Imelda had seen Margaret in similar moods before, and she knew of the
intensity that sometimes lurked beneath the smiling exterior. She knew
Margaret’s most dearly cherished desire was some day to be a mother. To
press the rosy dimpled infant, the child of the man her heart owned
king—to her jubilant heart was her dream of dreams. But with this gift
that she so craved she demanded no common conditions and environments.
To call into being a perfect child she must be a perfect mother, and she
understood, only too well, that she could not be that, surrounded with
imperfect conditions.
Something had vividly portrayed this dream before her eyes today. Imelda
understood the fierce storm of emotions that sometimes shook the nature
of the proud girl to its very foundations. But Alice did not understand.
She was rather frightened than otherwise at the storm that had so
suddenly burst from the lips that had but a short time previously been
overflowing with gayest merriment. The depths of feelings thus exhibited
was a revelation to her. She had never heard such wild, such passionate
words from any one, much less from the lips of a woman. In a helpless
manner she turned to Imelda for explanation. But Imelda appeared to have
forgotten the presence of Alice, as she sat blankly staring after the
receding form and at the door through which she had passed, and only
after Alice had twice spoken her name was she recalled to herself. With
a deep heart-felt sigh she arose and began arranging her simple toilet,
but never a word did she say of the queer manner of her friend, until
again the voice of Alice aroused her.
“What was it you said? O, the meaning of this strange outburst. I don’t
know if I would be able to explain the moods of Margaret. I doubt if
anyone could explain them, but she is the dearest, sweetest, noblest
woman that ever lived. Her life, like mine, has been overshadowed by
those of her parents. She understands the meaning of the finger of
scorn, and her proud spirit rebels against it.”
“The finger of scorn? What do you mean? Explain yourself.”
“Margaret’s mother is a divorced woman.”
“A divorced woman!” broke, in a surprised cry, from the lips of the
young woman. Another question seemed to hover on them, but checking
herself she waited an answer. Imelda smiled. She understood what was
going on in the other’s mind. When, in all the past, had a woman gone
through the dread ordeal of the divorce court that the world in general
and women in particular did not believe that she was not in some way to
blame for all the shame that had been heaped upon her? She who had the
strength to dare to go through the calumny of the divorce court was, in
the minds of many, composed of some grosser material than that was used
in the composition of women in general, and little Alice Westcot was by
no means above the common.
How could she be? Had she ever been taught otherwise? She had yet to
learn that the divorced woman, instead of being a coarse-grained
creature of the slums is more often possessed of a nature most refined,
and far superior to her surroundings. She had yet to learn that it was
for that very reason, often, that the divorced woman bears the shame,
the disgrace and the calumny heaped upon her by the cruel process of the
law, in order to escape a state so distasteful to her sensitive soul
that death itself is preferable to the continued endurance of bondage.
Imelda knowing this could only smile, but she hastened to say:
“Yes! her mother was married to a man that Margaret is anything but
proud to acknowledge as a father. He was coarse and brutal; often
descending to so low a level as to strike the woman who was the mother
of his children. Margaret’s mother was a woman very sensitive and
refined. The only wonder to me is that she ever could have made the
selection that she did, unless the fact that she was little more than a
child could be considered an explanation. He drank, he cursed her, he
struck her. He did not provide. The more she worked the less did he do,
and the more he depended upon her efforts to gain a livelihood, until
finally one day she took her babes (she had two of them) in her arms and
left the man who had made of her life such a miserable ruin.
“As time passed he sought to induce her, by every effort in his power,
to return to him; but his efforts were unavailing. She would rather, she
says, have thrown herself with a babe clasped in either arm into the
cold waves of the darkly flowing river than again return to the bondage
from which she had escaped. For, added to all the other indignities she
had been forced to bear, were the constant outrages perpetrated upon her
womanhood, and which she could no longer endure.”
“The brute!” broke, in a passionate exclamation, from the lips of Alice.
Not heeding the interruption, save by a quick sharp glance at the young
woman by which glance she noticed that her lips were compressed and the
delicate hand clinched, she proceeded with her story.
“Finding her mother could not be induced to return he finally entered a
suit for divorce, and here the demon nature of the man showed itself in
its most depraved form. It would have been the easiest thing in the
world to have obtained a divorce upon the grounds of desertion, as
nothing could ever have induced her to return to him, but that did not
suit his vile purpose. He circulated all the unclean, defaming reports
about her that his low mind could concoct, which brought Mrs. Leland to
the verge of insanity.
