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Elsie's Widowhood

<h2>[220] CHAPTER XIX.</h2> <div class="block20"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "A mother is a mother still, The holiest thing alive." —Coleridge. </div> </div></div> The next morning's mail brought a letter from Mr. Dinsmore, announcing his speedy coming with his wife, father, Mr. and Mrs. Edward Allison, and several of their children. "There's an end to our good times!" sighed Violet. "Shall you be so very sorry to see your grandpa?" her mother asked with a slight smile, knowing that her father was dearly loved by all her children, and by none more than by Violet herself. "Oh no, mamma; nor grandma, nor any of them," was the quick reply; "only it was so nice to have you so entirely to ourselves." "Haven't you enjoyed it too, mamma?" asked several voices, while every face turned eagerly and inquiringly to hers. "Yes, indeed, my darlings," she said; "and yet so dearly do I love my father that my heart bounds at the very thought that he will be with me again in a few hours." "Then, mamma, we are all glad for you," Elsie said: Violet adding, "and for ourselves,[221] too; for it is nice to have grandpa and grandma with us; and Aunt Adelaide also; she is always so kind." "Very different from Aunt Louise," remarked Edward. "Who would ever think they were sisters! Isa and Virginia are quite as unlike, too, though they are sisters. I hope Aunt Louise and her old-maid daughter won't visit us this summer!" "Edward!" his mother said in a tone of reproof. "Excuse me, mother," he said; "but if I dislike them, it is because they have always treated you so badly." "They have never done me any injury, my son," she answered, with gentle gravity, "and I would not have you feel unkindly toward them; much less am I willing to hear you speak of them as you did just now. Virginia is not an old maid, and if she were I should be sorry to have you apply that epithet to her." "She is several years older than I am, mother," he said, blushing. "About three; and you are only a boy." Edward felt this as the most cutting rebuke his gentle mother had ever administered to him, for he had begun to think of himself as a man, old enough and strong enough to be his mother's stay and support, and a guide to his younger brothers and sisters. [222] But sensible that he had deserved the reproof, he bore it in silence; yet could not rest until seizing an opportunity to speak to her without being overheard by others, "Dear mamma," he whispered, looking beseechingly into her eyes, "will you not forgive my thoughtless, uncharitable speech of this morning?" "Certainly, my dear boy," she answered with one of her sweetest smiles, "and I trust you will try to cultivate more kindly feelings toward your grandpa's sister and niece, for his sake, and because it is a Christian duty." Mr. Dinsmore and his party arrived that afternoon, and the next day were followed by Mrs. Conly and Virginia. "We thought we would give you a surprise," was the greeting of the former: "the heat and threats of yellow fever drove us North. I scattered the younger children about among other relatives, leaving several at your house, Adelaide, then came on here with Virgie, knowing that Elsie would of course have room enough for us two." "We will find room for you, Aunt Louise," Elsie said with pleasant cordiality, and trying hard to feel rejoiced at their coming. A very difficult task, as they never were at the slightest pains to make themselves agreeable, and the house was already comfortably filled. Edward waited only to shake hands hastily[223] with his aunt and cousin, then slipped away for a solitary stroll on the beach while he should fight down his feelings of disgust and irritation at this unwelcome and unwarrantable invasion of his mother's dwelling. He had asked that morning if he might invite his college chum, Charlie Perrine, to spend a week or two with him, and had received a prompt and kind permission to do so. It seemed hard enough to have to entertain, instead, these relatives, between whom and himself there had always been a cordial dislike; for from early childhood he had perceived and strongly resented the envy, jealousy and ill-will indulged in by them toward his mother. He paced hurriedly to and fro for some minutes, striving, with but indifferent success, to recover his equanimity, then stood still, gazing out to sea, half inclined to wish himself on board an outward-bound vessel in the offing. Presently a hand took quiet possession of his arm, and turning his head he found his mother standing by his side. "I am grieved to see my boy's face so clouded," she said in her sweet and gentle tones. "Then, mother, it shall not be so any longer," he answered, resolutely forcing a smile. "I have been really trying to feel good-natured, but it is not easy under the circumstances. Not to me, I mean. I wish