CHAPTER VIII.
"No future hour can rend my heart like this,Save that which breaks it."
MATURIN'S BERTRAM.
"Unless thy law had been my delight, I should then have perished inmine affliction."
PSALM 119: 92.
Elsie was sitting alone in her room when there came a light tap on thedoor, immediately followed, much to the little girl's surprise, by theentrance of her Aunt Adelaide, who shut and locked the door behind her,saying, "I am glad you are quite alone; though, indeed, I suppose that isalmost always the case now-a-days. I see," she continued, seating herselfby the side of the astonished child, "that you are wondering what hasbrought me to visit you, to whom I have not spoken for so many weeks; butI will tell you. I come from a sincere desire to do you a kindness,Elsie; for, though I don't know how to understand nor excuse yourobstinacy, and heartily approve of your father's determination to conqueryou, I must say that I think he is unnecessarily harsh and severe in someof his measures--"
"Please don't, Aunt Adelaide," Elsie interrupted, in a pleading voice,"please don't speak so of papa to me; for you know I ought not to hearit."
"Pooh! nonsense!" said Adelaide, "it is very naughty in you to interruptme; but, as I was about to remark, I don't see any use in your beingforbidden to correspond with Miss Allison, because her letters could notpossibly do you any harm, but rather the contrary, for she is goodnessitself--and so I have brought you a letter from her which has just comeenclosed in one to me."
She took it from her pocket as she spoke, and handed it to Elsie.
The little girl looked longingly at it, but made no movement to take it.
"Thank you, Aunt Adelaide, you are very kind indeed," she said, withtears in her eyes, "and I should dearly love to read it; but I cannottouch it without papa's permission."
"Why, you silly child! he will never know anything about it," exclaimedher aunt quickly. "_I_ shall never breathe a word to him, nor to anybodyelse, and, of course, you will not tell on yourself; and if you areafraid the letter might by some mischance fall into his hands, justdestroy it as soon as you have read it."
"Dear Aunt Adelaide, please take it away and don't tempt me any more, forI want it so very much I am afraid I shall take it if you do, and thatwould be so very wrong," said Elsie, turning away her head.
"I presume you are afraid to trust me; you needn't be, though," repliedAdelaide, in a half offended tone. "Horace will never learn it from me,and there is no possible danger of his ever finding it out in any otherway, for I shall write to Rose at once, warning her not to send you anymore letters at present."
"I am not at all afraid to trust you, Aunt Adelaide, nor do I think thereis any danger of papa's finding it out," Elsie answered earnestly; "but Ishould know it myself, and God would know it, too, and you know he hascommanded me to obey my father in everything that is not wrong; and I_must_ obey him, no matter how hard it is."
"Well, you are a strange child," said Adelaide, as she returned theletter to her pocket and rose to leave the room; "such a compound ofobedience and disobedience I don't pretend to understand."
Elsie was beginning to explain, but Adelaide stopped her, saying she hadno time to listen, and hastily quitted the room.
Elsie brushed away a tear and took up her book again--for she had beenengaged in preparing a lesson for the next day, when interrupted by thisunexpected visit from her aunt.
Adelaide went directly to her brother's door, and receiving an invitationto enter in answer to her knock, was the next instant standing by hisside, with Miss Allison's letter in her hand.
"I've come, Horace," she said in a lively tone, "to seek from you areward of virtue in a certain little friend of mine; and because youalone can bestow it, I come to you on her behalf, even at the expenseof having to confess a sin of my own."
"Well, take a seat, won't you?" he said good-humoredly, laying down hisbook and handing her a chair, "and then speak out at once, and tell mewhat you mean by all this nonsense."
"First for my own confession then," she answered laughingly, acceptingthe offered seat. "I received a letter this morning from my friend, RoseAllison, enclosing one to your little Elsie."
He began to listen with close attention, while a slight frown gathered onhis brow.
"Now, Horace," his sister went on, "though I approve in the main of yourmanagement of that child--which, by the way, I presume, is not of theleast consequence to you--yet I must say I have thought it right hard youshould deprive her of Rose's letters. So I carried this one, and offeredit to her, assuring her that you should never know anything about it;but what do you think?--the little goose actually refused to touch itwithout papa's permission. She _must_ obey him, she said, no matter howhard it was, whenever he did not bid her do anything wrong. And now,Horace," she concluded, "I want you to give me the pleasure of carryingthis letter to her, with your permission to read it. I'm sure shedeserves it."
