From that day forth a new life entered the charmed and charming circle. Lawrence proved to be the architect required, though he had never called his talent in this line to a practical account. Guided by Hilda’s vivid imagination, inspired by her enthusiasm and aided by the practical suggestions of Owen, the plan grew, and by the time the first green of the young spring appeared upon the landscape they were ready for action. Margaret had left them at the call of duty, and could only from afar share in the excitement and enthusiasm. Every heart was beating high with hope, and with the advent of warmer weather, Owen, Wilbur, Lawrence and Norman kissed their loved ones good bye and started on a prospecting tour.
Mrs. Leland was importuned to remain with the girls. Why should she return all alone to her western home?—though the probability now was that the west would be where their new home would be located. Just at this time, too, came the change that caused the sisters’ eyes to grow dim with tears and a feeling of sadness to pervade every heart. Frank was daily growing weaker, his cheek more hollow and white, his hands more waxy, and intuitively the girls clung to the more mature woman. On a bright sunny morning in the early part of May the tired lids closed, never to open again. Although almost every day brought a letter from some one of the absent ones yet they were still far-away when the death angel made his entrance into the midst of this happy circle, subduing their spirits with infinite sadness when they realized so well what had caused this painful result. So Frank’s body was laid away to sleep beneath the daisies, and Imelda’s and Cora’s tears mingled as they knew that another bond was broken—only they two remained, united by ties of blood, but they also realized that it was better so. At best he had been to them but a wreck of what he might have been. Margaret had joined them just in time to lay a flower upon his pulseless breast and was now with them again for a brief time.
The young physician, Paul Arthurs, and Milton Nesbit had settled close by, and Paul was beginning to have quite a practice as he was fast becoming known. For some time however, something seemed to have been secretly gnawing at his heart, and when his manner had been warmest towards the stately Edith he would suddenly and abruptly leave her, until his conduct became quite an enigma to her. One morning he laid a pack of written papers in her hand and told her to read, and——ah, well! why dwell upon a sad story longer than absolutely necessary? He loved the queenly girl but was conscious of such a lack of worth on his own part that he felt it would be best to give her up. Somewhere under the green sod slept a woman whom he believed the poison of his own body had murdered. Having first made a wreck of himself, almost, by early transgressions, the meaning of which he had been ignorant of, he had later contracted the germs of a loathsome disease. In his unpardonable ignorance he married a sweet, confiding, loving girl whom he loved with all his heart but whom he irreparably wronged by permitting his poisoned manhood to mingle with her pure womanhood; and when her baby girl was laid in her arms her eyes closed in that sleep that knows no waking, and the baby slept with her—under the circumstances the very best, probably, that could have happened. He was quite young when all this occurred—in the early twenties, a period of his life he never liked to think of. It was after that experience that he gave himself up to the study of medicine, and then he underwent a most rigid course of treatment, including very stringent rules or habits of diet, bathing and open air exercise.
“I can now look a pure woman in the eyes and know of a certainty that no harm can come to her through me, but for all that, the past is a blur upon my life, a stain which nothing can ever wash away. One word from you, my heart’s queen, will send me to my place and keep me there. I could not accept the sweet love shining in your eyes when I know my utter unworthiness, without laying bare the past, the memory of which follows me like a mocking fiend. Sweetheart, say but the word and I will never become an inmate of that home which now is being planned—if you deem me too impure, too unworthy to associate with the unsullied whiteness that will congregate there. But O, my darling! I love you as only a man can love when his manhood’s strength is most fully developed; but I must abide the verdict you may render.
Yours suppliantly,
PAUL.”
And what had been sweet Edith’s verdict? When next they met it was in the garden, under the blossom-laden trees. Paul was sitting with his head resting on his hand unaware of her approaching footsteps. From the rear she approached until she stood close to his side, when without a moment’s warning two soft warm hands drew his head back, two warm, dewy clinging lips were touched to his bearded ones, and the next moment he was pressing his cherished Edith to his heart, pouring all the pent up love of a strong nature into her willing ears. His errors of the past belonged to the past. She saw only a noble manhood to which she felt it would be safe to trust her womanhood.
About this same time, also a strange restlessness took possession of Nesbit. A nightly visitor at Maple Lawn, he seemed to enjoy the society of the fair women there with the keenest relish. Alice’s slight figure seemed perpetually dancing before his eyes and a great longing filled his heart. Alice, too, was restless. The color would rush in waves over her face at the sound of approaching footsteps. Although he saw and understood, yet he never said a word. With all the sweet possibilities the future so temptingly held out to him he kept his lips firmly closed while he knew full well that this fair little woman might be his for the asking.
