She is not sad, yet in her gaze appears
Something that makes the gazer think of tears.
--MRS. EMBURY.
The family at Roselands were gathered about the breakfast-table. A
much smaller party than of yore, since Horace had taken Elsie and
set up an establishment of his own, and the other sons were away at
college and two daughters married; leaving only Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore,
Adelaide and Enna to occupy the old home.
"I presume you have the lion's share as usual, papa," observed the
last named, as her father opened the letter-bag which Pomp had just
brought in.
"And who has a better right, Miss Malapert?" retorted the old
gentleman. "Yes, here are several letters for me; but as there is one
apiece for the rest of you, nobody need complain. Here, Pomp, hand
this to your mistress. From Walter, I see."
"Yes," she answered, opening it, "and a few lines from Arthur too. I'm
glad he's able to write again, poor fellow!"
"Yes," said Adelaide. "Rose says Horace has been up there and found
him nearly recovered. She writes that they are coming home."
"When?" asked Enna.
"Why, to-day! the letter has been delayed," said her sister, looking
at the date. "I shall ride over directly, to see that all is in order
for them at the Oaks."
"There is no need," remarked her mother. "Rose will have written to
Mrs. Murray."
"I presume so, still I shall go; it will be pleasant to be there to
welcome them when they arrive."
"How fond you are of Rose," said Mrs. Dinsmore in a piqued tone; "you
wouldn't do more for one of your own sisters, I believe, than for
her."
"I wouldn't do less, mamma, and I am very fond of her; we are so
perfectly congenial."
"And Elsie's a great pet of yours, too," said Enna sneeringly. "Well,
I shall put off my call till to-morrow, when the trunks will have been
unpacked, and I shall have a chance to see the fashions. Elsie will
have loads of new things; it's perfectly absurd the way Horace heaps
presents upon her, and pocket-money too. Such loads of jewelry as she
has,--two or three gold watches, and everything else in proportion."
"He may as well; she can never spend the half of her income," remarked
Mr. Dinsmore. "Unless she takes to gambling," he added, in a tone that
seemed to say that his purse had suffered severely from some one's
indulgence in that vice.
Mrs. Dinsmore winced, Enna looked vexed and annoyed, and Adelaide sad
and troubled; but when she spoke it was in answer to Enna.
"Yes, Elsie will have a great many beautiful things to show us, of
course; but, though she wears nothing outré, she has never been, and I
think never will be a mirror of fashion. It would suit neither her own
taste nor Horace's; and you know, fond of her as he is, he will never
allow her to have a will of her own in dress or anything else. So it
is well their tastes harmonize."
"I wouldn't be his child for all her money," said Enna.
"There would be some fighting if you were," said her father, laughing.
"I never could tell whether he tyrannized over Rose in the same style
or not," observed Mrs. Dinsmore interrogatively.
"All I know about it is that they seem perfectly happy in each other,"
answered Adelaide; "but I don't suppose Horace considers a husband's
authority by any means equal to a father's."
Something delayed Adelaide, and it was nearly two hours after they
rose from the table ere she was fairly on her way to the Oaks.
"Why, they are here before me!" she exclaimed half aloud as she came
in sight of the house.
There were piles of luggage upon the veranda, and the whole family,
including all the house servants, were gathered round a large
open trunk from which Mrs. Dinsmore and Elsie were dealing out
gifts--dresses, aprons, bonnets, hats, gay handkerchiefs, etc., etc.;
the darkies receiving them with a delight that was pleasant to see.
Mr. Dinsmore too was taking his part in the distribution, and as
Adelaide rode up little Horace was in the act of throwing a gay shawl
about the shoulders of his nurse, who caught him in her arms and
hugged and kissed him over and over, calling him "honey," and "pet,"
and "you ole mammy's darlin' ole chil'!"
So much engaged were they all that no one perceived Adelaide's
approach till she had reined in her horse close to the veranda, and
throwing her bridle to her attendant, sprung lightly to the ground.
