Books: Elsie Dinsmore
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Martha Finley >> Elsie Dinsmore
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"I would give all I am worth to have you safe at home," he
answered hoarsely, pressing her closer and closer to him.
O! even in that moment of fearful peril, when death seemed just at
hand, those words, and the affectionate clasp of her father's arm,
sent a thrill of intense joy to the love-famished heart of the
little girl.
But destruction seemed inevitable. Lora was leaning back, half
fainting with terror; Adelaide scarcely less alarmed, while Enna
clung to her, sobbing most bitterly.
Elsie alone preserved a cheerful serenity. She had built her house
upon the rock, and knew that it would stand. Her destiny was in
her Heavenly Father's hands, and she was content to leave it
there. Even death had no terrors to the simple, unquestioning
faith of the little child who had put her trust in Jesus.
But they were not to perish thus; for at that moment a powerful
negro, who was walking along the road, hearing an unusual sound,
turned about, caught sight of the vehicle coming toward him at
such a rapid rate, and instantly comprehending the peril of the
travellers, planted himself in the middle of the road, and, at the
risk of life and limb, caught the horses by the bridle--the sudden
and unexpected check throwing them upon their haunches, and
bringing the carriage to an instant stand-still.
"Thank God, we are saved! That fellow shall be well rewarded for
his brave deed," exclaimed Mr. Dinsmore, throwing open the
carriage door.
Then, leaping to the ground, he lifted Elsie out, set her down,
and gave his hand to his sisters one after the other.
They were almost at the entrance of the avenue, and all preferred
to walk the short distance to the house rather than again trust
themselves to the horses.
Mr. Dinsmore lingered a moment to speak to the man who had done
them such good service, and to give some directions to the
coachman; and then, taking the hand of his little girl, who had
been waiting for him, he walked slowly on, neither of them
speaking a word until they reached the house, when he stooped and
kissed her cheek, asking very kindly if she had recovered from her
fright.
"Yes, papa," she answered, in a quiet tone, "I knew that God would
take care of us. Oh! wasn't He good to keep us all from being
killed?"
"Yes," he said, very gravely. "Go now and let mammy get you ready
for dinner."
As Elsie was sitting alone in her room that afternoon she was
surprised by a visit from Lora; it being very seldom that the
elder girls cared to enter her apartment.
Lora looked a little pale, and more grave and thoughtful than
Elsie had ever seen her. For a while she sat in silence, then
suddenly burst out, "Oh, Elsie! I can't help thinking all the
time, what if we had been killed! where would we all be now? where
would _I_ have been? I believe _you_ would have gone straight
to heaven, Elsie; but _I_--oh! I should have been with the rich man
the minister read about this morning, lifting up my eyes in torment."
And Lora covered her face with her hands and shuddered.
Presently she went on again. "I was terribly frightened, and so
were the rest--all but you, Elsie; tell me, _do_--what kept
_you_ from being afraid?"
"I was thinking," said Elsie gently, turning over the leaves of
her little Bible as she spoke, "of this sweet verse: 'Yea, though
I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no
evil; for thou art with me;' and oh, Lora! it made me so happy to
think that Jesus was there with me, and that if I were killed, I
should only fall asleep, to wake up again in His arms; then how
could I be afraid?"
"Ah! I would give anything to feel as you do," said Lora, sighing.
"But tell me, Elsie, did you not feel afraid for the rest of us?
I'm sure you must know that _we_ are not Christians; we don't
even pretend to be."
Elsie blushed and looked down.
"It all passed so quickly, you know, Lora, almost in a moment,"
she said, "so that I only had time to think of papa and myself;
and I have prayed so much for him that I felt quite sure God would
spare him until he should be prepared to die. It was very selfish,
I know," she added with deep humility; "but it was only for a
moment, and I can't tell you how thankful I was for _all_ our
spared lives."
"Don't look so--as if you had done something very wicked, Elsie,"
replied Lora, sighing again. "I'm sure we have given you little
enough reason to care whatever becomes of us; but oh! Elsie, if
you can only tell me how to be a Christian, I mean now to try very
hard; indeed, I am determined never to rest until I am one."
"Oh, Lora, how glad I am!" cried Elsie, joyfully, "for I know that
if you are really in earnest, you will succeed; for no one ever
yet failed who tried aright. Jesus said, '_Every one_ that
asketh, receiveth; and he that seeketh, findeth; and to him that
knocketh, it _shall_ be opened.' Is not _that_ encouraging?
