Books: Elsie Dinsmore
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Martha Finley >> Elsie Dinsmore
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"Ole Chloe'll try, darlin," she said, taking it in her hands.
"Oh! wait one moment," exclaimed Elsie, and taking a card, she
wrote on it, "A present to Arthur, from his niece Elsie." Then
laying it on the deck of the little vessel. "There, mammy," she
said, "I think that will do; but please look out first to see
whether any one is in the hall."
"Coast all clear, darlin'," replied Chloe, after a careful survey;
"all de chillens am in bed before dis time, I spec." And taking a
candle in one hand and the little ship in the other, she started
for the school-room. She soon returned with a broad grin of
satisfaction on her black face, saying, "All right, darlin', I put
him on Massa Arthur's desk, an' nobody de wiser."
So Elsie went to bed very happy in the thought of the pleasure
Arthur would have in receiving her present.
She was hurrying down to the breakfast-room the next morning, a
little in advance of Miss Rose, who had stopped to speak to
Adelaide, when Arthur came running up behind her, having just come
in by a side door from the garden, and seizing her round the
waist, he said, "Thank you, Elsie; you're a real good girl! She
sails beautifully. I've been trying her on the pond. But it
mustn't be a _present;_ you must let me pay you back when I
get my allowance."
"Oh! no, Arthur, that would spoil it all," she answered quickly;
"you are entirely welcome, and you know my allowance is so large
that half the time I have more money than I know how to spend."
"I should like to see the time that would be the case with me,"
said he, laughing. Then in a lower tone, "Elsie, I'm sorry I
teased you so. I'll not do it again soon."
Elsie answered him with a grateful look, as she stepped past him
and quietly took her place at the table.
Arthur kept his word, and for many weeks entirely refrained from
teasing Elsie, and while freed from that annoyance she was always
able to have her tasks thoroughly prepared; and though her
governess was often unreasonable and exacting, and there was
scarcely a day in which she was not called upon to yield her own
wishes or pleasures, or in some way to inconvenience herself to
please Walter or Enna, or occasionally the older members of the
family, yet it was an unusually happy winter to her, for Rose
Allison's love and uniform kindness shed sunshine on her path. She
had learned to yield readily to others, and when fretted or
saddened by unjust or unkind treatment, a few moments alone with
her precious Bible and her loved Saviour made all right again, and
she would come from those sweet communings looking as serenely
happy as if she had never known an annoyance. She was a wonder to
all the family. Her grandfather would sometimes look at her as,
without a frown or a pout, she would give up her own wishes to
Enna, and shaking his head, say, "She's no Dinsmore, or she would
know how to stand up for her own rights better than that. _I_
don't like such tame-spirited people. She's not Horace's child; it
never was an easy matter to impose upon or conquer him. He was a
boy of spirit."
"What a strange child Elsie is?" Adelaide remarked to her friend
one day. "I am often surprised to see how sweetly she gives up to
all of us; really she has a lovely temper. I quite envy her; it
was always hard for me to give up my own way."
"I do not believe it was easy for her at first," said Rose. "I
think her sweet disposition is the fruit of a work of grace in her
heart. It is the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which God
alone can bestow."
"I wish I had it, then," said Adelaide, sighing.
"You have only to go to the right source to obtain it, dear
Adelaide," replied her friend, gently.
"And yet," said Adelaide, "I must say I sometimes think that, as
papa says, there is something mean-spirited and cowardly in always
giving up to other people."
"It would indeed be cowardly and wrong to give up
_principle_," replied Rose, "but surely it is noble and
generous to give up our own wishes to another, where no principle
is involved."
"Certainly, you are right," said Adelaide, musingly. "And now I
recollect that, readily as Elsie gives up her own wishes to others
on ordinary occasions, I have never known her to sacrifice
principle; but, on the contrary, she has several times made mamma
excessively angry by refusing to romp and play with Enna on the
Sabbath, or to deceive papa when questioned with regard to some of
Arthur's misdeeds; yet she has often borne the blame of his
faults, when she might have escaped by telling of him. Elsie is
certainly very different from any of the rest of us, and if it is
piety that makes her what she is, I think piety is a very lovely
thing."
