University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.
DESOLATION.

NOT only did Edith's bitter cry startle poor
Zell, coming to her ear as a despairing recall
from the battlements of heaven might have sounded
to a falling angel, but Arden Lacey was as
thoroughly aroused from his painful reverie as if
shaken by a giant hand. He had been down to
meet the boat, with many others, and was sending
off some little produce from their place. He had
not noticed in the dusk the closely-vailed lady;
indeed, he rarely noticed any one unless they spoke to
him, and then gave but brief, surly attention. Only
one had scanned Zell curiously, and that was Tom
Crowl. With his quick eye for something wrong in
human action, he was attracted by Zell's manner.
He could not make out through her thick vail who
she was, in the increasing darkness, but he saw that
she was agitated, and that she looked eagerly for
the coming of the boat, also landward, where the
road came out on the dock, as if fearing or expecting
something from that quarter. But when he saw
her join Van Dam, he recognized his old bar-room
acquaintance, and surmised that the lady was one
of the Allen family. Possessing these links in the
chain, he was ready for the next. Edith's presence
and cry supplied this, and he chuckled exultantly,

“An elopement!” and ran in the direction of the
sound.

But Arden was already at Edith's side, having
reached her almost at a bound, and was gently lifting
the unconscious girl, and regarding her with a
tenderness only equaled by his helplessness and
perplexity in knowing what to do with her.

The first impulse of his great strength was to
carry her directly to her home. But Edith was
anything but ethereal, and long before he could
have passed the mile and a half, he would have
fainted under the burden, even though love nerved
his arms. But while he stood in piteous irresolution,
there came out from the crowd that had
gathered round, a stout, middle-aged woman, who
said, in a voice that not only betokened the utmost
confidence in herself, but also the assurance that all
the world had confidence in her:

“Here, give me the girl. What do you men-folks
know about women?”

“I declare it's Miss Groody from the hotel,” ejaculated
Tom Crowl, as this delightful drama (to him)
went on from act to act.

“Standin' there and holdin' of her,” continued
Mrs. Groody, who was sometimes a little severe on
both sexes, “won't bring her to, unless she fainted
'cause she wanted some one to hold her.”

A general laugh greeted this implied satire, but
Arden, between anger and desire to do something,
was almost beside himself. He had the presence to
rush to the boat-house and get a bucket of water,

and when he arrived with it a man had also procured
a lantern, which revealed to the curious
onlookers that gathered round with craning necks,
the pale features of Edith Allen.

“By golly, but it's one of them Allen girls,” said
Tom Crowl, eagerly. “I see it all now. She's
down to stop her sister, who's just run away with
one of those city scamps, that was up here awhile
ago. I saw her join him and take his arm on the
boat, but wasn't sure who she was then.”

“Might know you was around, Tom Crowl,” said
Mrs. Groody. “There's never nothing wrong going
on but you will see it. You are worse than any old
woman for gossip. Why don't you put on petticoats
and go out to tea for a livin'?”

When the laugh ceased at Crowl's expense, he
said:

“Don't you put on airs, Mrs. Groody; you are as
glad to hear the news as any one. It's a pity you
turned up and spoiled Mr. Lacey's part of the play,
for, if this one is anything like her sister, she, perhaps,
wanted to be held as you —”

Tom's further utterance was effectually stopped
by such a blow across his mouth, from Lacey's hand,
as brought the blood profusely on the spot, and
caused such disfigurement, for days after, that appropriate
justifice seemed visited on the offending region.

“Leave this dock,” said Arden, sternly; “and if
I trace any slander to you concerning this lady or
myself, I will break every bone in your miserable
body.”

Crowl shrank off amid the jeers of the crowd, but
when reaching a safe distance, said, “You will be
sorry for this.”

Arden paid no heed to him, for Edith, under Mrs.
Groody's treatment, gave signs of returning consciousness.
She slowly opened her eyes, and turned
them wonderingly around; then came a look of wild
alarm, as she saw herself surrounded by strange
bearded faces, that appeared both savage and grotesque
in the flickering light of the lantern.

“Oh, Heaven, have mercy,” she cried, faintly.
“Where am I?”

“Among friends, I assure you, Miss Allen,” said
Arden, kneeling at her side.

“Mr. Lacey! and are you here?” said Edith,
trying to rise. “You surely will protect me.”

“Do not be afraid, Miss Allen. No one would
harm you for the world; and Mrs. Groody is a good
kind lady, and will see you safely home, I am sure.”

Edith now became conscious that it was Mrs.
Groody who was supporting her, and regained confidence,
as she recognized the presence of a woman.

“Law bless you, child, you needn't be scared.
You have only had a faint. I'll take care of you, as
young Lacey says. Seems to me he's got wonderfully
polite since last summer,” she muttered to herself.

“But where am I?” asked Edith, with a bewildered
air; “what has happened?”

“Oh, don't worry yourself; you'll soon be home
and safe.”

