CHAPTER V.
A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded, A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.
--BYRON.
Elsie was nearly twelve when her little brother was born. During thenext three years she led a life of quiet happiness, unmarked by anystriking event. There were no changes in the little family at the Oaksbut such as time must bring to all. Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore perhapslooked a trifle older than when they married, Elsie was budding intowomanhood as fair and sweet a flower as ever was seen, and the babyhad grown into a healthy romping boy.
At Roselands, on the contrary, there had been many and importantchanges. Louise and Lora were both married; the former to a residentof another State, who had taken her to his distant home; the latter toEdward Howard, an older brother of Elsie's friend Carrie. They had notleft the neighborhood, but were residing with his parents.
For the last two or three years Arthur Dinsmore had spent hisvacations at home; he was doing so now, having just completed hisfreshman year at Princeton. On his return Walter was to accompany himand begin his college career.
Miss Day left soon after Lora's marriage and no effort had been madeto fill her place, Adelaide having undertaken to act as governess toEnna, now the only remaining occupant of the school-room.
Taking advantage of an unusually cool breezy afternoon, Elsie rodeover to Tinegrove, Mr. Howard's plantation--to make a call. She foundthe family at home and was urged to stay to tea; but declined, sayingshe could not without permission, and had not asked it.
"You will at least take off your hat," said Carrie.
"No, thank you," Elsie answered, "it is not worth while, as I must goso soon. If you will excuse me, I can talk quite as well with it on."
They had not met for several weeks and found a good deal to say toeach other. At length Elsie drew out her watch.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, "I have overstayed my time! I had no idea it wasso late--you have been so entertaining; but I must go now." And sherose hastily to take leave.
"Nonsense!" said her Aunt Lora in whose boudoir they were sitting,"there is no such great hurry, I am sure. You'll get home long beforedark."
"Yes, and might just as well stay another five or ten minutes. I wishyou would; for I have ever so much to say to you," urged Carrie.
"It would be very pleasant, thank you, but indeed I must not. See howthe shadows are lengthening, and papa does not at all like to have meout after sunset unless he is with me."
"He always was overcareful of you, erring on the right side, Isuppose, if that be an allowable expression," laughed Lora, as she andCarrie followed Elsie to the door to see her mount her horse.
The adieus were quickly spoken and the young girl, just touching thewhip to the sleek side of her pony, set off at a gallop, closelyfollowed by her faithful attendant Jim.
Several miles of rather a lonely road lay between them and home, andno time was to be lost, if they would reach the Oaks while the sun wasstill above the horizon.
They were hardly more than half a mile from the entrance to thegrounds, when Elsie caught sight of a well-known form slowly movingdown the road a few paces ahead of them. It was Arthur, and she soonperceived that it was his intention to intercept her; he stopped,turning his face toward her, sprang forward as she came up, and seizedher bridle.
"Stay a moment, Elsie," he said, "I want to speak to you."
"Then come on to the Oaks, and let us talk there; please do, for I amin a hurry."
"No, I prefer to say my say where I am. I'll not detain you long. Youkeep out of earshot, Jim. I want to borrow a little money, Elsie; atrifle of fifty dollars or so. Can you accommodate me?"
"Not without papa's knowledge, Arthur. So I hope you do not wish toconceal the matter from him."
"I do. I see no reason why he should know all my private affairs.Can't you raise that much without applying to him? Isn't yourallowance very large now?"
"Fifty dollars a month, Arthur, but subject to the same conditions asof old. I must account to papa for every cent."
"Haven't you more than that in hand now?"
"Yes, but what do you want it for?"
"That's neither your business nor his; let me have it for two weeks,I'll pay it back then, and in the meantime he need know nothing aboutit."
"I cannot; I never have any concealments from papa, and I must give inmy account in less than a week."
"Nonsense! You are and always were the most disobliging creaturealive!" returned Arthur with an oath.
"Oh, Arthur, how can you say such wicked words," she said, recoilingfrom him with a shudder. "And you quite misjudge me. I would be gladto do anything for you that is right. If you will let me tell papayour wish, and he gives consent, you shall have the money at once. Nowplease let me go. The sun has set and I shall be so late that papawill be anxious and much displeased."
"Who cares if he is!" he answered roughly, still retaining his holdupon her bridle, and compelling her to listen while he continued tourge his request; enforcing it with arguments and threats.
They were alike vain, she steadfastly refused to grant it except onthe conditions she had named, and which he determinately rejected--andinsisted being left free to pursue her homeward way.
