"If thou turn away thy foot from the Sabbath, from doing
thy pleasure on my holy day, and call the Sabbath a Delight,
the Holy of the Lord, Honorable, and shalt honor him, not
doing thine own ways, nor finding thine own pleasure, nor
speaking thine own words."
--_Isaiah_ Iviii. 13.
"Whether it be right in the sight of God to hearken unto
you, more than unto God, judge ye."
--_Acts_ iv. 19.
Quite a number of guests had dined at Roselands. They were nearly all
gentlemen, and were now collected in the drawing-room, laughing,
jesting, talking politics, and conversing with each other and the
ladies upon various worldly topics, apparently quite forgetful that it
was the Lord's day, which He has commanded to be kept holy in thought
and word, as well as deed.
"May I ask what you are in search of, Mr. Eversham?" inquired Adelaide,
as she noticed one of the guests glance around the room with a rather
disappointed air.
"Yes, Miss Adelaide; I was looking for little Miss Elsie. Travilla has
given me so very glowing an account of her precocious musical talent,
that I have conceived a great desire to hear her play and sing."
"Do you hear that, Horace?" asked Adelaide, turning to her brother.
"Yes, and I shall be most happy to gratify you, Eversham," replied the
young father, with a proud smile.
He crossed the room to summon a servant, but as he placed his hand upon
the bell-rope, Mrs. Dinsmore arrested his movement.
"Stay, Horace," she said; "you had better not send for her."
"May I be permitted to ask _why_, madam?" he inquired in a tone of
mingled surprise and annoyance.
"Because she will not sing," answered the lady, coolly.
"Pardon me, madam, but I think she will, if _I bid_ her to do it," he
said with flashing eyes.
"No, she will not," persisted Mrs. Dinsmore, in the same cold, quiet
tone; "she will tell you she is wiser than her father, and that it
would be a sin to obey him in this. Believe me, she will most assuredly
defy your authority; so you had better take my advice and let her
alone--thus sparing yourself the mortification of exhibiting before
your guests your inability to govern your child."
Mr. Dinsmore bit his lip with vexation.
"Thank you," he said, haughtily, "but I prefer convincing you that that
inability lies wholly in your own imagination; and I am quite at a loss
to understand upon what you found your opinion, as Elsie has never yet
made the very slightest resistance to my authority."
He had given the bell-rope a vigorous pull while speaking, and a
servant now appearing in answer to the summons, he sent him with a
message to Elsie, requiring her presence in the drawing-room.
Then turning away from his step-mother, who looked after him with a
gleam of triumph in her eye, he joined the group of gentlemen already
gathered about the piano, where Adelaide had just taken her seat and
begun a brilliant overture.
Yet, outwardly calm and self-satisfied as his demeanor may have been,
Horace Dinsmore was even now regretting the step he had just taken; for
remembering Elsie's conscientious scruples regarding the observance of
the Sabbath--which he had for the moment forgotten--he foresaw that
there would be a struggle, probably a severe one; and though, having
always found her docile and yielding, he felt no doubt of the final
result, he would willingly have avoided the contest, could he have done
so without a sacrifice of pride; but, as he said to himself, with a
slight sigh, he had now gone too far to retreat; and then he had all
along felt that this struggle must come _some_ time, and perhaps it was
as well now as at any other.
Elsie was alone in her own room, spending the Sabbath afternoon in her
usual manner, when the servant came to say that her papa wished to see
her in the drawing-room. The little girl was a good deal alarmed at the
summons, for the thought instantly flashed upon her, "He is going to
bid me play and sing, or do something else which it is not right to do
on the Sabbath day."
But remembering that he never had done so, she hoped he might not now;
yet ere she obeyed the call she knelt down for a moment, and prayed
earnestly for strength to do right, however difficult it might be.
"Come here, daughter," her father said as she entered the room. He
spoke in his usual pleasant, affectionate tone, yet Elsie started,
trembled, and turned pale; for catching sight of the group at the
piano, and her Aunt Adelaide just vacating the music-stool, she at once
perceived what was in store for her.
"Here, Elsie," said her father, selecting a song which she had learned
during their absence, and sang remarkably well, "I wish you to sing
this for my friends; they are anxious to hear it."
