Elsie at Ion

by Martha Finley

  CHAPTER XVI.

  THE next day was the Sabbath—the third since the arrival of theRaymonds. Rain fell heavily. There was no church near at hand, and ourfriends gathered in the parlors of the house occupied by the Dinsmores,Travillas, and Raymonds, where a sermon was read, prayers were offered,and hymns sung. In the evening they held a Bible-reading, and afterwardsang hymns, now selected or suggested by one, now by another.

  Croly chose several. He had been with them in the morning and offereda very feeling, fervent prayer. The first two verses of the last hymnsung at his request were:

  “My days are gliding swiftly by, And I, a pilgrim stranger, Would not detain them as they fly, These hours of toil and danger. For oh, we stand on Jordan’s strand Our friends are passing over, And, just before, the shining shore We may almost discover.

  “Our absent King the watch-word gave, ‘Let every lamp be burning;’ We look afar across the wave, Our distant home discerning. For oh, we stand on Jordan’s strand, Our friends are passing over, And, just before, the shining shore We may almost discover.”

  Monday was a bright, beautiful day, spent by our friends very much asusual. They had been unusually long without letters from their homes orthat vicinity, and were growing a trifle anxious; Calhoun in especial,as he felt that he himself had had a good vacation, and it was timethat his brother, the doctor, was taking his turn. Yet there was a verystrong tie binding him for the present to the spot where he was. He andMary Keith had come to an understanding and were mutual lovers, onlyawaiting the consent of her parents to become engaged. He had writtento Mr. Keith, telling him frankly of his circumstances and prospects,his love for Mary, and desire to make her his wife at the earliest dayon which her parents could be induced to resign her to him, also ofher willingness to become his; concluding his letter by a reference totheir cousin and his uncle, Mr. Dinsmore, for any desired informationin regard to his character and the correctness of his statementsconcerning his ability, present and prospective, to support a wife andfamily.

  He and Mary walked out that morning soon after breakfast, strolledalong the beach for a time, then seated themselves within sight oftheir temporary home.

  They had hardly done so, when Walter Travilla came running with letterswhich he said had just come from the office.

  “There are several for each of you; you are fortunate this morning,” headded; “however, that depends very much upon what is in them.”

  “So it does, Wal,” said Calhoun, glancing at his, and perceiving thatthe direction on one of them was in a masculine hand and the postmarkthat of the town where Mary’s parents lived.

  His pulses quickened at the sight, and his face flushed.

  Walter had run away, and Mary was breaking the seal of her own letterfrom home; she seemed too busy with it to notice the excitement of hercompanion, seeing which he silently opened and read his to himself.

  The two epistles were of much the same tone and tenor. The parents,though feeling it a sore trial to part with their child—their eldestdaughter—gave full consent, since that seemed necessary to herhappiness.

  Mary’s feelings as she read were of strangely mingled happiness andheartache. She loved the man at her side, loved him so dearly that shecould scarce have borne to resign him, yet the thought of leaving thedear parents who had loved and cherished her all her days was almostequally unendurable. Her tears began to fall, and the sound of a lowsob startled Calhoun just as he finished the perusal of Mr. Keith’sletter, which brought only joy to him.

  “Oh, dearest, what is it?” he asked, passing an arm about her waist.“Does that letter bring you bad news? Mine gives me only the joyfulintelligence of your parents’ consent; so that I have a right tocomfort you in any trouble, if it lies in my power.”

  “Do not be vexed or offended that the same news is not all joy to me,”she returned, smiling through her tears. “My father and mother arevery, very dear to me; they have loved and cherished me all my life;their home has always been mine, and—” but overcome by emotion, sheended with a sob, leaving her sentence unfinished.

  “And you are giving them up for me, a comparative stranger, and farfrom worthy of such a prize as yourself,” he said in low, tendertones, taking her hand and pressing it affectionately in his. “Deargirl, if love, tenderness, entire devotion can make you happy, youshall never regret the sacrifice.”

  “I have no fear of that,” she returned, smiling through her tears, “forthough but a few weeks have passed since we first saw each other, youare well known to us through Uncle Dinsmore, Cousin Elsie, and others.I do not fear to trust you—oh, no, it is not that, but the leaving ofthe dear father and mother now—when they begin to grow old and may needa daughter’s care.”

