AFFLICTION OVERTAKES MOLLIE.
Mr. Heatherford sought an interview with Mr. Temple the morning following
his revelations to Mollie, when he did not hesitate to inform that
gentleman, much to his surprise, that he had discovered by whom, and by
what methods, he had been fleeced of his last dollar.
Mr. Temple attempted to deny the impeachment; but there was so much
of embarrassment and of conscious guilt in his manner that he stood
self-convicted. He had been wholly unprepared for such a disclosure, and,
consequently, was taken off his guard, while he was evidently deeply
chagrined to learn that the secret of his blind operations had been
discovered.
Mr. Heatherford had his say out in a quiet, dignified, but impressive
manner, after which he bade the man good day, and left him to chew the
cud of reflection, which he did in no enviable frame of mind.
Of course, Mrs. Temple and Philip were in ignorance of Mr. Temple’s
agency in Mr. Heatherford’s misfortune—indeed, they knew nothing of his
methods of doing business—and, upon learning that Mollie and her father
were to leave for New York that evening, Mollie having sent a messenger
with a brief explanatory note to Brookline, to get a box that had been
stored there, they drove in town to pay them a farewell visit.
Mr. Heatherford was out, but Mollie received them courteously and
strove to entertain them graciously, and yet the visit was formal and
constrained; for the power of thought is mightier than the tongue,
and Mrs. Temple’s mental attitude, in spite of her surface smiles and
volubility, made itself felt.
Phil threw something of the lover into his manner, notwithstanding the
warning glance from his mother, at parting, and gave Mollie’s hand a
lingering pressure that was intended to speak volumes, while he observed,
as he loitered a moment after Mrs. Temple passed from the room:
“Mollie, I cannot bear to have you go like this; tell me where to address
you, and I will write.”
“At the old home on Fifth Avenue, for the next week or two; more than
that I cannot tell you at present,” she replied.
“All right; you will hear from me very soon, and you must write me an
explanation of this sudden flitting—I do not understand it at all,” Phil
observed as, with another hand-clasp, he hurried away at his mother’s
call from the hall.
To do him justice, he was somewhat in the dark regarding the unexpected
departure of the Heatherfords. He had attended Mollie to a concert
the night but one before, and, as she had known nothing of what was
before her, of course nothing was said about any change, and the first
intimation Phil had received was when her note had come announcing her
return to New York that evening, and requesting that the “box” be sent
to the railway-station for a certain train.
When he questioned his mother, she could tell him nothing beyond the
fact that she knew that Mr. Heatherford’s “venture” had failed, and
she supposed he had got to get home and settle up his affairs as
best he could. Mrs. Temple would gladly have escaped the ordeal of a
leave-taking, but she knew she could not do so without violating all
rules of courtesy and decency; so, calling upon Phil to attend her, and
thus prevent a “private interview and all nonsense” between the young
couple, she made her farewell call.
Mollie and her father left on one of the Sound boats that same evening,
arriving in New York the following morning, when they repaired at once
to their palatial home on Fifth Avenue, and which they immediately
proceeded to dismantle and make over, with most of its treasures, to Mr.
Heatherford’s creditors.
Three days later all the world knew that the man had lost his all, but
that he would meet every dollar of his liabilities, and thus leave a
clean record and an untarnished name behind him when he should drop out
of the social world, where he had so long held a prominent position.
Philip Wentworth wrote Mollie, as he had promised to do, a few days
after her departure; but there was very little of the lover manifest
in the studied sentences which he indited, and Mollie’s lips curled
involuntarily with scorn, as, reading between the lines, she realized
that she had been wiser than she knew when she had refused to commit
herself by either confession or promise, to one who could not stand
faithful under the frowns of misfortune.
She wrote a kind and friendly letter in reply, telling him frankly just
how she and her father were situated—that they had lost everything, and
were both about to learn from practical experience what it meant to have
to work for a living.
“But”—and there was an undercurrent of reserve force and triumph in every
line—“even though the future seemed to point to a far humbler sphere in
life than they had ever known, she was by no means unhappy in view of the
prospect, for she hoped now to learn just what she was best fitted for,
and to prove the mettle of which she was made.”
