"The morning blush was lighted up by hope--
The hope of meeting him."
--Miss LANDON.
"Unkindness, do thy office; poor heart, break."
A week had now passed away since Miss Allison's departure, and Elsie,
to whom it had been a sad and lonely one, was beginning to look eagerly
for her first letter.
"It is just a week to-day since Rose left," remarked Adelaide at the
breakfast table, "and I think we ought to hear from her soon. She
promised to write on her journey. Ah! here comes Pomp with the letters
now," she added, as the servant man entered the room bearing in his
hand the bag in which he always brought the letters of the family from
the office in the neighboring city, whither he was sent every morning.
"Pomp, you are late this morning," said Mrs. Dinsmore.
"Yes, missus," replied the negro, scratching his head, "de horses am
berry lazy; spec dey's got de spring fever."
"Do make haste, papa, and see if there is not one from Rose," said
Adelaide coaxingly, as her father took the bag, and very deliberately
adjusted his spectacles before opening it.
"Have patience, young lady," said he. "Yes, here is a letter for you,
and one for Elsie," tossing them across the table as he spoke.
Elsie eagerly seized hers and ran away to her own room to read it. It
was a feast to her, this first letter, and from such a dear friend,
too. It gave her almost as much pleasure for the moment as Miss Rose's
presence could have afforded.
She had just finished its perusal and was beginning it again, when she
heard Adelaide's voice calling her by name, and the next moment she
entered the room, saying: "Well, Elsie, I suppose you have read your
letter; and now I have another piece of news for you. Can you guess
what it is?" she asked, looking at her with a strange smile.
"Oh! no, Aunt Adelaide; please tell me. Is dear Miss Rose coming back?"
"O! nonsense; what a guess!" said Adelaide. "No, stranger than that. My
brother Horace--your papa--has actually sailed for America, and is
coming directly home."
Elsie sprang up, her cheeks flushed, and her little heart beating
wildly.
"O Aunt Adelaide!" she cried, "is it really true? is he coming? and
will he be here soon?"
"He has really started at last; but how soon he will be here I don't
know," replied her aunt, turning to leave the room. "I have told you
all I know about it."
Elsie clasped her hands together, and sank down upon a sofa, Miss
Rose's letter, prized so highly a moment before, lying unheeded at her
feet; for her thoughts were far away, following that unknown parent as
he crossed the ocean; trying to imagine how he would look, how he would
speak, what would be his feelings toward her.
"Oh!" she asked, with a beating heart, "_will_ he _love_ me? My own
papa! will he let me love him? will he take me in his arms and call me
his own darling child?"
But who could answer the anxious inquiry? She must just wait until the
slow wheels of time should bring the much longed-for, yet sometimes
half-dreaded arrival.
Elsie's lessons were but indifferently recited that morning, and Miss
Day frowned, and said in a tone of severity that it did not agree with
her to receive letters; and that, unless she wished her papa to be much
displeased with her on his expected arrival, she must do a great deal
better than that.
She had touched the right chord then; for Elsie, intensely anxious to
please that unknown father, and, if possible, gain his approbation and
affection, gave her whole mind to her studies with such a determined
purpose that the governess could find no more cause for complaint.
But while the child is looking forward to the expected meeting with
such longing affection for him, how is it with the father?
Horace Dinsmore was, like his father, an upright, moral man, who paid
an outward respect to the forms of religion, but cared nothing for the
vital power of godliness; trusted entirely to his morality, and looked
upon Christians as hypocrites and deceivers. He had been told that his
little Elsie was one of these, and, though he would not have
acknowledged it even to himself, it had prejudiced him against her.
Then, too, in common with all the Dinsmores, he had a great deal of
family pride; and, though old Mr. Grayson had been a man of sterling
worth, intelligent, honest, and pious, and had died very wealthy, yet
because he was known to have begun life as a poor boy, the whole family
were accustomed to speak as though Horace had stooped very much in
marrying his heiress.
And Horace himself had come to look upon his early marriage as a piece
of boyish folly, of which he was rather ashamed; and so constantly had
Mr. Dinsmore spoken in his letters of Elsie as "old Grayson's
grandchild," that he had got into the habit of looking upon her as a
kind of disgrace to him; especially as she had always been described to
him as a disagreeable, troublesome child.
