Kitabı oku: «Elsie's Widowhood», sayfa 7

"Really, Mrs. Travilla," he said, rising to take leave, "I owe you an apology for this lengthened visit, which has somehow taken the place of my intended call; but I must beg you to lay the blame where it should fall, on the very great attractiveness of your family circle."

"The apology is quite out of proportion to the offence, sir," she returned, with a kindly smile; "so we grant you pardon, and shall not refuse it for a repetition of the misdeed."

"I wish," he said, glancing round from one to another, "that you would all make me a return in kind. I will not say that Magnolia Hall is equal to Viamede, but it is called a fine place, and I can assure you of at least a hearty welcome to its hospitalities."

CHAPTER XIII

 
"I preached as never sure to preach again,
And as a dying man to dying men."
 

– Richard Baxter.

There was a stranger in the pulpit the next Sunday morning; one whose countenance, though youthful, by its intellectuality, its earnest thoughtfulness, and a nameless something that told of communion with God and a strong sense of the solemn responsibility of thus standing as an ambassador for Christ to expound his word and will to sinful, dying men, gave promise of a discourse that should send empty away no attentive hearer hungering and thirsting for the bread and the water of life.

Nor was the promise unfulfilled. Taking as his text the Master's own words, "They hated me without a cause," he dwelt first upon the utter helplessness, hopelessness and wretchedness of that estate of sin and misery into which all mankind were plunged by Adam's fall; then upon God's offered mercy through a Redeemer, even his only begotten and well-beloved Son; upon the wondrous love of Christ "in offering himself a sacrifice to satisfy divine justice and reconcile us to God," as shown first in what he resigned – the joy and bliss of heaven, "the glory which he had with the Father before the world was" – secondly in his birth and life on earth, of which he gave a rapid but vivid sketch from the manger to the cross – showing the meekness, patience, gentleness, benevolence, self-denial, humility and resignation of Jesus – how true, guileless, innocent, loving and compassionate he was; describing the miracles he wrought – every one an act of kindness to some poor sufferer from bereavement, accident, disease, or Satan's power; then the closing scenes of that wondrous life – the agony in the garden, the cruel mockery of a trial, the scourging, the crucifixion, the expiring agonies upon the cross.

He paused; the audience almost held their breath for the next words, the silent tears were stealing down many a cheek.

Leaning over the pulpit with outstretched hand, with features working with emotion, "I have set before you," he said in tones thrilling with pathos, "this Jesus in his life and in his death. He lived not for himself, but for you; he died not for his own sins, but for yours and mine: he offers you this salvation as a free gift purchased with his own blood. Yea, risen again, and ever at the right hand of God, he maketh intercession for you. If you hate him, is it not without a cause?"

The preacher had wholly forgotten himself in his subject; nor did self intrude into the prayer that followed the sermon. Truly he seemed to stand in the immediate presence of Him who died on Calvary and rose again, as he poured out his confessions of sins, his gratitude for redeeming love, his earnest petitions for perishing souls, blindly, wickedly hating without a cause this matchless, this loving, compassionate Saviour. And for Christ's own people, that their faith might be strengthened, their love increased, that they might be very zealous for the Master, abounding in gifts and prayers and labors for the upbuilding of his cause and kingdom.

"The very man we should have here, if he can be induced to come," Mr. Dinsmore said in a quiet aside to his daughter as the congregation began to disperse, going out silently or conversing in subdued tones; for the earnest, solemn discourse had made a deep impression.

"Yes, papa. Oh, I should rejoice to hear such preaching every Sabbath!" was Elsie's answer.

"And I," Mr. Embury said, overhearing her remark. "But Mr. Keith gave us expressly to understand that he did not come as a candidate; he is here for his health or recreation, being worn out with study and pastoral work, as I understand."

"Keith?" exclaimed Mr. Dinsmore. "I thought there was something familiar in his face. Elsie, I think he must belong to our Keiths."

"We must find out, papa," she said. "Oh, I shall be glad if he does!"

"Shall I bring him up and introduce him?" Mr. Embury asked. "Ah, here he is!" as, turning about, he perceived the young minister close at hand.

"Dinsmore! Travilla! those are family names with us!" the latter said, with an earnest, interested look from one to the other as the introductions were made.