There was no word or even hint of any tenderer sentiment in her letter,
and Philip Wentworth heaved a sigh of relief as he read it, while he
“thanked his lucky stars” that she had reserved her answer to his rash
and impulsive proposal that day when they floated down the sunlit
Charles, and thus he had escaped an entanglement that would have been
exceedingly awkward for him to have broken away from.
Nevertheless, such is the perversity of human nature, he chafed in secret
because he had failed to subjugate the heart he had coveted most of all,
and so add another to the many victories of that kind which he flattered
himself he had won.
He sent her a note of regret and condolence, and intimated that he should
expect to hear from her often, and to be kept posted regarding any change
of location, and hoped the time was not far distant when he should see
her again.
But it was a long time after that before he heard from her again, and
henceforth his letters to Gertrude Athol took on a tenderer tone,
although he did not definitely refer to any consummation of their hopes,
yet mentioned casually that he was contemplating getting settled in some
business as soon as he could find a favorable opening.
Mollie Heatherford, however, realized that her old-time lover had proved
recreant, even though he was too cowardly to confess it. But she did
not grieve for him; she was far too busy, even if she had been inclined
to do so, during those trying days when she was assisting her father in
the settlement of his affairs and superintending the packing of their
household-furnishings and treasures, which were to be sent to various
places to be sold.
Not a murmur escaped her, not a sigh nor a tear, as one after another of
the dear and beautiful things were removed from their accustomed places.
She was cheerful, sunny, and intensely practical through it all, and
chased many a gloomy cloud from her father’s brow by a merry laugh, a
sparkling jest, and now and then by a mock reproof because he “didn’t
obey orders from his superior any better.”
At last these sad duties were completed, and Mr. Heatherford, having
obtained through the influence of a friend a situation in the post-office
department at Washington, they removed to that city, where, taking a tiny
house in a quiet but respectable locality, Mollie became mistress of the
very modest home which their means would allow.
The enterprising girl wanted to put in an immediate application for a
position as teacher in the public schools, but her father would not
listen to the project, and appeared so sensitive upon the subject that
she finally yielded, though reluctantly, and tried to be content with
doing all in her power to make home pleasant and attractive for him.
And they were very happy, in spite of the great change in their
circumstances and manner of living. They had only five rooms, but they
were prettily, if cheaply, furnished, with odd pieces which they had been
unable to dispose of when breaking up in New York. Mollie proved herself
a very thrifty and efficient little housekeeper, and carefully followed
the instructions of an experienced colored woman who came to help her for
a few hours every day.
Mollie Heatherford, untrained in domestic economy as she was, cheerfully
faced the changed conditions of her life with a brave heart. The former
heiress to millions, the carefully nurtured idol of a loving father,
brought up from infancy in the lap of luxury, carefully shielded from
the rough side of the world, now faced the stern battle of life as the
daughter of a government clerk with a true womanly spirit of independence
and determination.
Mr. Heatherford’s salary proved to be ample for all their needs, and they
were even able to save something from it every month.
Mollie had begged a monthly allowance for household expenses, as soon as
they were settled, and her father had given her sixty dollars, reserving
the remainder of his income for rent and incidentals, and the girl was
jubilant at the end of the month when she showed him a balance in her
favor of fifteen dollars.
“I will do even better than that next month, papa,” she said with shining
eyes, after she had made him go over her neatly kept accounts with
her, “for, of course, I have made some mistakes during the last four
weeks, but Ellen knows how to make every penny count, and I am learning
something new every day.”
But, as the winter passed and the sunny days of an early spring warned
them that summer would soon be upon them, Mollie could see that,
notwithstanding his apparent cheerfulness, her father’s health was
suffering from the unaccustomed confinement of the winter. He said he
was well, but she knew that he was not, and she watched him with jealous
eyes. He rallied somewhat during the month of his vacation, which they
spent in a quiet New England town by the sea. This improvement, however,
proved to be only temporary, for, late in October, he was suddenly
prostrated by some affection of the brain which, from the outset, baffled
the physician who had been called to attend him.