He had loved his wife with all the warmth of his passionate nature, and
had mourned bitterly over her untimely death; but years of study,
travel and worldly pleasures had almost banished her image from his
mind, and he seldom thought of her except in connection with the child
for whom he felt a secret dislike.
Scarcely anything but the expected arrival was now spoken or thought of
at Roselands, and Elsie was not the only one to whom old Time seemed to
move with an unusually laggard pace.
But at length a letter came telling them that they might look upon it
as being but one day in advance of its writer; and now all was bustle
and preparation.
"O mammy, mammy!" exclaimed Elsie, jumping up and down, and clapping
her hands for joy, as she came in from her afternoon ride, "just think!
papa, dear papa, will be here to-morrow morning."
She seemed wild with delight; but suddenly sobered down, and a look of
care stole over the little face, as the torturing question recurred to
her mind, "_Will he love me?_"
She stood quite still, with her eyes fixed thoughtfully, and almost
sadly, upon the floor, while Chloe took off her riding dress and cap
and smoothed her hair. As she finished arranging her dress she clasped
the little form in her arms, and pressed a fond kiss on the fair brow,
thinking to herself that was the sweetest and loveliest little face she
had ever looked upon.
Just at that moment an unusual bustle was heard in the house.
Elsie started, changed color, and stood listening with a throbbing
heart.
Presently little feet were heard running rapidly down the hall, and
Walter, throwing open the door, called out, "Elsie, he's come!" and
catching her hand, hurried her along to the parlor door.
"Stop, stop, Walter," she gasped as they reached it; and she leaned
against the wall, her heart throbbing so wildly she could scarcely
breathe.
"What is the matter?" said he, "are you ill? come along;" and pushing
the door open, he rushed in, dragging her after him.
So over-wrought were the child's feelings that she nearly fainted;
everything in the room seemed to be turning round, and for an instant
she scarcely knew where she was.
But a strange voice asked, "And who is this?" and looking up as her
grandfather pronounced her name, she saw a stranger standing before
her--very handsome, and very youthful-looking, in spite of a heavy dark
beard and mustache--who exclaimed hastily, "What! this great girl _my_
child? really it is enough to make a man feel old."
Then, taking her hand, he stooped and coldly kissed her lips.
She was trembling violently, and the very depth of her feelings kept
her silent and still; her hand lay still in his, cold and clammy.
He held it an instant, at the same time gazing searchingly into her
face; then dropped it, saying in a tone of displeasure, "I am not an
ogre, that you need be so afraid of me; but there, you may go; I will
not keep you in terror any longer."
She rushed away to her own room, and there, throwing herself upon the
bed, wept long and wildly. It was the disappointment of a lifelong
hope. Since her earliest recollection she had looked and longed for
this hour; and it seemed as though the little heart would break with
its weight of bitter anguish.
She was all alone, for Chloe had gone down to the kitchen to talk over
the arrival, not doubting that her darling was supremely happy in the
possession of her long looked-for parent.
And so the little girl lay there with her crushed and bleeding heart,
sobbing, mourning, weeping as though she would weep her very life away,
without an earthly friend to speak one word of comfort.
"O papa, papa!" she sobbed, "my own papa, you do not love me; me, your
own little girl. Oh! my heart will break. O mamma, mamma! if I could
only go to you; for there is no one here to love me, and I am so
lonely, oh! _so_ lonely and desolate."
And thus Chloe found her, when she came in an hour later, weeping and
sobbing out such broken exclamations of grief and anguish.
She was much surprised, but comprehending at once how her child was
suffering, she raised her up in her strong arms, and laying the little
head lovingly against her bosom, she smoothed the tangled hair, kissed
the tear-swollen eyes, and bathed the throbbing temples, saying, "My
precious pet, my darlin' chile, your ole mammy loves you better dan
life; an' did my darlin' forget de almighty Friend dat says, _I_ have
loved thee with an everlasting love,' an' 'I will never leave thee, nor
forsake thee'? He sticks closer dan a brudder, precious chile, and
says,'though a woman forget her sucking child, He will not forget _His_
chillen.' Mothers love dere chillens better dan fathers, darlin', and
so you see Jesus' love is better dan all other love; and I _knows_ you
hes got dat."
