"The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on."
--SHAKESPEARE, _Richard III_.
"A blossom full of promise is life's joy,
That never comes to fruit. Hope, for a time,
Suns the young flow'ret in its gladsome light,
And it looks flourishing--a little while--
'Tis pass'd, we know not whither, but 'tis gone."
--MISS LANDON.
It was Miss Day's custom to present to the parents of her pupils a
monthly report of their conduct and recitations. The regular time for
this had occurred once since Mr. Horace Dinsmore's return, when she, of
course, handed Elsie's to him.
It was very satisfactory, for Elsie was a most diligent scholar,
carrying her religious principles into that as well as everything else;
and disposed as Miss Day was to find fault with her, she could seldom
see any excuse for so doing, in either her conduct or recitations.
Mr. Dinsmore glanced over the report and handed it back, saying, "It is
all very good; very satisfactory indeed. I am glad to see that she is
industrious and well behaved, for I wish her to grow up an intelligent
and amiable woman."
Elsie, who was standing near, heard the words, and they sent a glow of
pleasure to her cheeks. She looked up eagerly; but her father turned
and walked away without taking any notice of her, and the glow of
happiness faded, and the soft eyes filled with tears of wounded feeling.
It was now time for a second report; but alas! the past month had been
a most unfortunate one for the little girl; the weather was very warm,
and she had felt languid and weak, and so much were her thoughts
occupied with the longing desire to gain her father's love, so
depressed were her spirits by her constant failure to do so, that she
often found it impossible to give her mind to her lessons.
Arthur, too, during much of the time before and since the week of his
imprisonment, had been more than usually annoying, shaking her chair
and jogging her elbow so frequently when she was writing, that her
copy-book presented by no means so good an appearance as usual; and
never had Miss Day made out so poor a report for her. She carried it
with much secret satisfaction to the little girl's father, and entered
a long complaint of the child's idleness and inattention.
"Send her to me," he said, angrily. "She will find me in my own room."
Miss Day had left Elsie in the school-room putting her desk in order
after the day's work, and she found her still there on her return.
"Elsie," said she, with a malicious smile, "your father wishes to see
you immediately. He is in his room."
The child turned red and pale by turns, and trembled so violently that
for a moment she was quite unable to move; for she guessed from Miss
Day's countenance what was probably in store for her.
"I advise you to go at once," said that lady, "for no doubt the longer
you wait the worse it will be for you."
At the same moment Mr. Dinsmore's voice was heard calling in a stern,
angry tone, "Elsie!"
Making a violent effort to control her feelings, she started up and
hastened to obey.
The door of his room stood open, and she walked in, asking in a
trembling voice, "Did you call me, papa?"
"Yes," said he, "I did. Come here to me."
He was sitting with the copy-book and report in his hand, and there was
much severity in both tone and look as he addressed her.
She obeyed instantly, but trembling violently, and with a face pale as
death, and eyes filled with tears. She lifted them pleadingly to his
face; and, touched by her evident terror and distress, he said in a
tone somewhat less stern, "Can you tell me, Elsie, how it happens that
your teacher brings me so bad a report of your conduct and lessons
during the past month? She says you have been very idle; and the report
tells the same story; and this copy-book presents a shameful
appearance."
The child answered only by tears and sobs.
They seemed to irritate him.
"Elsie," he said, sternly, "when I ask a question, I require an answer,
and that instantly."
"O papa!" she answered, pleadingly, "I couldn't study. I'm very
sorry--I'll try to do better--only don't be very angry with me, dear
papa."
"I am angry with you; very angry, indeed," said he in the same severe
tone, "and very strongly inclined to punish you. You _couldn't_ study,
eh? What reason can you assign, pray? Were you not well?"
"I don't know, sir," sobbed the little girl.
"You don't _know_? Very well, then, I think you could not be very ill
without knowing it, and so you seem to have no excuse at all to offer?
However, I will not inflict any punishment upon you _this_ time, as you
seem to be really sorry, and have promised to do better; but beware how
you let me see such a report as this, or hear such complaints of
idleness again, unless you wish to be _severely punished_; and I warn
you that unless your next copy-book presents a better appearance than
this, I certainly shall punish you.
"There are a number of pages here that look quite well," he continued,
turning over the leaves; "that shows what you _can_ do, if you choose;
now there is an old saying, 'A bird that _can_ sing, and _won't_ sing,
must be _made_ to sing.' Hush!" as Elsie seemed about to speak; "not a
word. You may go now." And throwing himself back in his easy-chair, he
took up a newspaper and began to read.