  “But they have other daughters?”

  “Yes, but I am the eldest, and the one who would perhaps know best howto make them comfortable.”

  “Well, dearest, let us leave that for the present. There is plenty ofroom at Roselands, and perhaps—should your father some day retire frombusiness—they may like to come and make their home with us. If so, weshall be glad, very glad to have them.”

  That was a word of comfort that chased Mary’s tears away, and the restof their talk was gay and happy; the principal subject their plans forthe immediate future.

  “I ought to be going home,” remarked Calhoun at length, with a slightsigh, “though the fact is I don’t know how to tear myself away. But Imust, for poor, overworked Art must have his turn. Ah, here’s a letterfrom him,” taking up one from the still unexamined, half-forgotten pilelying on the grass by his side.

  Hastily tearing it open, he glanced over the contents. “Why, here isnews!” he exclaimed. “Marian McAlpine has been quite ill, Art attendingher; she’s convalescing, but needs change of climate and scene. Art hasprescribed a few weeks at the sea-shore, and they are coming here—thewhole four of them—Mr. Lilburn and his son, Miss Marian, and Art as herattending physician. I am commissioned to find a boarding-place forthem. But what are they thinking of? They were to start the day afterthis was written, and will probably be here to-night or to-morrow. Oh,well, there are hotels in the town, and I must just hurry in there,make inquiries, and do the best I can for them.”

  “Yes; let us go back to the house at once,” said Mary. “But ah, herecomes Cousin Elsie,” she added, as they both rose and turned toward thedwelling.

  “You had a letter from Art, I noticed, Calhoun,” said Mrs. Travilla,hastening toward them, “and I presume it brings the same news as thisone from Cousin Ronald to me,” indicating one that she held in herhand. “He says Marian has been really very ill, but is convalescing,and they are bringing her here, thinking the sea-air may do her good.He says Arthur is coming along as her physician, but agrees with himthat it is not at all necessary for you to hurry home, as Edward isable and willing to give some little attention to the workers on yourplantation.”

  “That is good news,” Calhoun said with a smile, “but I must hurry intothe city and find a boarding-place for them.”

  “Why, Cal, you astonish me!” exclaimed Elsie. “Have I ever shown myselfso inhospitable that you have a right to suppose I would let relativesgo to a hotel when I can make room for them in my home?”

  “I didn’t think you could, cousin,” he returned.

  “I both can and will, if I am allowed the opportunity; it is only alittle crowding that is necessary. Mr. Conly can take his brother thedoctor into his room to share his bed, Cousin Ronald and his son canshare another—and there is a spare room waiting for them—while Mariancan be taken in with some of us. I have not thought it all out yet, butam confident I can soon arrange it.”

  “Oh, easily, cousin,” said Mary, “for Rosie and I could easilytake Lulu or Grace, or both of them, into our room. Crowding atthe sea-shore is nothing new, and I do not think it will be at allunpleasant to me.”

  “You are a dear, good girl, Mary,” was Elsie’s smiling
response as sheturned and hastened back to the house.

  “She has her full share of the Southern virtue of hospitality,”remarked Calhoun, looking after her with admiring eyes.

  “Do you consider it a specially Southern virtue?” queried Mary with alittle laugh of amusement.

  “I beg your pardon,” returned Calhoun gallantly, “and acknowledge thatI have seen no lack of the virtue in question since coming up North,but I have always heard it spoken of as particularly characteristic ofmy native section of the Union, though I dare say that is altogether amistake.”

  “I shall try to convince you of that one of these days,” she said witha smiling look up into his eyes.

  When Mrs. Travilla reached the house, there was first a shortconsultation among the older members of the family, then a pleasantlittle bustle of preparation for the expected, welcome guests, who itwas found could be easily accommodated without greatly disturbing orinterfering with the comfort of any one else.

  These preparations completed, all gathered on the porch and sat there,the gentlemen reading, the ladies crocheting or merely chatting to passaway the time till the dinner-bell should summon them to the table. Buta carriage was seen approaching from the direction of the town.

