The events recorded in the last chapter had for a while caused to be
forced into the background the desire in Imelda’s heart to become
acquainted with the sisters of Wilbur. The affair with Frank was of a
nature so unpleasant that the remembrance of it seemed to crush out all
youth and life in the proud sensitive heart, but as time is wont to heal
all wounds so also did the effect of that dark night’s occurrence
gradually vanish. As the days and weeks went by on the ceaseless wings
of time Imelda again became interested in what was going on around her.
Toward evening of a sunny day in August when Alice had been feeling
better, brighter and stronger than usual she expressed the desire for a
drive. Accordingly the carriage was ordered. Both little girls, sweet as
snowy blossoms, in fresh white dresses, looking dainty and charming as
two little fairies, were lifted upon one of the seats, their lively
spirits keeping busy the hands and mind of their young governess. Alice
leaned languidly back among the cushions and let her eyes rest
alternately upon the glowing landscape and upon the two restless little
elves. As it had been quite a while since they had the pleasure of
driving with their pretty mamma it was really a treat for the little
ones—this driving past pretty gardens filled with gorgeous flowers and
trees laden with ripening fruit. Soon they were passing through the more
thronged streets when suddenly,—no one knew just how it happened but
some boys were playing in the streets. Either in their play or because
they had been quarreling among themselves a stone was thrown. Then
followed a plunge and a rear of one of the horses, a piercing scream
from the inmates of the carriage, and then horses and carriage went
plunging down one of the busiest streets—the flying figure of a woman as
she hastened to get out of the way—a horrified cry at her having been
run down—the figure of a man standing in the path of the runaways, a
firm hand grasping the reins of the beasts as with an effort almost
superhuman they were brought to a standstill. Snorting, trembling,
restive, it was no easy matter to hold them, but the young man with the
almost boyish face was equal to the task. A crowd soon gathered around.
The carriage door was opened and the frightened ladies and children
lifted therefrom. Alice could scarcely keep upon her feet. Just then it
was remarked that someone had been run over and injured,—a young girl,
someone else added. At hearing this Alice would have fallen had not
Imelda caught the swaying figure in her arms.
“Oh,” she cried, “I hope she is not killed or seriously injured. We must
find out who she is and how badly she has been hurt, and—oh, wait! Where
is the young man who so bravely rescued us, periling his own life to
save ours. Where is he? Who is he?”
Upon looking round they found that he was still holding the horses,
patting and coaxing them, speaking to them as if they were intelligent
beings, while the driver was also busy trying to pacify them. Upon
request someone spoke to the young stranger, telling him that the ladies
whom he had just rescued wished to speak to him. A comic grimace for a
moment distorted the handsome face, then a merry smile played about the
ripe red lips, then quickly stepping to the sidewalk, he dropped his hat
and bowing asked if he could be of any further service. As he stood with
uncovered head awaiting the pleasure of the ladies a sensation flashed
through Imelda’s mind that somewhere she had seen this face before. The
poise of the head, a trick of the hand, even the very smile playing
about the lips seemed familiar, but she found it impossible to place the
resemblance. Alice in the old impulsive manner held out both small white
hands to him.
“You will permit me to thank you, will you not, for the service you have
done us today? But for your bravery we might all have been killed.” The
boyish face dimpled all over with sunny smiles, as he tossed the fair
hair from the heated and damp brow.
“I beg your pardon lady, but I think almost anyone would have done as
much. It was not so wonderful a thing for me to do. I am used to the
handling of horses, it was only a spicy adventure, that is all, and if I
thereby was of any important service, why, I am only too glad, I can
assure you.”
“But will you not give us your name? I want to know to whom I am
indebted.”
During all this time Imelda was studying the youthful face of this
stalwart young stranger. Where had she seen that face, or one like it?
Meta was clinging to her skirts, her great dark eyes staring at the
handsome boy, for he really was little more than that. Little Norma was
clinging to her mother and was still sobbing in childish fright.
Ignoring the question of the young mother the young man laid his hand
upon the head of the sobbing little one, which action hushed the sobs,
while she lifted her blue eyes in wonderment to the smiling face.
“Never mind, little pet,” said he, “when you are a young lady you will
have forgotten all about the naughty fright you have had today. Don’t
you think so, little Dark Eyes?”
This last to Meta who never for a moment had let her shining dark orbs
wander from the fair face of the young rescuer.
“I don’t know,” was the naive answer the sweet childish voice made,
which provoked a merry peal of laughter from the boyish lips. Alice too
was smiling now, but if he thought to divert her thoughts from the
question she had asked he was mistaken, for as soon as she could again
recall his attention she repeated the request.
“Well now,” the young man replied in a hesitating manner, “I really have
not done anything worth mentioning, and——”
“Please,” interrupted Alice. “I want so much to know. As an additional
favor I ask it.”
