"Ah! who can say, however fair his view,
Through what sad scenes his path may lie?"
Mrs. Conly adhered to her resolve in regard to the education of her
daughters, and about the middle of September left with them and her
younger children for a visit to Mrs. Delaford, at whose house the
wardrobes of the two girls were to be made ready for their first school
year at the convent chosen by their aunt.
Arthur went with them as their escort. A week later the rest of the
Roselands party returned home, and early in October the Oaks and Ion
rejoiced in the return of their families.
Baby Lily had been so benefited by the trip that Elsie felt warranted in
resuming her loved employment as acting governess to her older children.
They fell into the old round of duties and pleasures, as loving and happy
a family as one might wish to see; a striking and most pleasant contrast
to the one at Roselands, that of Enna and her offspring--where the mother
fretted and scolded, and the children, following her example were
continually at war with one another.
Only between Dick and Molly there was peace and love. The poor girl led a
weary life pinned to her couch or chair, wholly dependent upon others for
the means of locomotion and for anything that was not within reach of her
hand.
She had not yet learned submission under her trial, and her mother was far
from being an assistance in bearing it. Molly was greatly depressed in
spirits, and her mother's scolding and fretting were often almost beyond
endurance.
Her younger brother and sister thought it a trouble to wait on her and
usually kept out of her way, but Dick, when present, was her faithful
slave; always ready to lift and carry her, or to bring her anything she
wanted. But much of Dick's time was necessarily occupied with his studies,
and in going to and from his school, which was two or three miles distant.
He was very thoughtful for her comfort, and it was through his suggestion,
that their grandfather directed that one of the pleasantest rooms in the
house, overlooking the avenue, so that all the coming and going could be
seen from its windows, should be appropriated to Molly's use.
There Dick would seat her each morning, before starting for school, in an
invalid's easy-chair presented to her by her Cousin Elsie, and there he
would be pretty sure to find her on his return, unless, as occasionally
happened, their grandfather, Uncle Horace, Mr. Travilla, or some one of
the relatives, had taken her out for a drive.
One afternoon about the last of November, Molly, weary of sewing and
reading, weary inexpressibly weary, of her confinement and enforced
quietude, was gazing longingly down the avenue, wishing that some one
would come to take her out for an airing, when the door opened and her
mother came in dressed for the open air, in hat, cloak and furs.
"I want you to button my glove, Molly," she said, holding out her wrist,
"Rachel's so busy on my new silk, and you have nothing to do. What a
fortunate child you are to be able to take your ease all the time."
"My ease!" cried Molly bitterly, "I'd be gladder than words can tell to
change places with you for awhile."
"Humph! you don't know what you're wishing; the way I have to worry over
my sewing for four besides myself, is enough to try the patience of a
saint. By the way, it's high time you began to make yourself useful in
that line. With practice, you might soon learn to accomplish a great deal,
having nothing to do but stick at it from morning to night."
Molly was in the act of buttoning the second glove. Tears sprang to her
eyes at this evidence of her mother's heartlessness, and one bright drop
fell on Enna's wrist.
"There you have stained my glove!" she exclaimed angrily. "What a baby you
are! will you never have done with this continued crying?"
"It seems to be very easy for you to bear my troubles, mother," returned
poor Molly, raising her head proudly, and dashing away the tears, "I will
try to learn to bear them too, and never again appeal to my mother for
sympathy."
"You get enough of that from Dick, he cares ten times as much for you as
he does for me--his own mother."
At that moment Betty came running in. "Mother, the carriage is at the
door, and grandpa's ready. Molly, grandpa says he'll take you too, if you
want to go."
Molly's face brightened, but before she could speak, Enna answered for
her. "No, she can't; there isn't time to get her ready."
Mrs. Johnson hurried from the room, Betty following close at her heels,
and Molly was left alone in her grief and weariness.
She watched the carriage as it rolled down the avenue, then turning from
the window, indulged in a hearty cry.
At length, exhausted by her emotion, she laid her head back and fell
asleep in her chair.
How long she had slept she did not know; some unusual noise down-stairs
woke her, and the next moment Betty rushed in screaming, "Oh, Molly,
Molly, mother and grandfather's killed; both of 'em! Oh, dear! oh, dear!"
