From this explanation it was evident that neither of the two elder
daughters had any too much love for the stepmother, who was domineering
in character. Of late years the freedom-loving Edith had refused to
submit to her many dictations. She absolutely refused in any manner to
be a subordinate. When Hilda found her sister making such a brave effort
to free herself from the domination of the stepmother she was not long
in following her example. The stepmother appealed to the father, who in
turn ordered his daughters to explain.
Edith did explain. She said that Hilda and herself were now old enough
to judge for themselves in all personal matters. They demanded freedom
in all their actions. If it were refused them at home they would seek a
home elsewhere. With youth and health they were confident they would not
starve.
But Edmund Wallace was a proud man. After the disastrous ending of his
first marriage, with the second wife, brilliant and fashionable, at his
side,—a woman who seemed better to understand how to manage her husband
than did the timid Erna before her, Mr. Wallace had been more successful
financially. Dabbling in politics he had secured to himself political
and social position and hence the idea that his daughters should leave
his house to find a home elsewhere was not at all to his liking. Such a
thing would draw attention, and cause unpleasant notoriety. So, for
once, he sided with his daughters and gave his wife to understand that
they were at liberty in all personal matters to do as they pleased.
The haughty woman was almost strangled in her anger, but found herself
forced to submit. But if she could no longer domineer there were a
thousand other ways in which she could make the lives of the girls a
daily torture. The result was that Edith again turned to her father,
telling him that under existing circumstances they could not and would
not longer remain. So another and more decided change was made. A room
was assigned to Edith and Hilda as their “sanctum.” Through the
political influence of the father positions were secured for both girls,
which furnished them with pocket money to spend as they saw fit. The
salary of each was sixty dollars per month, twenty of which each
contributed toward keeping up the establishment. This arrangement made
them independent, and from the day it was made both refused to take part
in the household duties. Mrs. Wallace had to procure hired help. Then it
was she came to realize the full value of these despised stepdaughters.
But as she considered it beneath her dignity to unbend towards the girls
there was a constant frigidity between them.
There were four children from this second marriage, two girls and two
boys; the girls being the eldest. All four were away at school. Mr. and
Mrs. Wallace were away spending the hot summer months at some mountain
resort. The girls having vacation, nothing averse, took charge of the
house, expecting later in the season to spend a week or two on some
quiet country farm. To the circumstance of the absence of the rest of
the family was it due that Cora had found such a haven of rest under
this roof prepared by the kind and loving hearts and hands of this
sister pair. That she herself was the sister of one who had such a warm
friend in that absent brother who to them personated the whole of manly
graces and perfections, made it to seem more like a privilege than
otherwise that they should have been permitted to lavish their tenderest
care upon her; besides the sufferer had won for herself a place in these
sisterly hearts that was all her own, a place that no one would be able
ever to deprive her of.
Alice had often called during the past two weeks but as yet had not seen
the injured girl. Somehow Cora had always been asleep and it was deemed
unwise to awaken her. Norman also had found his way several times to the
Wallace abode, as indeed it would have been strange if he had not. When
making his first visit he said:
“It seems we are destined to love under difficulties—always someone
claiming the love and attention of the woman that I would fain
monopolize.” When he heard that in this case the claim came from the
lost and erring sister a cloud had for a moment rested upon his manly
face. Then gravely and tenderly he had said, kissing the pure forehead
of the girl he loved,
“Do what you think is your duty, and what you think is best, my
sweetheart. I would not have you do otherwise,”—and then Imelda had gone
back to her sister’s bedside with a much lighter heart and with a new
sense of happiness. Today, as she stood watching the face of the
sleeping sister, thoughts and feelings came crowding upon her that she
herself might have found difficult to analyze. Poor Cora, thought
Imelda, how manifold and how oft painful had been her experiences. If
she had dealt many a cruel blow to others, in the thoughtlessness of
youth, it was very evident that she had suffered much and keenly, and
yet—looking at her experiences without prejudice, was she not, in some
respects, more to be envied than to be pitied or condemned? This very
reckless daring that was Cora’s chief characteristic, had secured to her
a term of such intense, such exquisite happiness that Imelda, with her
high strung morals, could never hope to attain, and as she bent to kiss
the sleeping girl she whispered:
“You possess more courage than the sister you think so pure. You are
more true to nature and to yourself than I.”
