Cora and Norman had not seen any of this by-play. He had taken her by
the hand and led her to a tete-a-tete, and seating himself by her side
soon had drawn her into conversation. A group of exotic plants was, by
this movement, placed between themselves and the others, and as scarce a
word had been spoken they were in ignorance of what had transpired.
Lawrence Westcot now raised his eyes to Imelda who had stood during the
scene without speaking. She read in that glance a request which he
presently put into words.
“Will you favor me with a few moments of your presence?”
Once before he had asked of her that question, the memory of which sent
the rich blood in hot waves over her neck and brow. What did it mean?
The words she had uttered when in righteous indignation she had swept
from his presence now came back to her:
“And until such time, do not dare to speak to me!”
Only once before had he “dared” to speak; that was when she so
unexpectedly ran into his arms. Then it had not been of his seeking; but
now? An anxious look gathered in the sweet brown eyes.
“Will you, please?” he asked.
The tone as well as the words were full of entreaty, so, silently she
moved forward a step and bent her head in token of acquiescence. A glad
light for a moment lit up his eyes, then stepping to Alice he said:
“You will excuse us? I will try and not keep her long.”
A look of wonderment filled her eyes. When had Lawrence ever paid open
attention to Imelda? Again the question arose in her mind, “What does,
what can it all mean?” But she readily answered, “Certainly, I will
excuse you. I shall do very well. I feel so much better now.” With a low
“Thank you,” he turned from her to Imelda whose hand he took and placing
it on his arm led her to the open window leading to the veranda,
followed by the eyes of the surprised Alice.
Imelda understood, but only the quick indrawing of her breath gave token
that the idea of going out into the open air under the starlit heavens
had anything unpleasant in it for her. Slight as had been the sound and
involuntary the action, Lawrence Westcot had taken note of it. His teeth
sank into his lips but otherwise he gave no sign. Down the garden
pathway to the fountain’s edge whose silvery sparkling waters had
witnessed so many and so very different scenes he led her, and then
quietly dropped her hand. Stepping back a pace or two he folded his arms
and confronted her. For a minute or more he did not speak, although his
lips twitched nervously. Was he waiting for her to utter the first
words? If so, he was doomed to disappointment for the proud lips did not
open.
“Miss Ellwood!”
A slight uplifting of the head, that was all. Whatever he had to say,
she would not help him one iota.
“Miss Ellwood, a man does not often find himself placed in a position
quite so awkward as that in which I find myself this evening, in having
asked you for this interview.” He paused a moment ere he went on. “Some
two months ago I spoke words to you that tonight I feel ashamed of. I
approached you in a manner that was ungentlemanly—unmanly. For the
feelings that had crept into my heart I make no excuse. I simply had no
control over them. A hot, fierce desire and longing for something that
was denied me; a confused comprehension of what that something was, made
me unjust—and—cruel to the woman who is so unfortunate as to be my wife.
Having through the merest chance overheard a conversation of yours and
hers, thereby gathering something of your strange ideas and opinions,
but utterly failing to comprehend them, I permitted the passion that had
taken possession of me to have full sway. A woman who does not believe
in marriage, what would you?
“In my insufferable conceit I supposed I had but to stretch out my
covetous hand in order to satisfy the fire of my passion. I was rudely
brought to my senses by the reproof of a pure mind and by the righteous
scorn of insulted purity. In an instant, almost, I came to understand my
mistake and would have given much to have been able to recall my words.
But you had dealt my pride an ugly blow. It was not an easy matter to
humble myself to the woman who had treated me to well merited scorn. I
had hoped time would close the breach and that this painful scene would
be spared me. Men of world are not wont to retract insulting words,
especially when defeated in their object. But something besides wounded
pride would not let me rest. There is something here,”—touching his
breast, “a painful aching void that makes life a mockery, a misery. The
unmanly act of that evening is a burden which at times is almost
unsupportable. Will you help me remove it? Will you say that you
forgive?”
