“Mrs. Westcot will be getting uneasy if we tarry longer and indeed we
certainly will have no time to lose if we wish to meet our little friend
at the appointed hour.”
Thus admonished the girls made haste to prepare to leave. A few minutes
later the three were seated in a car hurrying toward their destination.
Imelda had bade Mrs. Leland farewell the evening before—at whose home
had been spent the last evening the three friends were together. She had
also found present there quite a number of her radical friends whom Mrs.
Leland had notified of the coming departure of Imelda Ellwood; and had
invited them to meet her at her home. All who had received an invitation
had come, for Imelda was a favorite and had found her way into many
hearts. All were sorry to lose the society of the intelligent young lady
friend and co-worker in the cause of humanity. None had expressed more
deep regret at the loss they were all about to sustain than our white
haired friend, Mr. Roland. He had taken Imelda by the hand, long and
earnestly had he spoken, giving her much fatherly advice, privately and
otherwise, as to the life she was about to enter upon. Among total
strangers the fact that Alice Westcot had been a girl friend in former
days did not weigh much with the old man. She was only one weak woman.
In the midst of these new surroundings Imelda would often find it
difficult to walk erect and self-reliant in the new path.
“It will hardly be an atmosphere of truth,” said he, “with which you
will be surrounded, but rather one of deceit and falsehood. Your powers
of discerning the pure from the debased will be severely tried. There
will be work to be done, for the true worker is ever on the alert. You
must be an opportunist, ever awaiting the chance to strike while the
iron is hot. Ever keep your eyes open. Point out the defects of a rotten
system; the unholiness of an unmated marriage; the uncleanness of lives
united without love; the loathsomeness of keeping up the semblance of
love when it has long since become a putrid corpse. Keep your mind
clear. Never let lust—passion—in the guise of love, draw near your side,
tainting your fresh young life with sickening noisomeness. It is
difficult to see clear in the dark labyrinth of society customs, and you
may stumble and fall. And oh, the difficulty of rising after such fall!
If it requires almost unlimited strength to obtain a firm foothold at
any time in the whirlpool of fashion and custom, it will require
strength superhuman to rise in a struggle in which you have once sunk,
and it will take all your strength of will power, all your keen sense of
honor and justice, all your sweet natural purity and self conscious
pride to always hold that queenly head erect and walk firmly among the
slippery pitfalls that unseen may lie along your every path.”
It was not a very pleasant contemplation that her aged friend had called
up before Imelda’s mental view, but probably a much needed and wholesome
lesson. “Forewarned is forearmed,” and if Imelda’s future was to escape
the temptation that so often besets the lives of beautiful women, so
much the better for her, as it would save her many little struggles of
the soul. But on the other hand it would never tend to harm her that she
knew something of the dark precipices of life. So she thanked Mr. Roland
for the well meant kindness that had prompted his words, and in bidding
him good bye she had permitted him to kiss her young fresh lips, well
knowing that only the most disinterested concern for her future prompted
the action.
One and all of the many kind friends had a parting admonition, a well
meant advice, a loving word of farewell, all expressing the hope at some
future time to meet her again. Mrs. Leland had folded her in her arms
and held her there as a mother does her tired babe, and indeed Imelda
had been tired. The events of the evening had been full of conflicting
emotions. The taking leave of friend after friend was not a light task,
and it had been a drain upon her strength. She would have much preferred
to spend this last evening quietly in the close circle of her most
intimate friends, and yet she also knew that she owed it to these others
who had always shown themselves so appreciative of her friendship, of
her small endeavors to aid them in their grand work of humanity. She
felt the desire to see them all once more before forever stepping from
the enchanted circle, and above all she would have been sorry had she
failed to receive the parting clasp of Mr. Roland’s hand.
When it was all over, the lips quivered and the eyes filled with tears,
as she laid her face to Mrs. Leland’s. The young matron gently passed
her hand over the dark head brushing the heavy waves of hair from the
white brow and in doing so discovered that Imelda was feverish. There
had been too much excitement and she feared it might prove detrimental
to the health of the young girl, so she had a nice fresh cup of tea
brought for her, then folding her close in a farewell embrace she kissed
her again and yet again, giving her much good counsel and many cheering
words. She had then sent her home, as she insisted upon going. More like
a sister than otherwise did Mrs. Leland seem to the parting girl as
indeed she always felt thus toward the young matron. The girls never
thought of keeping secrets from her; she was one of them, as she always
made it a point of being in the confidence of Margaret, which was given
voluntarily, as indeed it would have been difficult to be in the society
of this woman and not have full confidence and trust in her. She won it
from them and the girls knew only too well they could find no better
place for the safe keeping of that which they wished to entrust to her.
But we have been devious and must hasten to rejoin the three friends as
they now meet the little lady so anxiously awaiting their arrival at the
depot. Her face lit up with an unmistakable expression of relief, the
words she spoke the next moment giving proof of the anxiety to which she
had been subjected.
“O, at last! at last! I thought you would never come. I had all kinds of
visions—of runaway horses, of some great fire, of some accident wherein
you figured as the heroine. Then too I thought you might have changed
your mind at the eleventh hour. Indeed I felt quite miserable.”
The whole company laughed. Imelda kissed the little excited woman.
“You seem to have but a poor opinion of me. Don’t you know that
fickle-mindedness is not counted among my faults? We still have fifteen
minutes left I believe,” looking up at the timepiece in the central
waiting room, “so just please calm yourself. I am a fixture. You need
not fear that you can easily rid yourself of me now.” Imelda continued
in this light tone. The others imitating her example. The object to be
gained thereby was easily discerned, for neither wanted to display the
aching heart that lay hidden within the bosom, but for all that none was
deceived. The eye so eloquently speaks the language of the heart and
their telegraphy was sending swift messages back and forth. All too
quickly the passing moments flew. The train was ready and would not
wait. Both fair young travelers were safely seated in their Pullman car.
The last farewell had been spoken, and as the puffing engine steamed out
from the depot the fluttering of white handkerchiefs was the last view
the friends had of each other. With tear-wet eyes Margaret watched the
outgoing train, Wilbur’s face bearing almost as sad a look as her own.
When would they meet again?