Elsie's Womanhood by Martha Finley

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He bent down for another silent caress, laid the hand in that of his
friend, and left the room.

"And you do not fear to trust me, my little friend?" Travilla's tones,
too, were tremulous with deep feeling.

"I have not the shadow of a fear," she answered, her eyes meeting his with
an earnest, childlike confidence.

"Bless you for those words, dearest," he said; "God helping me you never
shall have cause to regret them."

A door opened, and a handsome, dark eyed boy, a miniature likeness of his
father, came hurrying in. "Elsie! Papa said I might come and see how
beautiful you are!" he cried, as if resolutely mastering some strong
emotion, "but I'm not to say anything to make you cry. I'm not to hug you
hard and spoil your dress. Oh, but you do look like an angel, only
without the wings. Mr. Travilla, you'll be good, _good_ to her, won't
you?" and the voice almost broke down.

"I will, indeed, Horace; you may be sure of that. And you needn't feel as
if you are losing her, she'll be back again in a few weeks, please God."

"But not to live at home any more!" he cried impetuously. "No, no, I
wasn't to say that, I----"

"Come here and kiss me, my dear little brother," Elsie said tenderly; "and
you shall hug me, too, as hard as you like, before I go."

He was not slow to accept the invitation, and evidently had a hard
struggle with himself, to refrain from giving the forbidden hug.

"You may hug me instead, Horace, if you like," said Mr. Travilla; "you
know we're very fond of each other, and are going to be brothers now."

"Yes, that I will, for I do like you ever so much," cried the boy,
springing into the arms held out to him, and receiving and returning a
warm embrace, while the sister looked on with eyes glistening with
pleasure.

"Now, in a few minutes I'll become your brother Edward; and that's what I
want you to call me in future. Will you do it?"

"Yes, sir; if papa doesn't forbid me."

A light tap at the door leading into the boudoir, and Walter put in his
head. "The company, the clergy-man, and the hour have come. Are the bride
and groom ready?"

"Yes."

Releasing the child, Mr. Travilla drew Elsie's hand within his arm. For
an instant he bent his eyes with earnest, questioning gaze upon her face.
It wore an expression that touched him to the heart, so perfectly
trustful, so calmly, peacefully happy, yet with a deep tender solemnity
mingling with and subduing her joy. The soft eyes were misty with unshed
tears as she lifted them to his.

"It is for life," she whispered; "and I am but young and foolish; shall
you never regret?"

"Never, _never_; unless you grow weary of your choice."

The answering smile was very sweet and confiding. "I have not chosen
lightly, and do not fear because it is for life," was its unspoken
language.

And truly it was no hasty, ill-considered step she was taking, but one
that had been calmly, thoughtfully pondered in many an hour of solitude
and communion with that unseen Friend whom from earliest youth she had
acknowledged in all her ways, and who had, according to His promise,
directed her paths. There was no excitement, no nervous tremor, about her
then or during the short ceremony that made them no more twain but one
flesh. So absorbed was she in the importance and solemnity of the act she
was performing, that little room was left for thought of anything
else--her personal appearance, or the hundreds of pairs of eyes fixed upon
her; even her father's presence, and the emotions swelling in his breast
were for the time forgotten. Many marked the rapt expression of her face,
and the clear and distinct though low tones of the sweet voice as she
pledged herself to "love, honor, and obey." Mr. Travilla's promise "to
love, honor, and cherish to life's end," was given no less earnestly and
emphatically.

The deed was done; and relatives and friends gathered about them with
kindly salutations and good wishes.

Mr. Dinsmore was the first to salute the bride. "God bless and keep you,
my daughter," were his tenderly whispered words.

"Dear, dear papa," was all she said in response, but her eyes spoke
volumes. "I am yours still, your very own, and glad it is so," they said.

Then came Rose with her tender, silent caress, half-sorrowful,
half-joyful, and Mrs. Travilla with her altogether joyous salutation, "My
dear daughter, may your cup of happiness be ever filled to overflowing;"
while Mr. Dinsmore to hide his emotion turned jocosely to Travilla with a
hearty shake of the hand, and "I wish you joy, my son."

"Thank you, father," returned the groom gravely, but with a twinkle of
merriment in his eye.

Aunt Wealthy, standing close by awaiting her turn to greet the bride,
shook her head at her nephew. "Ah, you are quite too old for that, Horace.
Mr. Vanilla, I wish you joy; but what am I to call you now?"