  “I wonder, now, if it isn’t our party,” said Calhoun, and even as hespoke it drove up and stopped before the gate; seeing which he, Harold,and Herbert sprang up and hastened forward to assist the travellersto alight; for it was indeed the expected party of relatives from theSouth.

  The gentlemen were all well and in fine spirits, but Marian was muchexhausted and glad to be taken directly to bed. The doctor seemedvery careful of his patient, the other two equally solicitous for hercomfort; as were Mrs. Dinsmore, Elsie, and Violet, all of whom wereready to do for her anything in their power.

  All she wanted, however, was a little light nourishment, then a longsound sleep, and the next morning she was able to occupy a hammockswung upon the porch, where she passed her time listening to reading,generally by the doctor, who rarely left her long for the first day ortwo, chatting with the cousins or sleeping; weakness and the sea-airhaving somewhat the effect of an opiate.

  But both the air and the sleep did her great good, so that in a fewdays she was able to take short drives and even walks along the beachwith the support of the arm of one or another of the gentlemen, oftenerthat of Arthur than any other. He watched over her with the care andtenderness of a mother, noticed the first sign of exhaustion, andit was always he who helped her up the stairs to her bedroom, notinfrequently half-carrying her there.

  All the older members of the family noticed his devotion and quietlyremarked upon it among themselves.

  “He is really in love with her, I think, but it seems to me thedisparity of years is too great,” remarked Herbert one day when thematter was under discussion.

  “Perhaps, laddie, when you come to be of his age you may see suchmatters in a different light,” said Mr. Lilburn in a fatherly tone andwith a kindly smile at his young relative.

  “As his mother did before him,” added Elsie, laying her handaffectionately in that of Herbert, who was as usual close at her side.

  “Ah, mamma dear, I quite forgot at the moment that you had married oneso much older than yourself. But my father was no common man.”

  “No, nor is Cousin Arthur; at least so we all think, we to whom he hasalways been so kind and faithful as both relative and physician.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Dinsmore, “and any one who is so fortunate as to winhis heart and hand will have one of the best, most affectionate, andattentive of husbands.”

  “And the disparity of years will not be so very much greater thanbetween Cousin Mary and his brother,” remarked Mrs. Dinsmore.

  “And they seem a delightfully happy pair; as a certain married coupleof my acquaintance, between whom there must be something like the samedisparity of years, are to my actual knowledge,” remarked Violet with abright, fond look up into her husband’s face as he sat by her side withbaby Ned on his knee.

  “Quite true, my dear. I could not be induced to exchange my one littlewife for half a dozen women of twice her years, even if the law allowedit,” returned the captain with a humorous look and smile.

  “Nor could I be induced to exchange my one good big husband for a dozenor more other men of any age, size, or quality,” laughed Violet.

  “Wise Vi,” remarked Herbert; “one is plenty; more than one wouldcertainly be a superfluity. There—look toward the shore, everybody.Yonder are Cal and his beloved wandering together near the waves,seemingly in close conversation, while Art and his sit side by sideon two camp-chairs a little nearer here, or a trifle farther from thewater. There is certainly a good deal of love-making going on.”

  “At least things have that appearance,” Harold said with a quiet smileas he and the others followed Herbert’s advice, and gazing out seawardhad a pretty view of the two pairs of lovers.

  There was little doubt in any of their minds that Arthur and Marianbelonged in that class, while the other two were openly acknowledged assuch.

  But they were somewhat mistaken. Arthur had not yet breathed a word oflove to his young patient, and she thought of him only as her dear,kind doctor, who had done much to relieve her sufferings and had inall probability saved her life. She had strong confidence in his skilland was a perfectly tractable and obedient patient. He assisted her toher room that evening, as usual, more than an hour before any but theyounger children were ready to retire.

  It was a beautiful moonlight evening, and the porches, where most ofthe family were gathered, looked very inviting as he came down againand stepped out upon the one that ran along the front of the house.

  His Cousin Elsie invited him to an easy-chair by her side, thenpresently proposed that they two should stroll around the porchestogether. He caught gladly at the suggestion, rose and offered her hisarm.

