"He that pursues an act that is attended
With doubtful issues, for the means, had need
Of policy and force to make it speed."
--T. NABB's _Unfortunate Mother._
"Joy never feasts so high,
As when the first course is of misery."
--SUCKLING's _Aglaura._
It was Friday, and the next morning was the when the reports were to be
presented. School had closed, and all but Elsie had already left the
room; but she was carefully arranging the books, writing and drawing
materials, etc., in her desk, for she was very neat and orderly in her
habits.
When she had quite finished her work she took up her report-book, and
glanced over it. As her eye rested for an instant upon the one bad
mark, she sighed a little, and murmured to herself, "I am _so_ sorry; I
wish papa knew how little I really deserved it. I don't know why I
never can get the courage to tell him."
Then, laying it aside, she opened her copy-book and turned over the
leaves with unalloyed pleasure, for not one of its pages was defaced by
a single blot, and from beginning to end it gave evidence of
painstaking carefulness and decided improvement.
"Ah! surely _this_ will please dear papa!" she exclaimed, half aloud.
"How good Aunt Adelaide was to sit here with me!"
Then, putting it carefully in its place, she closed and locked the
desk, and carrying the key to her room, laid it on the mantel, where
she was in the habit of keeping it.
Now it so happened that afternoon that Arthur, who had made himself
sick by over-indulgence in sweetmeats, and had in consequence been
lounging about the house doing nothing for the last day or two,
remained at home while all the rest of the family were out, walking,
riding, or visiting.
He was not usually very fond of reading, but while lying on the lounge
in the nursery, very much in want of some amusement, it suddenly
occurred to him that he would like to look at a book he had seen Elsie
reading that morning.
To be sure the book belonged to her, and she was not there to be
consulted as to her willingness to lend it; but that made no difference
to Arthur, who had very little respect for the rights of property,
excepting where his own were concerned.
Elsie, he knew, was out, and Chloe in the kitchen; so, feeling certain
there would be no one to interfere with him, he went directly to the
little girl's room to look for the book. He soon found it lying on the
mantel; but the desk-key lay right beside it, and as he caught sight of
that he gave a half scream of delight, for he guessed at once to what
lock it belonged, and felt that he now could accomplish the revenge he
had plotted ever since the affair of the watch.
He put out his hand to take it, but drew it back again, and stood for a
moment balancing in his mind the chances of detection.
He could deface Elsie's copy-book, but Adelaide could testify to the
little girl's carefulness and the neatness of her work up to that very
day, for she had been in the school-room that morning during the
writing hour. But then Adelaide had just left home to pay a visit to a
friend living at some distance, and would not return for several weeks,
so there was little danger from that quarter. Miss Day, to be sure,
knew the appearance of Elsie's book quite as well, but there was still
less danger of her interference, and he was pretty certain no one else
knew.
So he decided to run the risk, and laying down the book he took the
key, went to the door, looked carefully up and down the hall to make
sure of not being seen by any of the servants, and having satisfied
himself on that point, hurried to the school-room, unlocked Elsie's
desk, took out her copy-book, and dipping a pen in the ink, proceeded
deliberately to blot nearly every page in it; on some he made a large
blot, on others a small one, and on some two or three; and also
scribbled between the lines and on the margin, so as completely to
deface poor Elsie's work.
But to do Arthur justice, though he knew his brother would be pretty
sure to be very angry with Elsie, he did not know of the threatened
punishment. He stopped once or twice as he thought he heard a footstep,
and shut down the lid until it had passed, when he raised it again and
went on with his wicked work. It did not take long, however, and he
soon replaced the copy-book in the precise spot in which he had found
it, wiped the pen, and put it carefully back in its place, relocked the
desk, hurried back to Elsie's room, put the key just where he had found
it, and taking the book, returned to the nursery without having met any
one.
He threw himself down on a couch and tried to read, but in vain; he
could not fix his attention upon the page--could think of nothing but
the mischief he had done, and its probable consequences; and now, when
it was too late, he more than half repented; yet as to confessing and
thus saving Elsie from unmerited blame, he did not for a single moment
entertain the thought. But at length it suddenly occurred to him that
if it became known that he had been into Elsie's room to get the book
he might be suspected; and he started up with the intention of
replacing it. But he found that it was too late; she had already
returned, for he heard her voice in the hall; so he lay down again, and
kept the book until she came in search of it.
He looked very guilty as the little girl came in, but not seeming to
notice it, she merely said, "I am looking for my book. I thought
perhaps some one might have brought it in here. Oh! _you_ have it,
Arthur! well, keep it, if you wish; I can read it just as well another
time."
"Here, take it," said he roughly, pushing it toward her; "I don't want
it; 'tisn't a bit pretty."
