"The shaken tree grows firmer at the roots;
So love grows firmer for some blasts of doubt."
It was two years or more since the Oaks had suffered the temporary
loss of its master and mistress, yet they had not returned; they still
lingered on foreign shores, and Mrs. Murray, who had been left at
the head of household affairs, looked in vain for news of their
home-coming.
She now and then received a short business letter from Mr. Dinsmore
or of directions from Rose; or a longer one from the latter or Elsie,
giving entertaining bits of travel, etc.; and occasionally Adelaide
would ride over from Roselands and delight the old housekeeper's
heart by reading aloud a lively gossipy epistle one or the other had
addressed to her.
How charmed and interested were both reader and listener; especially
when they came upon one of Rose's graphic accounts of their
presentation at court--in London, Paris, Vienna, or St.
Petersburg--wherein she gave a minute description of Elsie's dress
and appearance, and dwelt with motherly pride and delight upon the
admiration everywhere accorded to the beauty and sweetness of the
lovely American heiress.
It was a great gratification to Adelaide's pride in her niece to learn
that more than one coronet had been laid at her feet; yet she was not
sorry to hear that they had been rejected with the gentle firmness
which she knew Elsie was capable of exercising.
"But what more could the bairn or her father desire? would he keep the
sweet lassie single a' her days, Miss Dinsmore?" asked Mrs. Murray
when Adelaide told her this.
"No," was the smiling rejoinder; "I know he would be very loath to
resign her; but this is Elsie's own doing. She says the man for whom
she would be willing to give up her native land must be very dear
indeed, that her hand shall never be given without her heart, and that
it still belongs more to her father than to any one else."
"Ah, that is well, Miss Adelaide. I hae been sorely troubled aboot my
sweet bairn. I never breathed the thoct to ither mortal ear, but when
they cam hame frae that summer in the North, she was na the blythe
young thing she had been; and there was that in the wistfu' and
hungered look o' her sweet een--when she turned them whiles upon her
father--that made me think some ane he didna approve had won the
innocent young heart."
"Ah, well, Mrs. Murray, whatever may have been amiss then, is all over
now. My sister writes me that Elsie seems very happy, and as devotedly
attached to her father as ever, insisting that no one ever can be so
dear to her as he."
Mrs. Dinsmore's last letter was dated Naples, and there they still
lingered.
One bright spring day they were out sight-seeing, and had wandered
into a picture-gallery which they had visited once or twice before.
Rose had her husband's arm. Elsie held her little brother's hand in
hers.
"Sister," said the child, "look at those ladies and gentlemen. They
are English, aren't they?"
"Yes; I think so," Elsie answered, following the direction of his
glance; "a party of English tourists. No, one of the gentlemen looks
like an American."
"That one nearest this way? I can only see his side face, but I think
he is the handsomest. Don't you?"
"Yes; and he has a fine form too, an easy, graceful carriage, and
polished manners," she added, as at that moment he stooped to pick
up a handkerchief, dropped by one of the ladies of his party, and
presented it to its owner.
Elsie was partial to her own countrymen, and unaccountably to herself,
felt an unusual interest in this one. She watched him furtively,
wondering who he was, and thinking that in appearance and manners he
compared very favorably with the counts, lords, and dukes who in the
past two years had so frequently hovered about her, and hung upon her
smiles.
But her father called her attention to something in the painting he
and Rose were examining, and when she turned to look again for the
stranger and his companions, she perceived that they were gone.
"Papa," she asked, "did you notice that party of tourists?"
"Not particularly. What about them?"
"I am quite certain one of the gentlemen was an American; and I half
fancied there was something familiar in his air and manner."
"Ah! I wish you had spoken of it while he was here, that I might have
made sure whether he were an old acquaintance. But come," he added,
taking out his watch, "it is time for us to return home."