“At last it was all over. Once more she was a free woman, but defamed
and disgraced before the world. It was then she registered a vow that
the world should yet pay her the respect that was her due, and nobly has
she kept her word. Her daughter Margaret can go with head erect into the
best society, while she herself is everywhere treated with the most
marked respect. But for all that, Margaret has oft times felt the stigma
her father has placed upon her mother, and through her upon her own
name, and many of these fierce outbursts,—one of which you have just
witnessed, are due to that fact. But Margaret, like her mother, is pure
gold, and no taint remains upon her, or upon her equally true and pure
mother.”
As Imelda finished speaking she finished also her toilet, and sinking
into a low rocker, in a tired manner, laid her head against its back.
Presently Alice slipped forward and knelt at her side. She laid her face
against Imelda’s knees but said nothing. For a few moments the young
girl permitted her to retain this position, then laying her hand upon
the fair head and gently brushing the blond hair from the white temples,
said:
“What is it, Alice?” A change had come over the merry features. A
hitherto unthought-of sadness dwelt in the light eyes where also a
suspicious moisture was visible, and with a noticeable effort she
conquered something that was gathering in her throat.
“Nothing,” she replied. “What should I have to say? Only Mrs. Leland’s
history has placed a new light upon divorce in my eyes. I have never
heard a case thus discussed, or seen it placed in such light before. She
was at all events a brave woman, and I would like to meet her. As for
Margaret I know I shall always love her.”
“If you really wish to meet Mrs. Leland nothing will be easier,” Imelda
said. “I am to spend the evening with them. You can accompany me and
judge for yourself.”
“Thank you. But you must remember, Margaret has not invited me. So you
see I cannot go.”
“Nonsense! I see nothing of the kind. Margaret is not responsible for
the oversight she has committed and I will take it upon myself to
introduce you into their pretty but simple home. But really, I feel
hungry. I have not taken food today, and my stomach demands its rights.”
“Not taken food today? Why, Imelda! what do you mean? Do you know what
time it is?”
“I must confess that I have not been troubling myself to ascertain, so
cannot answer your question.”
“Well, you seem to attach little importance to the craving of the inner
man—or woman, which is it in this case?” laughed Alice. “But for all
that, will answer my question myself for the enlightenment of your
pitiful ignorance. It is now half past two. I am usually not any too
early a riser myself but long ere this I generally have eaten my second
meal.”
“Little gourmand!” smiled Imelda. “I wonder you do not say it is time
for a third one.” Alice laughed lightly.
“That is a libel,” she said. “I protest; but in order that you may be no
longer exposed to the danger of starving yourself I insist that you now
go with me. I will take care of you in the most approved style.”
Imelda protested. “A glass of milk, some fruit and a piece of cake, will
be all-sufficient and I have a supply of that on hand.” But Alice
insisted so strenuously that Imelda succumbed and in a short time both
were comfortably seated at a table in a restaurant awaiting the dainty
viands that Alice had ordered notwithstanding the protesting looks of
Imelda. But Alice only laughingly shook her head and proceeded to call
for some little extras. It seemed to afford her a peculiar pleasure to
press these little attentions. She was happy to be able to contribute
towards furnishing some little pleasure for the friend for whom she knew
life had hitherto not turned the sunniest side, and Imelda soon came to
understand that it was useless to protest against her friend’s
generosity.
Having finished their meal they seated themselves in the carriage that
stood in waiting, and were soon bowling along the shady drives. For
awhile thought was busy with each of the fair occupants. Imelda was
thinking of the changes that had come into her life, past and present.
How many sighs, how many tears lay in the bitter past. She shuddered as
with cold, on this blazing hot day. No, no! She was done with it. She
did not desire to resurrect its skeleton memories, even though some
dearly loved ones belonged to that past. But the present? Were not the
changes the present was bringing also fraught with bitterness? Yes, but
not without hope. The green banner of hope was held high, indicating the
coming of better times. There would be sweet memories mixed with the
pain of parting. And the future? She would win it, she would conquer it.
She would not be less brave than Margaret who so earnestly vowed to
conquer all obstructions.