Heaving bosoms, concealing madly beating hearts, were hidden under the
heavy fur-lined wrappings. In the excitement and bustle of the jostling
throng our waiting friends greatly feared missing the travelers in the
murky light, but just as the train was again pulling out, Imelda espied
a lady and two gentlemen who seemed hopelessly seeking someone judging
from their hurried glances. Quickly walking up, that she might the
better look at their closely muffled figures, she was recognized by the
lady traveler, and,
“Imelda!” broke from her lips as she stepped forward and folded the
girlish form in her arms, kissing her again and again.
“Dearest Mamma Leland!”—and the kisses were returned with interest. When
released it was to be again enfolded in a pair of stronger arms—this
time a perfect bear’s hug. Then followed hasty introductions. Several
more embraces, wordless, but nevertheless speaking volumes, and then
Norman spoke:
“Save the caresses for an hour later; they will keep, I am sure. This
weather is not at all inviting, so pile into the waiting sleighs; that
we may go where a welcome is prepared for you.”
“One moment,”—It was Wilbur’s strong pleasant voice. “I make bold to
bring you a fellow traveler who has been of great value to us. Mr. Paul
Arthurs, I think deserves a better fate than to be left to the tender
mercies of a cheerless hotel on a night like this.” These words were
followed by a hearty invitation and welcome. At first Mr. Arthurs
protested against intruding so summarily on perfect strangers, but was
shortly overruled, and a few minutes later the sleighs were flying over
the smooth surface of the already beaten track, and in a very short time
the piercing night air was exchanged for that of the warm rooms at the
Westcot mansion. Willing, friendly hands were assisting each of the
travelers to warmth and comfort. Mrs. Leland was supplied a soft warm
robe, a loose wrapper from Imelda’s wardrobe. As there was no
possibility of procuring their trunks before morning, dry hose and
fur-lined slippers were provided for the weary nether limbs. After a
refreshing bath Imelda’s deft fingers neatly and tastefully arranged the
tired woman’s hair. Then telling her that she looked ever so much better
than a half hour previous, she escorted her to the parlor to find that
the men had just preceded them. Both the gentlemen guests had been
supplied from Mr. Westcot’s wardrobe, and they looked fresh and bright
enough to give the impression that they were there for an ordinary
social call. Wilbur’s eyes lit up with a bright gleam as Imelda entered.
Without a moment’s hesitation he held out both hands and drawing her
close, held her face where the full light of the chandelier overhead
fell upon it—for a minute drinking in the full glow of her beauty,
watching the rich color come and go in the fair cheeks. Then taking the
sweet proud face in both his hands he kissed the ruddy lips, once,
twice, thrice.
“Now,” he said, “I want to look at someone in the——daylight I almost
said; ’tis the gaslight, I mean, which is almost as bright.”
Norman was standing near, leaning with his elbow on the piano, watching
the scene before him with a warm light in his eyes. Understanding well
who Wilbur’s “someone” was, he stepped forward and extended his hand
with a pleasant, happy smile lighting up the handsome manly countenance.
For a few moments the black and blue eyes met, each reading in the
depths of the other’s soul; each satisfied with what he saw and read
there. It was a moment, “When kindred spirits met,” when “soul touched
soul.” As they stood there, man to man, hand clasped in hand, each knew
and felt that he had found a friend worthy of the name, and when a
woman’s soft hand was laid on theirs, as if in blessing, it was Norman’s
lips that touched the woman’s hand, but Wilbur’s dark face was laid
close to hers, and as their lips met the whispered words fell upon her
ear:
“Imelda, gem of women, in this precious brother you have found a jewel
worthy of the finest setting. You have been a sweet and successful
teacher.”
With the pure love-light in two pairs of eyes reflected in her heart she
turned to leave them together. Little gushing Alice was just getting
through making Mrs. Leland welcome when the eyes of the latter fell upon
a sweet face, lit up by a pair of dreamy hazel eyes. Something in the
face struck her as familiar, but she was unable to place it. The girl
saw and understood and was in the act of moving forward when Imelda
caught the look on Mrs. Leland’s face. In a moment more she stood at
Cora’s side, laying her face to hers she said:
“Do you understand?”
“I do,” Mrs. Leland replied. “It is your sister.” Here again after a few
moment’s conversation Imelda had the satisfaction of knowing that two
hearts, both dear to her, would meet and love.
In glancing about she espied Edith deep in conversation with the
stranger, the traveling companion of Mrs. Leland and Wilbur. He was
holding her hand in a close clasp and looking into the dark eyes in a
way wholly surprising in a stranger on such short acquaintance. The
color was coming and going in the sweet face and her eyes had in them
most plainly an answering warmth. He certainly was a very handsome man;
one that any woman would be apt to turn and look at again when meeting
him in a ballroom or on the street. Fair, with a light curling beard and
a free open countenance; tall and well proportioned he was a picture of
manly beauty. Edith looking up and, seeing her friend’s perplexed and
wondering gaze, smiled and beckoned,
“You are surprised, I see, at our seeming unwarranted familiarity, but
do you remember the day when Cora made her first appearance downstairs
after the accident, and we were weaving such golden plans for our
future? Well you also remember that Hilda spoke of a gentleman we had
met in one of our summer vacations in the mountains? I see you do
remember. I had thought the friendship of Mr. Arthurs was to be only a
pleasant memory when lo and behold I recognize him in this traveling
companion of our loved ones, and to make the surprise more complete,
Harrisburg was his destination, as he was coming here on matters of
business and intended remaining in the city for sometime.”
