CHAPTER XV.
"Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 'Tis woman's whole existence." --_Byron._
Finding her own thoughts full of Molly and her troubles to the exclusionof everything else, Elsie presently dismissed her little ones to theirplay, spent a few moments in consulting her best Friend, then went insearch of her father.
She would not betray Molly even to him, but it would be safe, helpful,comforting to confide her own doubts, fears and anxieties.
She found him in the library, and alone. He was standing before a windowwith his back toward her as she entered, and did not seem to hear herlight footsteps till she was close at his side; then turning hastily, hecaught her in his arms, strained her to his breast, and kissed her againand again with passionate fondness.
"What is it, papa?" she asked in surprise, looking up into his face andseeing it full of emotion that seemed a strange blending of pain andpleasure.
"My darling, my darling!" he said in low, tremulous tones, holding herclose, and repeating his caresses, "how shall I ever make up to you forthe sorrows of your infancy? the culpable, heartless neglect with whichyour father treated you then? I see I surprise you by referring to itnow, but I have been talking with one of the old servants who retains avivid remembrance of your babyhood here, and your heart-rending griefwhen forced away from your home and almost all you had learned to love.Such a picture of it has she given me that I fairly long to go back tothat time and take my baby girl to my heart and comfort her."
"Dear papa, I hardly remember it now," she said, laying her head down onhis breast; "and oh I have the sweetest memories of years and years ofthe tenderest fatherly love and care!--love and care that surround mestill and form one of my best and dearest earthly blessings. If the Lordwill, may we long be spared to each other, my dear, dear father!"
His response was a fervent "Amen," and sitting down upon a sofa, he drewher to a seat by his side.
"I have come to you for help and advice in a new difficulty, papa," shesaid. "I fear I have made a sad mistake in allowing Mr. Embury's visitshere; and yet--I cannot exclude from my house gentlemen visitors ofunexceptionable character."
"No; and he appears to be all that, and more--a sincere, earnestChristian. But what is it that you regret or fear? Elsie is engaged,Violet very young, and for Isa--supposing there were any suchprospect--it would be a most suitable match."
"But Molly?"
"Molly!" he exclaimed with a start. "Poor child! she could never thinkof marriage!"
"No, papa, but hearts don't reason and love comes unbidden."
"And you think she cares for him?"
"It would not be strange if she should; he is a very agreeable man,and--Did you notice them last night? I thought his actions decidedlyloverlike, and there was something in her face that made me tremble forthe poor child's future peace of mind."
"Poor child!" he echoed; "poor, poor child! I am glad you called myattention to it. I must give Embury a hint: he cannot, of course, bethinking what he is about: for I am sure he is not the heartless wretchhe would be if he could wreck her happiness intentionally."
"Thank you, dear papa. You will know exactly how to do it without theleast compromise of the dear girl's womanly pride and delicacy offeeling, or offending or hurting him.
"You spoke just now of Isa," she went on presently. "I should be glad ifshe and Mr. Embury fancied each other; such a match would be verypleasing to Aunt Louise on account of his wealth and social position,little as she would like his piety, but--"
"Well, daughter?"
"Have you noticed how constantly Cyril seeks her companionship? hownaturally the others leave those two to pair off together? They sit andread or chat together by the hour out yonder under the trees; scarce aday passes without its long, lonely ramble or ride. He talks to her ofhis work too, in which his whole heart is engaged; listens attentivelyto all she says--turning in the most interested way to her for anopinion, no matter what subject is broached; listens with delight to hermusic too, and sometimes reads his sermons to her for the benefit of hercriticism, or consults her in regard to his choice of a text."
Mr. Dinsmore's countenance expressed extreme satisfaction. "I am glad ofit," he said; "they seem made for each other."
"But Aunt Louise, papa?"
"Will not fancy a poor clergyman for a son-in-law, yet will considereven that better than not seeing her daughter married at all. And if thetwo most intimately concerned are happy and content, what matter for therest?"
"Oh papa!" Elsie returned with a smile that had something of old-timearchness in it, "have not your opinions in regard to the rights ofparents and the duties of children changed somewhat since my earlygirlhood?"
"Circumstances alter cases," he answered with a playful caress. "Ishould never have objected to so wise a choice as Isa's--alwayssupposing that she has made the one we are talking of."
"And you will not mind if Aunt Louise blames you? or me?"
"I shall take all the blame and not mind it in the least."
