“When I am filled with sore distress
For some surprising sin,
I’ll plead thy perfect righteousness
And mention none but thine.”
—WATTS.
THE next day the little party at the Oaks was greatly reduced in size, Mr. Travilla and his mother having gone to their own home; the doctor, Mildred, and Annis to pay a visit of a week to some relative of his living in the next county; so that Adelaide was the only remaining guest.
Elsie missed Annis very much; especially when alone in her own apartments; therefore, spent most of her time with Rose and Adelaide, or in her papa’s study. She liked to be with him better than anywhere else, even when he was too busy to notice her, and must not be spoken to; and he was always pleased to have her by his side. She had the freedom of his study, too, whether he were there or not.
Regular lessons were not to go on during Annis’s absence; but Elsie read history with her father for an hour every morning, and spent another over her music and drawing.
On Monday, the last day of the old year, as she sat on his knee, after their early morning reading and prayer together, he told her that “to-morrow evening—New Year’s night,” the Carletons were to give a large party, similar to the one they had attended at Pinegrove. “And we are all invited to it,” he added.
Her face flushed with pleasure. “Will you let me go, papa?” she asked, and he read in her eyes that she was very desirous to do so.
“I have something to say to you before I answer that question,” he said, softly stroking her hair, and looking with grave tenderness into the beseeching eyes. “You are not very strong, and bore the fatigue of the Pinegrove party so ill, that I fear the effect upon your health if I should allow you to attend another.
“Health is one of God’s good gifts, and as such we have no right to throw it away simply for our own pleasure. It is a Christian duty to take care of it; because we can serve God better with strong, healthy bodies, than with feeble, sickly ones. The Bible bids us, ‘Whether therefore ye eat or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.’ Do you think, my child, that you can obey this command in going to the party, when you know it is likely to injure your health?”
“I’m afraid not, papa,” she answered, in a low, reluctant tone.
“Very well; I leave it to your own conscience; you shall decide for yourself, whether you will go or stay.”
“Then, I shall stay, papa, because you have made it plain to me that I ought. But,” she sighed, “it will seem very lonesome while you and mamma are gone.”
“No; we will not go early, and I shall see you safe in your bed before starting.”
“Then, I shall not care so much,” she said. “I am pretty sure to go to sleep as soon as my head touches the pillow. Papa, are we to have any company to-morrow?”
“None, by invitation; the house has been so full for some time past, that your mamma and I feel that it will be pleasant to take our New Year’s dinner with only our own little family; for we hardly consider your aunt Adelaide as other than one of ourselves.”
“I think it will be nice,” she said, with satisfaction; “though I’d be glad if we could have Cousin Milly, and the doctor, and Annis.”
“So should I,” he responded; “they have come to seem a part of our family.”
So New Year’s day passed very quietly at the Oaks, yet very pleasantly too. Elsie received some handsome presents from her papa, Rose, Adelaide, and Mr. Travilla. She enjoyed that, and also presenting the gifts she had prepared for them.
Her father rode out with her shortly after breakfast, and on their return they found Mr. Travilla in the drawing-room making his New Year’s call. There were several other gentlemen doing the same, and indeed there was quite a stream of callers all the morning.
Refreshments were offered to all—cake, candies, fruits, lemonade, and hot coffee—all of the finest—but no wine or other intoxicating beverage.
Elsie was allowed a little cake, a little candy, and as much fruit and lemonade as she wished. She was well content with these, and the pleasure of listening to the talk and watching the callers come and go.
Mr. Travilla devoted himself a part of the time to her entertainment, and that was something she always enjoyed greatly.
“Are you going to the party to-night?” he asked.
Elsie shook her head. “Papa thinks I could not bear the fatigue without injury to my health, so it wouldn’t be right for me to go. But he left it to my own conscience, he said, and let me decide for myself.”
“Did he, indeed?” Mr. Travilla seemed both surprised and pleased. “Well,” he said, “I think you were very right and wise to decide as you did.”
Elsie thought it very kind in her father to let her decide for herself, and also to promise not to leave her until she was in bed for the night; and, in the fulness of her gratitude, offered to go to bed an hour earlier than usual.
“Dear child!” Rose exclaimed, “that would be asking quite too much of you; and we really don’t care to be among the first arrivals.”