For an instant Molly seemed stunned, she scarcely comprehended Betty's
words, then as the child repeated, "They're killed! they're both killed;
the horses ran away and threw 'em out," she too uttered a cry of anguish,
and grasping the arms of her chair, made desperate efforts to rise; but
all in vain, and with a groan she sank back, and covering her face with
her hands, shed the bitterest tears her impotence had ever yet cost her.
Betty had run away again, and she was all alone. Oh, how hard it was for
her to be chained there in such an agony of doubt and distress! She
forcibly restrained her groans and sobs, and listened intently.
The Conlys, except Cal, were still at the North; the house seemed
strangely quiet, only now and then a stealthy step or a murmur of voices
and occasionally a half smothered cry from Bob or Betty.
A horseman came dashing furiously up the avenue. It was her uncle, Mr.
Horace Dinsmore. He threw himself from the saddle and hurried into the
house, and the next minute two more followed at the same headlong pace.
These were Cal and Dr. Barton, and they also dismounted in hot haste and
disappeared from her sight beneath the veranda. Certainly something very
dreadful had happened. Oh would nobody come to tell her!
The minutes dragged their slow length along seeming like hours. She lay
back in her chair in an agony of suspense, the perspiration standing in
cold drops on her brow.
But the sound of wheels roused her and looking out she saw the Oaks and
Ion carriages drive up, young Horace and Rosie alight from the one, Mr.
Travilla and Elsie from the other.
"Oh!" thought Molly, "Cousin Elsie will be sure to think of me directly
and I shall not be left much longer in this horrible suspense."
Her confidence was not misplaced. Not many minutes had elapsed when her
door was softly opened, a light step crossed the floor and a sweet fair
face, full of tender compassion, bent over the grief-stricken girl.
Molly tried to speak; her tongue refused its office, but Elsie quickly
answered the mute questioning of the wild, frightened, anguished eyes.
"There is life," she said, taking the cold hands in hers, "life in both;
and 'while there is life there is hope.' Our dear old grandfather has a
broken leg and arm and a few slight cuts and bruises, but is restored to
consciousness now, and able to speak. Your poor mother has fared still
worse, we fear, as the principal injury is to the head, but we will hope
for the best in her case also."
Molly dropped her head on her cousin's shoulder while a burst of weeping
brought partial relief to the overburdened heart.
Elsie clasped her arms about her and strove to soothe and comfort her
with caresses and endearing words.
"If I could only nurse mother now," sobbed the girl, "how glad I'd be to
do it. O cousin, it most breaks my heart now to think how I've vexed and
worried her since--since this dreadful trouble came to me. I'd give
anything never to have said a cross or disrespectful word to her. And now
I can do nothing for her! nothing, nothing!" and she wrung her hands in
grief and despair.
"Yes, dear child; there is one thing you can do," Elsie answered, weeping
with her.
"What, what is that?" asked Molly, half incredulously, half hopefully,
"what can I do chained here?"
"Pray for her, Molly, plead for her with him unto whom belong the issues
from death; to him who has all power in heaven and in earth and who is
able to save to the uttermost."
"No, no, even that I can't do," sobbed Molly, "I've never learned to pray,
and he isn't my friend as he is yours and your children's!"
"Then first of all make him your friend; oh, he is so kind and merciful
and loving. He says, 'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden,
and I will give you rest.' 'Him that cometh to me, I will in no wise cast
out.'"
"Oh, if I only knew how!" sighed Molly, "nobody needs such a friend more
than I. I'd give all the world to have him for mine."
"But you cannot buy his friendship--his salvation; it is 'without money
and without price.' What is it to come to him? Just to take him at his
word, give yourself to him and believe his promise that he will not cast
you out."
There was a tap at the door and Rosie came in, put her arms round Molly,
kissed her and wept with her.
Then young Horace followed and after that his father. Both seemed to feel
very much for Molly and to be anxious to do everything in their power to
help and comfort her.
Mr. Dinsmore was evidently in deep grief and soon withdrew, Elsie going
with him. They stood together for a few minute in the hall.
"My dear father, how I feel for you!" Elsie said, laying her hand on his
arm and looking up at him through gathering tears.
"Thank you, my child; your sympathy is always very sweet to me," he said.
"And you have mine; for I know this trial touches you also though somewhat
less nearly than myself."
"Is grandpa suffering much?" she asked.
"Very much; and at his age--but I will not anticipate sorrow; we know that
the event is in the hands of him who doeth all things well. Ah, if he were
only a Christian! And Enna! poor Enna!"
