In a quiet English village many years ago, there lived two dear friends, Margaret and Elizabeth. One afternoon, Elizabeth rushed to Margaret’s cottage in quite a state, which was most unlike her usual composed self.
«Margaret, you’ll never believe what I’ve heard!» Elizabeth exclaimed, her voice trembling.
«What ever is the matter?» Margaret asked, startled by her friend’s distress.
«I can’t say over the phone. May I come in? I’m just round the corner.»
«Of course, do come in,» Margaret replied, her curiosity growing.
Once seated at the wooden table, where a fresh apple pie and steaming pot of Earl Grey awaited them, Elizabeth hesitated.
«I scarcely know where to begin,» she murmured.
«From the beginning, then,» Margaret encouraged gently.
Elizabeth took a deep breath. «Do you remember Dr. Eleanor Whitmore from the village clinic?»
«Dr. Whitmore? Oh, of course! A wonderful womanshe saved my boy’s life! So many families owe her their children’s health. She never turned anyone away, even answering calls at all hours. A true healer, if ever there was one.»
Elizabeth nodded sadly. «She saved my Sophie too. Without her keen eye, who knows what might have become of my girl?»
«But why speak of her now? She’s long retired, isnt she? I saw her last at the church choir. Such a sweet voice she had.»
«Had,» Elizabeth corrected quietly. «She’s gone, Margaret.»
«What? But I spoke to her only last monthbright as a button, her smile still warm as sunshine! She couldnt have been more than eighty, and in good health!»
«She was. But it wasnt illness that took her.»
«Then what?»
Elizabeth’s face darkened. «Her own children, Margaret. They buried their mother before her time.»
Margaret gasped. «Surely not!»
«I wish it werent so.»
***
Dr. Eleanor Whitmoreonce just young Elliehad married a cadet from Sandhurst when she finished her medical training. She followed her husband, William, to his first posting, working as a physician wherever they were stationed. After many moves, they settled in a market town, where Eleanor became beloved by all for her kindness and skill.
They had two children: Jane, sharp as a tack but cold as winter, and young Edward, a charming scoundrel whod rather strum his guitar than study. William served in the military, while Eleanor tended to home and hearth, raising their children and healing the villages little ones.
But one morning, without a word, William walked out, leaving Eleanor and their nearly grown children. He moved in with a widow down the lane, then vanished altogether when he retired.
Eleanor endured in silence, blaming herself. The children turned on her, Jane fleeing to London to marry a wealthy man, Edward stumbling through failed marriages and drink. When he finally crawled home, penniless, Eleanor took him in, even paying his child support when he fled the responsibility.
But kindness was wasted on him. One night, drunk, he threw her out of her own home. Jane, when summoned, dumped her in a rented flat, then laterwhen even that became a burdensent her to a dreary asylum.
Four months later, Eleanor was gone. Jane cremated her in secret, and none now know where her ashes rest.
Some blame William for abandoning her. Others condemn the children. A few murmur that Eleanor spoiled them, pouring her love into strangers while her own grew cruel.
But the wisest truth comes softly: «Nothing happens without cause. And every sorrow has its roots. Margaret sat in silence, the tea growing cold between them. Outside, the wind stirred the ivy along the cottage wall, and a single red leaf spiraled down to rest on the windowsill. She reached for Elizabeths hand, and neither spoke, for some stories have no endingonly echoes.
