CHAPTER XXIII.

AFFLICTION OVERTAKES MOLLIE.

Mr. Heatherford sought an interview with Mr. Temple the morning following his revelations to Mollie, when he did not hesitate to inform that gentleman, much to his surprise, that he had discovered by whom, and by what methods, he had been fleeced of his last dollar.

Mr. Temple attempted to deny the impeachment; but there was so much of embarrassment and of conscious guilt in his manner that he stood self-convicted. He had been wholly unprepared for such a disclosure, and, consequently, was taken off his guard, while he was evidently deeply chagrined to learn that the secret of his blind operations had been discovered.

Mr. Heatherford had his say out in a quiet, dignified, but impressive manner, after which he bade the man good day, and left him to chew the cud of reflection, which he did in no enviable frame of mind.

Of course, Mrs. Temple and Philip were in ignorance of Mr. Temple’s agency in Mr. Heatherford’s misfortune—indeed, they knew nothing of his methods of doing business—and, upon learning that Mollie and her father were to leave for New York that evening, Mollie having sent a messenger with a brief explanatory note to Brookline, to get a box that had been stored there, they drove in town to pay them a farewell visit.

Mr. Heatherford was out, but Mollie received them courteously and strove to entertain them graciously, and yet the visit was formal and constrained; for the power of thought is mightier than the tongue, and Mrs. Temple’s mental attitude, in spite of her surface smiles and volubility, made itself felt.

Phil threw something of the lover into his manner, notwithstanding the warning glance from his mother, at parting, and gave Mollie’s hand a lingering pressure that was intended to speak volumes, while he observed, as he loitered a moment after Mrs. Temple passed from the room:

“Mollie, I cannot bear to have you go like this; tell me where to address you, and I will write.”

“At the old home on Fifth Avenue, for the next week or two; more than that I cannot tell you at present,” she replied.

“All right; you will hear from me very soon, and you must write me an explanation of this sudden flitting—I do not understand it at all,” Phil observed as, with another hand-clasp, he hurried away at his mother’s call from the hall.

To do him justice, he was somewhat in the dark regarding the unexpected departure of the Heatherfords. He had attended Mollie to a concert the night but one before, and, as she had known nothing of what was before her, of course nothing was said about any change, and the first intimation Phil had received was when her note had come announcing her return to New York that evening, and requesting that the “box” be sent to the railway-station for a certain train.

When he questioned his mother, she could tell him nothing beyond the fact that she knew that Mr. Heatherford’s “venture” had failed, and she supposed he had got to get home and settle up his affairs as best he could. Mrs. Temple would gladly have escaped the ordeal of a leave-taking, but she knew she could not do so without violating all rules of courtesy and decency; so, calling upon Phil to attend her, and thus prevent a “private interview and all nonsense” between the young couple, she made her farewell call.

Mollie and her father left on one of the Sound boats that same evening, arriving in New York the following morning, when they repaired at once to their palatial home on Fifth Avenue, and which they immediately proceeded to dismantle and make over, with most of its treasures, to Mr. Heatherford’s creditors.

Three days later all the world knew that the man had lost his all, but that he would meet every dollar of his liabilities, and thus leave a clean record and an untarnished name behind him when he should drop out of the social world, where he had so long held a prominent position.

Philip Wentworth wrote Mollie, as he had promised to do, a few days after her departure; but there was very little of the lover manifest in the studied sentences which he indited, and Mollie’s lips curled involuntarily with scorn, as, reading between the lines, she realized that she had been wiser than she knew when she had refused to commit herself by either confession or promise, to one who could not stand faithful under the frowns of misfortune.

She wrote a kind and friendly letter in reply, telling him frankly just how she and her father were situated—that they had lost everything, and were both about to learn from practical experience what it meant to have to work for a living.

