A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded,
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.
--BYRON.
Elsie was nearly twelve when her little brother was born. During the
next three years she led a life of quiet happiness, unmarked by any
striking event. There were no changes in the little family at the Oaks
but such as time must bring to all. Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore perhaps
looked a trifle older than when they married, Elsie was budding into
womanhood as fair and sweet a flower as ever was seen, and the baby
had grown into a healthy romping boy.
At Roselands, on the contrary, there had been many and important
changes. Louise and Lora were both married; the former to a resident
of another State, who had taken her to his distant home; the latter to
Edward Howard, an older brother of Elsie's friend Carrie. They had not
left the neighborhood, but were residing with his parents.
For the last two or three years Arthur Dinsmore had spent his
vacations at home; he was doing so now, having just completed his
freshman year at Princeton. On his return Walter was to accompany him
and begin his college career.
Miss Day left soon after Lora's marriage and no effort had been made
to fill her place, Adelaide having undertaken to act as governess to
Enna, now the only remaining occupant of the school-room.
Taking advantage of an unusually cool breezy afternoon, Elsie rode
over to Tinegrove, Mr. Howard's plantation--to make a call. She found
the family at home and was urged to stay to tea; but declined, saying
she could not without permission, and had not asked it.
"You will at least take off your hat," said Carrie.
"No, thank you," Elsie answered, "it is not worth while, as I must go
so soon. If you will excuse me, I can talk quite as well with it on."
They had not met for several weeks and found a good deal to say to
each other. At length Elsie drew out her watch.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, "I have overstayed my time! I had no idea it was
so late--you have been so entertaining; but I must go now." And she
rose hastily to take leave.
"Nonsense!" said her Aunt Lora in whose boudoir they were sitting,
"there is no such great hurry, I am sure. You'll get home long before
dark."
"Yes, and might just as well stay another five or ten minutes. I wish
you would; for I have ever so much to say to you," urged Carrie.
"It would be very pleasant, thank you, but indeed I must not. See how
the shadows are lengthening, and papa does not at all like to have me
out after sunset unless he is with me."
"He always was overcareful of you, erring on the right side, I
suppose, if that be an allowable expression," laughed Lora, as she and
Carrie followed Elsie to the door to see her mount her horse.
The adieus were quickly spoken and the young girl, just touching the
whip to the sleek side of her pony, set off at a gallop, closely
followed by her faithful attendant Jim.
Several miles of rather a lonely road lay between them and home, and
no time was to be lost, if they would reach the Oaks while the sun was
still above the horizon.
They were hardly more than half a mile from the entrance to the
grounds, when Elsie caught sight of a well-known form slowly moving
down the road a few paces ahead of them. It was Arthur, and she soon
perceived that it was his intention to intercept her; he stopped,
turning his face toward her, sprang forward as she came up, and seized
her bridle.
"Stay a moment, Elsie," he said, "I want to speak to you."
"Then come on to the Oaks, and let us talk there; please do, for I am
in a hurry."
"No, I prefer to say my say where I am. I'll not detain you long. You
keep out of earshot, Jim. I want to borrow a little money, Elsie; a
trifle of fifty dollars or so. Can you accommodate me?"
"Not without papa's knowledge, Arthur. So I hope you do not wish to
conceal the matter from him."
"I do. I see no reason why he should know all my private affairs.
Can't you raise that much without applying to him? Isn't your
allowance very large now?"
"Fifty dollars a month, Arthur, but subject to the same conditions as
of old. I must account to papa for every cent."
"Haven't you more than that in hand now?"
"Yes, but what do you want it for?"
"That's neither your business nor his; let me have it for two weeks,
I'll pay it back then, and in the meantime he need know nothing about
it."
"I cannot; I never have any concealments from papa, and I must give in
my account in less than a week."
"Nonsense! You are and always were the most disobliging creature
alive!" returned Arthur with an oath.
"Oh, Arthur, how can you say such wicked words," she said, recoiling
from him with a shudder. "And you quite misjudge me. I would be glad
to do anything for you that is right. If you will let me tell papa
your wish, and he gives consent, you shall have the money at once. Now
please let me go. The sun has set and I shall be so late that papa
will be anxious and much displeased."
"Who cares if he is!" he answered roughly, still retaining his hold
upon her bridle, and compelling her to listen while he continued to
urge his request; enforcing it with arguments and threats.
They were alike vain, she steadfastly refused to grant it except on
the conditions she had named, and which he determinately rejected--and
insisted being left free to pursue her homeward way.