Imelda expressed her delight in finding in him a friend of her friends,
and was about to move on when Mr. Arthurs asked for Hilda. That maiden
was discovered serenely smiling and rosily blushing while listening to
some, from all appearance, highly interesting tale of Lawrence
Westcot’s. Edith forthwith drew her new-found friend in the direction of
the two.
With a happy smile upon her face, reflecting the sunshine of her heart
in her eyes, Imelda was flying from group to group when they suddenly
rested upon the sad face of a boy whose form was half hidden in the
heavy curtain of a deep bay window to which he had withdrawn himself. In
a moment she saw it all. The boy had requested not to be introduced to
his mother at the depot. He would wait a more favorable opportunity.
“It would only excite her,” he said, “and be very unsatisfactory.”
His request had been granted, but in the excitement that followed he had
momentarily been forgotten. Not dreaming that her son might be among
this group of bright intelligent people Mrs. Leland was giving her every
thought to winsome Cora whose heart was being drawn out to meet hers in
glad response.
Imelda crossed the room to where Osmond stood. His eyes filled with
tears as she approached,
“Why so sad, my boy? Cheer up! Do you think you are now ready to look
into your mother’s eyes?”
“My mother! how strange the words sound; but I am afraid!”
“‘Afraid!’ Afraid of what?”
“Of the disappointment that may possibly fill them when they rest on me.
It would hurt if there should be but a momentary reflection therein.”
Imelda’s gentle hand lifted the chin of the boy that was drooping in a
dejected manner,
“Those words that speak of the fear of a disappointment show that you
have not known a mother’s heart. Come now and have this fear cast
out,”—and taking the trembling boy by the hand she drew him from his
hiding place and approached with him the woman to whom he owed his
being. Laying one arm about his neck Imelda drew his face to hers, with
her other hand she touched Mrs. Leland’s arm to draw her attention.
“See! Mamma Leland. Who is this I bring you?”
It was a moment of intense expectation. Mrs. Leland quickly turned, and
for a moment stared—then gave a quick gasp. That face! Just for a moment
she had thought it was Margaret, so great was the resemblance, but only
a moment. His look was strange and yet not strange. From his face she
glanced to that of Imelda, and back again to the boy. She rose from her
chair pressing both hands to her madly beating heart. Her face became
deathly white. Slowly the boy’s hands were extended towards her—an
agonized pleading look lay in the large blue eyes.
“Mother!” broke from the pallid lips.
“Osmond!” echoed the mother, and then she folded her long lost child,
her darling boy! in close embrace near to her wildly beating heart.
For a moment Mrs. Leland felt faint and dizzy, then her pent-up feeling
found vent in a flood of tears, with which were mingled those of Osmond.
The tension on his nerves had been too great, but both strove hard to
conquer their emotions, and for some time they sat in a wordless
embrace, reading what they felt in each others eyes. Tenderly her
trembling hand smoothed the sunny locks and the pearly drops again
gathered in her eyes as she thought how her baby had been permitted to
grow and develop, until he stood upon the brink of manhood without the
guidance of her hand. His boyhood’s years—they had come and gone without
bringing her mother’s heart the privilege of watching over the tender
soul’s moulding. O, to have been with him! to share his joys and to
soften and smooth his childish troubles.
But now? Why dwell upon the past with its many bitternesses and trials?
Did not the present moment outweigh all the sufferings? all the dark
hours of woe? Her boy was still her own, with a soul pure and true.
Should she not rather be thankful? With an overflowing heart she drew
the boy’s face down to hers, giving vent to all the pent-up feelings
that were causing her heart to heave and her lips to seek a loving,
clinging mother’s kiss. Imelda’s eyes filled with tears; without another
word she gently touched Cora’s arm and together they withdrew, leaving
the two to enjoy their new-found happiness.
Imelda drew her sister in the direction of the piano, where Norman and
Wilbur were still standing, welding the friendship that was to last
throughout all the years of their after-life. With a little dextrous
movement the girls managed to reach the instrument without attracting
the notice of the men and only when Cora’s rich, sweet voice filled the
room with joyous song did they become aware of their close proximity.
