The sultry summer day was at its close, and Norman Carlton had just
finished reading the letter that Imelda had written the night before. A
troubled look was upon the frank and honest face, as he stood at the
open window looking out at the falling shadows, but seeing nothing. In
one hand he still held the fateful sheets; the other hand he held to his
aching temples. He stood and gazed until dusky twilight faded into
starlit night. Ever and anon a deep sigh escaped the drawn lips as he
thought, and thought, and thought.
But what was it he thought? Did that miserable tale of woe show him only
the impracticability of an alliance with a child of the people? A woman
whose mother had no right, according to the views of society, to the
title of “lady;” whose sister had made an outcast of herself; whose
brother might, even now, be occupying the cell of a criminal; whose past
life had been one long privation and struggle with fate. His own lady
mother and sister! Was it not his duty to first consult their views,
their feeling upon the matter?
Or was it that he was made of more noble material? Were his views so
broad that it was of no consequence what the world might say? It could
hardly be expected, when we consider the training of his past life, that
he would now have no battle to fight. It was not pleasant to know that
the woman who had won his love should be so unpleasantly connected, but
while this knowledge was to him most depressing, it also had the effect
of raising, many fold, the respect he held for her. What could have been
easier for her than to keep these matters secret? It gave him a better
insight into the nobility of her character. She at least was truth
itself. She would prove trustworthy. She was above reproach. He was
doing battle with the old prejudices based on society codes, as they
rose, one by one, to assail his love.
But to do him justice his love wavered not for one instant. If the
setting be tarnished, will that fact diminish the lustre of the diamond?
He knew that his jewel was of the purest; why should the setting trouble
him? But all was not yet plain to him. He remembered that night under
the maples; when she had refused him marriage—not love. Love she had
given then as freely as now. He saw it then, he knew it now. But now
again she makes the same refusal. “You understand now,” she wrote, “why
it is that I cannot marry you.”
His noble manhood was all alert now. Does she think so meanly, so basely
of him as to suppose that he would add to the burden that had so many
years been resting upon those slender shoulders, by withdrawing his
proposal? If that is what she thinks, her opinion of him is not so
exalted as he could wish and—he must seek her—must see her tonight. With
him to think was to act, and a few minutes later finds him on the way to
the woman of his choice. It was with a dazed feeling that he stood upon
the marble steps awaiting an answer to his ring. What would be the
outcome of this night’s quest?
His card again found her at the bedside of the patient preparing for
another long night watch by herself. Her heart beat high when the little
bit of pasteboard was placed in her hand. Mrs. Boswell had not yet
retired. She saw the flush steal over the fair brow and an understanding
came intuitively to her as to what it meant. It was not so many years
ago that she too had received a lover’s visit, and she knew so well that
since the illness of Mrs. Westcot the young girl had no time to spend on
friends or lovers. So she kindly said:
“Go and see your friend. I am not tired tonight and can well remain
several hours longer.” With an appreciative “Thank you” Imelda accepted
the kind offer and descended to the drawing room, where but one jet of
gas was burning which but dimly lit the room.
Scarcely had she entered when she felt herself folded with strong arms
to a wildly beating heart. Lips that whispered, “My own love,” were
pressed firmly to hers. Her heart was full, her bosom heaving. That he
held her thus was ample proof that to him she was just as lovable now as
before he knew her wretched story. Brushing the soft dusky waves of hair
from the flushed temples, he asked:
“Will my girl have a little while to spare for me tonight? I would have
you walk with me under the maples. Will you come?” Without a word she
turned to the hallway and taking a soft white scarf from a rack, threw
it over her shoulders and said:
“Now, I am ready.” Together they wended their way to the silver leaved
trees where once more they paced back and forth, his arm about the
graceful form, his head bent until it rested against hers. Every
attitude betokened the love they bore each other. O, how he talked, how
he plead. But the slender girl at his side was strong and firm. She
understood the ground she was treading upon. She met him at every turn.
He loved her, and as he listened to her arguments, as he watched the
sparkle of her eye, as he got a better insight into her life, he felt
that here was indeed a woman of superior qualities, a woman possessed of
rare intellect. And as she met him, point after point, he began to see
things in a different light. Dim and hazy at first yet still he saw a
difference. Not that he showed an inclination to acknowledge the truth
of any of the pictures she painted. O, no! not quite so easy are
deep-rooted superstitions and prejudices uprooted. Yet she gave him food
for thought.
