The human heart! 'tis a thing that lives
In the light of many a shrine;
And the gem of its own pure feelings gives
Too oft on brows that are false to shine;
It has many a cloud of care and woe
To shadow o'er its springs,
And the One above alone may know
The changing tune of its thousand strings.
--MRS. L.P. SMITH.
Mr. and Mrs. Horace Dinsmore were most anxious to promote Elsie's
happiness, and in order to that to win her to forgetfulness of her
unworthy suitor. Being Christians they did not take her to the
ball-room, the Opera, or the theater (nor would she have consented
to go had they proposed it), but they provided for her every sort of
suitable amusement within their reach. She was allowed to entertain as
much company and to pay as many visits to neighbors and friends as she
pleased.
But a constant round of gayety was not to her taste; she loved quiet
home pleasures and intellectual pursuits far better. And of these also
she might take her fill, nor lack for sympathizing companionship; both
parents, but especially her father, being of like mind with herself.
They enjoyed many a book together, and she chose to pursue several
studies with him.
And thus the weeks and months glided away not unhappily, though at
times she would be possessed with a restless longing for news from
Egerton, and for the love that was denied her; then her eyes would
occasionally meet her father's with the old wistful, pleading look
that he found so hard to resist.
He well understood their mute petition; yet it was one he could not
grant. But he would take her in his arms, and giving her the fondest,
tenderest caresses, would say, in a moved tone, "My darling, don't
look at me in that way; it almost breaks my heart. Ah, if you could
only be satisfied with your father's love!"
"I will try, papa," was her usual answer, "and oh, your love is very
sweet and precious!"
Such a little scene, occurring one morning in Elsie's boudoir, was
interrupted by Chloe coming in to say that Miss Carrington had called
to see her young mistress and was waiting in the drawing-room.
"Show her in here, mammy," Elsie said, disengaging herself from her
father's arms, and smoothing out her dress. "She used to come here in
the old times without waiting for an invitation."
The Carringtons had not been able quite to forgive the rejection of
Herbert's suit, and since his death there had been a slight coolness
between the two families, and the girls had seen much less of each
other than in earlier days; their intercourse being confined to an
occasional exchange of formal calls, except when they met at the
house of some common acquaintance or friend. Still they were mutually
attached, and of late had resumed much of their old warmth of manner
toward each other.
"Ah, this seems like going back to the dear old times again," Lucy
said when their greetings were over, and sending an admiring glance
about the luxuriously furnished apartment as she spoke. "I always
thought this the most charming of rooms, Elsie, but how many lovely
things,--perfect gems of art,--you have added to it since I saw it
last."
"Papa's gifts to his spoiled darling, most of them," answered Elsie,
with a loving look and smile directed to him.
"Petted, but not spoiled," he said, returning the smile.
"No, indeed, I should think not," said Lucy. "Mamma says she is the
most perfectly obedient, affectionate daughter she ever saw, and I
can't tell you how often I have heard her wish I was more like her."
"Ah," said Elsie, "I think Mrs. Carrington has always looked at me
through rose-colored spectacles."
After a little more chat Lucy told her errand. Her parents and
herself, indeed the whole family, she said, had greatly regretted the
falling off of their former intimacy and strongly desired to renew it;
and she had come to beg Elsie to go home with her and spend a week at
Ashlands in the old familiar way.
Elsie's eye brightened, and her cheek flushed. "Dear Lucy, how kind!"
she exclaimed; then turned inquiringly to her father.
"Yes, it is very kind," he said. "Use your own pleasure, daughter. I
think perhaps the change might do you good."
"Thanks, papa, then I shall go. Lucy, I accept your invitation with
pleasure."
They were soon on their way, cantering briskly along side by side,
Lucy in gay, almost wild spirits, and Elsie's depression rapidly
vanishing beneath the combined influence of the bracing air and
exercise, the brilliant sunshine, and her friend's lively sallies.
Arrived at Ashlands, she found herself received and welcomed with all
the old warmth of affection. Mrs. Carrington folded her to her heart
and wept over her. "My poor boy!" she whispered; "it seems almost to
bring him back again to have you with us once more. But I will not
mourn," she added, wiping her eyes; "for our loss has been his great
gain."
