Elsie's Widowhood

"Poor child!" he echoed; "poor, poor child! I am glad you called my attention to it. I must give Embury a hint: he cannot, of course, be thinking what he is about: for I am sure he is not the heartless wretch he would be if he could wreck her happiness intentionally."

"Thank you, dear papa. You will know exactly how to do it without the least compromise of the dear girl's womanly pride and delicacy of feeling, or offending or hurting him.

"You spoke just now of Isa," she went on presently. "I should be glad if she and Mr. Embury fancied each other; such a match would be very pleasing to Aunt Louise on account of his wealth and social position, little as she would like his piety, but – "

"Well, daughter?"

"Have you noticed how constantly Cyril seeks her companionship? how naturally the others leave those two to pair off together? They sit and read or chat together by the hour out yonder under the trees; scarce a day passes without its long, lonely ramble or ride. He talks to her of his work too, in which his whole heart is engaged; listens attentively to all she says – turning in the most interested way to her for an opinion, no matter what subject is broached; listens with delight to her music too, and sometimes reads his sermons to her for the benefit of her criticism, or consults her in regard to his choice of a text."

Mr. Dinsmore's countenance expressed extreme satisfaction. "I am glad of it," he said; "they seem made for each other."

"But Aunt Louise, papa?"

"Will not fancy a poor clergyman for a son-in-law, yet will consider even that better than not seeing her daughter married at all. And if the two most intimately concerned are happy and content, what matter for the rest?"

"Oh papa!" Elsie returned with a smile that had something of old-time archness in it, "have not your opinions in regard to the rights of parents and the duties of children changed somewhat since my early girlhood?"

"Circumstances alter cases," he answered with a playful caress. "I should never have objected to so wise a choice as Isa's – always supposing that she has made the one we are talking of."

"And you will not mind if Aunt Louise blames you? or me?"

"I shall take all the blame and not mind it in the least."

Yes, Cyril Keith and Isadore Conly were made for each other, and had become conscious of the fact, though no word of love had yet been spoken.

To him she was the sweetest and loveliest of her sex, in whom he found a stronger union of beauty, grace, accomplishments, sound sense and earnest piety than in any other young lady of his acquaintance; while to her he was the impersonation of all that was truly noble, manly and Christian.

They were dreaming love's young dream, and found intense enjoyment each in the other's society, especially amid all the loveliness of nature that surrounded them.

Cyril's was a whole-hearted consecration to his divine Master and that loved Master's work, but this human love interfered not in any way with that, for it is of God's appointment.

"'And the Lord God said, It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him an help meet for him.' 'Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour of the Lord.'"

"How like you that is, papa dear," Elsie said; "but it would be easier to me to bear blame myself than to have it heaped upon you. I suppose, though, that it would be useless to attempt any interference with the course of true love?"

"Yes; we will simply let them alone."

Mr. Dinsmore rode over to Magnolia Hall that afternoon to seek an interview with its owner; but learned that he was not at home, and might not be for a day or two. No one knew just when he would return. So the only course now left seemed to be to wait till he should call again at Viamede.

He had been an almost daily visitor of late, and often sent some token of remembrance by a servant – fruit, flowers, game or fish, or it might be a book from his library which was not found in theirs.

But now one, two, three days passed and nothing was seen or heard of him.

Sad, wearisome days they were to Molly: mental labor was next to impossible; she could not even read with any enjoyment; her heart was heavy with grief and unsatisfied longing, intensified by her mother's constant reiteration, "You've offended him, and he'll never come again; you've thrown away the best chance a girl ever had; and you'll never see another like it."

Then it was unusually long since she had heard from Dick; and she had waited for news from a manuscript which had cost her months of hard work, and on which great expectations were based, till her heart was sick with hope deferred.

It was on the morning of the fourth day that Molly, having persuaded her mother to go for a walk with her grandfather and Mrs. Carrington, summoned a servant and desired to be taken out into the grounds.

She sat motionless in her chair gazing in mournful silence on all the luxuriant beauty that surrounded her, while the man wheeled her up one walk and down another.

