A Child of the Glens; or, Elsie's Fortunes

by Edward N. Hoare

But Elsie would not be persuaded, nor could her new friends do otherwise than approve her noble resolve. They were disappointed, but felt that such a girl was worthy of their affection and patronage, and trusted that time would afford them opportunities of benefiting her.

The winter that ensued was a trying one. The snow lay deep on the moors, so that Tor Bay was practically shut off from the rest of the world. The rector was not able to get over, and even George Hendrick's visits were few and far between. For several weeks Elsie could not go to church, and when she did the fatigue and wet brought on a cold which stuck to her all the winter. Old Mrs. McAravey seemed fast approaching her end; she long had been quite crippled with rheumatism, and now her mind was at times beginning to give way. It was a sad, dreary time for Elsie. Scarcely any children were able to come to school; and as she struggled on day after day at what seemed, in her present low state of health, a barren and uninteresting task, she could not but have visions of the comfortable home she might have acquired with her hitherto unseen friends. Not that she ever regretted her decision; indeed Elsie was scarcely capable of entertaining a selfish thought. Without any apparent effort she lived for others, and habitually thought of them before herself. Yet it was a trying time for the poor young girl—gloomy and disheartening days, succeeded by restless and anxious nights, and literally not a soul to speak to.

Jim, too, had a bad time of it that winter. So great had been the ridicule to which he had been subjected in Ballymena, that he was at length forced to abandon his position. Messrs. Moore accepted his resignation somewhat coldly. They regretted the loss of a valuable servant, but Jim had failed to gain the affection of his employers. He had "kept himself to himself" with such reserve that no one took much interest in him, though his good business qualities were fully appreciated. Messrs. Moore gave him a high character for steadiness and capacity, but they did not seem inclined to go out of their way to obtain him employment. Poor Jim was much mortified at the calmness with which his resignation was received. He knew that he had done his duty to his employers faithfully, and therefore he felt hurt when they made no effort to retain him. The poor lad had well-nigh to begin again. He went to Belfast, and there soon obtained employment, but in a far inferior position to that which he had occupied at Messrs. Moore's. Moreover, he soon found that in the great capital of the linen trade there were numbers of young men as capable, as energetic, and in many cases better educated than himself. It was a harsh and unpleasant experience, but Jim had the strength and courage to bear up under it. He still was full of a laudable confidence in himself, and felt sure that patience and diligence would have their due reward. It was a hard struggle, however. Trade was bad, and after a few months the house in which he was just getting established was compelled to stop payment. For a few weeks Jim was absolutely without employment. After that time he obtained another situation, and thus escaped being reduced to actual poverty; for the first time, however, he was brought face to face with the possibility of privation—of being unable (however willing and however anxious) to obtain the means of gaining his daily bread.

Thus the winter and spring wore on. Almost the first gleam of sunshine that came to Elsie with the reviving year was a letter from Lady Eleanor, in which she said that as Elsie would not come to see them, they had almost resolved to go and look for her. The earl, her father, had often spoken of taking them to the Giant's Causeway, and so they thought of running over before Easter if the weather was fine, which after so severe a winter they hoped it might be. The hope thus held out was destined to be gratified. Easter was late that year, and the weather in March and April beautiful. Jim was astonished one day early in April by receiving a letter from Elsie, directing him to wait upon the Earl and Lady Waterham, who were to arrive from Fleetwood next morning, and would stay a day at the Royal Hotel. Jim blushed as he recalled the vain dreams of six mouths before, and naturally felt some embarrassment at the prospect of meeting such exalted personages. However, he conducted himself so modestly and naturally that he won the approval of the whole party. Even the earl, who, out of dislike to Damer, was much prejudiced against the lad, spoke kindly to him, and expressed a willingness to serve him, if possible, at any time.