"I think it is very interesting, and you are quite welcome to read it
if you wish," she answered mildly; "but if you don't care to, I will
take it."
"Young ladies and gentlemen," said the governess, as they were about
closing their exercises the next morning, "this is the regular day for
the reports, and they are all made out. Miss Elsie, here is yours;
bring your copy-book, and carry both to your papa."
Elsie obeyed, not without some trembling, yet hoping, as there was but
_one_ bad mark in the report and the copy-book showed such evident
marks of care and painstaking, her papa would not be very seriously
displeased.
It being the last day of the term, the exercises of the morning had
varied somewhat from the usual routine, and the writing hour had been
entirely omitted; thus it happened that Elsie had not opened her
copy-book, and was in consequence still in ignorance of its sadly
altered appearance.
She found her father in his room. He took the report first from her
hand, and glancing over it, said with a slight frown, "I see you have
one _very_ bad mark for recitation; but as there is only one, and the
others are remarkably good, I will excuse it."
Then taking the copy-book and opening it, much to Elsie's surprise and
alarm he gave her a glance of great displeasure, turned rapidly over
the leaves, then laying it down, said in his sternest tones, "I see I
shall have to keep my promise, Elsie."
"What, papa?" she asked, turning pale with terror.
"_What!_" said he! "do you ask me what? Did I not tell you _positively_
that I would _punish_ you if your copy-book this month did not present
a better appearance than it did last?"
"O papa! does it not? I tried so very hard; and there are no blots in
it."
"No blots?" said he; "what do you call these?" and he turned over the
leaves again, holding the book so that she could see them, and showing
that almost every one was blotted in several places.
Elsie gazed at them in unfeigned astonishment; then looking up into his
face, she said earnestly but fearfully, "Papa, I did not do it."
"Who did, then?" he asked.
"Indeed, papa, I do not know," she replied.
"I must inquire into this business," he said, rising, "and if it is not
your fault you shall not be punished; but if I find you have been
telling me a falsehood, Elsie, I shall punish you much more severely
than if you had not denied your fault."
And taking her by the hand as he spoke, he led her back to the
school-room.
"Miss Day," said he, showing the book, "Elsie says these blots are not
her work; can you tell me whose they are?"
"Miss Elsie _generally_ tells the truth, sir," replied Miss Day,
sarcastically, "but I must say that in this instance I think she has
failed, as her desk has a good lock, and she herself keeps the key."
"Elsie," he asked, turning to her, "is this so?"
"Yes, papa."
"And have you ever left your desk unlocked, or the key lying about?"
"No, papa. I am quite certain I have not," she answered unhesitatingly,
though her voice trembled, and she grey very pale.
"Very well, then, _I_ am quite certain you have told me a falsehood,
since it is evident this _must_ have been your work. Elsie, I can
forgive anything but falsehood, but that I _never will_ forgive. Come
with me. I shall teach you to speak the truth to _me_ at least, if to
no one else," and taking her hand again, he led, or rather dragged, her
from the room, for he was terribly angry, his face fairly pale with
passion.
Lora came in while he was speaking and, certain that _Elsie_ would
never be caught in a falsehood, her eye quickly sought Arthur's desk.
He was sitting there with a very guilty countenance.
She hastily crossed the room, and speaking in a low tone, said,
"Arthur, _you_ have had a hand in this business I very well know; now
confess it quickly, or Horace will half kill Elsie."
"You don't know anything about it," said he doggedly.
"Yes, I do," she answered; "and if you do not speak out at once, _I_
shall save Elsie, and find means to prove your guilt afterwards; so you
had much better confess."
"Go away," he exclaimed angrily, "I have nothing to confess."
Seeing it was useless to try to move him, Lora turned away and hurried
to Horace's room, which, in her haste, she entered without knocking, he
having fortunately neglected to fasten the door. She was just in time;
he had a small riding whip in his hand, and Elsie stood beside him pale
as death, too much frightened even to cry, and trembling so that she
could scarcely stand.
He turned an angry glance on his sister as she entered; but taking no
notice of it, she exclaimed eagerly, "Horace, don't punish Elsie, for I
am certain she is innocent."
He laid down the whip asking, "_How_ do you know it? what _proof_ have
you? I shall be very glad to be convinced," he added, his countenance
relaxing somewhat in its stern and angry expression.
"In the first place," replied his sister, "there is Elsie's established
character for truthfulness--in all the time she has been with us, we
have ever found her perfectly truthful in word and deed. And then,
Horace, what motive could she have had for spoiling her book, knowing
as she did that certain punishment would follow? Besides, I am sure
Arthur is at the bottom of this, for though he will not acknowledge, he
does not deny it. Ah! yes, and now I recollect, I saw and examined
Elsie's book only yesterday, and it was then quite free from blots."
