Such had been the early life of Imelda Ellwood. Surely not the best of
environments for the development of a young character, but, singularly
enough, Imelda’s was so sweet and pure a nature that in spite of all the
close contact with impure elements she remained thus pure and sweet. But
early she became disgusted with home life, measuring all to which the
name applied by the standard she had known. Even as a child she was wont
to say: “I will never marry.” Home to her meant the elements of war. Her
brother Frank, just fifteen months younger than herself, and sister Cora
again only sixteen months younger than Frank, were the torments of her
life. Frank’s teasing propensities were so great that he was utterly
reckless as to his methods of indulging them, so he succeeded in making
those around him miserable. If Imelda had a new book, he was sure to
damage it in some way. If she had a new article of clothing, he would
ridicule it until the very sight of it became hateful to her. If she
made an engagement to go somewhere and he became aware of the fact he
would contrive to make it impossible for her to keep it, or at least to
detain her so long that she was robbed of the greater part of the
pleasure she had expected to derive from it.
Cora was tantalizing, obstinate and contradictory; always opposed to
everything that Imelda wished. Sometimes she felt that she almost hated
them. Added to this her mother cast a heavy burden upon the tender
shoulders of the young girl. Almost always with a babe in her arms, or
expecting one, she let her shafts of ill-temper play upon her eldest
daughter. Often it seemed there was a certain bitterness and
vengefulness directed against Imelda as the author of all her
troubles—it having been her expected coming that caused the consummation
of this most unhappy marriage. Conscious of having in some way incurred
the ill-will of her mother, but unconscious as to the _how_, Imelda
often wept bitter tears at the unjust treatment she received at the
hands of her who should have been the child’s best friend. In this case
it was the father who proved himself such. Early these two found in each
other a comfort and help such as is rarely known between father and
daughter.
To her he imparted all the knowledge that should have been the mother’s
care, and although the little Imelda saw but little of the inside of a
schoolroom, she grew up a really fine scholar.
After having instructed her in all the rudimentary branches, he taught
her the classics. He taught her elocution, music,—instrumental and
vocal, book-keeping, shorthand, etc. Next, German and French.
Herbert Ellwood was a scholar, and he made a scholar of his daughter.
She was eager to learn, and it was a pleasure for him to teach her. Even
this proved a bone of contention in that home,—a home which was as
unlike what a home should be as could well be imagined. Her mother
grumbled over the wasted time, poring over books when there was so much
work to be done. Cora turned up her saucy nose and said, doubtless the
time was coming when she would have to humbly bow to Madame Doctor, or
Lawyer So and So, or Professor of some University; while Frank thought
more likely she was getting ready to catch some “big beau,” and maybe
become “My Lady” to some rich foreigner, some great Lord, or something
of that sort. Imelda had by this time, to a certain extent, become
callous to such taunts, and quietly went her way, performing obnoxious
duties that were waiting to be done, with no one else to do them.
But as the years went by changes came. First; the greatest and most
lamentable of them all, was the death of her father.
For years past he had been ailing, and the time came when he was unable
to work. At first he brought his books home in the evening, and with the
assistance of his faithful child strove to complete the task he found
himself unable to cope with alone, and, by working hours after he had
been compelled to lay aside his pen Imelda was able to finish his work
for him. But the time came at last that he was unable to do anything. He
could no longer go to his daily labor. All day long he would sit near
his open window and watch the busy turmoil in the streets below. Then he
become too weak even for that; so he lay upon the bed watching his
beloved child, and wondering what she would do when he was gone. His
wife and other children did not seem to worry him. His thoughts were all
concentrated upon Imelda, and Imelda’s heart almost broke as she watched
the thin white face grow thinner and whiter day by day. Now and then the
thin emaciated frame would be convulsed with a fit of coughing that
would leave him perfectly exhausted. Tenderly she would smooth his
pillows, would hold a cooling drink to his lips, then with a firm hand
she would smooth his brow until under her gentle, soothing influence he
would fall into a light slumber.