"O mammy! ask Him to take me to Himself, and to mamma--for oh! I am
very lonely, and I want to die!"
"Hush, hush, darlin'; old Chloe nebber could ask dat; dis ole heart
would break for sure. Yous all de world to your old mammy, darlin'; and
you know we must all wait de Lord's time."
"Then ask Him to help me to be patient," she said, in a weary tone.
"And O mammy!" she added, with a burst of bitter tears, "ask Him to
make my father love me."
"I will, darlin', I will," sobbed Chloe, pressing the little form
closer to her heart; "an' don't you go for to be discouraged right
away; for I'se sure Massa Horace must love you, fore long."
The tea-bell rang, and the family gathered about the table; but one
chair remained unoccupied.
"Where is Miss Elsie?" asked Adelaide of one of the servants.
"Dunno, missus," was the reply.
"Well, then, go and see," said Adelaide; "perhaps she did not hear the
bell."
The servant returned in a moment, saying that Miss Elsie had a bad
headache and did not want any supper. Mr. Horace Dinsmore paused in the
conversation he was carrying on with his father, to listen to the
servant's announcement. "I hope she is not a sickly child," said he,
addressing Adelaide; "is she subject to such attacks?"
"Not very," replied his sister dryly, for she had seen the meeting, and
felt really sorry for Elsie's evident disappointment; "I imagine crying
has brought this on."
He colored violently, and said in a tone of great displeasure, "Truly,
the return of a parent _is_ a cause for grief; yet I hardly expected my
presence to be quite so distressing to my only child. I had no idea
that she had already learned to dislike me so thoroughly."
"She doesn't," said Adelaide, "she has been looking and longing for
your return ever since I have known her."
"Then she has certainly been disappointed in me; her grief is not at
all complimentary, explain it as you will."
Adelaide made no reply, for she saw that he was determined to put an
unfavorable construction upon Elsie's conduct, and feared that any
defence she could offer would only increase his displeasure.
It was a weary, aching head the little girl laid upon her pillow that
night, and the little heart was sad and sore; yet she was not
altogether comfortless, for she had turned in her sorrow to Him who has
said, "Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them
not," and she had the sweet assurance of _His_ love and favor.
It was with a trembling heart, hoping yet fearing, longing and yet
dreading to see her father, that Elsie descended to the breakfast-room
the next morning. She glanced timidly around, but he was not there.
"Where is papa, Aunt Adelaide?" she asked.
"He is not coming down to breakfast, as he feels quite fatigued with
his journey," replied her aunt; "so you will not see him this morning,
and perhaps not at all to-day, for there will be a good deal of company
here this afternoon and evening."
Elsie sighed, and looked sadly disappointed. She found it very
difficult to attend to her lessons that morning, and every time the
door opened she started and looked up, half hoping it might be her papa.
But he did not come; and when the dinner hour arrived, the children
were told that they were to dine in the nursery, on account of the
large number of guests to be entertained in the dining-room. The
company remained until bedtime; she was not called down to the parlor;
and so saw nothing of her father that day.
But the next morning Chloe told her the children were to breakfast with
the family, as all the visitors had left excepting one or two
gentlemen. So Elsie went down to the breakfast-room, where, to her
surprise, she found her papa sitting alone, reading the morning paper.
He looked up as she entered.
"Good-morning, papa," she said, in half-trembling tones.
He started a little--for it was the first time he had ever been
addressed by that title, and it sounded strange to his ears--gave her a
glance of mingled curiosity and interest, half held out his hand, but
drawing it back again, simply said, "Good-morning, Elsie," and returned
to his paper.
Elsie stood irresolutely in the middle of the floor, wanting, yet not
daring to go to him.
But just at that instant the door opened, and Enna, looking rosy and
happy, came running in, and rushing up to her brother, climbed upon his
knee, and put her arms around his neck, saying, "Good-morning, brother
Horace. I want a kiss."
"You shall have it, little pet," said he, throwing down his paper.
Then, kissing her several times and hugging her in his arms, he said,
"_You_ are not afraid of me, are you? nor sorry that I have come home?"
"No, indeed," said Enna.
He glanced at Elsie as she stood looking at them, her large soft eyes
full of tears. She could not help feeling that Enna had her place, and
was receiving the caresses that should have been lavished upon herself.