“No,” remarked Adelaide, “we’ll be there long enough if we are the very last. I’m growing tired of parties.”
Mr. Dinsmore had not responded to Elsie’s proposition as yet, except by a pleased smile and tender caress.
“It would be no very great sacrifice, mamma,” Elsie said, “for somehow I feel pretty tired to-night. Papa and I took quite a long walk this afternoon, and I’m not sorry now that I’m to stay at home.”
“Home is a good place for tired people, isn’t it, daughter? and bed the best part of it?” her father said, repeating his caresses. “So I accept your generous offer, and shall be glad to see you in bed at the early hour you have named.”
“Well,” said Adelaide, “I suppose if we go early we need not stay very late.”
“There is no need for you to go any earlier than you wish,” replied her brother. “I shall order the carriage for whatever hour you and Rose fix upon.”
“Mamma and auntie, I’d like to see you when you are dressed,” Elsie said; “but, I suppose, that won’t be till I’m in bed.”
Both ladies promised to come into her bedroom and exhibit themselves before donning their wraps. They came in together and found her already in bed, but not asleep.
“Oh!” she cried, sitting up to take a good view, “how nice and pretty you both look! I hope you will enjoy the party very much indeed.”
“And what have you to say of me?” asked her father, presenting himself before her.
“That I’m very proud of my handsome papa,” she answered, ending a hasty survey of his whole person, with a look of love and delight up into his face, as he stood gazing fondly down upon her.
“Love makes my little girl blind to any imperfection in her father,” he said, taking her in his arms for a moment’s petting and fondling ere he bade her good-night. “Now, go to sleep,” as he laid her down and tucked the covers carefully about her.
The next afternoon, Mr. Dinsmore and the two ladies, feeling the need of rest and sleep—for they had returned very late from the party—each indulged in a nap.
Elsie, who was not sleepy, thought the house had never before seemed so quiet and lonely; she missed Annis more than she had on any previous day. She would have gone out for a walk, but a steady rain forced her to remain within doors.
She wandered slowly, aimlessly, and with noiseless footsteps from room to room. At length entering her father’s study she seated herself in the chair he had occupied not long before, beside his writing-desk.
A book, a copy of “Oliver Twist,” lay open upon the desk, and as her eye fell on the printed page, she read at a glance enough to arouse within her an absorbing interest in its contents; and never stopping to look at the title or to consider whether or no it was such a work as she would be permitted to examine, she read on, hastily, eagerly, to the bottom of the page; turned it quickly, and perused the next and the next; so intensely interested as to be utterly oblivious of everything but the story, until a slight sound causing her to look up, she found her father standing close at her side, regarding her with a countenance of mingled astonishment and grieved, stern displeasure.
Instantly her eyes fell beneath his gaze, while her face crimsoned with shame and embarrassment.
He gently took the book from her and pointing to a large easy-chair on the farther side of the room, said, “Sit there till I have time to attend to you.”
His tone was very grave and sad, and she heard him sigh deeply as she hastily and silently obeyed.
He paced the floor for some minutes, then seated himself at the desk, and for the next half hour the room seemed painfully still; the slight scratching of his pen and an occasional half-stifled sob from Elsie, the only sound save the ceaseless patter of the rain outside.
The child’s tender conscience reproached her bitterly, and the loving little heart ached with a heavy burden of remorse, because of the pain she had given to that of her almost idolized father.
“Oh, could it be possible that she had been guilty of such disobedience to so kind and dear a father! a father whose dear delight it was to heap favors and caresses upon her. How could she so wound him!”
And worse than all was the disobedience to her heavenly Father, whose command, ‘Children, obey your parents,’ she knew so well, and had thought she loved to keep. Silently, and with bitter, repentant tears, she confessed her sin to Him, and asked to be forgiven for Jesus’ sake.
But she dared not address her earthly father until he should first speak to her. She trembled with fear of the punishment he might inflict. What would it be? Would he visit her transgression with the rod? She thought it not unlikely, she felt that she deserved that and more. Oh, how dreadful if, in addition, he should deny her for days and weeks the seat upon his knee, which was one of her dearest privileges; the caresses and tender, loving words she so revelled it! How could she bear it!
The time of waiting for his verdict seemed very long, would it ever come to an end? And yet, when at last he laid aside his pen and turned in her direction, she trembled and shrank from the ordeal that was before her.