"Perhaps so; but I am sure _you_ don't, Adelaide, after tampering withthe child's conscience in that manner. You may send her to me, though, ifyou will," he said, holding out his hand for the letter. "But are youquite sure that she really wanted to see it, and felt assured that shemight do so without my knowledge?"
"Perfectly certain of it," replied his sister confidently.
They chatted for a few moments longer; Adelaide praising Elsie, andpersuading him to treat her with more indulgence; and he, much pleasedwith this proof of her dutifulness, half promising to do so; and thenAdelaide went back to her room, despatching a servant on her way to tellElsie that her papa desired to see her immediately.
Elsie received the message with profound alarm; for not dreaming of thetrue cause, her fears at once suggested that he probably intended puttinghis late threat into execution. She spent one moment in earnest prayerfor strength to bear her trial, and then hastened, pale and trembling, tohis presence.
How great, then, was her surprise to see him, as she entered, hold outhis hand with a smile, saying, in the kindest tone, "Come here to me, mydaughter!"
She obeyed, gazing wonderingly into his face.
He drew her to him; lifted her to his knee; folded her in his arms,and kissed her tenderly. He had not bestowed such a loving caress uponher--nor indeed ever kissed her at all, excepting on the evening afterChloe's departure--since that unhappy scene in his sick-room; and Elsie,scarcely able to believe she was awake, and not dreaming, hid her face onhis breast, and wept for joy.
"Your aunt has been here telling me what passed between you thisafternoon," said he, repeating his caress, "and I am much pleased withthis proof of your obedience; and as a reward I will give you permission,not only to read the letter she offered you, but also the one I retained.And I will allow you to write to Miss Allison once, in answer to them,the letter passing through my hands. I have also promised, at your aunt'ssolicitation, to remove some of the restrictions I have placed upon you,and I now give you the same liberty to go about the house and groundswhich you formerly enjoyed. Your books and toys shall also be returned toyou, and you may take your meals with the family whenever you choose."
"Thank you, papa, you are very kind," replied the little girl; but herheart sank, for she understood from his words that she was not restoredto favor as she had for a moment fondly imagined.
Neither spoke again for some moments. Each felt that this delightfulreunion--for it was delightful to both--this enjoyment of the interchangeof mutual affection, could not last.
Silent caresses, mingled with sobs and tears on Elsie's part, passedbetween them; and at length Mr. Dinsmore said, "Elsie, my daughter, Ihope you are now ready to make the confession and promises I require?"
"Oh, papa! dear papa!" she said, looking up into his face with the tearsstreaming down her own, "have I not been punished enough for that? andcan you not just punish me whenever I disobey you, without requiring anypromise?"
"Stubborn yet, Elsie," he answered with a frown. "No; as I have told youbefore, my word is as the law of the Medes and Pe
rsians, which alterednot. I have required the confession and promise, and _you must makethem_."
He set her down, but she lingered a moment. "Once more, Elsie, I askyou," he said, "will you obey?"
She shook her head; she could not speak.
"Then go," said her father. "I have given you the last caress I evershall, until you submit."
He put the letters into her hand as he spoke, and motioned her to begone; and Elsie fled away to her own room, to throw herself upon the bed,and weep and groan in intense mental anguish.
She cared not for the letters now; they lay neglected on the floor, wherethey had fallen unheeded from her hand. The gloom on her pathway seemedall the darker for that bright but momentary gleam of sunshine. So darkwas the cloud that overshadowed her that for the time she seemed to havelost all hope, and to be able to think of nothing but the apparentimpossibility of ever regaining her place in her father's heart. Hislast words rang in her ears.
"Oh! papa, papa! my own papa!" she sobbed, "will you never love me again?never kiss me, or call me pet names? Oh, _how can_ I bear it! how canI ever live without your love?"
Her nerves, already weakened by months of mental suffering, could hardlybear the strain; and when Fanny came into the room, an hour or two later,she was quite frightened to find her young charge lying on the bed,holding her head with both hands and groaning, and speechless with pain.