But then there was a shout of welcome from little Horace, followed
instantly by joyous exclamations and embraces from the others.
"Dear me, what a long stay you made of it!" said Adelaide. "You can
have no idea how I missed you all; even down to this little man,"
patting Horace's rosy cheek. "You look remarkably well, Rose; and the
two Horaces also; but Elsie, I think, has grown a little pale, thin,
and heavy-eyed. What ails you, child? Pining for your native air--no,
home air--I presume. Is that it?"
"Hardly pining for it, auntie, but very glad to get back,
nevertheless," Elsie answered, with a blush and a smile.
"And you are not pale now. But don't let me interrupt your pleasant
employment. I wish I had been in time to see the whole of it."
"You are in season for your own gifts. Will you accept a trifle from
me?" said her brother, putting a jewel-case into her hand.
"Coral! and what a beautiful shade!" she cried. "Thank you; they are
just what I wanted."
"I thought they would contrast prettily with this, auntie," said
Elsie, laying a dress-pattern of black silk upon her lap.
"And these are to be worn at the same time, if it so pleases you,"
added Rose, presenting her with collar and undersleeves of point lace.
"Oh, Rose, how lovely! and even little Horace bringing auntie a gift!"
as the child slipped something into her hand.
"It's only a card-case; but mamma said you'd like it, Aunt Adie."
"And I do; it's very pretty. And here's a hug and a kiss for the pet
boy that remembered his old-maid auntie."
"Old maid, indeed! Adelaide, I'll not have you talking so," said Rose.
"There's nothing old-maidish about you; not even age yet; a girl of
twenty-six to be calling herself that! it's perfectly absurd. Isn't
it, my dear?"
"I think so, indeed," replied Mr. Dinsmore. "Here, Jim, Cato, and the
rest of you carry in these trunks and boxes, and let us have them
unpacked and put out of sight."
"Oh, yes!" said Adelaide, "I want to see all the fine things you have
brought, Rose. Mamma, Enna, and I are depending upon you and Elsie for
the fashions."
"Yes, we had all our fall and winter dresses made up in Philadelphia;
we prefer their styles to the New York; they don't go to such
extremes, you know; and besides--hailing from the Quaker city as I do,
it's natural I should be partial to her plainer ways--but we brought
quantities of patterns from both places; knowing that nothing was
likely to be too gay for Enna. We will let Elsie display hers first. I
feel in a special hurry, dear, to show your aunt those elegant silks
your papa and I helped you to select. I hope you will see them all on
her, one of these days, Adelaide.
"That child's complexion is so perfect, that she can wear anything,"
she added in an aside, as they followed Elsie to her apartments;
"there's a pale blue that she looks perfectly lovely in; a pearl-color
too, and a delicate pink, and I don't know how many more. One might
think we expected her to do nothing but attend parties the coming
season."
Elsie seemed to take a lively interest in displaying her pretty things
to her aunt, and in looking on for a little, while Rose did the same
with hers; but at length, though the two older ladies were still
turning over and discussing silks, satins, velvets, laces, ribbons,
feathers, and flowers, her father noticed her sitting in the corner of
a sofa, in an attitude of weariness and dejection, with a pale cheek,
and a dreary, far-off look in her eyes that it pained him to see.
"You are very tired, daughter," he said, going to her side, and
smoothing her glossy brown hair with tender caressing motion, as he
spoke; "go and lie down for an hour or two. A nap would do you a great
deal of good."
"I don't like to do so while Aunt Adie is here, papa," she said,
looking up at him with a smile, and trying to seem fresh and bright.
"Never mind that; you can see her any day now. Come, you must take a
rest." And drawing her hand within his arm, he led her to her boudoir
and left her there, comfortably established upon a sofa.
"A hat trimmed in that style would be becoming to Elsie," remarked
Adelaide, continuing the conversation with Rose, and turning to look
at her niece as she spoke. "Why, she's not here."
"Papa took her away to make her lie down," said little Horace.
"Rose, does anything ail the child?" asked Adelaide, in an undertone.
