“But if my mother thought she was now freed from her husband’s
persecutions she was soon to be undeceived. He dared not enter her
father’s home but when the shades of evening came she soon found it was
not safe to step outside of the house as she never knew the moment that
he, like some uncanny apparition, would suddenly appear before her, and
soon he succeeded in making her so nervous that she was almost afraid of
her own shadow.
“Added to this trouble was the necessity of procuring work, for my
grandfather was not blest with any surplus of this world’s goods. It was
with him as with so many thousands of others, weary work from early morn
until late at night, in order to make both ends meet. The feeding of
three new boarders and the procuring of proper clothing for them was a
matter of no small importance.
“So having treated herself to several weeks of rest my mother most
seriously began to think of suitable employment, and one day began the
weary search for work. Many were the disappointments met with ere that
search was successful. But at length the tiresome tramp was ended. She
had answered an advertisement for chambermaid at a hotel and been
engaged. Little enough did it promise to bring her. It was the best,
however, she was at that time able to do. Having had no educational
advantages no very large field was open to her, and the need at hand was
pressing.
But her trials, it seems, had only begun. It soon leaked out that my
mother was a woman with that obnoxious appellation a ‘grass widow.’ She
was young yet, only twenty-three, and libertines, both young and old,
thought her their rightful prey. But her proud spirit rose to the
emergency. None ever ventured to accost her a second time with undue
familiarity. It was a severe strain upon her, nevertheless, and she had
not been very strong of late. Soon the effects of this strain became
apparent, and often she feared she must utterly break down. All that
winter she was under a doctor’s treatment, who would insist she must
have rest, absolute rest, or he would not answer for the consequences.
“But how could she rest? She had her two children besides herself to
clothe, and she could not bear to think of being an added burden to her
father’s family. So she only more firmly compressed her lips and bravely
worked on.
“No doubt she would have rallied more quickly but for the incessant fear
she was in of meeting my father. He shadowed and dogged her footsteps.
He threatened to steal her children. He circulated the vilest reports
about her and well nigh succeeded in ruining her reputation. When she
appeared upon the streets or in any public place she imagined she could
feel the stare of every man she met. All this had much to do in keeping
her poor in health and spirits.
“But as time passed her unusually strong nature began to assert itself.
Being freed from the curse of sex slavery her nerves became stronger.
The dark circles under her eyes disappeared. By and by she began to gain
strength in spite of the doctor’s assertion that she could not do so
without positive rest. But the knowledge of having her every footstep
dogged, her every action watched, was a constant horror to her, and she
often wished—if it were not for her children,—that she were at rest in
the grave.
“But at twenty-three it is not so easy to die. The young pulsing blood
courses with too much strength and warmth in the youthful veins. So she
lived and grew strong, and by and by youth more fully asserted itself.
She again took an interest in life and her cheerful ringing laugh could
now sometimes again be heard, making glad the hearts of her children and
friends.
“But yet another trial awaited her. My father was getting tired of
single-blessedness. At different times he had sent messengers to my
mother to ascertain when she intended returning to her home and duties.
To all such she made the answer—‘Never!’ So, just two years from the
date she had left him, he entered suit for divorce.
“I cannot understand how that man’s blood flows in my veins. Of all the
despicable means imaginable none were omitted to gall her sensitive
nature. He dragged her fair name through all the mire and filth known to
the divorce court. She was tortured with numberless disgusting
questions, such as I think no one has the right to ask, even though
holding the highest office in the land. The loathsome secrets of her
chamber of horrors were dragged into the light of day, for the court
must know _why_ a woman _dared_ to desire to leave her husband.
“The offensive questions that were asked her, and even more offensive
remarks made in an ‘aside’ by the prosecuting attorney, stung her to the
quick. Her white and trembling lips refused to answer but still the
torture went on. They must lash the quivering bleeding heart until she
was on the verge of insanity.
“Then the daily press took up the refrain. My father, of course, was the
wronged party. The man always is. Nothing of his inhuman treatment
appeared in their columns, but a blazoning of all the lies and slanders
he had in his maliciousness hurled at her defenseless head. Oh, the
sneers and the scoffing! I wonder how she ever lived through it.
“I understood nothing of all this at the time, but since I have become
old enough to understand, my mother herself has told me all the dark
story, and I never get done wondering how she ever was able to bear it.
Methinks if it had been _me_ there would have been murder in my soul. I
really believe if a man would subject me to such insults and abuses I
could in my righteous anger plunge a knife into his black heart!”
“Margaret! Margaret!” gasped Imelda, “how can you talk so?”
Margaret had arisen and stood with clenched teeth and hands. Her lips
compressed and eyes flashing, a picture of towering wrath. Then suddenly
breaking down she burst into a storm of uncontrollable grief and tears.
Imelda rose, and gently placing an arm about the weeping girl sought to
draw her to her side.
“Come, sit here,” she said, “and compose yourself. Remember all this has
long since past, and——remember also——he was your father!”
“_My father!_” With ineffable scorn were these words uttered. “To my
everlasting shame and sorrow, be it said, he _was_ my father, but do you
think that that fact would deter me from denouncing him as the monster
he is? And you can say it is all long since past! Oh, Imelda, Imelda, in
this _one_ instance,—my mother’s case,—is in the past, but oh! in how
many thousand cases is it not true today? It is _now_, that those
horrible deeds are being perpetrated. Oh, thou _holy_ ‘_sacred_’ thing
called _marriage_! How many sweet, pure temples of womanhood you are
daily, hourly defiling, by the unrestrained lust hidden under thy
protecting shelter. O, that I could proclaim it over the world; O, that
I could reach the innermost recesses of every pure woman’s and every
trusting maiden’s heart. Beware, oh! beware the serpent’s sting. How
long, oh, how long has the burden, the blame of the _downfall_ of man
been placed upon the slender shoulders of woman, while man stands
smiling by, gloating to see how easily the burden is kept there by that
horrible bug-bear custom. As it has been customary for her to bear it it
is supposed she always must bear it.