  “I want a little private chat with you, Art,” she said, smilingbrightly up into his face.

  “I am always glad to talk with you, cousin,” he returned, giving her anaffectionate yet keenly scrutinizing look, “but I hope it is not of anyserious ailment you have to tell me.”

  “Oh, no! I am thankful to be able to say that I and all my near anddear ones are in perfect health so far as I know. It is of yourself andyour dear young patient I would speak. Marian is a sweet girl, lovelyin both character and person.”

  “So I think. Ah, cousin, if I were only some years younger!”

  “Never mind that, Art; you are young in looks and feeling, and I doubtif there is any one nearer and dearer to her now than yourself. Shethinks her feeling for you is only the gratitude and affection anypatient might feel for a kind, attentive, sympathizing physician, butI am much mistaken if on hearing the story of your love from your lipsshe will fail to discover that she loves you as a woman should the manto whom she gives her hand.”

  “Do you really think so, cousin?” he asked with a bright, glad smile.

  “I do indeed,” she replied, “and if I were in your place I should soonput it to the proof by offering her my hand and heart.”

  He seemed lost in thought for a moment, then heaving a sigh, “Ah, if Iwere only sure,” he said—“sure of not, by so doing, losing the placeI can see that I have already won in her heart—the friendship—it maynot, after all, be anything more than that—I should not for a momenthesitate to make the offer you recommend; for I feel confident thatwith mutual love we might be exceptionally happy despite the differencein our years.”

  “No doubt of it,” she returned, “and I hope that before you leave usyou will put it to the proof; because I think it will be for both yourhappiness and hers.”

  “Thank you very much for both your sympathy and advice, dear cousin,”he said. “I shall do so to-morrow if opportunity offers, as is likelyto be the case, seeing we are so frequently alone together as patientand physician. Then if I find she does not and cannot love me inthe way I wish, I shall trouble her no longer with my presence
, butspeedily set off for home and its duties.”

  “But even in that case you need not entirely despair,” his cousin saidwith a bright, sweet look up into his rather anxious and troubledface, “for she is but young, and clever courting may win her heartin time. You are such a dear fellow, Art, so kind-hearted, generous,sympathetic, so unselfish and helpful, that you seem to me to deserveevery good thing in life.”

  “Oh, Cousin Elsie, such extravagant praise mortifies me, because Imust acknowledge to myself that it is so far beyond my deserts,” hereturned, blushing like a girl.

  “It need not,” she said. “There is an old saying that every one—everydeserving one at least—eats white bread at some time in his or herlife. You have had a hard life so far, but I hope your time for whitebread is now close at hand.”

  He laughed a little at that. “Yes,” he said, “Cal and I have workedvery hard for years past, and times do grow easier with us, but whetherI shall ever get so far with the white bread as to win the dear youngwife I covet, I do not know.”

  “Well, you have my best wishes,” she returned, “and I shall do whatI can to help the prosperity of your suit by sounding your praises inthe ears of your lady-love. Ah, do not look alarmed, but trust me tosay only enough to interest her, not so much as to weary her of thesubject.”

  “Thank you, dear cousin, I know I can trust you fully. And will you nothelp me with your prayers that I may, if it be God’s will, succeed inwinning her heart completely?”

  “Surely I will,” she said, “and I believe our joint petition will begranted, if it be for the best.”

  Arthur lay awake for some time that night, pondering on Elsie’s advicein regard to his contemplated suit for Marian’s hand and asking divineguidance and help.

  The next morning, soon after breakfast, he, as usual, asked Marianif she would like to go down on the beach and get a breath of therefreshing breeze from the sea.

  “Yes, indeed, doctor, if it will not be keeping you from goingsomewhere with somebody else,” she answered with a smile.

  “Not at all,” he returned. “I have no engagement, and shall be glad notonly to help you to a breath of sea-air, but to take one myself.”

  He brought a light shawl and wrapped it about her, saying the breezewas rather fresh for her, while her Cousin Elsie tied on her hat andveil. Then with a thick shawl over one arm, he offered her the other,saying, “Walter has run on ahead with a couple of camp-stools for us,and this heavier shawl is to wrap around you in case you find the othernot warm enough.”