"She does not seem to be out of health; but you know we are very
careful of her; she is so dear and sweet, and has never looked very
strong."
"But there is something wrong with her, is there not? she does not
seem to me quite the gay, careless child she was when you went away.
Horace," and she turned to him, as he re-entered the room, "may I not
know about Elsie? You can hardly love her very much better than I do,
I think."
"If that is so, you must love her very much indeed," he answered with
a faint smile. "Yes, I will tell you." And he explained the matter;
briefly at first, then more in detail, as she drew him on by questions
and remarks.
Her sympathy for Elsie was deep and sincere; yet she thought her
brother's course the only wise and kind one, and her indignation waxed
hot against Arthur and Egerton.
"And Elsie still believes in the scoundrel?" she said inquiringly.
"Yes, her loving, trustful nature refuses to credit the proofs of
his guilt, and only her sweet, conscientious submission to parental
authority has saved her from becoming his victim."
"She is a very good, submissive, obedient child to you, Horace."
"I could not ask a better, Adelaide. I only wish it were in my power
to make obedience always easy and pleasant to her, poor darling."
"I hope you have something for me there, my dear," Rose remarked to
her husband at the breakfast-table the next morning, as he looked over
the mail just brought in by his man John.
"Yes, there is one for you; from your mother, I think; and, Elsie, do
you know the handwriting of this?"
"No, papa, it is quite strange to me," she answered, taking the letter
he held out to her, and which bore her name and address on the back,
and examining it critically.
"And the post-mark tells you nothing either?"
"No, sir; I cannot quite make it out, but it doesn't seem to be any
place where I have a correspondent."
"Well, open it and see from whom it comes. But finish your breakfast
first."
Elsie laid the letter down by her plate, and putting aside, for the
present, her curiosity in regard to it, went on with her meal. "From
whom can it have come?" she asked herself, while listening half
absently to extracts from Mr. Allison's epistle; "not from him surely,
the hand is so very unlike that of the one he sent me in Lansdale."
"You have not looked at that yet," her father said, seeing her take it
up as they rose from the table. "You may do so now. I wish to know who
the writer is. Don't read it till you have found that out," he added,
leading her to a sofa in the next room, and making her sit down there,
while he stood by her side.
She felt that his eye was upon her as she broke open the envelope and,
taking the letter from it, glanced down the page, then in a little
flutter of surprise and perplexity turned to the signature. Instantly
her face flushed crimson, she trembled visibly, and her eyes were
lifted pleadingly to his.
He frowned and held out his hand.
"Oh, papa, let me read it!" she murmured low and tremulously, her eyes
still pleading more eloquently than her tongue.
"No," he said, and his look and gesture were imperative.
She silently put the letter into his hand, and turned away with a low
sob.
"It is not worth one tear, or even an emotion of regret, my child," he
said, sitting down beside her. "I shall send it back at once; unread,
unless you prefer to have me read it first."
"No, papa."
"Very well, then I shall not. But, Elsie, do you not see now that he
is quite capable of imitating the handwriting of another?"
"Yes, papa; but that does not prove that he did in the case you refer
to."
"And he has acted quite fairly and honestly in using that talent to
elude my vigilance and tempt you to deception and disobedience, eh?"
"He is not perfect, papa, but I can't believe him as bad as you
think."
"There are none so blind as those that won't see, Elsie; but,
remember"--and his tone changed from one of great vexation to another
sternly authoritative--"I will be obeyed in this thing."
"Yes, papa," she said, and rising, hastily left the room.
"Try to be very patient with her, dear," said Rose, who had been a
silent, but deeply interested spectator of the little scene; "she
suffers enough, poor child!"
"Yes, I know it, and my heart bleeds for her; yet she seems so
wilfully blind to the strongest proofs of the fellow's abominable
rascality that at times I feel as if I could hardly put up with it
at all. The very pain of seeing her suffer so makes me out of all
patience with her folly."
"Yes, I understand it, but do not be stern with her; she surely does
not deserve it while she is so perfectly submissive to your will."