But the memory of it all suddenly came to Edith,
and even by the lantern's light, Arden saw the sudden
crimson pour into her face and neck. She gave
one wild, deprecating look around, and then buried
her face in her hands as if to hide the look of scorn
she expected to see on every face.

The first arrow aimed by Zell's great wrong already
quivered in her heart.

“Don't you think you could walk a little now,
just enough to get into the hack with me and go
home?” asked the kind woman, in a soothing voice.

“Yes, yes,” said Edith, eagerly; “let us get away
at once.” And with Mrs. Groody's and Arden's assistance,
she was soon seated in the hack, and was
glad to note that there was no other passenger. The
ride was a comparatively silent one. Edith was too
exhausted from her desperate struggle to reach the
boat, and her heart was too bruised and sore, to
permit on her part much more than monosyllables, in
answer to Mrs. Groody's efforts at conversation. But
as they stopped at the cottage, her new friend
said, cheerily,

“Don't take it so hard, my child; you ain't to
blame. I'll stand by you if no one else will. It
don't take me long to know a good honest girl when
I see one, and I know you mean well. What's
more, I've took a liking to you, and I can be a pretty
fair sort of friend if I do work for a livin'.”

Mrs. Groody was good if not grammatical. She
had broad shoulders, that had borne in their day
many burdens; her own and others. She had a

strong, stout frame, in which thumped a large, kindly
heart. She had long earned her bread by callings
that brought her in contact with all classes, and
learned to know the world very thoroughly without
becoming worldly or hardened. But she had a
quick, sharp tongue, and could pay anybody off in
their own coin with interest. Everybody soon
found it to their advantage to keep on the right side
of Mrs. Groody, and the old habitues of the hotel
were as polite and deferential to her as if she were a
duchess. She was one of those shrewd, strong,
cheery people, who would make themselves snug,
useful, and influential in a very short time, if set
down anywhere on the face of the earth.

Such a woman readily surmised the nature of
Edith's trouble, and knew well how deeply the
shadow of Zell's disgrace would fall on the family.
Edith's desperate effort to save her sister, her bitter
humiliation and shrinking shame in view of the
flight, all proved her to be worthy of respect and
confidence herself. When Mrs. Groody saw that
Edith lived in a little house, and was probably not
in so high a social position as to resent her patronage,
her big heart yearned in double sympathy over
the poor girl, and she determined to help her in the
struggle she knew to be before her; so she said,
kindly,

“If you'll wait till an old clumsy body like me
can get out, I'll see you safe into your home.”

“Oh, no,” said Edith, eagerly, following the
strong instinct to keep a stranger from seeing herself,

mother, Laura, in the first hour of their shame.
“You have been very kind, and I feel that I can
never repay you.”

“Bless you, child, I don't expect greenbacks for
all I do. I want a little of the Lord's work to come
to me, though I'm afraid I fell from grace long ago.
But a body can't be pious in a hotel. There's so
many aggravatin' people and things that you think
swearing, if you darsn't say it out. But I'm a human
sort of a heathen, after all, and I feel sorry for
you. Now ain't there somethin' I can do for you?”

The driver stood with his lantern near the door,
and its rays fell on Edith's pale face and large, tearful
eyes, and she turned, and for the first time tried
to see who this kind woman was, that seemed to
feel for her. Taking Mrs. Groody's hands, she said,
in a voice of tremulous pathos,

“God bless you for speaking to me at all. I
didn't think any one would again, who knew. You
ask if you can do anything for me. If you'll only
get me work, I'll bless you every day of my life.
No one on earth or in heaven can help me, unless I
get work. I'm almost desperate for it, and I can't
seem to find any that will bring us bread, but I'll do
any honest work, no matter what, and I'll take
whatever people are willing to give for it, till I can
do better.” Edith spoke in a rapid manner, but in
a tone that went straight to the heart.

“Why, my poor child,” said Mrs. Groody, wiping
her eyes, “You can't do work. You are pale as a
ghost, and you look like a delicate lady.”

“What is there in this world for a delicate lady
who has no money, but honest work?” asked Edith,
in a tone that was almost stern.

“I see that you are such a lady, and it seems that
you ought to find some lady-like work, if you must
do it,” said Mrs. Groody, musingly.

“We have tried to get employment—almost any
kind. I can't think my sister would have taken her
desperate course if we could have obtained something
to do. I know she ought to have starved first.
But we were not brought up to work, and we can't
do anything well enough to satisfy people, and we
haven't time to learn. Besides, before this happened,
for some reason people stood aloof from us,
and now it will be far worse. Oh, what shall we
do? What shall we do?” cried Edith, despairingly;
and in her trouble she seemed to turn her eyes away
from Mrs. Groody, with wild questioning of the future.