I had inherited your sweet disposition." [224] "Ah, you can judge only from outside appearances," she said with a sigh and a smile; "no one knows what a battle his neighbor may be fighting in his own heart, while outwardly calm and serene. I know you are disappointed because you fear you must give up inviting your friend for the present, but that will not be necessary, my dear boy. We can still manage to make room for him by a little crowding which will hurt no one. My room is so large that I can easily take Walter and all your sisters in with me, and if necessary we will pitch a tent for the servants." "Or for Charlie and me, mother," he exclaimed in delight; "we should not mind it in the least; indeed it would be good fun to live so for a while." At this moment they were joined by Elsie and Violet, both full of sympathy for Edward, and anxious to consult mamma as to the possibility of still making room for the comfortable accommodation of his friend. They listened with delight to her proposed arrangement: it would be a great pleasure to them to share her room, if it would not inconvenience her, and she assured them it would not. "I was afraid," said Elsie, "that Aunt Adelaide might hurry away to make room for the others, but now I hope she will not, for we all enjoy having her with us." [225] "No," Mrs. Travilla said, "we will keep her as long as we can. Ah, here come my father and grandfather. I think we shall astonish them with the news of the arrival." "Cousin Donald is with them too," remarked Elsie. "Mamma, I think Virginia will be rather pleased to see so fine looking a gentleman haunting the house." "Her sister's brother-in-law," said Vi. "Perhaps she will claim him as more nearly related to her than to us." The young man had found favor with both Mr. Dinsmores, and the three were just returning from a pretty long tramp together which had caused them to miss seeing the arrival of Mrs. and Miss Conly. The news seemed to give more surprise than pleasure. "It was very thoughtless in Louise," the old gentleman said with some vexation, "but it is just like her. I think we must find rooms for them at one of the hotels, Elsie; for I don't see how your house is to accommodate us all." "I do, grandpa," was her smiling rejoinder, "so make yourself perfectly easy on that score." "I hope our excursion is not to be interfered with, cousin?" Donald said inquiringly: for arrangements had been made for a long drive that afternoon, taking in several of the neighboring sea-side resorts, and as his three lady[226] cousins had promised to be of the party, he was loath to give it up. "No," she said, "Aunt Adelaide and Aunt Louise will doubtless be well pleased to be left alone together for a few hours, after a separation of several years." "Besides, both my aunt and cousin will need a long nap to refresh them after the fatigue of their journey," remarked Edward. The young people exchanged congratulatory glances. They were all eager for the drive. It was just the day for it, they had all decided—the roads in excellent condition after the late rain, a delicious sea-breeze blowing, and light fleecy clouds tempering the heat of the July sun. They set off directly after an early dinner—all the Dinsmores and Travillas, Mr. Allison and his children and Mr. Keith—in two covered carriages, and well provided with waterproofs for protection against a possible shower. They were a pleasant, congenial party, the older people cheerful and companionable, the children full of life and spirits. They had visited Seagirt, Spring Lake and Asbury Park, and were passing through Ocean Beach, when Edward, catching sight of a young couple sauntering leisurely along on the sidewalk, uttered an exclamation, "Why, there's Charlie Perrine!" then calling to the driver to stop, he sprang out and hurried toward them. [227] "His college chum—and how glad they are to meet," Violet said as the two were seen shaking hands in the most cordial manner. Then Perrine introduced Edward to his companion, and the lad's sisters noticed that his face lighted up with pleased surprise as he grasped her hand. "Why, I know her!" cried Donald. "Excuse me one moment, ladies;" and he too sprang out and hastened to join the little group on the sidewalk. He and the lady met like very intimate friends, greeting each other as "Donald" and "Mary:" then he led her to the side of the carriage and introduced her. "My cousin Mary Keith, Uncle Donald's daughter; our cousins, Miss Elsie and Miss Violet Travilla." The girls shook hands and exchanged glances of mutual interest and admiration. Mary had a very bright, pleasant face, dark eyes and hair, plenty of color, lady-like manners, and a stylish figure well set off by inexpensive but tasteful attire. The other carriage, containing the older people, had now come up and halted beside the first. There were more introductions, then Mary was persuaded to take