Tender memories of Herbert, associated with nearly every room in the
house, saddened and subdued Elsie's spirit for a time, yet helped to
banish thoughts of Egerton from her mind.
But Lucy had a great deal to tell her, and in listening to these
girlish confidences, Herbert was again half forgotten. Lucy too had
spent the past summer in the North, and had there "met her fate." She
was engaged, the course of true love seemed to be running smoothly,
and they expected to marry in a year.
Elsie listened with interest, sympathizing warmly in her friend's
happiness; but Lucy, who was watching her keenly, noticed a shade of
deep sadness steal over her face.
"Now I have told you all my secrets," she said, "won't you treat me as
generously, by trusting me with yours?"
"If I had as happy a tale to tell," replied Elsie, the tears filling
her eyes.
"You poor dear, what is wrong? Is it that papa refuses his consent."
Elsie nodded; her heart was too full for speech.
"What a shame!" cried Lucy. "Does he really mean to keep you single
all your life? is he quite determined to make an old maid of you?"
"No, oh, no! but he does not believe my friend to be a good man. There
seems to be some sad mistake, and I cannot blame papa; because if Mr.
Egerton really was what he thinks him, it would be folly and sin for
me to have anything to do with him; and indeed I could not give either
hand or heart to one so vile,--a profane swearer, gambler, drunkard,
and rake."
"Oh, my, no!" and Lucy looked quite horrified; "but you don't believe
him such a villain?"
"No; on the contrary I think him a truly converted man. I believe
he was a little wild at one time; for he told me he had been; but I
believe, too, that he has truly repented, and therefore ought to be
forgiven."
"Then I wouldn't give him up if I were you, father or no father,"
remarked Lucy, with spirit.
"But, Lucy, there is the command, 'Children, obey your parents.'"
"But you are not a child."
"Hardly more, not of age for more than two years."
"Well, when you are of age, surely you will consider a lover's claims
before those of a father."
"No," Elsie answered low and sadly. "I shall never marry without
papa's consent. I love him far too dearly to grieve him so; and it
would be running too fearful a risk."
"Then you have resigned your lover entirely?"
"Unless he can some day succeed in convincing papa that he is not so
unworthy."
"Well, you are a model of filial piety! and deserve to be happy, and I
am ever so sorry for you," cried Lucy, clasping her in her arms, and
kissing her affectionately.
"Thank you, dear," Elsie said, "but oh, I cannot bear to have my
father blamed. Believing as he does, how could he do otherwise than
forbid all intercourse between us? And he is so very, very kind, so
tenderly affectionate to me. Ah, I could never do without his dear
love!"
After this, the two had frequent talks together on the same subject,
and though Lucy did not find any fault with Mr. Dinsmore, she yet
pleaded Egerton's cause, urging that it seemed very unfair in Elsie
to condemn him unheard, very hard not to allow him even so much as a
parting word.
"I had no choice," Elsie said again and again, in a voice full of
tears; "it was papa's command, and I could do nothing but obey. Oh,
Lucy, it was very, very hard for me, too! and yet my father was
doing only his duty, if his judgment of Mr. Egerton's character was
correct."
One afternoon, when Elsie had been at Ashlands four or five days, Lucy
came flying into her room; "Oh, I'm so glad to find you dressed! You
see I'm in the midst of my toilet, and Scip has just brought up word
that a gentleman is in the parlor asking for the young ladies--Miss
Dinsmore and Miss Carrington. Would you mind going down alone and
entertaining him till I come? do, there's a dear."
"Who is he?"
"Scip didn't seem to have quite understood the name; but it must be
some one we both know, and if you don't mind going, it would be a
relief to my nerves to know that he's not sitting there with nothing
to do but count the minutes, and think, 'What an immense time it takes
Miss Carrington to dress. She must be very anxious to make a good
impression upon me.' For you see men are so conceited, they are always
imagining we're laying ourselves out to secure their admiration."
"I will go down then," Elsie answered, smiling, "and do what I can to
keep him from thinking any such unworthy thoughts of you. But please
follow me as soon as you can."
