Books: Elsie Dinsmore
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Martha Finley >> Elsie Dinsmore
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Scarcely anything but the expected arrival was now spoken or
thought of at Roselands, and Elsie was not the only one to whom
old Time seemed to move with an unusually laggard pace.
But at length a letter came telling them that they might look upon
it as being but one day in advance of its writer; and now all was
bustle and preparation.
"O mammy, mammy!" exclaimed Elsie, jumping up and down, and
clapping her hands for joy, as she came in from her afternoon
ride, "just think! papa, dear papa, will be here to-morrow
morning."
She seemed wild with delight; but suddenly sobered down, and a
look of care stole over the little face, as the torturing question
recurred to her mind, "_Will he love me?_"
She stood quite still, with her eyes fixed thoughtfully, and
almost sadly, upon the floor, while Chloe took off her riding
dress and cap and smoothed her hair. As she finished arranging her
dress she clasped the little form in her arms, and pressed a fond
kiss on the fair brow, thinking to herself that was the sweetest
and loveliest little face she had ever looked upon.
Just at that moment an unusual bustle was heard in the house.
Elsie started, changed color, and stood listening with a throbbing
heart.
Presently little feet were heard running rapidly down the hall,
and Walter, throwing open the door, called out, "Elsie, he's
come!" and catching her hand, hurried her along to the parlor
door.
"Stop, stop, Walter," she gasped as they reached it; and she
leaned against the wall, her heart throbbing so wildly she could
scarcely breathe.
"What is the matter?" said he, "are you ill? come along;" and
pushing the door open, he rushed in, dragging her after him.
So over-wrought were the child's feelings that she nearly fainted;
everything in the room seemed to be turning round, and for an
instant she scarcely knew where she was.
But a strange voice asked, "And who is this?" and looking up as
her grandfather pronounced her name, she saw a stranger standing
before her--very handsome, and very youthful-looking, in spite of
a heavy dark beard and mustache--who exclaimed hastily, "What!
this great girl _my_ child? really it is enough to make a man
feel old."
Then, taking her hand, he stooped and coldly kissed her lips.
She was trembling violently, and the very depth of her feelings
kept her silent and still; her hand lay still in his, cold and
clammy.
He held it an instant, at the same time gazing searchingly into
her face; then dropped it, saying in a tone of displeasure, "I am
not an ogre, that you need be so afraid of me; but there, you may
go; I will not keep you in terror any longer."
She rushed away to her own room, and there, throwing herself upon
the bed, wept long and wildly. It was the disappointment of a
lifelong hope. Since her earliest recollection she had looked and
longed for this hour; and it seemed as though the little heart
would break with its weight of bitter anguish.
She was all alone, for Chloe had gone down to the kitchen to talk
over the arrival, not doubting that her darling was supremely
happy in the possession of her long looked-for parent.
And so the little girl lay there with her crushed and bleeding
heart, sobbing, mourning, weeping as though she would weep her
very life away, without an earthly friend to speak one word of
comfort.
"O papa, papa!" she sobbed, "my own papa, you do not love me; me,
your own little girl. Oh! my heart will break. O mamma, mamma! if
I could only go to you; for there is no one here to love me, and I
am so lonely, oh! _so_ lonely and desolate."
And thus Chloe found her, when she came in an hour later, weeping
and sobbing out such broken exclamations of grief and anguish.
She was much surprised, but comprehending at once how her child
was suffering, she raised her up in her strong arms, and laying
the little head lovingly against her bosom, she smoothed the
tangled hair, kissed the tear-swollen eyes, and bathed the
throbbing temples, saying, "My precious pet, my darlin' chile,
your ole mammy loves you better dan life; an' did my darlin'
forget de almighty Friend dat says, _I_ have loved thee with
an everlasting love,' an' 'I will never leave thee, nor forsake
thee'? He sticks closer dan a brudder, precious chile, and
says,'though a woman forget her sucking child, He will not forget
_His_ chillen.' Mothers love dere chillens better dan fathers,
darlin', and so you see Jesus' love is better dan all other love; and I
_knows_ you hes got dat."
"O mammy! ask Him to take me to Himself, and to mamma--for oh! I
am very lonely, and I want to die!"
"Hush, hush, darlin'; old Chloe nebber could ask dat; dis ole
heart would break for sure. Yous all de world to your old mammy,
darlin'; and you know we must all wait de Lord's time."
