Thus had come the beginning of the new life and the past lay enshrouded
in shadows. Almost at the threshold of that new life Imelda was met by
him whose coming Wilbur had, in last moments preceding the sundering
from the old life, prophesied. With Wilbur’s kisses yet warm on her
lips, every beat of her heart responding to the love he bore her, there
had been room in that heart to receive the impress of another’s image.
While still the memory of Wilbur’s caresses thrilled her the kisses of
the new-found lover sent the blood bounding in ecstacy through her
veins. Those precious friends of the past, would understand? But
Norman,—would she ever succeed in leading him to such heights of
progress as to enable him to see by the light of understanding the
glorious beauties of a boundless freedom?
As yet she had not reached the topmost heights herself, was not yet
standing in the full glare of light that should show her the path that
lay in the direction of perfect freedom. But she had seen the brilliant
star in the distance and she knew of dark depths that were concealed,
the dungeons where prejudice and superstition held in bondage all of
nature’s pure desires. She vowed never, never to wear the galling yoke
of marriage.
She was deliriously happy in this new love. She found their thoughts
blending in all things pertaining to nature. Only as yet Norman had paid
little attention to progressive thought on this particular subject.
Possessing an innate veneration for all women, he expected to find
heaven in the arms of one. That such a thing is not possible we would by
no means assert, for, contrary to the general rule that arbitrary laws
prove the ruin of loving hearts and sensitive lives, there are cases
where the one love has proved to be the happiness of a lifetime; but it
is time that we rid ourselves of the illusion that a compulsory marriage
law can command such fidelity and steadfastness that such cases instead
of the rare exception—as they really are—will be the rule. The knowledge
of perfect freedom—the freedom that means none may have the right to
say, “Thou shalt” and “Thou shalt not,”—with the power this knowledge
can give we rise to glorious heights, and in such knowledge is created a
love which in its abandonment to love, its power to achieve, its
strength to endure, a life opens before us that can never be attained
when fettered within prescribed limits.
It was thus that Imelda felt, and to point out to Norman the way wherein
he would be enabled to obtain the same views was what she felt to be now
her task. But oh, the difficulty, the magnitude of her task! At least
such it seemed to her.
Then, too, there arose another specter from the dark past. Norman
Carlton was the descendant of a proud family. In time past they had
ranked with the proudest and wealthiest of the country, and were still
reckoned among the first. His mother was a dainty aristocrat, his
sisters cultured and refined ladies. No doubt the pride of blood had
been instilled into his mind from early infancy. Would his love stand
the test of Imelda’s past? Her father? Yes, her father had been a man as
cultured and refined as ever a Carlton had been,—she felt that. But on
the side of her mother she knew it was different. Then like dark
apparitions appeared before her mind’s eye the forms of Cora and Frank.
These two were certainly living proofs (if they were yet living) of bad
blood in her veins. How would it be when this record of her gloomy past
was laid before him? Would he stand the test?
True, Imelda understood, with the high ideals she possessed, that if he
did not stand those tests he was unworthy her love. But again, love in
its unborn glory fails to grasp such philosophy, and longs only for the
completion of the union of loving hearts. With all these difficulties in
mind Imelda was not looking to the distant future. It was rather the
near future with which she had to contend, the winning of her best loved
lover.
After parting from Norman under the waving maple trees and after being
refreshed by a healthful sleep her mind wandered to those other friends
in their distant western home, and, grasping her pen, she spent two
hours in writing; at the end of which time two closely written sheets
lay before her. Having sealed and mailed the same she joined Alice and
the two little ones at the breakfast table. Lawrence Westcot had
breakfasted at a much earlier hour and had gone to his business. Usually
Imelda joined him, as she was an early riser, but this morning the early
hours had been given to her letter which had been directed to Margaret.
“Rather an unexpected pleasure,” was Alice’s comment as Imelda made her
appearance and seated herself at the table. She generally came to assist
the little ones, as they were sometimes unruly and clamorous until the
hungry little stomachs had been satisfied. But that she should wait so
long ere satisfying her own physical wants was a new departure and Alice
looked as though she would like an explanation. Imelda smiled.
“I have been writing letters,” she said.
Alice did not seem wholly satisfied. The new sweet light that shone in
the young girl’s eyes could hardly have been produced by the doubtful
pleasure of writing letters in the early morning hours. (Alice always
found writing letters a task.) But she asked no questions at present,
though a troubled look shadowed the blue eyes as she turned her
attention to discussing the dainty meal before her. Imelda attended to
the wants of the little ones first and then sent them scampering off for
a morning romp. Scarcely had their childish forms disappeared from view
when an anxious “Well?” dropped from the lips of Alice. Imelda smiled.
Feigning not to understand, she repeated the “Well,” with an additional
“What is it?”
“O, pshaw, Imelda,” she said, “You cannot deceive me; something has
happened, and you may as well tell me first as last.”
Imelda’s laugh rang out merrily at this assumption of the little lady.
“Your sense of perception is very acute this morning, but I will no
longer keep you in suspense. Norman Carlton made me an offer of marriage
last evening.”
“You have accepted!” exclaimed Alice. For the moment it was hard to read
the pale, immovable features.
“No I have not accepted.” Alice sighed, while a puzzled expression
settled upon her face. She found the young girl rather difficult to
understand. Why was she so slow in telling what there was to tell?
“Finish your breakfast, Alice, and then I will tell you all.” Thus
assured a little more attention was paid to the tempting viands, but
Alice for some time was toying impatiently with her knife, waiting until
the imperturbable Imelda should be done with her breakfast. Presently
she folded her napkin, thus indicating that she was through. Then she
arose and said:
“Come, Alice, we will go either to your room or mine where we can talk
undisturbed.” The proposition met the favor of the young woman and soon
they were seated in the cosy room of the fair mistress.
Alice listened while Imelda took her into her confidence and told her
the story of her love. She knew of Imelda’s aversion to marriage. She
had come to understand some of her views and though she did not indorse
them yet she could not but recognize much in them that would prove an
everlasting blessing to humanity could they be put into practice. She
felt if it were opportune she would not hesitate to hold out her longing
hands for the tempting boon of freedom. Had she not told Imelda of
moments when she felt like cursing the fetters that bound her even
though they were golden? But Lawrence Westcot was known as an honorable
man; one who heaped upon his wife golden favors; who daily sought to
strew her pathway with flowers. All of this was true, yet time and again
the blue eyes would fill with tears. The merry sprite was not always
such when within her own chamber, and Imelda’s confidence called forth
no answering smile, and yet Imelda knew she always wore her brightest
smile when the handsome young man was a visitor at their home. With an
effort Alice banished the gloomy look and wished her friend happiness
when she would become the wife of Norman Carlton.
“But,” said Imelda, “have I not told you? I will never be his wife.”