“Very well, then,” he answered with a sort of desperation, at the same
time hunting in the depths of his pockets and fishing therefrom a bit of
pasteboard.
“I believe my name is scrawled on this. If that is of any value to you,
you are certainly welcome to it,” and with that he handed her the little
white card.
“Osmond Leland,” Alice read. Like an electric shock did the words thrill
Imelda. Her hand caught the arm of her friend.
“What is the name? Read it again. I fear I have not heard aright.”
“Osmond Leland,” repeated Alice. “I am sure that is the name written
very plainly,” and she handed the card to Imelda. The young man began to
look with surprise at the beautiful agitated face of the lady who seemed
to find something queer about his name. She turned to him with a quick
imperious movement. All in an instant she knew why his face seemed
familiar.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Leland, but have you not a sister?” A flush
slowly mounted his brow, even to the roots of his hair. The surprised
look in his face deepened. Who was this lady that she should ask him
such a question?
“I believe I have a sister. Yes, but how could you know of this?”
“Her name is Margaret?” entirely ignoring the latter part of the young
man’s answer.
“I believe that is her name,” he again answered becoming still more
mystified.
“And her home is in Chicago, where she lives with your mother?” Again
the flush mounted to his brow. There was a little stiffening of the
lines about the mouth as he answered somewhat coldly.
“She lives in Chicago with her mother,” placing a marked emphasis upon
the “her.” Imelda noticed it and a pained look crept about her lips. She
hesitated, scarcely knowing how to proceed. Alice was watching her.
Quickly she understood that the young man who had rendered them such
signal service must be the brother of the precious friend of Imelda,
whom she herself had learned to love in the short time she had known
her, for her own sake. Imelda had told her all the sad story. The boy
had been many years under the influence of that worthless father. Had he
instilled the poison into his heart? It would almost seem so. How would
Imelda proceed? She seemed to hesitate for a few moments, then
suddenly,—
“I left Chicago only a few months ago. Margaret Leland was my most
precious friend in that great city. A woman pure as pure gold; reared,
instructed and cared for by her mother whose life is consecrated to
truth and purity. Margaret Leland and her mother are women whom any man
in the land might well be proud to own as sister and mother.”
Imelda had spoken quickly, her words savoring just a little of
excitement. They sounded like a defense, with just an undercurrent of
pleading for justice for those loved ones, to one whom fate had placed
in a position where he was ignorant of that which ought to concern him
most in life. He seemed to understand her desire. After a slight
hesitation, his embarrassment growing greater every moment.
“If the ladies will kindly permit I would be thankful to avail myself of
the permission to call upon them.”
Imelda reached out her hand.
“I would be so pleased. I will have much to tell you.” Alice, in her
turn, hastened to express her pleasure, giving him her card, and while
she clasped his hand in both of hers she gave him, as a parting
salutation:
“Do not forget or hesitate to come. I, too, know both sweet ladies
referred to. Let me assure you they are ladies, pure and good.” Then
giving her driver orders to wait she again spoke to young Leland,
telling him that they were anxious to ascertain the truth of what they
had heard, that a young girl had been injured; whereupon he offered to
accompany them. They retraced their steps the distance of a square,
where they found quite a number of people gathered who were discussing
the accident. Upon inquiring they found that the girl had been picked up
bleeding and in an insensible condition, but that before she could be
taken to a hospital a young lady, opposite whose home the accident had
occurred and who had just returned from shopping, had opened her
hospitable door and had cared for the wounded girl. Some bystanders
remarked that in all probability her kind action would not meet the
approval of her father, or that of her stepmother. But Miss Wallace, it
was replied, had a mind of her own, and usually she followed its
dictates. The house was pointed out to Alice and Imelda, and to judge
from the outward appearance it was by no means the abode of poverty.
Mounting the steps they rang the bell. Upon stating their errand, they
were asked to enter.
Young Leland here bade them farewell for the present, promising them
soon to call at the home of the Westcots. The anxious ladies were then
shown into the parlor and left to themselves. They could hear that there
was a commotion of some kind. There were hasty steps to and fro; voices
in the distance; orders given, etc. After a while the door opened and a
beautiful dark eyed young lady entered. In a voice full and rich she
said:
“If I have been rightly informed, you ladies were in the carriage that
dashed over the unfortunate girl who has been hurt?”
Both ladies had risen.
“Yes! to our great sorrow, such is the case,” said Alice. “Some boys
were throwing stones and hitting one of our horses caused the sad
accident.”
“And were none of you hurt?” looking from one to the other and from them
to the little ones.
“No, thank you; not hurt at all. We escaped with only a terrible fright,
but the unfortunate young girl,—who is she? Is she seriously injured?”