"Then ask Him to help me to be patient," she said, in a weary
tone. "And O mammy!" she added, with a burst of bitter tears, "ask
Him to make my father love me."
"I will, darlin', I will," sobbed Chloe, pressing the little form
closer to her heart; "an' don't you go for to be discouraged right
away; for I'se sure Massa Horace must love you, fore long."
The tea-bell rang, and the family gathered about the table; but
one chair remained unoccupied.
"Where is Miss Elsie?" asked Adelaide of one of the servants.
"Dunno, missus," was the reply.
"Well, then, go and see," said Adelaide; "perhaps she did not hear
the bell."
The servant returned in a moment, saying that Miss Elsie had a bad
headache and did not want any supper. Mr. Horace Dinsmore paused
in the conversation he was carrying on with his father, to listen
to the servant's announcement. "I hope she is not a sickly child,"
said he, addressing Adelaide; "is she subject to such attacks?"
"Not very," replied his sister dryly, for she had seen the
meeting, and felt really sorry for Elsie's evident disappointment;
"I imagine crying has brought this on."
He colored violently, and said in a tone of great displeasure,
"Truly, the return of a parent _is_ a cause for grief; yet I
hardly expected my presence to be quite so distressing to my only
child. I had no idea that she had already learned to dislike me so
thoroughly."
"She doesn't," said Adelaide, "she has been looking and longing
for your return ever since I have known her."
"Then she has certainly been disappointed in me; her grief is not
at all complimentary, explain it as you will."
Adelaide made no reply, for she saw that he was determined to put
an unfavorable construction upon Elsie's conduct, and feared that
any defence she could offer would only increase his displeasure.
It was a weary, aching head the little girl laid upon her pillow
that night, and the little heart was sad and sore; yet she was not
altogether comfortless, for she had turned in her sorrow to Him
who has said, "Suffer the little children to come unto me, and
forbid them not," and she had the sweet assurance of _His_
love and favor.
It was with a trembling heart, hoping yet fearing, longing and yet
dreading to see her father, that Elsie descended to the breakfast-
room the next morning. She glanced timidly around, but he was not
there.
"Where is papa, Aunt Adelaide?" she asked.
"He is not coming down to breakfast, as he feels quite fatigued
with his journey," replied her aunt; "so you will not see him this
morning, and perhaps not at all to-day, for there will be a good
deal of company here this afternoon and evening."
Elsie sighed, and looked sadly disapponted. She found it very
difficult to attend to her lessons that morning, and every time
the door opened she started and looked up, half hoping it might be
her papa.
But he did not come; and when the dinner hour arrived, the
children were told that they were to dine in the nursery, on
account of the large number of guests to be entertained in the
dining-room. The company remained until bedtime; she was not
called down to the parlor; and so saw nothing of her father that
day.
But the next morning Chloe told her the children were to breakfast
with the family, as all the visitors had left excepting one or two
gentlemen. So Elsie went down to the breakfast-room, where, to her
surprise, she found her papa sitting alone, reading the morning
paper.
He looked up as she entered.
"Good-morning, papa," she said, in half-trembling tones.
He started a little--for it was the first time he had ever been
addressed by that title, and it sounded strange to his ears--gave
her a glance of mingled curiosity and interest, half held out his
hand, but drawing it back again, simply said, "Good-morning,
Elsie," and returned to his paper.
Elsie stood irresolutely in the middle of the floor, wanting, yet
not daring to go to him.
But just at that instant the door opened, and Enna, looking rosy
and happy, came running in, and rushing up to her brother, climbed
upon his knee, and put her arms around his neck, saying, "Good-
morning, brother Horace. I want a kiss."
"You shall have it, little pet," said he, throwing down his paper.
Then, kissing her several times and hugging her in his arms, he
said, "_You_ are not afraid of me, are you? nor sorry that I
have come home?"
"No, indeed," said Enna.
He glanced at Elsie as she stood looking at them, her large soft
eyes full of tears. She could not help feeling that Enna had her
place, and was receiving the caresses that should have been
lavished upon herself.
"Jealous," thought her father; "I cannot bear jealous people;" and
he gave her a look of displeasure that cut her to the heart, and
she turned quickly away and left the room to hide the tears she
could no longer keep back.
"I am envious," she thought, "jealous of Enna. Oh! how wicked!"
And she prayed silently, "Dear Saviour, help me! take away these
sinful feelings."