Yet Elsie lingered; her heart so yearned for one word or look of
sympathy and love; she so longed to throw herself into his arms and
tell him how dearly, how _very_ dearly she loved him; she did so hunger
and thirst for one fond caress--ah! how could she go away without it
now, when for the very first time she found herself alone with him in
his own room, where she had never ventured before, but where she had
often been in her brightest dreams.
And so she lingered, trembling, hoping, fearing; but presently he
looked up with a cold "Why do you stand there? I gave you permission to
go; go at once." And with a sinking heart she turned away and sought
the solitude of her own room, there to weep, and mourn, and pray that
she might one day possess the love she so pined for, and bitterly to
reproach herself for having by the failures of the past month put it
farther from her.
And soon a thought came to her which added greatly to her distress. If
Arthur continued his persecutions, how could she make the next
copy-book more presentable? and in case it were not, her father had
said positively that he would punish her; and oh! how could she bear
punishment from him, when a word or look of displeasure almost broke
her heart?
Miss Day seldom remained in the school-room during the whole of the
writing hour, and sometimes the older girls were also absent, so that
Arthur had ample opportunity to indulge his mischievous propensities;
for Elsie was above the meanness of telling tales, and had she not
been, Arthur was so great a favorite with his mother that she would
have brought a great deal of trouble upon herself by so doing.
She therefore saw no escape from the dreaded punishment, unless she
could persuade the perverse boy to cease his annoyances; and of that
there was little hope.
But she carried her trouble to her Heavenly Father, and asked Him to
help her. She was still on her knees, pouring out her sobs and prayers,
when some one knocked at the door.
She rose and opened it to find her Aunt Adelaide standing there.
"Elsie," she said, "I am writing to Miss Rose; have you any word to
send? You may write a little note, if you choose, and I will enclose it
in my letter. But what is the matter, child?" she suddenly exclaimed,
kindly taking the little girl's hand in hers.
With many tears and sobs Elsie told her the whole story, not omitting
her papa's threat, and her fear that she could not, on account of
Arthur's persecutions, avoid incurring the punishment.
Adelaide's sympathies were enlisted, and she drew the sobbing child to
her side, saying, as she pressed a kiss on her cheek, "Never mind,
Elsie, I will take my book or needle-work to the school-room every day,
and sit there during the writing hour. But why don't you tell your papa
about it?"
"Because I don't like to tell tales, Aunt Adelaide, and it would make
your mamma so angry with me; and besides, I can't tell papa anything."
"Ah, I understand! and no wonder; he is strangely stern to the poor
child. I mean to give him a good talking to," murmured Adelaide, more
as if thinking aloud than talking to Elsie.
Then, kissing the little girl again, she rose hastily and left the
room, with the intention of seeking her brother; but he had gone out;
and when he returned he brought several gentlemen with him, and she had
no opportunity until the desire to interfere in the matter had passed
from her mind.
"And it shall come to pass, that before they call, I will answer, and
while they are yet speaking, I will hear." The promise had been
fulfilled to Elsie, and help had been sent her in her trouble.
When her Aunt Adelaide left her, Elsie--first carefully locking the
door to guard against a surprise visit from Enna--went to her bureau,
and unlocking a drawer, took out a purse she was knitting for her
father, to replace the one she had given to Miss Allison.
She had commenced it before his return, and having spent upon it nearly
every spare moment since, when she could feel secure from intrusion,
she now had it nearly completed. Ah! many a silent tear had fallen as
she worked, and many a sigh over disappointed hopes had been woven into
its bright meshes of gold and blue.
But now she had been much comforted and encouraged by her aunt's
sympathy and kind promise of assistance, and, though there were still
traces of tears upon it, the little face looked quite bright and
cheerful again as she settled herself in her little sewing chair, and
began her work.
The small white fingers moved right briskly, the bright shining needles
glancing in and out, while the thoughts, quite as busy, ran on
something in this fashion: "Ah! I am so sorry I have done so badly the
past month; no wonder papa was vexed with me. I don't believe I ever
had such a bad report before. What has come over me? It seems as if I
_can't_ study, and must have a holiday. I wonder if it is all laziness?
I'm afraid it is, and that I ought to be punished. I wish I could shake
it off, and feel industrious as I used to. I will try _very_ hard to do
better this month, and perhaps I can. It is only one month, and then
June will be over, and Miss Day is going North to spend July and
August, and maybe September, and so we shall have a long holiday.
