CHAPTER III.
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.