VELMA, A CHARACTER FROM REAL LIFE.
By Nettie Hall
“MOTHER, have you kept any breakfast warm for me? I must have something right away, I am so faint,” said Velma in a whining tone, as she dashed like a whirlwind into the kitchen, where her patient, overworked mother was more than busy with her various household duties: “There is some oatmeal on the back of the range, dear,” said her mother. Velma, a spoiled daughter and imagined invalid, critically examined the dish and pronounced it unfit to eat and requested, or rather commanded, her mother to make some more, adding hatefully, “You always think the left-overs are good enough for me.” Mrs. Ellis left the bread which she was kneading, to wait upon her selfish daughter. While she was stirring the oatmeal, Velma was peering about in the pantry in search of something to tempt her appetite. “Why,” she exclaimed, “is there no brown bread in the house? You know I can never make out a breakfast without brown bread.” “I did not have time to make it when I baked last,” said her mother wearily, as she set the dish of oatmeal on the table. Velma sprinkled her mush generously with sugar, and after tasting it, exclaimed: “You forgot to salt it, didn’t you mother?” Merely tasting of the carefully prepared dishes and criticizing them freely, she soon arose and left the kitchen, and the door slammed behind her. Mrs. Ellis gave a sigh of relief. She had waited upon her daughter for years, supposing her feeble, but her delicate health was more the result of inactivity than anything else. For years she had been patiently waited upon, and she had gradually, perhaps unconsciously, assumed a crusty, dictatorial manner, not only to her mother, but also to her brother, who was a patient, even-tempered young man, the one support to the family, the father having died some years before. Thoughtless, selfish, and proud, Velma’s disposition bore a striking contrast to that of her sweet and gentle mother and manly brother. She now stood in the parlor watching a hummingbird darting among the roses that climbed the trellis by the window. The fragrance of the flowers and the delicious coolness of the western breeze that blew in through the open window invited her outside. Picking up her crochet work, she seated herself comfortably on the front porch where, shut in by the climbing roses, and fanned by the cool breeze which rustled the foliage about her, she spent the morning hours. Mrs. Ellis worked hard in the hot kitchen, and when the dinner work was done, she withdrew to her room and stretched her tired form upon the couch. The weary eyelids closed, and she was soon asleep. It was not long, however, before Velma, on some errand or other, disturbed her rest, and after an hour of nervous dozing, she rose and returned to her work. The lamp was lit in the cozy little dining room that evening, shedding a soft light over the supper table so tastefully spread with appetizing food and pretty china, and Mrs. Ellis stood by the window watching for Harold. He was her only son, a bookkeeper in a large department store. Bright and promising, with prospects of a good future, he was respected and admired by all who knew him; and more than all else, he was a dutiful son and zealously guarded his mother’s welfare. She soon heard footsteps on the porch, and the next moment he had his arms about her. “Mother dear, how are you feeling to-night?” he asked anxiously. “Pretty well, my son,” she replied. But he noted the pale, worn features, and his heart grew heavy as he realized that she was failing rapidly. Mrs. Ellis looked into the manly face of her boy, and pride filled her heart as she met the gaze of those handsome dark eyes. Just then Velma appeared, and they sat down to supper. “That dear old Mrs. Chilton called this morning,” the mother said, smiling. “She wanted me to go for a drive, but I could not spare the time. I promised her that I would arrange my work so I could go to-morrow.” “It was very kind of her,” said Harold. “It has been a long time since you have had an outing, mother. Stay as long as you can; don’t hurry home.” The next morning Velma did not appear. Her mother was very busy ironing when suddenly she heard her daughter rapping loudly on the floor of her room. She set her flat-iron quickly on the stove, and hurried up the stairs. She was met with an angry frown. “What is the matter with you, mother,” exclaimed the girl harshly. “I have been trying for the last half hour to make you hear. I thought you must have gone away to spend the day,” sarcastically. “I am sorry,” said her mother, “but I did not hear you. What can I do for you?” “I do not feel able to come down this morning, and would like to have you bring up my breakfast. Make a fresh cup of coffee and some buttered toast. Be sure it is well browned, and don’t forget a soft boiled egg.” When she had eaten her breakfast, she had so far recovered from her indisposition that she felt able to take a romp with her dog, and met Harold at the gate as he came to dinner. “It was only a few minutes ago that I was able to get out of bed, Harold,” she said plaintively, in response to his salute. Harold walked toward the house in disgust and silence. His sister, altho fond of him, would brook none of his advice, so he discreetly held his tongue though very much provoked. He did not consider her an invalid, and was very much displeased that she did not assist her mother with the housework. In vain he expostulated with his mother, endeavoring to persuade her that she needed her daughter’s help. Mrs. Ellis admitted the need of help, but did not have the courage to ask her. At two o’clock Mrs. Chilton arrived in her carriage. Mrs. Ellis sighed when she saw her. “I wish she had not come,” she said to herself. “I am so tired I would rather remain at home, but I promised to go, and go I must.” So she put on her cape and bonnet, and joined her friend in her carriage. When they had gone, Velma began to feel lonely. It was a new thing to be left at the house alone. She dressed herself and strolled down