A great change had come over her brother's countenance while she was
speaking.
"Thank you, Lora," he said, cordially, as soon as she had done, "you
have quite convinced me, and saved me from punishing Elsie as unjustly
as severely. That last assurance I consider quite sufficient of itself
to establish her innocence."
Lora turned and went out feeling very happy, and as she closed the
door, Elsie's papa took her in his arms, saying in loving, tender
tones, "My poor little daughter! my own darling child! I have been
cruelly unjust to you, have I not?"
"Dear papa, you thought I deserved it," she said, with a burst of tears
and sobs, throwing her arms around his neck, and laying her head on his
breast.
"Do you love me, Elsie, dearest?" he asked, folding her closer to his
heart.
"Ah! so very, _very_ much! better than all the world beside. O papa! if
you would only love me." The last word was almost a sob.
"I do, my darling, my own precious child," he said, caressing her again
and again. "I do love my little girl, although I may at times seem cold
and stern; and I am more thankful than words can express that I have
been saved from punishing her unjustly. I could never forgive myself if
I had done it. I would rather have lost half I am worth; ah! I fear it
would have turned all her love for me into hatred; and justly, too."
"No, papa, oh! no, _no; nothing_ could ever do that!" and the little
arms were clasped closer and closer about his neck, and the tears again
fell like rain, as she timidly pressed her quivering lips to his cheek.
"There, there daughter! don't cry any more; we will try to forget all
about it, and talk of something else," he said soothingly. "Elsie,
dear, your Aunt Adelaide thinks perhaps you were not so very much to
blame the other day; and now I want you to tell me all the
circumstances; for though I should be very sorry to encourage you to
find fault with your teacher, I am by no means willing to have you
abused."
"Please, papa, don't ask me," she begged. "Aunt Lora was there, and she
will tell you about it."
"No, Elsie," he said, very decidedly; "I want the story from _you_; and
remember, I want _every word_ that passed between you and Miss Day, as
far as you can possibly recall it."
Seeing that he was determined, Elsie obeyed him, though with evident
reluctance, and striving to put Miss Day's conduct in as favorable a
light as consistent with truth, while she by no means extenuated her
own; yet her father listened with feelings of strong indignation.
"Elsie," he said when she had done, "if I had known all this at the
time, I should not have punished you at all. Why did you not tell me,
my daughter, how you have been ill treated and provoked?"
"O papa! I could not; you know you did not ask me."
"I did ask you if it was true that you contradicted her, did I not?"
"Yes, papa, and it was true."
"You ought to have told me the whole story though; but I see how it
was--I frightened you by my sternness. Well, daughter," he added,
kissing her tenderly, "I shall endeavor to be less stern in future, and
you must try to be less timid and more at your ease with me."
"I will, papa," she replied meekly; "but indeed I cannot help feeling
frightened when you are angry with me."
Mr. Dinsmore sat there a long time with his little daughter on his
knee, caressing her more tenderly than ever before; and Elsie was very
happy, and talked more freely to him than she had ever done, telling
him of her joys and her sorrows; how dearly she had loved Miss
Allison--what happy hours they had spent together in studying the Bible
and in prayer--how grieved she was when her friend went away--and how
intensely she enjoyed the little letter now and then received from her;
and he listened to it all, apparently both pleased and interested,
encouraging her to go on by an occasional question or a word of assent
or approval.
"What is this, Elsie?" he asked, taking hold of the chain she always
wore around her neck, and drawing the miniature from her bosom.
But as he touched the spring the case flew open, revealing the sweet,
girlish face, it needed not Elsie's low murmured "Mamma" to tell him
who that lovely lady was.
He gazed upon it with emotion, carried back in memory to the time when
for a few short months she had been his own most cherished treasure.
Then, looking from it to his child, he murmured, "Yes, she is very
like--the same features, the same expression, complexion, hair and
all--will be the very counterpart of her if she lives."
"Dear papa, am I like mamma?" asked Elsie, who had caught a part of his
words.
"Yes, darling, very much indeed, and I hope you will grow more so."
"You loved mamma?" she said inquiringly.
"Dearly, _very_ dearly."
"O papa! _tell_ me about her! _do_, dear papa," she pleaded eagerly.
"I have not much to tell," he said, sighing. "I knew her only for a few
short months ere we were torn asunder, never to meet again on earth."
"But we may hope to meet her in heaven, dear papa," said Elsie softly,
"for she loved Jesus, and if we love Him we shall go there too when we
die. Do you love Jesus, papa?" she timidly inquired, for she had seen
him do a number of things which she knew to be wrong--such as riding
out for pleasure on the Sabbath, reading secular newspapers, and
engaging in worldly conversation--and she greatly feared he did not.