Democratic Sentinel, Volume 2, Number 50, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 January 1879 — OLD ELSPA. [ARTICLE]

OLD ELSPA.

I wits alone in the world, or I thought I wits, which amounted to pretty much the same in its mental and moral effects. My mother died when I was so young that I had only a shadowy remembrance of a pale face and a long, last clasp to the loving heart. I hud been my father’s pet and darling, and now he was dead, too, and his will had consigned me, just like a bale of goods, to the care and guardianship of his brother, a doctor, whose home lay among the picturesque mountains of Cumberland. I was “too impulsive,” said the will, and would “throw myself and my money away before 1 know the value of either, if 1 had no one to take care of me;” and so, when my poor father died in the South of France, where we had gone to winter, Uncle Ritson, who came barely in time to lay him in the foreign grave, carried me off' at once to his house on the bleak hillside, gave me a kiss as he lifted me out of the stuffy vehicle which had conveyed us from the station, presented me to my aunt and cousins with a “Well, here’s Adela!” and told me to consider myself “at home.” It was the beginning of January, intensely cold. The sudden change from a warmer climate had sensibly affected me; I was chilled under all my furs, and perhaps more chilled by the restraining influence of my father’s will, having pondered the “too impulsive” all through the journey. Certainly I was not “too impulsive” on my entrance to my new “homo.” Aunt and cousins iiad met me on the threshold with warm welcome, pressed to remove my wraps and to make me comfortable. There was a huge lire blazing on the hearth, a tea-table piled with North Country luxuries, and all that should have made me feel at home; but something was wanting, and, instead of responding to their greetings in my own natural fashion, I dropped into a seat, after my first glance around, and, covering my face with my hands, burst into tears. I have small, thin, quick ears. I overheard Aunt Ritson whisper to Bella and Winnie as she drew them back : “Hush! Its but natural, poor bairn! Leave your cousin alone, lasses; she will come to herself all the sooner.” And I did come to myself; but whether my tears had fallen frostily on their hot hearth, or we travelers had brought a chill in with us, or my own manner did not invite effusion, a certain air of restraint seemed to grow upon us; and when I was shown to the room set apart for me, and left to myself, I flung myself upon my bed and sobbed in passionate grief for my dead father, declaring that I was alone in the world, utterly alone. And this feeling grew upon me. Looking back, 1 am conscious that it was much my own fault that I had not responded with sufficient warmth and gratitude to the relatives who had made room in their household for one they hud not seen since she was a baby, and had met with open arms and hands. They had heard that I was gushing and exuberant—a creature of impulse—and, finding me reserved and languid, concluded that I, accustomed to elegance and luxury, could not brook the homeliness and retirement of my new life. I was rich, and they were not. They mistook my morbid melancholy for pride, and ceased to press their society or attentions on me, lest I should attribute to them mercenary motives. I see it all now, but then I was blind. I had another grief at my heart beside sorrow for my d> ad parent, and I fear, whenever my thoughts flew to that lonely grave among the Pyrenees, I questioned the policv which had isolated me from the world—the woild in which my hero lived and moved—and prisoned my free soul among those unresponsive walls of stone.

In this rhapsody I did not apostrophize alone the four walls of the solid stone house that, sot against the mountain side, with a background of pine, larch and mountain ash, looked so cold and gray, staring with its many lidless eyes from its rocky, pereh above the straggling lake village, on the steep, unguarded roadway in front, and the narrow strips of garden ground stretching like green arms on either side. No, I held converse with the mountains. They were to me the barrier between love and life and happiness!, but it was only on their solitary heights I felt free to .rive the feeling utterance. The thrifty household ways of my aunt and cousins, which kept them ever busy, were strange to me. My dainty fingers had no acquaintance with rolling-pin or pasteboard. It was not I who kept so bright the mirror in which I saw my own beauty—aye, and my own unhappiness—reflected. I was supposed to be mourning, and, with mistaken delicacy, was left to do—nothing. Had Uncle Rifson known it, or how I spent my time, he would have shaken me up like a bottle’ of physic and I should have been the better for it. But whether on foot, or horseback, or in his ancient gig* he was off in a morning, and frequently Was absent all day. His patients were scattered, and his rounds extended. I, having no occupation for hands or energies, feeling myself eomewhat apart from the rest, was off and away up the

