“The mountain rill
Seeks with no surer flow the far, bright sea,
Than my unchanged affections flow to thee.”
—PARK BENJAMIN.
THE Landreths and Annis returned to the Oaks on Monday of the next week, and on Tuesday all went to Ion, where the rest of the week was spent most delightfully.
There was a large dinner party the first day, but after that they were the only guests, and their host and hostess quite laid themselves out for their entertainment.
Rose and Mildred enjoyed many a nice, quiet chat with Mrs. Travilla in the mornings, while the little girls were busy with their tasks; the afternoons, when the weather permitted, were spent in the open air, walking, riding, or driving; and in the evenings all gathered about the fire, and lively conversation, enigmas, stories, games, and music made the time fly so fast that the little folks could scarcely believe the clock was right when it told them their hour for going to bed had come.
Annis would sometimes have lingered if Elsie might have done so too; but that Mr. Dinsmore would not allow; so with a pleasant good-night to all they went away together; for they shared the same room and enjoyed it greatly.
On Saturday evening they returned to the Oaks, and on Monday the old round of duties and pleasures was taken up again.
One stormy afternoon, as the little girls sat together in Elsie’s dressing-room, pleasantly busied in millinery and mantua-making for the family of dolls, Annis said, “I read ‘Oliver Twist’ while we were at Holly Hall.”
Elsie looked up in surprise. “Did you? Would your father and mother let you read such books?”
“Well,” returned Annis, blushing, “I never heard them mention ‘Oliver Twist’ at all, and I peeped into it one day and found it so interesting I just couldn’t help going on and reading the whole story. I thought why shouldn’t I read what Milly and Brother Charlie and Cousin Horace and Cousin Rose do?”
“Papa says,” returned Elsie slowly, “that I might as well ask why the baby may not eat everything that we older ones do.”
“I suppose he means that our minds haven’t cut their teeth yet,” said Annis, laughing. “But don’t you wish you were grown up enough to read novels?”
“I don’t know; I’d like to read them dearly well, but I love to be papa’s little girl and sit on his knee.”
“You’ll do that when you’re grown up,” remarked Annis, with a wise nod of her pretty head. “I’ll tell you the story of ‘Oliver Twist’ if you want me to.”
The offer was a tempting one, Elsie did want so very much to know what became of Oliver finally, and all about several of the other characters in whom she had become interested; for one minute she hesitated; then said firmly, “It wouldn’t be right for me to hear it, Annis dear, without papa’s leave, and that I shouldn’t even dare to ask. But I thank you all the same.”
“Elsie, you are so good and obedient that you often make me feel ashamed of myself,” Annis said, with a look of hearty, affectionate admiration into her cousin’s face.
The fair face crimsoned. “No, no, Annis, I am not! indeed I am not!” she exclaimed in tremulous tones, the tears springing to her eyes.
“Oh, I know you’re a hypocrite and only pretend to be good!” returned Annis, laughingly. “But there, I hear Milly calling me,” and hastily laying aside her work away she ran.
“I wonder if I ought to tell her,” Elsie said to herself, wiping away a tear. “Oh, I don’t want her to know! but I’m afraid it isn’t right to let her think me so much better than I am.”
Just then there was a gentle tap at the door leading into her boudoir. She rose quickly and opened it.
“O Mr. Travilla! I am glad to see you, sir!” she said, offering her hand.
He took it and lifted it gallantly to his lips.
“Excuse me for coming in without an invitation, my little friend,” he said. “I knocked at the other door, but no one seemed to hear, so I came on to this one.”
“Please always feel free to do so, Mr. Travilla,” she answered; “I think you have almost as much right as papa. Won’t you take this easy-chair?”
“Thank you, my dear,” he said, accepting the invitation. “And now if you will allow me another of your papa’s privileges—that of taking you on my knee, you will make me very happy.”
“Am I not growing too large and heavy, sir?” she asked, passively submitting to his will.
“No, not at all; I only wish you belonged to me so that I could have you here every day.”
“Mr. Travilla, I thought you would never think well of me again, never love me any more, after you learned how very naughty I was one day a few weeks ago,” she murmured, blushing and hanging her head.
“My dear little girl,” he said, stroking her hair, “that did not lessen my good opinion of you; on the contrary, your sorrow for what seemed to me but a slight misdemeanor, and your frank confession of it, raised you in my esteem, if that were possible; for I have long thought you very nearly perfect.”
She shook her head, the blush deepening on her cheek. “Ah, sir, you make me feel like a hypocrite! And Annis has been talking so too, and I—”
She hesitated, a troubled, anxious look on her sweet, innocent face.
