Norman’s cry of alarm soon brought the others to his side. To the
question, “What shall be done with him?” Alice replied,
“Bring him in immediately.”
So the inanimate form was lifted and carried inside, not to the heated
rooms but to one where the fire had gone out, leaving it cold and chill.
Imelda and Cora stood with clasped hands, a frightened look in their
eyes; looking at each other, expecting what they dared not think or
breathe aloud.
The body of the unfortunate man had been carried past them without
either having caught a glimpse even of the white face, leaving them in
cruel uncertainty as to the identity of its owner. Norman spoke of
procuring a doctor when Paul Arthurs spoke:
“With the kind permission of all present I offer my service, as I am a
physician.” This was news, and under the circumstances a very agreeable
surprise. The offer was most gladly accepted. Requesting Wilbur and
Norman to lend their assistance Doctor Arthurs began the work of trying
to resuscitate the seeming dead body, and for two long hours the three
worked hard and faithfully. When they had about given up all hope of
recalling the fleeting spark the discovery was made that the blood was
beginning to circulate while faintly perceptible respiration gave hope
of returning consciousness. After a thorough cleansing the body was
wrapped in a soft, warm blanket and put to bed. The chances now were
that a life had been saved, but—to what end?
The young physician had made a sad discovery, one which indicated that
the patient was at best the victim of an incurable disease. He who lay
before them unconscious of his condition, was but a boy in years but
already a physical wreck, through the indulgence of a most pernicious
sexual habit. Hollow eyes and sunken cheeks told the sad tale. The drawn
white face was encircled by clusters of dark, curling hair; in health he
evidently had been a handsome lad. Now his appearance was anything but
prepossessing.
“There we see the result of ignorance on the part of some one,” spoke up
the young physician. “The ignorance of parents in regard to the meaning
of childhood, or the ignorance of a boy who did not know, or understand,
the meaning of life, and the right uses of life-giving organs and
forces.”
Neither of the young men had a word to say, but stood with eyes riveted
on the ghastly face. Why did that face seem so strangely familiar? and
while they looked this strange feeling grew. Like a flash a revelation
came to both and their eyes met in a sympathetic glance. Norman became
white to the very lips. In Wilbur’s eyes was a troubled look, as he met
the glance of the other, but across that motionless form he extended his
hand to the other who without a moment’s hesitation placed his own
therein. It was like a compact, this involuntary action, and in that
silent clasp there was something conveyed that told to each that they
had drawn a step nearer to each other; that in the future they would
stand still closer as friends. Wilbur turned to the young physician,
pointing to the prostrate form,
“We have made a discovery!”
“And which is——”
“That this unfortunate young man is Frank Ellwood!”
“Frank Ellwood? Who is he?”
“The brother of the sisters, Imelda and Cora Ellwood.”
“Ah!” The word was long drawn and hesitating. Paul Arthurs did not as
yet understand; so, briefly as possible, Wilbur related just enough to
enable him to grasp the situation.
The young doctor’s face became sad and overcast. O, why is this young
life blighted? Why should this burden be laid upon those young
shoulders? But he felt it would not be for long. Disease, with its fatal
clutch, had fastened upon the vitals of the young man, and it was only a
question of a very short time until the fell destroyer would claim the
victim for his own.
When an hour later, with returning consciousness Frank opened his eyes
it was to find two fair faces bending over him, faces wherein only love
and compassion were to be seen. While Imelda gently brushed the dark
hair from the pale face Cora took his hand and laid her face upon it. In
his weakness he saw but did not understand. As if their presence brought
him peace and comfort he again closed his eyes and soon the regular
breathing told that he was in the land of dreams. Gently, lovingly, the
sisters nursed the erring brother back to life, with never a word of
reproach for the wasted past. They understood only too well their task
would be of but short duration, and when the paroxysms of coughing shook
the weakened frame it was all they could do to stay the tears that would
well up in their eyes.
But soon the time came when he asked to have their joint presence
explained, and it was Cora who told him all—all the bitter struggles and
experiences of both their lives; of the heavy overhanging clouds, but
which clouds were now beginning to show their silver lining.
Frank made no comment. He seemed broken in spirit as well as in body.
The once strong and healthy young athlete seemed now only to desire rest
and quiet, and when the glad spring time came with its new life and
budding joys, its sunshine and song, they folded the waxen hands upon
the pulseless breast, decked his coffin with the first sweet flowers of
spring and laid the emaciated body away from sight.
Poor boy! Wayward and reckless from his childhood up he had plunged
headlong into all the vices that lure passionate youth from virtue’s
path, and yet—had he sinned more than he had been sinned against? If he
had erred, if he had gone wrong, surely he had paid the forfeit. It was
a heavy price, that of his young life, and it ill becomes us to sit in
judgment upon him. Lawrence and Alice had insisted that he remain an
inmate of their home, and a bright sunny room had been placed at his
disposal, where he remained until the end.