breezy hillsides to the lonely margin of the lake, or in the most secluded glens, my only companion my faithful dog, and there, where there was only the wind to answer me, I poured forth all the pent-up feelings of my heart, and oft my gusts of passion found utterance in song. At times I took a pencil and sketch-book with me in these wanderings, but there was ever one figure in the foreground of the most picturesque scene, and often enough the picture was there alone, the adjuncts all forgotten. At first Bella or Winnie had borne me company, but I think they saw my longing to be alone; and I had my way, not without many cautions from my aunt. What were perils to me, chafing against the restraint of my father’s will, crying from the depths of my inmost heart for the banished love, who would never find me in those solitudes, and longing for wings to traverse land and sea until I found my home on his faithful bosom? Lost in abstractions, all danger was forgotten, and I had paid the penalty but for a guardian angel little dreamed of. My first peril was from the mountain mist, which came down and around me with bewildering suddenness, blotting out the landscape far and near. Still I thought I k .ew my way, and was stepping onward, though with caution, when my dress was clutched from behind, as I fancied by some bush; turning to disentangle it, I was confronted with what seemed an awful apparition looming through the misty veil, and, with a suppressed cry, I stood still in affright. I saw a woman’s form, bent with age, a face intersected with lines and wrinkles like a map, from which nose and chin stood out like mountain peaks, and the sunken eyes gleamed like fiery depths of two volcanic era ers.

“Stop, my leddy!’’ she cried: “the gates of death are open before ye! Tak’ my hand and let me lead you; thank God, my bairn, that Elspa was near you in your peril.” • I had heard of Elspa as a woman who dealt in herbs and simples, but I had heard of her as one with an uncanny reputation. She was spoken of as “the wise woman,” but the words were uttered as if they meant “witch.” I confess I was half afraid to accept her guidance, but she stamped her foot, and by gesture strong as words gave me to understand that I had been walking toward a precipice, and three steps further would have borne me to destruction. What landmark she had I know not, but I think she seemed to feel her way with her feet. At all events, after about an hour’s cautious stepping, we stood below the mist, the blue lake gleaming like a mirror still further down, and my uncle’s house within sight. Conscious of the service she had rendered, I did not confine my thanks to words, but was liberal with my coin. As she took “the siller” she scanned my face curiously, then seized my hand and peered into it closely, while a sort of creepy sensation (excusable in a girl of 19) stole over me. “Once, twice, thrice! Three perils, my bonnie leddy. Ono is past. The ithers lie before. Perils of your ain seeking. The gates of death stand in the path of your true love. Open them not with rush or heedless hands before the year be out, or love may mourn for love that couldna bide. The air of mountain and of lake is na gude for ye, bairn. Keep mair at hame and dinna be misdoubtin’. There’s a gude God above a’! Remember! One danger is overpast. Ta’e heed ye seek not the ithers; and dinna scoff at old Elspa’s warning words.” The old woman trotted oft’ with her basket on her arm, a rusty black bonnet on her head, garments poor but clean, and only a poor check woolen handkerchief to protect her from the chilly mountain mists.