"Edward, if you please, Aunt Wealthy."

"Ah, yes, that will do nicely; it's a good name--so easily forgotten.
Elsie, dearie, you went through it brave as a lion. May you never wish
you'd lived your lane like your auld auntie."

"As if single blessedness could ever be real blessedness!" sneered Enna,
coming up just in time to catch the last words.

"Our feelings change as we grow older," returned Miss Stanhope, in her
gentle, refined tones, "and we come to look upon quiet and freedom from
care as very desirable things."

"And I venture to say that old age is not likely to find Mrs. Percival so
happy and contented as is my dear old maiden aunt," remarked Mr. Dinsmore.

"Yet we will hope it may, papa," said Elsie, receiving Enna's salutation
with kindly warmth.

But the list of relatives, near connections, and intimate friends, is too
long for particular mention of each. All the Dinsmores were there, both
married and single; also most of the Allisons. Harold had not come with
the others, nor had he either accepted or rejected the invitation.

On first raising her eyes upon the conclusion of the ceremony, had Elsie
really seen, far back in the shadow of the doorway, a face white, rigid,
hopeless with misery as his when last they met and parted? She could not
tell; for if really there, it vanished instantly.

"Did Harold come?" she asked of Richard when he came to salute the bride
and groom.

"I think not; I haven't seen him, I can't think what's come over the lad
to be so neglectful of his privileges."

Harry Duncan was there, too, hanging upon the smiles of merry, saucy,
blue-eyed May Allison; while her brother Richard seemed equally enamored
with the brunette beauty and sprightliness of Lottie King.

Stiffness and constraint found no place among the guests, after the event
of the evening was over.

In the great dining-room a sumptuous banquet was laid; and thither, after
a time, guests and entertainers repaired.

The table sparkled with cut-glass, rare and costly china, and solid silver
and gold plate. Every delicacy from far and near was to be found upon it;
nothing wanting that the most fastidious could desire, or the most lavish
expenditure furnish. Lovely, fragrant flowers were there also in the
utmost profusion, decorating the board, festooning the windows and
doorways, in bouquets upon the mantels and antique stands, scattered here
and there through the apartment, filling the air with their perfume; while
a distant and unseen band discoursed sweetest music in soft, delicious
strains.

The weather was warmer far than at that season in our northern clime, the
outside air balmy and delightful, and through the wide-open doors and
windows glimpses might be caught of the beautiful grounds, lighted here
and there by a star-like lamp shining out among the foliage. Silent and
deserted they had been all the earlier part of the evening, but now group
after group, as they left the bountiful board, wandered into their green
alleys and gay parterres; low, musical tones, light laughter, and merry
jests floating out upon the quiet night air and waking the echoes of the
hills.

But the bride retired to her own apartments, where white satin, veil, and
orange blossoms, were quickly exchanged for an elegant traveling dress,
scarcely less becoming to her rare beauty.

She reappeared in the library, which had not been thrown open to the
guests, but where the relations and bridesmaids were gathered for the
final good-bye.

Mr. Dinsmore's family carriage, roomy, easy-rolling, and softly cushioned,
stood at the door upon the drive, its spirited gray horses pawing the
ground with impatience to be gone. It would carry the bride and groom--and
a less pretentious vehicle their servants--in two hours to the seaport
where they were to take the steamer for New Orleans; for their honeymoon
was to be spent at Viamede, Elsie still adhering to the plan of a year
ago.

Her adieus were gayly given to one and another, beginning with those least
dear; very very affectionately to Mrs. Travilla, Aunt Wealthy, Rose, and
the little Horace (the sleeping Rosebud had already been softly kissed in
her crib).

Her idolized father only remained; and now all her gayety forsook her, all
her calmness gave way, and clinging about his neck, "Papa, papa, oh papa!"
she cried, with a burst of tears and sobs.

"Holy and pure are the drops that fall,
When the young bride goes from her father's hall;
She goes unto love yet untried and new--
She parts from love which hath still been true."

It was his turn now to comfort her. "Darling daughter," he said, caressing
her with exceeding tenderness, "we do not part for long. Should it please
God to spare our lives, I shall have my precious one in my arms in a few
short weeks. Meantime we can have a little talk on paper every day. Shall
we not?"

"Yes, yes, dear, dear, precious father."

