up, asking timidly,
"You are not vexed with me, papa?"
"No, dearest; not at all; and I am very glad you have told me your
feelings so freely," he said, folding her closer and closer to his
heart. "I hope you will always come to me with your sorrows, and you
need never fear that you will not find sympathy, and help too, as far
as it is in my power to give it. Elsie, do you know that you are very
like your mother?--the resemblance grows stronger every day; and it
would be quite impossible for me to forget her with this living image
always before me."
"Am I like her, papa? I am so glad!" exclaimed the little girl
eagerly, her face lighting up with a joyous smile.
It seemed as though Mr. Dinsmore could hardly bear to part with his
child that night; he held her a long time in his arms, but at last,
with another tender caress, and a fervent blessing, he bade her
good-night and sent her away.