"Will not to-morrow do, papa?" she asked in a low, tremulous tone.
Mrs. Dinsmore, who had drawn near to listen, now looked at Horace with
a meaning smile, which he affected not to see.
"Certainly not, Elsie," he said; "we want it now. You know it quite
well enough without any more practice."
"I did not want to wait for _that_ reason, papa," she replied in the
same low, trembling tones, "but you know this is the holy Sabbath day."
"Well, my daughter, and what of that? _I_ consider this song perfectly
proper to be sung to-day, and that ought to satisfy you that you will
not be doing wrong to sing it; remember what I said to you some weeks
ago; and now sit down and sing it at once, without any more ado."
"O papa! I _cannot_ sing it to-day; _please_ let me wait until
to-morrow."
"Elsie," he said in his sternest tones, "sit down to the piano
instantly, and do as I bid you, and let me hear no more of this
nonsense."
She sat down, but raising her pleading eyes, brimful of tears to his
face, she repeated her refusal. "Dear papa, I _cannot_ sing it to-day.
I _cannot_ break the Sabbath."
"Elsie, you _must_ sing it," said he, placing the music before her. "I
have told you that it will not be breaking the Sabbath, and that is
sufficient; you must let me judge for you in these matters."
"Let her wait until to-morrow, Dinsmore; tomorrow will suit us quite as
well," urged several of the gentlemen, while Adelaide good-naturedly
said, "Let me play it, Horace; I have no such scruples, and presume I
can do it nearly as well as Elsie."
"No," he replied, "when I give my child a command, it is to be obeyed;
I have _said_ she should play it, and play it she _must_; she is not to
suppose that she may set up her opinion of right and wrong against
mine."
Elsie sat with her little hands folded in her lap, the tears streaming
from her downcast eyes over her pale cheeks. She was trembling, but
though there was no stubbornness in her countenance, the expression
meek and humble, she made no movement toward obeying her father's order.
There was a moment of silent waiting; then he said in his severest
tone, "Elsie, you shall sit there till you obey me, though it should be
until to-morrow morning."
"Yes, papa," she replied in a scarcely audible voice, and they all
turned away and left her.
"You see now that you had better have taken my advice, Horace,"
remarked Mrs. Dinsmore, in a triumphant aside; "I knew very well how it
would end."
"Excuse me," said he, "but it has _not_ ended; and ere it does, I think
she will learn that she has a stronger will than her own to deal with."
Elsie's position was a most uncomfortable one; her seat high and
uneasy, and seeming to grow more and more so as the weary moments
passed slowly away. No one came near her or seemed to notice her, yet
she could hear them conversing in other parts of the room, and knew
that they were sometimes looking at her, and, timid and bashful as she
was, it seemed hard to bear. Then, too, her little heart was very sad
as she thought of her father's displeasure, and feared that he would
withdraw from her the affection which had been for the last few months
the very sunshine of her life. Besides all this, the excitement of her
feelings, and the close and sultry air--for it was a very warm day--had
brought on a nervous headache. She leaned forward and rested her head
against the instrument, feeling in momentary danger of falling from her
seat.
Thus two long hours had passed when Mr. Travilla came to her side, and
said in a compassionate tone, "I am really very sorry for you, my
little friend; but I advise you to submit to your papa. I see you are
getting very weary sitting there, and I warn you not to hope to conquer
him. I have known him for years, and a more determined person I never
saw. Had you not better sing the song? it will not take five minutes,
and then your trouble will be all over."
Elsie raised her head, and answered gently, "Thank you for your
sympathy, Mr. Travilla, you are very kind; but I could not do it,
because Jesus says, 'He that loveth father or mother more than me, is
not worthy of me;' and I cannot disobey Him, even to please my own dear
papa."
"But, Miss Elsie, why do you think it would be disobeying Him? Is there
any verse in the Bible which says you must not sing songs on Sunday?"
"Mr. Travilla, it says the Sabbath is to be kept holy unto the Lord;
that we are not to think our own thoughts, nor speak our own words, nor
do our own actions; but all the day must be spent in studying God's
word, or worshipping and praising Him; and there is no praise in that
song; not one word about God or heaven."