Every voice was hushed, every word suspended while she sang. Who was
this girl, possessed of such a glorious voice? When the music ceased and
the song ended Cora turned and faced her audience. Wilbur was struck
with the rare beauty of the face, coupled with a strange sense of
familiarity. Imelda smiled, as she caught the puzzled look upon his
face,
“It is Cora, Wilbur.” That was their introduction—just as a matter of
course—feeling they would need no other. But Wilbur was not satisfied,
and begged that Cora would sing again; and she, nothing loath, did sing
again. It was the first time this week she had sung—with the anxiety for
the possible fate of the absent ones she had had no heart to sing. But
tonight she felt happy; so why should she not? Turning over the pile of
music her eye fell upon “The Wandering Refugee.” The music was sweet, if
the words were sad; and as the sad, sweet strains filled the room their
influence was felt by everyone present, toning down the exciting joy
that filled every heart. Just as the last notes died away a rasping
noise was heard at the window. Glancing up they became aware of a white
face being pressed against the large pane. Only a momentary appearance,
and almost in an instant it was gone. But in that instant both girls had
seen it and—had they recognized it? Both pairs of lips breathed the
prayer—“I hope not!”
Such a wretched looking, such a deathly white face! Imelda quickly moved
over to the window, but no sign was to be seen of a human being. Had
they been mistaken? Was it only a chimera of the brain, conjured up by
the sad, weird words of the song? Heaving a deep sigh she turned away,
shaking her head to the enquiring sister. No one else had seen the face
at the window.
At this juncture Alice claimed her right as hostess, and insisted that
all should direct their steps to the dining room, there to partake of a
warm repast which had been prepared for the hungry travelers. Around the
table another hour passed by in pleasant conversation in which many a
treasure of mind was unfolded, and where bright eyes sent electric
sparks back and forth—sparks that were ever ready to kindle love’s fire
wherever they might happen to alight, until at length, breaking in upon
the running conversation Westcot said,
“Will not someone be kind enough to relate the experiences and dangers
of the late journey?”
Wilbur laughed.
“I suspect they are greatly magnified—in your imagination greater far
than in reality. Snow-bound we were; that is true enough; not a pleasant
experience, I grant you. By the storm-king we were forced to remain in
one spot, consumed more or less with anxiety and by impatience to move
onward. The change to bitter cold caused us some suffering, but being
well supplied with wraps and blankets its keenest edge was blunted.
Perhaps the greatest danger that menaced us was the lack of provisions,
but that also was warded off.
It was night when our train was brought to a standstill, and when the
morning dawned we saw only a vast unbroken field of snow, spread out
before our eyes. The outlook was far from cheerful. Not having thought
of such an emergency we had supplied ourselves with no provisions
whatever, and the probability was that we would become acquainted with
empty stomachs before reaching our journey’s end.
“Just opposite us across the aisle our friend here, Mr. Arthurs, had
taken his seat and, as misery loves company, it was not long ere he made
our acquaintance. Pardon me, Arthurs,” laughed Wilbur, “I did not mean
that you were so very miserable but that we were all so miserably
situated that your kind heart prompted you to lighten our misery by
coming closer to us. Well, as the day wore on we all became
uncomfortably conscious that there were appetites waiting to be
appeased. The supply carried by the train was not a large one and the
steward was asking shameful prices. Mr. Arthurs made the proposition
that we make an attempt at exploration, to see if there were no human
habitations near. At first Mrs. Leland would not listen to such a thing,
fearing we might get lost, but her fears were overruled and we made
preparation for a tramp through the deep and softly yielding snow.
Following the base of a hill, near which our train had stopped, we
walked about a mile when in the distance we discovered quite a village.
It seemed an endless tramp but at length we managed to get there and
make our needs known. The villagers proved to be a rough but kindly
disposed people and, combining business and humanitarianism, some hours
later they brought to the cold and hungry travelers a supply of hot
coffee and sandwiches at reasonable prices. This removed the deadly fear
of starvation, and although the temperature was very, very cold our
situation was endurable. Towards evening of the second day rescue trains
arrived. The snow had been cleared from the tracks by the persistent
labor of many men who had worked night and day with their shovels, and
soon we were once more speeding on our way rejoicing.
“By this time our new friend had proved himself a friend indeed, and
having made the discovery that his destination was the same as ours we
invited him to make one of our party. And to judge from present
appearances he is not at all sorry for having accepted the invitation.”
Every eye turned in the direction of Mr. Arthurs, at whose side Edith
had found a seat. So deeply was he interested, just then, in something
Edith was saying that neither had heard the closing remarks of Wilbur,
but at the sudden hush both looked up to find all eyes resting upon them
in smiles. A flush mantled their faces, but, joining in the laugh at
their expense the matter was quickly disposed of, and now, having
satisfied their hunger Norman said he thought it time they were seeking
their respective homes, the night being far advanced, and rest being
much needed. Both Wilbur and Mr. Arthurs spoke of going to a hotel,
which proposition was most strenuously objected to by the Westcots who
insisted that they make their home with them during their stay in the
city.
But to this neither of the young men would listen; for this one night,
however, they did not refuse to accept the kindly proffered hospitality.
Tomorrow they would make other arrangements. Hasty preparations were
then made for the departure of the others, and Mrs. Leland’s heart
contracted painfully at the thought of letting her boy go from her, even
for one night. But chiding her selfishness she gave him a good night
kiss. As Norman opened the door, the outer vestibule door and was
passing down the stone steps he suddenly stopped. Across the lower step
a dark object was lying which proved to be the cold and stiffened form
of a man.