She pointed out to him conditions as they exist throughout the country,
She showed him how one vexed question is entangled with another. She
drew his attention to the masses of workers who with their dollar a
day,—sometimes a little more, sometimes even less,—have no time for
self-improvement, no time for healthful recreation. That recreation
which is of an elevating character, is quite unattainable and that which
is within their reach is of the most demoralizing kind. The swilling of
vile drinks, with vile companions in dens still more vile.
She spoke of the overburdened wife and mother, wearing away her life in
drudgery and loneliness. At the close of his day’s toil the husband
brings no love to the cheerless home. That which he had named and
believed love on their wedding day has long since fled; yet of this
union springs unwishedfor children; children gestated in an atmosphere
of hate; idiots and criminals ushered into being to fill our prisons and
insane asylums. The employer class, on the other hand, feast upon the
wealth these unfortunates produce, and by their excesses sow the seeds
of crime in their offspring.
“On all sides,” said Imelda, “through the force of circumstances young
lives are lost in the sloughs of vice and shame. Woman sells her virtue
to the highest bidder; the one for a passing hour, the other for a life
time. Which of the two is the worse? The merciless and unnatural codes
of society demand the unsexing of woman by strangling nature’s desires,
then these codes permit one man to drive her to the grave or to the mad
house through the power given to him by the law. The woman that would be
true to her normal instincts, the woman that would practicalize her
natural right of being a mother, must first sell herself for all time to
some man, who, in return, forces upon her what at first was a pleasure
and a blessing but now a hundred-fold curse. To surrender herself in
love with holiest emotions is a sin, is a demoralization. To endure the
hated embrace of the man who long since murdered every trace of that
holy love, is a duty and virtue.
“To escape such thralldom is to her an utter impossibility, as the only
way out lies through that most damnable of abominations, the divorce
court, where every pure instinct of a sensitive woman’s nature is
outraged to such extent that generally she prefers, of the two evils,
the marital outrage to that of the divorce court.
“And yet the world goes on. Ignorant mothers bear and rear ignorant
children. From their birth nature is strangled. They are fed and clothed
in an unhealthful, unnatural manner, so that the wonder is, not that
there are so many small graves but rather that so many survive. The
little girl with propensities to romp is told she is a hoyden, a tomboy.
The boy with refined sentiments, that he is a ‘sissy,’ and so on
throughout the long category. We are bound, fettered, on all sides from
the cradle to the grave. No matter what misery, what woe, springs
therefrom, never go your own way but travel only that which is mapped
out for you by custom which has been foisted upon society. O, it is so
unnatural, so miserable, this binding, this fettering, this laying down
laws that are made only to be broken.”
She had spoken rapidly, and had warmed in her enthusiasm. Her head
thrown slightly backward with a motion most graceful, her eyes shining
with a glory that was beautiful, and Norman did not fail to be struck by
it.
“How can it all affect us, my sweet?” he asked. “Are we not far above
all the horrible pictures you have drawn?”
“I hope so,” she answered. “I do, indeed, hope we are above it, but
don’t you see every picture has its ground work in the ‘Thou shalt not,’
of some law? Every picture has its clanking chains and the heaviest is
always the marriage chain. Don’t you see, don’t you understand?” He
folded her close in his arms, an action which she by no means resented.
“And must our sweet love be sacrificed because of those horrible
conditions? Have you not more faith in the voice of your heart?” Tears
sprang to her eyes. O, how hard it was to steel that heart to the
pleadings of the precious voice. How could she make him understand that
he possessed the unbounded trust, the most unconditional love of her
whole being?
“I have all the faith in the world in you,” she said, as with trembling
fingers she caressed the fair locks that fell in clustering masses over
the open noble brow.
“Can you not see, can you not understand that I love you with all the
strength of my being? Let us be happy now, in the present, in that love,
and trust to the future to lift the veil, to dispel the clouds,”—and he
could not dissuade her. He kissed the tears from the shining dark eyes.
His love for her grew with every hour. He realized that bitter suffering
in the past had sown the seed of the present strength of character and
growth of views to which until now he had given but a passing thought.