Surely I can stand it one month more; it will soon be over, though it
does seem a long time, and besides, this month we are not to study so
many hours, because it is so warm; and there's to be no school on
Saturdays; none to-morrow, so that I can finish this. Ah! I wonder if
papa will be pleased?" and she sighed deeply. "I'm afraid it will be a
long, long time before he will be pleased with me again. I have
displeased him twice this week--first about the bird, and now this bad
report, and that shameful copy-book. But oh! I will try _so_ hard next
month, and dear Aunt Adelaide will keep Arthur from troubling me, and
I'm determined my copy-book shall look neat, and not have a single blot
in it.
"I wonder how I shall spend the vacation? Last summer I had such a
delightful visit at Ashlands; and then they were here all the rest of
the time. It was then poor Herbert had such a dreadful time with his
hip. Ah! how thankful I ought to be that I am not lame, and have always
been so healthy. But I'm afraid papa won't let me go there this summer,
nor ask them to visit me, because he said he thought Lucy was not a
suitable companion for me. I _was_ very naughty when she was here, and
I've been naughty a great many times since. Oh! dear, shall I never,
never learn to be good? It seems to me I am naughty now much oftener
than I used to be before papa came home. I'm afraid he will soon begin
to punish me severely, as he threatened to-day. I wonder what he means?"
A crimson tide suddenly swept over the fair face and neck, and dropping
her work, she covered her face with her hands. "Oh! he couldn't,
_couldn't_ mean that! how could I ever bear it! and yet if it would
make me really good, I think I wouldn't mind the pain--but the shame
and disgrace! oh! it would break my heart. I could never hold up my
head again! Oh! _can_ he mean that? But I must just try to be so very
good that I will never deserve punishment, and then it will make no
difference to me what he means." And with this consolatory reflection
she took up her work again.
"Mammy, is papa in his room?" asked Elsie, the next afternoon, as she
put the finishing touches to her work.
"No, darlin', Marster Horace he rode out wid de strange gentlemen more
than an hour ago."
Elsie laid her needles away in her work-basket, and opening her
writing-desk, selected a bit of note-paper, on which she wrote in her
very best hand, "A present for my dear papa, from his little daughter
Elsie!" This she carefully pinned to the purse, and then carried it to
her papa's room, intending to leave it on his toilet-table.
Fearing that he might possibly have returned, she knocked gently at the
door, but receiving no answer, opened it, and went in; but she had not
gone more than half way across the room when she heard his voice behind
her, asking, in a tone of mingled surprise and displeasure, "What are
you doing here in my room, in my absence, Elsie?"
She started, and turned round, pale and trembling, and lifting her eyes
pleadingly to his face, silently placed the purse in his hand.
He looked first at it, and then at her.
"I made it for you, dear papa," she said, in a low, tremulous tone; "do
please take it."
"It is really very pretty," he said, examining it; "is it possible it
is your work? I had no idea you had so much taste and skill. Thank you,
daughter; I shall take it, and use it with a great deal of pleasure."
He took her hand as he spoke, and sitting down, lifted her to his knee,
saying, "Elsie, my child, why do you always seem so afraid of me? I
don't like it."
With a sudden impulse she threw her arms round his neck, and pressed
her lips to his cheek; then dropping her head on his breast, she
sobbed: "O papa! _dear_ papa, I _do love_ you so _very_ dearly! will
you not love me? O papa! love me a _little_. I know I've been naughty
very often, but I will _try_ to be good."
Then for the first time he folded her in his arms and kissed her
tenderly, saying, in a moved tone, "I _do_ love you, my darling, my own
little daughter."
Oh! the words were sweeter to Elsie's ear than the most delicious
music! her joy was too great for words, for anything but tears.
"Why do you cry so, my darling?" he asked, soothingly, stroking her
hair, and kissing her again and again.
"O papa! because I am so happy, so _very_ happy," she sobbed.
"Do you indeed care so very much for my love?" he asked; "then, my
daughter, you must not tremble and turn pale whenever I speak to you,
as though I were a cruel tyrant."
"O papa! I cannot help it, when you look and speak so sternly. I love
you so dearly I cannot bear to have you angry with me; but I am not
afraid of you now."
"That is right," he said, caressing her again. "But there is the
tea-bell," he added, setting her down. "Go into the dressing-room
there, and bathe your eyes, and then come to me."
She hastened to do his bidding, and then taking her hand he led her
down and seated her in her usual place by his side.
There were visitors, and all his conversation was addressed to them and
the older members of the family, but he now and then bestowed a kind
look upon his little girl, and attended carefully to all her wants; and
Elsie was very happy.