He grew furious, and at length with a shocking oath released herbridle, but at the same instant struck her pony a severe blow upon hishaunches, with a stout stick he held in his hand.
The terrified animal, smarting with the pain, started aside, rearedand plunged in a way that would have unseated a less skilful rider,and had nearly thrown Elsie from the saddle: then darted off at thetop of its speed; but fortunately turned in at the gate held open byJim, who had ridden on ahead and dismounted for that purpose.
"Whoa, you Glossy! whoa dere!" he cried, springing to the head of theexcited animal, and catching its bridle in his powerful grasp.
"Just lead her for a little, Jim," said Elsie "There, there! my poorpretty Glossy, be quiet now. It was too cruel to serve you so; butit shan't happen again if your mistress can help it," she added in avoice tremulous with sympathy and indignation, patting and strokingher pony caressingly as she spoke.
Jim obeyed, walking on at a brisk pace, leading Glossy with his righthand, and keeping the bridle of the other horse over his left arm.
"I'll walk the rest of the way, Jim," said Elsie presently, "just stopher and let me get down. There," springing lightly to the ground, "youmay lead them both to the stable now."
She hurried forward along the broad, gravelled winding carriage roadthat led to the house. The next turn brought her face to face with herfather.
"What, Elsie! alone and on foot at this late hour?" he said in a toneof mingled surprise and reproof.
"I have been riding, papa, and only a moment since dismounted and letJim lead the horses down the other road to the stables."
"Ah, but how did you come to be so late?" he asked, drawing her handwithin his arm and leading her onward.
"I have been to Tinegrove, sir, and Aunt Lora, Carrie, and I found somuch to say to each other, that the time slipped away before I knewit."
"It must not happen again, Elsie."
"I do not mean it shall, papa, and I am very sorry."
"Then I excuse you this once, daughter; it is not often you give meoccasion to reprove you."
"Thank you, papa," she said with a grateful, loving look. "Did youcome out in search of me?"
"Yes, your mamma and I had begun to grow anxious lest some accidenthad befallen you. Our little daughter is such a precious treasure thatwe must needs watch over her very carefully," he added in a tone thatwas half playful, half tender, while he pressed the little glovedhand in his, and his eyes rested upon the sweet fair face with anexpression of proud fatherly affection.
Her answering look was full of filial reverence and love. "Dear papa,it is so nice to be so loved and cared for; so sweet to hear suchwords from your lips. I do believe I'm the very happiest girl in theland." She had already almost forgotten Arthur and his rud
eness andbrutality.
"And I the happiest father," he said with a pleased smile. "Ah, herecomes mamma to meet as with little Horace."
The child ran forward with a glad shout to meet his sister, Rose mether with loving words and a fond caress; one might have thought fromtheir joyous welcome, that she was returning after an absence ofweeks or months instead of hours. Letting go her father's arm as theystepped upon the piazza Elsie began a romping play with her littlebrother, but at a gentle reminder from her mamma that the tea bellwould soon ring, ran away to her own apartments to have her ridinghabit changed for something more suitable for the drawing room.
Chloe was in waiting and her skilful hands made rapid work, puttingthe last touches to her nursling's dress just as the summons to thesupper table was given.
Mr. Dinsmore was quite as fastidious as in former days in regard tothe neatness and tastefulness of Elsie's attire.
"Will I do, papa?" she asked, presenting herself before him, lookingvery sweet and fair in a simple white dress with blue sash andribbons.
"Yes," he said with a satisfied smile, "I see nothing amiss withdress, hair, or face."
"Nor do I," said Rose, leading the way to the supper room, "Aunt Chloeis an accomplished tirewoman. But come, let us sit down to our mealand have it over."
On their return to the drawing room they, found Mr. Travillacomfortably ensconced in an easy chair, reading the evening paper. Hewas an almost daily visitor at the Oaks, and seldom came without somelittle gift for one or both of his friend's children. It was for Elsieto-night. When the usual greetings had been exchanged, he turned toher, saying, "I have brought you a treat. Can you guess what it is?"
"A book!"
"Ah, there must be something of the Yankee about you," he answered,laughing. "Yes, it is a book in two volumes; just published and amost delightful, charming story," he went on, drawing them from hispockets, and handing them to her as he spoke.
"Oh, thank you, sir!" she cried with eager gratitude, "I'm so glad,if--if only papa will allow me to read it. May I, papa?"