"What's de matter darlin'?" she asked; but Elsie only answered with amoan; and Fanny, in great alarm, hastened to Mr. Dinsmore's room, andstartled him with the exclamation: "Oh, Massa Horace, make haste for cometo de chile! she gwine die for sartain, if you don't do sumfin mightyquick!"
"Why, what ails her, Fanny?" he asked, following the servant with allspeed.
"Dunno, Massa; but I'se sure she's berry ill," was Fanny's reply, as sheopened the door of Elsie's room, and stepped back to allow her master topass in first.
One glance at Elsie's face was enough to convince him that there was someground for her attendant's alarm. It was ghastly with its deadly pallorand the dark circles round the eyes, and wore an expression of intensepain.
He proceeded at once to apply remedies, and remained beside her untilthey had so far taken effect that she was able to speak, and looked quitelike herself again.
"Elsie!" he said in a grave, firm tone, as he placed her more comfortablyon her pillow, "this attack has been brought on by violent crying; youmust not indulge yourself in that way again."
"I could not help it, papa," she replied, lifting her pleading eyes tohis face.
"You _must_ help it in future, Elsie," he said sternly.
Tears sprang to her eyes, but she struggled to keep them back.
He turned to leave her, but she caught his hand, and looked sobeseechingly in his face, that he stopped and asked in a softenedtone, "What is it, my daughter?"
"Oh, papa!" she murmured in low, tremulous accents, "love me a little."
"I do love you, Elsie," he replied gravely, and almost sadly, as he bentover her and laid his hand upon her forehead. "I love you only too well,else I should have sent my stubborn little daughter away from me long erethis."
"Then, papa, kiss me; just _once_, dear papa!" she pleaded, raising hertearful eyes to his face.
"No, Elsie, not _once_ until you are entirely submissive. This stateof things is as painful to me as it into you, my daughter; but I cannotyield my authority, and I hope you will soon see that it is best foryou to give up your self-will."
So saying, he turned away and left her alone; alone with that wearyhome-sickness of the heart, and the tears dropping silently down uponher pillow.
Horace Dinsmore went back to his own room, where he spent the next halfhour in pacing rapidly to and fro, with folded arms and contracted brow.
"Strange!" he muttered, "that she is _so hard_ to conquer. I neverimagined that she could be so stubborn. One thing is certain," he added,heaving a deep sigh; "we must separate for a time, or I shall be indanger of yielding; for it is no easy matter to resist her tearfulpleadings, backed as they are by the yearning affection of my own heart.How I love the perverse little thing! Truly she has wound herself aroundmy very heart-strings. But I _must_ get these absurd notions out of herhead, or I shall never have any comfort with her; and if I yield _now_,I may as well just give that up entirely; besides, I have _said_ it; and_I will_ have her to understand that my word is law."
And with another heavy sigh he threw himself upon the sofa, where he layin deep thought for some moments; then, suddenly springing up, he rangthe bell for his servant.
"John," he said, as the man appeared in answer to his summons, "I shallleave for the North to-morrow morning. See that my trunk is packed, andeverything in readiness. You are to go with me, of course."
"Yes, Massa, I'll 'tend to it," replied John, bowing, and retiring with agrin of satisfaction on his face. "Berry glad," he chuckled to himself,as he hurried away to tell the news in the kitchen, "_berry_ glad datyoung Massa's got tired ob dis dull ole place at last. Wonder if littleMiss Elsie gwine along."
Elsie rose the next morning feeling very weak, and looking pale and sad:and not caring to avail herself of her father's permission to join thefamily, she took her breakfast in her own room, as usual. She was on herway to the school-room soon afterwards, when, seeing her papa's mancarrying out his trunk, she stopped and inquired in a tone of alarm--
"Why, John! is papa going away?"
"Yes, Miss Elsie; but ain't you gwine along? I s'posed you was."
"No, John," she answered faintly, leaning against the wall for support;"but where is papa going?"
"Up North, Miss Elsie; dunno no more 'bout it; better ask Massa Horacehisself," replied the servant, looking compassionately at her pale face,and eyes brimful of tears.
Mr. Dinsmore himself appeared at this moment, and Elsie, starting forwardwith clasped hands, and the tears running down her cheeks, lookedpiteously up into his face, exclaiming, "Oh, papa, dear are you goingaway, and without me?"
Without replying, he took her by the hand, and turning back into hisroom again, shut the door, sat down, and lifted her to his knee. Hisface was very pale and sad, too, but withal wore an expression of firmdetermination.
