Grandmother Elsie by Martha Finley

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"Don't let it distress you, my dear girl," he replied soothingly; "we
should perhaps make some allowance for unintentional exaggeration. There
are always two sides to a story, and we have but one here."

"But told in a very straightforward way," Elsie said with warmth. "Both
letters seem to me to bear the stamp of truth. Depend upon, it, captain,
there is good ground for their complaints."

"I fear so," he said, "and am quite as anxious, my dear Mrs. Travilla, as
you could wish to set my dear children free from such tyranny; but what
can I do? In obedience to orders, I must return to my vessel to-morrow and
sail at once for a distant foreign port. I cannot go to see about my
darlings, and I know of no better place to put them. I shall, however,
write to Mrs. Scrimp, directing her to have immediately the best medical
advice for Gracie, and to follow it, feeding her as the doctor directs.
Also always to give Lulu as much as she wants of good, plain, wholesome
food. I shall also write to Fox, giving very particular directions in
regard to the management of my son."

CHAPTER XV.

"Great minds, like heaven, are pleased in doing good."
--_Rowe_.

Capt. Raymond's departure left Violet more lonely than his coming had
found her, much as she was at that time missing her elder sister and
brother.

They were to correspond, but as he would sail immediately for a foreign
port, the exchange of letters between them could not, of course, be very
frequent.

Her mother, grandpa, and Grandma Rose all sympathized with her in the
grief of separation from the one who had become so dear, and exerted
themselves to cheer and comfort her.

She and her mamma were bosom companions, and had many a confidential chat
about the captain and his poor children, the desire to rescue the latter
from their tormentors and make them very happy growing in the hearts of
both.

As the captain had not enjoined secrecy upon them in regard to the letters
of Max and Lulu, and it was so much the habit of both to speak freely to
Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore--especially the former--of all that interested
themselves, it was not long before they too had heard, with deep
commiseration, the story of the unkind treatment to which Max, Lulu, and
Gracie were subjected.

"We must find a way to be of service to them," Mr. Dinsmore said. "Perhaps
by instituting inquiries among our friends and acquaintances we may hear
of some kind and capable person able and willing to take charge of them,
and to whom their father would be willing to commit them."

"I wish we could!" Elsie said with a sigh. "I think I can fully sympathize
with the poor things, for I have not forgotten how in my early childhood I
used to long and weep for the dear mamma who had gone to heaven, and my
dear papa away in Europe."

"A very poor sort of father he was then, very culpably neglectful of his
little motherless child," Mr. Dinsmore said in a remorseful tone, and
regarding her with a tenderly affectionate look.

"But afterward and to this day the very best of fathers," she responded,
smiling up at him. "Dear papa, what a debt of gratitude do I not owe to
you for all the love, care, and kindness shown by you to me and my
children!"

"I feel fully repaid by the love and obedience I receive in return," he
said, seating himself on the sofa by Vi's side and softly stroking her
hair.

"Children and grandchildren all rise up and call you blessed, dear papa,"
Elsie said, laying down the embroidery with which she had been busy, and
coming to his other side to put her arm about his neck and gaze lovingly
into his eyes.

A silent caress as he passed his arm around her waist and drew her closer
to him was his only response.

"Grandpa and mamma," said Vi, "don't you think Capt. Raymond is to be
pitied? Just think! he has neither father nor mother, brother nor sister!
no near and dear one except his children; and from them he is separated
almost all the time."

"Yes," said Mr. Dinsmore, "I do indeed! but am not sorry enough for him to
give you up to him yet. I would not allow your mamma to marry till she was
several years older than you are now."

"No, sir," said Elsie, smiling, "I well remember that you utterly forbade
me to listen to any declarations of love from man or boy, or to think of
such things if I could possibly help it."

"Well, you lost nothing by waiting."

"Lost! oh, no, no papa!" she cried, dropping her head upon his shoulder,
while a scalding tear fell to the memory of the husband so highly
honored, so dearly loved.

"My dear child! my poor dear child!" her father said very low and
tenderly, pressing her closer to his side; "the separation is only for the
little while of time, the reunion will be for the endless ages of
eternity."

"A most sweet and comforting thought, dear father," she said, lifting her
head and smiling through her tears; "and with that glad prospect and so
many dear ones left me, I am a very happy woman still."