When Cora awoke, refreshed from a long sleep, she would have resumed the
recital of her story but Imelda positively refused to listen. Instead
the invalid was again arrayed in the pretty wrapper and, with the
assistance of Hilda, was led down the broad stairway to the handsome
parlor. Here the trio of girls read, played and sang for her amusement,
and several times during the evening Cora’s clear, sweet laugh rang out,
making music in Imelda’s heart. An unbroken night’s rest followed, and
the next morning found the sisters once more seated by the window and
Cora ready to take up the thread of her narrative where she had left off
the day before.
“Owen Hunter was the only child of very wealthy parents. They were the
possessors of millions. All the advantages that wealth can procure had
been his. At college he had graduated with the first honors. He was
gifted with talents of high order—a poet born; a musical genius, and his
gift of song alone would have made him famous, had he so desired. But,
as is so often the case with natures of this kind, he was very
impulsive. The blood in his veins was extra hot, and at the early age of
eighteen he had got himself entangled with a dark-eyed southern beauty,
whom he deemed the perfection of all womankind. His mother had died when
he was sixteen, else she might perhaps have been able to guide him with
loving gentleness where reason and parental commands failed. The girl
with whom he had fallen so madly in love was also wealthy, and had had
the benefit of a thorough education—that is, a fashionable one. She knew
how to dance, how to bow gracefully. She possessed an exhaustless supply
of small talk, quick of repartee, brilliant and witty. She knew how to
haughtily snub a social inferior—and so on through the long list of
fashionable accomplishments.
“Owen saw only the fascinating smile and the wild, witching beauty that
had set fire to his brain. For some reason his father was opposed to an
alliance with Leonie Street. Perhaps he better read beneath the
attractive surface. But Owen was determined, and when he was scarcely
twenty he married the girl who had so completely bewildered his senses.
Young as he was he was at the head of a large business firm. His father
of late had been in poor health, and upon the young man’s shoulders was
laid the burden that had become too heavy for those of the older man.
And when his father died, stepping into his inheritance he found himself
worth some twenty millions of dollars.
“Long ere this, however, Owen Hunter discovered that he had made a grand
matrimonial mistake. The woman he had married was only a fashion plate,
with this difference. A fashion plate is called inanimate, whereas Mrs.
Hunter was possessed of a temper so fiery that she became quite
dangerous when something occurred to arouse her ire. In her passionate
moods she was so vulgar as to be disgusting. One babe had come, but as
if her passion was a poison that killed, the little thing lived only a
few days, and none other ever came.
“Of short duration had been their honeymoon. She managed soon to
thoroughly disenchant her boy husband—to cure him of the infatuation
that had led him to brave even his father’s displeasure; displeasure
which might have meant a great deal to him, as his father was noted for
a certain bull-dog tenacity or stubbornness. When once he took a stand,
either for or against, he would hold to it, to the bitter end, no matter
if later he found that only he was in the wrong and all others in the
right.
“Since there was no sweet baby smile to woo and win the hearts of these
two, Owen and Leonie Hunter daily drifted farther and farther apart,
neither caring, or little caring, what the other was doing. His millions
were at her command wherewith to satisfy her every whim, and this wealth
enabled her to worship at the shrine of fashion, to her heart’s content.
Their ‘home’ was a mansion; one of the most beautiful of homes but Owen
Hunter only went to it to sleep, and not always then. Sometimes home did
not see him for weeks at a time. The clubs suited him better than the
princely mansion which contained his dark-browed wife. His wedded
experience had made him reckless, and he made the most of what his
wealth would buy him. He was not by nature bad; not by any means. He was
only what circumstances had made him. Deep down hidden in the innermost
recesses of his being were the germs of a noble manhood, but those germs
were fast going to decay for want of the magic touch which would waken
them to life and growth. Sometimes he felt heart-sick and soul-weary
when he realized that with all the wealth at his command there was none
so poor as he; that his bosom bore a starving heart. In all the vast
multitudes of the great city there was not one face to brighten at his
coming, to smile a welcome at his return to the place he called home.
“In a mood like this, one evening as he was passing a deserted
thoroughfare he was attracted by a woman’s cry. A woman was struggling
in the grasp of a man. A well directed blow felled the ruffian to the
earth while the rescuer caught an almost fainting girl in his arms.