Elsie laid her head on his shoulder, and sobbed out her tears andentreaties that he would not leave her.
"It depends entirely upon yourself, Elsie," he said presently. "I gaveyou warning some time since that I would not keep a rebellious child inmy sight; and while you continue such, either you or I must be banishedfrom home, and I prefer to exile myself rather than you; but a submissivechild I will not leave. It is not yet too late; you have only to yieldto my requirements, and I will stay at home, or delay my journey for afew days, and take you with me. But if you prefer separation from me togiving up your own self-will, you have no one to blame but yourself."
He waited a moment, then said: "Once more I ask you, Elsie, will you obeyme?"
"Oh, papa, always, if--"
"Hush!" he said sternly; "you _know_ that will not do;" and setting herdown, he rose to go.
But she clung to him with desperate energy. "Oh, papa," she sobbed, "whenwill you come back?"
"That depends upon _you_, Elsie," he said. "Whenever my little daughterwrites to me the words I have so vainly endeavored to induce her tospeak, that _very day_, if possible, I will start for home."
He laid his hand on the handle of the door as he spoke.
But clinging to him, and looking up beseechingly into his face, shepleaded, in piteous tones, amid her bitter sobs and tears, "Papa, dear,_dear_ papa, kiss me once before you go; just _once_, papa; perhaps youmay never come back--perhaps I may die. Oh, papa, papa! will you go awaywithout kissing me?--me, your own little daughter, that you used to loveso dearly? Oh, papa, my heart will break!"
His own eyes filled with tears, and he stooped as if to give her thecoveted caress, but hastily drawing back again, said with much of hisaccustomed sternness--
"No, Elsie, I cannot break my word; and i
f you are determined to breakyour own heart and mine by your stubbornness, on your own head be theconsequences,"
And putting her forcibly aside, he opened the door and went out, while,with a cry of despair, she sank half-fainting upon the floor.
She was roused ere long by the sound of a carriage driving up to thedoor, and the thought flashed upon her, "He is not gone yet, and I maysee him once more;" and springing to her feet, she ran downstairs, tofind the rest of the family in the hall, taking leave of her father.
He was just stooping to give Enna a farewell kiss, as his little daughtercame up. He did not seem to notice her, but was turning away, when Ennasaid, "Here is Elsie; aren't you going to kiss _her_ before you go?"
He turned round again, to see those soft, hazel eyes, with theirmournful, pleading gaze, fixed upon his face. He never forgot thatlook; it haunted him all his life.
He stood for an instant looking down upon her, while that mute, appealingglance still met his, and she ventured to take his hand in both of hersand press it to her lips.
But he turned resolutely away, saying, in his calm, cold tone, "No! Elsieis a stubborn, disobedient child. I have no caress for her."
A moan of heart-breaking anguish burst from Elsie's pale and tremblinglips; and covering her face with her hands, she sank down upon thedoor-step, vainly struggling to suppress the bitter, choking sobs thatshook her whole frame.
But her father was already in the carriage, and hearing it begin to move,she hastily dashed away her tears, and strained her eyes to catch thelast glimpse of it, as it whirled away down the avenue.
It was quite gone; and she rose up and sadly re-entered the house.
"I don't pity her at all," she heard her grandfather say, "for it is allher own fault, and serves her just right."
But so utterly crushed and heart-broken was she already, that the cruelwords fell quite unheeded upon her ear.
She went directly to her father's deserted room, and shutting herself in,tottered to the bed, and laying her face on the pillow where his head hadrested a few hours before, clasped her arms around it, and wetted it withher tears, moaning sadly to herself the while, "Oh, _papa_, my own dear,darling papa! I shall never, _never_ see you again! Oh, how can I livewithout you? who is there to love me now? Oh, papa, papa, will you never,never come back to me? Papa, papa, my heart is breaking! I shall die."
From that time the little Elsie drooped and pined, growing paler andthinner day by day--her step more languid, and her eye more dim--till noone could have recognized in her the bright, rosy, joyous child, full ofhealth and happiness, that she had been six months before. She went aboutthe house like a shadow, scarcely ever speaking or being spoken to. Shemade no complaint, and seldom shed tears now; but seemed to have lost herinterest in everything and to be sinking into a kind of apathy.
