Elsie's children

by Martha Finley

  CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.

  "Ah! who can say, however fair his view, Through what sad scenes his path may lie?"

  Mrs. Conly adhered to her resolve in regard to the education of herdaughters, and about the middle of September left with them and heryounger children for a visit to Mrs. Delaford, at whose house thewardrobes of the two girls were to be made ready for their first schoolyear at the convent chosen by their aunt.

  Arthur went with them as their escort. A week later the rest of theRoselands party returned home, and early in October the Oaks and Ionrejoiced in the return of their families.

  Baby Lily had been so benefited by the trip that Elsie felt warranted inresuming her loved employment as acting governess to her older children.

  They fell into the old round of duties and pleasures, as loving and happya family as one might wish to see; a striking and most pleasant contrastto the one at Roselands, that of Enna and her offspring--where the motherfretted and scolded, and the children, following her example werecontinually at war with one another.

  Only between Dick and Molly there was peace and love. The poor girl led aweary life pinned to her couch or chair, wholly dependent upon others forthe means of locomotion and for anything that was not within reach of herhand.

  She had not yet learned submission under her trial, and her mother was farfrom being an assistance in bearing it. Molly was greatly depressed inspirits, and her mother's scolding and fretting were often almost beyondendurance.

  Her younger brother and sister thought it a trouble to wait on her andusually kept out of her way, but Dick, when present, was her faithfulslave; always ready to lift and carry her, or to bring her anything shewanted. But much of Dick's time was necessarily occupied with his studies,and in going to and from his school, which was two or three miles distant.

  He was very thoughtful for her comfort, and it was through his suggestion,that their grandfather directed that one of the pleasantest rooms in thehouse, overlooking the avenue, so that all the coming and going could beseen from its windows, should be appropriated to Molly's use.

  There Dick would seat her each morning, before starting for school, in aninvalid's easy-chair presented to her by her Cousin Elsie, and there hewould be pretty sure to find her on his return, unless, as occasionallyhappened, their grandfather, Uncle Horace, Mr. Travilla, or some one ofthe relatives, had taken her out for a drive.

  One afternoon about the last of November, Molly, weary of sewing andreading, weary inexpressibly weary, of her confinement and enforcedquietude, was gazing longingly down the avenue, wishing that some onewould come to take her out for an airing, when the door opened and hermother came in dressed for the open air, in hat, cloak and furs.

  "I want you to button my glove, Molly," she said, holding out her wrist,"Rachel's so busy on my new silk, and you have nothing to do. What afortunate child you are to be able to take your ease all the time."

  "My ease!" cried Molly bitterly, "I'd be gladder than words can tell tochange places with you for awhile."

  "Humph! you don't know what you're wishing; the way I have to worry overmy sewing for four besides myself, is enough to try the patience of asaint. By the way, it's high time you began to make yourself useful inthat line. With practice, you might soon learn to accomplish a great deal,having nothing to do but stick at it from morning to night."

  Molly was in the act of buttoning the second glove. Tears sprang to hereyes at this evidence of her mother's heartlessness, and one bright dropfell on Enna's wrist.

  "There you have stained my glove!" she exclaimed angrily. "What a baby youare! will you never have done with this continued crying?"

  "It seems to be very easy for you to bear my troubles, mother," returnedpoor Molly, raising her head proudly, and dashing away the tears, "I willtry to learn to bear them too, and never again appeal to my mother forsympathy."

  "You get enough of that from Dick, he cares ten times as much for you ashe does for me--his own mother."

  At that moment Betty came running in. "Mother, the carriage is at thedoor, and grandpa's ready. Molly, grandpa says he'll take you too, if youwant to go."

  Molly's face brightened, but before she could speak, Enna answered forher. "No, she can't; there isn't time to get her ready."

  Mrs. Johnson hurried from the room, Betty following close at her heels,and Molly was left alone in her grief and weariness.

  She watched the carriage as it rolled down the avenue, then turning fromthe window, indulged in a hearty cry.

  At length, exhausted by her emotion, she laid her head back and fellasleep in her chair.

  How long she had slept she did not know; some unusual noise down-stairswoke her, and the next moment Betty rushed in screaming, "Oh, Molly,Molly, mother and grandfather's killed; both of 'em! Oh, dear! oh, dear!"