"Jealous," thought her father; "I cannot bear jealous people;" and he
gave her a look of displeasure that cut her to the heart, and she
turned quickly away and left the room to hide the tears she could no
longer keep back.
"I am envious," she thought, "jealous of Enna. Oh! how wicked!" And she
prayed silently, "Dear Saviour, help me! take away these sinful
feelings."
Young as she was, she was learning to have some control over her
feelings, and in a few moments she had so far recovered her composure
as to be able to return to the breakfast-room and take her place at the
table, where the rest were already seated, her sweet little face sad
indeed and bearing the traces of tears, but quite calm and peaceful.
Her father took no further notice of her, and she did not dare trust
herself to look at him. The servants filled her plate, and she ate in
silence, feeling it a great relief that all were too busily engaged in
talking and eating to pay any attention to her. She scarcely raised her
eyes from her plate, and did not know how often a strange gentleman,
who sat nearly opposite, fixed his upon her.
As she left the room at the conclusion of the meal, he asked, while
following her with his eyes, "Is that one of your sisters, Dinsmore?"
"No," said he, coloring slightly; "she is my daughter."
"Ah, indeed!" said his friend. "I remember to have heard that you had a
child, but had forgotten it. Well, you have no reason to be ashamed of
her; she is lovely, perfectly lovely! has the sweetest little face I
ever saw."
"Will you ride, Travilla?" asked Mr. Dinsmore hastily, as though
anxious to change the subject.
"I don't care if I do," was the reply, and they went out together.
Some hours later in the day Elsie was at the piano in the music-room
practising, when a sudden feeling that some one was in the room caused
her to turn and look behind her.
Mr. Travilla was standing there.
"Excuse me," said he, bowing politely, "but I heard the sound of the
instrument, and, being very fond of music, I ventured to walk in."
Elsie was very modest, and rather timid, too, but also very polite; so
she said, "No excuse is necessary; but will you not take a seat, sir?
though I fear my music will not afford you any pleasure, for you know I
am only a little girl, and cannot play very well yet."
"Thank you," said he, taking a seat by her side. "And now will you do
me the favor to repeat the song I heard you singing a few moments
since?"
Elsie immediately complied, though her cheeks burned, and her voice
trembled at first from embarrassment; but it grew stronger as she
proceeded and in the last verse was quite steady and full. She had a
very fine voice for a child of her age; its sweetness was remarkable
both in singing and speaking; and she had also a good deal of musical
talent, which had been well cultivated, for she had had good teachers,
and had practised with great patience and perseverance. Her music was
simple, as suited her years, but her performance of it was very good
indeed.
Mr. Travilla thanked her very heartily, and complimented her singing;
then asked for another and another song, another and another piece,
chatting with her about each, until they grew quite familiar, and Elsie
lost all feeling of embarrassment.
"Elsie, I think, is your name, is it not?" he asked after a little.
"Yes, sir," said she, "Elsie Dinsmore."
"And you are the daughter of my friend, Mr. Horace Dinsmore?"
"Yes, sir."
"Your papa has been absent a long time, and I suppose you must have
quite forgotten him."
"No, sir, not _forgotten_, for I never had seen him."
"Indeed!" said he, in a tone of surprise; "then, since he is an entire
stranger to you, I suppose you cannot have much affection for him?"
Elsie raised her large, dark eyes to his face, with an expression of
astonishment. "Not love papa, my own dear papa, who has no child but
me? Oh! sir, how could you think that?"
"Ah! I see I was mistaken," said he, smiling; "I thought you could
hardly care for him at all; but do you think that he loves you?"
Elsie dropped her face into her hands, and burst into an agony of tears.
The young gentleman looked extremely vexed with himself.
"My poor little girl, my poor, dear little girl," he said, stroking her
hair, "forgive me. I am very, _very_ sorry for my thoughtless question.
Do be comforted, my poor child, for whether your papa loves you now or
not, I am quite sure he soon will."
Elsie now dried her tears, rose and closed the instrument. He assisted
her, and then asked if she would not take a little walk with him in the
garden. She complied, and, feeling really very sorry for the wound he
had so thoughtlessly inflicted, as well as interested in his little
companion, he exerted all his powers to entertain her--talked with her
about the plants and flowers, described those he had seen in foreign
lands, and related incidents of travel, usually choosing those in which
her father had borne a part, because he perceived that they were doubly
interesting to her.