The Dinsmores were occupying an old palace, the property of a noble
family whose decayed fortunes compelled the renting of their
ancestral home. In the afternoon of the day of their visit to the
picture-gallery Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter were seated in its
spacious saloon, she beside a window overlooking the street, he at
a little distance from her, and near to a table covered with books,
magazines, and newspapers. That day had brought him a heavy mail from
America, and he was examining the New York and Philadelphia dailies
with keen interest.
Elsie was evidently paying no heed to what might be passing in the
street. A bit of fancy work gave employment to her fingers, while her
thoughts were busy with the contents of a letter received from her
Aunt Adelaide that morning.
It brought ill news. Arthur had been seriously injured by a railroad
accident and, it was feared, was crippled for life. But that was not
all. Dick Percival--whom Enna had married nearly two years before--had
now become utterly bankrupt, having wasted his patrimony in rioting
and drunkenness, losing large sums at the gaming-table; and his young
wife, left homeless and destitute, had been compelled to return to her
father's house with her infant son.
Mr. Dinsmore uttered a slight exclamation.
"What is it, papa?" asked Elsie, lifting her eyes to meet his fixed
upon her with an expression of mingled gratitude and tenderness.
"Come here," he said, and as she obeyed he drew her to his knee,
passing his arm about her waist, and, holding the paper before her,
pointed to a short paragraph which had just caught his eye.
She read it at a glance; her face flushed, then paled; she put her arm
about his neck, and laid her cheek to his, while tears trembled in the
sweet eyes, as soft and beautiful as ever.
For a moment neither spoke; then she murmured in low, quivering tones
the same words that had fallen from her lips two years ago,--"Thank
God for a father's protecting love and care!"
"Thank Him that I have my daughter safe in my arms," he said,
tightening his clasp about her slender waist. "Ah, my own precious
child, how could I ever have borne to see you sacrificed to that
wretch!"
They had just learned that Tom Jackson had been tried for manslaughter
and for forgery, found guilty on both charges, and sentenced to the
State's Prison for a long term of years.
They were quiet again for a little; then Elsie said, "Papa, I want to
ask you something."
"Well, daughter, say on."
"I have been thinking how sad it must be for poor Enna to find herself
so destitute, and that I should like to settle something upon her--say
ten or twenty thousand dollars, if I may--"
"My dear child," he said with a smile, "I have no control over you
now as regards the disposal of your property. Do you forget that you
passed your majority three weeks ago?"
"No, papa, I have not forgotten; but I don't mean ever to do anything
of importance without your approval. So please make up your mind that
I'm always to be your own little girl; never more than eighteen or
twenty to you. Now won't you answer my question about Enna?"
"I think it would be quite as well, or better, to defer any such
action for the present. It won't hurt Enna to be made to feel poor and
dependent for a time; she needs the lesson; and her parents will not
allow her to suffer privation of any sort. Ah, here comes mamma in
walking attire. We are going out for perhaps an hour; leaving house,
servants, and the little ones in your charge. Horace, be careful to do
just as your sister tells you."
"Yes, papa, I will," answered the child, who had come in with his
mother, and had a book in his hand. "Will you help me with my lesson,
Elsie, and hear me say it when it is learned?"
"Yes, that I will. Here's a stool for you close by my side," she said,
going back to her seat by the window.
"Good-bye, dears, we won't be gone long." said Rose, taking her
husband's arm.
Elsie and Horace watched them till they had passed out of sight far
down the street, then returned to their employments; her thoughts
now going back, not to Roselands, but to Lansdale, Ashlands, and
Philadelphia; memory and imagination bringing vividly before her each
scene of her past life in which Egerton had borne a part. Did any of
the old love come back? No, for he was not the man who had won her
esteem and affection; and even while sending up a silent petition for
his final conversion, she shuddered at the thought of her past danger,
and was filled with gratitude to God and her father at the remembrance
of her narrow escape.