Edward's place in the carriage with her young cousins, and drive with them to the Colorado House, where she was[228] staying, while he and his friend followed on foot. Here the whole party alighted, seated themselves on the porch and chatted together for a half hour. "How long do you stay here, Cousin Mary?" Mrs. Travilla asked. "Another week, Cousin Elsie; I have engaged my room for that length of time: and I wish you would let one of your girls stay with me, or both if they will, though I'm afraid that would crowd them. I should be so glad if you would. I want to become acquainted with them: and besides I have just lost my roommate, and don't like to be left alone." After a little consultation between the elders of the party, it was decided that Violet should accept the invitation, her mother promising to send her a trunk in the morning, and Mary agreeing to return the visit later in the season, when her cousin's cottage would have parted with some of its present occupants. Edward, too, would remain and room with Charlie Perrine, on the same floor with the girls, so that Violet would feel that she had a protector. "I hope it will be a pleasant change for you, dear child," the mother whispered in parting from Violet, "and if you grow tired of it, you know you can come home at any time. And Edward,"[229] she added, turning to him, "I trust your sister to your care, particularly in bathing: don't let her go in without you, and don't either of you venture far out or into any dangerous spot." "We will be very careful, mamma," they both replied, "so do not feel in the least uneasy." "I shall owe you a grudge for this." Donald was saying in a rueful aside to Mary. "Why, you needn't," she returned; "you can come too, if you wish, unless you object to my society." "That wouldn't mend matters," he answered, with a glance at the younger Elsie. "Nonsense! I've found out already that she's engaged. Didn't you know it?" "Not I. Well, it takes a woman to find out the secrets of her sex!" "Then you own that a woman can keep a secret?" was her laughing rejoinder. "But do tell me," in a still lower tone, "has cousin lost her husband lately?" "Within a year, and they were devotedly attached." "Oh poor thing! But isn't she sweet?" "Yes, indeed! it didn't take even me long to find that out." The carriages rolled away amid much waving of handkerchiefs by the travellers and the little party left behind; then Mary carried Violet[230] off to her room for a long talk before it should be time to dress for tea, while the lads strolled away together along the beach, their tongues quite as busy as the other two: for there were various college matters to discuss, beside plans for fishing, boating, riding, and driving. And Edward must sound his mother's praises and learn whether Charlie did not think her the very loveliest woman he ever saw. "Yes," Charlie said with a sigh, "you are a lucky fellow, Ned. I hardly remember my mother—was only five years old when she died." "Then I pity you with all my heart!" Edward exclaimed; "for there's nothing like a mother to love you and stand by you through thick and thin." He turned his head away to hide the tears that sprang unbidden to his eyes, for along with his pity for his friend came a sudden recollection of that dreadful event in his childhood when by an act of disobedience he had come very near killing his dearly loved father. Ah, he should never forget his agony of terror and remorse, his fear that his mother could never love him again, or the tenderness with which she had embraced him, assuring him of her forgiveness and continued affection. Meantime Donald was speaking in glowing terms of Cousin Mary. "One of the best girls[231] in the world," he pronounced her—"so kind-hearted, so helpful and industrious. Uncle's circumstances are moderate," he said; "Aunt's health has been delicate for years, and Mary, as the eldest of eight or nine children, has had her hands full. I am very glad she is taking a rest now, for she needs it. A maiden sister of her mother's is filling her place for a few weeks, she told me: else she could not have been spared from home." "You make me glad that I left Violet with her," Mrs. Travilla said, with a look of pleased content. Edward and his chum returned from their walk, made themselves neat, and were waiting on the piazza before the open door, as Mary and Violet came down at the call to tea. The dining-room was furnished with small tables each accommodating eight persons. Our four young friends found seats together. The other four places at their table were occupied by two couples—a tall, gaunt, sour-visaged elderly man in green spectacles, and his meek little wife, and a small, thin, invalid old gentleman, who wore a look of patient resignation, and his wife, taller than himself by half a head. A fine head of beautiful grey hair was the only attractive thing about her, her features