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!
