MILDRED’S NEW DAUGHTER
By MARTHA FINLEY
(MARTHA FARQUHARSON)
Author of the Famous ELSIE BOOKS
“A sweet, heartlifting cheerfulness,
Like springtime of the year,
Seemed ever on her steps to wait.”
—Mrs. Hale.
A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers—New York
COPYRIGHT, 1894,
BY
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
CHAPTER I.
The clock on the mantel, striking six, woke Ethel and Blanche Eldon, two
little sisters lying side by side in their pretty bed.
“Ah, it is morning, Blanche, and time for you and me to be up,” said
Ethel, smiling pleasantly into her younger sister’s eyes.
“Yes; in a minute, Ethel,” replied Blanche, turning toward her sister
and patting her cheek affectionately.
At the same moment the door into the hall opened softly and the mother
came in, her dark eyes shining, her thin, pale face wreathed in smiles.
“Good-morning, my darlings,” she said, speaking softly, for fear of
waking the two younger children in the nursery beyond. “Have you slept
well?” she asked, bending over to kiss first one, then the other.
“Yes, mamma, dear,” they answered, speaking together. “And so have Harry
and Nannette,” added Ethel, “and they are sound asleep yet, I think.”
“And we will not wake them,” responded the mother.
“Did you sleep well, mamma? and is dear papa better?” asked the little
girls with eager, anxious looks up into her face, Ethel adding, “Oh, I
am sure of it, because you look so happy!”
“Yes, dears, I am very glad and happy, very thankful to our kind
Heavenly Father, that your papa slept unusually well and seems easier
and brighter this morning than I have seen him for weeks,” Mrs. Eldon
replied, with tears of joy shining in her eyes. “He has asked to see his
children, and when you are dressed and have eaten your breakfast, you
shall come to him for a few minutes.”
“Oh, we are so glad we may see him, mamma,” they cried in a breath,
Ethel adding, “I hope papa will soon be so well that we can go back to
our own dear home again and see our own dear grandma and grandpa.”
“Yes, I hope so, darling. And now you two may get up and when dressed
help Harry and Nannette with their toilet.”
“Then have our breakfast and after that go in to see papa?” exclaimed
Blanche joyously. “And may we kiss him, mamma?”
“I think he will be able to kiss his children all around,” the mother
answered the little questioner, with a loving smile. “But I must go back
to him now, dears,” she added; and with another tender kiss she turned
and went quickly from the room.
The two little girls were already out of bed and dressing as fast as
they could; but that was not so very rapidly, for Ethel, the eldest, was
only eight years old, Blanche nearly two years younger.
Their father had been ill for a long while, and it was now some days
since they had seen him; their mother was his devoted nurse, with him
almost constantly, so that of late the children had been left very much
to themselves and the companionship of the young girl, Myra, who
combined in her person the calling of both child’s-nurse and housemaid.
Ethel was scarcely dressed when the little brother and sister woke and
were heard demanding assistance with their dressing.
“Oh, hush, hush! do hush, children!” cried Ethel, running to them,
“don’t make such a noise. You forget that our dear papa is very sick and
your noise may make him worse. I don’t know where Myra is, but you may
get up and I will help you to dress; then we will have breakfast, and
after that we will go into dear papa’s room; for mamma says we may.”
“Oh! oh! can we, Ethel?” they asked in delight. “We’re so glad! ’cause
we haven’t seen our dear papa for ever so long.”
“And Nanny wants mamma to tum and dress her,” whimpered Nannette.
“Oh, no, Nan, dear; mamma is too busy taking care of our poor sick papa,
so I’ll dress you and we’ll have our breakfast, and then we are to go in
to see him,” returned Ethel. “Now be a dear, good girl and don’t cry,”
she added coaxingly; “because if dear papa should hear you it might make
him worse. Now let me wash you and put on your clothes and brush your
hair and then we’ll have our breakfast.”
The little maid worked away while she talked, dressing the baby sister,
and little Blanche helped Harry with his toilet.
Before they had finished Myra came to their assistance.