“That was the way in which I became acquainted with Owen Hunter. He
offered to see me to my home. I told him I had none. He seemed to
understand it all in a moment, and afterwards he told me that he did so
understand. A young woman whose condition was so apparent, and no home,
could have only one story to tell,—a very common story, and at that
moment he felt, as he afterwards explained, just as forlorn and alone,
just as hopeless and homeless. It was as if I had touched a hidden
wellspring. He drew my arm through his and said:
“‘Come.’
“I was trembling in every nerve. The terror I had undergone almost
paralyzed me. He saw I was almost unable to stand.”
“‘Will you trust me?’
“One look into the clear eyes told me that it would be safe, and I only
nodded my head. I could not trust myself to speak. I hardly knew how it
happened, but in a few moments more I found myself seated in a closed
carriage, and that night I slept safely housed, with a little confidence
in mankind restored.
“You know the rest. I told you the story yesterday; of how he came to
love me and I him, until our love glorified our lives. Never until the
darkly passionate woman stood before me did I know that another had a
stronger claim upon him than I. He did not know through what chance she
had become possessed of his secret. He felt sure she cared little, only
it gave her a chance to empty the poison vials of her temper and spleen
in a manner that she was conscious would strike me in a vital spot.
“‘She thinks to part us, loved one,’ he said, ‘but she shall not
succeed. I will not sacrifice the only bright spot that makes my life
worth living. You, my darling, have redeemed me. You have taught me the
bliss of the love of a true woman. You have made a new being of me, and
to you I belong; while you are mine by the might and power of that holy
love that you bear me.’
“O, Imelda, forbear to judge me from the high pinnacle of morality and
purity upon which I know you stand. Although I had made up my mind to
disappear out of his life—that he should not know what had become of
me,—but this one last night I wanted to be happy, happy in the present
hour and in the feeling that he was mine and I his. I would not think of
the morrow and what it would bring. I only gave myself up to the hour
and to my love, and when the bright sun of another day had risen he
still held me so closely in his arms that it seemed he meant never to
release me.
“‘Have patience, my own one,’ he said, ‘if you should not see me for
some time. I will have much to arrange, but when all shall have been
attended to I will fly to you, never again to leave you; for I cannot, I
will not give you up.’
“I thought my heart would break, as he held me in his arms, whispering
to me his plans of hope and happiness. But I forced back the scalding
tears and with smiling lips kissed him goodby. I stood at the doorway
and watched him out of sight.
“‘Out of sight!’ Could it have been out of mind as well, it would then
not have been so hard to bear. I re-entered my room, threw myself upon
my bed and wept myself to sleep.
“Long hours I lay thus. When at last I awoke the sun was high in the
heavens; my limbs were weary and my heart heavy, but I knew I had work
to do, the hardest part of which was to write Owen a letter wherein I
should bid him farewell, as I thought it better to part than that I
should be the cause of his ruin. I had some money, money he had given
me, and many valuable jewels and trinkets. To me they were possessed of
a double value as they were the gifts of his love. I packed a trunk with
such things as it seemed necessary that I should take with me; selecting
the plainest of my dresses. Then having sent old Aunt Betty on an
errand, I managed to procure a wagon to take my few belongings to the
ferry and thence to the depot and—I have never seen him since.
“It is only two short months ago, but to me it seems ages. Not caring
whither I was going, as all the world was alike to me, I procured a
ticket with scarce an idea where it would take me. My trunk checked, I
patiently waited for my train. For two hours I never stirred, gazing
fixedly at my tightly clasped hands. Had not the strangeness of my
demeanor attracted the attention of an old gentleman who kindly asked me
where I was going, I might have missed my train. He doubtless saw
something in my face that was not quite satisfactory for he asked to see
my ticket and found that my train would be due in a few minutes. Taking
me under his immediate care he saw that I was made comfortable, as,
fortunately, he was to take the same train, and was bound for the same
destination.