Sobs and cries coming from the nursery broke in upon the momentary silence
that followed the exclamation.
"Poor little Bob and Betty, I must go to them," Elsie said, gliding away
in the direction of the sounds, while Mr. Dinsmore returned to the room
where his father lay groaning with the pain of his wounds. Mr. Travilla,
Calhoun and the doctor were with him, but he was asking for his son.
"Horace," he said, "can't you stay with me?"
"Yes, father, night and day while you want me."
"That's right! It's a good thing to have a good son. Dr. Barton, where are
you going?"
"To your daughter, sir, Mrs. Johnson."
"Enna! is she much hurt?" asked the old man, starting up, but falling back
instantly with almost a scream of pain.
"You must lie still, sir, indeed you must," said the doctor, coming back
to the bed; "your life depends upon your keeping quiet and exciting
yourself as little as possible."
"Yes, yes; but Enna?"
"Has no bones broken."
"Thank God for that! then she'll do. Go, doctor, but don't leave the house
without seeing me again."
They were glad he was so easily satisfied, but knew he would not be if his
mind were quite clear.
Dick had come home in strong excitement, rumors of the accident having met
him on the way. The horses had taken fright at the sudden shriek of a
locomotive, and the breaking of a defective bit had deprived the old
gentleman of the power to control them. They ran madly down a steep
embankment, wrecking the carriage and throwing both passengers out upon a
bed of stones.
Pale and trembling the lad went straight to his mother's room where he
found her lying moaning on the bed, recognizing no one, unconscious of
anything that was going on about her.
He discovered that he loved her far more than he would have believed; he
thought her dying, and his heart smote him, as memory recalled many a
passionate, undutiful word he had spoken to her; often, it is true, under
great provocation, but oh, what would he not now have given to recall
them.
He had much ado to control his emotion sufficiently to ask the doctor what
he thought of her case. He was somewhat comforted by the reply,
"The injury to the head is very serious, yet I by no means despair of her
life."
"What can I do for her?" was the boy's next question in an imploring tone
as though he would esteem it a boon to be permitted to do something for
her relief.
"Nothing; we have plenty of help here, and you are too inexperienced for a
nurse," Dr. Barton said, not unkindly. "But see to your sister Molly," he
added. "Poor child! she will feel this sorely."
The admonition was quite superfluous; Dick was already hastening to her.
Another moment and she was weening out her sorrow and anxiety on his
shoulder.
"O Dick," she sobbed, "I'm afraid I can never speak to her again, and--and
my last words to her, just before she went, were a reproach. I said I'd
never ask her for sympathy again; and now I never can. Oh isn't it
dreadful, dreadful!" and she wept as if her very heart would break.
"Oh, don't, Molly!" he said hoarsely, pressing her closer to him and
mingling his tears with hers, "who could blame you, you poor suffering
thing! and I'm sure you must have been provoked to it. She hadn't been
saying anything kind to you?"
Molly shook her head with a fresh burst of grief. "No, oh no! oh, if we'd
parted like Cousin Elsie and her children always do!--with kind, loving
words and caresses."
"But we're not that sort, you know," returned Dick with an awkward attempt
at consolation, "and I'm worse than you, a great deal, for I've talked up
to mother many a time and didn't have the same excuse."
There was sickness at Pinegrove. Mrs. Howard was slowly recovering from an
attack of typhoid fever. This was why she had not hastened to Roselands to
the assistance of her injured father and sister.
And Mrs. Rose Dinsmore was at Ashlands, helping Sophie nurse her children
through the scarlet fever. And so, Mrs. Conly being still absent at the
North, the burden of these new responsibilities must fall upon Mr. Horace
Dinsmore and his children.
Mr. Dinsmore undertook the care of his father, Mr. Travilla and young
Horace engaging to relieve him now and then, Elsie that of Enna; her
children, except the baby, who with mammy must come to Roselands also,
could do without her for a time. It would be hard for both her and them,
she knew, but the lesson in self-denial for the sake of others, might
prove more than a compensation; and Enna must not, in her critical state,
be left to the care of servants.
Rosie volunteered to see that Molly was not neglected, and to exert
herself for the poor girl's entertainment, and Bob and Betty were sent to
the Oaks to be looked after by Mrs. Murray and their cousin Horace.
It would be no easy or agreeable task for the old lady, but she was sure
not to object in view of the fact that quiet was essential to the recovery
of the sufferers at Roselands.