were coarse and her countenance was fretful. She occupied herself in filling and emptying her[232] plate with astonishing rapidity, and paid little or no attention to her husband, who was so crippled by rheumatism as to be almost helpless, having entirely lost the use of one hand, and so nearly that of his lower limbs that he could not walk without assistance. He had a nurse, a young German, who was with him constantly day and night, helped him about and waited upon him, but in a very awkward fashion. The man's clumsiness was, however, borne with patience by the sufferer, and did not seem to trouble the wife. She eyed Violet curiously between her immense mouthfuls, and whispered to her husband, loud enough for the child to hear, "Isn't that a pretty girl, William? such a handsome complexion! I reckon she paints." The sudden crimsoning of Vi's cheek contradicted that suspicion instantly, and the woman corrected herself. "No, she don't, I see. I wonder who she is?" "Hush, hush, Maria!" whispered her husband, "don't you see she hears you?" and he gave the young girl such a fatherly look, gentle and tender, that quick tears sprang to her eyes: it was so strong a reminder of one whose look of parental love she should never meet again on earth. People at other tables were noticing her too, remarking upon her beauty and grace, and asking each other who she was. [233] "We'll soon find out, mamma; don't you see she is with Miss Keith? and she will be sure to introduce her to us," said a nice looking girl about Vi's age, addressing a sweet faced lady by whose side she sat. They all met in the parlor shortly afterward, and Vi, Mrs. Perkins, her daughter Susie, and her son Fred, a lad of nineteen or twenty, were formally presented to each other. "I don't want to get into a crowd; I don't care to make acquaintances," Vi had said, half tearfully. Mary understood and respected the feeling, but answered, "Yes, dear cousin, I know: but do let me introduce Mrs. Perkins and her children. She is so sweet and lovely, a real Christian lady; and her son and daughter are very nice. We have been together a great deal, and I feel as if they were old friends." Vi did not wonder at it after talking a little with Mrs. Perkins, who had made room for her on the sofa by her side; her thought was, "She is a little like mamma; not quite so sweet nor half so beautiful; though she is very pretty." Several other ladies had come in by this time, the invalid <ins title="Original has gentlemen's">gentleman's</ins> wife among the rest. "Mrs. Moses," Vi heard some one call her. "How do you do, Miss?" she said, drawing forward an arm chair and seating herself directly[234] in front of Violet. "You're a new-comer, <ins title="Original has aint">ain't</ins> you?" "I came this afternoon," Vi answered, and turned to Mrs. Perkins with a remark about the changing beauty of the sea and clouds; for they were near an open window that gave them a view of old ocean. "Where are you from?" asked Mrs. Moses. "The South, Madame." "Ah! I should hardly have suspected it: you've such a lovely complexion, and how beautiful your hair is! like spun gold." The German servant-man appeared in the doorway. "Mrs. Moshes, Herr wants to see you." "Yes, I hear." Turning to Vi again, "Well, you must have had a long, tiresome journey; and I suppose you didn't come all alone?" Vi let the inquiry pass unnoticed, but the woman went on, "I've never been South, but I'd like to go; perhaps I shall next winter. It might help William's rheumatism." "Your husband wants you, Mrs. Moses," remarked Mary Keith. "Oh yes; he's always wanting me. I'll go presently." "Cousin," said Mary, "shall we take a stroll on the beach?" Violet caught at the suggestion with alacrity, and they went at once, the rest of their party,[235] and Mrs. Perkins and hers, accompanying them. "That poor man!" sighed Mary. "I thought if we all left her, perhaps she would go to him." "Isn't it strange?" said Susie, "he seems to love her dearly, and she to care nothing about him. And he is so nice and good and patient, and she so disagreeable." "A very poor sort of wife, I think," pursued Mary. "She will not even sleep on the same floor with him, for fear of being disturbed when pain keeps him awake. Day and night he is left to the care of that awkward, blundering German. But there! I ought to be ashamed of myself for talking about an absent neighbor." "I don't think you are doing any harm, Cousin Mary," said Charlie, "for we can all see how utterly selfish the woman is." "What! are you two cousins?" asked Edward in surprise. "First cousins, sir," returned Charlie, laughing, "sisters' children. Can't you and I claim kin, seeing she's cousin to both of us?" A sudden dash of rain prevented Edward's reply, and sent them all scurrying into the house. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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