  “Thank you,” she returned, smiling up into his face. “I am sure it isnot every patient who has so good and kind a doctor as mine.”

  “I do certainly want to be kind to all my patients,” he saidpleasantly, “yet cannot deny that some are greater favorites with methan others. Besides, I have, you know, but the one here to devotemyself to.”

  “Fortunately for me,” she returned laughingly. “And I assure you I doenjoy having my doctor all to myself. One likes to be treated as aperson of importance, you know.”

  “You are such to me,” he said, “especially as you have not yet fullyrecovered your strength, and I must leave you soon to return to thecare of other patients left behind in the South.”

  She started and looked up half-entreatingly into his face, but saidnothing, for at that moment Walter came running up to them.

  “Cousin Arthur,” he said, “I placed the stools about where you usuallysit, I think; but if they are not just where you want them, they areeasily moved.”

  “Yes; thank you,” replied the doctor, and Walter ran on to the house.

  He seated Marian comfortably, then took the chair beside her.

  “Must you go very soon?” she asked, trying to swallow a lump in herthroat.

  “I am afraid I must, on account of the other patients, though it seemsdecidedly hard for me to leave this delightful spot and pleasantcompany.”

  “Yes, sir; and I really think you ought to have a longer rest afterworking so hard and long. I—I am afraid I have been a great deal oftrouble and the cause of much weariness. And—and I can never begin topay you for it all.”

  “O Marian, dear girl, you can far more than repay me if—if only you canfind it in your heart to love and trust me well enough to give yourdear self into my care for the rest of our two lives,” he said in low,eager tones, bending over her and taking her hand in his.

  She did not withdraw it, but neither did she speak, but bending low tocatch sight of her face, he saw that her tears were falling fast.

  “O my darling, I did not mean to distress you so,” he said in movedtones. “I see that you cannot give me that kind of love, so forget thatI have asked it.”

  “Forget!” she exclaimed in low, tremulous tones, “forget the sweetestwords I ever had spoken to me? Oh, no, no! But I don’t know how you cangive such love to me—a poor, ignorant girl, whose own father cares solittle for her that he would sacrifice her happiness for life.”

  “No, no,” he said, gathering her in his arms, “the sweetest, dearest,loveliest one that ever crossed my path. And you can love me. Ah,darling, you have made me the happiest of men; you do not deny that youlove me; and you are to me the dearest of all earthly creatures.”

  He held her close, while she dropped her head on his breast and weptfor very joy and thankfulness. For Elsie was right; he had won herheart and was dearer to her than all the world besides.

  Many low-breathed, comforting, endearing words fell from his lips ashe held her close in such loving embrace as she had not felt since hermother’s death, till at length her tears ceased to fall and she wasable to speak again.

  “Oh, I never dreamed,” she said, “that one so wise and good could evercare in that way for me. My heart is so full of joy and gratitude toGod and to you that words would not express the half of it. But areyou not afraid that you may some day weary of a companion for life whoknows so much less than you do that she is but a child in comparisonwith you?”

  “Ah, no,” he answered with a smile; “I have only feared that your youthand my years might stand in the way of my winning you; that a girl sosweet, fresh, and young would feel herself thrown away upon a man ofmy age. It would be but natural that you should prefer a much moreyouthful and finer-looking man.”

  “I do not know where I could find a finer-looking one,” she answeredwith an earnest sincerity that made him smile. “Your face is sobenevolent in expression, so full of goodness and kindness, that Icould not help loving and trusting you from the first.”

  “Ah, darling, those are sweet words,” he said, his eyes shining. “Andyou I found so patient and uncomplaining under suffering, so gratefulfor any and every kindness done you, every effort to give you relief,that I could but admire and end by loving you as I never loved before.Ah, dearest, that you return my love and have given yourself to me hasmade me the happiest of men! What a joy it will be to have you for myvery own to love, cherish, and provide for!”

  “And how sweet to me to belong to one who is so good and kind,” sheexclaimed, half-hiding her blushing face on his shoulder. “Oh, neverbefore in all my life was I so happy as I am at this moment!”