Since recording the events of the last chapter, weeks of summer sunshine
have passed away. Alice, dressed in a soft fleecy white cashmere
wrapper, is reclining in her own cozy room, upon a comfortable lounge
which has been drawn closely to the open window from where she can watch
the golden rays of the setting sun as it disappears beyond the distant
hills. Pale and wan she looks, but the sparkle of returning health is in
her eyes as they rest now and then upon the forms of her two little
girls who are seated in childish fashion upon the floor, and with their
baby fingers trying to wind wreaths of ferns and flowers that are heaped
in a low basket that has been placed with its contents at their
disposal.
Imelda in one of her soft gray gowns was seated in a low rocker. The
book from which she had been reading was lying unnoticed in her lap; her
eyes, too, were wandering through the open window to enjoy the golden
glory of the setting sun. For a while nothing was heard but childish
voices in childish glee. Both fair women were busy with their own
thoughts. Imelda had lost some of her wild-rose bloom. The clear-cut
features were almost colorless as marble. There was a constrained look
upon them; yet now and then they would brighten as with an inward light,
and reflect the happiness that she, in those moments, felt; but they
soon gave way again to that other look, a deep sigh betokening the
change of thought.
As the last rays of the sun died out in a golden halo, Alice slowly
turned her head and for a while lay watching her friend. “A penny for
your thoughts, my dear,” she said with a smile, thus recalling her to
present things.
“They are not worth it,” Imelda made answer. “They are but vague and
unreal dreams.” Alice’s pale face quivered.
“Vague and unreal,” she repeated. “Ah, my precious, as long as they are
vague and unreal, you may count yourself happy. It is the real and
tangible that makes life a burden. Why have I returned to it? I am sure
I would have been many times better off had they laid me beneath the
green sods.” A pitiful quiver was in the sad young voice, and Imelda
felt a sudden pain at her heart as she heard and understood. The next
moment she knelt at the side of the invalid.
“Why should you talk like that? See, that is why you should be here,”
pointing to the little ones. Little Norma was laughing and clapping her
chubby hands. She had just succeeded in crowning, with the work of their
childish hands, the elder and more stately Meta who was attempting a
dignified mien under the high honors. The dark-eyed elf looked so comic
that Alice could not repress a smile even though a tear trickled over
the pale face. Just then a step in the hallway was heard, and the next
moment a figure stood in the open doorway.
“Papa! papa!” Norma’s baby voice rang out, and the next instant the
little one flew to meet him. He stooped and lifted the flaxen-haired
child to his arms. The baby arms were twined about his neck. But little
Norma’s welcome seemed the only one that was accorded him; even Meta
hung back, shy and quiet. She walked backwards to where the fair young
mother lay, who clasped the child to her fast beating heart. Imelda rose
quickly from her kneeling position and stepping to the open window
turned her back to the other inmates of the room. Lawrence Westcot saw
and understood. For just one moment his black eyes emitted a flash like
a smouldering flame and his white teeth sank deep into his nether lip.
But not one word passed those lips that would have betrayed what was
taking place underneath the quiet exterior. He had not seen Imelda since
that night three weeks ago, when his words had been like cruel blows to
the pure, proud girl. She had managed to keep out of his sight, and he
did not possess the courage or daring to force himself into her
presence. This lack of courage kept him also from the sick room of his
wife, which was probably most fortunate for her chances of recovery.
Never once, since her return to consciousness, had her eyes rested upon
his face. If she missed him it certainly did not cause regret. It is
more likely, however, that she did not think of him at all, in those
days.
Certain it was that when he suddenly stood, unannounced, in her presence
her heart gave a great bound and then seemed to stand still. Could she
have thought that he would never come near her again? But the silence
was now becoming oppressive. Not a word from anyone only little Norma’s
cooing, caressing—“Papa, papa,” as the little hands patted the dark
inscrutable face. With the little one still in his arms he took several
steps forward toward the frightened little woman seated upon the lounge.
With a start and a gasp she drew Meta with one arm still closer to her,
while the other hand was uplifted in a manner intended to wave him off.
Seeing the gesture he instantly stopped. An indescribable look passed
over his face. Could it be pain? He hesitated a moment, then kissed the
baby face and set little Norma down.