Then Imelda would glide away from his bedside, and, if possible, seek
her own room for awhile, where she could relieve her overcharged heart
of the load that was suffocating her. Tears would flow and ease would
come. Although her mother had in her early childhood taught her to pray,
Imelda never now thought of seeking aid or relief in prayer. She had
long been a skeptic. She had seen the dark side only of life, and she
often wondered if life held any brightness for her? How often had she
asked without receiving an answer: “Why must my young life be so
different from that of other girls?”
Just at present the fear of losing her beloved father was paramount to
everything else, and while she felt as though an iron hand was clutching
at her throat she watched and saw his life slowly ebbing away, and, at
the close of a calm, balmy autumn day he quietly fell asleep, never
again to awaken, and on the 18th of October, Imelda’s seventeenth
birthday, he was laid away to rest within the tree-shaded cemetery.
After that, Imelda had more duties to perform, heavier burdens to bear.
Contrary to what might have been expected, her mother refused to be
comforted, and became even more fretful and irritable than before.
Imelda moved about calm, pale and tearless, but with oh! such an aching
weary heart. But never a word passed her pale lips—for who would have
understood that ceaseless pain—and for which she was reproached as being
heartless and unfeeling.
Although Herbert Ellwood had always been able to command fair wages,
there had been nothing laid aside for a rainy day. His wife never had
been what is known as a good housewife. She believed in taking the
things the gods provide and let the morrow take care of itself. So when
he was no longer able to follow his daily occupation, they were without
means. His long and lingering illness had plunged them heavily into
debt, the burden of which rested solely on Imelda’s slender shoulders.
And—they must live! Both sisters found work behind the counters of a dry
goods emporium. Cora grumbling and daily declaring that it was a shame,
and that she was determined to make a change as soon as a chance
offered. Frank too, was told that it was time he placed his shoulder to
the wheel, as the combined efforts of two girls were hardly sufficient
to support a family of five, for there was another little girl of two
years: “Baby Nellie” she was called. But Frank would put his hands in
his pockets, whistle the latest air he had heard at some low “variety
show,” bestow a kick upon the frolicking kitten, make a grimace at baby
Nellie and walk out as unconcerned as though there were no such thing in
the world as the worry and trouble of procuring food for hungry mouths
and clothes for freezing backs, or paying rent to keep a miserable roof
over their heads. Imelda’s face would perhaps grow a shade paler and the
trembling lips compress more tightly, but farther than that she gave no
sign. From her mother it would generally bring forth a flood of tears.
Imelda would feel as though a cold hand was clutching at her throat as
she watched her mother. Poor mother! What had life brought to her? It
had been one long succession of trials, sorrow and woes without the
ability to cope with them. Once, and only once, Imelda ventured to
gently wind her arm about her. With an impatient movement the poor woman
had brushed it aside, accompanied with an irritable, “Don’t!” After that
Imelda never ventured to approach her again. Her sensitive spirit had
been deeply wounded, but she also knew that her mother could not by any
possibility understand her. So she tried hard not to bear her any ill
will. She eagerly sought for every excuse she could think of for the
mother whose life she knew had been made up more of thorns than roses.
So, the weeks and months went by in a weary routine, but bringing with
them new troubles and fresh sorrows. Frank, who had persistently refused
to put his hands to any kind of work, had idled away his time with
companions who were wholly as bad if not worse than himself. Under the
leadership of one more bold than the rest they had for some time been
perpetrating deeds of petty larceny until they were caught in the act.
The most of them were arrested and a term of work house stared them in
the face. Frank, however, with one other succeeded in absconding. This
was the news that was brought home to the despairing mother and
grief-stricken sister. Never again had the poor mother seen or heard
aught of him. They knew that he possessed a passionate love for the
water and they felt sure that he had gone to sea.
And yet another trouble awaited them. Cora, who was now sixteen years of
age, and who gave promise of beauty in the future, though as yet
undeveloped, had formed the acquaintance of a graceless scamp, fair of
face, with but the possession of a decidedly insipid smile—a brainless
fop with an oily tongue. The willful girl had been meeting him for some
time before Imelda became conscious of the fact. Long and earnestly did
she strive to reason with the refractory sister, pointing out to her the
many defects of this very objectionable lover.