In the meantime much of interest had transpired, ere the dawn of that
sad spring morning. On that memorable night that had brought so much of
joy, and also so much of pain—the finding of the long lost brother—our
friends had separated as they had at first intended doing, with the
difference that those departing had remained a few hours longer at the
Westcots than they had expected. With the feeling of uncertainty as to
the fate of the frozen man none experienced a desire to leave until the
news came that he would recover temporarily at least; and when the
suspicions of the sisters had proved to be correct—that the unfortunate
stranger was indeed their brother, so long dead to them—then, as the
hour was very late, whispering words of hope the good nights were at
last spoken. The Wallace sisters with Osmond and Norman as escorts were
rapidly driven to their home; Edith’s hand had been held just a little
longer and closer by the young physician than would seem to have been
necessary, and Mrs. Leland had held her boy very close as though the
separation about to take place was for an unknown period of time,
instead of only one short night,—but finally they were whirled away over
the freezing snow, and in due time deposited each at their respective
doors.
Mr. Wallace did not often inquire into the doings of his daughters. Long
since he gave over the attempt to control their actions, feeling that
they could well be trusted. On this occasion, however, the hour had been
so unusually late when they had come home that he could not refrain from
asking where they had spent the evening, or rather night, as was in the
“wee sma’ hours” that they had sought their room. A moment Edith
hesitated, then,
“At the Westcot’s—they are entertaining visitors from Chicago, the
belated trains causing us also to be late.”
Edith again hesitated before answering. Should she tell the truth? It
was extremely distasteful to this pure-minded girl to speak a falsehood.
She felt she could not possibly keep the fact a secret that her brother
was in the city. The sisters exchanged a quick apprehensive glance, then
endeavoring to appear calm as possible Edith said:
“The interest might possibly be greater than you think, and you will
perhaps agree with me when I tell you that one of them bears the name of
Wilbur Wallace.”
Mr. Wallace, who was just partaking of his morning meal, arrested midway
the cup which he was about placing to his lips and stared at his
daughter as if he had not heard aright.
“Who? What is that you say?”
“Wilbur Wallace,” repeated Edith with slightly trembling voice. Slowly
the cup that was poised in mid air was again replaced upon the table.
“Do you mean to say that it is your brother to whom you refer?”
A slight inclining motion of the head was Edith’s only answer. She
almost feared to look at her father, and when she did so she found the
strong man had turned deathly pale; his lips twitching nervously, and
presently with a gasping sound came from his lips:
“Wilbur! Wilbur!” and his head sank upon his hand, in which attitude he
remained a long while, then slowly, without again speaking, he rose,
donned overcoat and muffler and went out into the crisp, wintry, morning
air. His manner was a mystery. The girls looked at each other and shook
their heads.
In the evening when they again met at the family table he looked more
like himself but was strangely quiet, not at all like the Elmer Wallace
who was wont to carry himself with an air of such importance and
assurance. Even his wife took note of the matter and inquired as to the
reason, but received no answer for her pains.
Several days thus passed by. Regularly each evening after supper a span
of horses with a dashing cutter drove up to the door; a youthful driver
would spring therefrom and would carefully tuck the waiting girls
therein and drive away, returning always a little before midnight. Then
there was a change. Beside the boyish figure a more manly one had taken
its place. Tall and well built, every movement of that form betokened
health and strength. At such times the face of another and older man
could be seen at the window, watching the figure of the younger man as
he sprang to meet the girls. Eagerly he listened to catch the sound of
the voice speaking words of greeting to the sisters, watched him tuck
the robes closely about them, heard his deep-toned laughter mingle with
their silvery ripples, and in a few seconds more they would disappear.
Long hours would intervene, but when the tinkling bells announced their
return, as though it had been watching for their advent, the face at the
window was always there, until the good nights were spoken and the merry
music of the bells was lost in the distance.
But Mr. Wallace never asked for his son; though deep down in his heart a
longing was making itself manifest. Now that he knew that his first born
was once more near him in the same city, to look into his eyes, to clasp
him to his bosom, to have a share in his life, was a desire that was
daily growing upon him. Yet he could not bring himself to sue for it.
Day by day the longing grew stronger until it became almost unbearable.
This longing was the more strongly felt when he glanced at his younger
children, the result of his second marriage. All of them, the whole
four, had not been sent, this season, to boarding school, as they were
not at all well, and they had made life anything but pleasant for the
rest of the household. The eldest boy, Homer, the father had hoped would
soon have been ready to graduate, but the lad showed an unaccountable
aversion towards his books. He was surly, sullen and irritable, with a
languor of manner that caused the parents to fear that he might be
breeding some fever. The others were no better. Elmer was hollow-eyed
and nervous. The girls, Hattie and Aleda, were fretful and hysterical to
a degree that made life a misery to those about them.
The parents were anxious and fearful, pampering them in mistaken
kindness, thereby making perfect tyrants of them all. Only Edith and
Hilda would not submit to the whimsical demands of the younger children,
and when Mrs. Wallace complained and lamented about the ill health of
her darlings Edith would reply:
“Insist on it that they all take exercises every day—exercise of a
nature that will tax their strength, and ere long you will see a
change.”
“Yes, I am sure there would be a change. You certainly are the most
heartless girl I have ever met. Compel my sick children to work? I
believe it would please you if they should die, for that is what such a
course would result in, I am sure.”