"As Keith is with us," Mr. Dinsmore answered, grasping his hand. "I opine that I am speaking to a grandson of my cousin Marcia Keith and her husband, Stuart Keith, of Pleasant Plains, Indiana?"

"Yes, sir; I am the son of Cyril, their second son, and bear the same name. And you, sir, are the Cousin Horace of whom I have so often heard my grandmother and Aunt Mildred speak?"

"The same."

"And Mrs. Travilla is Cousin Elsie?" turning to her with a look of great interest and pleasure mingled with admiration; but which quickly changed to one of intense, sorrowful sympathy as he noticed her widow's weeds. He had often heard of the strong attachment between herself and husband, and this was the first intimation he had had of her bereavement.

She read his look and gave him her hand silently, her heart too full for speech.

"You will go home with us, of course," said Mr. Dinsmore, after introducing his wife and the other ladies of the family.

"And stay as long as you possibly can," added Elsie, finding her voice. "Papa and I shall have a great many questions to ask about our cousins."

"I shall be most happy to accept your kind invitation, if Mr. Embury will excuse me from a prior engagement to dine and lodge with him," replied Mr. Keith, turning with a smile to the proprietor of Magnolia Hall, who was still standing near in a waiting attitude.

"I am loath to do so," he said, pleasantly, "but relatives have the first claim. I will waive mine for the present, in your favor, Mrs. Travilla, if you will indemnify me by permission to call frequently at Viamede while Mr. Keith stays; and afterward, if you don't find me a bore. I might as well make large demands while I am about it."

"Being in a gracious mood, I grant them, large as they are," she responded, in the same playful tone that he had used. "Come whenever it suits your convenience and pleasure, Mr. February."

"Viamede!" said Mr. Keith, meditatively, as they drove homeward. "I remember hearing Aunt Mildred talk of a visit she paid there many years ago, when she was quite a young girl, and you, Cousin Elsie, were a mere baby."

"Yes," said old Mr. Dinsmore. "It was I who brought her. Horace was away in Europe at the time, and the death of Cameron, Elsie's guardian, made it necessary for me to come on and attend to matters. Mildred was visiting us at Roselands that winter, and I was very glad to secure her as travelling companion. Do you remember anything about it, Elsie?"

"Not very much, grandpa," she said: "a little of Cousin Mildred's kindness and affection; something of the pain of parting from my dear home and the old servants. But I have a very vivid recollection of a visit paid to Pleasant Plains with papa," and she turned to him with a deeply affectionate look, "shortly before his marriage. I then saw Aunt Marcia, as both she and papa bade me call her, and Cousin Mildred and all the others, not forgetting Uncle Stewart. We had a delightful visit, had we not, papa?"

"Yes, I remember we enjoyed it greatly."

"I was just then very happy in the prospect of a new mamma," Elsie went on, with a smiling glance at her loved stepmother, "and papa was so very good as to allow me to tell of my happiness to the cousins. Your father was quite a tall lad at that time, Cousin Cyril, and very kind to his little cousin, who considered him a very fine young gentleman."

"He is an elderly man now," remarked his son. "You have seen Aunt Mildred and some others of the family since then?"

"Yes, several times; she and a good many of the others were with us at different times during the Centennial. But why did you not let us know of your coming, Cousin Cyril? why not come directly to us?"

"It was a sudden move on my part," he said, "and indeed I was not aware that I was coming into the neighborhood of Viamede, or that you were there. But I am delighted that it is so – that I have the opportunity to become acquainted with you and to see the place, which Aunt Mildred described as a paradise upon earth."

"We think it almost that, but you shall judge for yourself," she said, with a pleased smile.

"Beautiful! enchanting! the half had not been told me!" he exclaimed in delight, as, a few moments later, he stood upon the veranda gazing out over the emerald velvet of the lawn, bespangled with its many hued and lovely flowers, and dotted here and there with giant oaks, graceful magnolias, and clusters of orange trees laden with their delicate, sweet-scented blossoms and golden fruit, to the lakelet whose waters glittered in the sunlight, and the fields, the groves and hills beyond.

"Ah, if earthly scenes are so lovely, what must heaven be!" he added, turning to Elsie a face full of joyful anticipation.