Her brother's voice recalled her from her musings. "Look, sister," he
exclaimed, glancing from the window, "there is the very same gentleman
we saw this morning! and see, he's crossing the street! I do believe
he's coming here."
Elsie looked, recognized the stranger, and perceived, with a slight
emotion of surprise and pleasure, that he was approaching their door.
That he was her countryman, and perhaps direct from her dear native
land, was sufficient to make him a welcome visitor.
The next moment John threw open the door of the saloon and announced,
"A gentleman from America!"
"One who brings no letter of introduction; yet hopes for an audience
of you, fair lady," he said, coming forward with smiling countenance
and outstretched hand.
"Mr. Travilla! can it be possible!" she cried, starting up in joyful
astonishment, and hastening to bid him welcome.
"You are not sorry to see me then, my little friend?" he said, taking
her offered hand and pressing it in both of his.
"Sorry, my dear sir! what a question! Were you not always a most
welcome guest in my father's house? and if welcome at home, much more
so here in a foreign land."
Mr. Travilla looked into the sweet face, more beautiful than ever, and
longed to treat her with the affectionate freedom of former days, yet
refrained; the gentle dignity of her manner seeming to forbid it,
pleased and cordial as was her greeting.
He turned to Horace and shook hands with him, remarking that he had
grown very much.
"I am very glad to see you, sir," said the boy.
"You have not forgotten me then?"
"Ah, no, indeed; and I can't think how it was that sister and I did
not know you yesterday in the picture-gallery; though we knew you were
an American!"
"Ah, were you there? How blind I must have been!" and he turned to
Elsie again.
"We were there for but a few minutes before your party left; and quite
at the other end of that long gallery," she said. "But I am surprised
that I failed to recognize you, even at that distance. But I had no
thought of your being in the country. How delighted papa will be
to see you. He has often spoken of the old times when you and he
travelled over Europe together, and wished that you were with him on
this trip. He and mamma have gone out, but will be in presently."
Elsie had many inquiries to make in regard to the health and welfare
of relatives and friends, and the old family servants at the Oaks; Mr.
Travilla numerous questions to ask concerning all that she had seen
and done since leaving America. But in the midst of it all she
exclaimed, "Ah, you must see our little Frenchwoman! such a darling as
she is!"
"I'll ring the bell, sister," said Horace, seeing her glance toward
it.
John appeared in answer, was ordered to tell the nurse to bring the
baby, and a neatly dressed middle-aged woman presently entered the
room, carrying a lovely infant a little more than a year old.
"See, is she not a darling?" said Elsie, taking it in her arms. "She
has mamma's own sweet pretty blue eyes, and is named for her. Our
Rosebud we call her. Papa gave her the name, and he says she is as
much like her mother as I am like mine. You don't know, Mr. Travilla,
how glad I was when she came to us; it was something so new and
delightful to have a sister of my own. Ah, I love her dearly, and she
returns my affection. There, see her lay her little head down on my
shoulder."
Mr. Travilla admired and caressed the little creature, coaxed her to
come to him for a moment, and the nurse carried her away.
"When do you return home, Elsie?" he asked.
"In the fall. Mr. and Mrs. Perris, mamma's grandparents, have their
golden wedding in October. Sophy expects to be married at the same
time, and of course we wish to be present on the occasion. We have
yet to visit Turin, Venice, and Munich. After seeing these places we
intend to spend the rest of the summer in Switzerland, sailing for
America some time in September. Ah, here are papa and mamma!" she
added as the two entered the room together.
"Travilla! what favorable wind blew you here?" cried Mr. Dinsmore,
shaking his friend's hand, in almost boyish delight.
"A westerly one, I believe," answered Travilla, laughing and shaking
hands with Rose, who looked scarcely less pleased than her husband.
"They think at Roselands and the Oaks that your year is a very long
one, or that you have lost your reckoning, and were anxious to send
a messenger to assist you in recovering it; so I volunteered my
services."