“Papa is not wanted here,” he said in a tone that sent a strange thrill
to the heart of either woman. Was it the same voice they were wont to
hear? No sneer, no sarcasm. How husky it had become! Did it not sound
like regret? Ere they could recover from their surprise he was gone and
they were once more alone. The excitement that those few minutes had
brought had been too much for Alice. The next moment she was sobbing
hysterically, and for the next half hour Imelda had her hands full in
trying to restore quiet and peace. For seeing the mother weep caused
both little girls to fling their playthings aside in true childish
fashion and join with their tears. Alice was still very weak, or this
episode could scarcely have affected her as it did; and to do Lawrence
Westcot justice, he had no intention of inflicting pain when he went to
his wife’s room that evening.
Nevertheless Imelda felt bitter as she reflected what life must mean to
this timid, nervous little woman when the mere sight of the man to whom
she was bound could throw her into such a hysterical state. O, how wrong
it all was, how wrong! After a while, however, she became more quiet and
at Imelda’s suggestion she soon retired. Imelda mixed for her a soothing
drink and soon had the satisfaction of hearing the even, regular
breathing of the sleeper. Long ere this she had sent both little girls
away with their nurse, so she had the hours of the summer evening to
herself. It was quite warm, the evening shadows were deepening, and
following an inward prompting she soon found herself in the garden
walks, wending her way to the fountain. This was a favorite place with
her. Its cooling spray was so pleasant after the oppressive heat of the
day. She dipped her hand into the cooling liquid while her thought
strayed away to distant friends.
The evening before she had spent in the society of Norman, who had that
day received a second letter from Wilbur Wallace. He had expressed
himself well pleased with the tenor of those letters as they showed to
him the writer as in a mirror of light, and of whose character he was
forming a high opinion, even though he could not yet second all the
ideas placed before him for inspection. Yet, although he found these
ideas impracticable in the extreme, as he expressed it, he could not but
pronounce them exalted and pure, beyond those of men in general. Imelda
longed to see these two men friends, and the prospects were that her
wish would be gratified.
Another thing that had proved of interest to Norman was that Harrisburg
had been the early home of Wilbur Wallace, the discovery of which fact
was as much a surprise to Imelda as to Norman, as he had never made
mention thereof. He gave as a reason for not having done so that the
place held little of that which was pleasant to his recollection. It was
beneath the waves of the Susquehanna that his mother had found her
watery grave, and if it were not that his sisters still lived there he
would have been glad to forget that there was such a place. But, he had
gone on to say, in his last letter to Imelda:
“Since you, my precious friend, have made your home in Harrisburg, I
have often desired to tell you that my idolized Edith, who is the
eldest, and the equally precious younger sister, my sweet Hilda, are
living somewhere at no great distance from your present home. So many
years have passed since I have seen them that they have grown almost
strangers to me. Do you think you could take interest in them sufficient
to visit them in my name? Both dear girls often send me long and
affectionate letters, wherein they tell their ‘stranger’ brother all
about their girlish affairs, and if there is any saving virtue in
thoughts transferred to paper I may hope to keep those blessed souls
pure and unstained through the strength of the love that they bear me.”
“Could she be sufficiently interested in them?” Imelda smiled as her
heart warmed to those unknown girls. She would love them as sisters of
her own. Had she known she would long since have hastened to meet them;
now she must wait a little while longer until Alice would be stronger,
so that she could either leave her or persuade her to come with her. She
thought of them this evening as she playfully let the water run through
her fingers. In her mind she pictured the meeting with them and then she
thought of the report she should send Wilbur, and then her thoughts
strayed away to her own wayward sister, of whom she had never again
heard so much as one single word, or received one sign of life. She did
not know if she was still among the living.
Imelda’s heart grew warm and yet sad. What had become of Cora? To what
depths had she sunk? or had there been enough latent good hidden
somewhere in her character to once more extricate herself and rise to
higher ground? “Cora, O Cora! where are you to night? Don’t you know
your sister loves you?” and as if in answer to the prayerfully spoken
words a voice at her side low and intense spoke her name. “Imelda!” As
though the voice had struck her speechless, she stood with stiffening
white lips unable to move or speak until her name was repeated.
“Imelda!” Then——
“Frank!” broke from them in a husky whisper.