THE ACCIDENT--A FRIEND IN NEED
Early the next morning the girls prepared for their ride cityward, for,
though their sharp young eyes saw Mrs. Lawton's follies and her faults;
though they writhed under her despairing lamentations and blushed at her
outrageous boastings--perhaps because they were guiltily conscious of
sitting in judgment upon their mother--they yielded her prompt obedience
whenever she gave a command.
Mr. Lawton elected to walk with them to the station, and Lena, on her
way upstairs to the "frau mistress," bearing on a tray a breakfast of
simple material but of amazing size, nodded and smiled, and with
unconscious impertinence commented upon their looks, declaring with
hearty admiration that they were "youst lofely right away down to der
ground!"
Dorothy laughed and said, "Take good care of mamma, Lena!"
And that handmaiden glanced down at the stack of buttered toast and the
eggs and young home-raised onions, and made answer with a droll not to
say sly look in her light blue eye: "Oh, ja! I make goot care mit her,
my Miss Ladies--und ven she eat all dese breakfas', she'll be all right,
uf she don't be vorse!" And away she went up the groaning stairs with
the odor of coffee trailing behind her.
When the three had reached the little station that like a hen covering
her brood nestles low at the very foot of the hill, with the glistening
metal rails passing on one side and the glittering, dimpling, rippling
river flowing by on the other, John Lawton lifted his hat and kissed his
daughters good-by with the careful courtesy habitual with him, and
holding Sybil's hand a moment he said: "I--I shall walk over to The
Beeches to-day, dear----"
"Papa!" exclaimed the girl.
"Yes," he went on; "I shall make my acknowledgments to Miss Morrell. You
think she did a fine thing when she sympathized with and promised to
help you, but she did a finer thing when she refused to ignore the
parents--the old people, who are generally pushed to the wall in such
cases. I shall thank her for her consideration, and----" but the roar of
the approaching train sent the girls scurrying through the little
waiting-room out to the platform and into the car. A pair of kisses were
waved, and they had lost sight of the tall, slender, old gentleman.
And Sybil, as she sank into the seat beside Dorothy, exclaimed: "Is he
not a dear? Is it not wonderful that this sordid poverty has not made
him selfish, narrow-minded, sullen? Poor papa! Do you know, Dorrie, I'm
afraid he suffers more than we imagine!"
"Oh!" cried Dorothy, "don't say that! I always thought papa was almost
contented with things, except on our birthdays! But now we must love
him more than ever, Sybbie!"
And to drive away the anxious look from her sister's eyes, Sybil called
attention to the odd appearance of the car, which was almost filled with
gentlemen, and remarked, laughingly: "We have taken what mamma calls
'the busy man's train.' They are a sociable lot, are they not--every
man-jack of them with his nose in his paper, and a nice little wrinkle
between his puckered brows?"
"That's from trying to get and keep the proper focus," laughed Dorrie,
who added: "I've a five-cent nickel in my pocketbook, and I'll give it
to you, Syb, if you can learn the color of a single pair of eyes in this
car--barring mine, of course."
"Well, the nickel must be plugged or you wouldn't have it, so I'm not
losing much; but, oh! after all, I may win it--plug and all! One male
creature has eyes, for he has lifted them, and they are--are! Pass over
the nickel, Miss, they are gray with black lashes, and--_oh_!"
She stopped in confusion, for the male creature she was watching had
lowered his paper a moment, and she recognized the grave young man; and
to herself she ruefully remarked: "And the third time's the charm!"
And though Dorothy busied herself in finding the despised nickel, her
swiftly deepening color told her sister that she, too, had recognized
their fellow-traveller whose calm features showed no trace of the
surprised delight he felt at again seeing the face of the
"violet-girl," as he termed her in his thoughts. He only gave a severe,
scrutinizing glance at the shade of his window, carefully lowered it
about an inch, and then returned to his paper, reading over and over and
over again how a certain Mr. Somebody had become the benefactor of his
race through selling shoes to men for three dollars a pair. Yet, in
spite of his steady reading, he kept saying to himself how strange it
was that the fair-faced Violet-Girl should cross his path on this the
red-letter day of his life--the setting of whose sun would leave him so
much better off financially than it had found him in the morning. And he
could not help thinking how much sweeter his good fortune would seem if
there was someone to share it with him.