“What is it, dear child?” he asked, “anything I can help you with?”
“I was wondering if—if I ought to tell Annis about my—my naughtiness that day.”
“I am quite sure you are under no obligation to do so,” he said, “and perhaps it would be better not to tell her.”
Elsie looked relieved.
“Ah,” he exclaimed, drawing something from his pocket, “I am forgetting the particular errand on which I came. Here is a book that you will enjoy, I think; and with your father’s approval; for I submitted it to him before bringing it to you.”
Elsie accepted the gift with warm thanks and looks of delight which well repaid him for his thoughtful kindness.
Annis came back presently, and after a little chat with her, Mr. Travilla left them to enjoy the book together.
Mr. Dinsmore’s prohibition had not been removed, and Elsie still felt it keenly, though, while carefully observing it, she said nothing on the subject, to her papa or any one else.
One morning she and Annis came in from a walk about the grounds, and while Annis went on into the house, Elsie lingered on the veranda, petting and playing with a favorite dog.
Looking round at the sound of horse’s hoofs on the drive, she saw Dr. Landreth just reining in his steed at the foot of the veranda steps. The day being quite cold, there was no servant just at hand, though usually several could be seen lounging near this, the principal entrance to the mansion; so he called to her.
“Elsie, my dear, I have ridden back from the gate to recover my note-book, which I think I must have left on the table in your father’s study. Will you run and get it for me?”
Elsie felt her cheeks grow hot. What should she do? She was almost certain her father was not in the house. Must she explain to the doctor why she could not go into his study when he was not there? No; she would summon a servant to do the errand; though that would take longer than to do it herself, and the doctor seemed in haste, and would wonder and probably be vexed at the delay. But it could not be helped, she dared not, would not disobey her father. All this passed through her mind in an instant.
“I will get it as quickly as I can, sir,” she said, and hurried into the house.
She rapped lightly on the study-door, then opened it and peeped in. It was just possible her papa might be there.
Yes, oh joy! there he was, sitting by the fire reading the morning paper, and looking up from it, “I am here; come in, daughter,” he said pleasantly.
“The doctor sent me for his note-book, papa,” she said, glancing about in search of it.
“Yes, there it is on my writing-desk.”
“May I come back when I have given it to him, papa?” she asked, as she took it up and turned to go.
“Yes; you may always come in when I am here; your father loves to have you with him.”
There was a flash of joy in the beautiful eyes looking into his, and the doctor thought, as he took the note-book from her hand, that he had never seen a brighter, happier face.
“Many thanks, my dear,” he said, lifting his hat with a bow and smile, then turned his horse’s head and galloped away.
Elsie looked after him for a moment, then hastened back to her father.
He greeted her entrance with a smile full of fatherly love and pride.
“Take off your hat and cloak,” he said, “and ring for a servant to carry them away.”
She did so, then came and stood close at his side, putting her arm around his neck, and laying her cheek to his.
“My papa! my own dear, dear papa!” she murmured lovingly.
“My precious little daughter!” he responded, laying down his paper and drawing her to his knee. “I thought I saw a cloud on my darling’s face as she peeped in at the door yonder a few moments since. What troubled you, dearest? Tell papa all about it.”
“I was afraid you were not here, and so I couldn’t come in to do the doctor’s errand; and I didn’t want to tell him so. I didn’t want him to know why. It does seem, father, as if I’m in danger of having everybody find out about my naughtiness and—and my punishment,” she said, blushing and hanging her head, the troubled look again on her face.
He did not answer immediately, but sat for some minutes silently caressing her hair and cheek. Then, “My little girl,” he said, in low, tender accents, “I think I may fully trust you now. I remove the prohibition, and give you full permission to come in here when you will as freely as ever.”
“Dear, papa, thank you! oh, thank you very much!” she cried joyfully, repaying him with the sweetest kisses and smiles.
“Do you love me very much?” he asked.
“Oh, more than tongue can tell! I always did; always shall; I’m sure, sure I can never love anybody else half so dearly!”
“Suppose I should again become as cold, stern, and severe to my little girl as I once was?” he said, with a tremor of pain and remorse in his tones, and pressing her close to his heart as he spoke.
“I should love you still, papa,” she answered, tightening her clasp of his neck, and showering kisses on his face; “but, oh, don’t ever be so! it would break my heart if you should quit petting me, and not let me sit here and hug and kiss you.”
“Don’t fear it, my precious one,” he said with emotion; “you could scarcely suffer more than I from a cessation of these sweet love passages between us.”