“Your papa is better this morning, Miss Ethel,” she said, “and your
breakfast’s ready now. Your mamma says you may go in to see the captain
when you are done eatin’, and then you are to have your morning walk.”
“Oh, yes, we know,” said Blanche; “mamma told us papa was better, and
we’re just as glad as can be.”
“We hope he’ll soon be quite, quite well,” added Ethel, taking the hand
of Nannette and leading the way to the breakfast room.
The four were quite merry over their porridge, feeling in excellent
spirits because of the good news about their father, whom they dearly
loved.
When all had finished their meal and been made tidy again, they were
taken to him. He greeted them with a loving smile and a few low spoken
words of endearment. Alas! he was still so ill as to be scarce able to
lift his head from the pillow, and when each had had a few loving words
and a tender kiss of fatherly affection, mamma bade them run away to
their play, promising that they should come in again for a few minutes
when papa felt able to see them.
She led them to the door and kissed each in turn, saying low and
tenderly, “Mamma’s own dear, dear children! no words can tell how mamma
loves you all.” The baby she kissed several times, holding her close as
if loth to let her go. Setting her down at last with a heavy sigh, “Go,
my darlings,” she said, “and try to be quiet while you are in the house
lest you disturb poor, dear papa.”
With that she stepped back into the room again and softly closed the
door.
Nannette was beginning to cry, “Nanny wants to go back to dear mamma and
stay wis her,” but Ethel put her arms about her, saying cheerily,
“There, there, little sister, don’t cry; we are going to take a nice
walk out in the green fields and gather flowers under the hedge-rows for
our dear papa and mamma. Won’t that be pleasant?”
“Oh yes, yes! I so glad!” cried the little one with sudden change of
look and tone. “Put Nan’s hat on dus now; dis minute.”
“Yes, darling, we’ll go and get it at once; and Blanche and Harry and I
will put our hats on too, and oh, such a good time as we shall have!”
At that Nannette dried her eyes and began prattling delightedly about
the flowers she hoped to gather, and the birds that would be singing in
the tree-tops, or flying to and fro building their nests.
Harry and Blanche were scarcely less elated, and even staid little Ethel
grew blithe and gay as they passed down the village street and turned
aside into the green lanes and meadows.
The house grew very quiet when the children had gone. Captain Eldon had
fallen into a doze and his devoted wife sat close by his side, one thin
hand fast clasped in hers, while she almost held her breath lest she
should rouse him from that slumber which might prove the turning point
in the long illness that had brought him to the very borders of the
grave.
Mrs. Eldon was a West Indian from the island of Jamaica; and the
captain, belonging to an English regiment stationed there, had won her
heart, courted and married her. She was the only living child of a
worthy couple, a wealthy planter and his wife, who had made no objection
to their daughter’s acceptance of the gallant British officer who had
made himself agreeable to them as well as to her.
He proved a kind and indulgent husband. They were a devotedly attached
couple and very happy during the first eight years of their married
life; then Captain Eldon’s health began to fail, the climate was
pronounced most unfavorable by his medical adviser, and obtaining a
furlough, he returned to his native land, taking wife and children with
him; but the change had little effect; he rallied somewhat for a time,
then he grew weaker and now had scarcely left his bed for weeks.
He had no near relatives living except two brothers, who had, years
before, emigrated to America; he was too ill to seek old friends and
acquaintances, and taking possession of a cottage advertised for rent,
on the outskirts of a village and near the seashore, he, with his wife
and little ones, had passed a secluded life there, seeing few visitors
besides the physician who was in attendance.
Mrs. Eldon insisted on being her husband’s sole nurse and determinedly
persisted in believing in his final recovery, often talking hopefully of
the time when they might return to her island home on the other side of
the ocean, and the fond parents who were wearying of the prolonged
absence of their only child and her little ones. But to-day as she sat
with her eyes riveted upon his sleeping face and noted its haggard
look—so thin, wan and marked with lines of suffering—her heart misgave
her as never before. Was he—the light and joy of her life—about to pass
away to that bourn whence no traveller returns? Oh, the anguish of that
thought! how could life ever be endured without him? Her heart almost
stood still with terror and despair.
