holidaysatroselandschapter9

CHAPTER IX.

"Heaven oft in mercy smites, e'en when the blow
Severest is."

JOANNA BAILLIE'S ORRA.

"The heart knoweth his own bitterness."

PROV. 14:10.

But only a few days after Mrs. Travilla's visit, an event occurred,
which, by exciting Elsie's sympathy for the sorrows of another, and thus
preventing her from dwelling so constantly upon her own, was of great
benefit to her.

Adelaide received a letter bringing tidings of the death of one who had
been very dear to her. The blow was very sudden--entirely unexpected--and
the poor girl was overwhelmed with grief, made all the harder to endure
by the want of sympathy in her family.

Her parents had indeed given their consent to the contemplated union,
but because the gentleman, though honorable, intelligent, educated and
talented, was neither rich nor high-born, they had never very heartily
approved of the connection, and were evidently rather relieved than
afflicted by his death.

Elsie was the only one who really felt deeply for her aunt; and her
silent, unobtrusive sympathy was very grateful.

The little girl seemed almost to forget her own sorrows, for the time, in
trying to relieve those of her bereaved aunt. Elsie knew--and this made
her sympathy far deeper and more heartfelt--that Adelaide had no
consolation in her sore distress, but such miserable comfort as may be
found in the things of earth. She had no compassionate Saviour to whom
to carry her sorrows, but must bear them all alone; and while Elsie was
permitted to walk in the light of his countenance, and to her ear there
ever came the soft whispers of his love--"Fear not: thou art mine"--"_I_
have loved thee with an _everlasting_ love"--"_I_ will _never_ leave thee
nor forsake thee," to Adelaide all was darkness and silence.

At first Elsie's sympathy was shown in various little kind offices;
sitting for hours beside her aunt's couch, gently fanning her, handing
her a drink of cold water, bringing her sweet-scented flowers, and
anticipating every want. But at last she ventured to speak.

"Dear Aunt Adelaide," she whispered, "I am so sorry for you. I wish I
knew how to comfort you."

"Oh, Elsie!" sobbed the mourner, "there is no comfort for me, I have lost
my dearest treasure--my all--and no one cares."

"Dear Aunt Adelaide," replied the child timidly, "it is true I am only a
little girl, but I do care very much for your grief; and surely your papa
and mamma are very sorry for you."

Adelaide shook her head mournfully. "They are more glad than sorry," she
said, bursting into tears.

"Well, dear aunty," said Elsie softly, "there is One who does feel for
you, and who is able to comfort you if you will only go to him. One who
loved you so well that he died to save you."

"No, no, Elsie! not me! He cannot care for me! He cannot love me, or he
would never have taken away my Ernest," she sobbed.

"Dear Aunt Adelaide," said Elsie's low, sweet voice, "we cannot always
tell what is best for us, and will make us happiest in the end.

"I remember once when I was a very little child, I was walking with mammy
in a part of my guardian's grounds where we seldom went. I was running on
before her, and I found a bush with some most beautiful red berries; they
looked delicious, and I hastily gathered some, and was just putting them
to my mouth when mammy, seeing what I was about, suddenly sprang forward,
snatched them out of my hand, threw them on the ground, and tramped upon
them; and then tearing up the bushes treated them in the same manner,
while I stood by crying and calling her a naughty, cross mammy, to take
my nice berries from me."

"Well," asked Adelaide, as the little girl paused in her narrative, "what
do you mean by your story? You haven't finished it, but, of course, the
berries were poisonous."

"Yes," said Elsie; "and mammy was wiser than I, and knew that what I so
earnestly coveted would do me great injury."

"And now for the application," said Adelaide, interrupting her; "you mean
that just as mammy was wiser than you, and took your treasure from you in
kindness, so God is wise and kind in taking mine from me; but ah! Elsie,
the analogy will not hold good; for my good, wise, kind Ernest could
never have harmed me as the poisonous berries would you. No, no, no, he
always did me good!" she cried with a passionate burst of grief.

