But only a few days after Mrs. Travilla's visit, an event occurred,which, by exciting Elsie's sympathy for the sorrows of another, and thuspreventing her from dwelling so constantly upon her own, was of greatbenefit to her.
Adelaide received a letter bringing tidings of the death of one who hadbeen very dear to her. The blow was very sudden--entirely unexpected--andthe poor girl was overwhelmed with grief, made all the harder to endureby the want of sympathy in her family.
Her parents had indeed given their consent to the contemplated union,but because the gentleman, though honorable, intelligent, educated andtalented, was neither rich nor high-born, they had never very heartilyapproved of the connection, and were evidently rather relieved thanafflicted by his death.
Elsie was the only one who really felt deeply for her aunt; and hersilent, unobtrusive sympathy was very grateful.
The little girl seemed almost to forget her own sorrows, for the time, intrying to relieve those of her bereaved aunt. Elsie knew--and this madeher sympathy far deeper and more heartfelt--that Adelaide had noconsolation in her sore distress, but such miserable comfort as may befound in the things of earth. She had no compassionate Saviour to whomto carry her sorrows, but must bear them all alone; and while Elsie waspermitted to walk in the light of his countenance, and to her ear thereever came the soft whispers of his love--"Fear not: thou art mine"--"_I_have loved thee with an _everlasting_ love"--"_I_ will _never_ leave theenor forsake thee," to Adelaide all was darkness and silence.
At first Elsie's sympathy was shown in various little kind offices;sitting for hours beside her aunt's couch, gently fanning her, handingher a drink of cold water, bringing her sweet-scented flowers, andanticipating every want. But at last she ventured to speak.
"Dear Aunt Adelaide," she whispered, "I am so sorry for you. I wish Iknew how to comfort you."
"Oh, Elsie!" sobbed the mourner, "there is no comfort for me, I have lostmy dearest treasure--my all--and no one cares."
"Dear Aunt Adelaide," replied the child timidly, "it is true I am only alittle girl, but I do care very much for your grief; and surely your papaand mamma are very sorry for you."
Adelaide shook her head mournfully. "They are more glad than sorry," shesaid, bursting into tears.
"Well, dear aunty," said Elsie softly, "there is One who does feel foryou, and who is able to comfort you if you will only go to him. One wholoved you so well that he died to save you."
"No, no, Elsie! not me! He cannot care for me! He cannot love me, or hewould never have taken away my Ernest," she sobbed.
"Dear Aunt Adelaide," said Elsie's low, sweet voice, "we cannot alwaystell what is best for us, and will make us happiest in the end.
"I remember once when I was a very little child, I was walking with mammyin a part of my guardian's grounds where we seldom went. I was running onbefore her, and I found a bush with some most beautiful red berries; theylooked delicious, and I hastily gathered some, and was just putting themto my mouth when mammy, seeing what I was about, suddenly sprang forward,snatched them out of my hand, threw them on the ground, and tramped uponthem; and then tearing up the bushes treated them in the same manner,while I stood by crying and calling her a naughty, cross mammy, to takemy nice berries from me."
"Well," asked Adelaide, as the little girl paused in her narrative, "whatdo you mean by your story? You haven't finished it, but, of course, theberries were poisonous."
"Yes," said Elsie; "and mammy was wiser than I, and knew that what I soearnestly coveted would do me great injury."
"And now for the application," said Adelaide, interrupting her; "you meanthat just as mammy was wiser than you, and took your treasure from you inkindness, so God is wise and kind in taking mine from me; but ah! Elsie,the analogy will not hold good; for my good, wise, kind Ernest couldnever have harmed me as the poisonous berries would you. No, no, no, healways did me good!" she cried with a passionate burst of grief.
Elsie waited until she grew calm again, and then said gently, "The Biblesays, dear aunty, that God 'does not willingly afflict nor grieve thechildren of men.' Perhaps he saw that you loved your friend too well,and would never give your heart to Jesus unless he took him away, andso you could only live with him for a little while in this world. Butnow he has taken him to heaven, I hope--for Lora told me Mr. St. Clairwas a Christian--and if you will only come to Jesus and take him foryour Saviour, you can look forward to spending a happy eternity therewith your friend.
"So, dear Aunt Adelaide, may we not believe that God, who is infinitelywise, and good, and kind, has sent you this great sorrow in love andcompassion?"
Adelaide's only answer was a gentle pressure of the little hand she held,accompanied by a flood of tears. But after that she seemed to love Elsiebetter than, she ever had before, and to want her always by her side,often asking her to read a chapter in the Bible, a request with which thelittle girl always complied most gladly.
Adelaide was very silent, burying her thoughts almost entirely in herown bosom; but it was evident that the blessed teachings of the holy bookwere not altogether lost upon her, for the extreme violence of her griefgradually abated, and the expression of her countenance, though stillsad, became gentle and patient.
And could Elsie thus minister consolation to another, and yet find nolessening of her own burden of sorrow? Assuredly not.
She could not repeat to her aunt the many sweet and precious promises ofGod's holy word, without having them brought home to her own heart withrenewed power; she could not preach Jesus to another without finding himstill nearer and dearer to her own soul; and though there were yet timeswhen she was almost overwhelmed with grief, she could truly say that the"consolations of God were not small with her." There was often a weary,weary aching at her heart--such an unutterable longing for her father'slove and favor as would send her weeping to her knees to plead long andearnestly that this trial might be removed; yet she well knew who hadsent it, and was satisfied that it was one of the "_all_ things whichshall work together for good to them that love God," and she was atlength enabled to say in reference to it: "Thy will, not mine, be done,"and to bear her cross with patient submission.
But ah! there was many a bitter struggle, first! She had many sad andlonely hours; and there were times when the yearning of the poor littleheart for her father's presence, and her father's love, was almost morethan weak human nature could endure.