One morning in early June Nesbit electrified them all by abruptly saying that he was going to New York. All looked their surprise. Margaret asked,
“Why?”
Alice nervously plucked the first full-blown rose to pieces as her color changed from red to white and white to red, but Margaret’s question was evasively answered. Again she asked,
“When will you return?
To which she received a short, “I don’t know.”
Bidding them all good bye he turned to go, when his eye rested for a moment on the swaying form of Alice who found it difficult to stay the hot tears. He hesitated a moment then, approaching the spot where she stood, in a low voice said,
“Come with me down the maple walk.”
Silently they walked until they reached the end, then,
“Do you know why I am going away?”
She shook her head.
“Because my heart yearns for you, and in that vast city dwells a woman whom I call wife. She has not been what the world calls true to me, yet I have treasured her long and faithfully. I feel I ought not to speak of love to another woman so long as she may have need of me. I know it was her own hand that cast the dice, yet I feel that I must know her fate ere I entirely cut loose from her. Oh, I loved her, Alice, in the days when she was mine, and still a latent tenderness lingers in my heart. Maybe she was not wholly to blame, but I have learned new lessons since. I feel a little woman here would prefer me to all others and my heart yearns to claim her. Will you kiss me just once ere I start on this journey which may bring me I know not what?”
Tenderly he raised the drooping head and forced the downcast eyes to look into his. It was too much. Two lips quivered pitifully, like those of some grieved baby, and two great tears rolled over her cheeks down upon the snowy whiteness of her gown. The sight robbed him of self-control. He gathered her in his arms, the tiny morsel, and held her there like some wee baby.
“I only want to see that she does not suffer; that she is taken care of, and then I will return. Indeed I will. Do not fear”—and then he was gone.
Thus Milton Nesbit left Maple Lawn and the charmed circle it contained, and another day brought him to old familiar scenes; brought him to the home where he had loved and suffered. It was Annie who opened the door in answer to his ring. Pale-faced, with a trace of tears about the eyes, with a gasp she caught her breath as she saw and recognized the man before her. He saw the effect of his appearance upon her and a great pity welled up his heart for her. Calmly he greeted her with,
“Will you not bid me enter?”
Hesitatingly she did so; speaking never a word, only stepping back she threw open the door of the well known little parlor. Within its cool shade he took both her hands in his,
“What is it, Annie? Trust me—tell me all. I have not come to censure you but to see that you are cared for. Has that scape-grace brother of mine——”
“Don’t,” she said, “Don’t blame him. He may be faulty, but he loves me. Ah, yes, he loves me more than I deserve. I made him reckless with my foolish cravings. Every wish of mine was satisfied. I could not realize that ten thousand dollars was not a limitless fortune, and when Robert, always delicate, broke down altogether, we were almost penniless. I tried then to repay him. I nursed him and I worked for him. All the pretty things he gave me I again sold, but I am afraid I cannot retain him. He is slipping away from my grasp, and oh! I love him so, I love him so.”
Almost choking, the words broke from her in a smothered sob. Her hands went up to her face and the tears trickled down through the thin, white fingers as the sobs shook her frame. A lump rose in Milton’s throat,
“Take me to him!”
“You will say nothing harsh or unkind?”
She asked it with a fearful tremor in her voice. He took one trembling hand in one of his, the other with a gentle caressing motion he laid on the brown head,
“When was I ever so unkind to you that you should fear me now? Lead on, little girl. He is my brother, and he is sick.”
With an effort she checked her sobs and dried her tears.
“Come,” she said. He followed her up the stairway into what had once been their joint bedroom, and there reclining upon a lounge at the window, his eyes wandering wearily, lay Robert. Pain and care had made sad havoc with the delicate frame. Annie glided to him and knelt at his side laying her cheek to his hand.
“Robert,” she said softly, “Robert, someone has come to see you!”
Turning from the open window his eyes fell upon the brother they both had so wronged; his face became ghastly,
“Milton, you here!”
Milton stepped forward,
“Softly, brother—no undue excitement. I bear you no ill will. I have learned to realize that it was not all your fault. It was all the outcome of circumstances over which none of us had any control. I have not come to censure you, but to look after your welfare. Without means, how can Annie give you the care you need?”