Mr. Travilla stood by with a face full of compassionate tenderness.
Putting one hand into her father's, Elsie turned, gave him the other, and
together they led her to the carriage and placed her in it. There was a
hearty, lingering hand-shaking between the two gentlemen. Mr. Travilla
took his seat by Elsie's side, and amid a chorus of good-byes they were
whirled rapidly away.

"Cheer up, my dear," said Rose, leaning affectionately on her husband's
arm; "it is altogether addition and not subtraction; you have not lost a
daughter but gained a son."

"These rooms tell a different tale," he answered with a sigh. "How
desolate they seem. But this is no time for the indulgence of sadness. We
must return to our guests, and see that all goes merry as a marriage bell
with them till the last has taken his departure."

CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.

"My bride,
My wife, my life. O we will walk this world
Yok'd in all exercise of noble aim
And so through those dark gates across the wild
That no man knows."
--TENNYSON'S PRINCESS.

Elsie's tears were falling fast, but an arm as strong and kind as her
father's stole quietly about her, a hand as gentle and tender as a woman's
drew the weary head to a resting-place on her husband's shoulder, smoothed
back the hair from the heated brow, and wiped away the falling drops.

"My wife! my own precious little wife!"

How the word, the tone, thrilled her! her very heart leaped for joy
through all the pain of parting from one scarcely less dear. "My husband,"
she murmured, low and shyly--it seemed so strange to call him that, so
almost bold and forward--"my dear, kind friend, to be neither hurt nor
angry at my foolish weeping."

"Not foolish, dear one, but perfectly natural and right. I understand it;
I who know so well what your father has been to you these many years."

"Father and mother both."

"Yes; tutor, friend, companion, confidant, everything. I know, dear little
wife, that you are sacrificing much for me, even though the separation
will be but partial. And how I love you for it, and for all you are to
me, God only knows."

The tears had ceased to flow; love, joy, and thankfulness were regaining
their ascendancy in the heart of the youthful bride; she became again
calmly, serenely happy.

The journey was accomplished without accident. They were favored with
warm, bright days, clear, starlit nights; and on as lovely an afternoon as
was ever known in that delicious clime, reached Viamede.

Great preparations had been made for their reception; banners were
streaming, and flags flying from balconies and tree-tops. Mr. Mason met
them at the pier with a face beaming with delight; Spriggs with a stiff
bow. A gun was fired and a drum began to beat as they stepped ashore; two
pretty mulatto girls scattered flowers in their path, and passing under a
grand triumphal arch they presently found themselves between two long rows
of smiling, bowing negroes, whose fervent ejaculations: "God bless our
dear young missus an' her husband!" "God bless you, massa an' missus!"
"Welcome home!" "Welcome to Viamede!" "We've not forgot you, Miss Elsie;
you's as welcome as de daylight!" affected our tender-hearted heroine
almost to tears.

She had a kind word for each, remembering all their names, and inquiring
after their "miseries"; every one was permitted to take her small white
hand, many of them kissing it with fervent affection. They were introduced
to their "new master," too (that was what she called him), and shaken
hands with by him in a cordial interested way that won their hearts at
once.

Aunt Phillis was in her glory, serving up a feast the preparation of which
had exhausted the united skill of both Aunt Sally and herself. Their
efforts were duly appreciated and praised, the viands evidently greatly
enjoyed, all to their intense delight.

Mr. Mason was invited to partake with the bride and groom, and assigned
the seat of honor at Mr. Travilla's right hand. Elsie presided over the
tea-urn with the same gentle dignity and grace as when her father occupied
the chair at the opposite end of the table, now filled by her husband. Her
traveling dress had been exchanged for one of simple white, and there were
white flowers in her hair and at her throat. Very sweet and charming she
looked, not only in the eyes of her husband, who seemed to find her fair
face a perpetual feast, but in those of all others who saw her.

On leaving the table they repaired to the library, where Mr. Mason gave a
report of the condition of the people and his work among them, also
assuring Mrs. Travilla that Spriggs had carefully carried out her wishes,
that the prospect for the crops was fine, and everything on the estate in
excellent order.

She expressed her gratification, appealing to Mr. Travilla for his
approval, which was cordially given; said she had brought a little gift
for each of the people, and desired they should be sent up to the house
about sunset the next evening to receive it.

The chaplain promised that her order should be attended to, then retired,
leaving husband and wife alone together.

"All very satisfactory, my little friend, was it not?" said Mr. Travilla.