He had spoken in hasty, jerky, broken sentences. In a pleading manner he
held out his hand to her. But the girl stood with downcast eyes and did
not see it, and the hand fell nerveless to his side.
Slowly she raised the white lids. In the uncertain light of the starlit
night he could not see into the depths of the dark eyes, but as he bent
closer he thought they were dimmed, and that her voice was vibrating as
she now in turn extended to him her hand and simply said:
“I forgive you.”
Hastily the hand was grasped and bending over it with the same pleading
accents in his voice he said:
“May I?”
“Yes,” came in soft accents from the trembling lips. An indescribable
sensation stole over her as she felt the pressure of the warm bearded
lips upon her hand. A feeling of gladness filled her heart. She felt
that the emotion displayed by this man was genuine, and that she knew
she might safely trust him. She laid her other hand gently over his that
was holding hers and softly spoke:
“It is enough, please. I feel that you have spoken the truth, in
recognition of which I feel bound to pay you honor. Let me hereafter see
on your face the light of self-contained manhood. I am more glad to be
able to respect you, the father of my two precious charges. Now let us
return. Alice was not feeling well and Cora may wonder.” His only answer
was to again kiss the hand that was still resting in his; then again
placing it upon his arm together they retraced their steps to join their
friends in the parlor.
As Imelda and Westcot re-entered the drawing room they found Cora and
Norman so deeply interested in conversation that their entrance was not
heeded. Cora’s cheeks were glowing and her eyes shone like twin stars as
the words flowed in a stream from her lips. Alice was sitting quiet and
unobserved in the shadow of the aforementioned group of exotic plants,
listening to every word that fell from the ruby lips. Cora spoke well.
Norman had said but little, but that little to advantage. Adroitly
asking a question here and making a remark there he had succeeded in
drawing her out and was surprised to find how well informed she was on
many subjects of which most young women have absolutely no
understanding. Cora had studied to advantage; for with love to teach, it
had not been so much a task as a pleasure. It was also a pleasure for
her to converse with this refined and handsome gentleman. Until now Owen
Hunter had been the only man of that type she had ever come in contact
with. It had seemed to her that there was none other. But to her
surprise and great pleasure she found that her sister’s lover was in
every respect the equal of the man who until now had stood out in her
life alone.
Just as Imelda and Westcot were entering, the poets, both American and
foreign, were being discussed, and Norman felt a little surprise when
Cora said that Shelley and Byron were her favorites. In speaking of
these he found her most familiar with Byron,—“Queen Mab” being the only
production of Shelley’s she had as yet read, while he could mention
scarce any of Byron’s works that she was not familiar with. When asked,
which she liked best, she unhesitatingly replied, “Manfred.”
“What! that gloomy pessimist, who continually takes you to the very
depths of despair, and finally closed so tragically?”
“Yes. I like it because it portrays so truthfully and vividly the
heartaches that so often lie hidden beneath the smiling exterior. It
lifts the veil and shows the hidden woe. Oh, why must all nature be thus
perverted? Why must all the grandest passions thus recoil upon
themselves? The story makes me shudder as if I stood upon the brink of a
chasm. It chills my very blood, but it has a weird, strange fascination
for me. I always return to it and it has done much to stimulate my
dormant brain to action. It has taught me a lesson in thought.”
The re-entrance of Imelda and Lawrence at this juncture brought the
conversation to an end. A hasty glance from Norman showed him that an
understanding had been effected. A quick look passed between the two men
and a feeling of gladness entered the heart of Norman, for the sake of
all concerned. For a short time the conversation became general, then
Cora was asked to once more sing for them. After a little hesitation she
did so, and the strains of sweet “Annie Laurie” filled the room. No
noisy applause greeted her when she had finished, but every head was
bowed and some of the eyes were moist. The last lines had been sung with
even more pathos than the first, but the fluttering, quavering sound
indicated something more than pathos. Cora was fatiguing herself. In an
instant Imelda recognized the fact and hastily arising said:
“Not another line. We have been forgetting that you have been ill, and
are taxing you beyond your strength. Come, you must retire at once and I
will attend you.” But Cora shook the brown curly head.
