CHAPTER EIGHTH.
"To each his sufferings: all are men Condemn'd alike to groan; The tender for another's pain, The unfeeling for his own." --GRAY.
The weather was delightful: because of Phil's return the children wereexcused altogether from lessons and nearly every day was taken up withpicnics, riding, driving and boating excursions up and down the river.
They were never allowed to go alone on the water or behind any horse but"Old Nan," an old slow moving creature that Phil said "could not bepersuaded or forced out of a quiet even trot that was little better than awalk, for five consecutive minutes."
The mothers were generally of the party;--Lily continuing so much betterthat Elsie could leave her, without anxiety, in the faithful care of herold mammy--and always one or two trusty servants were taken along.
One day Philip got permission to take old Nan and the phaeton and driveout with the two older girls, Gertrude and Elsie.
They were gone several hours and on their return, while still some milesfrom home were overtaken by a heavy shower, from which they took refuge ina small log-house standing a few yards back from the road.
It was a rude structure built in a wild spot among the rocks and trees,and evidently the abode of pinching poverty; but everything was clean andneat, and the occupants, an elderly woman reclining in a high-backedwooden rocking-chair with her feet propped up on a rude bench, and a younggirl who sat sewing by a window overlooking the road, wore an air ofrefinement, and spoke English more correctly and with a purer accent thansometimes is heard in the abodes of wealth and fashion.
The door stood wide open and the moment Philip drew rein, the girl at thewindow called to them to come in out of the wet, and directed the lad toshelter his horse and phaeton underneath a shed at the side of the house.
Gertrude ran lightly in with a laugh and jest, Elsie following close ather heels.
The girl rose and setting out two unpainted wooden chairs, invited them tobe seated, remarking as she resumed her work, that the shower had come upvery suddenly, but she hoped they were not wet.
"Not enough to hurt us," said Gertrude.
"Hardly at all, thank you," I said Elsie. "I hope our mammas will not bealarmed about us, Gerty."
"I don't think they need be so long as there's no thunder and lightning,"answered Gertrude. "Ah, see how it is pouring over yonder on the mountain,Elsie!"
The pale face of the woman in the rocking-chair, evidently an invalid, hadgrown still paler and her features worked with emotion.
"Child! child!" she cried, fixing her wild eyes on Elsie, "who--who areyou?"
"They're the young ladies from the Crags, mother," said the girlsoothingly.
"I know that, Sally," she answered peevishly, "but one's a visitor, andthe other one called her Elsie, she's just the age and very imageof--child, what is your family name?"
"Travilla, madam," the little girl replied, with a look of surprise.
"Oh, you're her daughter; yes, of course I might have known it. And so shemarried him, her father's friend and so many years older."
The words were spoken as if to herself and she finished with a deep drawnsigh.
This woman had loved Travilla--all unsuspected by him, for he was not aconceited man--and there had been a time when she would have almost givenher hopes of heaven for a return of her affection.
"Is it my mother you mean? did you know her when she was a little girl?"asked Elsie, rising and drawing near the woman's chair.
"Yes; if she was Elsie Dinsmore, and lived at Roselands--how many yearsago? let me see; it was a good many; long before I was married to JohnGibson."
"That was mamma's name and that was where she lived; with her grandpa,while her papa was away in Europe so many years," returned the littleElsie; then asked with eager interest, "But how did you happen to knowher? did you live near Roselands?"
"I lived there; but I was a person of no consequence; only a poorgoverness," remarked the woman in a bitter tone; an expression of angrydiscontent settling down upon her features.
"Are you Miss Day?" asked Elsie, retreating a step or two with a look asif she had seen a serpent.
Her mother had seldom mentioned Miss Day to her, but from her AuntsAdelaide and Lora she had heard of her many acts of cruelty and injusticeto the little motherless girl committed to her care.
"I was Miss Day; I'm Mrs. Gibson now. I was a little hard on your mothersometimes, as I see you've been told; but I'd a great deal to bear; forthey were a proud, haughty family--those Dinsmores. I was not treated asone of themselves, but as a sort of upper servant, though a lady bybirth, breeding and education," the woman remarked, her tone growing moreand more bitter as she proceeded.
"But was it right? was it just and generous to vent your anger upon a poorlittle innocent girl who had no mother and no father there to defend her?"asked the child, her soft eyes rilling with tears.
"Well maybe not; but it's the way people generally do. Your mother was agood little thing, provokingly good sometimes; pretty too, and heiress,they said, to an immense fortune. Is she rich still? or did she lose itall by the war?"
"She did not lose it all, I know," said Elsie, "but how rich she is I donot know; mamma and papa seldom talk of any but the true riches."
"Just like her, for all the world!" muttered the woman. Then aloud andsneeringly, "Pray what do you mean by the true riches?"
"Those which can never be taken from us; treasure laid up in heaven whereneither moth nor rust doth corrupt and thieves break not through tosteal."
The sweet child voice ceased and silence reigned in the room for a moment,while the splashing of the rain upon the roof could be distinctly heard.
Mrs. Gibson was the first to speak again. "Well I'd like to have thatkind, but I'd like wonderfully well to try the other a while first."