Young as she was, she was learning to have some control over her
feelings, and in a few moments she had so far recovered her
composure as to be able to return to the breakfast-room and take
her place at the table, where the rest were already seated, her
sweet little face sad indeed and bearing the traces of tears, but
quite calm and peaceful.
Her father took no further notice of her, and she did not dare
trust herself to look at him. The servants filled her plate, and
she ate in silence, feeling it a great relief that all were too
busily engaged in talking and eating to pay any attention to her.
She scarcely raised her eyes from her plate, and did not know how
often a strange gentleman, who sat nearly opposite, fixed his upon
her.
As she left the room at the conclusion of the meal, he asked,
while following her with his eyes, "Is that one of your sisters,
Dinsmore?"
"No," said he, coloring slightly; "she is my daughter."
"Ah, indeed!" said his friend. "I remember to have heard that you
had a child, but had forgotten it. Well, you have no reason to be
ashamed of her; she is lovely, perfectly lovely! has the sweetest
little face I ever saw."
"Will you ride, Travilla?" asked Mr. Dinsmore hastily, as though
anxious to change the subject.
"I don't care if I do," was the reply, and they went out together.
Some hours later in the day Elsie was at the piano in the music-
room practising, when a sudden feeling that some one was in the
room caused her to turn and look behind her.
Mr. Travilla was standing there.
"Excuse me," said he, bowing politely, "but I heard the sound of
the instrument, and, being very fond of music, I ventured to walk
in."
Elsie was very modest, and rather timid, too, but also very
polite; so she said, "No excuse is necessary; but will you not
take a seat, sir? though I fear my music will not afford you any
pleasure, for you know I am only a little girl, and cannot play
very well yet."
"Thank you," said he, taking a seat by her side. "And now will you
do me the favor to repeat the song I heard you singing a few
moments since?"
Elsie immediately complied, though her cheeks burned, and her
voice trembled at first from embarrassment; but it grew stronger
as she proceeded and in the last verse was quite steady and full.
She had a very fine voice for a child of her age; its sweetness
was remarkable both in singing and speaking; and she had also a
good deal of musical talent, which had been well cultivated, for
she had had good teachers, and had practised with great patience
and perseverance. Her music was simple, as suited her years, but
her performance of it was very good indeed.
Mr. Travilla thanked her very heartily, and complimented her
singing; then asked for another and another song, another and
another piece, chatting with her about each, until they grew quite
familiar, and Elsie lost all feeling of embarrassment.
"Elsie, I think, is your name, is it not?" he asked after a
little.
"Yes, sir," said she, "Elsie Dinsmore."
"And you are the daughter of my friend, Mr. Horace Dinsmore?"
"Yes, sir."
"Your papa has been absent a long time, and I suppose you must
have quite forgotten him."
"No, sir, not _forgotten_, for I never had seen him."
"Indeed!" said he, in a tone of surprise; "then, since he is an
entire stranger to you, I suppose you cannot have much affection
for him?"
Elsie raised her large, dark eyes to his face, with an expression
of astonishment. "Not love papa, my own dear papa, who has no
child but me? Oh! sir, how could you think that?"
"Ah! I see I was mistaken," said he, smiling; "I thought you could
hardly care for him at all; but do you think that he loves you?"
Elsie dropped her face into her hands, and burst into an agony of
tears.
The young gentleman looked extremely vexed with himself.
"My poor little girl, my poor, dear little girl," he said,
stroking her hair, "forgive me. I am very, _very_ sorry for
my thoughtless question. Do be comforted, my poor child, for
whether your papa loves you now or not, I am quite sure he soon
will."
Elsie now dried her tears, rose and closed the instrument. He
assisted her, and then asked if she would not take a little walk
with him in the garden. She complied, and, feeling really very
sorry for the wound he had so thoughtlessly inflicted, as well as
interested in his little companion, he exerted all his powers to
entertain her--talked with her about the plants and flowers,
described those he had seen in foreign lands, and related
incidents of travel, usually choosing those in which her father
had borne a part, because he perceived that they were doubly
interesting to her.
Elsie, having been thrown very much upon her own resources for
amusement, and having a natural love for books, and constant
access to her grandfather's well-stocked library, had read many
more, and with much more thought, than most children of her age,
so that Mr. Travilla found her a not uninteresting companion, and
was often surprised at the intelligence shown by her questions and
replies.