If his mother had not left him, what soft, silky, flowery pillows and
spreads her couch should have; what rich, dull rugs! But the almost
surreptitious care bestowed upon her grave was all that he could give
her now. Yet he could imagine how those appealing eyes over there would
widen with surprise and dance with pleasure if one she cared for brought
a story of endeavor crowned with success. He wondered what her name was.
He knew her family name, for he had heard someone at the church corner,
on Sunday, refer to them as "those Lawton girls," and had winced at both
tone and words.
And the Lawton girls, meantime, were discussing the probable result of
their visit to Mrs. Van Camp.
"I'm afraid the chances are against you," said Dorothy, anxiously. "You
know how she goes on about family. 'Old families and the proprieties'
are words of sweetness to her, though she is as gay as a girl and as
droll as a Merry Andrew--on occasions. 'The stage'--only two words--but
when spoken in relation to Mrs. Van Camp's god-daughter, Sybbie, I'm
afraid you can't manage her."
"She won't need managing, Dorrie. She's mercenary to the point of
worshipping Mammon, but, thank heaven, she never meanders as mamma does,
who wanders away from the subject into tortuous and serpentine courses.
No manoeuvring will be required with God-mother Sybil. I shall marshal
my facts, dwell upon the honor of being introduced by Miss Morrell into
the profession--she has professed the greatest admiration for her all
her life--and, as she knows already our unspeakably helpless condition,
I'm sure she will come to a quick decision. Oh, mercy! They are already
lighting the gas. How I do detest the tunnel! I always come out so
sticky and prickly about my face and neck--and grimy, too!"
"Oh," answered Dorothy, "I wouldn't object to being sticky and grimy, if
only I were not afraid. But, Syb, I can't help it; I never have passed
through this tunnel yet without taking part in an imaginary accident."
"You should follow the example of your religious friend, Mr. Walton,"
laughed Sybil, "who declares he always fills in the time by praying."
"Yes, and I think he should be ashamed of himself!" indignantly
interrupted Dorothy. "It's nothing short of an insult to his Maker to
pass through the beautiful green fields and the warm, sunny air reading
a newspaper; and, when entering a foul, ill-smelling, black hole of
man's creating, to begin praying because he can't do anything else!"
Under cover of the roar of the train Sybil laughed aloud, delighted to
have got a rise, as the slang phrase is, out of Dorrie's mild temper.
The men, looking waxy pale under the light of the overhead lamps, were
folding up papers, settling hats afresh and preparing for the famous
American rush from the train when Sybil, noticing that her sister's eyes
were closed, exclaimed, with malicious triumph: "I believe you are
praying yourself! You are, at this very moment!"
"Well," smiled Dorothy, "you see, you don't know how frightened I am,
and anyway I don't reserve my prayers for an otherwise useless moment. I
prayed this morning, with my eyes open, looking right into God's rising
sun!"
Crash! _Recoil!_ CRASH! And a swift, appalling darkness, cut across by
one woman's piercing scream! Running footsteps! The venomous hissing of
escaping steam; the stench of gas; and then in that Stygian darkness,
rising clear above the undertone of groans and short-breathed oaths, was
a girl's voice crying: "Dorrie! Dorrie! Oh, Dorrie!"