Elsie's mornings were spent in the school-room; in the afternoon
she walked, or rode out, sometimes in company with her young
uncles and aunts, and sometimes alone, a negro boy following at a
respectful distance, as a protector. In the evening there was
almost always company in the parlor, and she found it pleasanter
to sit beside the bright wood-fire in her own room, with her fond
old nurse for a companion, than to stay there, or with the younger
ones in the sitting-room or nursery. If she had no lesson to
learn, she usually read aloud to Chloe, as she sat knitting by the
fire, and the Bible was the book generally preferred by both; and
then when she grew weary of reading, she would often take a stool,
and sitting down close to Chloe, put her head in her lap, saying,
"Now, mammy, tell me about mamma."
And then for the hundredth time or more the old woman would go
over the story of the life and death of her "dear young missus,"
as she always called her; telling of her beauty, her goodness, and
of her sorrows and sufferings during the last year of her short
life.
It was a story which never lost its charm for Elsie; a story which
the one never wearied of telling, nor the other of hearing. Elsie
would sit listening, with her mother's miniature in her hand,
gazing at it with tearful eyes, then press it to her lips,
murmuring, "My own mamma; poor, dear mamma." And when Chloe had
finished that story she would usually say, "Now, mammy, tell me
all about papa."
But upon this subject Chloe had very little information to give.
She knew him only as a gay, handsome young stranger, whom she had
seen occasionally during a few months, and who had stolen all the
sunshine from her beloved young mistress' life, and left her to
die alone; yet she did not blame him when speaking to his child,
for the young wife had told her that he had not forsaken her of
his own free choice; and though she could not quite banish from
her own mind the idea that he had not been altogether innocent in
the matter, she breathed no hint of it to Elsie; for Chloe was a
sensible woman, and knew that to lead the little one to think ill
of her only remaining parent would but tend to make her unhappy.
Sometimes Elsie would ask very earnestly, "Do you thing papa loves
Jesus, mammy?" And Chloe would reply with a doubtful shake of the
head, "Dunno, darlin'; but ole Chloe prays for him ebery day."
"And so do I," Elsie would answer; "dear, dear papa, how I wish he
would come home!"
And so the winter glided away, and spring came, and Miss Allison
must soon return home. It was now the last day of March, and her
departure had been fixed for the second of April. For a number of
weeks Elsie had been engaged, during all her spare moments, in
knitting a purse for Rose, wishing to give her something which was
the work of her own hands, knowing that as such it would be more
prized by her friend than a costlier gift. She had just returned
from her afternoon ride, and taking out her work she sat down to
finish it. She was in her own room, with no companion but Chloe,
who sat beside her knitting as usual.
Elsie worked on silently for some time, then suddenly holding up
her purse, she exclaimed, "See, mammy, it is all done but putting
on the tassel! Isn't it pretty? and won't dear Miss Allison be
pleased with it?"
It really was very pretty indeed, of crimson and gold, and
beautifully knit, and Chloe, looking at it with admiring eyes,
said, "I spec she will, darlin'. I tink it's berry handsome."
At this moment Enna opened the door and came in.
Elsie hastily attempted to conceal the purse by thrusting it into
her pocket, but it was too late, for Enna had seen it, and running
toward her, cried out, "Now, Elsie, just give that to me!"
"No, Enna," replied Elsie, mildly, "I cannot let you have it,
because it is for Miss Rose."
"I will have it," exclaimed the child, resolutely, "and if you
don't give it to me at once I shall just go and tell mamma."
"I will let you take it in your hand a few moments to look at it,
if you will be careful not to soil it, Enna," said Elsie, in the
same gentle tone; "and if you wish, I will get some more silk and
beads, and make you one just like it; but I cannot give you this,
because I would not have time to make another for Miss Rose."
"No, I shall just have that one; and I shall have it to keep,"
said Enna, attempting to snatch it out of Elsie's hand.
But Elsie held it up out of her reach, and after trying several
times in vain to get it, Enna left the room, crying and screaming
with passion.
Chloe locked the door, saying, "Great pity, darlin', we forgot to
do dat 'fore Miss Enna came. I'se 'fraid she gwine bring missus
for make you gib um up."
Elsie sat down to her work again, but she was very pale, and her
little hands trembled with agitation, and her soft eyes were full
of tears.
Chloe's fears were but too well founded; for the next moment hasty
steps were heard in the passage, and the handle of the door was
laid hold of with no very gentle grasp; and then, as it refused to
yield to her touch, Mrs. Dinsmore's voice was heard in an angry
tone giving the command, "Open this door instantly."
Chloe looked at her young mistress.
"You will have to," said Elsie, tearfully, slipping her work into
her pocket again, and lifting up her heart in prayer for patience
and meekness, for she well knew she would have need of both.