"Yes, sir, very. I'm so glad to have secured such a man as Mr. Mason to
look after the welfare of these poor helpless creatures. And you like the
house, Mr. Travilla, do you not?"

"Very much, so far as I have seen it. This is a beautiful room, and the
dining-room pleased me equally well."

"Ah, I am eager to show you all!" she cried, rising quickly and laying her
hand on the bell-rope.

"Stay, little wife, not to-night," he said, "you are too much fatigued."

She glided to the back of the easy chair in which he sat, and leaning over
him, said laughingly, "I'm not conscious of being fatigued, but I have
promised to obey and----"

"Hush, hush!" he said flushing, "I meant to have that left out; and did I
not tell you you were to have your own way that night and ever after?
You've already done enough of obeying to last you a lifetime. But please
come round where I can see you better." Then, as she stepped to his side,
he threw an arm about her and drew her to his knee.

"But it wasn't left out," she said, shyly returning his fond caress; "I
promised and must keep my word."

"Ah, but if you can't, you can't; how will you obey when you get no
orders?"

"So you don't mean to give me any?"

"No, indeed; I'm your husband, your friend, your protector, your lover,
but not your master."

"Now, Mr. Travilla----"

"I asked you to call me Edward."

"But it seems so disrespectful."

"More so than to remind me of the disparity of our years? or than to
disregard my earnest wish? Then I think I'll have to require the keeping
of the promise in this one thing. Say Edward, little wife, and never again
call me Mr. Travilla when we are alone."

"Well, Edward, I will try to obey; and if I use the wrong word through
forgetfulness you must please excuse it. But ah, I remember papa would say
that was no excuse."

"But I shall not be so strict--unless you forget too often. I have
sometimes thought my friend too hard with his tender-hearted, sensitive
little daughter."

"Don't blame him--my dear, dear father!" she said, low and tremulously,
her face growing grave and almost sad for the moment. "He was very strict,
it is true, but none too strict in the matter of requiring prompt and
implicit obedience, and oh, so kind, so loving, so tender, so
sympathizing. I could, and did go to him with every little childish joy
and sorrow, every trouble, vexation, and perplexity; always sure of
sympathy, and help, too, if needed. Never once did he repulse me, or show
himself an uninterested listener.

"He would take me on his knee, hear all I had to say, clasp me close to
his heart, caress me, call me pet names, joy, sorrow with, or counsel me
as the case required, and bid me always come freely to him so, assuring me
that nothing which concerned me, one way or another, was too trivial to
interest him, and he would be glad to know I had not a thought or feeling
concealed from him. I doubt if even you, my friend, have ever known all
that papa has been and is to me: father, mother, everything--but
husband," she added with a blush and smile, as her eyes met the kindly,
tender look in his.

"Ah, that is my blessed privilege," he whispered, drawing her closer to
him. "My wife, my own precious little wife! God keep me from ever being
less tender, loving, sympathizing to you than your father has been."

"I do not fear it, my husband. Oh, was ever woman so blessed with love as
I! Daughter, and wife! they are the sweetest of all names when addressed
to me by papa's lips and yours."

"I ought not to find fault with his training, seeing what credit you do
it. However, you seemed to me as near perfection as possible before he
began. Ah, my little friend, for how many years I loved you with scarcely
a hope it would ever be returned in the way I wished. Indeed I can hardly
yet believe fully in my own happiness," he concluded with a joyous laugh.
The next day Elsie had the pleasure of showing her husband over the house
first, and then the estate. Their life at Viamede, for the few weeks of
their stay, seemed much like a repetition of her visit there the year
before with her father. They took the same rides, walks and drives; glided
over the clear waters of the bayou in the same boat; sought out each spot
of beauty or interest he had shown her; were, if possible, even more
constantly together, reading, writing, or engaged with music in library or
drawing-room, seated side by side on veranda or lawn enjoying
conversation, book or periodical; or, it might be, silently musing, hand
in hand, by the soft moonlight that lent such a witchery to the lovely
landscape. A pleasanter honeymoon could hardly have been devised.

In one thing, however, they were disappointed: they had hoped to be left
entirely to each other; but it was impossible to conceal their presence at
Viamede from the hospitable neighbors, and calls and invitations had to be
received and returned. But, both being eminently fitted to shine in
society, and each proud to display the other, this state of things did
not, after all, so greatly interfere with their enjoyment.