Robert scarcely could believe he heard aright,
“You do not hate me, then—me, the destroyer of your happiness? Oh, you mock me!”
“No! I do not mock you. True, you both have caused me suffering, but it was only the cleansing fire needed to purify the grosser part of my nature. I don’t blame you now—it was only natural. What is it your doctor prescribes for you? I want to see you get well and strong, and you can not do so with the load of anxiety I know your heart is burdened with.”
Annie bowed her head and wept, and Robert was too weak to restrain the tears that would start.
“O, Milton,” said Annie, “you are good; you are noble; how can we ever repay your kindness?”
“Tush! tush! little woman; say no more about it, but answer my question. What is it the doctor prescribes?”
“Oh, he prescribes what is far beyond our means,” sobbed Annie. “An ocean voyage may do wonders for him, the doctor says; and a tour in foreign lands. The sunny skies of Italy, the mountain breezes of Switzerland—a summer’s sojourn there might give him such health as has never been his.”
Milton stepped to the nearest window and gazed meditatively into—nothing. This would take more money than be had at his command, although he had quite a snug sum with which many necessities could be procured for the sick brother, but that was all. Should he call for aid upon the friend who had already been all too generous to him? Why not? Did he not know that his call would not be in vain? and was not the life of his brother at stake, and also the happiness of the woman who had once been all in all to him? These facts were now uppermost in his mind; all else was forgotten. Yes! he would ask Owen to aid him. So turning from the window he said:
“Cheer up, Annie, Robert shall have his voyage and tour, and you shall go with him. And when you return I hope to see the roses blooming in your cheeks. Possibly it may be wisest for you to remain abroad several years, spending your summers in the mountain air, your winters in the sunny south, in balmy Italy. In return I only wish to be kept posted as to all of your movements, I want regular reports as to the state of your health and when you are ready to return I may have something to tell you which I think will surprise you as much as you have been surprised today.”
In this strain he went on leaving them neither time nor opportunity to say much. Preparations were immediately begun. A telegram was sent to Owen. In a few days the required amount in ready cash was at their disposal, and two weeks from the day Milton first appeared at the side of his brother he saw him and Annie safe on deck the steamer “Anchor,” surrounded with every comfort money could buy.
“Be judicious with your supply of money,” was his parting injunction. “Let past experience be a warning. It is to regain your health you are taking this voyage. Remember and be wise.”
And Robert’s answer had been,
“I will! so help me the memory of my noble brother.”
As Milton bade Annie good bye, clasping her hand in his, he for a moment looked deep into the starry eyes, then bending he touched his lips tenderly to hers. Thus he left them. “Will it be for their good?” he asked himself. “Ah, well; time will tell!” Twenty-four hours later he held Alice in his arms, pressing burning kisses upon her sweet lips, while Lawrence saw and understood all. For Lawrence, in company with the others, had returned during Milton’s absence, and could well afford to smile, for had not a pair of serious gray eyes smiled him a welcome which had the promise of heaven in it?
What had been the result of the prospecting tour? A rare, sweet spot of Mother Earth had been found, with just enough of rugged wildness to show to advantage nature’s grandeur. Mountains in the distance; a rolling, undulating country; a winding river and the glassy bosom of the lake. Last, but not least, the towers and chimney pots of a distant city. All this could be seen from the rounded knoll gently sloped to its base, around which wound a merry rippling brooklet.
Thence a level meadow land which could be laid out in lovely lawns, parks and drives. Still farther on patches of woodland to the right and left; meadows with lowing cattle; a charming spot indeed, surrounded by nature’s loveliest scenes. Only about ten minutes walk to the little station-house south of the knoll, where almost every hour of the day trains passed and stopped, and which in forty minutes would carry you to the heart of the city. But it was not until the early days of August that ground was broken and work begun upon the mansion that was to stand a pattern and a beacon for the generations to come. The winter months put an end to the work and the long stormy evenings were again spent as before. But again spring returned and again the work was resumed.
At the same time hot-houses were built; a vineyard laid out; orchards planted with rare fruit trees, and berry patches cultivated. Grounds were laid out; drives made; miniature lakes appeared; grassy knolls; groups of trees; charming arbors; inviting summer-houses; cozy retreats and lovers’ nooks. To produce all this meant work—work to many willing hands; bread to hungry mouths. Owen paid the bills with generous hand, while each day at lunch time the workers enjoyed an hour or two of repose and shelter from the sun.