“No! no! I shall not accept your service this evening. You will remain
right here, while our friend here, I know, will assist me for this once.
Am I right, Alice?”
“Most certainly. Right you are, and as we are two to one, Queen Imelda
is overruled. So just consider yourself sent about your business while I
shall tuck the covers about this little girl’s form.” Thus jesting and
laughing Alice in triumph bore the tired Cora off to her own domain. At
the same time Lawrence also discreetly withdrew. “To indulge in the
solace of man,” was what he said, to seek the companionship of a cigar;
thus leaving the lovers alone. So many weeks had passed since an evening
of undisturbed quiet had been theirs that now they had so much to say
that the hours sped far into the night ere they finally separated. After
Cora and Alice had bidden them good night and Lawrence had withdrawn,
Imelda said:
“Look,” struggling from his embrace, “what I have got! a long sweet
letter from my Margaret, with one enclosed from Wilbur. She says she is
getting along much better and faster with her studies than she had at
first expected, and she now hopes that in the fall she may begin with
her chosen work. Listen to what she says:”
“MY OWN IMELDA!—To use the expression of gushing school girls, I am just
dying to see you. Save my mother and Wilbur, I have no one to whom I can
talk just what is in my mind. I have many radical friends here, in dear
old Chicago, but none quite far enough advanced to admit them into the
innermost recesses of my heart. It is so hard, so very hard, to replace
a tried, a trusted friend. In all probability this very circumstance is
not without its advantage as thereby I am better able to apply myself to
my studies. During the evening hours I have an assistant and it would be
natural to suppose that during those hours my studies would progress the
most. But, strange to say, we continue to rehearse the same first
act—somehow we cannot get beyond it—with some variation, it is true, but
in reality the same. I expect after a while we shall surely be perfect.
But of what the second contains I am at present not able to give you an
idea. It is still a sealed book. To confess the truth however, I care
but little, so long as the first act gives such exquisite pleasure, I am
perfectly willing to let the second take care of itself. All the same my
arms are in the best of trim to give you a good hugging—a regular
bear-hug. Maybe I can impress you. If so, let me know.
“Do you know I almost envy you your present surroundings? You have so
many to love now. No, I don’t, either. That is not just the right thing
to say. Rather, I am glad, O so glad, that you have found that wayward
sisters of yours, that was. See, darling, how our doctrines have been
verified in this case: that we are just what circumstances have made us.
Who would have thought that the wilful Cora could be transformed into so
noble a woman! But then you know love works wonders, and undoubtedly
Owen Hunter must be one of nature’s noblemen, else the love upon which
he fed the starved heart which gave itself into his keeping could never
have produced such wonderful results.
“Now, my Imelda, it will be yours to develop the germ which this man has
implanted, and when they again meet—which I feel assured they will do—he
will not find occasion to regret the enforced separation. And now, kiss
for me that precious sister pair who so truly belong to us. When your
letter came, telling us all about them, describing their persons and
characters so minutely that we imagined that they were bodily
transplanted into our very midst, Wilbur could not restrain himself. His
eyes filled with tears—tears that with overflowing heart I kissed away.
“O my precious friend, will the time ever come when we shall realize
some of our dreams, or will fear, like a dark pall, always keep our
heaven, our paradise, enshrouded in darkness and gloom? When these
thoughts come to me I am sad. But you know I do not approve of that. I
shake it off; and indeed I have not much chance or time to indulge in
gloomy thoughts, as hard work stands by and keeps my mind busy.
“Jesting aside, my rehearsing is not all play, and my teachers are more
than satisfied with me. They have given me the best of hopes that I
shall, in the coming fall, be able to fill an engagement of some note.
