O love! thou sternly dost thy power maintain,
And wilt not bear a rival in thy reign.
--DRYDEN.
It was the middle of the forenoon, and Elsie in her own pretty little
sitting room was busied with her books; so deep in study indeed, that
she never noticed a slight girlish figure as it glided in at the glass
doors opening upon the lawn, to-day set wide to admit the air coming
fresh and cool with a faint odor of the far-off sea, pleasantly
mingling with that of the flowers in the garden, on the other side of
the house.
"Buried alive in her books! Dear me! what a perfect paragon of
industry you are," cried the intruder in a lively tone. "I wish you
would imbue me with some of your love of study."
"Why, Lucy Carrington! how did you get here?" and Elsie pushed her
books away, rose hastily and greeted her friend with an affectionate
embrace.
"How? I came in through yonder door, miss; after riding my pony
from Ashlands to the front entrance of this mansion," replied Lucy,
courtesying low in mock reverence. "I hope your ladyship will excuse
the liberty I have taken in venturing uninvited into your sanctum."
"Provided your repentance is deep and sincere," returned Elsie in the
same jesting tone.
"Certainly, I solemnly pledge myself never to do it again till the
next time."
"Sit down, won't you?" and Elsie pushed forward a low rocking chair.
"It's so pleasant to see you. But if I had thought about it at all
I should have supposed you were at home, and as busy over books and
lessons as I."
"No; my respected governess, Miss Warren, not feeling very well, has
taken a week's holiday, and left me to do the same. Fancy my afflicted
state at the thought of laying aside my beloved books for seven or
eight whole days."
"You poor creature! how I pity you," said Elsie, laughing; "suppose
you stay here and share the instructions of my tutor; I have no doubt
I could persuade him to receive you as a pupil."
"Horrors! I'm much obliged, very much, but I should die of fright the
first time I had to recite. There, I declare I'm growing poetical,
talking in rhyme all the time."
"Let mammy take your hat and scarf," said Elsie. "You'll stay and
spend the day with me, won't you?"
"Thank you, no; I came to carry you off to Ashlands to spend a week.
Will you come?"
"I should like to, dearly well, if papa gives permission."
"Well, run and ask him."
"I can't; unfortunately he is out, and not expected to return till
tea-time."
"Oh, pshaw! how provoking! But can't your mamma give permission just
as well?"
"If it were only for a day she might, but I know she would say the
question of a longer visit must be referred to papa."
"Dear me! I wouldn't be you for something. Why, I never ask leave of
anybody when I want to pay a visit anywhere in the neighborhood. I
tell mamma I'm going, and that's all-sufficient. I don't see how you
stand being ordered about and controlled so."
"If you'll believe me," said Elsie, laughing a gay, sweet, silvery
laugh, "I really enjoy being controlled by papa. It saves me a deal of
trouble and responsibility in the way of deciding for myself; and then
I love him so dearly that I almost always feel it my greatest pleasure
to do whatever pleases him."
"And he always was so strict with you."
"Yes, he is strict; but oh, so kind."
"But that's just because you're so good; he'd have an awful time
ruling me. I'd be in a chronic state of disgrace and punishment; and
he obliged to be so constantly improving me and frowning sternly upon
my delinquencies that he'd never be able to don a smile of approval or
slip in a word of praise edgewise."
"Indeed you're not half so bad as you pretend," said Elsie, laughing
again; "nor I half so good as you seem determined to believe me."
"No, I've no doubt that you're an arch hypocrite, and we shall find
out one of these days that you are really worse than any of the rest
of us. But now I must finish my errand and go, for I know you're
longing to be at those books. Do you get a ferruling every time you
miss a word?--and enjoy the pain because it pleases papa to inflict
it?"
"Oh, Lucy, how can you be so ridiculous?" and a quick, vivid blush
mounted to Elsie's very hair.
"I beg your pardon, Elsie, dear, I had no business to say such a
thing," cried Lucy, springing up to throw her arms round her friend
and kiss her warmly; "but of course it was nothing but the merest
nonsense. I know well enough your papa never does anything of the
kind."
"No; if my lessons are not well prepared they have to be learned over
again, that is all; and if I see that papa is displeased with me, I
assure you it is punishment enough."
"Do you think he'll let you accept my invitation?"
"I don't know, indeed, Lucy. I think he will hardly like to have me
give up my studies for that length of time, and in fact I hardly like
to do so myself."
"Oh, you must come. You can practise on my piano every day for an hour
or two, if you like. We'll learn some duets. And you can bring your
sketch-book and carry it along when we walk or ride, as we shall
every day. And we might read some improving books together,--you and
Herbert, and I. He is worse again, poor fellow! so that some days he
hardly leaves his couch even to limp across the room, and it's partly
to cheer him up that we want you to come. There's nothing puts him
into better spirits than a sight of your face."