Mr. Wallace would look at them, then at the bright and cheerful faces of
his eldest daughters. Then he would remember the face and figure of the
stalwart young man whose movements he had of late been watching from the
window and would wonder how it was that the children of the delicate
Erna should be healthy and robust while these younger children, whose
mother was apparently so strong and healthy, should be so delicate,
apparently candidates for early graves. More than ever he longed to be
reconciled to his first born. But his stubborn will would not bend. Had
Wilbur come to him he would have welcomed him with open arms, but that
he should go to Wilbur his iron will and stubborn pride would not
permit. So he stifled the voice of his heart, only he could not cast out
the longing therein, and day by day he grew more restless, dissatisfied
and irritable while the state of affairs at home grew daily more
unpleasant.
One day, it was clear and frosty, Mr. Wallace was on his way home to
dinner, walking along at a brisk pace. Part of his way lay along the
railway track, when at a short distance ahead of him he saw a boyish
figure in which he recognized his son Homer. The boy was walking at a
very slow pace with downcast eyes seemingly forgetful of his
surroundings when the rumbling of the wheels of an approaching train was
heard. The boy however, paid no heed. Mr. Wallace gave a cry of warning
but the boy was so lost in thought that he never heard. The train was
approaching at an alarming rate of speed.
“Homer! Homer!” the distracted father cried, but unconcerned the boy
walked on. Mr. Wallace started on a run but despaired of reaching him.
He repeated his warning cry when suddenly the boy tripped and stumbled,
almost fell—recalling him to himself, but the nearness of the
approaching train, the certainty of impending fate seemed to stun him
and he stood stock still, with white set face, awaiting the coming
shock. Mr. Wallace calling again, “Homer! Homer! quick, aside,” covered
his eyes with his hand so as not to witness the dread disaster.
The next moment the train went speeding by, sending the icy chills
through his veins. Dreading to look up, expecting to see only the
mangled remains of his child Mr. Wallace with white lips and blanched
face, opened his eyes to see a stalwart, manly figure, a face encircled
by clustering dark locks, lit up by piercing black eyes, and in his arms
holding the half-fainting form of Homer.
The revulsion of feeling was so great that the strong man reeled, and
when he saw and recognized who it was that had been the savior of his
boy a film gathered over his eyes. He staggered as he made his way to
where the stranger stood, still clasping the careless boy in his arms.
Both hands were outstretched to clasp those of the rescuer but the stiff
lips refused to articulate the words he would have spoken.
By this time Homer had recovered himself sufficiently to free himself
from the firm clasp, and to say,
“All right, old man! No need of being so scared. I have not gone to
‘kingdom come’—not just yet.”
But not on the boy were the eyes of Mr. Wallace riveted. As if
fascinated they hung upon that other young face while his own was
working strangely.
“I presume you are the father of this young man?” spoke a clear,
full-toned, manly voice.
“Wilbur!” came in husky, broken accents from the pallid lips of Mr.
Wallace. “Wilbur, do you not know me?”—in a hesitating, supplicating
manner, extending both hands to the young man.
Wilbur started and changed color, retreating a step and bending a
searching glance upon the elder man. “You are——my——”
“Father!” interrupted Mr. Wallace. “Yes, I am your father, and the boy
whose life you have just saved is your brother.”
The boy gave vent to a long drawn whistle,—
“Say, Gov’nor! this is news. Where did you manage to have him stowed
away all this time?”
The face of Mr. Wallace flushed darkly red.
“Homer, I am ashamed of you. You would please me much by being a little
less ill-bred.” Then turning again to Wilbur and again extending his
hand,
“Will you permit the past to be forgotten? Must I ask in vain that my
boy, my first born, will lay his hand in mine?”
The husky pleading of the voice touched Wilbur. After a few moment’s
hesitation in which the past seemed to confront him,—in which he seemed
to hear the splashing of the icy waters of the Susquehanna river as they
closed over the head of the hazel-eyed little mother, so many years
ago—a shudder passed through his frame; then his eyes fell upon the boy,
almost a young man, but with a sullen look on the otherwise fair face,
thereby marring its beauty—the disrespectful manner towards his father,
showing an equally marred character. Then his eyes turned to the face of
the father who had so long been a stranger to him, and what they saw
there again touched his better nature. No! it certainly was not the face
of a happy man. There were lines in it that the flight of years alone
had not traced. It looked careworn and worried. Slowly, involuntarily
his hand was raised and laid in the outstretched palm whose fingers
closed about it almost like a vice. Several moments passed ere Mr.
Wallace had controlled himself sufficiently to speak, then hurriedly,
anxiously,—
“You will go with me? I want you at home.”
Wilbur shook his head, but his father only held his hand the faster.
“I will take no refusal. For once I am going to give Edith and Hilda a
pleasant surprise. Come, Homer, we will not keep them waiting at home
for us any longer.” Without answering the boy turned his steps homeward,
while Mr. Wallace drew Wilbur’s arm through his.
“You will come I know, and the girls will be happy.”
Half reluctantly and wholly longingly he permitted himself to be led
away and almost ere he knew he found himself standing at the door of the
well known house before which of late he had so often stood.