He grew furious, and at length with a shocking oath released her
bridle, but at the same instant struck her pony a severe blow upon his
haunches, with a stout stick he held in his hand.
The terrified animal, smarting with the pain, started aside, reared
and plunged in a way that would have unseated a less skilful rider,
and had nearly thrown Elsie from the saddle: then darted off at the
top of its speed; but fortunately turned in at the gate held open by
Jim, who had ridden on ahead and dismounted for that purpose.
"Whoa, you Glossy! whoa dere!" he cried, springing to the head of the
excited animal, and catching its bridle in his powerful grasp.
"Just lead her for a little, Jim," said Elsie "There, there! my poor
pretty Glossy, be quiet now. It was too cruel to serve you so; but
it shan't happen again if your mistress can help it," she added in a
voice tremulous with sympathy and indignation, patting and stroking
her pony caressingly as she spoke.
Jim obeyed, walking on at a brisk pace, leading Glossy with his right
hand, and keeping the bridle of the other horse over his left arm.
"I'll walk the rest of the way, Jim," said Elsie presently, "just stop
her and let me get down. There," springing lightly to the ground, "you
may lead them both to the stable now."
She hurried forward along the broad, gravelled winding carriage road
that led to the house. The next turn brought her face to face with her
father.
"What, Elsie! alone and on foot at this late hour?" he said in a tone
of mingled surprise and reproof.
"I have been riding, papa, and only a moment since dismounted and let
Jim lead the horses down the other road to the stables."
"Ah, but how did you come to be so late?" he asked, drawing her hand
within his arm and leading her onward.
"I have been to Tinegrove, sir, and Aunt Lora, Carrie, and I found so
much to say to each other, that the time slipped away before I knew
it."
"It must not happen again, Elsie."
"I do not mean it shall, papa, and I am very sorry."
"Then I excuse you this once, daughter; it is not often you give me
occasion to reprove you."
"Thank you, papa," she said with a grateful, loving look. "Did you
come out in search of me?"
"Yes, your mamma and I had begun to grow anxious lest some accident
had befallen you. Our little daughter is such a precious treasure that
we must needs watch over her very carefully," he added in a tone that
was half playful, half tender, while he pressed the little gloved
hand in his, and his eyes rested upon the sweet fair face with an
expression of proud fatherly affection.
Her answering look was full of filial reverence and love. "Dear papa,
it is so nice to be so loved and cared for; so sweet to hear such
words from your lips. I do believe I'm the very happiest girl in the
land." She had already almost forgotten Arthur and his rudeness and
brutality.
"And I the happiest father," he said with a pleased smile. "Ah, here
comes mamma to meet as with little Horace."
The child ran forward with a glad shout to meet his sister, Rose met
her with loving words and a fond caress; one might have thought from
their joyous welcome, that she was returning after an absence of
weeks or months instead of hours. Letting go her father's arm as they
stepped upon the piazza Elsie began a romping play with her little
brother, but at a gentle reminder from her mamma that the tea bell
would soon ring, ran away to her own apartments to have her riding
habit changed for something more suitable for the drawing room.
Chloe was in waiting and her skilful hands made rapid work, putting
the last touches to her nursling's dress just as the summons to the
supper table was given.
Mr. Dinsmore was quite as fastidious as in former days in regard to
the neatness and tastefulness of Elsie's attire.
"Will I do, papa?" she asked, presenting herself before him, looking
very sweet and fair in a simple white dress with blue sash and
ribbons.
"Yes," he said with a satisfied smile, "I see nothing amiss with
dress, hair, or face."
"Nor do I," said Rose, leading the way to the supper room, "Aunt Chloe
is an accomplished tirewoman. But come, let us sit down to our meal
and have it over."
On their return to the drawing room they, found Mr. Travilla
comfortably ensconced in an easy chair, reading the evening paper. He
was an almost daily visitor at the Oaks, and seldom came without some
little gift for one or both of his friend's children. It was for Elsie
to-night. When the usual greetings had been exchanged, he turned to
her, saying, "I have brought you a treat. Can you guess what it is?"
"A book!"
"Ah, there must be something of the Yankee about you," he answered,
laughing. "Yes, it is a book in two volumes; just published and a
most delightful, charming story," he went on, drawing them from his
pockets, and handing them to her as he spoke.
"Oh, thank you, sir!" she cried with eager gratitude, "I'm so glad,
if--if only papa will allow me to read it. May I, papa?"