"No, she does not, poor darling," he said with a sigh. "But I must
make haste to write some letters that ought to go by the next mail."
He left the room, and Mrs. Dinsmore, longing to comfort Elsie in her
trouble, was about to go in search of her, when Mrs. Murray, who was
still housekeeper at the Oaks, came to ask advice or direction about
some household matters.
Their consultation lasted for half an hour or more, and in the
meanwhile Mr. Dinsmore finished his correspondence and went himself to
look for his daughter. She was in the act of opening her writing-desk
as he entered the room.
"What are you doing, daughter?" he asked.
"I was about to write a letter to Sophy, papa."
"It would be too late for to-day's mail; so let it wait, and come with
me for a little stroll into the grounds. Aunt Chloe, bring a garden
hat and sunshade. You would like to go, daughter?"
"Yes, sir. Papa, you are not vexed with me? You don't think I want to
be disobedient or wilful?" There were tears in her voice and traces of
them on her cheeks.
"No, darling!" he said, drawing her to him, "and you did not in the
least deserve to be spoken to in the stern tone that I used. But--can
you understand it?--my very love for you makes me angry and impatient
at your persistent love for that scoundrel."
"Papa, please don't!" she said in a low, pained tone, and turning away
her face.
"Ah, you do not like to hear a word against him!" he sighed; "I can't
bear to think it, and yet I fear you care more for him than for me,
your own father, who almost idolizes you. Is it so?"
"Papa," she murmured, winding her arms about his neck, and laying
her head on his breast, "if I may have but one of you, I could never
hesitate for a moment to choose to cling here where I have been so
long and tenderly cherished. I know what your love is,--I might be
mistaken and deceived in another. And besides, God commands me to
honor and obey you."
He held her close to his heart for a moment, as something too dear and
precious ever to be given up to another, then drawing her hand within
his arm, while Chloe placed the hat on her head, and gave her the
parasol, he led her out into the grounds.
It pained him to notice the sadness of her countenance, sadder than he
had seen it for many days, and he exerted himself to entertain her
and divert her thoughts, calling her attention to some new plants and
flowers, consulting her taste in regard to improvements he designed
making, and conversing with her about a book they had been reading.
She understood his thoughtful kindness, was grateful for it, and did
her best to be interested and cheerful.
"It is so nice to have you treat me as your companion and friend as
well as your daughter, papa," she said, looking up at him with a
smile.
"Your companionship is very dear and sweet to me, daughter," he
answered. "But I think we had better go in now; the sun is growing
hot."
"Oh, here you are!" cried a girlish voice as they turned into a shaded
walk leading to the house. "I've been looking everywhere and am
glad to have found you at last. Really, if a body didn't know your
relationship, he or she might almost imagine you a pair of lovers."
"Don't be silly, Enna. How do you do?" said Mr. Dinsmore, shaking
hands with her and giving her a brotherly kiss.
"As usual, thank you," she answered, turning from him to Elsie, whom
she embraced with tolerable warmth, saying, "I'm really glad to have
you here again. I missed you more than I would have believed. Now come
in and show me all your pretty things. I'm dying to see them. Adelaide
says you've brought home such quantities of lovely laces, silks,
velvets, ribbons, flowers, feathers and what not, that one might
imagine you'd nearly bought out the Philadelphia merchants."
"No, they had quite a stock still left," replied Elsie, smiling; "but,
as mamma says, papa was very indulgent and liberal to us both; and I
shall take pleasure in showing you his gifts."
"How do you like my present to Adelaide? asked Mr. Dinsmore.
"Oh, very much; but when my turn comes please remember I want
amethysts."
"Ah, then I have been fortunate in my selection," he said, quite
unsuspicious of the fact that Enna had instructed Elsie beforehand in
regard to her wishes, should Horace intend making her a present. Elsie
had quietly given the desired hint, but merely as though the idea had
originated with herself.
The jewelry was highly approved, as also a rich violet silk from Rose,
and a lace set from Elsie.