"Yes," she responded in low, moved tones, "how great is their blessedness who walk the streets of the Celestial City! How their eyes must feast upon its beauties! And yet – ah, methinks it must be long ere they can see them, for gazing upon the lovely face of Him whose blood has purchased their right to enter there."

"Even so," he said. "Oh, for one glimpse of His face! Dear cousin," and he took her hand in his, "let the thought of the 'exceeding and eternal weight of glory' your loved one is now enjoying, and which you will one day share with him, comfort you in your loneliness and sorrow."

"It does, it does!" she said tremulously, "that and the sweet sense of His abiding love, and presence who can never die and never change. I am far from unhappy, Cousin Cyril. I have found truth in those beautiful words,

 
'Then sorrow touched by Thee, grows bright
With more than rapture's ray,
As darkness shows us worlds of light
We never saw by day.'"
 

They had been comparatively alone for the moment, no one near enough to overhear the low-toned talk between them.

The young minister was greatly pleased with Viamede – the more so the more he saw of it – and with his new-found relatives, the more and better he became acquainted with them; while they found him all his earnest, scriptural preaching had led them to expect.

His religion was not a mask, or a garment to be worn only in the pulpit or on the Sabbath, but permeated his whole life and conversation; as was the case with most if not all of those with whom he now sojourned; and like them, he was a happy Christian; content with the allotments of God's providence, walking joyously in the light of his countenance, making it the one purpose and effort of his life to live to God's glory and bring others to share in the blessed service.

He was strongly urged to spend the Winter at Viamede as his cousin's guest, and preacher to the two churches.

He took a day or two to consider the matter, then, to the great satisfaction of all concerned, consented to remain, thanking his cousins warmly for their kindness in giving him so sweet a home; for they made him feel that he was entirely one of themselves, always welcome in their midst, yet at perfect liberty to withdraw into the seclusion of his own apartments whenever duty or inclination called him to do so.

The well-stocked library supplied him with all needed books, there were servants to wait upon him, horses at his disposal, in short, nothing wanting for purposes of work or of recreation. Again and again he said to himself, or in his letters to those in the home he had left, that "the lines had fallen to him in pleasant places."

In the meantime Elsie found the truth as expounded by him from Sabbath to Sabbath, and in the week-day evening service and the family worship, most comforting and sustaining; while his intelligent, agreeable conversation and cheerful companionship were most enjoyable at other times.

"Cousin Cyril" soon became a great favorite with those who claimed the right to call him so, and very much liked and looked up to by Isadore, Molly, and the rest to whom he was simply Mr. Keith.

In common with all others who knew them, he admired his young cousins, Elsie and Violet, extremely, and found their society delightful.

Molly's sad affliction called forth, from the first, his deepest commiseration; her brave endurance of it, her uniform cheerfulness under it, his strong admiration and respect.

Yet he presently discovered that Isadore Conly had stronger attractions for him than any other woman he had ever met. It was not her beauty alone, her refinement, her many accomplishments, but principally her noble qualities of mind and heart, gradually opening themselves to his view as day after day they met in the unrestrained familiar intercourse of the home circle, or walked or rode out together, sometimes in the company of others, sometimes alone.

Mr. Embury made good use of the permission Mrs. Travilla had granted him, and occasionally forestalling Cyril's attentions, led the latter to look upon him as a rival.

Molly watched it all, and though now one and now the other devoted an hour to her, sitting by her side in the house doing his best to entertain her with conversation, or pushing her wheeled chair about the walks in the beautiful grounds, or taking her out for a drive, thought both were in pursuit of Isa.

It was their pleasure to wait upon Isa, Elsie and Vi, while pity and benevolence alone led them to bestow some time and effort upon herself – a poor cripple whom no one could really enjoy taking about.

She had but a modest opinion of her own attractions, and would have been surprised to learn how greatly she was really admired by both gentlemen, for her good sense, her talent, energy and perseverance in her chosen line of work, and her constant cheerfulness; how brilliant and entertaining they often found her talk, pronouncing it "bright, sparkling, witty;" how attractive her intellectual countenance and her bright, dark, expressive eyes.

CHAPTER XIV

 
"Something the heart must have to cherish,
Must love and joy, and sorrow learn;
Something with passion clasp or perish,
And in itself to ashes burn."
 