  For an instant Molly seemed stunned, she scarcely comprehended Betty'swords, then as the child repeated, "They're killed! they're both killed;the horses ran away and threw 'em out," she too uttered a cry of anguish,and grasping the arms of her chair, made desperate efforts to rise; butall in vain, and with a groan she sank back, and covering her face withher hands, shed the bitterest tears her impotence had ever yet cost her.

  Betty had run away again, and she was all alone. Oh, how hard it was forher to be chained there in such an agony of doubt and distress! Sheforcibly restrained her groans and sobs, and listened intently.

  The Conlys, except Cal, were still at the North; the house seemedstrangely quiet, only now and then a stealthy step or a murmur of voicesand occasionally a half smothered cry from Bob or Betty.

  A horseman came dashing furiously up the avenue. It was her uncle, Mr.Horace Dinsmore. He threw himself from the saddle and hurried into thehouse, and the next minute two more followed at the same headlong pace.

  These were Cal and Dr. Barton, and they also dismounted in hot haste anddisappeared from her sight beneath the veranda. Certainly something verydreadful had happened. Oh would nobody come to tell her!

  The minutes dragged their slow length along seeming like hours. She layback in her chair in an agony of suspense, the perspiration standing incold drops on her brow.

  But the sound of wheels roused her and looking out she saw the Oaks andIon carriages drive up, young Horace and Rosie alight from the one, Mr.Travilla and Elsie from the other.

  "Oh!" thought Molly, "Cousin Elsie will be sure to think of me directlyand I shall not be left much longer in this horrible suspense."

  Her confidence was not misplaced. Not many minutes had elapsed when herdoor was softly opened, a light step crossed the floor and a sweet fairface, full of tender compassion, bent over the grief-stricken girl.

  Molly tried to speak; her tongue refused its office, but Elsie quicklyanswered the mute questioning of the wild, frightened, anguished eyes.

  "There is life," she said, taking the cold hands in hers, "life in both;and 'while there is life there is hope.' Our dear old grandfather has abroken leg and arm and a few slight cuts and bruises, but is restored toconsciousness now, and able to speak. Your poor mother has fared stillworse, we fear, as the principal injury is to the head, but we will hopefor the best in her case also."

  Molly dropped her head on her cousin's shoulder while a burst of weepingbrought partial relief to the overburdened heart.

  Elsie clasped her arms about her and strove to soothe and comfort herwith caresses and endearing words.

  "If I could only nurse mother now," sobbed the girl, "how glad I'd be todo it. O cousin, it most breaks my heart now to think how I've vexed andworried her since--since this dreadful trouble came to me. I'd giveanything never to have said a cross or disrespectful word to her. And nowI can do nothing for her! nothing, nothing!" and she wrung her hands ingrief and despair.

  "Yes, dear child; there is one thing you can do," Elsie answered, weepingwith her.

  "What, what is that?" asked Molly, half incredulously, half hopefully,"what can I do chained here?"

  "Pray for her, Molly, pl
ead for her with him unto whom belong the issuesfrom death; to him who has all power in heaven and in earth and who isable to save to the uttermost."

  "No, no, even that I can't do," sobbed Molly, "I've never learned to pray,and he isn't my friend as he is yours and your children's!"

  "Then first of all make him your friend; oh, he is so kind and mercifuland loving. He says, 'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden,and I will give you rest.' 'Him that cometh to me, I will in no wise castout.'"

  "Oh, if I only knew how!" sighed Molly, "nobody needs such a friend morethan I. I'd give all the world to have him for mine."

  "But you cannot buy his friendship--his salvation; it is 'without moneyand without price.' What is it to come to him? Just to take him at hisword, give yourself to him and believe his promise that he will not castyou out."

  There was a tap at the door and Rosie came in, put her arms round Molly,kissed her and wept with her.

  Then young Horace followed and after that his father. Both seemed to feelvery much for Molly and to be anxious to do everything in their power tohelp and comfort her.

  Mr. Dinsmore was evidently in deep grief and soon withdrew, Elsie goingwith him. They stood together for a few minute in the hall.

  "My dear father, how I feel for you!" Elsie said, laying her hand on hisarm and looking up at him through gathering tears.

  "Thank you, my child; your sympathy is always very sweet to me," he said."And you have mine; for I know this trial touches you also though somewhatless nearly than myself."

  "Is grandpa suffering much?" she asked.

  "Very much; and at his age--but I will not anticipate sorrow; we know thatthe event is in the hands of him who doeth all things well. Ah, if he wereonly a Christian! And Enna! poor Enna!"