Adelaide had been intrusted with quite as rich gifts for her father
and mother; nor had Lora been forgotten; Elsie had a handsome shawl
for her, Mr. Dinsmore a beautiful pair of bracelets, and Rose a costly
volume of engravings.
"Do you think Aunt Lora will be pleased?" asked Elsie.
"They're splendid! It must be mighty nice to have so much money to
spend. But come now, show me what you got for yourselves."
She spent a long while, first in Rose's apartment, then in Elsie's,
turning over and admiring the pretty things, discussing patterns, and
styles of trimming, and what colors and modes would be becoming to
her, trying on some of the dresses, laces, sacques, shawls, bonnets,
and hats--without so much as saying by your leave, when the article in
question belonged to her niece--that she might judge of the effect;
several times repeating her remark that it must be delightful to have
so much money, and that Elsie was exceedingly fortunate in being so
enormously wealthy.
"Yes; it is something to be thankful for," Elsie said at length, "but,
Enna, it is also a great responsibility. We are only stewards, you
know, and sometimes I fear it is hardly right for me to spend so much
in personal adornment."
"That wouldn't trouble me in the least; but why do you do it, if you
are afraid it's wrong?"
"Papa does not think so; he says the manufacturers of these rich goods
must live as well as others, and that for one with my income, it is no
more extravagant to wear them than for one with half the means to wear
goods only half as expensive."
"And I'm sure he's perfectly right; and of course you have no choice
but to obey. Well, I presume I've seen everything now, and I'm
actually weary with my labors," she added, throwing herself into an
easy-chair. "You've grown a little pale, I think, and your eyes look
as if you'd been crying. What ails you?"
"I am not at all ill," returned Elsie, flushing.
"I didn't say you were, but something's wrong with you, and you can't
deny it; you don't seem as gay as you used to before you went away."
She paused, but receiving no reply, went on. "Come now, it isn't worth
while to be so close-mouthed with me, Miss Dinsmore; for I happen to
know pretty much all about it already. You've fallen in love with a
man that your father thinks is a scamp and though you don't believe
it, you've given him up, in obedience to orders, like the cowardly
piece that you are. Dear me, before I'd be so afraid of my father!"
"No, you neither fear nor love your father as I do mine; but fear of
papa has very little to do with it. I love him far too well to refuse
to submit to him in this, and I fear God, who bids me obey and honor
him. But, Enna, how did you learn all this?"
"Ah, that is my secret."
Elsie looked disturbed. "Won't you tell me?"
"Not I."
"Is it generally known in the family?"
"So far as I am aware, no one knows it but myself."
"Ah!" thought Elsie, "I did not believe Aunt Adelaide or Walter would
tell her; but I wonder how she did find it out."
"I wouldn't give up the man I loved for anybody," Enna went on in a
sneering tone. "I say parents have no business to interfere in such
matters; and so I told papa quite plainly when he took it upon him
to lecture me about receiving attentions from Dick Percival, and
threatened to forbid him the house."
"Oh, Enna!"
"You consider it wickedly disrespectful and rebellious no doubt, but
I say I'm no longer a child, and so the text, 'Children obey your
parents'--which I know is just on the end of your tongue--doesn't
apply to me."
"The Bible doesn't say obey till you are of age, then do as you
please. You are not seventeen yet, and Isaac was twenty when he
submitted to be bound and laid upon the altar."
"Well, when I go to the altar, it shall be leaning on Dick's arm,"
said Enna, laughing. "I don't care if he is wild; I like him, and
intend to marry him too."
"But are you not afraid?"
"Afraid of what?"
"That he will run through his property in a few years, and perhaps
become an habitual drunkard and abusive to his wife."
"I mean to risk it anyhow," returned Enna sharply, "so it is not worth
while for my friends to waste their breath in lecturing me on the
subject."
"Oh, Enna! you can't expect a blessing, if you persist in being so
undutiful; I think it would be well for you if your father were more
like mine."
"Indeed! I wouldn't be your father's daughter for anything."
"And I am glad and thankful that I am."