“But”—and there was an undercurrent of reserve force and triumph in every line—“even though the future seemed to point to a far humbler sphere in life than they had ever known, she was by no means unhappy in view of the prospect, for she hoped now to learn just what she was best fitted for, and to prove the mettle of which she was made.”

There was no word or even hint of any tenderer sentiment in her letter, and Philip Wentworth heaved a sigh of relief as he read it, while he “thanked his lucky stars” that she had reserved her answer to his rash and impulsive proposal that day when they floated down the sunlit Charles, and thus he had escaped an entanglement that would have been exceedingly awkward for him to have broken away from.

Nevertheless, such is the perversity of human nature, he chafed in secret because he had failed to subjugate the heart he had coveted most of all, and so add another to the many victories of that kind which he flattered himself he had won.

He sent her a note of regret and condolence, and intimated that he should expect to hear from her often, and to be kept posted regarding any change of location, and hoped the time was not far distant when he should see her again.

But it was a long time after that before he heard from her again, and henceforth his letters to Gertrude Athol took on a tenderer tone, although he did not definitely refer to any consummation of their hopes, yet mentioned casually that he was contemplating getting settled in some business as soon as he could find a favorable opening.

Mollie Heatherford, however, realized that her old-time lover had proved recreant, even though he was too cowardly to confess it. But she did not grieve for him; she was far too busy, even if she had been inclined to do so, during those trying days when she was assisting her father in the settlement of his affairs and superintending the packing of their household-furnishings and treasures, which were to be sent to various places to be sold.

Not a murmur escaped her, not a sigh nor a tear, as one after another of the dear and beautiful things were removed from their accustomed places. She was cheerful, sunny, and intensely practical through it all, and chased many a gloomy cloud from her father’s brow by a merry laugh, a sparkling jest, and now and then by a mock reproof because he “didn’t obey orders from his superior any better.”

At last these sad duties were completed, and Mr. Heatherford, having obtained through the influence of a friend a situation in the post-office department at Washington, they removed to that city, where, taking a tiny house in a quiet but respectable locality, Mollie became mistress of the very modest home which their means would allow.

The enterprising girl wanted to put in an immediate application for a position as teacher in the public schools, but her father would not listen to the project, and appeared so sensitive upon the subject that she finally yielded, though reluctantly, and tried to be content with doing all in her power to make home pleasant and attractive for him.

And they were very happy, in spite of the great change in their circumstances and manner of living. They had only five rooms, but they were prettily, if cheaply, furnished, with odd pieces which they had been unable to dispose of when breaking up in New York. Mollie proved herself a very thrifty and efficient little housekeeper, and carefully followed the instructions of an experienced colored woman who came to help her for a few hours every day.

Mollie Heatherford, untrained in domestic economy as she was, cheerfully faced the changed conditions of her life with a brave heart. The former heiress to millions, the carefully nurtured idol of a loving father, brought up from infancy in the lap of luxury, carefully shielded from the rough side of the world, now faced the stern battle of life as the daughter of a government clerk with a true womanly spirit of independence and determination.

Mr. Heatherford’s salary proved to be ample for all their needs, and they were even able to save something from it every month.

Mollie had begged a monthly allowance for household expenses, as soon as they were settled, and her father had given her sixty dollars, reserving the remainder of his income for rent and incidentals, and the girl was jubilant at the end of the month when she showed him a balance in her favor of fifteen dollars.

“I will do even better than that next month, papa,” she said with shining eyes, after she had made him go over her neatly kept accounts with her, “for, of course, I have made some mistakes during the last four weeks, but Ellen knows how to make every penny count, and I am learning something new every day.”

But, as the winter passed and the sunny days of an early spring warned them that summer would soon be upon them, Mollie could see that, notwithstanding his apparent cheerfulness, her father’s health was suffering from the unaccustomed confinement of the winter. He said he was well, but she knew that he was not, and she watched him with jealous eyes. He rallied somewhat during the month of his vacation, which they spent in a quiet New England town by the sea. This improvement, however, proved to be only temporary, for, late in October, he was suddenly prostrated by some affection of the brain which, from the outset, baffled the physician who had been called to attend him.