  Sobs and cries coming from the nursery broke in upon the momentary silencethat followed the exclamation.

  "Poor little Bob and Betty, I must go to them," Elsie said, gliding awayin the direction of the sounds, while Mr. Dinsmore returned to the roomwhere his father lay groaning with the pain of his wounds. Mr. Travilla,Calhoun and the doctor were with him, but he was asking for his son.

  "Horace," he said, "can't you stay with me?"

  "Yes, father, night and day while you want me."

  "That's right! It's a good thing to have a good son. Dr. Barton, where areyou going?"

  "To your daughter, sir, Mrs. Johnson."

  "Enna! is she much hurt?" asked the old man, starting up, but falling backinstantly with almost a scream of pain.

  "You must lie still, sir, indeed you must," said the doctor, coming backto the bed; "your life depends upon your keeping quiet and excitingyourself as little as possible."

  "Yes, yes; but Enna?"

  "Has no bones broken."

  "Thank God for that! then she'll do. Go, doctor, but don't leave the housewithout seeing me again."

  They were glad he was so easily satisfied, but knew he would not be if hismind were quite clear.

  Dick had come home in strong excitement, rumors of the accident having methim on the way. The horses had taken fright at the sudden shriek of alocomotive, and the breaking of a defective bit had deprived the oldgentleman of the power to control them. They ran madly down a steepembankment, wrecking the carriage and throwing both passengers out upon abed of stones.

  Pale and trembling the lad went straight to his mother's room where hefound her lying moaning on the bed, recognizing no one, unconscious ofanything that was going on about her.

  He discovered that he loved her far more than he would have believed; hethought her dying, and his heart smote him, as memory recalled many apassionate, undutiful word he had spoken to her; often, it is true, undergreat provocation, but oh, what would he not now have given to recallthem.

  He had much ado to control his emotion sufficiently to ask the doctor whathe thought of her case. He was somewhat comforted by the reply,

  "The injury to the head is very serious, yet I by no means despair of herlife."

  "What can I do for her?" was the boy's next question in an imploring toneas though he would esteem it a boon to be permitted to do something forher relief.

  "Nothing; we have plenty of help here, and you are too inexperienced for anurse," Dr. Barton said, not unkindly. "But see to your sister Molly," headded. "Poor child! she will feel this sorely."

  The admonition was quite superfluous; Dick was already hastening to her.

  Another moment and she was weening out her sorrow and anxiety on hisshoulder.

  "O Dick," she sobbed, "I'm afraid I can never speak to her again, and--andmy last words to her, just before she went, were a reproach. I said I'dnever ask her for sympathy again; and now I never can. Oh isn't itdreadful, dreadful!" and she wept as if her very heart would break.

  "Oh, don't, Molly!" he said hoarsely, pressing her closer to him andmingling his tears with hers, "who could blame you, you poor sufferingthing! and I'm sure you must have been provoked to it. She hadn't beensaying anything kind to you?"

  Molly shook her head with a fresh burst of grief. "No, oh no! oh, if we'dparted like Cousin Elsie and her children always do!--with kind, lovingwords and caresses."

  "But we're not that sort, you know," returned Dick with an awkward attemptat consolation, "and I'm worse than you, a great deal, for I've talked upto mother many a time and didn't have the same excuse."

  There was sickness at Pinegrove. Mrs. Howard was slowly recovering from anattack of typhoid fever. This was why she had not hastened to Roselands tothe assistance of her injured father and sister.

  And Mrs. Rose Dinsmore was at Ashlands, helping Sophie nurse her childrenthrough the scarlet fever. And so, Mrs. Conly being still absent at theNorth, the burden of these new responsibilities must fall upon Mr. HoraceDinsmore and his children.

  Mr. Dinsmore undertook the care of his father, Mr. Travilla and youngHorace engaging to relieve him now and then, Elsie that of Enna; herchildren, except the baby, who with mammy must come to Roselands also,could do without her for a time. It would be hard for both her and them,she knew, but the lesson in self-denial for the sake of others, mightprove more than a compensation; and Enna must not, in her critical state,be left to the care of servants.

  Rosie volunteered to see that Molly was not neglected, and to exertherself for the poor girl's entertainment, and Bob and Betty were sent tothe Oaks to be looked after by Mrs. Murray and their cousin Horace.

  It would be no easy or agreeable task for the old lady, but she was surenot to object in view of the fact that quiet was essential to the recoveryof the sufferers at Roselands.