"I wish," said Mrs. Dinsmore one day, as Elsie passed out into thegarden, "that Horace had sent that child to boarding-school, and stayedat home himself. Your father says he needs him, and as to her--she hasgrown so melancholy of late, it is enough to give one the vapors just tolook at her."
"I am beginning to feel troubled about her," replied Adelaide, to whomthe remark had been addressed; "she seems to be losing flesh, andstrength, too, so fast. The other day I went into her room, and foundFanny crying heartily over a dress of Elsie's which she was altering.'Oh! Miss Adelaide,' she sobbed, 'the chile gwine die for sartain!' 'Whyno, Fanny,' I said, 'what makes you think so? she is not sick.' But sheshook her head, saying, 'Just look a here, Miss Adelaide,' showing me howmuch she was obliged to take the dress in to make it fit, and then shetold me Elsie had grown so weak that the least exertion overcame her. Ithink I must write to Horace."
"Oh, nonsense, Adelaide!" said her mother, "I wouldn't trouble himabout it. Children are very apt to grow thin and languid during the hotweather, and I suppose fretting after him makes it affect her rather morethan usual; and just now in the holidays she has nothing else to occupyher thoughts. She will do well enough."
So Adelaide's fears were relieved, and she delayed writing, thinking thather mother surely knew best.
Mrs. Travilla sat in her cool, shady parlor, quietly knitting. She wasalone, but the glance she occasionally sent from the window seemed to saythat she was expecting some one.
"Edward is unusually late to-day," she murmured half aloud. "But there heis at last," she added, as her son appeared, riding slowly up the avenue.He dismounted and entered the house, and in another moment had thrownhimself down upon the sofa, by her side. She looked at him uneasily; forwith the quick ear of affection she had noticed that his step lacked itsaccustomed elasticity, and his voice its cheerful, hearty tones. Hisorders to the servant who came to take his horse had been given in alower and more subdued key than usual, and his greeting to herself,though perfectly kind and respectful, was grave and absent in manner; andnow his thoughts seemed far away, and the expression of his countenancewas sad and troubled.
"What ails you, Edward--is anything wrong, my son?" she asked, laying herhand on his shoulder, and looking into his face with her loving, motherlyeyes.
"Nothing with _me_ mother," he answered affectionately; "but," he added,with a deep-drawn sigh, "I am sorely troubled about my little friend. Icalled at Roselands this afternoon, and learned that Horace Dinsmore hasgone North--to be absent nobody knows how long--leaving her at home. Hehas been gone nearly a week, and the child is--heart-broken."
"Poor darling! is she really so much distressed about it, Edward?" hismother asked, taking off her spectacles to wipe them, for they hadsuddenly grown dim. "You saw her, I suppose?"
"Yes, for a moment," he said, struggling to control his feelings."Mother, you would hardly know her for the child she was six months ago!she is so changed, so thin and pale--but that is not the worst; she seemsto have lost all her life and animation. I felt as though it would be arelief even to see her cry. When I spoke to her she smiled, it is true;but ah! such a sad, hopeless, dreary sort of smile--it was far moretouching than tears, and then she turned away, as if she had scarcelyheard or understood what I said. Mother, you must go to her; she needsjust the sort of comfort you understand so well how to give, but which Iknow nothing about. You will go, mother, will you not?"
"Gladly, Edward! I would go this moment, if I thought I would bepermitted to see her, and could do her any good."
"I hardly think," said her son, "that even Mrs. Dinsmore would refuse youthe privilege of a private interview with the child should you requestit, mother; but, no doubt, it would be much pleasanter for all parties ifwe could go when Elsie is at home alone; and fortunately such will be thecase to-morrow, for, as I accidentally learned, the whole family, withthe exception of Elsie and the servants, are expecting to spend the dayabroad. So if it suits you, mother, we will drive over in the morning."
Mrs. Travilla expressed her readiness to do so; and about the middle ofthe forenoon of the next day their carriage might have been seen turninginto the avenue at Roselands.
Pomp came out to receive the visitors. "Berry sorry, Massa and Missus,"he said, making his best bow to them as they alighted from the carriage,"dat de family am all from home with the single 'ception of little MissElsie. But if you will be pleased to walk into the drawin'-room, an' restyourselves, I will call for suitable refreshments, and Fanny shall beinstantly despatched to bring de young lady down."