When the dinner-bell rang he led her in, and seated her by
himself, and never was any lady more carefully waited upon than
little Elsie at this meal. Two or three other gentlemen guests
were present, giving their attention to the older ladies of the
company, and thus Mr. Travilla seemed to feel quite at liberty to
devote himself entirely to her, attending to all her wants,
talking with her, and making her talk.
Elsie now and then stole a glance at Mrs. Dinsmore, fearing her
displeasure; but to her great relief, the lady seemed too much
occupied to notice her. Once she looked timidly at her father, and
her eyes met his. He was looking at her with an expression half
curious, half amused. She was at a loss to understand the look,
but, satisfied that there was no displeasure in it, her heart grew
light, and her cheeks flushed with happiness.
"Really, Dinsmore," said Mr. Travilla, as they stood together near
one of the windows of the drawing-room soon after dinner, "your
little girl is remarkably intelligent, as well as remarkably
pretty; and I have discovered that she has quite a good deal of
musical talent."
"Indeed! I think it is quite a pity that she does not belong to
you, Travilla, instead of me, since you seem to appreciate her so
much more highly," replied the father, laughing.
"I wish she did," said his friend. "But, seriously, Dinsmore, you
ought to love that child, for she certainly loves you devotedly."
He looked surprised. "How do you know?" he asked.
"It was evident enough from what I saw and heard this morning.
Dinsmore, she would value a caress from you more than the richest
jewel."
"Doubtful," replied Horace, hastily quitting the room, for Elsie
had come out on to the portico in her riding suit, and Jim, her
usual attendant, was bringing up her horse.
"Are you going to ride, Elsie?" asked her father, coming up to
her.
"Yes, papa," she said, raising her eyes to his face.
He lifted her in his arms and placed her on the horse, saying to
the servant as he did so, "Now, Jim, you must take good care of my
little girl."
Tears of happiness rose in Elsie's eyes as she turned her horse's
head and rode down the avenue. "He called me _his_ little
girl," she murmured to herself, "and bade Jim take good care of
me. Oh! he _will_ love me soon, as good, kind Mr. Travilla
said he would."
Her father was still standing on the portico, looking after her.
"How well she sits her horse!" remarked Travilla, who had stepped
out and stood close by his side.
"Yes, I think she does," was the reply, in an absent tone. He was
thinking of a time, some eight or nine years before, when he had
assisted another Elsie to mount her horse, and had ridden for
hours at her side.
All the afternoon memories of the past came crowding thickly on
his mind, and an emotion of tenderness began to spring up in his
heart toward the child of her who had once been so dear to him;
and as he saw the little girl ride up to the house on her return,
he again went out, and lifting her from her horse, asked kindly,
"Had you a pleasant ride, my dear?"
"Oh! yes, papa, very pleasant," she said, looking up at him with a
face beaming with delight. He stooped and kissed her, saying, "I
think I shall ride with you one of these days; should you like
it?"
"Oh! so very, _very_ much, papa," she answered, eagerly.
He smiled at her earnestness, and she hastened away to her room to
change her dress and tell Chloe of her happiness.
Alas! it was but a transient gleam of sunshine that darted across
her path, to be lost again almost instantly behind the gathering
clouds.
More company came, so that the drawing-room was quite full in the
evening; and, though Elsie was there, her father seemed too much
occupied with the guests to give her even a glance. She sat alone
and unnoticed in a corner, her eyes following him wherever he
moved, and her ear strained to catch every tone of his voice;
until Mr. Travilla, disengaging himself from a group of ladies and
gentlemen on the opposite side of the room, came up to her, and
taking her by the hand, led her to a pleasant-looking elderly
lady, who sat at a centre-table examining some choice engravings
which Mr. Dinsmore had brought with him from Europe.
"Mother," said Mr. Travilla, "This is my little friend Elsie."
"Ah!" said she, giving the little girl a kiss, "I am glad to see
you, my dear."
Mr. Travilla set a chair for her close to his mother and then sat
down on her other side, and taking up the engravings one after
another, he explained them to her in a most entertaining manner,
generally having some anecdote to tell in connection with each.
Elsie was so much amused and delighted with what he was saying
that she at last quite forgot her father, and did not notice where
he was.
Suddenly Mr. Travilla laid down the engraving he had in his hand,
saying: "Come, Miss Elsie, I want my mother to hear you play and
sing; will you not do me the favor to repeat that song I admired
so much this morning?"
"Oh! Mr. Travilla!" exclaimed the little girl, blushing and
trembling, "I could not play or sing before so many people. Please
excuse me."