"I can tell better when I have examined it, my child," Mr. Dinsmoreanswered, taking one of the volumes from her hands and looking at thetitle on the back. "'The Wide, Wide World!' What sort of a book is it,Travilla?"
"A very good sort. I think. Just glance through it or read a fewpages, and I'm pretty sure it will be sufficient to satisfy you of,not only its harmlessness, but that its perusal would be a benefit toalmost any one."
Mr. Dinsmore did so, Elsie standing beside him, her hand upon his arm,and her eyes on his face--anxiously watching its changes of expressionas he read. They grew more and more satisfactory; the book wasevidently approving itself to his taste and judgment, and presentlyhe returned it to her, saying, with a kind fatherly smile, "Yes, mychild, you may read it. I have no doubt it deserves all the praise Mr.Travilla has given it."
"Oh, thank you, papa, I'm very glad," she answered joyously, "I amjust hungry for a nice story." And seating herself near the light, shewas soon lost to everything about her in the deep interest with whichshe was following Ellen Montgomery through her troubles and trials.
She was loath to lay the book aside when at the usual hour--a quarterbefore nine--the bell rang for prayers. She hardly heeded the summonstill her papa laid his hand on her shoulder, saying, "Come, daughter,you must not be left behind."
She started up then, hastily closing the book, and followed the othersto the dining room, where the servants were already assembled to takepart in the family devotions.
Mr. Travilla went away immediately after and now it was Elsie'sbed-time. Her father reminded her of it as, on coming back from seeinghis friend to the door, he found her again poring over the book.
"Oh, papa, it is so interesting! could you let me finish thischapter?" she asked with a very entreating look up into his face as hestood at her side.
"I suppose I could if I should make a great effort," he answeredlaughingly. "Yes, you may, for once, but don't expect always to beallowed to do so."
"No, sir, oh, no. Thank you, sir."
"Well, have you come to a good stopping-place?" he asked, as shepresently closed the book and put it aside with a slight sigh.
"No, sir, it is just as bad a one as the other. Papa, I wish I wasgrown up enough to read another hour before going to bed."
"I don't," he said, drawing her to a seat upon his knee, and passinghis arm about her waist, "I'm not ready to part with my little girlyet."
"Wouldn't a fine young lady daughter be just as good or better?" sheasked, giving him a hug.
"No, not now, some of these days I may think so."
"But mayn't I stay up and read till ten to-night?"
He shook his head. "Till half-past nine, then?"
"No, not even a till quarter past. Ah, it is that now," he added,consulting his watch.
"You must say good-night and go. Early hours and plenty of sleep formy little girl, that she may grow up to healthful, vigorous womanhood,capable of enjoying life and being very useful in the church and theworld." He kissed her with grave tenderness as he spoke.
"Good-night then, you dear father," she said, returning the caress. "Iknow you would indulge me if you thought it for my good."
"Indeed I would, pet. Would it help to reconcile you to the denialof your wish to know that I shall be reading the book, and probablyenjoying it as much as you would?"
"Ah yes, indeed, papa! it is a real pleasure to resign it to you," sheanswered with a look of delight. "It's just the nicest story! at leastas far as I've read. Read it aloud to mamma, won't you?"
"Yes, if she wishes to hear it. Now away with you to your room andyour bed."
Only waiting to bid her mamma an affectionate good-night, Elsieobeyed, leaving the room with a light step, and a cheerful, happyface.
"Dear unselfish child!" her father said, looking after her.
"She is that indeed," said Rose. "How happy, shall I be if Horacegrows up to be as good and lovable."
Elsie was a fearless horsewoman, accustomed to the saddle from hervery early years. Thus Arthur's wanton attack upon her pony had failedto give her nerves the severe shock it might have caused to those ofmost young girls of her age. Her feeling was more of excitement,and of indignation at the uncalled-for cruelty to a dumb animal,especially her own pet horse, than of fright at the danger to herself.But she well knew that the latter was what her father would think offirst, and that he would be very angry with Arthur; therefore she hadtried, and successfully, to control herself and suppress all signs ofagitation on meeting him upon her return.
She felt glad now as the affair recurred to her recollection whilepreparing for the night's rest, that she had been able to do so. For amoment she questioned with herself whether she was quite right to havethis concealment from her father, but quickly decided that she was.Had the wrong-doing been her own--that would have made it altogetheranother matter.
She was shocked at Arthur's wickedness, troubled and anxious about hisfuture, but freely forgave his crime against her pony and herself,and mingled with her nightly petitions an earnest prayer for hisconversion, and his welfare temporal and spiritual.