Noises outside were growing louder, and Sybil scrambled up from the
floor, where she had fallen, and, mad with terror, stretched out groping
hands in the direction she had last seen Dorothy, and oh! blessed God!
encountered two little hands, that closed on hers. The next moment she
had her utterly silent sister in her arms, and impatiently shook away
something warm that kept creeping, creeping down her temple and her
cheek. The din outside was awful, the darkness an anguish! Suddenly
there was a flare of a match--it went out! A groping, searching hand
struck Sybil's shoulder. Another match, a wax one, was lighted, and the
young man she had jested about, hatless and very pale, asked, swiftly:
"Is she hurt? I hope she has not fainted?"
He leaned closer, and Dorothy's great, strained blue eyes stared up at
him from her sister's breast.
"Can't you speak, dear?" pleaded Sybil. "Oh, she is half killed with
fright!" she added, turning to the stranger, and again the creeping
thing was on her cheek, and Dorothy cried, sharply: "Blood! blood! Oh!
Sybbie's hurt! Can't you help her?" And the match was out, and they were
again in that hell of darkness and steam and gas and roar! But a calm
and friendly voice came to them, saying: "Stay here; take part of these
matches and light one now and then while I get out and find what can be
done! Oh, here come the torches! Now we'll soon have help!" But before
he left them he drew from a pocket a handkerchief, folded it, and
swiftly tied it about Sybil's head, and even then the girl smiled at his
naive, lover-like excuse: "The blood frightens her so!" And through a
few agonized minutes the girls clung tightly together, shivering in a
very ague of terror. And then, through the billows of steam, the
low-hanging, strangling clouds of smoke, they saw men with lanterns,
heard orders, short and sharp, then their friend was lifting them down
from the high, high step; and Sybil, with her arms about Dorothy, was
aided, led, pushed, or pulled along at the will of the only person who
noticed their presence or existence.
There had been much noise--noise of voices, of metal ringing on metal,
of hurrying feet--but suddenly it ceased. A moment's quiet came into
that place of mad excitement. The crowd before them drew apart. Like
lightning, their guide threw himself in front of the girls, whispering:
"Don't look! Don't let her look!" And Sybil, with chilling blood,
recalled that one piercing cry, that woman's cry, and to save her soul
could not help sending a glance toward the four men who bore upon a
stretcher a hastily covered form, so still, so pathetically slight!
Covered? Yes, but one little foot in oxford-tie was exposed. A foot so
like--so like-- And Sybil caught Dorothy in an embrace fierce enough to
wring a cry from her, and the words: "What is it, dear? Are you hurt
again? Have you turned your ankle, or-- Oh, Sybbie! It was that poor
man! Oh, can't we get out? _Can't we?_" and her voice broke into
frightened sobs.
The other two exchanged meaning glances, for, as this outburst had been
caused by the sight of two stalwart blue-coated men, who, after the
manner of children "making a chair" were carrying on their crossed arms
a passenger whose leg was broken, they trembled at the thought of the
collapse that must surely have followed upon the sight of that frail,
broken thing, whose mute authority had yet the power to silence the
awful din.
How they escaped from the stifling, sloppy, grimy place of torment they
could not have told, had the saving of an immortal soul depended upon
such telling. There was a ladder, and a failure, and a carrying of the
ladder to another place by the aid of a trainman, who roared some advice
as he stole a few moments for their service. Then coaxings for Dorrie,
sharp directions for Sybil, and--and somehow they were standing in a
street, dazzled by the sunlight, sick and faint and dirty and drabbled,
but out in the pure air once more. And knowing that Dorothy's life might
have gone out from sheer terror but for the aid and encouragement of the
grave young man, Sybil held out both hands to him, crying: "I thank you
from my heart, and I will serve you at command, for Dorrie's sake,
who--who----"
Her lips whitened--trembled. She clutched blindly at his arm for
support. Her self-control had been wonderful, but, like everything else,
it had to be paid for. The shock to her nerves had been terrible, her
wound had bled profusely, and when a strong arm about her waist lifted
her over the threshold into a quiet pharmacy she was just barely
conscious and no more.