Elsie looked at the thin, sallow face with its hollow cheeks and sunkeneyes, and wished mamma were there to talk of Jesus to this poor woman, whosurely had but little time to prepare for another world.
"Is your mother at the Crags?" asked Mrs. Gibson turning to her again.
Elsie answered in the affirmative, adding that they had been there forsome time and would probably remain a week or two longer.
"Do you think she would be willing to come here to see me?" was the nextquestion, almost eagerly put.
"Mamma is very kind and I am sure she will come if you wish to see her,"answered the child.
"Then tell her I do; tell her I, her old governess, am sick and poor andin great trouble."
Tears rolled down her cheeks and for a moment her eyes rested upon herdaughter's face with an expression of keen anguish. "She's going blind,"she whispered in Elsie's ear, drawing the child toward her, and nodding inthe direction of Sally, stitching away at the window.
"Blind! oh how dreadful!" exclaimed the little girl in low moved tones,the tears springing to her eyes. "I wish she could go to Doctor Thomson."
"Doctor Thomson! who is he?"
"An oculist: he lives in Philadelphia. A friend of mamma's had somethinggrowing over her eyes so that she was nearly blind, and he cut it off andshe can see now as well as anybody."
"I don't think that is the trouble with Sally's; though of course I can'ttell. But she's always had poor sight, and now that she has to support thefamily with her needle, her eyes are nearly worn out."
Sally had been for several minutes making vain attempts to thread aneedle.
Elsie sprang to her side with a kindly, eager, "Let me do it, won't you?"
It was done in a trice and the girl thanked her with lips and eyes.
"It often takes me full five or ten minutes," she said, "and sometimes Ihave to get mother to do it for me."
"What a pity! it must be a great hindrance to your work."
"Yes, indeed, and my eyes ache so that I can seldom sew or read for morethan an hour or two at a time. Ah, I'm afraid I'm going to lose my sightaltogether."
The tone was in
expressibly mournful, and Elsie's eyes filled again.
"Don't fret about it," she said, "I think--I hope you can be cured."
The rain had nearly ceased, and Philip, saying the worst was over, andthey were in danger of being late at dinner, hurried the girls into thephaeton.
"What was that woman whispering to you?" asked Gertrude, as soon as theywere fairly off.
Elsie looked uncomfortable. "It was something I was to tell mamma," shereplied.
"But what is it?"
"I'm afraid she wanted to keep it a secret from you, Gerty, or she wouldhave spoken out loud."
"I think you're very mean and disobliging," retorted Gertrude, beginningto pout.
"No, she isn't," said Philip pompously, "she's honorable, and one of thefew females who can keep a secret. But I overheard it, Elsie, and feelpretty sure that the reason she whispered it, was to keep the poor girlfrom hearing. It's very natural she shouldn't want her to know she'safraid her sight's leaving her."
"Oh, yes; I suppose that was it!" returned Elsie. "But you were very wiseto think of it, Phil."
"Don't flatter him," said Gertrude; "he thinks a great deal too much ofhimself, already."
Dinner was just ready when they reached home, and their mammas were on theporch looking for them.
"So there you are at last! what detained you so long?" said Mrs. Ross.
"Went further than we intended; and then the rain, you know," saidPhilip.
"And, oh, we had an adventure!" cried the girls, and hastened to tell it.
Mrs. Travilla had not forgotten her old governess, and though no pleasantrecollection of her lingered in her memory, neither was there any dislikeor revengeful feeling there. She heard of her sorrows with commiserationand rejoiced in the ability to alleviate them.
"That Mrs. Gibson!" exclaimed Lucy, "I've seen her many a time at the dooror window, in driving past, and have often thought there was somethingfamiliar in her face, but never dreamed who she was. That hateful MissDay! as I used to call her; Elsie, I wouldn't do a thing for her, if Iwere you. Why she treated you with absolute cruelty."
"She was sometimes unjust and unkind," said Mrs. Travilla, smiling at herfriend's vehemence, "but probably my sensitiveness, timidity andstupidity, were often very trying."
"No such thing!--if you will excuse me for contradicting you--everybodythat knew you then, would testify that you were the sweetest, dearest,most patient, industrious little thing that ever was made."
Elsie laughed and shook her head, "Ah, Lucy, you always flattered me;never were jealous even when I was held up to you as a pattern an evidencethat yours was a remarkably sweet disposition. Now, tell me, please, ifyou know anything about these Gibsons?"
"Not much; they came to that hut years ago, evidently very poor, and quiteas evidently--so report says--having seen better days. The husband andfather drank deeply, and the wife earned a scanty support for the familyby sewing and knitting; that is about all I know of them, except thatseveral of their children died of scarlet fever within a few days of eachother, soon after they came to the neighborhood, and that a year ago lastwinter, the man, coming home very drunk, fell into a snow-drift, and nextday was found frozen to death. I was told at that time they had only twochildren--a son who was following in his father's footsteps, and thisdaughter."
"Poor woman!" sighed Elsie, "she is sorely tried and afflicted. I must goto her at once."
"Do, mamma, and get a doctor for her," said little Elsie; "she looked sosick and miserable."
Mrs. Ross offered her carriage, and the shower having cooled the air,Elsie went, shortly after the conclusion of the meal.
Elsie's children Page 8