“Elsie!” His tone was exceedingly grave and stern.
“Sir!” she answered, in a voice full of tears.
“Come here to me!”
She obeyed instantly.
“O father! papa!” she sobbed, falling on her knees at his feet, “I’ve been a very wicked, disobedient child! I deserve to be severely punished, but I—” She could not go on for the sobs that were well-nigh choking her.
He lifted her gently, and drew her to him. “I cannot tell you,” he said in moved tones, “how deeply, how sorely, I am pained to find that I cannot trust my daughter, the dear darling of my heart, as I fondly believed I could! to find that she is but an eye-servant, obeying me carefully in my presence, but disobeying my most express commands when she thinks I shall not know it.”
“O papa!” she cried, in a voice of anguish, hiding her face on his breast, while her whole frame shook with bitter, bursting sobs, “I’d rather you would give me the severest whipping than say that! Oh, please believe that it is the very first time I ever did such a thing! You know all about every time I’ve disobeyed you.”
“I do believe it,” he answered; “I have never had reason to doubt my daughter’s word.”
She lifted her face and looked up gratefully, though humbly, through her tears.
“I am unutterably thankful to be able to say that,” he went on. “And I am inclined to be the more lenient toward you, because I feel that I am partly to blame for leaving temptation in your way; especially after allowing you to hear enough about these stories of Dickens’ to greatly excite your curiosity and interest. Therefore the only punishment I shall inflict is a prohibition of your visits to this room in my absence from it. You may come in as freely as heretofore when I am here to see what you do, but at other times—until I see fit to remove the prohibition—you are not to cross the threshold.”
Elsie’s tears fell fast; she felt her father’s prohibition keenly, because it meant want of trust in her; yet she could but acknowledge that it was a far lighter punishment than she had expected or deserved.
“Dear papa, you are very, very kind not to punish me more severely,” she said, as he lifted her face, and tenderly wiped away her tears with his own fine, soft handkerchief; then, catching sight of his face, “O papa, papa! don’t look so grieved and sad!” she cried, clinging about his neck, with a fresh burst of sobs and tears.
“My child, I must look as I feel,” he sighed, holding her close to his heart. “I cannot be other than sad after such a discovery as I have made to-day.”
“Oh, all the pain ought to be mine!” she sobbed, “I ought to bear it all! I want to!”
“But you cannot,” he said. “Let that thought deter you from all future acts of disobedience. Sin always brings sorrow and suffering, and that seldom to the evil-doer alone; usually the innocent suffer with the guilty.”
“That is the very worst part of my punishment,” she sobbed. “But, oh, won’t you believe, papa, that I am very, very sorry for having disobeyed you, and do not intend ever to do so again?”
“Yes; I do believe that; and in proof of it, shall not forbid you to go freely to the library; though there are novels there, and they are not kept under lock and key.”
“I don’t deserve it,” she said, very humbly and gratefully. “O papa, I don’t know how I could be so wickedly disobedient to such a dear, good, kind father as you!”
“And to an infinitely better and kinder Father,” he added, in low, reverent tones. “I would have you more concerned because of your sin as against Him than against me.”
As he talked on for several minutes in the same strain, her distress became so great that he found it necessary to try to comfort her with assurances from God’s word of his willingness to forgive those who are truly penitent, and who come to him for pardon pleading the merits and atoning blood of his dear Son.
Opening the Bible he read to her, “If any man sin, we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous, and he is the propitiation for our sins.” “I, even I, am He that blotteth out thy transgressions for mine own sake, and will not remember thy sins.”
“Papa, pray for me,” she pleaded, amid her sobs and tears; “ask God to forgive my sins and take away all the evil that is in me.”
And he did, kneeling with her, his arm around her, her head against his breast.
“Now, my darling,” he said, as he drew her to his knee again, “be comforted, remembering that precious assurance of His word, ‘If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’”
“Such sweet, comforting words, papa,” she said. Then after a moment’s silence, “I don’t mean to try to excuse my wrong-doing, papa, but just to tell you how I happened to disobey you so. A mere glance at the open page interested me so greatly in the story that I thought of nothing else till you were there beside me.”
“Want of thought has done a great deal of mischief in the world, my child,” was his grave comment.