Another doctor was called, but the change brought no better results
and Mollie grew wild with anxiety, as she realized that, in spite of
everything, her dear one’s mind was rapidly failing, like a candle that
has nearly burned out, for there were times when he did not seem to know
her; then he would rally for a day or two, only to lose ground faster
than ever.
Finally Doctor Partridge, the attending physician, requested that a
consultation of specialists might be called, as he did not wish to assume
the responsibilities of the case any longer without advice.
Mollie grasped eagerly at this straw, and two noted physicians were
sent for to confer with Doctor Partridge. It was not a long conference,
fortunately for the poor girl to whom the suspense of that one hour was
torturing beyond description.
It was over at last, and the physician came to her, his face very grave
and pitiful. Mollie sprang to her feet at his approach, and stood rigid
and snow-white before him, awaiting the verdict.
“Miss Heatherford,” he said very gently, “it is my painful duty to tell
you that there is absolutely no help for your father. We are all agreed
that materia medica has been exhausted in his case, and it is only a
question of time when he will entirely lose his mind and become utterly
helpless. The specialists advised me not to tell you the worst, but I had
given you my word that I would not keep anything back from you, therefore
I could not feel justified in deceiving you.”
Mollie listened to this cruel ultimatum like one petrified and feeling as
if she also were losing her mind. Then the strong curb which she had put
upon herself suddenly gave way and she burst forth in wildly rebellious
tones:
“I do not believe it! It cannot be true! I will not believe it! Oh, God
is good—surely He will not leave me utterly desolate! Doctor Partridge,
there must be help somewhere—is there not some one else to whom we can
appeal? I cannot live without my father!”
The physician was almost sorry that he had not listened to the advice
of his colleagues and kept the blighting truth from her. But she had
been so calm and self-possessed through all that he had overestimated
her strength. Still she had insisted upon being told and he had pledged
himself to withhold nothing, and he believed he was doing his duty.
He was a kind-hearted and conscientious man, and had been almost an
enthusiast in his profession, but there had been times when he was
sorely perplexed—when he was led to doubt the virtue of drugs and
the conflicting and inefficient methods of his profession, and these
seasons of doubt he found becoming more and more frequent as disease and
experiences like the present were multiplied.
Doctor Partridge spent a long time with the sorely afflicted girl, trying
to comfort and quiet her and advising her regarding the future care of
her father. He told her that the most that could be done now would be
to make him physically comfortable, and in order to do this she must
have some strong, reliable woman come to relieve her of household cares
and assist in the nursing. He said he knew of just the right person—a
faithful negress, who had had large experience in sickness, was an
excellent cook and who would be glad of a comfortable home and small
wages.
Mollie wondered vaguely where the money was coming from to defray all
these extra expenses, but she did not demur; she told the doctor to send
the woman at once, and when she came, the following day, the weary and
sorrowful girl found her a tower of strength, not only in the care of her
father, but to her aching heart as well.
“Don’t yo’ take on so, honey,” said the sympathetic creature, when
Mollie, with a wild burst of grief, told her of her father’s hopeless
case. “De doctors don’t know eberyt’ing, spite of der pertenshuns; yo’
jest trust de Lord, honey, an’ He’ll brung it out all right.”
“Oh, where is God, Eliza?” cried Mollie helplessly, while sobs shook her
slight form like a reed.
“I ’spects He am ebrywhere, honey,” returned the woman, with humble
faith, and then she brought her young mistress a steaming cup of tea,
which she made her drink, firmly believing it a panacea for an aching
heart as well as an empty stomach.
But Mollie was no weakling. When the first fierce rebellion was over
she began to consider the situation in a practical way. What was to be
done for the future? How was her helpless charge, to say nothing about
herself, to be provided for? Nearly all of the money which both she and
her father had saved had been swallowed up by the physicians and other
expenses of his illness, and some provision must now be made for their
daily needs.
