Elsie's Vacation and After Events Part 19

"Yes, mamma dearest," he sobbed. "Oh, how good it was in him to die that cruel death that we might live! Yes, I do love him, and he won't be angry with me because I'm almost heartbroken at the thought of having to do without my dear, dear mother, for many years. O mamma, mamma, how can I live without you?"

"It may please the dear Lord Jesus to spare you that trial, my darling boy," she said. "I know that he will, if in his infinite wisdom he sees it to be for the best.

"And we must just trust him, remembering those sweet Bible words, 'We know that all things work together for good to them that love G.o.d.'

Leave it all with him, my darling, feeling perfectly sure that whatever he orders will be for the best; that though we may not be able to see it so now, we shall at the last."

"But, mamma, I must pray that you may be cured and live with us for many, many years. It will not be wrong to ask him for that?"

"No, not if you ask in submission to his will, remembering that no one of us knows what is really for our highest good. Remember his own prayer in his agony there in the garden of Gethsemane, 'Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless, not my will, but thine, be done.'

"He is our example and we must strive to be equally submissive to the Father's will. Remember what the dear Master said to Peter, 'What I do thou knowest not now; but thou shalt know hereafter.'"

"Mamma, I will try to be perfectly submissive to his will, even if it is to take you away from me; but oh, I must pray, pray, _pray_ as hard as I can that it may please him to spare your dear life and let me keep my mother at least till I am grown to be a man. It won't be wrong, mamma?"

"No, my darling boy, I think not--if with it all you can truly, from your heart, say, 'thy will, not mine, be done.'"

When Captain Raymond followed his wife and little ones to Ion, he found there a distressed household, anxious and sorely troubled over the suffering and danger of the dearly beloved mother and mistress. Violet met him on the veranda, her cheeks pale and showing traces of tears, her eyes full of them.

"My darling!" he exclaimed in surprise and alarm, "what is the matter?"

He clasped her in his arms as he spoke, and dropping her head upon his shoulder, she sobbed out the story of her mother's suffering and the trial that awaited her on the morrow.

His grief and concern were scarcely less than her own, but he tried to speak words of comfort to both her and the others to whom the loved invalid was so inexpressibly dear. To the beloved invalid also when, like the rest, he was accorded a short interview.

Yet he found to his admiring surprise that she seemed in small need of such service--so calm, so peaceful, so entirely ready for any event was she.

Finding his presence apparently a source of strength and consolation, not only to his young wife, but to all the members of the stricken household, he remained till after tea, but then returned home for the night, princ.i.p.ally for Lulu's sake; not being willing to leave the child alone, or nearly so, in that great house.

CHAPTER XII.

The duties of the schoolroom had filled up the rest of the morning for Lulu, so occupying her mind that she could give only an occasional thought to the sad fact that she was in disgrace with her father.

Then came dinner, which she took in the dining-room, feeling it lonely enough with the whole family absent; immediately after that a music lesson filled another hour, and that was followed by an hour of practice on the piano.

Then Alma wanted her again, and then, knowing it was what her father would approve, she took her usual exercise about the grounds; after which she prepared her lessons for the next day.

But all the time her heart was heavy with the consciousness that "papa, dear papa," was displeased with her, and she felt that there could be no happiness for her till she had made her peace with him.

"Oh," she sighed again and again, "will he never, never come, that I may tell him how sorry and ashamed I am?"

But when tea-time came he was still absent, and that meal also had to be taken alone.

She did not linger at the table, and on leaving it went into the library where a wood fire blazed cheerfully on the hearth, for the evenings were now quite cool, and settling herself in an easy-chair listened for the sound of his coming.

She was too much disturbed, and too anxious to read or work, so sat doing nothing but listen intently for the sound of horses' hoofs or carriage-wheels on the drive without.

"Will he punish me?" she was asking herself. "I believe I want him to, for I'm sure I richly deserve it. Oh, there he is! I hear his voice in the hall!" and her heart beat fast as she sprang up and ran to meet him.

