"He does, papa," she answered in low, calm tones, as she raised her head and lifted her mournful eyes to his face; "His consolations are not small in the trying hour."
"You can give her up?" he asked, in a choking voice, looking with anguish upon the wasted features of his almost idolized grandchild.
"Yes, papa—if He sees fit to take her; 'twere but selfishness to want to keep her here. So safe, so happy will she be in Jesus' arms."
Mr. Travilla's frame shook with emotion, and Mr. Dinsmore was not less agitated; but the mother was still calm and resigned.
No sound had come from those little lips for hours; but now there was a faintly murmured "Mamma!"
"Yes, darling, mamma is here," Elsie answered, softly pressing a kiss on the white brow; "what shall mamma do for her baby?"
"Jesus loves wee Elsie?" and the dreamy eyes unclosed and looked up into the sweet pale face bent so lovingly over her. "Elsie so glad. Mamma sing 'Happy land.'"
The young mother's heart was like to burst, but with a silent prayer for strength, she controlled herself and sang low and sweetly, and even as she sang a change came over the child, and it fell into a deep, calm, natural sleep that lasted for hours. All the time on the mother's lap, her eyes scarce moving from the dear little face; her breath almost suspended, lest that life-giving slumber should be broken.
In vain husband and father in turn entreated to be allowed to relieve her.
"No, oh no!" she whispered. "I cannot have her disturbed; it might cost her life."
This was the turning point in the disease, and from that time the little one began to amend. But very weak and frail, she was still in need of weeks of continued tender, careful nursing.
"Mamma's lap" was the place preferred above all others; but patient and unselfish, she yielded without a murmur when invited to the arms of papa, grandpa, Rose, or nurse, and told that "dear mamma was tired and needed rest."
Elsie was indeed much reduced in health and strength; but love, joy, and thankfulness helped her to recuperate rapidly.
Chapter Twenty-Third
"What fates impose, that men must needs abide.
It boots not to resist both wind and tide."
—SHAKESPEARE'S HENRY VI.
From the time of Mr. Lincoln's election Walter Dinsmore's home had been made very uncomfortable to him; after the fall of Sumter it was well-nigh unendurable.
Never were two brothers more entirely unlike than he and Arthur; the latter, selfish, proud, haughty, self-willed, passionate, and reckless of consequences to himself or others; the former sweet-tempered, amiable, and affectionate, but lacking in firmness and self-reliance.
Poor fellow! his heart was divided; on the one side were home, parents, friends, and neighbors, native State and section; on the other, pride in the great, powerful Union he had hitherto called his country, love for the old flag as the emblem of its greatness and symbol of Revolutionary glory; and—perhaps more potent than all—the wishes and entreaties of a Northern girl who had won his heart and promised him her hand.
One April morning Walter, who had overslept himself, having been up late the night before, was roused from his slumbers by a loud hurrah coming from the veranda below. He recognized his father's voice, Arthur's, and that of one of the latter's particular friends, a hot secessionist residing in the adjacent city.
There seemed a great tumult in the house, running to and fro, loud laughter, repeated hurrahs and voices—among which his mother's and Enna's were easily distinguished—talking in high, excited chorus.
"So Fort Sumter has fallen, and war is fairly inaugurated," he sighed to himself, as he rose and began to dress. "It can mean nothing else."
"Glorious news, Wal!" cried Arthur, catching sight of him as he descended the stairs; "Fort Sumter has fallen and Charleston is jubilant. Here, listen while I read the despatch."
Walter heard it in grave silence, and at the close merely inquired how the news had come so early.
"Johnson brought it; has gone on now to Ashlands with it; says the city's in a perfect furor of delight But you, it seems, care nothing about it," Arthur concluded with a malignant sneer.
"Not a word of rejoicing over this glorious victory"—cried Enna angrily.
"Of seven thousand over seventy-five?"
"If I were papa, I'd turn you out of the house;" she exclaimed still more hotly.
"Walter, I have no patience with you," said his father. "To think that son of mine should turn against his own country!" he added, with a groan.
"No, father, I could never do that," Walter answered with emotion.
"It looks very much like it—the utter indifference with which you receive this glorious news!" cried Mrs. Dinsmore with flashing eyes. "I'm positively ashamed of you."
"No, mother, not with indifference, far from it; for it inaugurates a war that will drench the land with blood."
"Nonsense! the North will never fight. A race of shop-keepers fighting for a sentiment, poh! But come to breakfast, there's the bell."
"Better," says Solomon, "is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith." The luxurious breakfast at Roselands was partaken of with very little enjoyment that morning; by Walter especially, who had to bear contempt and ridicule; threats also: he was called a Yankee, coward, poltroon, traitor; and threatened with disinheritance and denouncement unless he would declare himself for the Confederacy and enlist in its army.
The meal was but half over when he rose with flashing eyes, pale face, and quivering lips. "I am neither a traitor nor a coward," he said between his clenched teeth, "as perhaps time may prove to the sorrow of a father and mother, sister and brother, who can so use one who ill deserves such treatment at their hands." And turning, he stalked proudly from the room.
Enna was beginning a sneering remark, but her father stopped her.
"Hush! we have been too hard on the lad; he was always slower than Art about making up his mind, and I've no doubt will turn out all right in the end."
Soon after breakfast the father and mother had a private talk on the subject, and agreed to try coaxing and entreaties.
"Wal always had a warm heart," remarked Mr. Dinsmore finally, "and I dare say can be reached more readily through that."
"Yes, he was your favorite always, while you have been very hard upon poor Arthur's youthful follies; but you see now which is the more worthy of the two."
Mr. Dinsmore shook his head. "Not yet, wife; 'tisn't always the braggart that turns out bravest in time of trial."
"Yes, we shall see," she answered, with a slight toss of her haughty head. "I trust no son of mine will prove himself so cowardly as to run away from his country in her time of need, on whatever pretext."
And having winged this shaft, perceiving with pleasure that her husband winced slightly under it, she sailed from the room, ascending the stairway, and presently paused before the door of Walter's dressing-room. It was slightly ajar; and pushing it gently open she entered without knocking.
He stood leaning against the mantel, his tall erect figure, the perfection of manly grace, his eyes fixed thoughtfully upon the carpet, and his fine, open, expressive countenance full of a noble sadness.
There was something of motherly pride in the glance that met his as he looked up at the sound of Mrs. Dinsmore's step. Starting forward, he gallantly handed her to a seat: then stood respectfully waiting for what she had to say.
"Walter,