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Elsie's Widowhood

<h2>[68] CHAPTER VII.</h2> <div class="block28"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "But O! for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still." —Tennyson. </div> </div></div> It was a chill November day, a day of lowering clouds, wind, rain, sleet and snow. Arthur Conly coming into the drawing-room at Ion and finding its mistress there alone, remarked as he shook hands with her, "The beginning of winter, Cousin Elsie! It is setting in early. It froze hard last night, and the wind to-day is cutting." "Yes," she said, "even papa and my two big, hardy boys found a short walk quite sufficient to satisfy them to-day. But you poor doctors can seldom consult your own comfort in regard to facing wind and storm. Take this easy chair beside the fire." "Thank you, no; I shall find it quite warm enough on the sofa beside you. I am glad to have found you alone, for I want to have a little semi-confidential chat." She gave him an inquiring look. "I am a little uneasy about grandpa," he went on: "he seems feeble and has a troublesome cough, and I think should have a warmer climate through the coming winter. I think too,[69] cousin, that such a change would be by no means hurtful to you or your children," he continued, regarding her with a grave, professional air: "you are a trifle thin and pale, and need something to rouse and stimulate you." "What is it you wish, Arthur?" she asked, with a slight tremble in her voice. "I should be glad if you would go to Viamede for the winter and take our grandfather with you." He paused for an answer. Her face was turned toward a window looking out upon the grounds; her eyes rested with mournful gaze upon a low mound of earth within a little enclosure not many rods away. Arthur read her thoughts, and laying a gentle hand on hers, said in low compassionate tones: "He is not there, cousin, and his spirit will be as near you in your Lily's birthplace, and your own, as here. Is not that home also full of pleasant memories of him?" She gave a silent assent. "And you can take all your other dear ones with you." "Except Edward." "Yes, but in his case it will only involve a little delay in receiving letters. Your father and Aunt Rose I am certain will go with you. And our old grandpa—" "Is a dear old grandpa, and must not suffer[70] anything I can save him from," she interrupted. "Yes, Arthur, I will go, if—if my father approves and will accompany us, of which I have no doubt." He thanked her warmly. "It may be the saving of grandpa's life," he said. "He is getting very old, Arthur." "Yes, past eighty, but with care he may live to be a hundred; he has a naturally vigorous constitution. And how he mellows with age, Elsie! He has become a very lovely Christian, as humble and simple-hearted as a little child." "Yes," she said turning toward him eyes filled with glad tears, "and he has become very dear to me. I think he loves us all—especially papa—and that we shall have a happy winter together." "I don't doubt it; in fact, I quite envy you the prospect." "Oh could you not go with us to stay at least a few weeks? We should all be so very glad to have you." "Quite impossible," he said, shaking his head rather ruefully. "I'm greatly obliged, and should be delighted to accept your invitation, but it isn't often a busy doctor can venture to take such a holiday." "I'm very sorry. But you think there is no doubt that grandpa will be willing to go?" "He'll not hesitate a moment if he hears[71] Uncle Horace is to go. He clings to him now more than to any other earthly creature." "Papa is in the library; shall we join him and hear what he thinks of your plan?" said Elsie, rising. "By all means," returned Arthur, and they did so. Mr. Dinsmore highly approved, as did Rose also on being called in to the conference. "How soon do you think of starting?" she asked, looking at Elsie, then at her husband. "Papa should decide that," Elsie answered, a slight tremble in her voice, thinking of the absent one to whom that question should have been referred were his dear presence still with them. She caught a look of tenderest love and sympathy from her father. How well he understood her! How ever thoughtful of her feelings he was! "I think the decision should rest with you, daughter," he said; "though I suppose the sooner the better." "Yes," said Arthur; "for grandpa especially." "I presume no great amount of preparation will be needful, since it is but a change from one home to another," suggested Rose. "No," said Elsie, "and I think a week will suffice for mine. Papa, can business matters be arranged in that time?" [72] "Oh yes! so we will say this day week." The door had opened very quietly a few moments before, admitting little Rose and Walter, and stealing softly to their mother's side they were