Elsie waited until she grew calm again, and then said gently, "The Bible
says, dear aunty, that God 'does not willingly afflict nor grieve the
children of men.' Perhaps he saw that you loved your friend too well,
and would never give your heart to Jesus unless he took him away, and
so you could only live with him for a little while in this world. But
now he has taken him to heaven, I hope--for Lora told me Mr. St. Clair
was a Christian--and if you will only come to Jesus and take him for
your Saviour, you can look forward to spending a happy eternity there
with your friend.

"So, dear Aunt Adelaide, may we not believe that God, who is infinitely
wise, and good, and kind, has sent you this great sorrow in love and
compassion?"

Adelaide's only answer was a gentle pressure of the little hand she held,
accompanied by a flood of tears. But after that she seemed to love Elsie
better than, she ever had before, and to want her always by her side,
often asking her to read a chapter in the Bible, a request with which the
little girl always complied most gladly.

Adelaide was very silent, burying her thoughts almost entirely in her
own bosom; but it was evident that the blessed teachings of the holy book
were not altogether lost upon her, for the extreme violence of her grief
gradually abated, and the expression of her countenance, though still
sad, became gentle and patient.

And could Elsie thus minister consolation to another, and yet find no
lessening of her own burden of sorrow? Assuredly not.

She could not repeat to her aunt the many sweet and precious promises of
God's holy word, without having them brought home to her own heart with
renewed power; she could not preach Jesus to another without finding him
still nearer and dearer to her own soul; and though there were yet times
when she was almost overwhelmed with grief, she could truly say that the
"consolations of God were not small with her." There was often a weary,
weary aching at her heart--such an unutterable longing for her father's
love and favor as would send her weeping to her knees to plead long and
earnestly that this trial might be removed; yet she well knew who had
sent it, and was satisfied that it was one of the "_all_ things which
shall work together for good to them that love God," and she was at
length enabled to say in reference to it: "Thy will, not mine, be done,"
and to bear her cross with patient submission.

But ah! there was many a bitter struggle, first! She had many sad and
lonely hours; and there were times when the yearning of the poor little
heart for her father's presence, and her father's love, was almost more
than weak human nature could endure.

Sometimes she would walk her room, wringing her hands and weeping
bitterly.

"Oh, papa! papa!" she would exclaim, again and again, "how can I bear it?
how _can_ I bear it? will you never, never come back? will you never,
never love me again?"

And then would come up the memory of his words on that sad, sad day, when
he left her--"Whenever my little daughter writes to me the words I have
so vainly endeavored to induce her to speak, that very day, if possible,
I will start for home"--and the thought that it was in her power to
recall him at any time; it was but to write a few words and send them
to him, and soon he would be with her--he would take her to his heart
again, and this terrible trial would be over.

The temptation was fearfully strong; the struggle often long and
terrible; and this fierce battle had to be fought again and again,
and once the victory had wellnigh been lost.

She had struggled long; again and again had she resolved that she would
not, could not, _dare_ not yield! but vainly she strove to put away the
sense of that weary, aching void in her heart--that longing, yearning
desire for her father's love.

"I cannot bear it! oh, I _cannot_ bear it!" she exclaimed, at length; and
seizing a pen, she wrote hastily, and with trembling fingers, while the
hot, blinding tears dropped thick and fast upon the paper--"Papa, come
back! oh, come to me, and I will be and do all you ask, all you require."

But the pen dropped from her fingers, and she bowed her face upon her
clasped hands with a cry of bitter anguish.

"How can I do this great wickedness and sin against God?" The words
darted through her mind like a flash of lightning, and then the words of
Jesus seemed to come to her ear in solemn tones: "He that loveth father
and mother more than me, is not worthy of me!"