But Cora had always been obstinate, and the years had brought no change
in this respect. In plain words, she told Imelda to mind her own
business. A short time after she disappeared—leaving a note stating she
had “gone to live with one with whom she could have a little peace,” as
she expressed it.
For some time the mother and sister were unable to trace her
whereabouts, but one evening, some six weeks later, Imelda had an errand
to another portion of the city. Returning about ten o’clock she hailed a
car and presently found herself seated opposite her runaway sister, and
with her the partner of her flight. To judge from the manner of both
there was little happiness or love or _peace_ between the couple. Even
to an ordinary observer it would have been apparent from the sulky and
extremely careless outward appearance of the two that Cora’s love dream
had been cut very short.
After the first shock Imelda conquered her fear of risking an
altercation in so public a place and seated herself at Cora’s side.
There was something in the defiant attitude of the girl that caused her
heart to stand still with a nameless dread, but she forced herself to
speak.
“Cora,” she said, “are you married?” Cora paled, and in her companion’s
eye was a wicked flash. A hesitating “Yes,” fell from the lips of the
wayward sister. Intuitively Imelda felt that she was telling a
falsehood, and her heart sank within her. She understood that the
willful girl was leading a life of deliberate shame. Only a short time
until she would be cast off, and then——?
Imelda could not bear to contemplate the “then!” With a sound like
rushing waters in her ears, she arose from her seat and staggered toward
the entrance of the car. She must get away from the near presence of the
twain, out into the open air. She felt that she must suffocate in there.
How she reached home she never knew, but _that_ night sleep was a
stranger to her eyes. The next day she went about her work a trifle
paler, her footsteps a trifle slower. While her mother fretted over the
child that could leave her in such a fashion without one thought of the
pain she was inflicting on loving hearts, she never heeded the drooping
gait and the pained expression upon the face of her eldest child.
The winter had come and gone, and come again and the watchful eye of
Imelda detected that the mother’s step was slower. The tall figure was
slightly bent and an unnameable something about her struck terror to the
daughter’s heart. She drooped and faded day by day, and the much tired
girl knew that darker days were coming. Often on coming home in the
evening she would find her mother lying on the bed, not asleep, but
broken down, without ambition enough to lift the weary head from the
pillow; little Nellie crying bitterly with cold and hunger, or perhaps
the poor baby had sobbed itself to sleep upon the floor while its mother
seemed to have lost all interest in what was going on around her.
Imelda moaned in despair. She was needed oh, so much at home. The
ailing, wasted form of her mother appealed so strongly to her aching
heart for the care there was no one to bestow. The baby felt like ice as
she pressed the tiny thing to her heaving bosom. But how could they live
if she remained at home? Only what her tender hands were able to earn
did they have to keep the wolf from the door. And if she ceased to work?
What then?
Imelda knew and felt that darker days were coming, darker than she had
yet known, and her impotence to ward them off almost drove her to
despair. But the time came when she felt that she could no longer remain
away from the bedside of the dying mother, come what would. To make
matters still worse little Nellie had contracted a severe cold, and many
sleepless nights fell to her share walking to and fro, from the bedside
of the sick woman to that of the ailing child. One by one all the little
comforts and luxuries of former days were parted with. Pretty trinkets
her father had given her and which, therefore were of great value to
her, were all sacrificed.
In the early spring the change came. The baby had been unusually
feverish for several days while the mother was sinking fast. The night
was bitter cold and Imelda knew she must not sleep. Both patients were
nearing their end. Folding her shawl more closely around her shoulders
to be more comfortable, she prepared for her long and dreary vigil.
Never a word did the mother speak, breathing heavily in a dull stupor.
Toward midnight she moved uneasily. Imelda bending over her saw her lips
move. She bent lower and caught the whispered words, “Frank, Cora.” That
was all.
The wayward ones, who had taken their mother’s life with them, to them
the last breath was given. Nellie and Imelda were with her. It was the
absent wayward ones that had left a void. When the morning dawned, it
was to find the weary woman at rest; the woman whose life had been one
long mistake. The baby moaned. Imelda lifted her to her knee, and as the
sun sent its first rays through the dim window pane the fluttering
breath left the little purple lips, and Imelda was alone—alone with her
dead!
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