She could teach, if she could obtain a position; but she had no
influential friends in the city to whom to apply for aid to secure a
school. She studied the papers every day, with the hope of finding some
want or advertisement that would come within her capabilities; but
it was late in the season—the public schools were all supplied with
teachers, and nothing else seemed to offer without requiring her to be
absent from home too many hours during the day, and the outlook seemed
dark.
One morning she had an errand to do at a bank on Pennsylvania Avenue,
and, after attending to it and making one or two necessary purchases, she
walked swiftly to a corner, to wait for a car to take her home. A pretty
French maid, who was trundling in an elegant perambulator a lovely child
of about three years, was standing talking with a young man, evidently of
her own nationality.
They became so absorbed in each other that they appeared to be wholly
unmindful of the child, who, however, seemed to be safe enough, for all
Mollie could see, although she felt that the girl was neglectful of duty.
Presently an ice-cart drove to the curb and stopped. Almost at the same
instant a strong gust of wind swept around the corner, catching the
perambulator and sending it rolling to the very edge of the sidewalk,
and within three feet of where Mollie was standing. But before she could
stretch forth her hand to save it, it went off, was overturned, and the
child, with a shriek of fear, rolled to the ground, directly in front of
the powerful gray horse that was attached to the wagon.
The animal tossed its head with a startled snort, and reared upon his
hind legs. The driver, a powerful man, with great presence of mind
snatched at his reins and, by sheer muscular strength, held the animal
back upon his haunches, with his forefeet madly pawing the air.
“For God’s sake, grab that young one, somebody!” he shouted wildly.
The French maid and her companion both appeared to be paralyzed with
fear. Neither seemed able to move from the spot where they stood,
although the girl filled the air with her shrieks.
Mollie, without a thought of anything save the precious life of the
little one, bounded forward, and crouching low under the formidable
hoofs, seized the tiny form by its clothing and sprang back upon the
sidewalk, just in season to escape being crushed to death as the
ponderous animal, now beyond the driver’s control, came down upon its
forefeet.
It was a close shave, and had Mollie hesitated an instant, the child
would have been beyond the reach of human aid. As it was, the fright
and the fall had rendered it unconscious, and a slight abrasion on one
plump little cheek, where the iron shoe had just grazed it, showed how
very narrow had been the escape. Mollie’s skirt was badly torn where the
descending hoof had caught and taken a piece out of it.
The nurse was almost beside herself with mingled joy and fear, and would
have snatched her little charge from Mollie’s arms, but she gently
repulsed her, and said in French—the language in which the girl had been
conversing with her friend: “Be quiet, the baby is not hurt, and I am
sure she will soon be quite herself. I will take her into this drug-store
and have her cared for—secure the carriage and then follow me.”
The maid mechanically obeyed her, and appeared greatly relieved to have
some one assume the responsibility of attending to her charge.
The proprietor of the store had once been a practising physician, and
into his care Mollie gave the little one. She had already begun to
revive, and now manifested considerable fear at finding herself in the
arms of a strange gentleman, who, after looking her over carefully, said
that she was uninjured.
Mollie was very sweet and gentle with her, and she was more than
half-reassured before the familiar face of her nurse appeared, when she
lapsed from tears to smiles, and was soon chatting like a magpie, in
French, with them both.
The perambulator also had escaped serious injury, greatly to the surprise
of every one, and little Lucille, as the child was named, was ere long
comfortably settled among her pillows and being trundled homeward by the
thankful Nannette.
Mollie walked a short distance with them, for she saw that the girl was
still greatly overcome from the shock which she had sustained, and she
kindly strove to reassure her, but cautioned her never to let go the
handle of the perambulator when she was on the street with the little one.
She left them at the next corner, where they were to turn, having
persuaded Lucille to kiss her and given her address to Nannette, who
begged to know where she lived, so that she might come to thank her
again when she was more herself; then she hailed an approaching car, and
returned to her own cares and responsibilities.
The further experiences of the personages in this story will be related
in the sequel to this story entitled “The Heatherford Fortune,” published
in style and price uniform with this volume.
THE END.
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