But now? One thing Imelda had achieved. She had led Norman into the
realms of thought. She had made him think as he had never thought
before. He now began to see the real cause of human misery. Asking a few
well directed questions he soon had the missing links needed to
supplement Imelda’s life history. She told him of the fair-haired girl
whom she loved better than a sister; the girl whose mother’s life had
been blighted through that self-same marriage curse. She told him of
that cherished friend who through the same curse had seen a worshiped
mother laid beneath the sod—which tale she ended by requesting him to
write those friends; to become acquainted with them; to test their
friendship. Norman agreed to do this, and not many days later a letter
of his was speeding across the prairies bearing his worded desire to
know better those who had in earlier days befriended his Imelda, and who
wielded such influence over her.
But to those enthralled in love’s golden fetters time speeds on rapid
wings. When Norman looked at his watch he found it pointing to half past
ten. A pang smote Imelda’s heart as she thought of the lonely watcher up
in the sick chamber, and hastily sought to disengage herself from the
encircling arms of her lover. A half dozen more love-laden kisses and
the young girl was bounding across the open grounds followed by the fond
eyes of her lover who watched her until she disappeared within the
portals of the house ere he wended his way homeward.
No sooner had Imelda stepped into the hall, softly closing the door
behind her, than, from the open door to the right, leading into the
drawing room, stepped Lawrence Westcot. Imelda drew back. She did not
care to encounter anyone just now, least of all Lawrence Westcot.
Planting himself directly across her path, but speaking with faultless
courtesy he said:
“Miss Ellwood will you grant me the favor of a few moments
conversation?” at the same time holding open the door for her to pass
through. Imelda paused, hesitating. What could Lawrence Westcot desire
to say to her? Besides it was already late. Her conscience smote her for
having absented herself so long from the sick room, and she certainly
felt no desire to be alone with this man at this hour of the evening.
But he was waiting, holding the door for her to pass through, quite as a
matter of course. Much as she was disinclined to do so she yet felt that
she could not refuse without appearing rude, and so, reluctantly passing
him she entered the room, while he closed the door after them.
The room was dimly lit, as before when she had entered it earlier in the
evening. Imelda paused under the single burning jet. He came forward and
turned it to a brighter blaze, then wheeled forward a chair for her to
be seated, but which she declined, shaking her head in a positive
manner.
“I beg your pardon, but I would rather not, Mr. Westcot. It is time I
return to Alice. Mrs. Boswell kindly relieved me this evening of several
hours of responsibility. I have already overstayed my time. I do not
wish to give it the appearance of an imposition, so if you have anything
to say to me I must beg of you to hasten.”
She had taken a step or two backward and stood with her hand resting
upon the back of the chair Westcot had placed for her, the soft folds of
the white shawl that had been loosely thrown over her head and
shoulders, the glow of health and happiness upon her cheek and in the
dark brown eyes—Lawrence Westcot felt the magic beauty of the picture
before him. It was doubtful if he heard a word of what she had spoken;
certain it was that he paid no attention to it. Suddenly Imelda became
conscious of his burning gaze, and in a moment her face was dyed from
brow to chin with a hot wave of color, and again she spoke:
“If you have something to tell me, Mr. Westcot, will you please do so
without loss of time? I do not wish that Alice should be waiting.”
“Let her wait,” he said hastily, huskily. “She is not wanting for
anything. I have just come from there. Mrs. Boswell is with her and can
manage very well. Besides, why should you make such a prisoner of
yourself? The nurse is paid for her work; let her do it. A little while
longer will not hurt her.”
Utterly surprised, Imelda for the moment was unable to speak, but almost
instantly recovering her self-possession:
“Was it to tell me this you have asked me to come in here?” He heeded
not the withering scorn in her voice, but stepping nearer he possessed
himself of one of her hands.
“Why should I not tell you that, and a great deal more if I choose?
True, you never gave me a chance, but can you not see that I madly love
you?”