"What have I done?" she cried. "Has it come to this, that I must choose
between my father and my Saviour? and _can_ I give up the love of Jesus?
oh, never, _never_!--

'Jesus, I my cross have taken
_All_ to leave and follow thee.'"

she repeated, half aloud, with clasped hands, and an upward glance of her
tearful eyes. Then, tearing into fragments what she had just written, she
fell on her knees and prayed earnestly for pardon, and for strength to
resist temptation, and to be "faithful unto death," that she might
"receive the crown of life."

When Elsie rapped at her aunt's dressing-room door the next morning, no
answer was returned, and after waiting a moment, she softly opened it,
and entered, expecting to find her aunt sleeping. But no, though extended
upon a couch, Adelaide was not sleeping, but lay with her face buried in
the pillows, sobbing violently.

Elsie's eyes filled with tears, and softly approaching the mourner, she
attempted to soothe her grief with words of gentle, loving sympathy.

"Oh! Elsie, you cannot feel for me; it is impossible!" exclaimed her aunt
passionately. "_You_ have never known sorrow to be compared to mine! You
have never loved, and lost--you have known none but mere childish
griefs."

"'The heart knoweth his own bitterness!'" thought Elsie, silent tears
stealing down her cheeks, and her breast heaving with emotion.

"Dear Aunt Adelaide," she said in tremulous tones, "_I_ think I _can_
feel for you. Have I not known _some_ sorrow? Is it nothing that I have
pined all my life long for a mother's love? nothing to have been
separated from the dear nurse, who had almost supplied her place? Oh,
Aunt Adelaide!" she continued, with a burst of uncontrollable anguish,
"is it nothing, _nothing_ to be separated from my beloved father, my
dear, only parent, whom I love better than my life--to be refused even a
parting caress--to live month after month, and year after year under his
frown--and to fear that his love may be lost to me forever? Oh! papa,
papa, will you never, _never_ love me again?" she cried, sinking on her
knees, and covering her face with her hands, while the tears trickled
fast between the slender fingers.

Her aunt's presence was for the moment entirely forgotten, and she was
alone with her bitter grief.

Adelaide looked at her with a good deal of surprise. She had never before
seen her give way to such a burst of sorrow, for Elsie was usually calm
in the presence of others.

"Poor child!" she said, drawing the little girl towards her, and gently
pushing back the hair from her forehead, "I should not have said that;
you have your own troubles, I know; hard enough to bear, too. I think
Horace is really cruel, and if I were you, Elsie, I would just give up
loving him entirely, and never care for his absence or his displeasure."

"Oh, Aunt Adelaide! not love my own dear papa? I _must_ love him! I could
not help it if I would--no, not even if he were going to kill me; and
please don't blame him; he does not mean to be cruel. But oh! if he would
only love me!" sobbed the little girl.

"I am sure he does, Elsie, if that is any comfort; here is a letter from
him; he speaks of you in the postscript; you may take it to your room and
read it, if you like," replied her aunt, putting a letter into Elsie's
hand. "Go now, child, and see if you can extract any comfort from it."

Elsie replied with a gush of tears and a kiss of thanks, for her little
heart was much too full for speech. Clasping the precious letter tightly
in her hand, she hastened to her own room and locked herself in. Then
drawing it from the envelope, she kissed the well-known characters again
and again, dashing away the blinding tears ere she could see to read.

It was short; merely a letter of condolence to Adelaide, expressing a
brother's sympathy in her sorrow; but the postscript sent one ray of joy
to the little sad heart of his daughter.

"Is Elsie well? I cannot altogether banish a feeling of anxiety regarding
her health, for she was looking pale and thin when I left home. I trust
to _you_, my dear sister, to send _immediately_ for a physician, and also
to write at once should she show any symptoms of disease. Remember she is
my _only_ and darling child--very near and dear to me still, in spite of
the sad estrangement between us."

"Ah! then papa has not forgotten me! he does love me still--he calls me
his darling child," murmured the little girl, dropping her tears upon the
paper. "Oh, how glad, how glad I am! surely he will come back to me some
day;" and she felt that she would be very willing to be sick if that
would hasten his return.