Her new acquaintance was sniffling and blowing
her nose in a manner that betokened serious internal
commotion. The driver, who would have
hustled any ordinary passenger out quickly enough,
waited Mrs. Groody's leisure at a respectable distance.
He knew her potential influence at the
hotel. At last the good woman found her voice,
though it seemed a little husky:

“Lor' bless you, child, I ain't got a millstun for a
heart, and if I had, you'd turn it into wax. If
work's all you want, you shall have it. I'm housekeeper
at the hotel. You come to me as soon as
you are able, and we'll find something.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” said Edith, fervidly.

“Is dat you, Miss Edie?” called Hannibal's
anxious voice.

“Good night, my dear,” said Mrs. Groody, hastily.
“Don't lose courage. I ain't on as good
terms with the Lord as I ought to be. I seem too
worried and busy to 'tend to religion; but I know
enough about Him to be sure that He will take
care of a poor child that wants to do right.”

“I don't understand how God lets happen all
that's happened to-day. The best I can believe is,
that we are dealt with in a mass, and the poor
human atoms are lost sight of. But I am indeed
grateful for your kindness, and will come to-morrow
and do anything I can. Good-bye.”

And the hack rumbled away, leaving her in the
darkness, with Hannibal at the gate.

“Oh, Hannibal, Hannibal,” was all that Edith
could say.

“Is she done gone clean away?” asked Hannibal,
in an awed whisper.

“Would to heaven she had never been born,”
said Edith, bitterly. “Help me into the house, for
I feel as if I would die.”

Hannibal, trembling with fear himself, supported
poor, exhausted Edith to a sofa, and then disappeared
in the kitchen.

Mrs. Allen and Laura came and stood with white
faces by Edith's languid, unnerved form.

There was no need of asking questions. She had

returned alone, with her fresh young face looking
old and drawn in its grief.

At last Mrs. Allen said, with bitter emphasis:

“She is no child of mine, from this day forth.”

Then followed such a dreary silence, that it might
seem that Zell had died and was no more.

At last Hannibal bustled in, making a most
desperate effort to keep up a poor show of courage
and hope. He placed on a little table before Edith
a steaming hot cup of tea, some toast, and wine,
but the food was motioned away.

“It would choke me,” said Edith.

Hannibal stood before her a moment, his quaint
old visage working under the influence of emotion,
almost beyond control. At last he managed to
say:

“Miss Edie, we'se all a-leanin on you. We'se
nothin but vines a-climbin up de orange bush. If
you goes down, we all does. And now, Miss Edie,
I'd swallow pison for you, won't you take a cup o'
tea for de sake of ole Hannibal? Cause your sweet
face looks so pinched, honey, dat I feels dat my ole
black heart's ready to bust;” and Hannibal, feeling
that the limit of his restraint was reached,
retreated precipitately to the kitchen.

The appeal, with its element of deep affection,
was more needed by Edith in her half paralyzed
state than even the material refreshment. She sat
up instantly, and drank the tea and wine, and ate a
little of the toast. Then taking the cup and glass
into the kitchen,

“There,” she said, “see, I've drunk every drop.
So don't worry about me any more, my poor old
Hannibal, but go to bed, after your hard day's
work.”

But Hannibal would not venture out of his dark
corner, but muttered, brokenly,

“Lor—bress—you—Miss Edie—you'se an angel
—Ise be better soon—Ise got—de hicups.”

Edith thought it kindness to leave the old man
to recover his self-control in his own time and way,
so she said,

“Good-night, my faithful old friend. You're
worth your weight in gold.”

Meantime, Laura had helped Mrs. Allen to her
room, but now she came running down to Edith,
with new trouble in her face, saying:

“Mother's crying so, I can't do anything with
her.”

At first Mrs. Allen's heart seemed hardened
against her erring child, but on reaching her room
she stood a few moments irresolutely, then went
to a drawer, and took an old faded picture-case and
opened it, to where Zell smiled out upon her, a
little, dimpled baby. Then, as if by a sudden impulse,
rare to her, she pressed her lips against
the unconscious face, and threw herself into her low
chair, sobbing so violently that Laura became
alarmed.

Even in that arid place, Mrs. Allen's heart, there
appeared a little oasis of mother love, as this last
and bitterest sorrow pierced its lowest depths. She

might cast out from her affection the grown, sinning
daughter, but not the baby that once slept upon
her breast.

As Edith came and took her hand she said,
brokenly:

“It seems—but yesterday—that she was—a wee
black-eyed—little thing—in my arms—and your
father—came—and looked at her—so proudly—
tenderly—”

“Would to heaven she had died then,” said
Edith, sternly.

“It would have been better if we had all died
then,” said Mrs. Allen drearily, and becoming quiet.

Edith's words fell like a chill upon her unwontedly
stirred heart, and old habits of feeling and action
resumed sway.

With Mrs. Allen's words ended the miserable day
of Zell's flight. Hannibal's words were true. Zell,
in her unnatural absence, would be more in the way
—a heavier burden, than if she had become a helpless
invalid upon their hands.