Elsie, having been thrown very much upon her own resources for
amusement, and having a natural love for books, and constant access to
her grandfather's well-stocked library, had read many more, and with
much more thought, than most children of her age, so that Mr. Travilla
found her a not uninteresting companion, and was often surprised at the
intelligence shown by her questions and replies.
When the dinner-bell rang he led her in, and seated her by himself, and
never was any lady more carefully waited upon than little Elsie at this
meal. Two or three other gentlemen guests were present, giving their
attention to the older ladies of the company, and thus Mr. Travilla
seemed to feel quite at liberty to devote himself entirely to her,
attending to all her wants, talking with her, and making her talk.
Elsie now and then stole a glance at Mrs. Dinsmore, fearing her
displeasure; but to her great relief, the lady seemed too much occupied
to notice her. Once she looked timidly at her father, and her eyes met
his. He was looking at her with an expression half curious, half
amused. She was at a loss to understand the look, but, satisfied that
there was no displeasure in it, her heart grew light, and her cheeks
flushed with happiness.
"Really, Dinsmore," said Mr. Travilla, as they stood together near one
of the windows of the drawing-room soon after dinner, "your little girl
is remarkably intelligent, as well as remarkably pretty; and I have
discovered that she has quite a good deal of musical talent."
"Indeed! I think it is quite a pity that she does not belong to you,
Travilla, instead of me, since you seem to appreciate her so much more
highly," replied the father, laughing.
"I wish she did," said his friend. "But, seriously, Dinsmore, you ought
to love that child, for she certainly loves you devotedly."
He looked surprised. "How do you know?" he asked.
"It was evident enough from what I saw and heard this morning.
Dinsmore, she would value a caress from you more than the richest
jewel."
"Doubtful," replied Horace, hastily quitting the room, for Elsie had
come out on to the portico in her riding suit, and Jim, her usual
attendant, was bringing up her horse.
"Are you going to ride, Elsie?" asked her father, coming up to her.
"Yes, papa," she said, raising her eyes to his face.
He lifted her in his arms and placed her on the horse, saying to the
servant as he did so, "Now, Jim, you must take good care of my little
girl."
Tears of happiness rose in Elsie's eyes as she turned her horse's head
and rode down the avenue. "He called me _his_ little girl," she
murmured to herself, "and bade Jim take good care of me. Oh! he _will_
love me soon, as good, kind Mr. Travilla said he would."
Her father was still standing on the portico, looking after her.
"How well she sits her horse!" remarked Travilla, who had stepped out
and stood close by his side.
"Yes, I think she does," was the reply, in an absent tone. He was
thinking of a time, some eight or nine years before, when he had
assisted another Elsie to mount her horse, and had ridden for hours at
her side.
All the afternoon memories of the past came crowding thickly on his
mind, and an emotion of tenderness began to spring up in his heart
toward the child of her who had once been so dear to him; and as he saw
the little girl ride up to the house on her return, he again went out,
and lifting her from her horse, asked kindly, "Had you a pleasant ride,
my dear?"
"Oh! yes, papa, very pleasant," she said, looking up at him with a face
beaming with delight. He stooped and kissed her, saying, "I think I
shall ride with you one of these days; should you like it?"
"Oh! so very, _very_ much, papa," she answered, eagerly.
He smiled at her earnestness, and she hastened away to her room to
change her dress and tell Chloe of her happiness.
Alas! it was but a transient gleam of sunshine that darted across her
path, to be lost again almost instantly behind the gathering clouds.
More company came, so that the drawing-room was quite full in the
evening; and, though Elsie was there, her father seemed too much
occupied with the guests to give her even a glance. She sat alone and
unnoticed in a corner, her eyes following him wherever he moved, and
her ear strained to catch every tone of his voice; until Mr. Travilla,
disengaging himself from a group of ladies and gentlemen on the
opposite side of the room, came up to her, and taking her by the hand,
led her to a pleasant-looking elderly lady, who sat at a centre-table
examining some choice engravings which Mr. Dinsmore had brought with
him from Europe.
