The evening found her with her friends. After supper Wilbur came and was
told of the projected change. He bent a quick searching glance upon
Imelda and in the eyes that met his he thought he read a subdued pain.
All through that evening Imelda was unusually quiet. Wilbur and Margaret
played and sang but Imelda only listened. Mrs. Leland once in passing
behind her chair, laid her hand upon the glossy dark hair, slightly
bending the head so she could look into the dark eyes, saying in a low
tone:
“Are the dreams of the future not bright, dear Imelda? Don’t let the
shadows of the past follow you into the future. Keep a brave heart and
it will be strange if the future does not contain for you something for
which it is worth your while to work and wait.”
The dark eyes of the girl filled with a pearly mist.
“Thank you, Mrs. Leland. When you, who have certainly seen some of the
very darkest sides of life can still give such encouragement there must
indeed be a bright side to all things, only I am parting with so much
that is pleasant in the present, while the future is yet a sealed book.
Not knowing what it may contain, it is not very wonderful that I should
feel the least bit sad.”
“But you are to be an inmate of a beautiful home and the companion of
the friend of former days.” Imelda smiled.
“Yes, of former days, indeed. In the present she is no longer
all-sufficient. I have been walking in the pathways of progress. She has
been lingering in those of blind faith, of contentment and of duty. I
fear there will be many lonely hours for me.”
“There may be,” said Mrs. Leland, “but also, maybe, you can take this
little girl by the hand and lead her by your side. Who knows what your
work in this new life you are about to enter really may be? So be of
good cheer. At all events it is not to another world, or even to another
continent you are going. You can send us your thought and your love and
receive a return in a few days. I know Margaret and Wilbur will both
expect a great many of the white-winged messengers, and they will keep
your fingers busy in their spare moments.”
She bent and kissed the warm lips of the girl and passed out of the
room, soon returning with a basket of luscious fruit. For a time the
music was hushed while the fruit was discussed. But as all things, the
best as well as the worst, must come to an end, so with Imelda’s visit
to her dearly cherished friends. As the evening was far advanced when
Imelda rose to go home, Margaret coaxed her to remain with her.
“For I am,” she said, “so soon to lose you altogether, that I want to
make the most of the short remaining time.” But Imelda was longing to be
alone.
“Not tonight, dear. Tonight you must excuse me. I cannot help it, but I
have so much to think about, so much to do yet. But tomorrow night, if
you wish I will come and remain with you,” and with that Margaret had to
be content. “Instead,” Imelda went on, “I would have you come with me.
It is not so very late yet, and a walk will do you good. Wilbur will
make it doubly pleasant coming back. What say you?” But now it was
Margaret’s turn to shake her head and say:
“Not tonight. But that does not mean that you will be permitted to go
home alone. Wilbur will take care of you. Will you not?” Wilbur smiled.
“It seems I have nothing to say in the matter but am quietly disposed
of,” he said with a spice of mischief, “the arrangement suits me,
however, so I will not object. Or, have you objections, little girlie?”
He looked at Imelda in such a quizzing manner that the tell-tale blood
dyed the pale cheeks to a dark crimson.
“If you desire objections, Mr. Impudence, it will not be a difficult
matter to satisfy you.” Whereupon the young man, in mock humility,
begged her not to deal with him too severely, plead for pardon, and
solemnly promised that he would not offend again. Thus laughing and
jesting they prepared to part for the night. Ready to start Imelda stood
some moments at the door gazing up into the starlit heavens. Wilbur in
the meantime wound his arm tenderly about his beloved Margaret. For a
moment she was enfolded in a close embrace; pressed to his manly breast,
his lips closed over hers in a tender clinging kiss. “My own precious
one,” he murmured,—“you love me?”
“As my life.”
Again their lips met, then he stepped forward to Imelda’s side and
together they walked toward the humble home of the girl. For awhile
neither spoke, and when at last their voices did find utterance it was
only to speak of commonplace matters. Their hearts were too full to
converse much; least of all of that which was uppermost in their minds.
Imelda’s leaving would make a great change for them all, and Wilbur felt
that it would make a decided change in his life. He almost feared to
give expression to his feelings,—certainly not under the starlit
heavens. So, when after a quiet walk through the nearly silent streets,
they reached the home which soon would know Imelda no longer, he
stopped, loth to leave her, and she, as if divining his thought, simply
said, “Come,” and just as simply he followed her up the three flights of
stairs into the little room where he threw himself into an arm chair at
the open window. Imelda was about to strike a light when he said:
“Don’t, please; come and sit here with me. It is easier to talk with
only the light of the moon.” And Imelda did as he requested, moving her
chair so that she sat just opposite him, but for awhile it seemed that
the moon, which was full and flooded the city with its pale silvery
glory, was not going to prove an inspiration to conversation, for the
moments slipped by until half an hour had passed, and as yet neither had
spoken. But now Wilbur turned and laid his hand gently upon that of the
dreaming girl.