– Longfellow.

"Molly, how you do work! a great deal too hard, I am sure," said the younger Elsie, coming into her cousin's room, to find her at her writing desk, pen in hand, as usual, an unfinished manuscript before her, and books and papers scattered about.

Molly looked up with a forced smile: she was not in mirthful mood.

"It is because I am so slow that I must keep at it or I get nothing done."

"Well, there's no need," said Elsie, "and really, Molly dear, I do believe you would gain time by resting more and oftener than you do. Who can work fast and well when brain and body are both weary? I have come to ask if you will take a drive with our two grandpas, grandma and Mrs. Carrington?"

"Thank you kindly, but I can't spare the time to-day."

"But don't you think you ought? Your health is of more importance than that manuscript. I am sure, Molly, you need the rest. I have noticed that you are growing thin and pale of late, and look tired almost all the time."

"I was out for an hour this morning."

"An hour! and the weather is so delightful, everything out of doors looking so lovely, that the rest of us find it next to impossible to content ourselves within doors for an hour. Some of us are going to play croquet. If you will not drive, won't you let one of the servants wheel you out there – near enough to enable you to watch the game?"

"Please don't think me ungracious," Molly answered, coloring, "but I really should prefer to stay here and work."

"I think Aunt Enna is going with us, and you will be left quite alone, unless you will let me stay, or send a servant to sit with you," Elsie suggested.

But Molly insisted that she would rather be alone. "And you know," she added, pointing to a silver hand bell on the table before her, "I can ring if I need anything."

So Elsie went rather sadly away, more than half suspecting that Molly was grieving over her inability to move about as others did, and take part in the active sports they found so enjoyable and healthful.

And indeed she had hardly closed the door between them when the tears began to roll down Molly's cheeks. She wiped them away and tried to go on with her work; but they came faster and faster, till throwing down her pen she hid her face in her hands, and burst into passionate weeping, sobs shaking her whole frame.

A longing so intense had come over her to leave that chair, to walk, to run, to leap and dance, as she had delighted to do in the old days before that terrible fall. She wanted to wander over the velvety lawn beneath her windows, to pluck for herself the many-hued, sweet-scented flowers, growing here and there in the grass. Kind hands were always ready to gather and bring them to her, but it was not like walking about among them, stooping down and plucking them with her own fingers.

Oh to feel her feet under her and wander at her own sweet will about the beautiful grounds, over the hills and through the woods! Oh to feel that she was a fit mate for some one who might some day love and cherish her as Mr. Travilla had loved and cherished her whom he so fondly called his "little wife!"

She pitied her cousin for her sad bereavement; her heart had often, often bled for her because of her loss; but ah! it were "better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all."

Never to love, never to be loved, that was the hardest part of it all.

There was Dick, to be sure, the dear fellow! how she did love him! and she believed he loved her almost as well; but the time would come when another would have the first place in his heart; perhaps it had already come.

Her mother's affection was something, but it was the love of a stronger nature than her own that she craved, a staff to lean upon, a guiding, protecting love, a support such as is the strong, stately oak to the delicate, clinging vine.

There were times when she keenly enjoyed her independence, perfect liberty to control her own actions and choose her own work; her ability to earn a livelihood for herself; but at this moment all that was as nothing.

Usually she was submissive under her affliction; now her heart rebelled fiercely against it. She called it a hard and cruel fate, to which she could not, would not be resigned.

She was frightened at herself as she felt that she was so rebellious, and that she was envying the happiness of the cousins who had for years treated her with unvarying kindness; that her lot seemed the harder by contrast with theirs.

And yet how well she knew that theirs was not perfect happiness – that the death of the husband and father had been a sore trial to them all.

Through the open window she saw the handsome, easy-rolling family carriage drive away and disappear among the trees on the farther side of the lawn; then the croquet party setting out for the scene of their proposed game, which was at some little distance from the mansion, though within the grounds.

She noticed that Isa and Mr. Keith walked first – very close together, and looking very like a pair of lovers, she thought – then Mr. Embury with Violet's graceful, girlish figure by his side, she walking with a free, springing step that once poor Molly might have emulated, as she called to mind with a bitter groan and an almost frantic effort to rise from her chair.