The caller had the drawing-room to himself, and as Elsie entered was
standing at the centre-table with his back toward her. As she drew
near, he turned abruptly, caught her hand in his, threw his arm about
her waist, and kissed her passionately, crying in a low tone of
rapturous delight, "My darling, I have you at last! Oh, how I have
suffered from this cruel separation."
It was Egerton, and for a few moments she forgot everything else, in
her glad surprise at the unexpected meeting.
He drew her to a sofa, and still keeping his arm about her, poured out
a torrent of fond loverlike words, mingled with tender reproaches that
she had given him up so easily, and protestations of his innocence of
the vices and crimes laid to his charge.
At first Elsie flushed rosy red, and a sweet light of love and joy
shone in the soft eyes, half veiled by their heavy, drooping lashes;
but as he went on her cheek grew deathly pale, and she struggled to
free herself from his embrace.
"Let me go!" she cried, in an agitated tone of earnest entreaty, "I
must, indeed I must! I can't stay--I ought not; I should not have come
in, or allowed you to speak to, or touch me. Papa has forbidden all
intercourse between us, and he will be so angry." And she burst into
tears.
"Then don't go back to him; stay with me, and give me a right to
protect you from his anger. I can't bear to see you weep, and if you
will be mine--my own little wife, you shall never have cause to shed
another tear," he said, drawing her closer to him and kissing them
away.
"No, no, I cannot, I cannot! You must let me go; indeed you must!"
she cried, shrinking from the touch of his lip upon her cheek, and
averting her face, "I am doing wrong, very wrong to stay, here!"
"No, I shall hold you fast for a few blissful moments at least;" he
answered, tightening his grasp and repeating his caresses, as she
struggled the harder to be free. "You cannot be so cruel as to refuse
to hear my defence."
"Oh, I cannot stay another moment--I must not hear another word, for
every instant that I linger I am guilty of a fresh act of disobedience
to papa. I shall be compelled to call for help it you do not loose
your hold."
He took his arm from her waist, but still held fast to her hand. "No,
don't do that," he said; "think what a talk it would make. I shall
detain you but a moment, and surely you may as well stay that much
longer; 'in for a penny, in for a pound,' you know. Oh, Elsie, can't
you give me a little hope."
"If you can gain papa's approval, not otherwise."
"But when you come of age."
"I shall never marry without my father's consent."
"Surely you carry your ideas of obedience too far. You owe a duty to
yourself and to me, as well as to your father. Excuse my plainness,
but in the course of nature we shall both outlive him, and is it
right to sacrifice the happiness of our two lives because he has
unfortunately imbibed a prejudice against me?"
"I could expect no blessing upon a union entered into in direct
opposition to my father's wishes and commands," she answered with sad
and gentle firmness.
"That's a hard kind of obedience; and I don't think it would answer to
put in practice in all cases," he said bitterly.
"Perhaps not; I do not attempt to decide for others; but I am
convinced of my own duty; and know too that I should be wretched
indeed, if I had to live under papa's frown. And oh, how I am
disobeying him now! I must go this instant! Release my hand, Mr.
Egerton." And she tried with all her strength to wrench it free.
"No, no, not yet," he said entreatingly. "I have not given you half
the proofs of my innocence that I can bring forward; do me the simple
justice to stay and hear them."
She made no reply but half yielded, ceasing her struggles for a
moment. She had no strength to free her hand from his grasp, and could
not bear to call others upon the scene. Trembling with agitation and
eagerness, she waited for his promised proofs; but instead he only
poured forth a continuous stream of protestations, expostulations and
entreaties.
"Mr. Egerton, I must, I must go," she repeated; "this is nothing to
the purpose, and I cannot stay to hear it."
A step was heard approaching; he hastily drew her toward him, touched
his lips again to her cheek, released her, and she darted from the
room by one door, as Lucy entered by another.
"Where is she? gone? what's the matter? wasn't she pleased to see you?
wouldn't she stay?"
Lucy looked into the disappointed, angry, chagrined face of Egerton,
and in her surprise and vexation piled question upon question without
giving him time to answer.