"Ah, that was kind! but to be able to do so to advantage you will need
to take up your abode with us for the present, and to make one of our
party when we start again upon our travels."
"Of course you will," added Rose; "we always consider you one of the
family; a sort of brother to us and uncle to the children."
"Thank you, you are most kind," he said, a slight flush suffusing his
cheek for an instant, while his eyes involuntarily sought Elsie's face
with a wistful, longing look.
Her father turned laughingly to her. "Is this your stranger of the
picture-gallery? ah, are you not ashamed of failing to recognize so
old a friend?"
"Yes, papa, but I did not catch sight of his full face, and he was
at quite a distance, and I never thinking of the possibility that he
could be anywhere out of America."
"And time makes changes in us all--is fast turning me into a quiet
middle-aged man."
"You are very kind to furnish another excuse for my stupidity," said
Elsie, smiling, "but I really cannot see that you have changed in the
least since I saw you last."
"And no stranger would ever think of pronouncing you over thirty,"
added Rose.
"Ah, you flatter me, fair ladies," returned Mr. Travilla, smiling and
shaking his head.
"No, I can vouch for the truthfulness and honesty of both," said Mr.
Dinsmore.
Mr. Travilla did not hesitate to accept his friend's invitation,
knowing that it was honestly given, and feeling that he could not
decline it without doing violence to his own inclination. He made one
of their party during the rest of their stay in Europe and on the
voyage to America.
His presence was most welcome to all; he saw no reason to doubt that,
and yet Elsie's manner sometimes saddened and depressed him. Not that
there was ever in it anything approaching to coolness, but it lacked
the old delightful familiarity, instead of which there was now a quiet
reserve, a gentle dignity, that kept him at a distance, and while
increasing his admiration for the fair girl, made him sigh for the old
childish days when she was scarcely under more constraint with him
than with her father.
Our little party reached Philadelphia a fortnight before the golden
wedding. They found the handsome city residence of the Allisons
occupied by the family, and full of the pleasant stir and bustle of
preparation for the eventful day which was to witness the celebration
of the fiftieth anniversary of the wedding of Mr. and Mrs. Ferris, and
the marriage of their granddaughter.
Sophy, while paying a visit to Rose in her Southern home, had won the
heart of Harry Carrington, and they had been engaged a year or more.
Harry had once indulged in a secret penchant for Elsie; but now he
would not have exchanged his merry, blue-eyed Sophy for her, or for
any other lady in the land.
The young couple were married at church, very early in the evening,
Elsie acting as first bridesmaid. Returning to the house the bridal
party were ushered into the drawing-room, which they found richly
ornamented with evergreens and flowers. In the centre rose a pyramid
of rare and beautiful blossoms, filling the air with their delicious
perfume. Above that was a wide arch of evergreens bearing the
monograms of Mr. and Mrs. Ferris, placed between the dates of their
marriage and of this anniversary.
The old bride and groom sat together beneath the arch on one side of
the pyramid, while the newly-married pair took up a similar position,
upon the other.
Only the family and near connections were present for the first half
hour. The eldest son of Mr. and Mrs. Ferris made a short address,
thanking his aged parents for their unselfish love and devotion to
their offspring, and exhorting the youthful bride and groom to follow
in their footsteps. Upon the conclusion of this little speech,
gifts were presented by children and grandchildren, and letters of
congratulation, in both poetry and prose, from absent friends were
read.
After this the doors were thrown open to the invited guests, and for
the remainder of the evening the house was thronged with the elite of
the city, and with friends and acquaintances from other parts of the
country.
Among the latter were Adelaide and Walter Dinsmore, and Mr. Travilla
and his mother. The last named was seated in the corner of a sofa, her
son standing by her side.
He heard a low-breathed sigh, noted the quivering of her lip and
the gathering tears in the gentle eyes, as she turned them upon the
gray-haired bride and groom, and he knew that her thoughts were with
the early dead, the husband and father whose image he could scarcely
recall. His heart swelled with tender pitying, protecting love, as he
thought of her long, lonely widowhood, and of all that she had been
and still was to him.