Ah, what was it that so sharpened the sting brought by the thought of her own impotence, as she saw Vi's bright, beautiful face uplifted to that of her companion? A sudden glimpse into her own heart sent a crimson tide all over the poor girl's face.

"O Molly Percival, what a fool you are!" she exclaimed half aloud, then burst into hysterical weeping; but calming herself almost instantly. "No, I will not, will not be so weak!" she said, turning resolutely from the window. "I have been happy in my work, happy and content, and so will I be again. No foolish impossible dreams for you, Molly Percival! no dog in the manger feelings either; you shall not indulge them."

But the thread of thought was broken and lost, and she tried in vain to recover it; a distant hum of blithe voices came now and again to her ear with disturbing influence.

She could not rise and go away from it.

Again the pen was laid aside, and lying back in her chair with her head against its cushions, she closed her eyes with a weary sigh, a tear trickling slowly down her cheek.

"I cannot work," she murmured. "Ah, if I could only stop thinking these miserable, wicked thoughts!"

Mrs. Travilla, returning from a visit to the quarter, stopped a moment to watch the croquet players.

"Where is Molly?" she asked of her eldest daughter; "did she go with your grandpa and the others?"

"No, mamma, she is in her room, hard at work as usual, poor thing!"

"She is altogether too devoted to her work; she ought to be out enjoying this delicious weather. Surely you did not neglect to invite her to join you here, Elsie?"

"No, mamma, I did my best to persuade her. I can hardly bear to think she is shut up there alone, while all the rest of us are having so pleasant an afternoon."

"It is too bad," Mr. Embury remarked, "and I was strongly tempted to venture into her sanctum and try my powers of persuasion; but refrained lest I should but disturb the flow of thought and get myself into disgrace without accomplishing my end. Have you the courage to attempt the thing, Mrs. Travilla?"

"I think I must try," she answered, with a smile, as she turned away in the direction of the house.

She found Molly at work, busied over a translation for which she had laid aside the unfinished story interrupted by the younger Elsie's visit.

She welcomed her cousin with a smile, but not a very bright or mirthful one, and traces of tears about her eyes were very evident.

"My dear child," Elsie said, in tones as tender and compassionate as she would have used to one of her own darlings, and laying her hand affectionately on the young girl's shoulder, "I do not like to see you so hard at work while every one else is out enjoying this delightful weather. How can you resist the call of all the bloom and beauty you can see from your window there?"

"It is attractive, cousin," Molly answered; "I could not resist it if – if I could run about as others do," she added, with a tremble in her voice.

"My poor, poor child!" Elsie said with emotion, bending down to press a kiss on the girl's forehead.

Molly threw her arms about her, and burst into tears and sobs.

"Oh it is so hard, so hard! so cruel that I must sit here a helpless cripple all my days! How can I bear it, for years and years, it may be!"

"Dear child, 'sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.' Let us live one day at a time, leaving the future with our heavenly Father, trusting in His promise that as our day our strength shall be. Rutherford says, 'These many days I have had no morrow at all.' If it were so with all of us, how the burdens would be lightened! for a very large part of them is apprehension for the future. Is it not?"

"Yes, and I am ashamed of my weakness and cowardice."

"Dear child, I have often admired your strength and courage under a trial I fear I should not bear half so well."

Molly lifted to her cousin's a face full of wonder, surprise and gratitude; then it clouded again and tears trembled in her eyes and in her voice, as she said, "But, Cousin Elsie, you must let me work; it is my life, my happiness; the only kind I can ever hope for, ever have. Others may busy themselves with household cares, may fill their hearts with the sweet loves of kind husbands and dear little children; but these things are not for me. O cousin, forgive me!" she cried, as she saw the pained look in Elsie's face. "I did not mean – I did not intend – "

"To remind me of the past," Elsie whispered, struggling with her tears. "It is full of sweet memories, that I would not be without for anything. Oh true indeed is it that

 
'Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all."
 

"O Cousin Elsie, your faith and patience are beautiful!" cried Molly, impulsively. "You never murmur at your cross, you are satisfied with all God sends. I wish it were so with me, but – O cousin, cousin, my very worst trouble is that I am afraid I am not a Christian! that I have been deceiving myself all these years!" she ended with a burst of bitter weeping.