Another doctor was called, but the change brought no better results and Mollie grew wild with anxiety, as she realized that, in spite of everything, her dear one’s mind was rapidly failing, like a candle that has nearly burned out, for there were times when he did not seem to know her; then he would rally for a day or two, only to lose ground faster than ever.

Finally Doctor Partridge, the attending physician, requested that a consultation of specialists might be called, as he did not wish to assume the responsibilities of the case any longer without advice.

Mollie grasped eagerly at this straw, and two noted physicians were sent for to confer with Doctor Partridge. It was not a long conference, fortunately for the poor girl to whom the suspense of that one hour was torturing beyond description.

It was over at last, and the physician came to her, his face very grave and pitiful. Mollie sprang to her feet at his approach, and stood rigid and snow-white before him, awaiting the verdict.

“Miss Heatherford,” he said very gently, “it is my painful duty to tell you that there is absolutely no help for your father. We are all agreed that materia medica has been exhausted in his case, and it is only a question of time when he will entirely lose his mind and become utterly helpless. The specialists advised me not to tell you the worst, but I had given you my word that I would not keep anything back from you, therefore I could not feel justified in deceiving you.”

Mollie listened to this cruel ultimatum like one petrified and feeling as if she also were losing her mind. Then the strong curb which she had put upon herself suddenly gave way and she burst forth in wildly rebellious tones:

“I do not believe it! It cannot be true! I will not believe it! Oh, God is good—surely He will not leave me utterly desolate! Doctor Partridge, there must be help somewhere—is there not some one else to whom we can appeal? I cannot live without my father!”

The physician was almost sorry that he had not listened to the advice of his colleagues and kept the blighting truth from her. But she had been so calm and self-possessed through all that he had overestimated her strength. Still she had insisted upon being told and he had pledged himself to withhold nothing, and he believed he was doing his duty. He was a kind-hearted and conscientious man, and had been almost an enthusiast in his profession, but there had been times when he was sorely perplexed—when he was led to doubt the virtue of drugs and the conflicting and inefficient methods of his profession, and these seasons of doubt he found becoming more and more frequent as disease and experiences like the present were multiplied.

Doctor Partridge spent a long time with the sorely afflicted girl, trying to comfort and quiet her and advising her regarding the future care of her father. He told her that the most that could be done now would be to make him physically comfortable, and in order to do this she must have some strong, reliable woman come to relieve her of household cares and assist in the nursing. He said he knew of just the right person—a faithful negress, who had had large experience in sickness, was an excellent cook and who would be glad of a comfortable home and small wages.

Mollie wondered vaguely where the money was coming from to defray all these extra expenses, but she did not demur; she told the doctor to send the woman at once, and when she came, the following day, the weary and sorrowful girl found her a tower of strength, not only in the care of her father, but to her aching heart as well.

“Don’t yo’ take on so, honey,” said the sympathetic creature, when Mollie, with a wild burst of grief, told her of her father’s hopeless case. “De doctors don’t know eberyt’ing, spite of der pertenshuns; yo’ jest trust de Lord, honey, an’ He’ll brung it out all right.”

“Oh, where is God, Eliza?” cried Mollie helplessly, while sobs shook her slight form like a reed.

“I ’spects He am ebrywhere, honey,” returned the woman, with humble faith, and then she brought her young mistress a steaming cup of tea, which she made her drink, firmly believing it a panacea for an aching heart as well as an empty stomach.

But Mollie was no weakling. When the first fierce rebellion was over she began to consider the situation in a practical way. What was to be done for the future? How was her helpless charge, to say nothing about herself, to be provided for? Nearly all of the money which both she and her father had saved had been swallowed up by the physicians and other expenses of his illness, and some provision must now be made for their daily needs.

