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.