Neither of the men could quite understand the last words that passed between the girls, but Norman understood enough to know that whatever might be their meaning no ignoble subject would be thus discussed. Lawrence Westcot shook his head, but trusted. He was beginning to find these girls very trustworthy. Only Osmond felt as if standing upon some unseen brink. Hilda’s enthusiastic words and manner had not been clear to him. He had caught the words but not their full import, and yet—what was it she had been saying about womanhood being sacrificed, of being “bartered”? Had she meant that marriage necessitated such sacrifice? But surely, surely she had not meant that a child could be welcome without the marriage blessing—a child outside the sacred fold of wedlock? In a dazed manner his hand went up to his head. “Here you can become acquainted with the sentiments that fill your mother’s heart and soul, and find a reflection in every word uttered by your sister.” As with a red hot iron the words seemed burned into his very soul. These his mother’s sentiments? This his sister’s religion? His eyes rested upon the faces of the girls; a sweet purity was reflected upon each while Hilda appeared surrounded with a halo. Some strong impulse drew him closer to them; he felt uplifted, borne upward, floating in cloudy mists—a feeling of widening, expanding, filled his being until the words of Hilda again came surging in his ears, “we may not even welcome a child to our arms when we desire it unless we have first permitted our freedom to be shackled, made a barter of our womanhood for motherhood, thereby turning the precious boon into a bitter curse.” Blank horror made his blood run cold; he felt as if an icy hand was clutching at his throat.
“What is it—are you not feeling well?” Imelda asked the question and Edith’s soft warm hands gently pushed him into the nearest chair, handing him a drink of ice water. She understood perfectly well what it was that ailed him, and feared they might have repelled him so much that he would not again seek their presence. So with her ready woman’s tact she led the conversation to other subjects. Music and art, the beautiful in general, were discussed, and finally a request was made that Cora should sing again ere they parted for the night. She surprised them by singing a hymn. But all understood there was a meaning underlying the usual import of the words, “We shall know each other better when the mists have rolled away.”
It was with very mixed feelings that the good nights were spoken, and as Hilda’s hand for a moment lay in Westcot’s a look from his dark eyes flashed into hers, a look that sent the warm blood in a glow to her face, flooding it to the very roots of her hair. Accompanied by the two young men, Norman and Osmond, the sisters were rapidly driven home, the pressing invitation “to come again,” still ringing in the boy’s ears; and when at the door of the home of this sister pair Hilda also held out her hand to Osmond asking him to call there. After a moment’s hesitation he placed his hand in hers and promised.
Days and weeks had again sped on, each day bringing its own events and lessons. The summer’s sunshine had changed to the glow of autumn, and just as marked had been the changes with many of our friends. More firm had become the bond of friendship and love that bound them together, more clearly defined—because more clear the ideas, the ideals that formed the central attraction around which love and friendship clustered; day by day they understood each other better, and also themselves better, and their lives became purer, higher, nobler.
But still they were waiting, waiting. They recognized that their work was not yet done, but pulses beat higher, eyes shone brighter, smiles more radiant, as they were learning the old, old story over again. At least several of our charming circle were being blessed with that experience. Lawrence Westcot’s heart was once more drinking in the lessons of love, and his nature was broadening and expanding under its influence, while Hilda seemed almost glorified, as she moved about, soft snatches of song dropping from her lips. Edith was almost as happy, sunning herself in the reflection of her sister’s new-found love. Alice also saw and was happy. The old child-like merriment had returned and the rooms resounded with merry jests and silvery, tinkling laughter.
One evening when Alice had surprised Norman in the gloaming she had not been able to resist the longing, yearning spirit. Creeping up behind him her little snowflake hands had closed his eyes. Ere he had caught the meaning of it a pair of warm dewy lips had been pressed to his. Then she would have fled, but quick as lightning her hands were made prisoners and, despite the desperate struggles of the furiously blushing little woman, she was drawn into the circle of light where Norman in a most wicked manner enjoyed her dire confusion. But presently drawing her to him and enfolding her in his arms he whispered:
“Now for revenge!” The drooping moustache brushed her face and for a little while Alice felt herself smothered; so sweet, so clinging, so really in earnest were the kisses which were pressed upon her lips, and when a few minutes later she came flying into the presence of Imelda, who had both the little girls standing at her knees trying to teach them some object lesson, the young instructress looked up in some surprise at the disheveled figure. The fair hair was tossed and its owner was pressing both hands to her flaming cheeks. Ere Imelda could frame the question that was trembling upon her lips Alice had sank beside her on her knees and hid her face in her lap.