She could teach, if she could obtain a position; but she had no influential friends in the city to whom to apply for aid to secure a school. She studied the papers every day, with the hope of finding some want or advertisement that would come within her capabilities; but it was late in the season—the public schools were all supplied with teachers, and nothing else seemed to offer without requiring her to be absent from home too many hours during the day, and the outlook seemed dark.

One morning she had an errand to do at a bank on Pennsylvania Avenue, and, after attending to it and making one or two necessary purchases, she walked swiftly to a corner, to wait for a car to take her home. A pretty French maid, who was trundling in an elegant perambulator a lovely child of about three years, was standing talking with a young man, evidently of her own nationality.

They became so absorbed in each other that they appeared to be wholly unmindful of the child, who, however, seemed to be safe enough, for all Mollie could see, although she felt that the girl was neglectful of duty.

Presently an ice-cart drove to the curb and stopped. Almost at the same instant a strong gust of wind swept around the corner, catching the perambulator and sending it rolling to the very edge of the sidewalk, and within three feet of where Mollie was standing. But before she could stretch forth her hand to save it, it went off, was overturned, and the child, with a shriek of fear, rolled to the ground, directly in front of the powerful gray horse that was attached to the wagon.

The animal tossed its head with a startled snort, and reared upon his hind legs. The driver, a powerful man, with great presence of mind snatched at his reins and, by sheer muscular strength, held the animal back upon his haunches, with his forefeet madly pawing the air.

“For God’s sake, grab that young one, somebody!” he shouted wildly.

The French maid and her companion both appeared to be paralyzed with fear. Neither seemed able to move from the spot where they stood, although the girl filled the air with her shrieks.

Mollie, without a thought of anything save the precious life of the little one, bounded forward, and crouching low under the formidable hoofs, seized the tiny form by its clothing and sprang back upon the sidewalk, just in season to escape being crushed to death as the ponderous animal, now beyond the driver’s control, came down upon its forefeet.

It was a close shave, and had Mollie hesitated an instant, the child would have been beyond the reach of human aid. As it was, the fright and the fall had rendered it unconscious, and a slight abrasion on one plump little cheek, where the iron shoe had just grazed it, showed how very narrow had been the escape. Mollie’s skirt was badly torn where the descending hoof had caught and taken a piece out of it.

The nurse was almost beside herself with mingled joy and fear, and would have snatched her little charge from Mollie’s arms, but she gently repulsed her, and said in French—the language in which the girl had been conversing with her friend: “Be quiet, the baby is not hurt, and I am sure she will soon be quite herself. I will take her into this drug-store and have her cared for—secure the carriage and then follow me.”

The maid mechanically obeyed her, and appeared greatly relieved to have some one assume the responsibility of attending to her charge.

The proprietor of the store had once been a practising physician, and into his care Mollie gave the little one. She had already begun to revive, and now manifested considerable fear at finding herself in the arms of a strange gentleman, who, after looking her over carefully, said that she was uninjured.

Mollie was very sweet and gentle with her, and she was more than half-reassured before the familiar face of her nurse appeared, when she lapsed from tears to smiles, and was soon chatting like a magpie, in French, with them both.

The perambulator also had escaped serious injury, greatly to the surprise of every one, and little Lucille, as the child was named, was ere long comfortably settled among her pillows and being trundled homeward by the thankful Nannette.

Mollie walked a short distance with them, for she saw that the girl was still greatly overcome from the shock which she had sustained, and she kindly strove to reassure her, but cautioned her never to let go the handle of the perambulator when she was on the street with the little one.

She left them at the next corner, where they were to turn, having persuaded Lucille to kiss her and given her address to Nannette, who begged to know where she lived, so that she might come to thank her again when she was more herself; then she hailed an approaching car, and returned to her own cares and responsibilities.

The further experiences of the personages in this story will be related in the sequel to this story entitled “The Heatherford Fortune,” published in style and price uniform with this volume.

THE END.

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