At that moment there was an interruption that for a long time put to
flight all thought of effort on behalf of Capt. Raymond's children:
Herbert and Harold came hurrying in with the news that a summons to
Roselands had come for their grandpa, grandma, and mother. Mrs. Conly had
had another stroke, was senseless, speechless, and apparently dying; also
the shock of her seizure had prostrated her father, and Arthur considered
him dangerously ill.

The summons was promptly obeyed, and Violet left in the temporary charge
of children, house, and servants at Ion.

Mrs. Conly died that night, but the old gentleman lingered for several
weeks, during which time his son was a constant attendant at his bedside,
either Rose or Elsie almost always sharing the watch and labor of love.

At length all was over: the spirit had returned to God who gave it, the
body had been laid to rest in the family vault. Mr. Dinsmore and his wife
and daughter went home to Ion, and life there fell back into its old quiet
grooves.

They spoke tenderly of the old grandfather, and kept his memory green in
their loving hearts, but he had gone to his grave like a shock of corn
fully ripe, and they did not mourn over his death with the sadness they
might have felt had it been that of a younger member of the family.

Toward spring Capt. Raymond's letters became urgent for a speedy marriage.
He expected to be ordered home in June and allowed a rest of some weeks or
months. Then he might be sent to some distant quarter of the globe, and
not see his native land again for a long while, perhaps years. Under such
circumstances, how could he wait for his little wife? Would not she and
her mother and grandfather consent to let him claim her in June?

The tender hearts of Elsie and Violet could not stand out against his
appeals. Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore felt for him too, and at length consent was
given, and preparations for the marriage were set on foot.

Then the talk about the captain's children was renewed, and Vi said, with
tears in her sweet azure eyes, "Mamma, I do feel like being a mother to
them--especially for his sake--it only I were old enough and wise enough
to command their respect and obedience. Ah, mamma, if only you could have
the training of them! Yet I could not bear to have you so burdened."

"I have been thinking of it, Vi, dear," Elsie said; "that perhaps we could
give them a happy home here, and help them to grow up to good and noble
man and womanhood, if their father would like to delegate his authority to
your grandpa and you and me. I think we would not abuse it, but without it
'twould be quite useless to undertake the charge."

"Dear mamma!" cried Vi, her eyes shining, "how good, how kind, and
unselfish you always are!"

Mr. Dinsmore, entering the room at the moment, asked playfully, "What is
the particular evidence of that patent at this time, Vi?"

She answered his question by repeating what her mother had just said.

"I have a voice in that," he remarked, with, a grave shake of the head. "I
do not think, daughter, that I can allow you to be so burdened."

She rose, went to him where he stood, and putting her arms about his neck,
her eyes gazing fondly into his, "Dear papa," she said, "you know I will
do nothing against your wishes, but I am sure you will not hinder me from
doing any work the Master sends me?"

"No, dear child, you are more His than mine, and I dare not, would not
interfere if He has sent you work; but the question is, has He done so?"

"If you please, papa, we will take a little time to consider that
question; shall we not?"

"Yes," he said, "it need not be decided to-day. The right training and
educating of those children would certainly be a good work, and could it
be so managed that I could do all the hard and unpleasant part of it----"
he said musingly.

"Oh no! no! my dear father," she hastily interposed, as he paused, leaving
his sentence unfinished, "the work should be mine if undertaken at all."

"Perhaps," he said, "it might be tried for a short time as a mere
experiment, to be continued only if the children do not prove
ungovernable, or likely to be an injury to our own; for our first duty is
to them."

"Yes indeed, papa!" responded his daughter earnestly. "And nothing can be
really decided upon until Capt. Raymond comes. He may have other plans for
his children."

"Yes, it is quite possible he may think best to place Max and Lulu at
school somewhere."

"But poor little sick Gracie!" said Violet, the tears springing to her
eyes. "Mamma, I do want to have her to love and pet, and I think if we had
her here with our good old mammy to nurse her, and Cousin Arthur to attend
her, she might grow to be strong and healthy."

"Dear child! I am glad to hear you say that!" said Elsie, "for it is just
as I have been thinking and feeling. My heart yearns over the poor
motherless children, and that little feeble one very especially."

Capt. Raymond was deeply touched when, shortly after his arrival at Ion to
claim his bride, he learned what was in her heart and her mother's toward
his children.

