CHAPTER XIII. NELL WIGGIN'S STORY
Such a merry dinner party as it was in one corner of the big southeastcorner room of the old Pensinger mansion. The young hostesses by neitherword nor manner betrayed the fact that they were used to better things.When at last the dishes had been washed and put away, a fire was startedon the wide hearth in the long salon and the girls gathered about it.
"Suppose we each tell the story of our lives," Gloria suggested, "and inthat way we may the sooner become really acquainted.
"For ourselves a few words will suffice. We three girls lived veryhappily in our Long Island home until our dear mother died; then, lastyear, our beloved father was taken, and since then I, because I amoldest, have tried to be both parents to my younger sisters."
"And truly you have succeeded," Bobs put in. Gloria smiled lovingly ather hoidenish sister, who sat on a low stool close to the fire, her armsfolded about her knees.
"But we soon found that in reality the roof that had sheltered us fromchildhood was not really our own. The title, it seems, had not been clearin the very beginning, when our great-grandfather had purchased it, andso, because of this, we had to move. I wanted to do settlement work, andthat is what I am doing now. Lena May also loves the work, and is soon tohave classes for the very little boys and girls. Bobs, as we call thistom-boy sister of ours, as yet, I believe, has not definitely decidedupon a profession."
Roberta's eyes were laughing as she glanced across at Nell Wiggin, butsince Miss Selenski did not know the story of her recent adventure,nothing was said.
Turning to the slender, dark-eyed agent of the model tenements, Gloriaremarked: "Will you now tell us a little about yourself, Miss Selenski?"
All through the dinner hour the girls had noticed a happy light thatseemed to linger far back in the nearly black orbs of the Hungarian girl,but they thought it was her optimistic nature that gladdened her eyes;but now, in answer to Gloria's question, the dark, pretty face becameradiant as the girl replied: "The past holds little worth the telling,but the future, I believe, will hold much."
"Oh, Miss Selenski," Bobs exclaimed, leaning forward eagerly and smilingat their Hungarian friend, "something wonderful is about to happen inyour life, I am sure of that."
Shining-eyed, the dark girl nodded. "Do you want to guess what?"
It was Lena May who answered: "I think you are going to be married," shesaid.
"I am," was the joyfully given reply. "To a young man from my own countrywho has a business in the Bronx; nor is that all, he owns a little homeway out by the park and there is a real yard about it with flowers andtrees. Oh, can you understand what it will mean to me to be awakened inthe morning by birds instead of by the thundering noise of overheadtrains?"
"Miss Selenski," Gloria said, "we are glad indeed that such a happyfuture awaits you." Then turning to little Nell Wiggin, who sat backsomewhat in the shadow, though now and then the flickering firelightchanged her corn-yellow hair to a halo of golden sheen, she asked kindly:"Is there some bit of your past that you wish to tell us?"
There was something so infinitely sorrowful in the pale pinched face oflittle Nell Wiggin that instinctively the girls knew that the story theywould hear would be sad, nor were they mistaken.
Nell Wiggin began: "It is not interesting, my past, and I fear that it istoo sad for a story, but briefly I will tell it: My twin brother, Dean,and I were born on a farm in New England which seemed able to produce butlittle on its rocky soil, and though our father managed to keep us alive,he could not pay off the mortgage, and each year he grew more troubled inspirit. At last he heard of rich lands in the West that might behomesteaded and so, leaving us one spring, he set out on foot, for heplanned taking up a claim, and when he had constructed there a shelter ofsome kind, Mother was to sell the New England farm, pay off the mortgageand with whatever remained buy tickets that would take us west to myfather.
"It was May when he left us. He did not expect to reach his destinationfor many weeks, as he knew that he would have to stop along the way towork for his food.
"Dear little Mother tried to run the farm that summer. Dean and I wereten years of age, and though we could do weeding and seeding, we couldnot help with the heavier work, and since our mother was frail much ofthis had to be left undone.
"Fate was against us, it would seem, for the rain was scarce and ourcrops poor, and the bitterly cold winter found us with but littleprovisions in store. In all this time we had not heard from Father, andafter the snows came we knew the post office in the town twenty milesaway could not be reached by us until the following spring, and so wecould neither receive nor send a letter.
"Our nearest neighbor was eight miles away, and he was but a poorscrabbler in the rocky soil, a kind-hearted hermit of whom Brother and Ihad at first been afraid, because of his long bushy beard, perhaps, butwhen we once chanced to be near enough to see his kind gray eyes, weloved him and knew that he was a friend, and the future surely was toprove this. But, if possible, that dear old man, Mr. Eastland, was poorerthan we were.
"Our mother, we knew, was worried nearly to the point of heartbreak, butI shall never forget how wonderful she was that winter. Whenever welooked, she smiled at us, tremulously sometimes, and when our task ofshelling and pounding corn was over, she helped us invent little gamesand told us beautiful stories that she made up. But for all her outwardcheer, I now realize, when we children were asleep on the mattress thathad been brought from the cold bedroom and placed on the floor near thestove, that our mother spent many long hours on her knees in prayer.
"Our cow had been sold before the snow came, as money had been needed topay on the mortgage, and so we had no milk. Our few hens were kept in alean-to shed during the day, but Mother permitted them to roost behindthe stove on those bitterly cold nights, and so occasionally we had eggs,and a rare feast it was, but at last our supply of corn was nearlyexhausted.
"There was usually a thaw in January, but instead, this exceptionallycold winter brought a blizzard which continued day after day, burying ourhouse deep in snow. At last Mother had to tell us that unless a thaw camethat we might procure some provisions from our neighbors, we would haveto kill our three hens for food. What we would do after that, she did notsay; but, luckily, for the feathered members of our family, the thaw didcome and with it came Mr. Eastland, riding the eight miles on his stoutlittle mule, and fastened to the saddle, back of him, was a bag of cornand potatoes. Dear, kind man! He must have brought us half of his ownremaining store. Eagerly our mother asked if there had been news fromtown, but he shook his head. 'No one's been through with the mail, Mis'Wiggin,' he said; then he added: 'I s'pose likely you're powerfulconsarned about that man o' yourn. I s'pose you haven't heard from himyet, Mis' Wiggin?'
"Mother tried to answer, but her lips quivered and she had to turn away.
"'Well, so long, folks!' the old man called, 'I'll be over agin 'forespring, the snow permittin'.'
"We children climbed on the gate and stood as high as we could to watchour good friend ride away. What we did not know until later, was that assoon as he was out of our sight, he turned and rode that twenty miles tothe village post office. A week later Mother was indeed surprised to seeMr. Eastland returning, and this time he brought a letter. It was witheager joy that Mother leaped forward to take it, but it was with a cry ofgrief that she covered her face with her hands and hurried into thehouse. The letter had fallen, and I picked it up and glanced at it.Father never got there, it said, but when he knew he was going to die heasked someone to write. He had worked days and walked nights and died ofexposure and exhaustion.
"Spring came and with the first balmy days our mother was taken from us.We children were eleven years old then, and we knew not what to do.
"'We must go to Mr. Eastland,' Dean said. 'He would want us to.'
"We went, and that good man took us in, and made a home for us until--"she paused and looked around, but as her listeners did not speak, s
headded: "Perhaps this is all too sad, perhaps you will not care to hearthe rest."
"Please do tell us, dear Nell," Gloria said, and so the frail girlcontinued her story.