But her gaze wandered to the pair standing just upon the threshold of
married life; and smiling up at him, "They are a handsome couple," she
said; "how proud and happy Harry looks! Ah, Edward, when will your
turn come?"
He shook his head with a rather melancholy smile.
"It is your own fault, I am sure," she continued in a playful tone;
"there are plenty of pretty girls and charming young widows who would
like well to be mistress of Ion, and I am growing old, and sometimes
feel that I would be glad to resign the sceptre to younger hands."
He gave her a glance of affectionate concern. "I shall look for a
housekeeper immediately. I ought to have thought of it before."
"No, no, it is a daughter I want," she returned still playfully. "I
have often wondered how it has come to pass that my warm-hearted boy
seems so perfectly invulnerable to Cupid's darts."
"All seeming, mother," he answered lightly, but with a wistful
yearning look in his eyes which were fixed upon a little group on the
farther side of the room; "to tell you a secret," and he bent down,
that the low-breathed words might catch her ear alone, "I have been
hopelessly in love for many years."
She started with surprise,--for there was the ring of deep, earnest
feeling beneath the jesting tone--then following the direction of
his glance, and perceiving that the group upon which it rested
was composed of Adelaide and Elsie Dinsmore, with some half dozen
gentlemen who had gathered about them, she looked greatly pleased.
"And why hopeless?" she asked.
"Ah, the evidences of indifference are so patent that I cannot hope
she will ever learn to care for me."
"And pray what may they be?"
"Constraint and reserve, where formerly there was much warmth and
cordiality of manner."
"You foolish boy! if that be all, you may take heart. I would not ask
for better symptoms. And remember the old proverb--'Faint heart never
won fair lady.' You do not fear that she still clings to the old
love?"
"No, ah no!"
"I never saw Adelaide look better than she does to-night," was Mrs.
Travilla's next remark; "what a queenly presence, and noble face she
has, and how very lovely our little Elsie is! She seems to have gained
every womanly grace without losing a particle of her sweet childish
simplicity and freshness."
Her son assented with a slight sigh, and wandered off in their
direction. But before he reached the little group, Elsie had taken
Harold Allison's arm and was being led away toward the conservatory.
Harold had a rare plant to show her, and was glad of the excuse to get
her to himself for a few moments.
For the rest of the evening Mr. Travilla devoted himself to Adelaide,
his mother looking on with beaming countenance, and thinking how
gladly she would welcome the dear girl to her heart and home.
It was past twelve when the company dispersed. Harry and his bride
having started an hour before upon their wedding tour.
"Get to bed as soon as you can, my dear child; you are looking sadly
fatigued," Mr. Dinsmore said, putting his arm about his daughter as
she came to him for her good-night kiss.
"I will, papa," she answered, clinging to him with more than her usual
warmth of affection. "Dear papa, what could I ever do without you to
love me?"
"My darling, if it please the Lord, may we be long spared to each
other," he whispered, clasping her close. "Now, good-night, and may He
bless you, and keep you, and ever cause his face to shine upon you."
Elsie turned away with eyes full of tears, and her pillow was bedewed
with them ere she slept that night. But the morning found her
apparently her own bright, sunny self again.
She was in her mamma's dressing-room soon after breakfast, chatting
with her and Adelaide, Mr. Dinsmore sitting by with Rosebud on his
knee. Of course they were discussing the wedding, how lovely the bride
and her attendants looked, how handsome the groom, how tasteful and
becoming was the dress of this lady and that, how attentive was Mr.
Such-an-one to Miss So-and-so, etc., etc. Rose making a little jesting
allusion to "the devotion of a certain gentleman to Adelaide;" and
saying how delighted she was; nothing could please her better than for
them to fancy each other; when in the midst of it all, a servant came
up with a message. "Mr. Travilla was in the drawing-room asking for
Miss Dinsmore,--Miss Adelaide."