“Imelda!” Low, soft, tremulous, the name dropped from his lips. She
started. Why was it that the mere sound of her name should thrill her
so?
“Imelda!” Again the low-spoken name came to her ear like sweet,
thrilling music, and suddenly, ere she knew how it had happened, she
found herself encircled by two strong arms, her head pillowed upon the
heaving breast, and the bearded lips pressed close to hers in a burning
kiss. Tender words and endearing names greeted her ear.
“O, my darling, it is hard to see you go, not knowing when, if ever, I
may see you again, and just as you were becoming so dear to me.”
“But Margaret?” came in a trembling whisper from Imelda’s quivering
lips. He held her closer still as he made answer.
“She is the dearest, sweetest woman that ever loved a man.”
“But she trusts you,” came from the trembling lips.
“And why should she not? Am I not trustworthy? Darling, she knows the
love I bear her is all her own, and surely, you do not think her so
small that she should deem it necessary in order to hold her own, my
heart must be held in such narrow confines that none other, though she
be equally pure, equally good, may find room therein? You do not think
that, do you? No, my love; Margaret is too true, too noble a woman to
fail to understand that no matter how boundless the love may be Imelda
has won, it cannot detract one iota from that which is hers in her own
right. I could not love her less if I would, notwithstanding the new
love which you, my darling, have won, and I cannot believe that Imelda
has been one of our number all this time without having learned to
understand that there is nothing so pure as the love that is free, free
to bring blessings upon the object that inspires that love. Love is
limitless. Each new object that finds its way to the innermost recesses
of a true lover’s heart brings new stimulus that each in term may reap
the benefits, the added blessings that are bound to come with the
calling into life of each new love.”
Wilbur Wallace was laying his whole soul bare before the pure eyes of
the young girl, and O, what a storm of emotions swept over her soul!
What a new import, and how different, these words conveyed from the
standards that had been taught her from her earliest infancy. A little
over a year ago she would have believed it to be rank treason to
passively listen, with such a sweet sense of enjoyment stealing through
her veins, to such passionate words of love from Wilbur’s lips,—and now?
Well! try as she would, she could not detect a feeling of guilt. On the
contrary she was conscious of being very happy at that precise moment,
and the conviction that had for some time been making itself
manifest,—that it is right to love, and to enjoy that love, whenever and
wherever Cupid may make his appearance, was forcing itself more clearly
upon her mind. She now began to believe and understand that nature is
right. That love must always be right, and so her answer to Wilbur was
only to nestle closer to his side.
It was not the first time that he had encircled her waist with his arms,
and kissed the ripe dewy lips. She had always permitted it, smiling like
a happy child, as she looked into the pure dark eyes above her. Often he
had drawn both fair girls to him, an arm about each slender waist, a
fair and a dark head resting upon either shoulder. Margaret never
thought that Imelda was robbing her, and into Imelda’s head the idea
never entered that such proceedings were not right, although he had
never folded her quite so closely, nor pressed her lips so firmly as he
had done tonight, and now she felt he was giving expression to more than
the friendship he had hitherto tendered her. With a mighty bound her
heart told her that Wilbur loved her! And Imelda?
O well, she was a woman! and as far as we have known her we have every
reason to pronounce her a true woman, true to all of nature’s holiest
instincts. So, who would or who could blame her when she gave herself up
to the subtle warmth that had crept into her heart and pervaded her
whole being? She felt her pulses throb and thrill, and knew she was
under the influence of the sweetest of all human emotions, but feeling
them to be pure she gave herself up to the influence of the hour, and to
the love that had unawares crept into her life.
Yes! Imelda now knew that she loved, even as she was loved, and the
minutes passed until they grew to hours—hours of pure holy joy, and when
Wilbur left her the dawn had crept into the east, and with his kisses
resting upon her lips she still sat at the open window, dreaming of the
raptures that life—sweetened by magic love—had brought her. And soon the
waking dreams merged into the sleep of youth and innocence as the brown
eyes closed; and still the smile hovered about the dewy red lips as they
in tender cadence whispered—“Wilbur!”