"No, the girl's a fool!" he muttered angrily, and turning hastily from
her, paced rapidly to and fro for a moment; then suddenly recollecting
himself, "I beg pardon, Miss Carrington," he said, coming back to
the sofa on which she sat regarding him with a perturbed, displeased
countenance, "I--I forgot myself; but you will perhaps, know how to
excuse an almost distracted lover."
"Really, sir," returned Lucy coolly, "your words just now did not
sound very lover-like; and would rather lead one to suspect that
possibly Mr. Dinsmore may be in the right."
He flushed hotly. "What can you mean, Miss Carrington?"
"That your love is for her fortune rather than for herself."
"Indeed you wrong me. I adore Miss Dinsmore, and would consider myself
the happiest of mortals could I but secure her hand, even though she
came to me penniless. But she has imbibed the most absurd, ridiculous
ideas of filial duty and refuses to give me the smallest encouragement
unless I can gain her father's consent and approval; which, seeing he
has conceived a violent dislike to me, is a hopeless thing. Now
can you not realize that the more ardent my love for her, the more
frantically impatient I would feel under such treatment?"
"Perhaps so; men are so different from women; but nothing could ever
make me apply such an epithet to the man I loved."
"Distracted with disappointed hopes, I was hardly a sane man at the
moment, Miss Carrington," he said deprecatingly.
"The coveted interview has proved entirely unsatisfactory then?" she
said in a tone of inquiry.
"Yes; and yet I am most thankful to have had sight and speech of her
once more; truly grateful to you for bringing it about so cleverly.
But--oh, Miss Carrington, could you be persuaded to assist me still
further, you would lay me under lasting obligations!"
"Please explain yourself, sir," she answered coldly, moving farther
from him, as he attempted to take her hand.
"Excuse me," he said. "I am not one inclined to take liberties with
ladies; but I am hardly myself to-day; my overpowering emotion--my
half distracted state of mind--"
Breaking off his sentence abruptly, and putting his hand to his head,
"I believe I shall go mad if I have to resign all hope of winning the
sweet, lovely Elsie," he exclaimed excitedly, "and I see only one way
of doing it. If I could carry her off, and get her quite out of her
father's reach, so that no fear of him need deter her from following
the promptings of her own heart, I am sure I could induce her to
consent to marry me at once. Miss Carrington, will you help me?"
"Never! If Elsie chooses to run away with you, and wants any
assistance from me, she shall have it; but I will have nothing to do
with kidnapping."
He urged, entreated, used every argument he could think of, but with
no other effect than rousing Lucy's anger and indignation; "underhand
dealings were not in her line," she told him, and finally--upon his
intimating that what she had already done might be thought to come
under that head--almost ordered him out of the house.
He went, and hurrying to her friend's room, she found her walking
about it in a state of great agitation, and weeping bitterly.
"Oh, Lucy, how could you? how could you?" she cried, wringing her
hands and sobbing in pitiable distress. "I had no thought of him when
I went down; I did not know you knew him, or that he was in this part
of the country at all. I was completely taken by surprise, and have
disobeyed papa's most express commands, and he will never forgive me,
never! No, not that either, but he will be very, very angry. Oh, what
shall I do!"
"Oh, Elsie, dear, don't be so troubled! I am as sorry as I can be,"
said Lucy, with tears in her eyes. "I meant to do you a kindness;
indeed I did; I thought it would be a joyful surprise to you.
"I met him last summer at Saratoga. He came there immediately from
Lansdale, and somehow we found out directly that we both knew you, and
that I was a near neighbor and very old friend of yours; and he told
me the whole story of your love-affair, and quite enlisted me in his
cause; he seemed so depressed and melancholy at your loss, and grieved
so over the hasty way in which your father had separated you,--not
even allowing a word of farewell.
"He told me he hoped and believed you were still faithful to him in
your heart, but he could not get to see or speak to you, or hold any
correspondence with you. And so I arranged this way of bringing you
together."
"It was kindly meant, I have no doubt, Lucy, but oh, you don't know
what you have done! I tremble at the very thought of papa's anger when
he hears it; for I have done and permitted things he said he would not
allow for thousands of dollars."