She went down at once, and as the door closed upon her, Rose turned to
her husband with the laughing remark, "It would be a splendid match!
they seem just made for each other. I wonder they didn't find it out
long ago, and I begin to quite set my heart upon it."
"Better not, my dear, lest they disappoint you, and allow me to advise
you to let match-making alone; 'tis a dangerous business. Elsie, my
child, you are looking pale this morning; late hours do not agree
with you. I think I shall have to take to sending you to bed at nine
o'clock again, when once I get you home."
"Won't ten be early enough, papa?" she answered with a faint smile, a
vivid color suddenly suffusing her cheek.
"Well, we will see about it. But I can't have you looking so. Go and
put on your hat and shawl, and I will take you and mamma out for an
airing?"
"Looking so?" said Rose, with an arch glance at the glowing cheeks, as
she stooped to take Rosebud in her arms, "she is not pale now."
"No, certainly not," he said. "Come back, daughter," for Elsie had
risen to obey his order, and was moving toward the door, "come here
and tell me what ails you?"
"I am quite well, papa, only a little tired from last night, I
believe," she answered, as he took her hands in his and looked
searchingly into her face.
"I hope that is all," he said a little anxiously. "You must lie down
and try to get a nap when we return from our drive; and remember you
must be in bed by ten o'clock to-night."
"I shall do just as my father bids me," she said, smiling up at him,
"my dear father who is so kindly careful of me." Then as he let go her
hands, she tripped lightly from the room.
Mr. Travilla had come on an errand from his mother; she begged
Adelaide's advice and assistance in a little shopping.
Adelaide was at leisure, and at once donned bonnet and shawl and went
with him to the Girard House, where the old lady awaited their coming,
and the three spent the remainder of the morning in attending to Mrs.
Travilla's purchases and visiting the Academy of Fine Arts. In driving
down Chestnut street, the Dinsmores passed them on their way to the
Academy.
Adelaide did not return to Mr. Allison's to dinner, but Mr. Travilla
called presently after, to say that she had dined with his mother and
himself at the hotel, and would not return until bed-time, as they
were all going to hear Gough lecture that evening.
He was speaking to Mrs. Allison. Several of the family were in the
room, Elsie among them. She was slipping quietly away, when he turned
toward her, saying: "Would you not like to go with us, my little
friend? I think you would find it entertaining, and we would be glad
to have you."
"Thank you, sir, you are very kind, but a prior engagement compels me
to decline," she answered, glancing smilingly at her father.
"She has not been looking well to-day, and I have ordered her to go
early to bed to-night," Mr. Dinsmore said.
"Ah, that is right!" murmured Mr. Travilla, rising to take leave.
The Travillas staid a week longer in the city. During that time
Adelaide went out with them, quite frequently, but Elsie saw scarcely
anything of her old friend; which was, however, all her own fault,
as she studiously avoided him; much to his grief and disturbance. He
could not imagine what he had done to so completely estrange her from
him.
Mr. Dinsmore felt in some haste to be at home again, but Mrs. Allison
pleaded so hard for another week that he consented to delay. Adelaide
and Walter went with the Travillas, and wanted to take Elsie with
them, but he would not hear of such an arrangement; while she said
very decidedly that she could not think of being separated from her
father.
She seemed gay and happy when with the family, or alone with him or
Rose; but coming upon her unexpectedly in her dressing-room, the day
after the others had left, he found her in tears.
"Why, my darling, what can be the matter?" he asked, taking her in his
arms.
"Nothing, papa," she said, hastily wiping away her tears and hiding
her blushing face on his breast--"I--I believe I'm a little homesick."
"Ah, then, why did you not ask to go with the others?"
"And leave you? Ah, do you not know that my father is more--a great
deal more than half of home to me?" she answered, hugging him close.