“Sir! You forget yourself!” Imelda snatched her hand from him and
stepped several paces backward. Nothing daunted the next moment he again
was at her side.
“Why should I not tell you, and why should you not listen? Do I not know
your views on love and marriage? According to them you cannot deem my
love for you a crime because I am a married man.” With these words he
attempted again to take her hand, but she, by mustering all her strength
pushed him from her with such force as to almost unbalance him.
“How dare you?” she articulated. The face that only a few moments ago
was dyed scarlet was now ashen in its pallor.
“I dare it because I love you,” came in low, almost hissing tones from
lips that were now pale as hers, while his black eyes glowed like living
coals.
“Do you think I will meekly surrender you to that—no! I will not call
names—to that so-called friend of mine? I tell you no! a thousand times
no! I acknowledge no barriers, as I know you do not, and I swear to you
that you must and shall be mine!”—and ere Imelda was aware of his
intention he had gained her side, his arms like bands of iron were laid
about her shoulders, and the next instant she felt his hated kisses upon
her lips. For a moment she was powerless, and only for a moment, when
with strength of desperation she tore herself from his embrace.
“You are the most despicable creature upon this earth! I will tell you
what barriers stand between us. First and foremost your utter lack of
manhood. By whatever despicable means you may have obtained an inkling
of my views, let me tell you that you have failed, utterly failed to get
the least gleaming of the truth. Know that a creature so wholly devoid
of principle and honor may never hope to win the favor of a free woman.
Know you that love can neither be forced nor bought. When you come to
realize and understand this you may speak to me again—not until then.”
With an imperious movement she swept by him, leaving him bewildered and,
for a moment, totally subdued. Had he failed to understand her? What a
glorious creature! and what superb scorn. Did she know what stood
between Alice and him? At the thought of Alice a dark frown swept over
his face. What was the meaning of that?
Upon winged feet Imelda flew up the broad stairway and into the sick
room. Her strength was at an end. Staggering she would have fallen, had
not the nurse seen her condition in time and caught her in her arms.
Carefully she laid her upon the lounge. Alice was sleeping, as indeed
the last few days and nights she had slept almost constantly, which fact
enabled the nurse to pay all her attention for the next half hour to
this new patient. Finally Imelda returned to consciousness, but only to
break into an uncontrollable fit of weeping. For a little while the
nurse permitted this fit to have full sway, but when the storm had spent
itself and Imelda became more composed she stepped to the stand where
there was quite an array of medicines. Mixing a soothing draught she
handing it to Imelda, saying:
“Take this,” and, quite as a matter of course Imelda drank the cooling
drink.
“Now,” continued Mrs. Boswell, “go to your room and lie down.” But this
time she was not so readily obeyed. Imelda’s frame shook as with a
chill.
“I would rather not. Please let me remain where I am. I shall soon
recover and be all right again.”
“No! no! the sick room is no place to sleep. I insist that you go to
your own room and bed, if you would avoid being sick yourself.”
But Imelda on no account would have traversed the lonely hallway again
tonight, for fear of meeting in some shadowy nook the man she had just
left below in such a storm of passion. Mrs. Boswell soon realized that
for some unaccountable reason Imelda seemed afraid, though this was a
weakness she had not hitherto noticed in the girl, but she understood
too well that she was in need of perfect composure and rest, and the
sick room was no place for these. Stepping to the bedside of the
sleeping patient she bent over her and listened for a moment to the
quiet breathing; then she said:
“Come, I will go with you. It will be perfectly safe to leave our
patient for a few moments.” Then taking the agitated girl by the hand,
she led her through the hallway to her own room. Lighting the gas jet
she next turned down the bed clothes and quietly but quickly assisted
her to disrobe and helped her into the snowy night robe. She would then
have tucked her into her bed but Imelda refused, as she wished to fasten
the door after the retreating form of the nurse, who thereupon returned
to the bedside of the sleeping Alice to watch the night away when she
herself had expected to spend it in needed rest and sleep.