now leaning on her lap, looking from one to another of their elders and listening with some curiosity to their conversation. "What is it, mamma?" asked Rosie. "We are talking of going to Viamede, dear." "Oh that will be nice!" "But we tan't doe wis-out papa," prattled Walter; "tan we, mamma? I wish my dear papa tum back quick." Rosie saw the pain in mamma's dear face, the tears in her eyes as she pressed a silent kiss on the brow of the innocent questioner, and with ready, loving tact she seized the little fellow's hand, and, drawing him away, "Come, Walter," she said, "let us go and tell the rest about it." They ran away together, and Arthur rose to take leave. "Am I imposing upon your unselfish kindness of heart, my dear cousin?" he asked in an undertone, taking Elsie's hand in his; "is it too great a sacrifice of your own feelings and inclinations?" She answered with a text, as was not unusual with her, "'Even Christ pleased not himself.'" Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore were conversing apart at the moment. [73] "Perhaps," returned Arthur musingly, "we might make some other arrangement; grandpa might be willing to go without—" "No, no," she interrupted, "I could not think of giving him the pain of separation from papa, nor could I bear that myself. But do not trouble about me; there will be much pleasure mingled with the pain—pleasure in ministering to the comfort and happiness of the dear old grandpa, and in seeing Viamede and the old servants. I have always loved both the place and them." Her father had caught a part of her words. "Separation from me?" he said, turning toward her, "who talks of that? It shall not be with my consent." "No, papa, nor with mine, for either grandpa or myself," she said with a look of affection and a slight smile. "Arthur, will you carry a message from me to Isa?" "With pleasure." "Then tell her I should be very glad to have her spend the winter at Viamede with us, if she feels that she would enjoy the trip and the quiet life we shall lead there. There will, of course, be no gayeties to tempt a young girl." "Thank you," he said, his eyes shining; "I have not the slightest doubt that she will be delighted to accept the invitation. And, now I think of it, Aunt Enna and Molly will of course[74] find a home with us at Roselands while you are away." "No, no, they will go with us," returned Elsie quickly, "unless indeed they prefer to be left behind." Arthur suggested that they would be a great charge, especially upon the journey, but the objection was promptly overruled by Mr. Dinsmore, Rose and Elsie. Molly must go, they all said; she would be sure to enjoy the change greatly: and the poor child had so few pleasures; and the same was true of Enna also: she had never seen Viamede, and could not fail to be delighted with its loveliness; nor would it do to part her from Molly, who was now her chief happiness. "I trust they will appreciate your kindness; Molly will, I am sure," Arthur said as he went away. As the door closed on him, Elsie glided to the window and stood in a pensive attitude gazing out upon that lowly mound, only faintly discernible now in the gathering darkness, for night was closing in early by reason of the heavy clouds that obscured the sky. A yearning importunate cry was going up from her almost breaking heart. "My husband, oh my husband, how can I live without you! Oh to hear once more the sound of your voice, to feel once again the clasp of your arm, the touch of your hand!" [75] A sense of utter loneliness was upon her. But in another moment she felt herself enfolded in a strong yet tender embrace, a gentle caressing hand smoothing her hair. "My darling, my precious one, my own beloved child!" murmured her father's voice in its most endearing accents, as he drew her head to a resting place on his breast. She let it lie there, her tears falling fast. "I fear this going away is to be too great a trial to you," he said. "No, papa, but I am very weak. Forgive my selfish indulgence of my sorrow." "My darling, I can sympathize in it, at least to some extent. I remember even yet the anguish of the first months of my mourning for your mother." "Papa, I feel that my wound can never heal; it is too deep; deep as the roots of my love for him, that had been striking farther and farther into the soil with every one of the many days and years that we lived and loved together." "I fear it may be so," he answered with tenderest compassion; "yet time will dull the edge of your sorrow; you will learn to dwell less upon the pain of the separation, and more upon his present happiness and the bliss of the reunion that will be drawing nearer and nearer with each revolving day. Dear one, this aching pain will not last forever; as Rutherford says,[76] 'Sorrow and the saints are not married together; or suppose it were so, Heaven would make a