"Well, dear, I don't think you could help it; and I'm so sorry for my
share in it," said Lucy, putting her arms round her, and kissing her
wet cheek. "But perhaps your father will not be so very angry with
you after all; and at any rate you are too old to be whipped, so a
scolding will be the worst you will be likely to get."
"He never did whip me, never struck me a blow in his life; but I would
prefer the pain of a dozen whippings to what I expect," said Elsie,
with a fresh burst of tears.
"What is that, you poor dear?" asked Lucy. "I can't imagine what he
could do worse than beat you."
"He may put me away from his arms for weeks or months, and be cold,
and stern, and distant to me, never giving me a caress or even so much
as a kind word or look. Oh, if he should do that, how can I bear it!"
"Well, don't tell him anything about it. I wouldn't, and I don't see
any reason why you should."
Elsie shook her head sorrowfully. "I must; I never conceal
anything--any secret of my own--from him; and I should feel like a
guilty thing, acting a lie, and could not look him in the face; and he
would know from my very look and manner that something was wrong, and
would question me, and make me tell him all. Lucy, I must go home at
once."
"No, indeed, you must not. Why, you were to stay a week--two days
longer than this; and if you were ready to start this minute, it would
be quite dark before you could possibly reach the Oaks."
Elsie looked at her watch, and perceiving that her friend was right,
gave up the idea of going that day, but said she must leave the next
morning. To that Lucy again objected. "I can't bear to lose those two
days of your promised visit," she said, "for if you are determined to
tell your papa all about this, there's no knowing when he will allow
you to come here again."
"Never, I fear," sighed Elsie.
"I haven't been able to help feeling a little hard to him on poor
Herbert's account," Lucy went on, "and I believe that had something
to do with my readiness to help Egerton to outwit him in obtaining an
interview with you. But I'll never do anything of the kind again; so
he needn't be afraid to let you come to see us."
She then told Elsie what had passed in the drawing-room between
Egerton and herself--his request and her indignant refusal.
It helped to shake Elsie's confidence in the man, and made her still
more remorseful in view of that day's disobedience; for she could
not deceive herself into the belief that she had been altogether
blameless. "As I said before, I can't bear the idea of losing you so
soon," continued Lucy, "but there is still another reason why I must
beg of you to stay till the set time of your leaving. Mamma knows
nothing about this affair, and would be exceedingly displeased with
me, if she should find it out; as of course she must, if you go
to-morrow; as that would naturally call out an explanation. So, dear,
do promise me that you will give up the idea."
Elsie hesitated, but not liking to bring Lucy into trouble, finally
yielded to her urgent entreaties, and consented to stay.
All the enjoyment of her visit, however, was over; she felt it
impossible to rest till her father knew all, shed many tears in
secret, and had much ado to conceal the traces of them, and appear
cheerful in the presence of the family.
But the two wretched days were over at last, and declining the urgent
invitations of her friends to linger with them a little longer, she
bade them an affectionate farewell, and set out for home.
Jim had been sent to escort her, another servant with the wagon for
Chloe and the luggage. Struck with a sudden fear that she might meet
or be overtaken by Egerton, Elsie ordered Jim to keep up close in the
rear, then touching the whip to her horse, started off at a brisk
canter. Her thoughts were full of the coming interview with her
father, which she dreaded exceedingly, while at the same time she
longed to have it over. She drew rein at the great gates leading into
the grounds, and the servant dismounted and opened them.
"Jim," she asked, "is your master at home?"
"Dunno, Miss Elsie, but the missus am gone ober to Ion to spend the
day, an lef' little Marse Horace at Roselands."
"Why, what's the matter, Jim?"
"De missus at Ion little bit sick, I b'lieve, Miss Elsie."
"And papa didn't go with them?"
"Yes, miss; but he comed right back again, and I 'spect he's in de
house now."
"Dear papa! he came back to receive me," murmured Elsie to herself, as
she rode on, and a scalding tear fell at the thought of how the loving
look and fond caress with which he was sure to greet her, would be
quickly exchanged for dark frowns, and stern, cold reproofs.