“Man sets up one standard of morals for woman and another for himself.
She, according to his idea of the term ‘pure,’ must keep herself _pure_,
undefiled, untouched. That means, to strangle nature’s desires, nature’s
voice and nature’s longings until some man who has been letting his
passion run riot, desecrating nature’s gifts until what remains is but a
wreck and mockery of true manhood, comes to claim her in her
inexperience. Then, in thousands of cases he drives her to insanity or
to an early grave, with his insatiable lust.
“Marry! I would not marry for all the wealth that is yet hidden within
the bowels of the earth. I will never, never, permit myself to become a
piece of property, wherewith some one man may do as he wills. I intend
to remain sole owner of my person.”
Imelda was awed by the storm of passion that shook the stately form of
her friend. Her words seemed metallic shafts of a “white heat,” entering
her sensitive soul. Could it be possible that man under his smooth
outward seeming, could be such a monster? Surely, surely such are only
exceptions, rare exceptions, never the rule. Her pure soul revolted at
the horrible accusations to which Margaret had just given utterance.
And, perhaps, this horror was intensified by hearing such accusations
drop from the lips of a girl whom she had always regarded as the
impersonation of maidenly purity.
And was not this girl pure? Yes; one look into that face, shining with a
glory almost unearthly, was sufficient assurance of that. But were those
accusations true? Again the conviction forced itself upon Imelda that,
so far as Margaret herself was concerned, those lips were certainly not
expressing a falsehood. But where, where had she learned to speak in
this manner? She spoke of the sweetness of love and the bondage of
marriage in the same breath. How could she speak of the desirability of
the one without the sanction of the other? They must go hand in hand,
and bear the risks attending such association. There was no other way.
These thoughts passed rapidly through Imelda’s mind; faster far than it
takes to trace them. Believing she might have misunderstood her friend
she could not but give speech to the doubts that were agitating her.
“Margaret! Margaret!” said Imelda, “calm yourself. Your words and manner
are so strange; I am unable to comprehend them. How can you speak thus
of marriage and yet welcome love? Surely I have not been mistaken in you
when I thought you a pure woman. You could not mean to make holy love
illicit, and desecrate it by removing the holiest of all holy sanctions,
marriage?”
Margaret’s sweet excited face underwent a change. The color faded
slowly, leaving it purest white. The firmly closed lips trembled; the
fireflash in the eyes died out; slowly the tears gathered in them until
the great pearly drops rolled down over the white cheeks, splashing upon
her tightly clasped hands. A sad look overspread the expressive face as
she said:
“My Imelda, have I shocked you? When you have been observing married
people, married life and all the consequences attending it, as long and
as closely as I have been, you will see as clearly as I now do that of
all things imperfect under the sun, _marriage_ is the _most_ imperfect.”
“But what would you do?” again questioned Imelda.
An added sadness seemed to settle upon Margaret’s face as she answered:
“Nothing, nothing at present. My mind is in a tumult seeking to break
through the cobwebs and mists that are beclouding it. I often think,
think, think, until my brain reels and then find myself no farther than
at the beginning.”
“But you were telling me, or giving me to understand that you have a
lover. I cannot understand how you, with the withering contempt in which
you hold man, could ever fall in love.”
Like a gleam of sunshine a smile flitted over Margaret’s face. “O,
Imelda! I am only human, and a child of nature, and nature demands, you
know, the attraction of the sexes, and Wilbur Wallace is a man _above_
the average.”
“You love him?”
“I love him.”
“But then——how——” stammered Imelda, not knowing how to shape her
question as to how Margaret’s views of marriage would meet those of the
young lover in question.
Margaret smiled. She understood what Imelda would ask.
“_He has not asked me to be his wife._ He does not wish it. He loves me
too well to place me in a bondage, the chains of which might wear my
life away. He would take me as I am, cherish me as something holy, lead
me where I am weak, but teach me to be strong.”
“And you are going to accept this offer? or——probably have accepted it!”
came in broken accents from Imelda’s stiffening lips.
But Margaret slowly shook her head. “I do not know, my dear, I do not
know. Here is where the cobwebs and mists keep everything enshrouded in
such utter darkness that I cannot see. O, that they would either clear
away, that I might see, or that I were daring enough to explore the
darkness and daring enough to take the risks I might incur. But here I
stall. Wilbur understands, and patiently waits. I know he is trustworthy
but I have not the courage.”
“And it is this lover of yours that has been poisoning your soul with
such radical ideas? O, Margaret, beware! you know the old adage men are
deceivers ever, and I would not have my Margaret among the lost.”
Margaret turned and looked at Imelda as if a sudden thought had struck
her. “I will say no more,” she said; “but I would have you know _him_,
my lover. Will you promise to meet me here next Sunday afternoon at two?
I will then take you where you will meet many radicals, and Wilbur
Wallace among the rest. There will be a lecture, the subject being,
‘Modern Radical Reform.’ A very interesting discussion is expected. Will
you come, Imelda?”
Imelda’s sweet dark eyes were filled with a troubled look, but the
searching glance with which she scanned the face of her friend could
detect nothing but the utmost purity and truth.
“I will come,” she said.