Mrs. Dinsmore entered, leading the sobbing Enna by the hand; her
face was flushed with passion, and addressing Elsie in tones of
violent anger, she asked, "What is the meaning of all this, you
good-for-nothing hussy? Why are you always tormenting this poor
child? Where is that paltry trifle that all this fuss is about?
let me see it this instant."
Elsie drew the purse from her pocket, saying in tearful, trembling
tones, "It is a purse I was making for Miss Rose, ma'am; and I
offered to make another just like it for Enna; but I cannot give
her this one, because there would not be time to make another
before Miss Rose goes away."
"You _can_ not give it to her, indeed! You _will_ not,
you mean; but I say you _shall;_ and I'll see if I'm not
mistress in my own house. Give it to the child this instant; I'll
not have her crying her eyes out that you may be humored in all
your whims. There are plenty of handsomer ones to be had in the
city, and if you are too mean to make her a present of it, I'll
buy you another to-morrow."
"But that would not be my work, and this is," replied Elsie, still
retaining the purse, loath to let it go.
"Nonsense! what difference will that make to Miss Rose?" said Mrs.
Dinsmore; and snatching it out of her hand, she gave it to Enna,
saying, "There, my pet, you shall have it. Elsie is a naughty,
mean, stingy girl, but she shan't plague you while your mamma's
about."
Enna cast a look of triumph at Elsie, and ran off with her prize,
followed by her mother, while poor Elsie hid her face in Chloe's
lap and cried bitterly.
It required all Chloe's religion to keep down her anger and
indignation at this unjust and cruel treatment of her darling, and
for a few moments she allowed her to sob and cry without a word,
only soothing her with mute caresses, not daring to trust her
voice, lest her anger should find vent in words. But at length,
when her feelings had grown somewhat calmer, she said soothingly,
"Nebber mind it, my poor darlin' chile. Just go to de city and buy
de prettiest purse you can find, for Miss Rose."
But Elsie shook her head sadly. "I wanted it to be my own work,"
she sobbed, "and now there is no time."
"Oh! I'll tell you what, my pet," exclaimed Chloe suddenly,
"dere's de purse you was aknittin' for your papa, an' dey wouldn't
send it for you; you can get dat done for de lady, and knit
another for your papa, 'fore he comes home."
Elsie raised her head with a look of relief, but her face clouded
again, as she replied, "But it is not quite done, and I haven't
the beads to finish it with, and Miss Rose goes day after to-
morrow."
"Nebber mind dat, darlin'," said Chloe, jumping up; "Pomp he been
gwine to de city dis berry afternoon, an' we'll tell him to buy de
beads, an' den you can get de purse finished 'fore to-morrow
night, an' de lady don't go till de next day, an' so it gwine all
come right yet."
"Oh! yes, that will do; dear old mammy, I'm so glad you thought of
it," said Elsie, joyfully. And rising, she went to her bureau, and
unlocking a drawer, took from it a bead purse of blue and gold,
quite as handsome as the one of which she had been so ruthlessly
despoiled, and rolling it up in a piece of paper, she handed it to
Chloe, saying: "There, mammy, please give it to Pomp, and tell him
to match the beads and the silk exactly."
Chloe hastened in search of Pomp, but when she found him, he
insisted that he should not have time to attend to Miss Elsie's
commission and do his other errands; and Chloe, knowing that he,
in common with all the other servants, was very fond of the little
girl, felt satisfied that it was not merely an excuse, therefore
did not urge her request. She stood a moment in great perplexity,
then suddenly exclaimed, "I'll go myself. Miss Elsie will spare
me, an' I'll go right long wid you, Pomp."
Chloe was entirely Elsie's servant, having no other business than
to wait upon her and take care of her clothing and her room; and
the little girl, of course, readily gave her permission to
accompany Pomp and do the errand.
But it was quite late ere Chloe returned, and the little girl spent the
evening alone in her own room. She was sadly disappointed that she
could not even have her hour with Miss Rose, who was detained in
the parlor with company whom she could not leave, and so the evening
seemed very long and wore away very slowly.
But at last Chloe came, and in answer to her eager inquiries
displayed her purchases with great satisfaction, saying, "Yes,
darlin', I'se got de berry t'ings you wanted."
"Oh! yes," said Elsie, examining them with delight; "they are just
right; and now I can finish it in a couple of hours."