"Oh, if I were a child again, I believe I should hope he would just
whip me at once, and then forgive me, and it would be all over; but
now--oh, dear! how long will his displeasure last?"
It was just as she had expected; he was on the veranda, watching for
her coming--hastened forward, assisted her to alight, embraced her
tenderly, then pushing aside her veil, looked searchingly into her
face.
"What is the matter?" he asked, as her eyes met his for an instant
with a beseeching, imploring glance, then fell beneath his gaze while
her face flushed crimson.
She tried to answer him, but her tongue refused to do its office,
there was a choking sensation in her throat and her lips quivered.
He led her into his private study, took off her hat and threw it
aside, and seating her on a sofa, still keeping his arm about her--for
she was trembling very much--asked again, "What is the matter? what
has gone wrong with you, my daughter?"
His tone, his look, his manner were very gentle and tender; but that
only increased her remorse and self-reproach.
"Papa, don't be so kind," she faltered; "I--I don't deserve it, for I
have--disobeyed you."
"Is it possible! when? where? and how? Can it be that you have seen
and spoken with that--scoundrel, Elsie?"
"Yes, papa." Her voice was very low and tremulous, her heart throbbed
almost to suffocation, her bosom heaved tumultuously, and her color
came and went with every breath.
He rose and paced hurriedly across the room two or three times,
then coming back to her side, "Tell me all about it," he said
sternly--"every action, every word spoken by either, as far as you can
recall it."
She obeyed in the same low, tremulous tones in which she had answered
him before, her voice now and then broken by a half-smothered sob, and
her eyes never once meeting his, which she felt were fixed so severely
upon her tearful, downcast face.
He cross-questioned her till he knew all that had passed nearly as
well as if he had been present through the whole interview, his tones
growing more and more stern and angry.
"And you dared to permit all that, Elsie?" he exclaimed when she had
finished; "to allow that vile wretch to put his arm around you, hold
your hand in his, for half an hour probably, and even to press his
lips again and again to yours or to your cheek; and that after I had
told you I would not have him take such a liberty with you for half I
am worth; and--"
"Not to my lips, papa."
"Then it is not quite so bad as I thought, but bad enough certainly;
and all this after I had positively forbidden you to even so much as
exchange the slightest salutation with him. What am I to think of such
high-handed rebellion?"
"Papa," she said beseechingly, "is not that too hard a word? I did not
disobey deliberately--I don't think anything could have induced me to
go into that room knowing that he was there. I was taken by surprise,
and when he had got hold of my hand I tried in vain to get it free."
"Don't attempt to excuse yourself, Elsie. You could have escaped from
him at once, by simply raising your voice and calling for assistance.
I do not believe it would have been impossible to avoid even that
first embrace; and it fairly makes my blood boil to think he succeeded
in giving it to you. How dared you so disobey me as to submit to it?"
"Papa, at the moment I forgot everything but--but just that he was
there."
The last words were spoken in a voice scarcely raised above a whisper,
while her head drooped lower and lower and her cheek grew hot with
shame.
"Did I ever take forgetfulness of my orders as any excuse of
disobedience?" he asked in as stern a tone as he had ever used to her.
"No, papa; but oh, don't be very angry with me!"
"I am exceedingly displeased with you, Elsie! so much so that nothing
but your sex saves you from a severe chastisement. And I cannot allow
you to escape punishment. You must be taught that though no longer a
mere child, you are not yet old enough to disobey me with impunity.
Hush!" as she seemed about to speak, "I will not have a word of reply.
Go to your own apartments and consider yourself confined to them till
you hear further from me. Stay!" he added as she rose to obey, "when
did all this occur?"
She told him in her low, tearful tones, her utterance half choked with
sobs.
"Two days ago, and yet your confession has been delayed till now. Does
that look like penitence for your fault?"
She explained why she had not returned home at once; but he refused to
accept the excuse, and ordered her away as sternly as before.
She obeyed in silence, controlling her feelings by a great effort,
until she had gained the privacy of her own apartments, then giving
way to a fit of almost hysterical weeping. It was years since her
father had been seriously displeased with her, and loving him with
such intense affection, his anger and sternness nearly broke her
heart.