Having proceeded to Larne by train, the party posted along the noble coast road, arriving at the Ballycastle Inn in time for a very late dinner. Next day the younger ladies, having procured two stout ponies and a guide, started for Tor Bay, taking the magnificent Fair Head en route. They were determined to find out Elsie for themselves, and to take her by surprise in the midst of her ordinary work. It was one of those glorious spring days that might have belonged to June, were it not for a keenness in the air that surprised you when the sun was for a few seconds over-clouded. There was, too, a clearness in the atmosphere that warm summer days cannot claim, with a suspicion of frost, as you looked towards the sea. And often did the two ladies look in that direction during their ride on the lofty headlands. Rathlin Island lay below them, separated by the few miles of narrow and often impassable sea, but to-day it was but a "silver streak." Far in the horizon the Scotch coast could be seen all along the line, while the Mull of Cantyre looked but a few miles away, the very houses and boundaries being almost distinguishable. Full in front the sun gleamed on Ailsa Craig, as it rose abrupt and lovely from out of the sea. Elsie, though familiar with it, had not been insensible to all this beauty. She had spent almost the entire night at Mrs. McAravey's side, nor did the old woman fall off to sleep till it was almost time to open school. It was a weary morning's work; and when the children went home to dinner the exhausted girl wandered down to the beach (having seen that Mrs. McAravey still slept) in search of fresh air and quiet before resuming her duties. Since the arrival of Lady Eleanor's last letter she had naturally enough been excited and nervous. She knew that in a few days at latest she should see her mother's friend, and one who promised to be hers. Would she like her? Would the meeting be a disappointment, or otherwise? What should she say? Where would they meet? How should she dress herself? The first meeting with one to whom we are bound by any ties, whom we have long corresponded with, or are likely in the future to be much associated with, is always looked forward to with embarrassment and nervousness. How much was this the case with a poor, simple orphan girl, who had never been five miles from home, called upon to encounter a titled lady, who actually claimed her as her godchild, and to whom she felt bound by so many tender associations? Filled with thoughts of the approaching interview, Elsie wandered, she knew not whither, on the beach. Suddenly a shadow seemed to pass over her, and she became conscious of the bitterness of the north-east wind that blew upon the shore. Drawing her cloak round her, she looked up and found that she had come under the shade of the great cliff that rose at the extremity of Sandy Creek. She stood still a moment, gazing on the dreary scene, and then a sudden flood of recollection came over her. The tide was low, and she stood on the very spot, as it seemed, where, twelve years before, she had caught sight of the strange black mass that was being tossed on the sand amid the tangled sea-weed. She saw herself a trembling, ragged child, alone by the dead body in the fast gathering twilight. And this was the only time that she had seen her mother. The girl was out of spirits, low in health, and very weary, and so, for the only time almost in her life, she gave way to repining thoughts. All the gracious path by which a kindly Providence had led her was obscured, and she thought of herself merely as the orphan child of this poor dead thing that lay upon the sand. The whole history of the past flooded back upon her. She saw little Jim, so eager to escape from the gruesome sight; then Mike McAravey approaching through the twilight, and herself as she ran up against good George Hendrick; then rose up the horrid bewildering scene at the inquest; and finally she seemed to stand in the bleak wind-blown moorland churchyard, and before her was the nameless head-stone, "In Memory of E. D." The sense of loneliness was complete as she stood beneath the overhanging cliff exposed to the biting nor'-east wind. With an effort she aroused herself, and looking up with tear-filled eyes to the pale clear blue sky so far away, she resolutely turned back into the warm sunshine that seemed the more dazzling after its temporary withdrawal. It was almost school-time, and on the far hill-side path Elsie's quick eyes caught sight of two or three tiny little figures, as they trotted down the path towards her cottage-school. In a moment all sadness was banished, and she felt herself again.

"Have we not all one Father?" she murmured; "and have I not One to love me who has said, 'Inasmuch as ye did it to the least of these, ye did it unto Me'?"

Glancing again to the hill, she perceived that the children had stopped, and were forming a little group as they looked backward up the path.

"They 'll be late, my little loiterers," said Elsie, with a smile; "I must scold them well. But what is it?"

An uncommon sight indeed for Tor Glen, and one that might well distract the whole school's attention. Two discreet ponies were picking their way down the zig-zag path, while behind walked a man. But greatest wonder! on each pony was seated a real lady. Erect and gracefully, too, did they keep their seats, as the patient beasts let themselves slip down the gravelly path.

"It's early for tourists," thought Elsie, as she quietly walked on her way.