I bad scarcely decided whether to laugh at her maunderings or to yield to tlio superstitious feeling she had awakened when 1 opened ihe house door to find all within in a state of excitement. It was long past the dinner hour, and my absence had alarmed them. Of course, I explained the cause of delay, and it was only by Aunt Kitson’s agitation that I fully comprehended the danger 1 had escaped. I think her motherly concern made me more communicative than usual. Wo were still speaking of Elspa when my uncle came in. “ Ah! ” said he, as Winnie helped him off with his overcoat; ‘Ah! my dear, you might thank your stars Elspa was on the mountain side. I dare say she bad followed you. The old Scotch worn in is shrewd and far-seeing; she has turned liej eiglity-years experience to account, lias a good practical knowledge of common ailments and curative simples. 1 should lose my own credit or i might do worse than take her as an assistant;” and he laughed. “Then she can read character with any physiognomist iu the world, and the silly folk think her prophetic, when she is only clear-eyed.” I think my uncle was using an invisible probe. I know I colored, and he laughed again, but said nothing—nor did I. The excitement bad not all been on my account. Bella had received an invitation to spend some mouths with a newly-married friend in London, and good-natured Winnie was in high glee. Even aunt acknowledged it was “ a chance not to be missed, if possible;” and I saw her glance furtively at Uncle Ritson’s face, which I fancied was graver than usual. Still, possibilities were not discussed in my presence. It was not until I had retired to my own pretty room for the night that I overheard the sisters discussing the problem, unmindful of the thin partition between the head of my bed and theirs.

I found that money—or its scarcity’— stood in the way, and heard the chances of the matrimonial market calculated with a balance greatly in favor of London. Money! How I hated the word! I would have given every shilling I possessed to be assured that Edgar Neville was true to me, and would seek me out when the period of probation prescribed by my father was gone by. But where could he seek for me? Correspondence had been forbidden. He knew not my address, and my father had withheld Edgar’s from me. Ah, how he repented before he died! How glad he would have .been to have left me in those strong, protecting arms! I soon bridged the monetary difficulty over in spite of my uncle’s opposition, and I think I showed something of my old self in the spirit with which I entered into the needful preparations for Miss Ritson’s launch on the sea of London society, little thinking whal might be its import to myself. It was May when she went. I suggested that she should lighten her mourning, being about to visit a bride—a hint she seemed glad to take, for her pretty lavender bonnet set off her face much better than her heavy crape. She kissed me very heartily before she got into the gig beside her father to be driven to the station, to which her boxes had already been dispatched, and I felt more satisfied with myself than I had done since I had crossed the Cumberland border. Letters filled with the wonders she

had seen and the places she had visited broke up the monotony of our lives. Then came one from Hastings, in which she told of her introduction to a Mr. Neville. I think my pulse stopped as Winnie read out the name. I know aunt asked me if I was ill—if the heat was too much for me. But I drew myself together, said “nothing ” was the matter, and tried to convince myself that the name was a common one. Again and again we heard of this same Mr. Neville, and my heart began to be torn with doubts and suspicions, and a very demon of jealousy seemed to take possession of my breast. I felt assured that Bella was in love with him and that he was the Edgar Neville of my adoration; all that she stated of his appearance and family were convincing. At length a letter came, addressed in a manly hand to Uncle Ritson, with Edgar’s well-known crest upon the seal. It was a proposal for my cousin’s hand. My head swam round, but I summoned courage to ask Mr. Neville’s Christian name. He had merely signed J. E. Neville. Ah, that was it, sure enough—John Edgar I I had my back toward my uncle, standing in the doorway, as I asked. No one noticed how I staggered into the hall, or how I snatched my hat from the stand and darted up the mountain side to cool my fevered brow and still my throbbing pulses. How I went or where I went I could never remember. I have some recollection of falling as I bounded across a brook, of old Elspa’s face bending over me, and then no more, until I found myself in my own snowy bed, with Winnie watching me, and an array of physic-bottles on the windowseat.