And listen to what God says here in _this_ verse: 'Ye shall seek
me and _find_ me, when ye shall search for me with _all your
heart_.' So you see, dear Lora, if you will only seek the Lord with
your _whole heart_, you may be _sure_, _quite_ sure
of finding Him."
"Yes," said Lora, "but you have not answered my question;
_how_ am I to seek? that is, what means am I to use to get
rid of my sins, and get a new heart? how make myself pleasing in
the sight of God? what must I _do_ to be saved?"
"That is the very question the jailer put to Paul, and he
answered, 'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be
saved,'" replied Elsie, quickly turning to the chapter and
pointing out the text with her finger, that Lora might see that
she had quoted it correctly. "And in answer to your other
question, 'How shall I get rid of my sins?' see here: 'In that day
there shall be a fountain opened to the house of David and to the
inhabitants of Jerusalem for sin and for uncleanliness.' That is
in Zechariah; then John tells us what that fountain is when he
says, 'The blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all
sin;' and again, 'Unto Him that loved us, and washed us from our
sins in His own blood.'"
"Yes, Elsie, but what must I _do_?" asked Lora, eagerly.
"Do, Lora? only _believe_" replied Elsie, in the same earnest
tone. "Jesus has done and suffered all that is necessary; and now
we have nothing at all to do but go to Him and be washed in that
fountain; believe Him when He says, 'I _give_ unto them eternal
life;' just accept the gift, and trust and love Him; that is the whole
of it, and it is so simple that even such a little girl as I can
understand it."
"But surely, Elsie, I _can_, I _must do something_."
"Yes, God tells us to repent; and He says, 'Give me thine heart;'
you can do that; you can love Jesus; at least He will enable you
to, if you ask Him, and He will teach you to be sorry for your
sins; the Bible says, 'He is exalted to give repentance and
remission of sins;' and if you ask Him He will give them to you.
It is true we cannot do anything good of ourselves; without the
help of the Holy Spirit we can do nothing right, because we are so
very wicked; but then we can always get that help if we ask for
it. Jesus said, 'Your Heavenly Father is more willing to give His
Holy Spirit to them that ask Him, than parents are to give good
gifts unto their children. Oh, Lora! don't be afraid to ask for
it; don't be afraid to come to Jesus, for He says, 'Him that
cometh unto Me, I will in nowise cast out;' and He is such a
precious Saviour, so kind and loving. But remember that you must
come very humbly; feeling that you are a great sinner, and not
worthy to be heard, and only hoping to be forgiven, because Jesus
died. The Bible says, 'God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace
unto the humble.'"
Lora lingered the greater part of the afternoon in Elsie's room,
asking her questions, or listening to her while she read the
Scriptures, or repeated some beautiful hymn, or spoke in her
sweet, childish way, of her own peace and joy in believing in
Jesus.
But at last Lora went to her own room, and Elsie had another quiet
half-hour to herself before the tea-bell again called the family
together.
Elsie answered the summons with a light heart--a heart that
thrilled with a new and strange sense of happiness as she
remembered her father's evident anxiety for her safety during
their perilous ride, recalling each word and look, and feeling
again, in imagination, the clasp of his arm about her waist.
"Ah! surely papa does love me," she murmured to herself over and
over again; and when he met her at the table with a kind smile,
and laying his hand caressingly on her head, asked in an
affectionate tone, "How does my little daughter do this evening?"
her cheeks flushed, and her eyes grew bright with happiness, and
she longed to throw her arms around his neck, and tell him how
very, very much she loved him.
But that was quite impossible at the table, and before all the
family; so she merely raised her glad eyes to his face and
answered, "I am very well, thank you, papa."
But, after all, this occurrence produced but little change in
Elsie's condition; her father treated her a little more
affectionately for a day or two, and then gradually returned to
his ordinary stern, cold manner; indeed, before the week was out,
she was again in sad disgrace.
She was walking alone in the garden one afternoon, when her
attention was attracted by a slight fluttering noise which seemed
to proceed from an arbor near by, and on hastily turning in to
ascertain the cause, she found a tiny and beautiful humming-bird
confined under a glass vase; in its struggles to escape it was
fluttering and beating against the walls of its prison, thus
producing the sound the little girl had heard in passing.