"Time to get ready for bed now, ain't it, pet?" asked Chloe; but
before the little girl had time to answer, a servant knocked at
the door, and handed in a note for her. It was from Miss Allison,
and, hastily tearing it open, she read:
"DEAR ELSIE--I am very sorry that we cannot have our reading
together this evening; but be sure, darling, to come to me early
in the morning; it will be our last opportunity, for, dear child,
I have another disappointment for you. I had not expected to leave
before day after to-morrow, but I have learned this evening that
the vessel sails a day sooner than I had supposed, and therefore I
shall be obliged to start on my journey to-morrow.
"Your friend, ROSE."
Elsie dropped the note on the floor and burst into tears.
"What de matter, darlin'?" asked Chloe, anxiously.
"Oh! Miss Rose, dear, _dear_ Miss Rose is going tomorrow,"
she sobbed. Then hastily drying her eyes, she said: "But I have no
time for crying. I must sit up and finish the purse to-night,
because there will not be time to-morrow."
It was long past her usual hour for retiring when at last her
task, or rather her labor of love, was completed. Yet she was up
betimes, and at the usual hour her gentle rap was heard at Miss
Allison's door.
Rose clasped her in her arms and kissed her tenderly.
"O Miss Rose! _dear, dear_ Miss Rose, what shall I do without
you?" sobbed the little girl. "I shall have nobody to love me now
but mammy."
"You have another and a better friend, dear Elsie, who has said,
'I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee,'" whispered Rose, with
another tender caress.
"Yes," said Elsie, wiping away her tears; "and He is your Friend,
too; and don't you think, Miss Rose, He will bring us together
again some day?"
"I hope so indeed, darling. We must keep very close to Him, dear
Elsie; we must often commune with Him in secret; often study His
word, and try always to do His will. Ah! dear child, if we can
only have the assurance that that dear Friend is with us--that we
have His presence and His love, we shall be supremely happy,
though separated from all earthly friends. I know, dear little
one, that you have peculiar trials, and that you often feel the
want of sympathy and love; but you may always find them in Jesus.
And now we will have our reading and prayer as usual."
She took the little girl in her lap, and opening the Bible, read
aloud the fourteenth chapter of John, a part of that touching
farewell of our Saviour to His sorrowing disciples; and then they
knelt to pray. Elsie was only a listener, for her little heart was
too full to allow her to be anything more.
"My poor darling!" Rose said, again taking her in her arms, "we
will hope to meet again before very long. Who knows but your papa
may come home, and some day bring you to see me. It seems not
unlikely, as he is so fond of traveling."
Elsie looked up, smiling through her tears, "Oh! how delightful
that would be," she said. "But it seems as though my papa would
never come," she added, with a deep-drawn sigh.
"Well, darling, we can hope," Rose answered cheerfully. "And, dear
child, though we must be separated in body for a time, we can
still meet in spirit at the mercy-seat. Shall we not do so at this
hour every morning?"
Elsie gave a joyful assent.
"And I shall write to you, darling," Rose said; "I will write on
my journey, if I can, so that you will get the letter in a week
from the time I leave; and then you must write to me; will you?"
"If you won't care for the mistakes, Miss Rose. But you know I am
a very little girl, and I wouldn't like to let Miss Day read my
letter to you, to correct it. But I shall be so very glad to get
yours. I never had a letter in my life."
"I sha'n't care for mistakes at all, dear, and no one shall see
your letters but myself," said Rose, kissing her. "I should be as
sorry as you to have Miss Day look at them."
Elsie drew out the purse and put it in her friend's hand, saying:
"It is all my own work, dear Miss Rose; I thought you would value
it more for that."
"And indeed I shall, darling," replied Rose, with tears of
pleasure in her eyes. "It is beautiful in itself, but I shall
value it ten times more because it is your gift, and the work of
your own dear little hands."
But the breakfast-bell now summoned them to join the rest of the
family, and, in a few moments after they left the table, the
carriage which was to take Rose to the city was at the door. Rose
had endeared herself to all, old and young, and they were loath to
part with her. One after another bade her an affectionate
farewell. Elsie was the last. Rose pressed her tenderly to her
bosom, and kissed her again and again, saying, in a voice half
choked with grief, "God bless and keep you, my poor little
darling; my dear, dear little Elsie!"
Elsie could not speak; and the moment the carriage had rolled away
with her friend, she went to her own room, and locking herself in,
cried long and bitterly. She had learned to love Rose very dearly,
and to lean upon her very much; and now the parting from her, with
no certainty of ever meeting her again in this world, was the
severest trial the poor child had ever known.
CHAPTER THIRD
"The morning blush was lighted up by hope--
The hope of meeting him."