Elspa had found me -where I had fallen, half in half out of the stream. Unable to drag me thence, she had summoned help with a peculiar whistle she kept suspended to her girdle, the shrill nr te| of which no shepherd dared to disobey. It brought a couple of shepherds to the spot. My limbs were lifted out of the stream—she had already bathed my brow and plastered up my temple—and then I was carried slowly down to interrupt the answer Uncle Ritson was sending to Bella and Mr. Neville. My fall and the immersion were accredited with the prolonged fever which almost baffled my uncle’s skill. If any one suspected otherwise it was old Elspa, but she was too “ wise ” to revert to the subject when she came to see me ere my convalescence. * Very slow was my recovery, retarded no doubt by the scraps Winnie read to me as pleasant neics from her sister’s letters. It was now “Eddie” this, or “ Eddie ” that; and. as I shut my eyes and ground my teeth, the better to endure, I felt indignant that my noblefronted Edgar should have a pet name like a baby. To me he had the majesty of a monarch. How could she address him so ? I was down stairs before the Christmas came, able and willing to assist my aunt in her multitudinous preparations, and tried to smiie and look gratified during the Christmas merry-making. I heard, but hardly seemed to realize, that Bella was to be -married early in the new year, and that she and her husband would come to spend the honeymoon with us, and I was doing my best to nerve myself for the meeting. The old year was closing in. Elspa—who else?—came up to the house with a letter she had found lying in a byroad. It should have been delivered some days previously; and it was supposed that the postman had taken mqre drink than was good for him during the Christmas “cardings,” and dropped it by the way.

: Goodness! how that letter stunned ; me! Bella was by that time married. ■ She and her husband were to be with us ■on New Year's day, and they should I bring with them a New-Year’s gift for ! Cousin Adela, as a thank-offering for I bringing them together. Their photo- ' graphs were inclosed. I saw only one. Yes, it was Edgar’s. : There was no mistake. : The house was at once in a bustle of I preparation. Again I slipped out to ' hide my agony and prepare myself for I the coming trial. ! Dreamily I went along. I saw nothing before me but that meeting on the I morrow and the revelation it was sure |to bring. My mind seemed a chaos, in which thought was lost. All at once I found myself on the reedy margin of the lake, gs the silvercircle of the moon was rising above the mountain-tops. And there I stood, looking on the dark waters, while something seemed to whisper to me that there was peace; that I need not meet the proud bride and my inconstant love unless - 1 chose; that I might hide my sorrows and secrets there, and none to | be the wiser. My foot was on the brink. There was a step on the stones behind me. I turned; and I think my ha’f-formed purpose was visible in my face, as I once more confronted old Elspa, weird and witch-like in the moonlight, a warning finger held up. Sharp were her words, sharp as my need. She bade me go down on my knees, and thank God that he had sent her to save me from my third peril—the peril of body and soul. What was I puling over? What right had Ito fling away the life that was given for the service of others? How dared I tempt death, loving the creature more than the Creator? She had heard me raving to the winds when I thought ; myself alone, and had kept a watch • upon me. And she bade me go back i home, and pray to be forgiven, and to I “trust the Lord to make His dark ways I plain.” She took my hand and led me back like a penitent child; said to my aunt that she thought I was not weil, and, by her leave, would watch me through the night. Something, too, she gave me, and I slept. When I awoke a chaise was at the gate, and, before I could fasten my dress with my trembling fingers, Bella had burst in, radiant with happiness, and flung her arm around me. “Come, Adela, make haste! ” said she. i “Edward is all impatience to see you i and show you our New-Year’s gift.” “Edward ! ” I gasped. “Yes, my dear, Edward! Did you not i know his name ?” It was all a tangle. I followed her to i the living-room below, where the great l holly bush was banging, and there stood a stranger, who was introduced to me as James Edward Neville, my new cousin—and surely, too, Edgar, my own Edgar; for he held out his armsand caught me as I was falling. He had been best man at his cousin’s wedding, and Bella had only seen him a few days previously. The postman must have lost another letter, one Edgar had sent to me. The photograph had been inclosed by mistake. The other would be in the lost letter. Old Elspa kept my secret well. But I never forgot the lesson she had taught . me; and, though Edgar carried me away from Cumberland as proud a wife as Bella, we took pood care of old Elspa i for the rest of her days. - Cassell’s I Magazine.