Her tender conscience pricked her sorely too, adding greatly to her
distress by its reproaches on account of her disobedience and her
delay in confessing it.
It came to her mind at length that her heavenly Father might be more
tender and forbearing with her, more ready to forgive and restore to
favor, than her earthly one. She remembered the sweet words, "There is
forgiveness with thee, that thou mayest be feared." "If any man sin,
we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous." She
went to Him with her sin and sorrow, asking pardon for the past and
help for the future. She asked, too, that the anger of her earthly
parent might be turned away; that the Lord would dispose him to
forgive and love her as before.
She rose from her knees with a heart, though still sad and sorrowful,
yet lightened of more than half its load.
But the day was a very long one; with a mind so disturbed she could
not settle to any employment, or find amusement in anything. She
passed the time in wandering restlessly from room to room, starting
and trembling as now and then she thought she heard her father's step
or voice, then weeping afresh as she found that he did not come near
her.
When the dinner-bell rang she hoped he would send, or come to her; but
instead he sent her meal to her; such an one as was usual upon their
table--both luxurious and abundant,--which comforted her with the hope
that he was less displeased with her than at other times when he had
allowed her little more than prison fare. But excitement and mental
distress had brought on a severe headache; she had no appetite, and
sent the food away almost untasted.
It was mild, beautiful weather in the early spring; such weather as
makes one feel it a trial to be compelled to stay within doors, and
Elsie longed for her favorite retreat in the grounds.
In the afternoon some ladies called; Mr. Dinsmore was out, and she
dared not go to the drawing room without permission; but her headache
furnished sufficient excuse for declining to see them, and they went
away.
Shortly after, she heard her father's return. He had not been off the
estate, or out of sight of the house; he was keeping guard over her,
but still did not come near her.
Just at tea-time she again heard the sound of wheels; then her
father's, mother's, and little brother's voices.
"Mamma and Horace have come home," she thought with a longing desire
to run out and embrace them.
"Oh, papa, has sister come home?" she heard the child's voice ask in
eager tones.
"Yes."
"Oh, then I must run into her room and kiss her!"
"No, you must not; stay here."
"But why mustn't I go to sister, papa?"
"Because I forbid it."
Every word of the short colloquy reached Elsie's ear, adding to her
grief and dismay. Was she, then, to be separated from all the rest of
the family? did her father fear that she would exert a bad influence
over Horace, teaching him to be disobedient and wilful? How deeply
humbled and ashamed she felt at the thought.
Rose gave her husband a look of surprised, anxious inquiry. "Is Elsie
sick, dear?" she asked.
"No, Rose, but she is in disgrace with me," he answered in an
undertone, as he led the way into the house.
"Horace, you astonish me! what can she have done to displease you?"
"Come in here; and I will tell you," he said, throwing open the door
of his study.
Rose listened in silence, while he repeated to her the substance of
Elsie's confession, mingled with expressions of his own anger and
indignation.
"Poor child!" murmured Rose, as he concluded; "Horace, don't be hard
with her; she must have suffered a great deal in these last three
days."
"Yes," he answered in a moved tone; "when I think of that, I can
scarcely refrain from going to her, taking her in my arms, and
lavishing caresses and endearments upon her; but then comes the
thought of her allowing that scoundrel to do the same, and I am ready
almost to whip her for it." His face flushed hotly, and his dark eyes
flashed as he spoke.
"Oh, my dear!" exclaimed Rose, half frightened at his vehemence, "you
cannot mean it?"
"Rose," he said, pacing to and fro in increasing excitement, "the
fellow is a vile wretch, whose very touch I esteem pollution to a
sweet, fair, innocent young creature like my daughter. I told her so,
and positively forbade her to so much as look at him, or permit him
to see her face, if it could be avoided, or to recognize, or hold the
slightest communication with him in any way. Yet in defiance of all
this, she allows him to take her hand and hold it for, I don't know
how long, put his arm around her waist and kiss her a number of times.
Now what does such disobedience deserve?"
"Had she no excuse to offer?"
"Excuse? Yes, she did not disobey deliberately--was taken by
surprise--forgot everything but that he was there."