“Don’t say a word,” she whispered, “until you have heard what I have to say,” and drawing the dark head down so that she could place the rosy lips to her ear, she hurriedly whispered a few sentences and then drew back to watch the effect. Imelda’s face betrayed nothing; she only placed her arm about her friend’s neck and for a few moments laid her face upon the fluffy hair, then after kissing her repeatedly she said, with a sweet smile:
“I believe it is about time that these little folks receive their evening meal and then to bed. So, for a little while I must be excused.”
An hour later as Imelda was standing in the embrasure of a window, a manly head bent above her; an arm tenderly drew her head to be pillowed on his breast while the whispered words, “My own, my best beloved,” caused her own heart to beat in answering throbs and a sigh of sweet content parted her lips.
Only Edith, in those days of pure happiness, wore a look in the dark eyes that portrayed a something hidden in their fathomless depths, a far-away dreamy look that spoke of hopes not yet realized. Sometimes when no eye was looking a suspicious moisture would gather in the dark wells and for a while would dim their glorious luster, but not for long. Where there was so much warmth of heart and joyousness of spirit it was not possible that one whose life had been so practical would cast a shadow upon the bright faces around her.
There was yet one other whose happiness consisted in dreaming of the future and waiting hopefully and patiently what it might possibly bring, and that other was Cora. But not in idleness was she waiting. He should not have reason to think that she had wasted precious time; so she had studied on. Not only studied but already she was using her talents to advantage. As soon as she was strong enough she had insisted on doing something to be self-supporting, and through the aid of her friends she had been successful in obtaining quite a class of music pupils, foremost among whom was Meta who gave promise of future wonders. One hour in the early morning, however, found her with another pupil, and that pupil was Imelda. Much as she desired it Imelda had not hitherto found the time and opportunity to apply herself to this study, for which she possessed a talent that surpassed even that of Cora, whose music had settled in her throat rather than at the ends of her fingers. More than once Cora had said:
“Not long till you must have a more competent teacher.” Thus the sisters daily grew more close together with an appreciation of sisterly love in their hearts such as is rarely known by those who have been cuddled in the lap of fortune since their infancy.
But there was still another—another growing daily in light, in breadth and in intelligence. Osmond Leland had returned again, and yet again, to the charmed circle and was, as it were, born into a new life. And as, day by day, he better understood the sweet purity of these girls, so also did the events in connection with his old life stand out in glaring contrast. To his sorrow and dismay he found, upon close investigation, that his father’s life was neither pure nor truthful. Contrasted with the pure nature-love and poetic beauty displayed in every word spoken by these new friends the coarse and lewd jests indulged in by his father and his companions could not fail of effect. It was but a short time until he felt his soul revolt at their ribaldry. More and more he felt himself attracted and, still more often he found himself seeking the society of the coterie of fair girls who each in turn imparted their ideals and dreams to the susceptible young heart, so eloquently that it went out to each and all in answering throes, and at the same time there was born in that heart a secret yearning and longing for the mother and sister who were as strangers to him. Often when he sought the Westcot home at an earlier hour in the day he had the, to him, rare pleasure of a romp with Alice’s baby daughters. Norma would clap her chubby hands and scream with delight, while Meta’s dark eyes would glow and sparkle. But while Norma, with all a baby’s delight of pulling her victim’s hair would soon tire, and was content to cuddle up in his lap where she would often fall asleep, Meta would softly steal up behind and take possession of him in a more gentle manner. Her soft little fingers had a peculiarly tender touch as she patted his cheek and toyed with his hair, arranging the blond curls into a mass of ringlets. She would thus keep her fingers busy for an hour or more, and never seemed to tire. The dark eyes would have the same glad sparkle at the end as at the beginning, and Osmond seemed to enjoy the performance as well as the little ones. On several occasions he had stretched himself out upon the carpet when the serious bright-eyed sprite would lift the fair head and pillow it in her lap and while toying with his hair would put him to sleep. This would afford her extreme pleasure. She would not permit anyone so much as to whisper while she guarded his slumber.