Yes, Cyril Keith and Isadore Conly were made for each other, and hadbecome conscious of the fact, though no word of love had yet beenspoken.
To him she was the sweetest and loveliest of her sex, in whom he found astronger union of beauty, grace, accomplishments, sound sense andearnest piety than in any other young lady of his acquaintance; while toher he was the impersonation of all that was truly noble, manly andChristian.
They were dreaming love's young dream, and found intense enjoyment eachin the other's society, especially amid all the loveliness of naturethat surrounded them.
Cyril's was a whole-hearted consecration to his divine Master and thatloved Master's work, but this human love interfered not in any way withthat, for it is of God's appointment.
"'And the Lord God said, It is not good that the man should be alone; Iwill make him an help meet for him.' 'Whoso findeth a wife findeth agood thing, and obtaineth favour of the Lord.'"
"How like you that is, papa dear," Elsie said; "but it would be easierto me to bear blame myself than to have it heaped upon you. I suppose,though, that it would be useless to attempt any interference with thecourse of true love?"
"Yes; we will simply let them alone."
Mr. Dinsmore rode over to Magnolia Hall that afternoon to seek aninterview with its owner; but learned that he was not at home, and mightnot be for a day or two. No one knew just when he would return. So theonly course now left seemed to be to wait till he should call again atViamede.
He had been an almost daily visitor of late, and often sent some tokenof remembrance by a servant--fruit, flowers, game or fish, or it mightbe a book from his library which was not found in theirs.
But now one, two, three days passed and nothing was seen or heard ofhim.
Sad, wearisome days they were to Molly: mental labor was next toimpossible; she could not even read with any enjoyment; her heart washeavy with grief and unsatisfied longing, intensified by her mother'sconstant reiteration, "You've offended him, and he'll never come again;you've thrown away the best chance a girl ever had; and you'll neversee another like it."
Then it was unusually long since she had heard from Dick; and she hadwaited for news from a manuscript which had cost her months of hardwork, and on which great expectations were based, till her heart wassick with hope deferred.
It was on the morning of the fourth day that Molly, having persuaded hermother to go for a walk with her grandfather and Mrs. Carrington,summoned a servant and desired to be taken out into the grounds.
She sat motionless in her chair gazing in mournful silence on all theluxuriant beauty that surrounded her, while the man wheeled her up onewalk and down another.
At length, "That will do, Joe," she said; "you may stop the chair underthat magnolia yonder, and leave me there for an hour."
"I'se 'fraid you git tired, Miss Molly, and nobody roun' for to wait onyou," he remarked when he had placed her in the desired spot.
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"No; I have the bell here, and it can be heard at the house. I have abook, too, to amuse myself with: and the gardener yonder is withinsight. You need not fear to leave me."
He walked away and she opened her book. But she scarcely looked at it.Her thoughts were busying themselves with something else, and her eyeswere full of tears.
A quick, manly step on the gravel walk behind her startled her and senta vivid color over face and neck.
"Good morning, Miss Percival; I am fortunate indeed in finding you herealone," a voice said, close at her side.
"Good morning, Mr. Embury," she returned, with a vain effort to steadyher tones, and without looking up.
He took possession of a rustic seat close to which her chair wasstanding. "Molly, my dear Miss Molly," he said, in some agitation, "Ifear I have unwittingly offended."
"No, no, no!" she answered, bursting into tears in spite of herself."There, what a baby I am!" dashing them angrily away. "I wish youwouldn't come here and set me to crying."
"Let me tell you something, let me ask you one question; and then if youbid me, I will go away and never come near you again," he said, takingher hand and holding it fast. "Molly, I love you. I want you to be mywife. Will you?"
"Oh you don't mean it! you can't mean it! no man in his senses wouldwant to marry me--a poor helpless cripple!" she cried, trying to pullthe hand away, "and it's a cruel, cruel jest! Oh how can you!" andcovering her face with the free hand, she sobbed as if her heart wouldbreak.
"Don't, don't, dear Molly," he entreated. "I am not jesting, nor am Irushing into this thing hastily or thoughtlessly. Your very helplessnessdraws me to you and makes you doubly dear. I want to take care of you,my poor child. I want to make up your loss to you as far as my love andsympathy can; to make your life bright and happy in spite of yourterrible trial."
"You are the noblest, most unselfish man I ever heard of," she said,wiping away her tears to give him a look of amazement and admiration;"but I cannot be so selfish as to take all when I can give nothing inreturn."