After due deliberation it was settled that the experiment should be tried.
Arrangements were made for the whole family to spend the summer in two
adjoining cottages at a lovely seaside resort on the New England coast,
Mrs. Dinsmore to be mistress of one house, Violet of the other, while the
captain could be with her, which he had reason to expect would be for
several months.

In the fall he would probably be ordered away; then Violet would return to
Ion with her mother and the rest of the family, taking his children with
her, if Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie should still feel willing to take them in
charge. He had a high opinion of Dr. Conly's skill as a physician, and
was extremely anxious to place Gracie under his care. Also he thought that
to no other persons in the world would he so joyfully commit his children
to be trained up and educated as to Mr. Dinsmore, his daughter and
granddaughter, and he was more than willing to delegate to them his own
authority during his absences from home.

The marriage would take place at Ion, the bride and groom start northward
the same day on a wedding tour. On the return trip to the spot which was
to be their home for the summer, they would call for the captain's
children.

In the mean time the others would complete their arrangements for the
season, journey northward also, and take possession of their seaside
cottage.

It was a sore disappointment to the whole family at Ion, but especially to
Violet and her brother, that Elsie Leland could not be present at the
wedding. Lester's health was almost entirely restored, but he felt it
important to him as an artist to prolong his stay in Italy for at least
some months.

Edward had remained with them through the winter, had left them in April,
intending to make an extensive European tour before returning to his
native land, but would surely hasten home for Vi's wedding if his mother's
summons reached him in season.

CHAPTER XVI.

"Here love his golden shafts employs, here lights
His constant lamp, and waves his purple wings."
--_Rowly_.

It was Saturday evening. Edward Travilla, travelling leisurely through
France, had stopped in a village not many miles from Paris, to spend the
Sabbath.

Having taken his supper and afterward a stroll through the village, he
retired to his room to read and answer a budget of letters just received
from America.

The first he opened was from his mother. It told of Violet's approaching
marriage and urged his immediate return that he might be present at the
ceremony.

"We are all longing to see you," she wrote, "your mother more, I believe,
than any one else. If you have not had enough of Europe yet, my dear boy,
you can go back again soon, if you wish, perhaps taking some of us with
you. And Vi will be sorely disappointed if you are not present on the
occasion so important to her."

"I must certainly go," he mused, laying down the letter. "I should not
like to miss it. Vi will be as lovely a bride as Elsie was. I have never
been able to decide which of the two is the more beautiful; but I wonder
that she is allowed to marry so young--just nineteen! I should have had
her wait a year or two at least."

There was a step in the hall without, a rap on the door.

"Come in," Edward said, and Ben appeared.

"Marse Ed'ard, dey tells me dars a 'Merican gentleman bery sick in de room
cross de hall hyar; gwine ter die, I reckon."

"Indeed!" Edward said with concern. "I should be glad to be of assistance
to him. Is he quite alone, Ben? I mean has he no friends with him?"

"I b'lieves dar's a lady long wid him, Marse Ed'ard, but I mos'ly has to
guess 'bout de half ob what dese Frenchers say."

"You don't know the name, Ben?"

"No, sah, couldn't make it out de way dey dispronounces it. But I
understands, sah, dat dese folks--meanin' de sick gentleman and de
lady--and we's de only 'Mericans in de town."

"Then here, Ben, take my card to the lady and ask if I can be of service
to them. Say that I am a countryman of theirs and shall be most happy to
do anything in my power."

Ben came back the next moment with a face full of grave concern. "Marse
Ed'ard," he said, "it's Mistah Love and Miss Zoe."

"Is it possible!" cried Edward, starting up. "And is he really so very
ill?"

"Berry sick, Marse Ed'ard, looks like he's dyin' sho nuff."

"Oh, dreadful! And no one with him but his daughter?"

"Dat's all, sah. De young lady come to de do', and when I give her de
card, she look at it and den at me an' say, 'O Ben! I thought we hadn't a
friend in all dis country! and papa so very sick! Please tell Mr. Travilla
we'll be glad to see him.'"

Edward went to them at once, bidding Ben remain near at hand lest he
should be needed to do some errand.

The Loves had remained in Rome for a few weeks after Elsie's marriage,
during which Edward had met them frequently, his liking for the father and
admiration of the daughter's beauty and sprightliness increasing with
every interview.

