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.