He was already at the door of the room when she reached it.

"Papa," she said humbly, and with her eyes on the carpet, "I--I'm very, very sorry for my naughtiness this morning. I have obeyed you--asked Alma's pardon--and--please, dear papa, won't you forgive me, too?"

"Certainly, dear child," he said, bending down to press a kiss upon her lips. "I am always ready to forgive my dear children when they tell me they are sorry for having offended, and ready to obey."

He led her to the easy-chair by the fireside, which she had just vacated, and seating himself therein, drew her to a seat upon his knee.

"Papa, I'm so sorry, so very sorry for my badness, so ashamed of not being obedient to such a dear, kind father," she said, low and tremulously, blus.h.i.+ng painfully as she spoke. "Please, I want you to punish me well for it."

"Have I not already done so, daughter?" he asked. "I doubt if this has been a happy day to you."

"Oh, no, indeed, papa! I soon repented of my badness and looked everywhere for you to tell you how sorry I was and ask you to forgive me. But you were gone and so I had to wait, and the day has seemed as if it would never end, though I've been trying to do everything I thought you would bid me do if you were here."

"Then I think I need add no further punishment," he said, softly caressing her hair and cheek with his hand.

"But please I want you to, because I deserve it and ought to be made to pay for such badness; and I'm afraid if I'm not, I'll just be bad again soon."

"Well, daughter," he replied, "we will leave that question open to consideration. I see you have books here on the table, and we will now attend to the recitations."

Her recitations were quite perfect, and he gave the deserved meed of praise, appointed the tasks for the next day, then drawing her to his knee again, said: "It does not seem to me necessary, daughter, to inflict any further punishment for the wrong-doings of this morning. You are sorry for them, and do not intend to offend in the same way again?"

"Yes, I am sorry, papa, and I don't mean to behave so any more; still, I'd feel more comfortable, and surer of not being just as bad again in a few days or weeks, if you'd punish me. So please do."

"Very well, then, I will give you an extra task or two," he said, taking up her Latin grammar, "I will give you twice the usual lesson in this.

Then, not as a punishment, but for your good, I want you to search out all the texts you can find in G.o.d's Holy Word about the sinfulness of anger and pride and the duty of confessing our faults, not only to him, but to those whom we have injured by them."

Opening the Family Bible which lay on the table close at hand, "Here is one in Proverbs," he said. "'He that covereth his sins shall not prosper; but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them, shall have mercy."'

Then turning to the New Testament, he read again, "'Therefore, if thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath aught against thee, leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift.'"

"That is in Matthew," he said, "and here in the Epistle of James," again turning over the leaves, "we read perhaps the plainest direction of all on the subject, 'Confess your faults one to another, and pray one for another that ye may be healed.'"

"But, papa----" she paused, hanging her head while a vivid blush suffused her cheeks.

"Well, daughter, what is it? Do not be afraid to let me know all your thoughts. I want you always to talk freely to me, that if you are wrong I may be able to convince you of the right. I want my children to act intelligently, doing right because they see that it is right, and not merely because papa commands it."

"Please don't be angry with me, papa, but, it did seem to me a sort of degradation to have to ask pardon of a--a woman who has to work for her living like Alma," she said with some hesitation, blus.h.i.+ng and hanging her head as she spoke.

"I am very, very sorry to hear such sentiments from a daughter of mine,"

he returned in a gravely concerned tone and with a slight sigh. "It is wicked pride, my child, that puts such thoughts in your head.

"And who can say that there may not come a time when you too will have to work for your living? The Bible tells us riches certainly take to themselves wings and fly away."

Again turning over the leaves, "Here is the pa.s.sage--twenty-third chapter of Proverbs, fourth and fifth verses: 'Labor not to be rich; cease from thine own wisdom. Wilt thou set thine eyes upon that which is not? for riches certainly make themselves wings; they fly away as an eagle toward heaven.'