He had found Mr. Love a sensible, well-informed Christian gentleman. The
daughter was a mere child--only fifteen--extremely pretty and engaging,
but evidently too much petted and indulged, her father's spoiled darling.

Edward knew that she was an only child and motherless, and was much
shocked and grieved to hear that she was likely to lose her only remaining
parent.

Zoe herself opened the door in answer to his gentle rap.

"O Mr. Travilla!" she said, giving him both hands in her joy at seeing a
friendly face in this hour of sore distress, but with tears streaming down
her cheeks, "I am so glad you have come! Papa is so sick, and I don't know
what to do, or where to turn."

"My poor child! we must hope for the best," Edward said, pressing the
little hands compassionately in his. "You must call upon me for help and
let me do whatever I can for you and your poor father, just as if I were
his son and your brother."

"Oh, thank you! you are very kind. Will you come now and speak to him?"
and she led the way to the bedside.

"Travilla!" the sick man exclaimed, feebly holding out his hand. "Thank
God for sending you here!"

Edward took the offered hand in his, saying with an effort to steady his
tones, "I am glad indeed to be here, sir, if you can make use of me, but
very sorry to see you so ill."

The hand he held was cold and clammy, and death had plainly set his seal
upon the pale face on the pillow.

"Shall I send Ben for a physician?" Edward asked.

"Thank you. I have had one; he will be here again presently, but can do
little for me," the sick man answered, speaking slowly and with frequent
pauses. "Zoe, my darling, go into the next room for a moment, dear. I
would be alone with Mr. Travilla for a little while."

The weeping girl obeyed at once, her father following her with eyes that
were full of anguish.

"'Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them alive,'" repeated
Edward in low tones, tremulous with deep sympathy.

How this scene brought back that other, but a year and a half ago, when
his own father lay wrestling with the king of terrors!

"Yes, yes, precious promise! for she will soon be that, my poor darling!"
groaned the sufferer. "That I must leave her alone in the world, without
one near relative, alone in a strange land, penniless too, oh this is the
bitterness of death!"

"I will be a friend to her, sir," Edward said with emotion, "and so I am
sure will my mother and grandfather when they learn her sad story. Tell me
your wishes in regard to her, and I will do my best to see them carried
out."

As briefly as possible, for his strength was waning, Mr. Love made Edward
acquainted with the state of his affairs. He had retired from business the
previous year with a comfortable competence, and being somewhat out of
health, had undertaken a European tour with the hope of benefit, if not
entire recovery.

The improvement had been very decided for a time, but within the last few
days distressing news had reached him from America; news of the failure,
through the extensive peculation of one of its officers, of a bank in
which the bulk of his savings had been invested.

He had other property, but as the law made each stockholder liable for
double the amount of his stock, that too was swallowed up and he thus
utterly ruined.

The terrible shock of the disaster had so increased his malady that it had
become mortal; he was too utterly prostrated to rally from it, and knew
that his hours on earth were numbered.

He had a little ready money with him, enough he thought to pay his funeral
expenses and Zoe's passage back to her native land, but such a mere child
as she was, always used to depending upon him to see to all their affairs,
she would not know how to manage, and would probably be robbed of the
little she had. And even if she should arrive safely in her own country,
what was to become of her then? Without means, no one upon whom she had
any claim for assistance, and too young and ignorant to do anything to
earn her own living.

Edward was deeply moved by the sad recital. "My dear Mr. Love," he said,
"make yourself quite easy about Miss Zoe. I will attend to all these
matters about which you have spoken. I am about to return home myself, and
will be her companion and protector on the voyage. Nor shall she want for
friends or any needed assistance after we arrive."

"God bless you! you have lifted a heavy load from my heart!" faltered the
dying father, with a look of deep gratitude. "You are young, sir, but I
can trust you fully. There are few older men whom I would as willingly
trust."

"And you can die in peace, trusting in the Saviour of sinners?"

"Yes; He is all my hope, all my trust."

"I have been told there is a Protestant minister in the village. Shall I
send Ben for him?"

"Yes, thank you; I should be glad to see him, though I feel that he or any
man could be of little assistance to me now, if the work of repentance and
faith had been left for this hour."