"Molly dear," Elsie said, folding her in her arms and striving to soothe her with caresses, "you surprise me very much, for I have long seen the lovely fruit of the Spirit in your life and conversation. Do you not love Jesus and trust in him alone for salvation?"

"I thought I did, and oh I cannot bear to think of not belonging to him! it breaks my heart!"

"Then why should you think so?"

"Because I find so much of evil in myself. If you knew the rebellious thoughts and feelings I have had this very day you would not think me a Christian. I have hated myself because of them."

"You have struggled to cast them out, you have not encouraged or loved them. Is that what they do who have no love to Christ? no desire after conformity to his will? It is the child of God who hates sin and struggles against it. But it is not necessary to decide whether you have or have not been mistaken in your past experience, since you may come to Jesus now just as if you had never come before: give yourself to him and accept his offered salvation without stopping to ask whether it is for the first or the ten thousandth time. Oh that is always my comfort when assailed by doubts and fears! 'Behold, now is the accepted time; behold, now is the day of salvation.' Jesus says, to-day and every day, 'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' 'Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.'"

Glad tears glistened in Molly's eyes. "And he will pardon my iniquity though it is so great," she murmured, with trembling lip and half averted face: "he will forgive all my transgressions and my sins, cleanse me from them and love me freely."

"Yes, dear child, he will. And now put away your work for the rest of this day and come out into the pure, sweet air. If we weary our poor, weak bodies too much, Satan is but too ready to take advantage of our physical condition to assault us with temptations, doubts and fears."

"I will do as you think best, cousin," was the submissive reply.

Elsie at once summoned a servant, and in a few moments Molly's chair was rolling along the gravelled walks, underneath the grand old trees, a gentle breeze from the lakelet, laden with the scent of magnolias and orange blossoms, gathered in its passage across the lawn, softly fanning her cheek, her cousin walking by her side and entertaining her with pleasant chat.

Rosie and Walter came running to meet them. They were glad to see Molly out: they filled her lap with flowers and her ears with their sweet innocent prattle, her heart growing lighter as she listened and drank in beside all the sweet sights and scents and sounds of nature in her most bountiful mood.

They made a partial circuit of the grounds that at last brought them to the croquet players, who, one and all, greeted Molly's arrival with expressions of satisfaction or delight.

Each brought an offering of bud or blossom, the loveliest and sweetest of flowers were scattered so profusely on every hand.

Mr. Embury's was a half blown rose, and Elsie, furtively watching her charge, noted the quick blush with which it was received, the care with which it was stealthily treasured afterward.

A suspicion stirred in her breast, a fear that made her heart tremble and ache for the poor girl.

Mr. Embury spent the evening at Viamede. Molly was in the parlor with the rest, and the greater part of the time he was close at her side.

Both talked more than usual, often addressing each other, and seemed to outdo themselves in sparkling wit and brilliant repartee.

Molly's cheeks glowed and her eyes shone: she had never been so handsome or fascinating before, and Mr. Embury hung upon her words.

Elsie's heart sank as she saw it all. "My poor child!" she sighed to herself. "I must warn him that her affections are not to be trifled with. He may think her sad affliction is her shield – raising a barrier that she herself must know to be impassable – but when was heart controlled by reason?"

The next morning Enna, putting her head in at the door of the dressing-room where her niece was busy with her little ones, said: "Elsie, I wish you'd come and speak a word to Molly. She'll hear reason from you, maybe, though she thinks I haven't sense enough to give her any advice."

"What is it?" Elsie asked, obeying the summons at once, leaving Rosie and Walter in Aunt Chloe's charge.

"Just come to her room, won't you?" Enna said, leading the way. "I don't see what possesses the child to act so. He's handsome and rich and everything a reasonable woman could ask. I want you to – But there! he's gone, and it's too late!"

Elsie following her glance through a window they were passing, saw Mr. Embury's carriage driving away.

"Did he ask Molly to go with him?" she inquired.

"Yes, and she wouldn't do it; though I did all I could to make her. Come and speak to her though, so she'll know better next time."

Molly sat in an attitude of dejection, her face hidden in her hands, and did not seem conscious of their entrance until Elsie's hand was softly laid on her shoulder, while the pitying voice asked, "What is the matter, Molly dear?"