Elsies Womanhood | Page 8

be careful to obey orders," he answered, sportively. "Is that all?"
"Yes; only see that you don't stay too long, and keep the dinner waiting at Roselands."
"Mamma," asked Elsie, bringing up the rear as they entered the sitting-room, "can't you go, too--you and Aunt Adelaide? Four make as nice a party as two, and the babies can be driven over quite safely, with their mammies, to take care of them."
"No," said Rose, "I never accept such late invitations; I shall----"
"My dear," said her husband, "we would be very glad."
"No, no; the first arrangement is decidedly the best;" putting on an air of pretended pique.
"Babies! do you call me a baby?" cried young Horace, who had sprung to his feet with a flash of indignation in his great black eyes, "I'm nine years old, Elsie. Rosie there's the only baby belonging to this house. Do you think papa would let a baby have a pony like Gip? and a pistol of his own, too?"
Elsie put her arms round his neck, and gave him a kiss, "I beg ten thousand pardons."
"Elsie, my daughter, don't allow yourself to speak so extravagantly," interrupted her father.
"I will try not, papa," she answered. "I beg your pardon, Horace dear, and assure you I think you are quite a manly young man. Now I must prepare for my ride, papa. I shall be ready by the time the horses can be brought to the door."
"Papa," said Horace, as the door closed upon his sister, "may I ride Gip to-day?"
"If you promise me to keep close beside the carriage."
"Oh, papa, can't I ride on ahead a little, now and then, or fall a few paces behind if I wish?"
"No; you may do just what I have given permission for, and nothing else."
CHAPTER FOURTH.
"Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye, In ev'ry gesture, dignity and love." --MILTON'S PARADISE LOST.
"But, Elsie, what of Mr. Travilla?" asked her father, as he handed her into the saddle.
"He will not be here till evening, sir," she answered, the rose on her cheek deepening slightly.
"Then I can have undisturbed possession for to-day at least," replied Mr. Dinsmore, mounting. "We couldn't have a lovelier day for a ride."
"Nor better company," added Elsie, archly, keeping her horse's head on a line with that of her father's larger Steed, as they followed the winding carriage road at a brisk canter.
"Why, you conceited little puss?" returned Mr. Dinsmore laughing.
Elsie blushed more deeply this time. "Why, papa, you are the company to-day, are you not? I wished to go, and you kindly arranged to accompany me."
"Ah! and that is how you look at it? Well, I recall my rebuke, and thank you for your--what shall I say--pretty compliment, or appreciation of my society?"
"Both, if you like. Oh, how nice it is to be at home again in our own dear native land."
"And what do you call your own dear native land?"
"What a strange question, papa! The great, grand old Union to be sure--North and South, East and West--is it not all mine? Have you not taught me so yourself?"
"Yes," he said musingly.
They rode on in silence for some minutes, and when he spoke again, it was upon a subject entirely foreign to the last.
"The place looks natural," he remarked, as they turned into the avenue leading to the fine old dwelling of the Carringtons.
"How kind, how very kind, to come so soon!" was Mrs. Carrington's cordial, joyful salutation. "Mr. Dinsmore, I owe you a thousand thanks for not only permitting your daughter to come, but bringing her yourself."
"You are very welcome, my dear madam," he answered courteously; "and, indeed, I should like to see Mrs. Rose myself, when she is well enough and feels that it will be agreeable to her."
A few moments' chat in the drawing-room, and Mr. Dinsmore drew out his watch. "How long a talk do you want with your friend to-day, Elsie?" he asked.
"Oh, just as long as I can be allowed, papa!" she cried, with much of the old childish eagerness.
"Then the sooner you begin, the better, I think, for we ought to be on our way to Roselands in an hour, or an hour and a quarter at the farthest."
Upon that the gentlemen retired to the library to talk over business matters, and Mrs. Carrington led the way for Elsie to Lucy's room. But pausing in the upper hall, she took the young girl in her arms, folding her in a close, loving embrace, and heaping upon her tearful, tender, silent caresses.
"My poor boy! my poor dear Herbert," she murmured at length, as she released her hold. "Darling, I can never forget that you might have been my daughter. But there--I will leave you. Lucy occupies her old rooms, and yonder is her door; you know the way."
"But come in with