"Do you call yourself--with your sweet face, cheery disposition,brilliant talents, and conversational powers that render you the mostentertaining and charming of companions--nothing? I think you a greaterprize than half the women who have the free use of all their limbs."
"You are very kind to say it."
"No, I am not, for it is the simple, unvarnished truth. Molly, if youcan love me, I should rather have you than any other woman on earth. Howyour presence would brighten my home! I give all indeed! you will beworth more to me than all I have to give in return. O Molly, have you nolove to bestow upon poor me?"
She had ceased the struggle to free her hand from the strong yet tenderclasp in which it was held, but her face was averted and tears werefalling fast. His words had sent a thrill of exquisite joy to her heart,but instantly it changed to bitter sorrow.
"You cannot have counted the cost," she said. "I am poor; I have nothingat all but the pittance I earn by my pen. And think: I can never walk byyour side: I cannot go about your house and see that your comfort is notneglected, or your substance wasted. I cannot nurse you in sickness orwait upon you in health as another woman might. Oh cannot you see that Ihave nothing to give you in return for all you--in your wonderfulgenerosity--are offering to me?"
"Your love, dear girl, and the blessed privilege of taking care of you,are all I ask, all I want--can you not give me these?"
"Oh, why do you tempt me so?" she cried.
"Tempt you? would it be a sin to love me? to give yourself to me when Iwant you so much, so very much?"
"It seems to me it would be taking advantage of the most unheard-ofgenerosity. What woman's heart could stand out against it?"
"Ah, then you do love me!" he exclaimed, in accents of joy, and liftingher hand to his lips. "You will be mine? my own dear wife? a sweetmother to my darlings. I have brought them with me, that their beautyand sweetness, their pretty innocent ways, may plead my cause with you,for I know that you love little children." He was gone before she couldreply, and the next moment was at her side again, bearing in his armstwo lovely little creatures of three and five.
"These are my babies," he said, sitting down with one upon each knee."Corinna," to the eldest, "don't you want this sweet lady to come andlive with us and be your dear mamma?"
The child took a long, searching look into Molly's face before sheanswered; then, with a bright, glad smile breaking like sunlight overher own, "Yes, papa, I _do_!" she said, emphatically. "Won't you come,pretty lady? Madie and I will be good children, and love you ever somuch." And she held up her rosebud mouth for a kiss.
Molly gave it very heartily.
"Me, too--you mustn't fordet to tiss Madie," the little one said.
Molly motioned the father to set the child in her lap, and, putting anarm about Corinna, petted and fondled them both for a little, the motherinstinct stirring strongly within her the while.
"There, that will do, my pets; we must not tire the dear lady," Mr.Embury said presently, lifting his youngest and setting her on her feetbeside her sister. "Go back now to your mammy. See, yonder she is,waiting for you."
"What darlings they are," Molly said, following them with wistful,longing eyes.
"Yes. Ah, can your heart resist their appeal?"
"How could I, chained to my chair, do a mother's part by them?" sheasked mournfully, and with a heavy sigh.
"Their physical needs are well attended to," he said, again taking herhand, while his eyes sought hers with wistful, pleading tenderness; "itis motherly counsels, sympathy, love they want. Is it not in your powerto give them all these? I would throw no burdens on you, love; I onlyaim to show you that the giving need not necessarily be all on my side,the receiving all on yours."
"How kind, how noble you are," she said, in moved tones. "But yourrelatives? your other children? how would they feel to see you joinedfor life to a--"
"Don't say it," he interrupted, in tones of tenderest compassion. "Myboys will be drawn to you by your helplessness, while they will be veryproud of your talents and your sweetness. I have no other near relativesbut two brothers, who have no right to concern themselves in the matter,nor will be likely to care to do so. But, O, dearest girl, what shall I,what can I say to convince you that you are my heart's desire? that Iwant you, your love, your dear companionship, more than tongue can tell?Will you refuse them to me?"
She answered only with a look, but it said all he wished.
"Bless you, darling!" he whispered, putting his arm about her, while herhead dropped upon his shoulder, "you have made me very happy."
Molly was silent, was weeping, but for very gladness; her heart sang forjoy; not that a beautiful home, wealth, and all the luxury and ease itcould purchase, would now be hers, but that she was loved by one sonoble and generous, so altogether worthy of her highest respect, herwarmest affection, the devotion of her whole life, which she inwardlyvowed should be his. She would strive to be to him such a wife as Elsiehad been to her husband, such a mother to his children as her sweetcousin was to hers.