"That is very true, Elsie, but still it is such a _very little_ thing,
that I cannot think there would be much harm in it, or that God would
be very angry with you for doing it."
"O Mr. Travilla!" she said, looking up at him in great surprise,
"surely you know that there is no such thing as a _little sin_; and
don't you remember about the man who picked up sticks on the Sabbath
day?"
"No; what was it?"
"God commanded that he should be stoned to death, and it was done.
Would you not have thought _that_ a very little thing, Mr. Travilla?"
"Yes, I believe I should," said he, turning away with a very grave face.
"Dinsmore," he said, going up to his friend; "I am sure that child is
conscientious; had you not better give up to her in this instance?"
"_Never_, Travilla," he answered, with stern decision. "This is the
first time she has rebelled against my authority, and if I let her
conquer now, she will think she is always to have her own way. No; cost
what it may, I _must_ subdue her; she will have to learn that my will
is law."
"Right, Horace," said the elder Mr. Dinsmore, approvingly, "let her
understand from the first that you are to be master; it is always the
best plan."
"Excuse me, Dinsmore," said Travilla; "but I must say that I think a
parent has no right to coerce a child into doing violence to its
conscience."
"Nonsense!" replied his friend, a little angrily. "Elsie is entirely
too young to set up her opinion against mine; she must allow me to
judge for her in these matters for some years to come."
Eversham, who had been casting uneasy glances at Elsie all the
afternoon, now drawing his chair near to Adelaide, said to her in an
undertone, "Miss Adelaide, I am deeply sorry for the mischief I have
unwittingly caused, and if you can tell me how to repair it you will
lay me under lasting obligations."
Adelaide shook her head. "There is no moving Horace when he has once
set his foot down," she said; "and as to Elsie, I doubt whether any
power on earth can make her do what she considers wrong."
"Poor little thing!" said Eversham, sighing; "where in the world did
she get such odd notions?"
"Partly from a pious Scotch woman, who had a good deal to do with her
in her infancy, and partly from studying the Bible, I believe. She is
always at it."
"Indeed!" and he relapsed into thoughtful silence.
Another hour passed slowly away, and then the tea-bell rang.
"Elsie," asked her father, coming to her side, "are you ready to obey
me now? if so, we will wait a moment to hear the song, and then you can
go to your tea with us."
"Dear papa, I cannot break the Sabbath," she replied, in a low, gentle
tone, without lifting her head.
"Very well then, I cannot break my word; you must sit there until you
will submit; and until then you must fast. You are not only making
yourself miserable by your disobedience and obstinacy, Elsie, but are
mortifying and grieving _me_ very much," he added in a subdued tone,
that sent a sharp pang to the loving little heart, and caused some very
bitter tears to fall, as he turned away and left her.
The evening passed wearily away to the little girl; the drawing-room
was but dimly lighted, for the company had all deserted it to wander
about the grounds, or sit in the portico enjoying the moonlight and the
pleasant evening breeze, and the air indoors seemed insupportably close
and sultry. At times Elsie could scarcely breathe, and she longed
intensely to get out into the open air; every moment her seat grew more
uncomfortable and the pain in her head more severe: her thoughts began
to wander, she forgot where she was, everything became confused, and at
length she lost all consciousness.
Several gentlemen, among whom were Mr. Horace Dinsmore and Mr.
Travilla, were conversing together on the portico, when they were
suddenly startled by a sound as of something falling.
Travilla, who was nearest the door, rushed into the drawing-room,
followed by the others.
"A light! quick, quick, a light!" he cried, raising Elsie's insensible
form in his arms; "the child has fainted."
One of the others, instantly snatching a lamp from a distant table,
brought it near, and the increased light showed Elsie's little face,
ghastly as that of a corpse, while a stream of blood was flowing from a
wound in the temple, made by striking against some sharp corner of the
furniture as she fell.
She was a pitiable sight indeed, with her fair face, her curls, and her
white dress all dabbled in blood.
"Dinsmore, you're a brute!" exclaimed Travilla indignantly, as he
placed her gently on a sofa.
Horace made no reply, but, with a face almost as pale as her own, bent
over his little daughter in speechless alarm, while one of the guests,
who happened to be a physician, hastily dressed the wound, and then
applied restoratives.