Elsie was very tender-hearted, and could never see any living
creature in distress without feeling a strong desire to relieve
its sufferings. She knew that Arthur was in the habit of torturing
every little insect and bird that came in his way, and had often
drawn his persecutions upon herself by interfering in behalf of
the poor victim; and now the thought instantly flashed upon her
that _this_ was some of his work, and that he would return
ere long to carry out his cruel purposes. Then at once arose the
desire to release the little prisoner and save it further
suffering, and without waiting to reflect a moment she raised the
glass, and the bird was gone.
Then she began to think with a little tremor, how angry Arthur
would be; but it was too late to think of that now, and, after
all, she did not stand in very great dread of the consequences,
especially as she felt nearly sure of her father's approval of
what she had done, having several times heard him reprove Arthur
for his cruel practices.
Not caring to meet Arthur then, however, she hastily retreated to
the house, where she seated herself in the veranda with a book. It
was a very warm afternoon, and that, being on the east side of the
house and well protected by trees, shrubbery, and vines, was as
cool a spot as could be found on the place.
Arthur, Walter and Enna sat on the floor playing jack-stones--a
favorite game with them--and Louise was stretched full length on a
settee, buried in the latest novel.
"Hush!" she said, as Walter gave a sudden shout at a successful
toss Enna had just made; "can't you be quiet? Mamma is taking her
afternoon nap, and you will disturb her; and, besides, I cannot
read in such a noise."
Elsie wondered why Arthur did not go to see after his bird, but
soon forgot all about it in the interest with which she was poring
over the story of the "Swiss Family Robinson."
The jack-stone players were just finishing their game when they
were all startled by the sudden appearance of Mr. Horace Dinsmore
upon the scene, asking in a tone of great wrath who had been down
in the garden and liberated the humming-bird he had been at such
pains to catch, because it was one of a rare species, and he was
anxious to add it to his collection of curiosities.
Elsie was terribly frightened, and would have been glad at that
moment to sink through the floor; she dropped her book in her lap,
and clasping her hands over her beating heart, grew pale and red
by turns, while she seemed choking with the vain effort to speak
and acknowledge herself the culprit, as conscience told her she
ought.
But her father was not looking at her; his eye was fixed on
Arthur.
"I presume it was you, sir," he said very angrily, "and if so, you
may prepare yourself for either a flogging or a return to your
prison, for one or the other I am determined you shall have."
"I didn't _do_ it, any such thing," replied the boy,
fiercely.
"Of course you will deny it," said his brother, "but we all know
that your word is good for nothing."
"Papa," said a trembling little voice, "Arthur did not do it; it
was I."
"You," exclaimed her father, in a tone of mingled anger and
astonishment, as he turned his flashing eye upon her, "_you_,
Elsie! can it be _possible_ that this is _your_ doing?"
Elsie's book fell on the floor, and, covering her face with both
hands, she burst into sobs and tears.
"Come here to me this instant," he said, seating himself on the
settee, from which Louise had risen on his entrance. "Come here
and tell me what you mean by meddling with my affairs in this
way."
"Please, papa, _please_ don't be so very angry with me,"
sobbed the little girl, as she rose and came forward in obedience
to his command; "I didn't know it was your bird, and I didn't mean
to be naughty."
"No, you _never mean_ to be naughty, according to your own
account," he said; "your badness is all accident; but nevertheless,
I find you a very troublesome, mischievous child; it was only the
other day you broke a valuable vase" (he forgot in his anger how little
she had really been to blame for that), "and now you have caused me
the loss of a rare specimen which I had spent a great deal of time
and effort in procuring. Really, Elsie, I am sorely tempted to administer
a very severe punishment"
Elsie caught at the arm of the settee for support.
"Tell me what you did it for; was it pure love of mischief?" asked
her father, sternly, taking hold of her arm and holding her up by
it.
"No, papa," she answered almost under her breath. "I was sorry for
the little bird. I thought Arthur had put it there to torture it,
and so I let it go. I did not mean to do wrong, papa, indeed I did
not," and the tears fell faster and faster.
"Indeed," said he, "you had no business to meddle with it, let who
would have put it there. Which hand did it?"
"This one, papa," sobbed the child, indicating her right hand.
He took it in his and held it a moment, while the little girl
stood tremblingly awaiting what was to come next. He looked at the
downcast, tearful face, the bosom heaving with sobs, and then at
the little trembling hand he held, so soft, and white, and tender,
and the sternness of his countenance relaxed somewhat; it seemed
next to impossible to inflict pain upon anything so tender and
helpless; and for a moment he was half inclined to kiss and
forgive her. But no, he had been very much irritated at his loss,
and the remembrance of it again aroused his anger, and well-nigh
extinguished the little spark of love and compassion that had
burned for a moment in his heart. She should be punished, though
he would not inflict physical pain.
