The morning hours passed. The sun rose high in the heavens and still
Imelda slept; slept until the noonday rays fell across the fair flushed
face. The heat soon made the room uncomfortably warm, waking the
sleeping maiden who, confused at first, did not understand how she came
to be sleeping at the open window. But all in a moment memory returning
with a swift rush, brought back the sweet hours of the departed night.
The red life blood stained the fair cheek and obeying the first impulse
Imelda’s face was buried in her hands, hiding the blushes that stained
it. Such holy memories she would keep hidden even from the sun’s bright
rays. Then brushing the tangled tresses from her brow she cooled the
burning face with fresh cold water, darkened her room and disrobing lay
down upon her bed to rest the aching limbs that had become cramped by
reclining so long in an uncomfortable position.
But the desire to sleep had fled. Thoughts in the brown head revolved in
chaotic confusion. The sweet love dream wove rosy fancies until chased
by the more realistic thoughts of the near future, causing a feeling of
sadness until rose-hued love again conquered.
Thus for an hour or more, in sweet reveries indulging, and when the
excited nerves were becoming soothed, and soft slumber gently closing
the drowsy eyes, a low rap sounded upon the door. The next minute
Margaret was sitting upon the edge of the bed, chaffing and teasing
Imelda for being so lazy.
“It is easy to be seen,” she was saying, “that you were born for
something better than standing behind a counter, measuring laces. What a
perfect lady you would make, to be sure. Your very first holiday you
must use in practicing the airs, the manners of a fine lady.” Her clear
sweet laugh rang out while she bent and kissed the red lips of her
friend.
Imelda’s soft rounded arms wound themselves about the fair form bending
above her and drew her close to her fast beating heart. Laying her lips
to Margaret’s pink shell-like ears, she rapidly whispered; then drawing
back, eagerly did she look into the now quiet and pretty sobered face of
Margaret, who seemed to have sunk into deep thought.
“Margaret,” whispered Imelda. “Margaret what have you to say?” The large
blue eyes rested lovingly on the dark face before her, darker hued still
because of the burning blushes that were mantling it. Margaret’s answer
was to bend low and lay her face close to hers. Her eyes shone brightly
as she clasped Imelda to her breast.
“What have I to say? Why, as you followed the dictates of your heart you
have done perfectly right. Wilbur is so grand so noble a man, how can a
woman help loving him? You did not think I would find fault with you for
doing precisely as I have done? Maybe, if I thought it were possible
that you could win him away from me it might be that I would not treat
the matter so coolly,” [a new light dawned in Margaret’s eyes] “for I am
only human, and I love him, O, how I love him! I find in him my nearest
realization of heaven—as I can think it. He is to me life itself. If the
star of my love were suddenly to set I think my life would go out with
it. My love has power to sway me like a storm-tossed bark, like a mighty
oak in the wind. And you, Imelda? Tell me what is your love like.” The
waves of rich blood were flooding the face of the questioned girl.
“Not like that,” she said. “Mine is a quiet joy; it is peace; it is
balm. Like oil on troubled waters; a calm after a storm; a haven of
rest. To lose him would bring me pain, deep and lasting, but not a
complete wreck. But O, Margaret, I don’t want to think of anything like
that. The mere thought hurts.”
How long the girls would have gone on in this strain can never be known,
for at this moment a rap again resounded on the door of the room.
Imelda, frightened, quickly drew the covers closely about her form, the
next moment she was merrily joining in the silvery laugh of Alice who
had entered without waiting to be bidden. The dainty figure was attired
in rich black lace that became the lily fairness of the sweet face
exceedingly well. It was the first meeting between Margaret and Alice.
“A pretty, merry child,” was Margaret’s inward comment.
“Proud and haughty,” was Alice’s first thought. That was always the
first impression Margaret made on others, and only in the measure that
new acquaintances won their way into her heart did she unbend; only to
the nearest and dearest did she show the child of nature that she really
was. It was not long, however, until winsome, pretty Alice had found
that way, and for a while Margaret dropped the proud air that became her
so well and descended to the mimic and burlesque. She recited selections
of emotions and passion, until tears filled the eyes of her auditors,
then suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye, the broad brogue of Irish
Bridget caused them, with blinded eyes, to hold their sides, convulsed
with laughter. Then followed a negro song, ending with an Indian
war-whoop; whereupon she sat down upon the floor at their feet and asked
them if they did not think it rather foolish to so exert themselves with
laughing, such a warm day. “It is so exhausting, you know, and so
vulgar!” and waving her fan back and forward in the most approved
languid, lady-like style, she elevated her slightly retrousse nose,
while her companions went into new convulsions of laughter.
Leaving them to recover their composure she rose and stepping to the
window drew aside the curtains. In a moment she was lost to her
surroundings; her thoughts following her eyes into the distance, into
the future. Incomprehensible dreamer she was, as she gazed up into the
azure sky. The pearly teeth sank deep into the crimson lips. Tightly the
white slender hands were interlaced, while the large eyes became soft
and lustrous, a mist rising therein, and presently tears were falling
upon the folded hands, recalling her from dreamland to the realistic
present. Just then Imelda’s arm was wound about the snowy neck and her
quick eye caught sight of the tear drops. Her heart gave a quick
apprehensive bound.
“What is it?” grasped the paling lips as she caught the tear-bedewed
hands in hers. “Am I the cause?”
But already Margaret’s mood had changed; a bright smile played about the
sensitive mouth.
“No, dearest,” she said, “how could you.”
But Imelda was not so easily satisfied. The cruel fear entered her heart
that Wilbur might be the cause. The painful thought was reflected in her
eyes. All in an instant Margaret understood. Folding her arms about her
friend’s neck she said:
“Not that, Imelda, never that! I am not so foolish, but I do not
understand myself today. It is a day of my many moods. I am as changeful
as an April day. I was thinking of the future, what it may bring me. Do
not think, silly child, that your pure love for Wilbur has caused my
tears. Not of that was I thinking. Oh, the curse of poverty! I love
beautiful things. I love fame. I love wealth. I love a home, and I love
little children. [This last came almost in a whisper.] What will, oh
what will the future bring? Any of these? and which of these? will any
of my dreams be realized? Sometimes a sort of despair comes over me when
I think of the hours of trial, of pain, of suffering my dear mother has
been compelled to endure, with her nature so well fitted to enjoy and to
bless. A kind of wild anger sometimes takes possession of me. It has
been nothing but plod and work. Then I think if her fate is to be mine,
over again, I could curse the day I was born.
“But those feelings do not often last long. The determination to conquer
buoys me up. I mean to sway the world, and—I will! I will fight for
freedom until I obtain it. I will not permit myself to be shackled and
fettered. Society has placed fetters enough upon me at my birth; and I
will not add to their number. Free as the wild winds I mean to be. I
will conquer fate. The day shall dawn that victory shall be mine; and
then those I love shall be happy as the laughing sunshine of a summer’s
day.
“And to curb some one else!—to curb you, my sweet Imelda, could I do
that and be consistent with my ideas of justice? Never again, my dear
girl, never again insult me with that suspicion. Now good bye, my
precious one, this evening I expect you to be with me.”
Bending she kissed her, and without bestowing a single glance upon the
surprised Alice, Margaret was gone ere Imelda had fully comprehended her
meaning.