"You don't expect other company?"
"No, except on our birthday; but then we're going to have a little
party, just of our own set,--we boys and girls that have grown up--or
are growing up--together, as one may say. Oh, yes, I want to have
Carrie Howard, Mary Leslie, and Enna stay a day or two after the
party. Now coax your papa hard, for we must have you," she added,
rising to go.
"That would be a sure way to make him say no," said Elsie, smiling;
"he never allows me to coax or tease; at least, not after he has once
answered my request."
"Then don't think of it. Good-bye. No, don't waste time in coming to
see me off, but go back to your books like a good child. I mean to
have a little chat with your mamma before I go."
Elsie returned to her lessons with redoubled energy. She was longing
to become more intimately acquainted with Ellen Montgomery, but
resolutely denied herself even so much as a peep at the pages of the
fascinating story-book until her allotted tasks should be faithfully
performed.
These, with her regular daily exercise in the open air, filled up the
morning; there was a half hour before, and another after dinner, which
she could call her own; then two hours for needlework, music, and
drawing, and she was free to employ herself as she would till
bed-time.
That was very apt to be in reading, and if the weather was fine she
usually carried her book to an arbor at some distance from the house.
It was reached by a long shaded walk that led to it from the lawn, on
which the glass doors of her pretty boudoir opened. It was a cool,
breezy, quiet spot, on a terraced hillside, commanding a lovely view
of vale, river, and woodland, and from being so constantly frequented
by our heroine, had come to be called by her name,--"Elsie's Arbor."
Arthur, well acquainted with these tastes and habits, sought, and
found her here on the afternoon of this day--found her so deeply
absorbed in Miss Warner's sweet story that she was not aware of his
approach--so full of sympathy for little Ellen that her tears were
dropping upon the page as she read.
"What, crying, eh?" he said with a sneer, as he seated himself by her
side, and rudely pulled one of her curls, very much as he had been
used to do years ago. "Well, I needn't be surprised, for you always
were the greatest baby I ever saw."
"Please let my hair alone, Arthur; you are not very polite in either
speech or action," she answered, brushing away her tears and moving a
little farther from him.
"It's not worth while to waste politeness on you. What's that you're
reading?"
"A new book Mr. Travilla gave me."
"Has no name, eh?"
"Yes, 'Wide, Wide World.'"
"Some namby-pamby girl's story, I s'pose, since you're allowed to read
it; or are you doing it on the sly?"
"No, I never do such things, and hope I never shall; papa gave me
permission."
"Oh; ah! then I haven't got you in my power: wish I had."
"Why?"
"Because I might turn it to good account. I know you are as afraid as
death of Horace."
"No, I am not!" dried Elsie indignantly, rich color rushing all over
her fair face and neck; "for I know that he loves me dearly and if I
had been disobeying or deceiving him I would far sooner throw myself
on his mercy than on yours."
"You would, eh? How mad you are; your face is as red as a beet. A
pretty sort of Christian you are, aren't you?"
"I am not perfect, Arthur; but you mustn't judge of religion by me."
"I shall, though. Don't you wish I'd go away?" he added teasingly,
again snatching at her curls.
But she eluded his grasp, and rising, stood before him with an air of
gentle dignity. "Yes," she said, "since you ask me, I'll own that I
do. I don't know why it is that, though your manners are polished when
you choose to make them so, you are always rude and ungentlemanly to
me when you find me alone. So I shall be very glad if you'll just go
away and leave me to solitude and the enjoyment of my book."
"I'll do so when I get ready; not a minute sooner. But you can get rid
of me just as soon as you like. I see you take. Yes, I want that money
I asked you for yesterday, and I am bound to have it."
"Arthur, my answer must be just the same that it was then; I can give
you no other."
"You're the meanest girl alive! To my certain knowledge you are worth
at least a million and a half, and yet you refuse to lend me the
pitiful sum of fifty dollars."
"Arthur, you know I have no choice in the matter. Papa has forbidden
me to lend you money without his knowledge and consent, and I cannot
disobey him."
"When did he forbid you?"
"A long while ago; and though he has said nothing about it lately, he
has told me again and again that his commands are always binding until
he revokes them."
"Fifteen years old, and not allowed to do as you please even with
your pocket money!" he said contemptuously. "Do you expect to be in
leading-strings all your life?"
"I shall of course have control of my own money matters on coming of
age; but I expect to obey my father as long as we both live," she
answered, with gentle but firm decision.