At length, "That will do, Joe," she said; "you may stop the chair under that magnolia yonder, and leave me there for an hour."

"I'se 'fraid you git tired, Miss Molly, and nobody roun' for to wait on you," he remarked when he had placed her in the desired spot.

"No; I have the bell here, and it can be heard at the house. I have a book, too, to amuse myself with: and the gardener yonder is within sight. You need not fear to leave me."

He walked away and she opened her book. But she scarcely looked at it. Her thoughts were busying themselves with something else, and her eyes were full of tears.

A quick, manly step on the gravel walk behind her startled her and sent a vivid color over face and neck.

"Good morning, Miss Percival; I am fortunate indeed in finding you here alone," a voice said, close at her side.

"Good morning, Mr. Embury," she returned, with a vain effort to steady her tones, and without looking up.

He took possession of a rustic seat close to which her chair was standing. "Molly, my dear Miss Molly," he said, in some agitation, "I fear I have unwittingly offended."

"No, no, no!" she answered, bursting into tears in spite of herself. "There, what a baby I am!" dashing them angrily away. "I wish you wouldn't come here and set me to crying."

"Let me tell you something, let me ask you one question; and then if you bid me, I will go away and never come near you again," he said, taking her hand and holding it fast. "Molly, I love you. I want you to be my wife. Will you?"

"Oh you don't mean it! you can't mean it! no man in his senses would want to marry me – a poor helpless cripple!" she cried, trying to pull the hand away, "and it's a cruel, cruel jest! Oh how can you!" and covering her face with the free hand, she sobbed as if her heart would break.

"Don't, don't, dear Molly," he entreated. "I am not jesting, nor am I rushing into this thing hastily or thoughtlessly. Your very helplessness draws me to you and makes you doubly dear. I want to take care of you, my poor child. I want to make up your loss to you as far as my love and sympathy can; to make your life bright and happy in spite of your terrible trial."

"You are the noblest, most unselfish man I ever heard of," she said, wiping away her tears to give him a look of amazement and admiration; "but I cannot be so selfish as to take all when I can give nothing in return."

"Do you call yourself – with your sweet face, cheery disposition, brilliant talents, and conversational powers that render you the most entertaining and charming of companions – nothing? I think you a greater prize than half the women who have the free use of all their limbs."

"You are very kind to say it."

"No, I am not, for it is the simple, unvarnished truth. Molly, if you can love me, I should rather have you than any other woman on earth. How your presence would brighten my home! I give all indeed! you will be worth more to me than all I have to give in return. O Molly, have you no love to bestow upon poor me?"

She had ceased the struggle to free her hand from the strong yet tender clasp in which it was held, but her face was averted and tears were falling fast. His words had sent a thrill of exquisite joy to her heart, but instantly it changed to bitter sorrow.

"You cannot have counted the cost," she said. "I am poor; I have nothing at all but the pittance I earn by my pen. And think: I can never walk by your side: I cannot go about your house and see that your comfort is not neglected, or your substance wasted. I cannot nurse you in sickness or wait upon you in health as another woman might. Oh cannot you see that I have nothing to give you in return for all you – in your wonderful generosity – are offering to me?"

"Your love, dear girl, and the blessed privilege of taking care of you, are all I ask, all I want – can you not give me these?"

"Oh, why do you tempt me so?" she cried.

"Tempt you? would it be a sin to love me? to give yourself to me when I want you so much, so very much?"

"It seems to me it would be taking advantage of the most unheard-of generosity. What woman's heart could stand out against it?"

"Ah, then you do love me!" he exclaimed, in accents of joy, and lifting her hand to his lips. "You will be mine? my own dear wife? a sweet mother to my darlings. I have brought them with me, that their beauty and sweetness, their pretty innocent ways, may plead my cause with you, for I know that you love little children." He was gone before she could reply, and the next moment was at her side again, bearing in his arms two lovely little creatures of three and five.

"These are my babies," he said, sitting down with one upon each knee. "Corinna," to the eldest, "don't you want this sweet lady to come and live with us and be your dear mamma?"