The young mother and her girl friends watched the play with amusement and pleasure. Was there already a spark of the future woman in the little child’s heart?
Thus the autumn with its gorgeous colors had come and gone. Chilly days and raw wet nights were now in order, but the glowing fires in the grates added to the cheerfulness of the rooms and the closely drawn curtains closed out all that was unpleasant and dismal. Then came the icy frosts and the first snow and with it a letter from Wilbur announcing the long promised visit to himself and Mrs. Leland. Edith and Hilda were almost wild with joy and anticipation. At last! at last! this so long, so sorely missed brother coming home to his own, to clasp them in his arms, and they counted the days and hours until he should be in their midst. But theirs were not the only hearts that beat high at the contemplation of the coming event. Imelda was scarcely less excited than were the sisters. With a tender cadence the name “Wilbur” lingered upon her lips, but not for him alone did her heart beat with joy. Mrs. Leland received no small share—her bonny Margaret’s mother. And yet another heart beat with a strange flutter in anticipation. Osmond, when told of his mother’s expected visit, had turned white to the very lips. Faint and trembling he had sunk into a chair, and for the remainder of the evening had been unusually quiet and absent-minded.
“What is it? Not pleased, Osmond?” The boy looked up into Imelda’s eyes and she saw that his own eyes were filled with tears.
“Do you know, do you realize what this meeting may mean to me? My heart is going out in advance to the woman who is my mother. I know I shall love her. I know that I shall find her all that my mind has pictured. I know that I shall find in her eyes a new life; in her eyes and arms, such as I have never known. But what else will it mean for me? Great as has been the fall of respect for the man who is my father, when I contrast his life and teachings with what I have here been taught,—yet for all that he is my father! That fact remains. The forming of new and purer ties means the sundering of some old ones, and although I can only win thereby an untold amount of good, the fact still remains that it hurts.”
Imelda’s hand gently passed over the clusters of fair curls as she said,
“I can but honor you for an emotion that is the surest proof of a heart good and undefiled. I feel certain that if you will follow its dictates you will soon be able to judge whether it was affection for you which caused your father to pierce your mother’s inmost soul by depriving her of the child she had nourished with her heart’s blood. Can you think of more refined cruelty than to rob a mother of the babe that has lain for months beneath her heart, and that, with the most excruciating pain and with great peril to her own life, has been born into the world? Do you think a father’s affection can excel, or even equal, the love of a mother? Then think of the years of hungry yearning that have filled that gentle soul.”—
The boy had not answered, but throughout the evening had remained quiet, lost in thought. But after that, day by day a restlessness had come over him scarcely permitting him to remain any length of time in one place. More glaring became the father’s coarseness as with a critical eye the boy followed his movements—his actions and his words. Often he found himself remonstrating with him. At first these remonstrances had elicited blank surprise, then he had been rudely laughed at and taunted that he must have fallen in love with some Sunday school Miss.
“That’s all right,” Mr. Leland had said. “Couldn’t help being sweet on the little creatures myself. In fact am so occasionally yet, but not to the extent that it is going to interfere with any enjoyment in life. Don’t be foolish, boy. Kiss the pretty soft lips and tell her pretty nothings to satisfy her; that need not prevent you from doing just as you please; and by no means, let me tell you, will it affect me. Girls are pretty playthings that help to while away the time, but the man is a fool who permits one of them to affect him more seriously. I have had a dose of it which I have no desire to have repeated.”