Everything now went on very pleasantly with our little friend for some
days; she did not see a great deal of her father, as he was frequently
away from home for a day or two, and, when he returned, generally
brought a number of visitors with him; but whenever he did notice her
it was very kindly, and she was gradually overcoming her fear of him,
and constantly hoping that the time would soon come when he would have
more leisure to bestow upon her. She was happy now, and with a mind at
ease, was able to learn her lessons well; and as her Aunt Adelaide
faithfully kept her promise, and thus freed her from Arthur's
annoyances, she was enabled to do justice to her writing. She took
great pains, her copy-book showed a marked improvement in her
penmanship, and its pages had not yet been defaced by a single blot, so
that she was looking forward with pleasing anticipations to the time
when her report should again be presented to her father.
But, alas! one unfortunate morning it happened that Miss Day was in a
very bad humor indeed--peevish, fretful, irritable, and unreasonable to
the last degree; and, as usual, Elsie was the principal sufferer from
her ill-humor. She found fault with everything the little girl did;
scolded her, shook her, refused to explain the manner of working out a
very difficult example, or to permit her to apply to any one else for
assistance, and then punished her because it was done wrong; and when
the child could no longer keep back her tears, called her a baby for
crying, and a dunce for not understanding her arithmetic better.
All this Elsie bore meekly and patiently, not answering a word; but her
meekness seemed only to provoke the governess the more; and finally,
when Elsie came to recite her last lesson, she took pains to put her
questions in the most perplexing form, and scarcely allowing the child
an instant to begin her reply, answered them herself; then, throwing
down the book, scolded her vehemently for her bad lesson, and marked it
in her report as a complete failure.
Poor Elsie could bear no more, but bursting into tears and sobs, said:
"Miss Day, I _did_ know my lesson, every word of it, if you had asked
the questions as usual, or had given me time to answer."
"_I_ say that you did _not_ know it; that it was a complete failure,"
replied Miss Day, angrily; "and you shall just sit down and learn it,
every word, over."
"I _do_ know it, if you will hear me right," said Elsie, indignantly,
"and it is very unjust in you to mark it a failure."
"Impudence!" exclaimed Miss Day, furiously; "how _dare_ you contradict
me? I shall take you to your father."
And seizing her by the arm, she dragged her across the room, and
opening the door, pushed her into the passage.
"Oh! don't, Miss Day," pleaded the little girl, turning toward her,
pale and tearful, "don't tell papa."
"I will! so just walk along with you," was the angry rejoinder, as she
pushed her before her to Mr. Dinsmore's door. It stood open, and he sat
at his desk, writing.
"What is the matter?" he asked, looking up as they appeared before the
door.
"Elsie has been very impertinent, sir," said Miss Day; "she not only
accused me of injustice, but contradicted me flatly."
"Is it _possible!_" said he, frowning angrily. "Come here to me, Elsie,
and tell me, is it _true_ that you contradicted your teacher?"
"Yes, papa," sobbed the child.
"Very well, then, I shall certainly punish you, for I will never allow
anything of the kind."
As he spoke he picked up a small ruler that lay before him, at the same
time taking Elsie's hand as though he meant to use it on her.
"O papa!" she cried, in a tone of agonized entreaty.
But he laid it down again, saying: "No, I shall punish you by depriving
you of your play this afternoon, and giving you only bread and water
for your dinner. Sit down there," he added, pointing to a stool. Then,
with a wave of his hand to the governess, "I think she will not be
guilty of the like again, Miss Day."
The governess left the room, and Elsie sat down on her stool, crying
and sobbing violently, while her father went on with his writing.
"Elsie," he said, presently, "cease that noise; I have had quite enough
of it."
She struggled to suppress her sobs, but it was almost impossible, and
she felt it a great relief when a moment later the dinner-bell rang,
and her father left the room.
In a few moments a servant came in, carrying on a small waiter a
tumbler of water, and a plate with a slice of bread on it.
"Dis am _drefful_ poor fare, Miss Elsie," he said, setting it down
beside her, "but Massa Horace he say it all you can hab; but if you say
so, dis chile tell ole Phoebe to send up somethin' better fore Massa
Horace gits through his dinner."
"Oh! no, thank you, Pompey; you're very kind, but I would not disobey
or deceive papa," replied the little girl, earnestly; "and I am not at
all hungry."
He lingered a moment, seeming loath to leave her to dine upon such fare.
"You had better go now, Pompey," she said gently; "I am afraid you will
be wanted."
He turned and left the room, muttering something about "disagreeable,
good-for-nothing Miss Day!"
Elsie felt no disposition to eat; and when her father returned, half an
hour afterward, the bread and water were still untouched.