In fact, so delightful did they find their life in that lovely country
that they lingered week after week till nearly six had slipped away, and
letters from home began to be urgent for their return. Mr. Dinsmore was
wearying for his daughter, Mrs. Travilla for her son, and scarcely less
for the daughter so long vainly hoped for.

Every day a servant was despatched to the nearest post-office with their
mail, generally returning as full handed as he went. Mr. Dinsmore's
letters were, as he had promised, daily, and never left unanswered. The
old love was not, could not be forgotten in the new. Elsie was no less a
daughter because she had become a wife; but Edward was always a sharer in
her enjoyment, and she in his.

They were sitting on the veranda one morning when Uncle Ben rode up and
handed the mail-box to his master. Mr. Travilla hastened to open it, gave
Elsie her letters and began the perusal of his own.

A softly breathed sigh called his attention to her.

"What is it, little wife?" he asked; "your face is grave almost to
sadness."

"I was thinking," she answered, with her eye still upon her father's
letter open in her hand. "Papa says," and she read aloud from the sheet,
"How long you are lingering in Viamede. When will you return? Tell
Travilla I am longing for a sight of the dear face his eyes are feasting
upon, and he must remember his promise not to part us.

"I am writing in your boudoir. I have been thinking of the time (it seems
but yesterday) when I had you here a little girl, sitting on my knee
reciting your lessons or listening with almost rapt attention to my
remarks and explanations. Never before had tutor so dear, sweet, and
interesting a scholar!"

"A fond father's partiality," she remarked, looking up with a smile and
blush. "But never, I am sure, was such another tutor; his lucid
explanations, intense interest in the subject and his pupil, apt
illustrations, and fund of information constantly opened up to me, made my
lessons a delight."

"He has made you wonderfully well informed and thorough," said her
husband.

She colored with pleasure.

"Such words are very sweet, coming from your lips. You appreciate papa."

"Yes, indeed, and his daughter too, I hope," he answered, smiling fondly
upon her. "Yes, your father and I have been like brothers since we were
little fellows. It seems absurd to think of him in any other relation."

"But what about going home? isn't it time, as papa thinks?"

"That you shall decide, _ma chere_; our life here has been very delightful
to me, and to you also, I hope."

"Very, if we had your mother and papa and mamma and the children here, I
should like to stay all winter. But as it is I think we ought to return
soon." He assented, and after a little more consultation they decided to
go soon--not later than the middle of the next week, but the day was not
set.

CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.

"The low reeds bent by the streamlet's side,
And hills to the thunder peal replied;
The lightning burst on its fearful way
While the heavens were lit in its red array."
--WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK.

"Thither, full fraught with mischievous revenge
Accurs'd, and in a cursed hour he hies."
--MILTON'S PARADISE LOST.

They were alone that evening, and retired earlier than usual. They had
been quietly sleeping for some time when Elsie was wakened by a sudden
gust of wind that swept round the house, rattling doors and windows; then
followed the roll and crash of thunder, peal on peal, accompanied with
vivid flashes of lightning.

Elsie was not timid in regard to thunder and lightning; she knew so well
that they were entirely under the control of her Father, without whom not
a hair of her head could perish; she lay listening to the war of the
elements, thinking of the words of the Psalmist, "The clouds poured out
water: the skies sent out a sound; Thine arrows also went abroad. The
voice of Thy thunder was in the heaven; the lightnings lightened the
world, the earth trembled and shook."

But another sound startled her. Surely she heard some stealthy step on the
veranda upon which the windows of the room opened (long windows reaching
from the floor almost to the ceiling), and then a hand at work with the
fastenings of the shutters of the one farthest from the bed.

Her husband lay sleeping by her side. She half raised herself in the bed,
put her lips to his ear, and shaking him slightly, whispered, "Edward,
some one is trying to get in at the window!"

He was wide-awake in an instant, raised himself and while listening
intently took a loaded revolver from under his pillow and cocked it ready
for use.

"Lie down, darling," he whispered; "it will be safer, and should the
villain get in, this will soon settle him, I think."

"Don't kill him, if you can save yourself without," she answered, in the
same low tone and with a shudder.

"No; if I could see, I should aim for his right arm."

A moment of silent waiting, the slight sound of the burglar's tool faintly
heard amid the noise of the storm, then the shutter flew open, a man
stepped in; at that instant a vivid flash of lightning showed the three to
each other, and the men fired simultaneously.

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