Fearing a tirade against a certain woman who all unconsciously had grown into his affection he swallowed his disgust and left his father to himself. Judging his mother by those other women whose “sentiments” were the same as hers he came to wonder how it had come about that she could have linked her fate with that of his father. He reproached himself for entertaining such thoughts, but yet was unable to banish them. And so it came that often and still more often Osmond found his way to the Westcot home. Sometimes he would also wend his way to the home of the Wallaces, but as the sisters had no control there outside their own sanctum it was not quite so homelike and harmonious, not quite so natural and free. More often he would stop at their door only a few minutes to leave it a little later with both sisters under his care. Thus it was that time went by and the change, the most important event in young Leland’s life, came nearer.——
All day long the soft, fluffy masses had been falling, noiseless, incessant, covering hill and plain, and enveloping the world, as it were in one vast winding sheet. The merry sleigh bells were tinkling, but it was more work than pleasure to be out in the soft yielding masses of fresh fallen snow. The hearts of the young beat with glad anticipation of coming pleasures, but older and wiser heads took it not so lightly. They looked more seriously at the mass of whirling fluffy flakes as they came piling down faster and even faster until you could see scarce a half dozen feet before you, while anxiety crept into many a heart. And not without cause. Already every train was late, and there was much fear of trains being snow-bound. In the evening, when in spite of unpleasant weather our friends gathered at the Westcots’ they wore very serious faces indeed. According to the dispatch they had received, informing them on what train the dear expected ones would leave Chicago, they would be due in Harrisburg the following morning at ten o’clock. If they had started at the time intended they would in all likelihood be detained many hours. If they were fortunate enough to lie over in some city there would be no harm done, but on the trackless prairies it would be far from pleasant at the best. There was no music and singing that night. Too much anxiety for merry-making, and at a much earlier hour than usual they again dispersed. Edith and Hilda’s hearts were heavy as they kissed their girl friends good night. So long, O so long they had hoped and longed and waited for this brother to come, and now—Surely, surely their fondest hopes would not be thus rudely shattered. With a mighty effort the tears were forced back and bravely they clung to cheering hope. Just as they were about to descend the stone steps leading from the front of the building, two strong arms wound themselves about Hilda’s form and lifting her bodily carried her safely to the waiting cutter. Warmly and snugly she was tucked in by loving hands and just for one moment a pair of mustached lips touched hers, then the words were whispered in her ear: “Courage little girl! be brave and strong. Tomorrow evening someone else will be claiming kisses from these sweet lips. Our precious ones will surely come.”
It was the first time Lawrence had put his love into words and action, and the trembling lips of the blushing maiden thanked him for the sweet cheering words.
Norman had performed the same office for Edith. To save her feet from damp and cold he also had carried her down to the waiting cutter and tucked her in beside Hilda. Then taking his seat beside Osmond, another hasty good night, and soon the tinkling of the bells were lost in the distance.
Osmond was quiet; he had been quiet all the evening. Scarce a word had dropped from his lips. It is very doubtful indeed if the girls felt more keenly than he the danger threatening the travelers. The tension on his nerves drove him almost mad. He dare not give expression to his fear. It meant so much, so much—this coming of his mother. If she should perish! With a sudden clicking sound he clinched his teeth while the horror of the thought caused him to close his eyes. Would he then be able to say, “It was all for the best”?
The dismal drive came to an end. The girls were safely seen inside their home. Osmond was next deposited at the door of his father’s dwelling and shortly after Norman also was housed within the four walls of his room. When the morning broke the snow was still falling with a likelihood that there would be no change very soon. The trees were bending and breaking under their load and only with the greatest difficulty could either man or beast move about. Trains which had been due the day before could not be heard from, owing to the fact that in many places the telegraphic wires had been broken. Evening again came, but as yet no news from the expected train whereon our travelers were supposed to be.
About noon the fall of snow had ceased: a change of temperature had set in; gradually it had been growing colder until at midnight of the following night the cold had reached an intensity which was almost unbearable. This added greatly to the horror of the possible situation of the travelers, and our friends were in a fever of anxiety. With blanched faces they moved about in their respective homes scarcely able to endure the dreary hours of waiting.
Again the night passed and another intensely cold day was ushered in, and not until noon did any news reach them. A message was wired from Pittsburg that the train had been snow-bound in Ohio. Rescue trains had been sent and in all probability if nothing farther occurred to cause another delay, the train would reach Harrisburg by Thursday evening where it had been due Monday morning.
Impatience must be curbed. Another night and day must pass ere they could hope to fold their loved ones to their bosoms. But tedious as the hours had moved, the day was at last nearing its close, only a few more hours and then?—Just as the clocks were striking the hour of nine the puffing monster came steaming into the city with its load of human freight.