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.