Edward went to the door, called Ben and sent him on the errand, then
coming back to the bedside, "Mr. Love," he said, flushing and speaking
with some little hesitation, "will you give your daughter to me if she is
willing?"

"Give her to you?" the sick man asked as if not fully comprehending.

"Yes, sir; give her to me to wife, and I will cherish her to life's end."

There was a flash of joy in the dying eyes, quickly succeeded by one of
hesitation and doubt. "Is it love or compassion only that moves you to
this most generous offer?" he asked.

"It is both," Edward said. "I have admired and felt strongly attracted to
her from the first day of our acquaintance, though I did not recognize it
as love until now. We are both so young that I should not have spoken yet
but for the peculiar circumstances in which we are placed; but I truly,
dearly love the sweet girl and earnestly desire to be given the right to
protect, provide for and cherish her as my dearest earthly treasure so
long as we both shall live."

"But your friends, your relatives?"

"I think my mother would not object, if she knew all. But I am of age, so
have an undoubted right to act for myself even in so vitally important a
matter."

"Then if my darling loves you, let me see you united before I die."

At this moment the door of the adjoining room opened and Zoe's voice was
heard in imploring, tearful accents: "Mayn't I come back now? O papa, I
cannot stay away from you any longer!"

Edward hastened to her, and taking both her hands in his, "Dear Miss Zoe,"
he said, "I love you, I feel for you, I want to make you my very own, if
you can love me in return, that I may have the right to take care of you.
Will you be my dear little wife? will you marry me now, to-night, that
your father may be present and feel that he will not leave you alone and
unprotected?"

She looked up at him in utter surprise, then seeing the love and pity in
his face, burst into a passion of grief.

"Leave me! papa going to leave me!" she cried. "Oh, no, no! I cannot bear
it! He must, he will be better soon! O Mr. Travilla, say that he will!"

"No, my darling!" replied a quivering voice from the bed, "I shall not
live to see the morning light, and if you love Mr. Travilla tell him so
and let me see you married before I die."

"Can you, do you love me, dear little Zoe?" Edward asked in tenderest
tones, passing his arm about her waist.

"Yes," she said half under her breath, with a quick glance up into his
face, then hid her own on his breast, sobbing, "Oh, take care of me! for
I'll be all alone in the wide world when dear papa is gone."

"I will," he said, pressing her closer, softly pushing back the fair hair
from the white temple and touching his lips to it again and again. "God
helping me, I will be to you a tender, true, and loving husband."

"Come here, Zoe, darling," her father said, "our time grows short;" and
Edward led her to the bedside.

"O papa, papa!" she sobbed, falling on her knees and laying her wet cheek
to his.

Edward, with heart and eyes full to overflowing, moved softly away to the
farther side of the room, that in this last sad interview the constraint
of even his presence might not be felt.

Low sobs and murmured words of tenderness and fatherly counsel reached his
ear, and his heart went up in silent prayer for both the dying one and her
just about to be so sorely bereaved.

Presently footsteps approached the door opening into the passage, a gentle
tap followed, and he admitted the minister who had been sent for,
beckoning Ben to come in also.

A few whispered words passed between Edward and the minister, then both
drew near the bed.

A brief talk with the dying man, in which he professed himself ready and
willing to depart, trusting in the atoning blood and imputed righteousness
of Christ, a short fervent prayer for him and his child, then Edward,
leaning over the still kneeling, weeping Zoe, whispered, "Now, dearest!"

The tear-dimmed eyes looked up inquiringly.

"We are going to belong to each other, are we not?" he said very low and
tenderly. "The minister is ready now to speak the words that will make us
one for the rest of our lives."

Without speaking she rose, wiping away her tears, put her hand within his
arm, and the ceremony began.

When it was over Edward took her in his arms, saying softly as he pressed
his lips again and again to her forehead, her cheek, her lips, "My wife,
my own dear little wife!"

"My child! my darling!" murmured the father, feebly reaching for her hand.

Edward took it and put it into his.

The dying fingers closed feebly over it. "Lord, I thank thee for this
great mercy! 'Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.'"

The words came low and faintly from the lips already growing cold in
death, a gasp for breath followed, and all was still, no sound in the
room but Zoe's wild weeping, while with silent caresses Edward held her to
his heart.

They laid him to rest in the nearest Protestant cemetery, for such had
been his request.

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