"Well, my dear," and Rose's hand was laid affectionately on his arm,
while a tender smile played about her mouth, and her sweet blue eyes
looked fondly into his. "You know how it is with lovers, if you will
only look back a very few years. I think there were times when you and
I forgot that there was anybody in the wide world but just our two
selves."
A smile, a tender caress, a few very lover-like words, and resuming
his gravity and seriousness, Mr. Dinsmore went on: "But you forget
the odious character of the man. If I had objected to him from mere
prejudice or whim, it would have been a very different thing."
"But you know Elsie does not believe--"
"She ought to believe what her father tells her," he interrupted
hotly; "but believe or not, she must and shall obey me; and if she
does not I shall punish her."
"And to do that, you need only look coldly on her, and refrain from
giving her caresses and endearing words. Such treatment from her
dearly loved father would of itself be sufficient, very soon, to crush
her tender, sensitive spirit."
His face softened, the frown left his brow, and the angry fire his
eye. "My poor darling!" he murmured, with a sigh, his thoughts going
back to a time of estrangement between them long years ago. "Yes,
Rose, you are right; she is a very tender, delicate, sensitive plant,
and it behooves her father to be exceeding gentle and forbearing with
her."
"Then you will forgive her, and take her to your heart again?"
"Yes--if she is penitent;--and tell her that she owes it to her
mother's intercession; for I had intended to make her feel herself in
disgrace for days or weeks."
Chloe was at that moment carrying a large silver waiter, filled with
delicacies, into the apartments of her young mistress. "Now, darlin',
do try to eat to please your ole mammy," she said coaxingly, as she
set it down before her. "I'se taken lots ob pains to fix up dese tings
dat my pet chile so fond ob."
Elsie's only answer was a sad sort of smile; but for the sake of the
loving heart that had prompted the careful preparation of the tempting
meal--the loving eyes that watched her as she ate, she tried to do her
best.
Only half satisfied with the result, Chloe bore the waiter away again,
while Elsie seated herself in a large easy-chair that was drawn up
close to the glass doors opening upon the lawn and laying her head
back upon its cushions, turned her eyes toward the outer world,
looking longingly upon the shaded alleys and gay parterres, the lawn
with its velvet carpet of emerald green, where a fountain cast up
its cool showers of spray, and long shadows slept, alternating with
brilliant patches of ruddy light from the slowly sinking sun.
She sighed deeply, and her eyes filled with tears. "How long should
she be forbidden to wander there at her own sweet will?"
A soft, cool hand was gently laid upon her aching brow, and looking
up she saw her father standing by her side. She had not heard his
approach, for his slippered feet made no noise in passing over the
rich velvet carpet.
His face was grave, but no longer stern or angry. "Does your head
ache, daughter?" he asked almost tenderly.
"Yes, papa; but not half so badly as my heart does," she answered,
a tear rolling quickly down her cheek. "I am so sorry for my
disobedience. Oh, papa, will you forgive me?" And her eyes sought
his with the imploring look he ever found it well-nigh impossible to
resist.
"Yes, I will--I do," he said, stooping to press a kiss upon the
quivering lips. "I had thought I ought to keep you in disgrace some
time longer, but your mamma has pleaded for you, and for her sake--and
for the sake of a time, long ago, when I caused my little girl much
undeserved suffering," he added, his tones growing tremulous with
emotion, "I forgive and receive you back into favor at once."
She threw her arm about his neck, and as he drew her to his breast,
laid her head down there, weeping tears of joy and thankfulness.
"Dear, kind mamma! and you too, best and dearest of fathers! I don't
deserve it," she sobbed. "I am afraid I ought to be punished for such
disobedience."
"I think you have been," he said pityingly, "the last three days can
hardly have been very happy ones to you."
"No, papa; very, very wretched."
"My poor child! Ah, I must take better care of my precious one in
future. I shall allow you to go nowhere without either your mother or
myself to guard and protect you. Also, I shall break off your intimacy
with Lucy Carrington; she is henceforth to be to you a mere speaking
acquaintance; come, now we will take a little stroll through the
grounds. The cool air will, I hope, do your head good."