"Do you have to show your balance in hand when you give in your
account?"
"No; do you suppose papa cannot trust my word?" she answered, somewhat
indignantly.
"Then you could manage it just as easily as not. There's no occasion
for him to know whether your balance in hand is at that moment in your
possession or mine; as I told you before, I only want to borrow it for
two weeks. Come, let me have it. If you don't, the day will come when
you'll wish you had."
She repeated her refusal; he grew very angry and abusive, and at
length went so far as to strike her.
A quick step sounded on the gravel walk, a strong grasp was laid on
Arthur's arm, he felt himself suddenly jerked aside and flung upon
his knees, while a perfect rain of stinging, smarting blows descended
rapidly upon his back and shoulders.
"There, you unmitigated scoundrel, you mean, miserable caitiff; lay
your hand upon her again if you dare!" cried Mr. Travilla, finishing
the castigation by applying the toe of his boot to Arthur's nether
parts with a force that sent him reeling some distance down the walk,
to fall with a heavy thud upon the ground.
The lad rose, white with rage, and shook his fist at his antagonist.
"I'll strike her when I please," he said with an oath, "and not be
called to account by you for it either; she's my niece, and nothing to
you."
"I'll defend her nevertheless, and see to it that you come to grief if
you attempt to harm her in any way whatever. Did he hurt you much, my
child?" And Mr. Travilla's tone changed to one of tender concern as he
turned and addressed Elsie, who had sunk pale and trembling upon the
rustic seat where Arthur had found her.
"No, sir, but I fear you have hurt him a good deal, in your kind zeal
for my defence," she answered, looking after Arthur, as he limped away
down the path.
"I have broken my cane, that is the worst of it," said her protector
coolly, looking regretfully down at the fragment he still held in his
hand.
"You must have struck very hard, and oh, Mr. Travilla, what if he
should take it into his head to challenge you?" and Elsie turned pale
with terror.
"Never fear; he is too arrant a coward for that; he knows I am a good
shot, and that, as the challenged party, I would have the right to
the choice of weapons."
"But you wouldn't fight, Mr. Travilla? you do not approve of
duelling?"
"So, no indeed, Elsie; both the laws of God and of the land are
against it, and I could not engage in it either as a good citizen or a
Christian."
"Oh, I am so glad of that, and that you came to my rescue; for I was
really growing frightened, Arthur seemed in such a fury with me."
"What was it about?"
Elsie explained, then asked how he had happened to come to her aid.
"I had learned from the servants that your father and mother were both
out, so came here in search of you," he said. "As I drew near I saw
that Arthur was with you, and not wishing to overhear your talk, I
waited at a little distance up there on the bank, watching you through
the trees. I perceived at once that he was in a towering passion, and
fearing he would ill-treat you in some way, I held myself in readiness
to come to your rescue; and when I saw him strike you, such a fury
suddenly came over me that I could not possibly refrain from thrashing
him for it."
"Mr. Travilla, you will not tell papa?" she said entreatingly.
"My child, I am inclined to think he ought to hear of it."
"Oh, why need he? It would make him very angry with Arthur."
"Which Arthur richly deserves. I think your father should know, in
order that he may take measures for your protection. Still, if you
promise not to ride or walk out alone until Arthur has left the
neighborhood, it shall be as you wish. But you must try to recover
your composure, or your papa will be sure to ask the cause of your
agitation. You are trembling very much, and the color has quite
forsaken your cheeks."
"I'll try," She said, making a great effort to control herself, "and I
give you the promise."
"This is a very pleasant place to sit with book or work," he remarked,
"but I would advise you not even to come here alone again till Arthur
has gone."
"Thank you, sir, I think I shall follow your advice. It will be only a
few weeks now till he and Walter both go North to college."
"I see you have your book with you," he said, taking it up from the
seat where it lay. "How do you like it?"
"Oh, so much! How I pity poor Ellen for having such a father, so
different from my dear papa; and because she had to be separated from
her mamma, whom she loved so dearly. I can't read about her troubles
without crying, Mr. Travilla."
"Shall I tell you a secret," he said, smiling; "I shed some tears
over it myself." Then he went on talking with her about the different
characters of the story, thus helping her to recover her composure by
turning her thoughts from herself and Arthur.
When, half an hour later, a servant came to summon her to the house,
with the announcement that her father had returned and was ready to
hear her recitations, all signs of agitation had disappeared; she had
ceased to tremble, and her fair face was as sweet, bright, and rosy as
its wont.
She rose instantly on hearing the summons. "You'll excuse me, I know,
Mr. Travilla. But will you not go in with me? We are always glad to
have you with us. I have no need to tell you that, I am sure."