It was some time ere consciousness returned, and the father trembled
with the agonizing fear that the gentle spirit had taken its flight.
But at length the soft eyes unclosed, and gazing with a troubled look
into his face, bent so anxiously over her, she asked, "Dear papa, are
you angry with me?"
"No, darling," he replied in tones made tremulous with emotion, "not at
all."
"What was it?" she asked in a bewildered way; "what did I do? what has
happened?"
"Never mind, daughter," he said, "you have been ill; but you are better
now, so don't think any more about it."
"She had better be put to bed at once," said the physician.
"There is blood on my dress," cried Elsie, in a startled tone; "where
did it come from?"
"You fell and hurt your head," replied her father, raising her gently
in his arms; "but don't talk any more now."
"Oh! I remember," she moaned, an expression of keen distress coming
over her face; "papa--"
"Hush! hush! not a word more; we will let the past go," he said,
kissing her lips. "I shall carry you to your room now, and see you put
to bed."
He held her on his knee, her head resting on his shoulder, while Chloe
prepared her for rest.
"Are you hungry, daughter?" he asked.
"No, papa; I only want to go to sleep."
"There, Aunt Chloe, that will do," he said, as the old nurse tied on
the child's night-cap; and raising her again in his arms, he carried
her to the bed and was about to place her on it.
"Oh papa! my prayers first, you know," she cried eagerly.
"Never mind them to-night," said he, "you are not able."
"Please let me, dear papa," she pleaded; "I cannot go to sleep without."
Yielding to her entreaties, he placed her on her knees, and stood
beside her, listening to her murmured petitions, in which he more than
once heard his own name coupled with a request that he might be made to
love Jesus.
When she had finished, he again raised her in his arms, kissed her
tenderly several times, and then laid her carefully on the bed, saying,
as he did so, "Why did you ask, Elsie, that I might love Jesus?"
"Because, papa, I do so want you to love Him; it would make you so
happy; and besides, you cannot go to heaven without it; the Bible says
so."
"Does it? and what makes you think I don't love Him?"
"Dear papa, please don't be angry," she pleaded, tearfully, "but you
know Jesus says, 'He that keepeth my commandments, he it is that loveth
me.'"
He stooped over her. "Good night, daughter," he said.
"Dear, _dear_ papa," she cried, throwing her arm round his neck, and
drawing down his face close to hers, "I do love you so very, _very_
much!"
"Better than anybody else?" he asked
"No, papa, I love Jesus best; you next."
He kissed her again, and with a half sigh turned away and left the
room. He was not entirely pleased; not quite willing that she should
love even her Saviour better than himself.
Elsie was very weary, and was soon asleep. She waked the next morning
feeling nearly as well as usual, and after she had had her bath and
been dressed by Chloe's careful hands, the curls being arranged to
conceal the plaster that covered the wound on her temple, there was
nothing in her appearance, except a slight paleness, to remind her
friends of the last night's accident.
She was sitting reading her morning chapter when her father came in,
and taking a seat by her side, lifted her to his knee, saying, as he
caressed her tenderly, "My little daughter is looking pretty well this
morning; how does she feel?"
"Quite well, thank you, papa," she replied, looking up into his face
with a sweet, loving smile.
He raised the curls to look at the wounded temple; then, as he dropped
them again, he said, with a shudder, "Elsie, do you know that you were
very near being killed last night?"
"No, papa, was I?" she asked with an awe-struck countenance.
"Yes, the doctor says if that wound had been made half an inch nearer
your eye--I should have been childless."
His voice trembled almost too much for utterance as he finished his
sentence, and he strained her to his heart with a deep sigh of
thankfulness for her escape.
Elsie was very quiet for some moments, and the little face was almost
sad in its deep thoughtfulness.
"What are you thinking of, darling?" he asked.
She raised her eyes to his face and he saw that they were brimful of
tears.
"O papa!" she said, dropping her head on his breast while the bright
drops fell like rain down her cheeks, "would you have been so very
sorry?"
"Sorry, darling! do you not know that you are more precious to me than
all my wealth, all my friends and relatives put together? Yes, I would
rather part with everything else than lose this one little girl," he
said, kissing her again and again.