"What is the meaning of this?" he asked in a stern, angry tone; "why
have you not eaten what I sent you?"
"I am not hungry, papa," she said humbly.
"Don't tell me that," he replied, "it is nothing but stubbornness; and
I shall not allow you to show such a temper. Take up that bread this
moment and eat it. You shall eat every crumb of the bread and drink
every drop of the water."
She obeyed him instantly, breaking off a bit of bread and putting it in
her mouth, while he stood watching her with an air of stern, cold
determination; but when she attempted to swallow, it seemed utterly
impossible.
"I cannot, papa," she said, "it chokes me."
"You _must_," he replied; "I am going to be obeyed. Take a drink of
water, and that will wash it down."
It was a hard task, but seeing that there was no escape, she struggled
to obey, and at length every crumb of bread and drop of water had
disappeared.
"Now, Elsie," said her father, in a tone of great severity, "never
_dare_ to show me such a temper as this again; you will not escape so
easily next time; remember I am to be obeyed _always_; and when I send
you anything to eat, _you are to eat it_."
It had not been temper at all, and his unjust severity almost broke her
heart; but she could not say one word in her own defence.
He looked at her a moment as she sat there trembling and weeping; then
saying, "I forbid you to leave this room without my permission; don't
venture to disobey me, Elsie; sit where you are until I return," he
turned to go.
"Papa," she asked, pleadingly, "may I have my books, to learn my
lessons for to-morrow."
"Certainly," he said; "I will send a servant with them."
"And my Bible too, please, papa."
"Yes, yes," he answered impatiently, as he went out and shut the door.
Jim was just bringing up Elsie's horse, as Mr. Dinsmore passed through
the hall, and he stepped out to order it back to the stable, saying
that Miss Elsie was not going to ride.
"What is the trouble with Elsie?" asked his sister Adelaide, as he
returned to the drawing-room and seated himself beside her.
"She has been impertinent to her governess, and I have confined her to
my room for the rest of the day," he replied, rather shortly.
"Are you _sure_, Horace, that Elsie was so much to blame?" asked his
sister, speaking in a tone too low to reach any ear but his. "I am
certain, from what Lora tells me, that Miss Day is often cruelly unjust
to her; more so than to any other of her pupils."
He looked at her with a good deal of surprise.
"Are you not mistaken?" he asked.
"No! it is a positive fact that she does at times _really abuse_ her."
"Indeed! I shall certainly not allow _that_" he said, coloring with
anger.
"But in this instance, Adelaide," he added thoughtfully, "I think you
must be mistaken, for Elsie _acknowledged_ that she had been
impertinent. I did not condemn her unheard, stern and severe as you
think me."
"If she _was_, Horace, believe me it must have been only after great
provocation, and her acknowledgment of it is no proof at all, to my
mind; for Elsie is so humble, she would think she _must_ have been
guilty of impertinence if Miss Day accused her of it."
"Surely not, Adelaide; she is by no means wanting in sense," he
replied, in a tone of incredulity, not unmixed with annoyance.
Then he sat thinking a moment, half inclined to go to his child and
inquire more particularly into the circumstances, but soon relinquished
the idea, saying to himself, "No; if she does not choose to be frank
with me, and say what she can in her own defence, she _deserves_ to
suffer; and besides, she showed such stubbornness about eating that
bread."
He was very proud, and did not like to acknowledge even to _himself_
that he had punished his child unjustly--much less to _her_; and it was
not until near tea-time that he returned to his room, entering so
softly that Elsie did not hear him.
She was sitting just where he had left her, bending over her Bible, an
expression of sadness and deep humility on the sweet little face, so
young and fair and innocent. She did not seem aware of his presence
until he was close beside her, when, looking up with a start, she said
in a voice full of tears, "Dear papa, I am very sorry for all my
naughtiness; will you please forgive me?"
"Yes," he said, "certainly I will, if you are really sorry;" and
stooping, he kissed her coldly, saying, "Now go to your room, and let
Chloe dress you for tea."
She rose at once, gathered up her books, and went out.
The little heart was very sad; for her father's manner was so cold she
feared he would never love her again. And she was particularly
distressed by the bad mark given her for recitation that day, because
she knew the time was now drawing very near when her report must be
handed in to her papa; and the delight with which she had hitherto
looked forward to receiving his well-merited approbation, was now
changed to fear, and dread of his displeasure; yet she knew she had
not deserved the bad mark, and again and again she determined that she
would tell her father all about it; but his manner had now become so
cold and stern that she could not summon up courage to do so, but put
it off from day to day, until it was too late.