“Who she is we have as yet no means of ascertaining as she is still
unconscious. From appearance she is a working girl; she is very plainly
dressed, but there are evident marks of refinement, as though she might
have seen better days. How seriously she is hurt we also do not know. As
I have said before, she has not yet regained consciousness. We know,
however, that she has been hurt about the head. An arm also is broken,
but the doctor hopes she is not inwardly injured. She seems to be in a
weak condition of body as from recent illness. I have left my sister in
charge while I came to you, ladies, so as not to leave you too long in
suspense.”
It was evident the fair speaker was desirous that her callers would take
their leave, as her attention was doubtless required somewhere else.
Imelda had not spoken. She experienced again the same sensations that
she had when she first saw young Leland. Again the face before her
seemed strangely familiar, but she was unable to place it. Was it to be
a repetition of her former experience of an hour ago? But how? Alice was
in the act of leave-taking, giving minute instructions as to her place
of residence in case of an unlooked-for development of the case, for she
said:
“I feel as though we are in a measure responsible for the sad accident,
and I shall want to know if there are any serious results.” Ere the
young lady could give an answer Imelda could no longer resist the
impulse to speak what was in her mind. Laying her hand upon that of the
beautiful stranger.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, “but will you kindly tell me with whom I
have the honor of speaking? I do so much want to know your name.” The
great dark eyes sparkled as she answered:
“The favor you ask is but a small one indeed, and easily granted. My
name is Edith Wallace.”
“Edith Wallace!” echoed Imelda. “Are you a sister of Wilbur Wallace?”
For a moment a look of surprise rested on the face of Miss Wallace;
then,
“Is it possible! can it be Imelda Ellwood?”
“I am Imelda Ellwood.” In a moment the hands of both fair girls were
joined in a firm clasp and, as if drawn together by a strange magnetism,
their lips also met.
“Wilbur has told me all about you, but as he did not send me your
address, my sister and I had to wait patiently for you to come to us.
And this, I suppose,” turning again to Alice, “is the lady with whom you
make your home?” An introduction followed and instead of dismissing the
two, Miss Wallace now insisted that they should remain awhile longer.
“That is,” she added, “if you can pardon my seeming neglect, as my
attention will have to be a divided one. My sister Hilda is with the
patient and the doctor at present and to them I must soon return.”
“Take me with you,” pleaded Imelda. “I have had a great deal of
experience with the sick and maybe shall be able to be of some help to
you. Besides, I feel curious to see this girl. I feel somewhat guilty as
to the cause of her suffering, although we were the unconscious and
unwilling cause. Yet I feel we owe her more than the wornout phrase, ‘I
am sorry!’”
Protesting yet consenting, Edith after having again excused herself to
Alice, who was by this time reclining in a large easy chair, and having
supplied the little ones with a charming picture book, she led the way.
Leading her guest up a softly carpeted flight of stairs she noiselessly
opened the door into a large airy chamber furnished in light refreshing
tints. Snow-white curtains draped the windows while the bright light was
toned to a mellow glow by wine-colored blinds.
A sweet-faced young girl was sitting at the side of the snowy draped
bed, watching the pale face on the pillows. So intent was she that she
never turned her head at the entrance of the new comers, thinking it was
her sister alone that was returning. The light brown hair was a
struggling mass of curls that, although brushed and combed, constantly
escaped from their confinement. The face was almost colorless, the brow
rather low, and the eyes a deep, dark gray. Tender, loving, with a full
share of animal spirits, Hilda Wallace was loved wherever she went. Not
quite so beautiful as the elder sister, Edith, she was just as
attractive in her way.
In the one quick glance Imelda gave her she understood her fully. Before
the watcher and obstructing the view, stood the doctor with the
forefinger of his right hand resting upon the wrist of the girl’s left
and uninjured hand. With his left hand holding his watch he was counting
the pulse beats. At the foot of the bed stood a woman of about forty
years, apparently the housekeeper. Her eyes were bent as intently upon
the quiet form as those of the others in the room. Edith stepped up to
her and for a few moments whispered in her ear. Nodding assent and
softly tiptoeing the housekeeper slipped from the room. Edith gently
moved around to the other side of the bed and bending over the sufferer
listened to the almost imperceptible breathing.
“How is she, doctor? Do you apprehend any danger?”
The man of science shook his head. “Not immediately,” he said, “but she
will require careful nursing. She has an ugly cut upon the head and we
will have to prevent inflammation or brain fever may set in. It is
important to keep her head cool. Do not forget to change the ice bandage
every few minutes. The broken arm is nothing serious in itself and will
soon be all right, but it may add to the fever the first two or three
days. She ought to have been taken to a hospital instantly. I am afraid
it may be some time now before she can be removed.”