"And you wouldn't have let me go?"
"No, indeed, not I; but I'm afraid I really ought to read you a
lecture. I daresay you miss Sophy very much, but still there are young
people enough left in the house to keep you from feeling very dull and
lonely, I should think; and as you have all your dear ones about you,
and expect to go home in a few days--"
"I ought to be cheerful and happy. I know it, papa," she said, as he
paused, leaving his sentence unfinished, "and I'm afraid I'm very
wicked and ungrateful. But please don't be vexed with me, and I will
try to banish this feeling of depression."
"I fear you are not well," he said, turning her face to the light and
examining it with keen scrutiny; "tell me, are you ill?"
"No, papa, I think not. Don't be troubled about me."
"I shall send for a doctor if this depression lasts," he said
decidedly, "for I shall have to conclude that it must arise from some
physical cause, since I know of no other; and it is so foreign to the
nature of my sunny-tempered little girl."
He saw no more of it, though he watched her carefully.
Great was the rejoicing at the Oaks when at last the family returned.
Adelaide was there to welcome them, and Elsie thought she had never
seen her look so youthful, pretty, and happy, Chloe remarked upon it
while preparing her young mistress for bed, adding that the report in
the kitchen was that Miss Adelaide and Mr. Travilla were engaged, and
would probably marry very soon.
Elsie made no remark, but her heart seemed to sink like lead in her
bosom. "Why am I grieving so? what is there in this news to make me
sorry?" she asked herself as she wetted her pillow with her tears.
"I'm sure I'm very glad that dear Aunt Adie is so happy, and--and I
used often to wish he was my uncle." Yet the tears would not cease
their flow till she had wept herself to sleep.
But she seemed bright and gay as usual in the morning, and meeting
her parents at the breakfast-table, thought they looked as though
something had pleased them greatly.
It was Rose who told her the news, as an hour later they sauntered
around the garden together, noting the changes which had taken place
there in their absence.
"I have something to tell you, dear," Rose said, and Elsie shivered
slightly, knowing what was coming; "something that pleases your father
and me very much, and I think will make you glad too. Can you guess
what it is?"
"About Aunt Adelaide, mamma?" Elsie stooped over a plant, thus
concealing her face from view, and so controlled her voice that it
betrayed no emotion. "Yet; I know; she is engaged."
"And you are pleased with the match, of course; I knew you would be.
You used so often to wish that he was your uncle, and now he soon will
be. Your papa and I are delighted; we think there could not have been
a more suitable match for either."
"I am very glad for her--dear Aunt Adie--and for--for him too," Elsie
said, her voice growing a little husky at the last.
But Rose was speaking to the gardener, and did not notice it, and
Elsie wandered on, presently turned into the path leading to her arbor
and seeking its welcome privacy, there relieved her full heart by a
flood of tears.
Mr. Travilla called that day, but saw nothing of his "little friend,"
and in consequence went away very sorrowful, and pondering deeply
the question what he could have done to alienate her affections so
entirely from him.
The next day he came again, quite resolved to learn in what he had
offended, and was overjoyed at hearing that she was alone in her
favourite arbor.
He sought her there and found her in tears. She hastily wiped them
away on perceiving his approach, but could not remove their traces.
"Good-morning," she said, rising and giving him her hand; but with the
reserved manner that had now become habitual, instead of the pleasant
ease and familiarity of earlier days; "were you looking for papa? I
think he is somewhere on the plantation."
"No, my dear child, it was you I wished to see."
"Me, Mr. Travilla?" and she east down her eyes, while her cheek
crimsoned; for he was looking straight into them with his, so wistful
and tender, so fall of earnest, questioning, sorrowful entreaty, that
she knew not how to meet their gaze.
"Yes, you, my little friend, for I can no longer endure this torturing
anxiety. Will you not tell me, dear child, what I have done to hurt or
grieve you so?"