"I can tell better when I have examined it, my child," Mr. Dinsmore
answered, taking one of the volumes from her hands and looking at the
title on the back. "'The Wide, Wide World!' What sort of a book is it,
Travilla?"
"A very good sort. I think. Just glance through it or read a few
pages, and I'm pretty sure it will be sufficient to satisfy you of,
not only its harmlessness, but that its perusal would be a benefit to
almost any one."
Mr. Dinsmore did so, Elsie standing beside him, her hand upon his arm,
and her eyes on his face--anxiously watching its changes of expression
as he read. They grew more and more satisfactory; the book was
evidently approving itself to his taste and judgment, and presently
he returned it to her, saying, with a kind fatherly smile, "Yes, my
child, you may read it. I have no doubt it deserves all the praise Mr.
Travilla has given it."
"Oh, thank you, papa, I'm very glad," she answered joyously, "I am
just hungry for a nice story." And seating herself near the light, she
was soon lost to everything about her in the deep interest with which
she was following Ellen Montgomery through her troubles and trials.
She was loath to lay the book aside when at the usual hour--a quarter
before nine--the bell rang for prayers. She hardly heeded the summons
till her papa laid his hand on her shoulder, saying, "Come, daughter,
you must not be left behind."
She started up then, hastily closing the book, and followed the others
to the dining room, where the servants were already assembled to take
part in the family devotions.
Mr. Travilla went away immediately after and now it was Elsie's
bed-time. Her father reminded her of it as, on coming back from seeing
his friend to the door, he found her again poring over the book.
"Oh, papa, it is so interesting! could you let me finish this
chapter?" she asked with a very entreating look up into his face as he
stood at her side.
"I suppose I could if I should make a great effort," he answered
laughingly. "Yes, you may, for once, but don't expect always to be
allowed to do so."
"No, sir, oh, no. Thank you, sir."
"Well, have you come to a good stopping-place?" he asked, as she
presently closed the book and put it aside with a slight sigh.
"No, sir, it is just as bad a one as the other. Papa, I wish I was
grown up enough to read another hour before going to bed."
"I don't," he said, drawing her to a seat upon his knee, and passing
his arm about her waist, "I'm not ready to part with my little girl
yet."
"Wouldn't a fine young lady daughter be just as good or better?" she
asked, giving him a hug.
"No, not now, some of these days I may think so."
"But mayn't I stay up and read till ten to-night?"
He shook his head. "Till half-past nine, then?"
"No, not even a till quarter past. Ah, it is that now," he added,
consulting his watch.
"You must say good-night and go. Early hours and plenty of sleep for
my little girl, that she may grow up to healthful, vigorous womanhood,
capable of enjoying life and being very useful in the church and the
world." He kissed her with grave tenderness as he spoke.
"Good-night then, you dear father," she said, returning the caress. "I
know you would indulge me if you thought it for my good."
"Indeed I would, pet. Would it help to reconcile you to the denial
of your wish to know that I shall be reading the book, and probably
enjoying it as much as you would?"
"Ah yes, indeed, papa! it is a real pleasure to resign it to you," she
answered with a look of delight. "It's just the nicest story! at least
as far as I've read. Read it aloud to mamma, won't you?"
"Yes, if she wishes to hear it. Now away with you to your room and
your bed."
Only waiting to bid her mamma an affectionate good-night, Elsie
obeyed, leaving the room with a light step, and a cheerful, happy
face.
"Dear unselfish child!" her father said, looking after her.
"She is that indeed," said Rose. "How happy, shall I be if Horace
grows up to be as good and lovable."
Elsie was a fearless horsewoman, accustomed to the saddle from her
very early years. Thus Arthur's wanton attack upon her pony had failed
to give her nerves the severe shock it might have caused to those of
most young girls of her age. Her feeling was more of excitement,
and of indignation at the uncalled-for cruelty to a dumb animal,
especially her own pet horse, than of fright at the danger to herself.
But she well knew that the latter was what her father would think of
first, and that he would be very angry with Arthur; therefore she had
tried, and successfully, to control herself and suppress all signs of
agitation on meeting him upon her return.
She felt glad now as the affair recurred to her recollection while
preparing for the night's rest, that she had been able to do so. For a
moment she questioned with herself whether she was quite right to have
this concealment from her father, but quickly decided that she was.
Had the wrong-doing been her own--that would have made it altogether
another matter.
She was shocked at Arthur's wickedness, troubled and anxious about his
future, but freely forgave his crime against her pony and herself,
and mingled with her nightly petitions an earnest prayer for his
conversion, and his welfare temporal and spiritual.