“That is not to be considered,” said Edith. “We have room enough and
also willing hands that it will do good to get some practice in the art
of relieving pain, and if it should prove necessary we can call in the
help of a professional nurse. But I wish I knew who she is. I am sure
her friends must be very anxious about her.”
The doctor merely nodded his head in a grave manner, giving vent to some
very expressive grunts. “Very well,” he said, “very well; if you are so
willing I am sure I am more than satisfied. I know I can trust the
patient in your hands, Miss Wallace. You and your sister are a host in
yourselves; so in your care I leave her. My part of the work being done
for the present I will now go. Should there be an undesirable change,
let me know;” and with a few more general instructions he bowed himself
out. Edith would have followed but he prevented her from doing so.
“No; I can find the way myself while your place is here—and—good
evening, ladies,”—and he was gone.
Until now Hilda had not spoken a word. Her whole attention was directed
to the care of the sick girl, every few moments lifting the cloths from
her head and replacing them with others taken from a vessel of ice
standing by the bedside. All this time the sufferer never spoke, never
moved. Imelda could not see her face as it was turned partly away, and
partly concealed in a deep shadow. Edith now spoke.
“Hilda, do you see this lady?” whereupon the girl’s head quickly turned.
“O, I did not know that there was anyone here,” she said in tones of
liquid music. Hastily turning to Imelda, “I beg your pardon”—then to
Edith. “Whom did you say? I don’t understand.”
“Which is quite natural,” answered Edith smiling, “as I have not said
who; and as I know you will never guess I may as well tell you. It is
Imelda Ellwood; the young lady Brother Wilbur has so often told us
about.”
“O! Imelda Ellwood!” exclaimed Hilda, with a glad little cry, her face
brightening with a sudden joy. “I am so glad,” and impulsively extending
both hands she kissed her in greeting.
Just then a smothered sound was heard from the bed. With her well hand
the wounded girl grasped the cloth from her head and dashed it across
the room.
“Who said Imelda? Where is she? I know of but one Imelda, and she is
far-away. Ha! ha!” laughing wildly.
“I wonder what Imelda would say? my beautiful and good sister Imelda, if
she could see me tonight. Would she soil her pure hands to wash mine? I
thought I heard someone speak her name. Say, do you know her?”—and her
glance travels unsteadily from face to face. As her eyes rested upon the
white face of Imelda they settled there in a stony, set manner. Her lips
twitched convulsively as she slowly raised herself upon her well arm.
With a quick movement Imelda now cast aside the hat that she still wore.
The next instant she had caught the weakened but fever-flushed form in
her arms.
“Cora!” She spoke the name calmly, and in a tone of voice tender and
gentle, as if the meeting and finding of the wayward sister here was a
matter of course. Laying her cool hand upon the heated brow and gently
brushing the tangled hair therefrom.
“Cora, be calm and quiet or you will harm yourself. Come, lie down and
go to sleep.” From the manner in which these words were spoken one would
scarce have thought that anything unusual had happened. The influence of
both words and manner was instantly felt by the suffering girl.
Obediently she permitted herself to be laid back upon the pillows. Her
eyes closed. Her hand went up to her head; then to her injured arm, thus
indicating where the pain was that tortured her. Hilda had by this time
replaced the cold cloths. Low moans escaped the lips of the patient and
soon two large tear drops stole from beneath the closed eyelids. Imelda
gently brushed them away, now and then murmuring a caressing word so low
that only the prostrate girl could hear. Her hand passed back and forth
across the fevered brow. The magnetic touch seemed to do her good.
Gradually the sufferer became more quiet, and when the parched lips
asked for water it was Imelda’s hand that passed the cooling drink. In a
little while the breathing became more regular, and presently Cora was
asleep.
In all this time there had not been spoken one word of explanation.
Whatever of curiosity the sisters may have felt none was expressed.
Quietly they waited until their guest should of her own accord explain
what seemed so strange. When Imelda felt certain that her sister was
fast asleep she gently withdrew her hands and raising her eyes to those
of Edith she indicated that she wished to speak to her. Not wishing to
make the least sound in the sick room the two went out together, leaving
Hilda once more to watch with loving care at the bedside.
As soon as the door was closed upon their retreating figures Imelda
turned and looked Edith Wallace full in the face. It was an ordeal she
felt called upon to pass through, and though a severe one she resolved
to meet it bravely.
“Do you understand what that girl is to me?” pointing to the door of the
room wherein the sick girl lay.
“I have an inkling,” replied Edith, “but do not quite understand.”
“She is my sister!” Like a wail the words came from Imelda’s lips. She
had managed to hide her real feelings while in the atmosphere of the
sick room, but now she was in danger of losing control of herself.