"I--I'm not hurt or gri--you have always been most kind," she
stammered, "most--But why should you think I--I was--"
The rest of the sentence was lost in a burst of tears, and covering
her burning cheeks with her hands, she sank down upon the seat from
which she had risen to greet him.
"My dear child, I did not mean to pain you so; do not weep, it breaks
my heart to see it. I was far from intending to blame you, or complain
of your treatment," he said in an agitated tone, and bending over her
in tender concern. "I only wanted to understand my error in order that
I might retrieve it, and be no longer deprived of your dear society.
Oh, little Elsie, if you only knew how I love you; how I have loved
you, and only you, all these years--as child and as woman--how I have
waited and longed, hoping even against hope, that some day I might be
able to win the priceless treasure of your young heart."
Intense, glad surprise made her drop her hands and look up at him.
"But are you not--I--I thought--I understood--Aunt Adelaide--"
"Your Aunt Adelaide!" he cried, scarcely less astonished than herself,
"can it be that you do not know--that you have not heard of her
engagement to Edward Allison?"
A light broke upon Elsie at that question, and her face grew radiant
with happiness; there was one flash of exceeding joy in the soft eyes
that met his, and then they sought the ground.
"Oh, my darling, could you? is it--can it be--"
He took her in his arms, folded her close to his heart, calling her by
every tender and endearing name, and she made no effort to escape, or
to avoid his caresses; did nothing but hide her blushing face on his
breast, and weep tears of deep joy and thankfulness.
It might have been half an hour or an hour afterward (they reckoned
nothing of the flight of time) that Mr. Dinsmore, coming in search of
his daughter, found them seated side by side, Mr. Travilla with his
arm about Elsie's waist, and her hand in his. So absorbed were they in
each other that they had not heard the approaching footsteps.
It was a state of affairs Mr. Dinsmore was far from expecting, and
pausing upon the threshold, he stood spell-bound with astonishment.
"Elsie!" he said at length.
Both started and looked up at the sound of his voice, and Mr.
Travilla, still holding fast to his new-found treasure, said in tones
tremulous with joy, "Will you give her to me, Dinsmore? she is willing
now."
"Ah, is it so, Elsie, my darling?" faltered the father, opening his
arms to receive her as she flew to him. "Is it so? have I lost the
first place in my daughter's heart?" he repeated, straining her to his
breast, and pressing his lips again and again to her fair brow.
"Dear papa, I never loved you better," she murmured, clinging more
closely to him. "I shall never cease to be your own dear daughter; can
never have any father but you--my own dear, dear papa. And you will
not be left without a little girl to pet and fondle; darling Rosebud
will fill my place."
"She has her own; but neither she nor any one else can ever fill
yours, my darling," he answered with a quivering lip. "How can I--how
can I give you up? my first-born, my Elsie's child and mine."
"You will give her to me, my friend?" repeated Travilla. "I will
cherish her as the apple of my eye; I shall never take her away from
you, you may see her every day. You love her tenderly, but she is
dearer to me than my own soul."
"If you have won her heart, I cannot refuse you her hand. Say, Elsie,
my daughter, is it so?"
"Yes, papa," she whispered, turning her blushing face away from his
keen, searching gaze.
"I can hardly bear to do it. My precious one, I don't know how to
resign you to another," he said in a voice low and tremulous with
emotion, and holding her close to his heart; "but since it is your
wish, I must. Take her, my friend, she is yours. But God do so to you,
and more also, if ever you show her aught but love and tenderness."
He put her hand into Travilla's, and turned to go. But she clung to
him with the other. "Yours too, papa," she said, looking up into his
sad face with eyes that were full of tears, "always your own daughter
who loves you better than life."
"Yes, darling, and who is as dearly loved in return," he said,
stooping to press another kiss on the ruby lips. "Let us be happy, for
we are not to part." Then walking quickly away, he left them alone
together.