"Elsie," said her father's voice just at her side, "go
_immediately,_ and do as the gentleman requests."
His tone was very stern, and as she lifted her eyes to his face,
she saw that his look was still more so; and tremblingly and
tearfully she rose to obey.
"Stay," said Mr. Travilla kindly, pitying her distress, "I
withdraw my request."
"But I do _not_ withdraw my command," said her father in the
same stern tone; "go at once, Elsie, and do as I bid you."
She obeyed instantly, struggling hard to overcome her emotion.
Mr. Travilla, scolding himself inwardly all the time for having
brought her into such trouble, selected her music, and placing it
before her as she took her seat at the instrument, whispered
encouragingly, "Now, Miss Elsie, only have confidence in yourself;
that is all that is necessary to your success."
But Elsie was not only embarrassed, but her heart was well-nigh
broken by her father's sternness, and the tears _would_ fill
her eyes so that she could see neither notes nor words. She
attempted to play the prelude, but blundered sadly, her
embarrassment increasing every moment.
"Never mind," said Mr. Travilla, "never mind the prelude, but just
begin the song."
She made the attempt, but fairly broke down, and burst into tears
before she had got through the first verse. Her father had come up
behind her, and was standing there, looking much mortified.
"Elsie," he said, leaning down and speaking in a low, stern tone,
close to her ear, "I am ashamed of you; go to your room and to
your bed immediately."
With a heart almost bursting with grief and mortification she
obeyed him, and her pillow was wet with many bitter tears ere the
weary eyes closed in slumber.
When she came down the next morning she learned to her great grief
that Mr. Travilla and his mother had returned to their own home;
she was very sorry she had not been permitted to say good-bye to
her friend, and for several days she felt very sad and lonely, for
all her father's coldness of manner had returned, and he scarcely
ever spoke to her; while the younger members of the family
ridiculed her for her failure in attempting to play for company;
and Miss Day, who seemed unusually cross and exacting, often
taunted her with it also.
These were sad, dark days for the little girl; she tried most
earnestly to attend to all her duties, but so depressed were her
spirits, so troubled was her mind, that she failed repeatedly in
her lessons, and so was in continual disgrace with Miss Day, who
threatened more than once to tell her papa.
It was a threat which Elsie dreaded extremely to have put in
execution, and Miss Day, seeing that it distressed her, used it
the more frequently, and thus kept the poor child in constant
terror.
How to gain her father's love was the constant subject of her
thoughts, and she tried in many ways to win his affection. She
always yielded a ready and cheerful obedience to his commands, and
strove to anticipate and fulfil all his wishes. But he seldom
noticed her, unless to give a command or administer a rebuke,
while he lavished many a caress upon his little sister, Enna.
Often Elsie would watch him fondling her, until, unable any longer
to control her feelings, she would rush away to her own room to
weep and mourn in secret, and pray that her father might some day
learn to love her. She never complained even to poor old Aunt
Chloe, but the anxious nurse watched all these things with the
jealous eye of affection; she saw that her child--as she delighted
to call her--was very unhappy, and was growing pale and
melancholy; and her heart ached for her, and many were the tears
the shed in secret over the sorrows of her nursling.
"Don't 'pear so sorrowful, darlin'," she sometimes said to her;
"try to be merry, like Miss Enna, and run and jump on Massa
Horace's knee, and den I tink he will like you better."
"O mammy! I _can't_," Elsie would say; "I don't dare to do
it."
And Chloe would sigh and shake her head sorrowfully.
CHAPTER FOURTH
"With more capacity for love than earth
Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth."
--BYRON.
"What are our hopes?
Like garlands, on afflictions's forehead worn,
Kissed in the morning, and at evening torn."
--DAVENPORT'S _King John and Matilda._
Such had been the state of affairs for about a week, when one
morning Elsie and her father met at the breakfast-room door.
"Good morning, papa," she said timidly.
"Good morning, Elsie," he replied in an unusually pleasant tone.
Then, taking her by the hand, he led her in and seated her beside
himself at the table.
Elsie's cheek glowed and her eyes sparkled with pleasure.
There were several guests present, and she waited patiently while
they and the older members of the family were being helped. At
length it was her turn.
"Elsie, will you have some meat?" asked her grandfather.
"No," said her father, answering for her; "once a day is as often
as a child of her age ought to eat meat; she may have it at
dinner, but never for breakfast or tea."
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