“How I reached Harrisburg I suppose I shall never know, for one day I
awoke to find myself in a hospital bed, my face wan and thin and too
weak to lift my head. I was told that I had been brought there four
weeks before, delirious with fever, and that I constantly required the
care of several nurses. But youth was in my favor and I soon regained
health and strength, and in two weeks more I was discharged. It was the
old gentleman who had befriended me on the train who had also caused me
to be taken where I would be cared for during my illness, and through
his kindness it was that I found my belongings when able again to care
for myself.
“It had been just two weeks since my release from the hospital when the
accident occurred that brought me here. If my thoughts had been with me
I don’t think it could have happened. But Owen’s image still lives in my
heart. It is not so easy to obliterate it therefrom, right or wrong. I
still love him.”
Here Cora’s overwrought feelings again gave way, and she sobbed as if
her heart would break. Imelda gently placed her arm about the weeping
girl’s neck and pressed her against her own bosom. Tenderly she brushed
her hair and kissed the tear-wet eyelashes. With a quick unexpected
motion Cora caught the hand that was caressing her cheek and pressed it
to her heaving breast.
“Can you still find room for me in your pure and stainless heart? Can
you still love me? But oh, you can’t understand how hard it was to give
him up. Indeed! indeed! I have tried so hard to overcome this love, but
it is stronger than I. It overcomes me.”
Imelda bent and kissed the quivering lips. “Poor little sister! Have I
been so cold and merciless in the past as to cause you to believe that I
am so small and narrow as to heap censure upon this bowed head? to still
farther lacerate your bleeding, aching heart? No, no! you poor child. If
in the past you have been childishly wayward I may not always have
rightly understood you. If you have dared to fly in the face of society,
of man-made laws, it is you who have been the sufferer, and when the
sweetest boon that comes to woman’s life was held out to you and you
were brave enough to grasp it and to bask in its glorious sunshine, I
certainly cannot condemn you. I had not dreamed that the material of so
grand a woman lay hidden beneath the surface of that saucy, independent
child. A grand and glorious woman indeed is my sister Cora, and I am
proud of her!”
Cora’s great hazel eyes were opened wide with astonishment. As if by
magic the tears ceased to flow; her face grew deathly white; huskily she
whispered,
“What is it you mean, Imelda? I do not understand. I have heard your
words but have not caught their import. The Imelda that I know regarded
a life such as I have been leading a deadly, hideous sin, and your words
almost imply that——I——have done right.”
“They do imply it, darling! I think you have been brave and true and
strong. It might be, though, that it was because you were not so
strongly bound, as I, by the fetters of prejudice, but I also am getting
rid of these fetters and hope soon to be a free woman, and in the
measure that I am gaining liberty I understand better what it means to
others to be deprived of that precious boon. Sister mine, my eyes have
been opened to many evils existing in this world, and the starvation of
woman’s sex-nature until marriage, when the starvation generally changes
to surfeit and sex slavery is one of the greatest evils that this world
knows. A few men are intelligent and noble enough to understand this;
men who suffer almost as much from this accursed system as do most
women, and, little girl, your Owen was one of these noble men. After all
you have told me about yourself and him I am rather surprised you did
not dare the world and claim your own.”
“Imelda! This from—you! I wanted to save him from himself. I know he
would never have given me cause to rue it had I entrusted myself, my
life, to his care. He was too noble, too true for that. But you know the
law gives him to that other woman, and how it would have hurt him in the
society wherein he moves and in which he ranks so high.”
“I understand. Love blinded you to your own interests while you sought
to guard only his, forgetful of the fact that every pang that was
torturing your own heart would find an echo in his. Oh, what a horrible
structure is society; built as it is upon the quivering hearts of poor
bleeding humanity!”
Cora listened in open-eyed wonder to the words that fell from the lips
of her sister. To her unsophisticated ears they sounded like rank
treason, only that she knew that Imelda’s mind and heart were not
capable of treason. Long and earnestly therefore did the elder sister
talk to the younger one, trying to make clear her views and theories,
and as Cora caught their import a new hope, like sweet balm, crept into
the weary heart. Was she then not the loathsome and vile thing the world
would have her believe herself to be? Could it really be that true love,
soul-elevating, ennobling and purifying love, does not need the sanction
of state and church to give it those redeeming qualities? O, how like
another being she would feel if the sweet consciousness could be hers
that she was not unclean and defiled; but that her love was just as pure
and holy as in its highest, noblest sense it ever could be.