--Miss LANDON.
"Unkindness, do thy office; poor heart, break."
A week had now passed away since Miss Allison's departure, and
Elsie, to whom it had been a sad and lonely one, was beginning to
look eagerly for her first letter.
"It is just a week to-day since Rose left," remarked Adelaide at
the breakfast table, "and I think we ought to hear from her soon.
She promised to write on her journey. Ah! here comes Pomp with the
letters now," she added, as the servant man entered the room
bearing in his hand the bag in which he always brought the letters
of the family from the office in the neighboring city, whither he
was sent every morning.
"Pomp, you are late this morning," said Mrs. Dinsmore.
"Yes, missus," replied the negro, scratching his head, "de horses
am berry lazy; spec dey's got de spring fever."
"Do make haste, papa, and see if there is not one from Rose," said
Adelaide coaxingly, as her father took the bag, and very
deliberately adjusted his spectacles before opening it.
"Have patience, young lady," said he. "Yes, here is a letter for
you, and one for Elsie," tossing them across the table as he
spoke.
Elsie eagerly seized hers and ran away to her own room to read it.
It was a feast to her, this first letter, and from such a dear
friend, too. It gave her almost as much pleasure for the moment as
Miss Rose's presence could have afforded.
She had just finished its perusal and was beginning it again, when
she heard Adelaide's voice calling her by name, and the next
moment she entered the room, saying: "Well, Elsie, I suppose you
have read your letter; and now I have another piece of news for
you. Can you guess what it is?" she asked, looking at her with a
strange smile.
"Oh! no, Aunt Adelaide; please tell me. Is dear Miss Rose coming
back?"
"O! nonsense; what a guess!" said Adelaide. "No, stranger than
that. My brother Horace--your papa--has actually sailed for
America, and is coming directly home."
Elsie sprang up, her cheeks flushed, and her little heart beating
wildly.
"O Aunt Adelaide!" she cried, "is it really true? is he coming?
and will he be here soon?"
"He has really started at last; but how soon he will be here I
don't know," replied her aunt, turning to leave the room. "I have
told you all I know about it."
Elsie clasped her hands together, and sank down upon a sofa, Miss
Rose's letter, prized so highly a moment before, lying unheeded at
her feet; for her thoughts were far away, following that unknown
parent as he crossed the ocean; trying to imagine how he would
look, how he would speak, what would be his feelings toward her.
"Oh!" she asked, with a beating heart, "_will_ he _love_
me? My own papa! will he let me love him? will he take me in his
arms and call me his own darling child?"
But who could answer the anxious inquiry? She must just wait until
the slow wheels of time should bring the much longed-for, yet
sometimes half-dreaded arrival.
Elsie's lessons were but indifferently recited that morning, and
Miss Day frowned, and said in a tone of severity that it did not
agree with her to receive letters; and that, unless she wished her
papa to be much displeased with her on his expected arrival, she
must do a great deal better than that.
She had touched the right chord then; for Elsie, intensely anxious
to please that unknown father, and, if possible, gain his
approbation and affection, gave her whole mind to her studies with
such a determined purpose that the governess could find no more
cause for complaint.
But while the child is looking forward to the expected meeting
with such longing affection for him, how is it with the father?
Horace Dinsmore was, like his father, an upright, moral man, who
paid an outward respect to the forms of religion, but cared
nothing for the vital power of godliness; trusted entirely to his
morality, and looked upon Christians as hypocrites and deceivers.
He had been told that his little Elsie was one of these, and,
though he would not have acknowledged it even to himself, it had
prejudiced him against her. Then, too, in common with all the
Dinsmores, he had a great deal of family pride; and, though old
Mr. Grayson had been a man of sterling worth, intelligent, honest,
and pious, and had died very wealthy, yet because he was known to
have begun life as a poor boy, the whole family were accustomed to
speak as though Horace had stooped very much in marrying his
heiress.
And Horace himself had come to look upon his early marriage as a
piece of boyish folly, of which he was rather ashamed; and so
constantly had Mr. Dinsmore spoken in his letters of Elsie as "old
Grayson's grandchild," that he had got into the habit of looking
upon her as a kind of disgrace to him; especially as she had
always been described to him as a disagreeable, troublesome child.
He had loved his wife with all the warmth of his passionate
nature, and had mourned bitterly over her untimely death; but
years of study, travel and worldly pleasures had almost banished
her image from his mind, and he seldom thought of her except in
connection with the child for whom he felt a secret dislike.
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