to the library. She selected her book, and returning home seated herself in the bay window where she spent most of the afternoon reading. The hours seemed long and wearisome, and her book dry and uninteresting. She detested company, and had no associates; but this afternoon she almost hoped that some one would call. She felt so averse to being alone. She attempted to play the piano, but her fingers, so long unaccustomed to practise, refused to go where she willed. When the clock in the dining room struck six, she arose to her feet. “Surely mother ought to be home by this time,” she exclaimed as she stepped out on the porch and looked down the street, but the carriage was not in sight. She felt decidedly uneasy. At last she saw a carriage coming, but it was not Mr. Chilton’s. Several pedestrians were passing, but Harold was not among them. She fancied she heard some one on the side porch, but it was only the hammock tapping the side of the house, as it swung in the wind; so she strolled down to the gate. As she reached it a carriage drove up. Harold and another man were lifting her mother out. “Why Harold!” she exclaimed, frightened, “What is the matter with mother?” “Don’t be alarmed,” he replied, “but there has been an accident. The carriage was overturned by a runaway, and mother and Mrs. Chilton were injured. See that the lamps are lighted and get mother’s bed ready for her.” All her feebleness and invalidism were gone in an instant, and she hurried into the house to execute the orders. She flew about in her nervous way trying to make things comfortable for her mother. Soon the doctor arrived. He looked very grave after he had worked over his patient a half hour and she still lay white and unconscious. He said to Harold in an undertone, “You had better get a nurse; your mother needs skilful attention. Your sister is getting very nervous,” he added, “and you had better take her away.” Velma began crying hysterically when Harold led her away. He insisted upon her going to her room. “I will be back in a few minutes, and let you know how mother is. Now don’t cry that way; I don’t think mother is dangerously injured.” Yet there was a lump in his throat and a sob in his voice. Left to herself, Velma gave way to a fit of nervous crying which left her weak and exhausted. She wondered why Harold did not come back. Finally, unable to bear the suspense longer, she stole quietly down-stairs and paused at the door of her mother’s room. She listened closely and could hear the doctor and her brother talking together in low tones, and then she heard the doctor say, “If she lives till morning.” She could not hear the rest, but it was enough. She went back to her room, but she was faint and sick. What she had overheard came as a blow to her heart, which was already burdened with the anguish of self-accusation. She somehow felt responsible for it all, and she began sobbing again in bitter, remorseful distress. She heard a tap at the door, and Harold entered pale, but self-possessed. His sister looked at him inquiringly, but could not speak. “You must not give way to your feelings so,” he entreated. “You will make yourself sick. The doctor says that mother is in great danger; her weak condition before the accident making her recovery more doubtful, but he says if she has not been injured internally, with good care she may recover. We must at least hope for the best. I must leave you now as I have to go for the nurse.” He felt sorry for his sister, and realized that she was already a changed girl. He kissed her tear-stained cheek and left her. Velma was not encouraged. Her heart was heavy, and she sat like one paralyzed. Her throat was dry, and she groaned under the burden of her anguish. Her whole life came up before her like a11panorama. She realized how patiently her mother had toiled for her, and how ungrateful she had been. Finally falling on her knees, she made a solemn vow to God that if He would spare her mother’s life, she would treasure her and be a comfort and help to her. Weary and dejected, she lay down upon her bed, and eventually fell into a troubled slumber. When she awoke the sun was shining brightly into the room, and the swallows were twittering about the eaves. It was a beautiful morning, but like a shock the events of the evening before came quickly to her mind. She knew that her mother could not be worse, or they would have called her. The determination that she had made buoyed her up, and she hurried down-stairs. In the kitchen she found Harold making preparations for breakfast. He looked up in surprise as she entered the room. “How is mother this morning, Harold?” she asked anxiously. “She recovered consciousness near midnight, and is much better this morning,” he answered. “She needs absolute rest and quiet. You had better not see her until the doctor permits.” He was surprised again when his sister took the work out of his hands and proceeded to prepare the meal herself. It was soon on the table. “I will go and stay with mother while the nurse comes to breakfast,” said Harold. The nurse was a quiet, sweet-faced, Quaker lady with a loving disposition, and Velma soon found herself lost in admiration, not only of her kindly face, but of her gentle voice and pleasing manner; and as she waited upon her, she found herself contrasting her own unlovely ways with those of this gentle woman. Then she resolved at heart to be like her, if possible. All day Velma worked energetically overtaxing her strength, and when the doctor came in the evening she met him at the door. She tried to keep the tears back as she said, “Doctor, I want to see my mother.” “I guess we will let you come in,” he said kindly, “if you will be calm.” She could not keep the tears from coursing down her cheeks, however, as she saw her mother lying white and still with half-closed eyes. Slipping past the nurse, she knelt beside the bed and buried her face in her hands; and her mother, conscious of her presence, put out a feeble hand and caressed her lovingly. 1420 Kearny Ave., Los Angeles, Cal.