"Mother," said Mr. Travilla, "This is my little friend Elsie."
"Ah!" said she, giving the little girl a kiss, "I am glad to see you,
my dear."
Mr. Travilla set a chair for her close to his mother and then sat down
on her other side, and taking up the engravings one after another, he
explained them to her in a most entertaining manner, generally having
some anecdote to tell in connection with each.
Elsie was so much amused and delighted with what he was saying that she
at last quite forgot her father, and did not notice where he was.
Suddenly Mr. Travilla laid down the engraving he had in his hand,
saying: "Come, Miss Elsie, I want my mother to hear you play and sing;
will you not do me the favor to repeat that song I admired so much this
morning?"
"Oh! Mr. Travilla!" exclaimed the little girl, blushing and trembling,
"I could not play or sing before so many people. Please excuse me."
"Elsie," said her father's voice just at her side, "go _immediately,_
and do as the gentleman requests."
His tone was very stern, and as she lifted her eyes to his face, she
saw that his look was still more so; and tremblingly and tearfully she
rose to obey.
"Stay," said Mr. Travilla kindly, pitying her distress, "I withdraw my
request."
"But I do _not_ withdraw my command," said her father in the same stern
tone; "go at once, Elsie, and do as I bid you."
She obeyed instantly, struggling hard to overcome her emotion.
Mr. Travilla, scolding himself inwardly all the time for having brought
her into such trouble, selected her music, and placing it before her as
she took her seat at the instrument, whispered encouragingly, "Now,
Miss Elsie, only have confidence in yourself; that is all that is
necessary to your success."
But Elsie was not only embarrassed, but her heart was well-nigh broken
by her father's sternness, and the tears _would_ fill her eyes so that
she could see neither notes nor words. She attempted to play the
prelude, but blundered sadly, her embarrassment increasing every moment.
"Never mind," said Mr. Travilla, "never mind the prelude, but just
begin the song."
She made the attempt, but fairly broke down, and burst into tears
before she had got through the first verse. Her father had come up
behind her, and was standing there, looking much mortified.
"Elsie," he said, leaning down and speaking in a low, stern tone, close
to her ear, "I am ashamed of you; go to your room and to your bed
immediately."
With a heart almost bursting with grief and mortification she obeyed
him, and her pillow was wet with many bitter tears ere the weary eyes
closed in slumber.
When she came down the next morning she learned to her great grief that
Mr. Travilla and his mother had returned to their own home; she was
very sorry she had not been permitted to say good-bye to her friend,
and for several days she felt very sad and lonely, for all her father's
coldness of manner had returned, and he scarcely ever spoke to her;
while the younger members of the family ridiculed her for her failure
in attempting to play for company; and Miss Day, who seemed unusually
cross and exacting, often taunted her with it also.
These were sad, dark days for the little girl; she tried most earnestly
to attend to all her duties, but so depressed were her spirits, so
troubled was her mind, that she failed repeatedly in her lessons, and
so was in continual disgrace with Miss Day, who threatened more than
once to tell her papa.
It was a threat which Elsie dreaded extremely to have put in execution,
and Miss Day, seeing that it distressed her, used it the more
frequently, and thus kept the poor child in constant terror.
How to gain her father's love was the constant subject of her thoughts,
and she tried in many ways to win his affection. She always yielded a
ready and cheerful obedience to his commands, and strove to anticipate
and fulfil all his wishes. But he seldom noticed her, unless to give a
command or administer a rebuke, while he lavished many a caress upon
his little sister, Enna. Often Elsie would watch him fondling her,
until, unable any longer to control her feelings, she would rush away
to her own room to weep and mourn in secret, and pray that her father
might some day learn to love her. She never complained even to poor old
Aunt Chloe, but the anxious nurse watched all these things with the
jealous eye of affection; she saw that her child--as she delighted to
call her--was very unhappy, and was growing pale and melancholy; and
her heart ached for her, and many were the tears she shed in secret
over the sorrows of her nursling.
"Don't 'pear so sorrowful, darlin'," she sometimes said to her; "try to
be merry, like Miss Enna, and run and jump on Massa Horace's knee, and
den I tink he will like you better."
"O mammy! I _can't_," Elsie would say; "I don't dare to do it."
And Chloe would sigh and shake her head sorrowfully.