"See, Elsie," laughed Louise, maliciously, "he is feeling in his
pocket for his knife. I suspect he intends to cut your hand off."
Elsie started, and the tearful eyes were raised to her father's
face with a look half of terrified entreaty, half of confidence
that such _could not_ be his intention.
"Hush, Louise!" exclaimed her brother, sternly; "you _know_
you are not speaking truly, and that I would as soon think of
cutting off my own hand as my child's. You should never speak
anything but truth, especially to children."
"I think it is well enough to frighten them a little sometimes,
and I thought that was what you were going to do," replied Louise,
looking somewhat mortified at the rebuke.
"No," said her brother, "that is a very bad plan, and one which I
shall never adopt. Elsie will learn in time, if she does not know
it now, that I never utter a threat which I do not intend to carry
out, and never break my word."
He had drawn a handkerchief from his pocket while speaking.
"I shall tie this hand up, Elsie," he said, proceeding to do so;
"those who do not use their hands aright must be deprived of the
use of them. There! let me see if that will keep it out of
mischief. I shall tie you up hand and foot before long, if you
continue such mischievous pranks. Now go to your room, and stay
there until tea-time."
Elsie felt deeply, bitterly disgraced and humiliated as she turned
to obey; and it needed not Arthur's triumphant chuckle nor the
smirk of satisfaction on Enna's face to add to the keen suffering
of her wounded spirit; this slight punishment was more to her than
a severe chastisement would have been to many another child; for
the very knowledge of her father's displeasure was enough at any
time to cause great pain to her sensitive spirit and gentle,
loving heart.
Walter, who was far more tender-hearted than either his brother or
sister, felt touched by the sight of her distress, and ran after
her to say, "Never mind, Elsie; I am ever so sorry for you, and I
don't think you were the least bit naughty."
She thanked him with a grateful look, and a faint attempt to smile
through her tears; then hurried on to her room, where she seated
herself in a chair by the window, and laying her arms upon the
sill, rested her head upon them, and while the bitter tears fell
fast from her eyes she murmured half aloud, "Oh! why am I always
so naughty? always doing something to displease my dear papa? how
I wish I could be good, and make him love me! I am afraid he never
will if I vex him so often."
Then an earnest, importunate prayer for help to do right, and
wisdom to understand how to gain her father's love, went up from
the almost despairing little heart to Him whose ear is ever open
unto the cry of His suffering children. And thus between weeping,
mourning, and praying, an hour passed slowly away, and the tea-
bell rang.
Elsie started up, but sat down again, feeling that she would much
rather do without her supper than show her tear-swollen eyes and
tied-up hand at the table.
But she was not to be left to her choice in the matter, for
presently there came a messenger bringing a peremptory command
from her father "to come down _immediately_ to her supper."
"Did you not hear the bell?" he asked, in his sternest tone, as
she tremblingly took her seat at his side.
"Yes, sir," she answered, in a low, tremulous tone.
"Very well, then; remember that you are always to come down the
moment the bell rings, unless you are directed otherwise, or are
sick; and the next time you are so late, I shall send you away
without your meal."
"I don't want any supper, papa," she said, humbly.
"Hush," he replied, severely; "I will have no pouting or sulking;
you must just eat your supper and behave yourself. Stop this
crying at once," he added, in an undertone, as he spread some
preserves on a piece of bread and laid it on her plate, "or I
shall take you away from the table, and if I do, you will be very
sorry."
He watched her a moment while she made a violent effort to choke
back her tears.
"What is your hand tied up for, Elsie?" asked her grandfather;
"have you been hurt?"
Elsie's face flushed painfully, but she made no reply.
"You must speak when you are spoken to," said her father; "answer
your grandfather's question at once."
"Papa tied it up, because I was naughty," replied the little girl,
vainly striving to suppress a sob.
Her father made a movement as if about to lead her from the table.
"O papa! _don't_" she cried, in terror; "I will be good."
"Let me have no more crying, then," said he; "this is shameful
behavior for a girl eight years old; it would be bad enough in a
child of Enna's age." He took out his handkerchief and wiped her
eyes. "Now," said he, "begin to eat your supper at once, and don't
let me have to reprove you again."