divorce.'" "They are very sweet words," she murmured, "and sweeter still is the assurance given us in the Scriptures that 'our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.'" "Yes," said Rose, coming to her other side and speaking in low, tender tones, "dear Elsie, let those words comfort you; and these others also, 'Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth.' But for that and similar texts I should wonder much that trial of any kind was ever permitted to come nigh one who has been a loving disciple of Jesus since her very early years." "Was it that I loved my husband too well?" Elsie queried in tremulous tones. "I do not think I made an idol of him; for inexpressibly dear as he was, the Master was dearer still." "If that be so you did not love him—your husband—too well," her father answered. "I hear my children's voices; I must not let them see their mother giving way to grief like this," she said, lifting her head and wiping away her tears. They came in—the whole six—preceded by a servant bearing lights. There was a subdued eagerness about the[77] younger ones, as they hastened to their mother asking, "Mamma, is it really so—that we are going to Viamede?" "Yes, dears, I believe it is quite settled. Grandpa approves, and I hope you are all pleased." "Oh yes, yes!" "If you are, mamma," the older girls said, noticing with affectionate concern the traces of tears on her face; "if not, we prefer to stay here." "Thank you, my darlings," she answered, smiling affectionately upon them; "for several reasons I shall be glad to go, the principal being that our poor old grandfather needs the warm climate he will find there; and of course we could not think of letting him go alone." "Oh no!" they said; "he could not do without grandpa, and neither could we." "And neither could grandpa do without his eldest daughter, or her children," added Mr. Dinsmore playfully, sitting down and taking Walter upon one knee, Rosie upon the other. "So we will all go together, and I trust will have a happy time in that lovely land of fruits and flowers." They had not seen it for several years, not since Walter was a babe and Rosie so young that she remembered but little about it. Both were delighted with the prospect before them, and[78] plied their grandpa with many eager questions, while their mother looked on with growing cheerfulness, resolutely putting aside her grief that she might not mar their pleasure. The other four had gathered about her, Vi on a cushion at her feet, Elsie seated close on one side, Herbert standing on the other, and Harold at the back of her chair, leaning fondly over her, now touching his lips to her cheek, now softly smoothing her shining hair. "Dear mamma, how beautiful you are!" he whispered. "You might as well say it out loud," remarked Herbert, overhearing the words, "because everybody knows it and nobody would want to contradict you." "We are very apt to think those beautiful whom we love," their mother said with a pleased smile, "and the love of my children is very sweet to me." "Yes, mamma, but you are beautiful," insisted Harold; "it isn't only my love that makes you look so to me, though I do love you dearly—dearly." "Mamma knows we all do," said Violet; "we should be monsters of ingratitude if we did not." "As I should be if I were not filled with thankfulness to God that he has blessed me with such dutiful and affectionate children," added the mother. "Mamma, how soon will we go to Viamede?"[79] asked Violet; and that question being answered, another quickly followed. "We will not leave Molly behind?" "No, certainly not; nor Aunt Enna, if they will kindly consent to go with us." "Consent, mamma! I'm sure they cannot help being delighted to go. May I run and tell them?" "Yes, my child; I know you always enjoy being the bearer of pleasant news." Molly heard it with great pleasure and gratitude to her cousin; Enna with even childish delight. Neither had a thought of declining. Isadore Conly, also, was very much pleased, and sure she should vastly enjoy the winter with her relations, spite of many an envious prognostication to the contrary on the part of her mother and Virginia. They would not go on any account, they averred, and were glad they had been overlooked in the invitation—mean as it was in Elsie not to include them—for life at Viamede could not fail to be a very dull affair for that winter at least. But Elsie, of course, heard none of these unkind remarks, and seeing the happiness she was conferring not only upon more distant relations but upon her children also, who showed increasing pleasure in the thought of the expected visit to their lovely southern home as the time drew near, she felt fully repaid for the sacrifice of feeling she was making. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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