"Thank you," he said, "but I must return to Ion now. I shall walk to
the house with you though, if you will permit me," he added, thinking
that Arthur might be still lurking somewhere within the grounds.
She answered gayly that she would be very glad of his company. She had
lost none of her old liking for her father's friend, and was wont to
treat him with the easy and affectionate familiarity she might have
used had he been her uncle.
They continued their talk till they had reached the lawn at the side
of the house on which her apartments were; then he turned to bid her
good-bye.
"I'm much obliged!" she said, taking his offered hand, and looking up
brightly into his face.
"Welcome, fair lady; but am I to be dismissed without any reward for
my poor services?"
"I have none to offer, sir knight, but you may help yourself if you
choose," she said, laughing and blushing, for she knew very well what
he meant.
He stooped and snatched a kiss from her ruby lips, then walked away
sighing softly to himself, "Ah, little Elsie, if I were but ten years
younger!"
She tripped across the lawn, and entering the open door of her
boudoir, found herself in her father's arms. He had witnessed the
little scene just enacted between Mr. Travilla and herself, had
noticed something in his friend's look and manner that had never
struck him before. He folded his child close to his heart for an
instant then held her off a little, gazing fondly into her face.
"You are mine; you belong to me; no other earthly creature has the
least shadow of a right or title in you; do you know that?"
"Yes, papa, and rejoice to know it," she murmured, putting her arms
about his neck and laying her head against his breast.
"Ah!" he said, sighing, "you will not always be able to say that, I
fear. One of these days you will--" He broke off abruptly, without
finishing his sentence.
She looked up inquiringly into his face.
He answered her look with a smile and a tender caress. "I had better
not put the nonsense into your head: it will get there soon enough
without my help. Come now, let us have the lessons. I expect to find
them well prepared, as usual."
"I hope so, papa," she answered, bringing her books and seating
herself on a stool at his feet, he having taken possession of an
easy-chair.
The recitations seemed a source of keen enjoyment to both; the one
loving to impart, and the other to receive, knowledge.
Mr. Dinsmore gave the deserved meed of warm praise for the faithful
preparation of each allotted task, prescribed those for the coming
day, and the books were laid aside.
"Come here, daughter," he said, as she closed her desk upon them, "I
have something to say to you."
"What is it, papa?" she asked, seating herself upon his knee. "How
very grave you look." But there was not a touch of the old fear in her
face or voice, as there had been none in his of the old sternness.
"Yes, for I am about to speak of a serious matter," he answered,
gently smoothing back the clustering curls from her fair brow, while
he looked earnestly into the soft brown eyes. "You have not been
lending money to Arthur, Elsie?"
The abrupt, unexpected question startled her, and a crimson tide
rushed over her face and neck; but she returned her father's gaze
steadily: "No, papa; how could you think I would disobey so?"
"I did not, darling, and yet I felt that I must ask the question
and repeat my warning, my command to you--never to do so without my
knowledge and consent. Your grandfather and I are much troubled about
the boy."
"I am so sorry, papa; I hope he has not been doing anything very bad."
"He seems to have sufficient cunning to hide many of his evil deeds,"
Mr. Dinsmore said, with a sigh; "yet enough has come to light to
convince us that he is very likely to become a shame and disgrace to
his family. We know that he is profane, and to some extent, at
least, intemperate and a gambler. A sad, sad beginning for a boy of
seventeen. And to furnish him with money, Elsie, would be only to
assist him in his downward course."
"Yes, papa, I see that. Poor grandpa, I'm so sorry for him! But, papa,
God can change Arthur's heart, and make him all we could wish."
"Yes, daughter, and we will agree together to ask Him to do this great
work, so impossible to any human power; shall we not?"
"Yes, papa." They were silent a moment; then she turned to him again,
told of Lucy Carrington's call and its object, and asked if she might
accept the invitation.
He considered a moment. "Yes," he said kindly, "you may if you wish.
You quite deserve a holiday, and I think perhaps would really be the
better of a week's rest from study. Go and enjoy yourself as much as
you can, my darling."
"Thank you, you dearest, kindest, and best of papas," she said, giving
him a hug and kiss. "But I think you look a little bit sorry. You
would rather I should stay at home, if I could content myself to do
so, and it would be a strange thing if I could not."
"No, my pet, I shall miss you, I know; the house always seems lonely
without you; but I can spare you for a week, and would rather have you
go, because I think the change will do you good. Besides, I am willing
to lend my treasure for a few days to our friends at Ashlands. I
would gladly do more than that, if I could, for that poor suffering
Herbert."