"Dear, _dear_ papa! how glad I am that you love me so much!" she
replied; and then relapsed into silence.
He watched her changing countenance for some time, then asked, "What is
it, darling?"
"I was just thinking," she said, "whether I was ready to go to heaven,
and I believe I was; for I know that I love Jesus; and then I was
thinking how glad mamma would have been to see me; don't you think she
would, papa?"
"I can't spare you to her yet," he replied with emotion, "and I think
she loves me too well to wish it."
As Miss Day had not yet returned, Elsie's time was still pretty much at
her own disposal, excepting when her papa gave her something to do; so,
after breakfast, finding that he was engaged with some one in the
library, she took her Bible, and seeking out a shady retreat in the
garden, sat down to read.
The Bible was ever the book of books to her, and this morning the
solemn, tender feelings naturally caused by the discovery of her recent
narrow escape from sudden death made it even more than usually touching
and beautiful in her eyes. She had been alone in the arbor for some
time, when, hearing a step at her side, she looked up, showing a face
all wet with tears.
It was Mr. Travilla who stood beside her.
"In tears, little Elsie! Pray, what may the book be that effects you
so?" he asked, sitting down by her side and taking it from her hand.
"The Bible, I declare!" he exclaimed in surprise. "What can there be in
it that you find so affecting?"
"O Mr. Travilla!" said the little girl, "does it not make your heart
ache to read how the Jews abused our dear, dear Saviour? and then to
think that it was all because of our sins," she sobbed.
He looked half distressed, half puzzled; it seemed a new idea to him.
"Really, my little Elsie," he said, "you are quite original in your
ideas, I suppose I _ought_ to feel unhappy about these things, but
indeed the truth is, I have never thought much about them."
"Then you don't love Jesus," she answered, mournfully. "Ah! Mr.
Travilla, how sorry I am."
"Why, Elsie, what difference can it make to you whether I love Him or
not?"
"Because, Mr. Travilla, the Bible says, 'If any man love not the Lord
Jesus Christ, let him be anathema, maranatha,' accursed from God. Oh!
sir, think how dreadful! You cannot be _saved_ unless you love Jesus,
and believe on Him. 'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt
be saved.' That is what God says in his word."
She spoke with deep solemnity, the tears trembling in her eyes. He was
touched, but for a while sat perfectly silent.
Then he said, with an effort to speak lightly. "Ah, well, my little
friend, I certainly intend to repent and believe before I die, but
there is time enough yet."
"Mr. Travilla," she said, laying her hand on his arm and looking
earnestly into his face, "how do you know that there is time enough
yet? _don't_ put it off, I beg of you."
She paused a moment; then asked, "Do you know, Mr. Travilla, how near I
came to being killed last night?"
He nodded.
"Well, suppose I had been killed, and had not loved Jesus; where would
I be now?"
He put his arm round her, and giving her a kiss, said, "I don't think
you would have been in any very bad place, Elsie; a sweet, amiable
little girl, who has never harmed any one, would surely not fare very
badly in another world."
She shook her head very gravely.
"Ah! Mr. Travilla, you forget the anathema, maranatha; if I had not
loved Jesus, and had my sins washed away in His blood, I could not have
been saved."
Just at this moment a servant came to tell Elsie that her papa wanted
her in the drawing-room, and Mr. Travilla, taking her hand, led her
into the house.
They found the company again grouped about the piano, listening to
Adelaide's music.
Elsie went directly to her father and stood by his side, putting her
hand in his with a gesture of confiding affection.
He smiled down at her, and kept fast hold of it until his sister had
risen from the instrument, when putting Elsie in her place, he said,
"Now, my daughter, let us have that song."
"Yes, papa," she replied, beginning the prelude at once, "I will do my
very best."
And so she did. The song was both well played and well sung, and her
father looked proud and happy as the gentlemen expressed their pleasure
and asked for another and another.
Thus the clouds which had so suddenly obscured little Elsie's sky,
seemed to have vanished as speedily as they had arisen.
Her father again treated her with all his wonted affection, and there
even seemed to be a depth of tenderness in his love which it had not
known before, for he could not forget how nearly he had lost her.