Mrs. Flint was at her wits’ end to know what to do for the strange
woman whom her brother had mistakenly brought home as his daughter.
The upshot was that she simply did nothing at all but to sit still and
stare, and wonder where the woman came from, how Everard came to bring
her home, and what had become of Cinthia.
Presently she heard steps and voices, and rushed to the door, glad that
her vigil with the seemingly dead woman was ended.
Everard Dawn, alarmed at the duration of Cinthia’s swoon, had brought a
physician with him, and exclaimed as soon as he saw his sister:
“Has Cinthia recovered yet?”
“You can see for yourself,” she answered, in a dazed way, as she
ushered them into the room.
The two men, almost blinded by the brightness of the room, after the
outer storm and darkness, advanced to the sofa and bent over the
patient in keen anxiety, while Mrs. Flint blurted out, nervously:
“Everard; what is the matter? Why did you bring that strange woman here
instead of Cinthia?”
At the same moment the old doctor added:
“It is not little Cinthia but a stranger.”
Everard Dawn bent down with an air of incredulity that quickly changed
as he saw what a terrible mistake he had made.
The cry that rose from his tortured heart, the baffled purpose, the
agony, the pain, rang forever in the ears of the two who heard it. Then
exhausted nature gave way. He fell writhing to the floor in convulsions.
Then Mrs. Flint and the doctor had their hands full with the two
patients.
They ignored the strange woman until Mr. Dawn had been quieted and
removed to his bed, where the doctor kept him quiescent by the use of
opiates while he turned his attention to his other charge.
“Who is she? Where did she come from? I’ve never seen her face around
here,” he said curiously to Mrs. Flint, who replied by confiding
in him all that she knew, which, of course, threw no light upon the
mystery; so without more ado they set to work to restore the poor
creature to life.
It was a serious undertaking, and lasted until the gray dawn of another
dreary day glimmered in through the windows of the sitting-room.
Then the woman lay asleep, having recovered sufficiently to open her
eyes, stare at them uncomprehendingly, and to swallow some broth with
the avidity produced by starvation.
“Poor soul! it is the want of food that has brought her to this pass.
See how flabby her flesh is, and how loosely it hangs on her large
frame! Look at her shabby, worn clothing, not much better than a
tramp’s; and her broken shoes, how pitiful. It is doubtful if she
survives even after the long spell of sickness that threatens her,”
said the doctor.
“Good land, doctor, a long spell, you say? Why, what are you going to
do about it? Can’t she be sent to the almshouse?”
“‘I was a stranger, and ye took me in!’” quoted the old physician,
reverently.
The old lady thus referred to her bible, muttered repentantly:
“Lord, forgive my hardness of heart! I’ll do the best I can, Doctor
Savoy; but I’m an old woman, and the nursing will go hard with me, you
see, along with my other troubles.”
“You shall have help--there are plenty good women willing to help you,”
he replied, and rose to go, adding: “I will go and bring one right
away.”
“Get me a trained nurse, doctor--I’ll pay the cost--for what with
Everard and _her_ sick on my hands, I’ll need skilled help.”
“Oh, Mr. Dawn will be up and about in twenty-four hours, I believe, and
out and gone after his eloping daughter. You need not give him any more
of that opiate, and he will be awake for his breakfast. Tell him to
remain quiet in his room till I call again this afternoon.”
So saying, the good old physician bustled out and away, and he did not
leave Mrs. Flint long alone with her burden of perplexities and worry,
but directly sent to her the best nurse the neighborhood afforded, a
stout middle-aged woman, with a keen eye and cheery smile, who at once
took on her younger shoulders the burden of Mrs. Flint’s care.
Together they arranged a tiny hall bedroom--all there was to spare--and
removed the sleeping woman to the comfortable bed.
“Now, Mrs. Flint, you go and lie down; you look dead beat, that’s a
fact,” the nurse said, compassionately.
“I must start my kitchen fire and have a bite of breakfast first.
Afterward I’ll rest.”
When the breakfast was over, she stole into her brother’s room, but he
was still sleeping heavily from the drug Doctor Savoy had administered.
Mrs. Flint went to her room and snatched two hours of rest, from which
she was aroused by an impatient rapping on the door.
“Mercy sake, who can that be?” she ejaculated, making haste to answer
the summons.
She opened the door, and found a telegraph-messenger with a message for
her brother. He ran away shivering in the cold air as soon as she had
signed the receipt.
Mrs. Flint turned it over in her shaking fingers, soliloquizing:
“From Washington--to tell us of course that they’re married! Oh, dear,
what a time!” and she hurried to her brother’s room.
To her surprise, she found him up and dressed, putting the finishing
touches to his toilet. The tears rushed to her eyes at the sight of his
haggard, miserable face.
“Rebecca, I was fooled last night. Arthur Varian gave me that tramp he
had picked up in the road for my own child, and I let him deceive me.
But I shall go on their tracks at once,” he said weakly.
For answer she held out the telegram.
He snatched it with a cry of anguish, and quickly mastered the contents.
His face changed marvelously, and he exclaimed hoarsely:
“Thank God!” and tossed her the telegram. She read:
“Cinthia is here safe with me, and not married. Please come at once
and take her home.
“MRS. VARIAN.”
The address was carefully given, and the man’s face, from anger and
distress, changed to keenest joy.
“This is better than I could have hoped,” he cried. “Can you give me
some breakfast at once, Rebecca, for I must leave for Washington on the
earliest train.”