"No, thank you, Pomp," replied Mr. Travilla pleasantly, "we are not atall in want of refreshments, and my mother would prefer seeing Miss Elsiein her own room. I will step into the drawing-room, mother, until youcome down again," he added in an undertone to her.
Pomp was about to lead the way, but Mrs. Travilla gently put him aside,saying that she would prefer to go alone, and had no need of a guide.
She found the door of Elsie's room standing wide to admit the air--forthe weather was now growing very warm indeed--and looking in, sheperceived the little girl half reclining upon a sofa, her head resting onthe arm, her hands clasped in her lap, and her sad,
dreamy eyes, tearlessand dry, gazing mournfully into vacancy, as though her thoughts were faraway, following the wanderings of her absent father. She seemed to havebeen reading, or trying to read, but the book had fallen from her hand,and lay unheeded on the floor.
Mrs. Travilla, stood for several minutes gazing with tearful eyes at themelancholy little figure, marking with an aching heart the ravages thatsorrow had already made in the wan child face; then stealing softly in,sat down by her side, and took the little forlorn one into her kindmotherly embrace, laying the weary little head down on her breast.
Elsie did not speak, but merely raised her eyes for an instant to Mrs.Travilla's face, with the dreary smile her son had spoken of, and thendropped them again with a sigh that was half a sob.
Mrs. Travilla pressed her quivering lips on the child's forehead, and ascalding tear fell on her cheek.
Elsie started, and again raising her mournful eyes, said, in a huskywhisper, "Don't, dear Mrs. Travilla _don't_ cry. I never _cry_ now."
"And why not, darling? Tears are often a blessed relief to an achingheart, and I think it would do you good; these dry eyes need it."
"No--no--I _cannot_; they are all dried up--and it is well, for theyalways displeased my papa,"
There was a dreary hopelessness in her tone, and in the mournful shake ofher head, that was very touching.
Mrs. Travilla sighed, and pressed the little form closer to her heart.
"Elsie, dear," she said, "you must not give way to despair. Your troubleshave not come by chance; you know, darling, who has sent them; andremember, it is those whom the Lord _loveth_ he chasteneth, and he willnot _always_ chide, neither will he keep his anger forever."
"Is he angry with me?" she asked fearfully.
"No, dearest, it is all sent in _love_; we cannot see the reason now,but one day we shall--when we get home to our Father's house, for theneverything will be made plain; it may be, Elsie dear, that you, by yoursteady adherence to the right, are to be made the honored instrument inbringing your father to a saving knowledge of Christ. You would bewilling to suffer a great deal for that, dear child, would you not?even all you are suffering now?"
"Ah, yes, indeed!" she said earnestly, clasping her hands together; "butI am afraid it is _not that_! I am afraid it is because I loved my papa_too_ well, my dear, _dear_ papa--and God is angry with me--and now Ishall never, never see him again,"
She groaned aloud, and covered her face with her hands; and now the tearsfell like rain, and her whole frame shook with convulsive sobs.
Mrs. Travilla hailed this outburst of grief with deep thankfulness,knowing that it was far better for her than that unnatural apathy, andthat when the first violence of the storm had subsided, the aching heartwould find itself relieved of half its load.
She gently soothed the little weeper until she began to grow calm again,and the sobs were almost hushed, and the tears fell softly and quietly.
Then she said, in low, tender tones, "Yes, my darling, you will see himagain; I feel quite sure of it. God is the hearer of prayer, and he willhear yours for your dear father."
"And will he send my papa hack to me I oh, will he come _soon_? do youthink he will, dear Mrs. Travilla?" she asked eagerly.
"I don't know, darling; I cannot tell _that_; but one thing we do know,that it is _all_ in God's hands, and he will do just what is best bothfor you and your father. He may see fit to restore you to each other in afew weeks or months, and I hope and trust he will; but however _that_ maybe, darling, remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he said, 'YourFather knoweth that ye have _need_ of _all_ these things.' He will notsend you any unnecessary trial, nor allow you to suffer one pang that youdo not need. It may be that he saw you were loving your earthly fathertoo well, and has removed him from you for a time, that thus he may drawyou nearer to himself; but never doubt for one moment, dear one, that itis all done in _love_. 'As many as I _love_, I rebuke and chasten.' Theyare the dear Saviour's own words."