Sometimes she would walk her room, wringing her hands and weepingbitterly.
"Oh, papa! papa!" she would exclaim, again and again, "how can I bear it?how _can_ I bear it? will you never, never come back? will you never,never love me again?"
And then would come up the memory of his words on that sad, sad day, whenhe left her--"Whenever my little daughter writes to me the words I haveso vainly endeavored to induce her to speak, that very day, if possible,I will start for home"--and the thought that it was in her power torecall him at any time; it was but to write a few words and send themto him, and soon he would be with her--he would take her to his heartagain, and this terrible trial would be over.
The temptation was fearfully strong; the struggle often long andterrible; and this fierce battle had to be fought again and again,and once the victory had wellnigh been lost.
She had struggled long; again and again had she resolved that she wouldnot, could not, _dare_ not yield! but vainly she strove to put away thesense of that weary, aching void in her heart--that longing, yearningdesire for her father's love.
"I cannot bear it! oh, I _cannot_ bear it!" she exclaimed, at length; andseizing a pen, she wrote hastily, and with trembling fingers, while thehot, blinding tears dropped thick and fast upon the paper--"Papa, comeback! oh, come to me, and I will be and do all you ask, all you require."
But the pen dropped from her fingers, and she bowed her face upon herclasped hands with a cry of bitter anguish.
"How can I do this great wickedness and sin against God?" The wordsdarted through her mind like a flash of lightning, and then the wor
ds ofJesus seemed to come to her ear in solemn tones: "He that loveth fatherand mother more than me, is not worthy of me!"
"What have I done?" she cried. "Has it come to this, that I must choosebetween my father and my Saviour? and _can_ I give up the love of Jesus?oh, never, _never_!--
'Jesus, I my cross have taken_All_ to leave and follow thee.'"
she repeated, half aloud, with clasped hands, and an upward glance of hertearful eyes. Then, tearing into fragments what she had just written, shefell on her knees and prayed earnestly for pardon, and for strength toresist temptation, and to be "faithful unto death," that she might"receive the crown of life."
When Elsie rapped at her aunt's dressing-room door the next morning, noanswer was returned, and after waiting a moment, she softly opened it,and entered, expecting to find her aunt sleeping. But no, though extendedupon a couch, Adelaide was not sleeping, but lay with her face buried inthe pillows, sobbing violently.
Elsie's eyes filled with tears, and softly approaching the mourner, sheattempted to soothe her grief with words of gentle, loving sympathy.
"Oh! Elsie, you cannot feel for me; it is impossible!" exclaimed her auntpassionately. "_You_ have never known sorrow to be compared to mine! Youhave never loved, and lost--you have known none but mere childishgriefs."
"'The heart knoweth his own bitterness!'" thought Elsie, silent tearsstealing down her cheeks, and her breast heaving with emotion.
"Dear Aunt Adelaide," she said in tremulous tones, "_I_ think I _can_feel for you. Have I not known _some_ sorrow? Is it nothing that I havepined all my life long for a mother's love? nothing to have beenseparated from the dear nurse, who had almost supplied her place? Oh,Aunt Adelaide!" she continued, with a burst of uncontrollable anguish,"is it nothing, _nothing_ to be separated from my beloved father, mydear, only parent, whom I love better than my life--to be refused even aparting caress--to live month after month, and year after year under hisfrown--and to fear that his love may be lost to me forever? Oh! papa,papa, will you never, _never_ love me again?" she cried, sinking on herknees, and covering her face with her hands, while the tears trickledfast between the slender fingers.
Her aunt's presence was for the moment entirely forgotten, and she wasalone with her bitter grief.
Adelaide looked at her with a good deal of surprise. She had never beforeseen her give way to such a burst of sorrow, for Elsie was usually calmin the presence of others.
"Poor child!" she said, drawing the little girl towards her, and gentlypushing back the hair from her forehead, "I should not have said that;you have your own troubles, I know; hard enough to bear, too. I thinkHorace is really cruel, and if I were you, Elsie, I would just give uploving him entirely, and never care for his absence or his displeasure."
"Oh, Aunt Adelaide! not love my own dear papa? I _must_ love him! I couldnot help it if I would--no, not even if he were going to kill me; andplease don't blame him; he does not mean to be cruel. But oh! if he wouldonly love me!" sobbed the little girl.
"I am sure he does, Elsie, if that is any comfort; here is a letter fromhim; he speaks of you in the postscript; you may take it to your room andread it, if you like," replied her aunt, putting a letter into Elsie'shand. "Go now, child, and see if you can extract any comfort from it."
Elsie replied with a gush of tears and a kiss of thanks, for her littleheart was much too full for speech. Clasping the precious letter tightlyin her hand, she hastened to her own room and locked herself in. Thendrawing it from the envelope, she kissed the well-known characters againand again, dashing away the blinding tears ere she could see to read.
It was short; merely a letter of condolence to Adelaide, expressing abrother's sympathy in her sorrow; but the postscript sent one ray of joyto the little sad heart of his daughter.
"Is Elsie well? I cannot altogether banish a feeling of anxiety regardingher health, for she was looking pale and thin when I left home. I trustto _you_, my dear sister, to send _immediately_ for a physician, and alsoto write at once should she show any symptoms of disease. Remember she ismy _only_ and darling child--very near and dear to me still, in spite ofthe sad estrangement between us."
"Ah! then papa has not forgotten me! he does love me still--he calls mehis darling child," murmured the little girl, dropping her tears upon thepaper. "Oh, how glad, how glad I am! surely he will come back to me someday;" and she felt that she would be very willing to be sick if thatwould hasten his return.
Holidays at Roselands Page 9