Elsie tried to obey, but it seemed very difficult, indeed almost
impossible, while she knew that her father was watching her
closely, and _felt_ that everybody else was looking at her
and thinking, "What a naughty little girl you are!"
"Oh!" thought the poor child, "if papa would only quit looking at
me, and the rest would forget all about me and eat their suppers,
maybe I could keep from crying." Then she sent up a silent prayer
for help, struggling hard to keep back the tears and sobs that
were almost suffocating her, and taking up her slice of bread,
tried to eat.
She was very thankful to her Aunt Adelaide for addressing a
question to her papa just at that moment, thus taking his
attention from her, and then adroitly setting them all to talking
until the little girl had had time to recover her composure, at
least in a measure.
"May I go to my room now, papa?" asked the timid little voice as
they rose from the table.
"No," he said, taking her hand and leading her out to the veranda,
where he settled himself in an easy-chair and lighted a cigar.
"Bring me that book that lies yonder on the settee," he commanded.
She brought it.
"Now," said he, "bring that stool and set yourself down here close
at my knee, and let me see if I can keep you out of mischief for
an hour or two."
"May I get a book to read, papa?" she asked timidly.
"No," said he shortly. "You may just do what I bid you, and
nothing more nor less."
She sat down as he directed, with her face turned toward him, and
tried to amuse herself with her own thoughts, and watching the
expression of his countenance as he read on and on, turning leaf
after leaf, too much interested in his book to take any further
notice of her.
"How handsome my papa is!" thought the little girl, gazing with
affectionate admiration into his face. And then she sighed, and
tears trembled in her eyes again. She admired her father, and loved
him, "oh! _so_ dearly," as she often whispered to herself; but
would she ever meet with anything like a return of her fond affection?
There was an aching void in her heart which nothing else could fill;
must it always be thus? was her craving for affection never to be
satisfied? "O, papa! my own papa, will you never love me?" mourned
the sad little heart. "Ah! if I could only be good always, perhaps
he would; but I am so often naughty; --whenever he begins to be kind
I am sure to do something to vex him, and then it is all over. Oh! I
_wish_ I _could_ be good! I will try very, _very_ hard.
Ah! if I might climb on his knee now, and lay my head on his breast,
and put my arms round his neck, and tell him how sorry I am that I
have been naughty, and made him lose his bird; and how much--oh!
_how_ much I love him! But I know I never could tell him _that_
--I don't know how to express it; no _words could_, I am sure.
And if he would forgive me, and kiss me, and call me his dear little
daughter. Oh! will he _ever_ call me _that?_ Or if I, might
only stand beside him and lay my head on his shoulder, and
he would put his arm around me, it would make me _so_ happy."
An exclamation from Enna caused Elsie to turn her head, and
suddenly springing to her feet, she exclaimed in an eager, excited
way, "Papa, there is a carriage coming up the avenue--it must be
visitors; please, _please_, papa, let me go to my room."
"Why?" he asked coolly, looking up from his book, "why do you wish
to go?"
"Because I don't want to see them, papa," she said, hanging her
head and blushing deeply; "I don't want them to see me."
"You are not usually afraid of visitors," he replied in the same
cool tone.
"But they will see that my hand is tied up, and they will ask what
is the matter. O papa! do, _please_ do let me go quickly,
before they get here," she pleaded in an agony of shame and haste.
"No," said he, "I shall not let you go, if it were only to punish
you for getting off the seat where I bade you stay, without
permission. You will have to learn that I am to be obeyed at all
times, and under all circumstances. Sit down, and don't dare to
move again until I give you leave."
Elsie sat down without another word, but two bitter, scalding
tears rolled quickly down her burning cheeks.
"You needn't cry, Elsie," said her father; "it is only an old
gentleman who comes to see your grandfather on business, and who,
as he never notices children, will not be at all likely to ask any
questions. I hope you will learn some day, Elsie, to save your
tears until there is really some occasion for them."
The old gentleman had alighted while Mr. Dinsmore was speaking;
Elsie saw that he was alone, and the relief was so great that for
once she scarcely heeded her father's rebuke.
Another half-hour passed, and Mr. Dinsmore still sat reading,
taking no notice of Elsie, who, afraid to speak or move, was
growing very weary and sleepy. She longed to lay her head on her
father's knee, but dared not venture to take such a liberty; but
at length she was so completely overpowered by sleep as to do so
unconsciously.
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