When Mrs. Travilla at length rose to go, Elsie clung to her tearfully,entreating that she would stay a little longer.
"I will, dear child, since you wish it so much," said the lady, resumingher seat, "and I will come again very soon, if you think there will be noobjection. But, Elsie, dear, can you not come to Ion, and spend the restof your holidays with us? Both Edward and I would be delighted to haveyou, and I think we could make you happier than you are here."
"I cannot tell you how very much I should like it, dear Mrs. Travilla,but it is quite impossible," Elsie answered, with a sorrowful shake ofthe head. "I am not allowed to pay or receive visits any more; papaforbade it some time ago."
"Ah, indeed! I am very sorry, dear, for I fear that cuts me off fromvisiting you," said Mrs. Travilla, looking much disappointed. "However,"she added more cheerfully, "I will get my son to write to your papa, andperhaps he may give you permission to visit us."
"No, ma'am, I cannot hope that he will," replied Elsie sadly; "papa neverbreaks his word or changes his mind."
"Ah! well, dear child," said her friend tenderly, "there is one preciousblessing of which no one can deprive you--the presence and love of yourSaviour; and if you have that, no one can make you wholly miserable. Andnow, dear child, I must go," she added, again clasping the little girl toher heart, and kissing her many times. "God bless and keep you, darling,till we meet again, and we will hope that time will come ere long."
Mr. Travilla was waiting to hand his mother into the carriage.
Neither of them spoke until they had fairly left Roselands behind them,but then he turned to her with an anxious, inquiring look, to which shereplied:
"Yes, I found her in just the state you described, poor darling! but Ithink I left her a little happier; or rather, I should say, a little lesswretched than I found her. Edward, Horace Dinsmore does not know what heis doing; that child's heart is breaking."
He gave an assenting nod, and turned away to hide his emotion.
"Can you not write to him, Edward, and describe the state she is in, andbeg him, if he will not come home, at least to permit us to take her toIon for a few weeks?" she asked, laying her hand on his arm.
"I will do so, mother, if you think it best," Mr. Travilla replied;"but I think I know Horace Dinsmore better than you do, and that such aproceeding would do more harm than good. He is very jealous of anythingthat looks like interference, especially between him and his child, andI fear it would only irritate him, and make him, if possible, still moredetermined. Were I asked to describe his character in a few words, Ishould say he is a man of indomitable will."
"Well, my son, perhaps you are right," said his mother, heaving a deepsigh; "and if so, I can see nothing more we can do but pray for thelittle girl."
Mrs. Travilla was right in thinking that her visit had done Elsie good;it had roused her out of the torpor of grief into which she had sunk; ithad raised her from the depths of despair, and shown her the beacon lightof hope still shining in the distance.
This last blow had come with such crushing weight that there had seemedto be no room left in her heart for a thought of comfort; but now herkind friend had reminded her of the precious promises, and the tenderlove that were still hers; love far exceeding that of any earthlyparent--love that was able even to bring light out of all this thickdarkness; love which was guiding and controlling all the events of herlife, and would never allow her to suffer one unnecessary pang, butwould remove the trial as soon as its needed work was done; and she wasnow no longer altogether comfortless.
When Mrs. Travilla had left, she took up her Bible--that precious littlevolume, her never-failing comforter--and in turning over its leaves hereye fell upon these words: "Unto you it is given in the behalf of Christ,not only to believe on him, but also to suffer for his sake."
They sent a thrill of joy to her heart; for was not _she_ suffering for_his_ sake? was it not because she loved him too well to disobey hiscommands, even to please her dearly beloved earthly father, that shewas thus deprived of one pri
vilege, and one comfort after another, andsubjected to trials that wrung her very heart?
Yes, it was because she loved Jesus. She was bearing suffering for hisdear sake, and here she was taught that even to be permitted to _suffer_for him, was a privilege. And she remembered, too, that in another placeit is written: "If we _suffer_, we shall also reign with him."
Ah! those are tears of joy and thankfulness that are falling now. She hasgrown calm and peaceful, even happy, for the time, in the midst of allher sorrow.
CHAPTER IX.
"Heaven oft in mercy smites, e'en when the blowSeverest is."
JOANNA BAILLIE'S ORRA.
"The heart knoweth his own bitterness."
PROV. 14:10.
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