“Oh, my darling!” she moaned, as suddenly the sunken eyes opened and
gazed mournfully into hers, “do not leave me! I cannot live without
you,” and as she spoke she pressed her hand upon her heart and gasped
for breath.
His lips moved but no sound came from them, the fingers of the hand she
held closed convulsively over hers, he drew a long sighing breath, and
was gone.
The sound of a heavy fall brought the cook and housemaid running from
the kitchen to find the captain dead and the new-made widow lying prone
upon the floor by his bedside, apparently as lifeless as he.
“Dear, dear!” cried the cook, stooping over the prostrate form, “there
don’t seem to be a bit more life in her than in him. Take hold here with
me, Myra, and we’ll lift her to the couch yonder. Poor thing, poor
thing! between nursin’ and frettin’ she’s just about killed, and I
shouldn’t wonder if she wouldn’t be long a-following o’ him, if she
hasn’t done it already.”
“Betty, I’m afraid she has!” sobbed the girl, “and what will the poor
children do? She was just the sweetest lady I ever saw, so she was.”
“There now, Myra, don’t go on so, but run and bring somethin’ to bring
her to. Oh, there’s the doctor’s gig at the gate! Run and let him in,
quick as you can go.”
In another minute the doctor entered the room, followed by the sobbing
Myra. He glanced first at the still form on the bed. “Yes, the poor
gentleman has gone!” he said, sighing as he spoke; “but it is only what
was to be expected.”
He turned quickly to the couch where lay the still form of Mrs. Eldon,
the face as pale and deathlike as that of the husband, laid his finger
on her wrist, turned hastily, caught up a hand-glass lying on the bureau
and held it to her lips for a moment, then laying it down with a sigh:
“She too is gone,” he said in a low, moved tone, “and I am hardly
surprised.”
“Oh, sir, what ailed her?” sobbed Myra, “She scarce ever complained of
being ill.”
“No, but I knew she had heart trouble likely to carry her off should she
be subjected to any great or sudden shock.”
“And he’s been took that suddent! and she so fond o’ him,” groaned
Betty. “Well, well, well! we’ve all got to die, but when my time comes I
’ope I’ll go a bit slower; that I do!”
The doctor was looking at his watch. “I must be going,” he said, “for I
have other patients needing attention; but I’ll drive to the vicarage
and ask Mrs. Rogers to come and oversee matters here. By the way, can
either of you tell me where any relatives are to be found?”
“No, sir, that we can’t,” replied the cook, sighing heavily. “Leastways
I don’t remember so much as oncet hearing the capting nor Mrs. Eldon
mention no relations ’cept it might be some o’ her folks ’way acrost the
sea somewheres.”
“Too far away to be of any use in this extremity,” muttered the
physician meditatively. Then a little louder, “Well,” he said, “I’ll go
for the vicar’s wife, and she’ll see to all the necessary arrangements.
Where are the children?”
“Out walkin’ in the fields, sir,” answered Myra. “Oh, dear, the poor
little things! Whatever will they do? What’s to become o’ them without
no father nor no mother?”
“I dare say there are relations somewhere,” returned the doctor, then
hurried out to his gig, and in another minute was driving rapidly in the
direction of the parsonage.
Not far from the house he came upon the little group of children
returning from their walk.
“Oh, doctor,” cried Ethel, and perceiving that she wanted to speak to
him, he reined in his horse for a moment, “have you been to our house?
and did you find papa better? Oh, I hope—I think he is very much better,
and will soon be well.”
“Yes, my dear,” returned the kind-hearted physician after a moment’s
pause, as if considering the question and the best reply to make. “I
found him entirely free from the pain from which he has been so long
suffering; and I am sure you and your little brother and sisters will be
glad of it.”
“Oh, yes, indeed, sir! just as glad as we can be; as I am sure dear
mamma must be.”
The doctor drove on, sighing to himself, “Poor little orphans! I wonder
what is to become of them. If I were only a rich man instead of a poor
one with a family of my own to support—ah, well! I hope there are
relatives somewhere who will see that they are clothed, fed, and
educated.”