The bald-headed little proprietor closed his doors upon the gaping
crowd, and, while reviving Sybil and dressing the really ugly cut her
head had received from striking against the frame of a seat, when she
had fallen to the floor, he called upon his wife to descend from her
room above, and she, with ready sympathy, brushed and pinned up
Dorothy's raiment and sponged away the smears and smuts from her face.
And when the cheerful little woman turned for a moment to the young man,
to tell him she could bring him her husband's second hat, if he did not
mind its being a bit burned by the suns of last summer, he overheard
poor Dorothy saying: "Whatever shall we do, Sybbie? We bought return
tickets, and--and we only have left ten cents, that was to have paid our
street-car fare to god-mother's."
A swift "S-h-h!" from Sybil silenced her. The man's heart contracted
with a pang of pity for their distressful situation. The next moment he
stood before them, and, addressing the elder, said: "Miss Lawton, I am
going to ask permission to introduce myself to you, as there is no one
to perform the service for me. I am a sort of neighbor of your family,
since I, too, am summering at Yonkers. My name is Galt--Leslie Galt--and
in consequence of this accident I ask you to trust yourself and your
sister to my care, until I can leave you at your own front door--will
you?" He waited for no answer, but continued: "I will have a carriage
here almost directly, and we will board a Harlem train, get off at Mount
Vernon, and then drive to your house."
Sybil's spirits began to rise. "Don't you think," she asked, glancing at
their sooty, oily, dirty white gowns, "we should be sent to the steam
laundry before that?"
"No," he gravely replied, though his eye gleamed; "not before, but
after, by all means."
"But," Dorothy began, anxiously, "do you suppose mamma and----?"
"I am going to send them word," broke in Galt, "that you are quite safe
before I get the carriage. You are safe, you know, physically, mentally,
morally. Only your wardrobe's ruin is complete." And gayly donning the
proprietor's ancient hat he hurried away, in their service.
And so it happened that the reassuring telegram had not yet reached the
old White house, though a rumor of an accident in the tunnel had, when a
shabby old hack came rattling up the grass-grown drive and stopped
before the sagging porch, where Letitia, ghastly under all her rouge,
stood clinging to John Lawton, who trembled visibly all his length. And
when a strange man got out he closed his eyes a moment, and passed his
tongue over his dry under lip.
Then, as thrilling sweet as had been their faint birth-cries, there came
to his ears two joyous "Papas! Mammas!" And then ensued a very whirlwind
of embraces, of kisses, of cries, of exclamations! And when Sybil had
said: "Mr. Galt saved us and brought us back to you, papa!" the old man
held out his hands and grasped those of the young man. His kindly,
frightened blue eyes gazed and gazed. His piteous old mouth trembled and
formed words that would not be said. And like a flash Leslie Galt saw
again Dorothy's wide blue eyes and fright-stricken mouth, as she lay
upon her sister's breast, beneath the flare of the waxen taper. And,
recognizing the likeness between father and daughter, he opened his
heart to the helpless old gentleman then and there. Though John Lawton
never got his thanks into words, his silent gratitude made a deeper
impression than did the bursting dam of Letitia's eloquence. And Lena,
rushing upon the scene to inquire as to the welfare of her Miss Ladies,
started out joyously with: "Ach! You com' all right again? Eh? You com'
back mit all your arms und legs und feet, und--und [a look of horror
growing on her face] mein Gott! mein Gott! Get avay, quick, und put
yourselves by der vash-tubs!" an ending which sent everyone into
laughter.
And as the girls were swept away by their mother, one blue flash met a
waiting pair of gray eyes; and as John Lawton walked down to the gate
with Leslie Galt, who had asked for and obtained leave from Mrs. Lawton
to make a call of inquiry next day as to the young ladies' healths, they
paused a moment, and Lawton, holding his new friend's hand tightly,
waved his left, indicating all the forlorn and neglected old place in
one gesture, and said: "You see, our daughters are all we have left on
earth--all, all! And you----"
He gently drew his hand away, lifted his hat punctiliously, and,
turning, walked slowly back to the decaying old White house!