They tell me my talent is remarkable and that I must succeed. Professor
Morris has written to the managers of several first class companies and
daily expects an answer. Now, my girl, please do not accuse me of what
is vulgarly termed ‘self-conceit,’ but you cannot know what it means to
me to be successful. I love the profession that my talents fit me for,
only second to that other object that thrills my whole being. I love, O
Imelda, how I love Wilbur, the king of my heart. I love humanity, the
down-trodden, and I love the liberty to do and to dare whatever my heart
desires. And among those desires by no means the least is my love of the
stage, despite the stigma that clings to it. But where so great the
stigma as that which has fastened itself to the term ‘free love?’ or,
for that matter, to any other reform?
“Two days later: The answer has come. An engagement has been secured me
and—Hurrah! Imelda. In a few more weeks I shall be off on the road to
see how easy or how hard it is to win bread and fame. If everything
continues as favorable as the beginning appears to be my success is
already assured. The vacancy that I am to fill is that of a leading
lady, and I know I must strain every effort to please. My mother scarce
knows whether she is pleased or sorry. I am sure she is the best mother
any girl ever had, and while she is ambitious for me—while she desires
to see me successful, her heart cannot conquer all its foolish fears.
She fears the men of the world, and the very fact that radical ideas
have been nurtured in my mind may bring me danger. But she forgets it
also has brought me a knowledge that I could not well have acquired
otherwise. I have been taught by object lessons, and I have learned to
read character. It will not be an easy matter to try to pass off on me
the spurious for the real, the genuine. Wilbur I know trusts me more
fully, and why should he not? Does he not know that he is, and always
must be, the best love of my heart? Always? Well, until I find some one
who has scaled the ladder of life to a grander manhood, to nobler
heights, he certainly will stand first, and I know so well such men are
rare. He is glad for my sake that I have found an opening, but sad when
he remembers that it necessitates a separation. He does not want to show
the latter feeling, as he fears to cast a shadow on my glad prospects,
but then you know, love is quick to note when every cord is not tuned to
harmony.
“As yet I do not know at all where our company will be booked, but I do
hope that sometime during the coming season we may stop for a week in
Harrisburg. Do you think such a possibility would contain anything
pleasurable?
“And now—but no! I was going to tell you another piece of news, but that
will be Wilbur’s privilege, as he, too, wants to write a few lines. But
I really must bring this to a close, or it might prove a task instead of
a pleasure to read it. Kiss all those precious friends for me and say
something nice to that one particular friend who is not a friend but
something so much warmer, and soon, soon send an answer to your
homesick, loving—”
MARGARET.
Folding the closely written sheets Imelda looked up into Norman’s eyes
and said:
“Well, sweetheart, what have you to say to my Margaret?”
“That she is a precious, sweet girl, and a true woman. I hope that she
may indeed be successful in her chosen profession. But what has our
friend Wilbur to say?” Without further comment Imelda unfolded another
document and began to read:
“MY PRECIOUS FRIEND:—I wonder if, after all that our Margaret girl has
written, I shall be able to find something more to say. I am sure she
has told you all the news there was to tell and maybe if I should write
too lover-like, someone would object. How is it? Do you think Norman
Carlton would grudge me the kiss which I am craving and longing for?
Methinks I read between the lines of the truly grand letters he has been
writing us lately, a broadening, a widening out, that was not there at
first. I believe him indeed to be a grand, noble nature, possessed of a
high type of manhood. I am positive the germ is there, even if yet
somewhat hidden and undeveloped, and it behooves you, my little girl,
with womanly tact to develop it that he may yet stand in our foremost
ranks, working for the universal good of humanity and for the special
good of sister woman. I expect when we meet to take by the hand a
brother worthy of the name.
“With his natural reverence for womanhood it seems to me it ought not to
be a difficult task for him to understand the injustice, the unfairness,
aye, the cruelty that is being dealt out to woman; to always doom her
brain to slumber, to inactivity; to expect her to stand with idly folded
hands, denying her the right to be her own judge pertaining to matters
of womanhood; deeming her incapable of understanding her own affairs;
dooming her always to submit quietly to what man may wish to impose upon
her; using her as a pretty plaything with which to amuse himself in any
manner man may see fit. O it is horrible to place woman, the creator,
the builder of the race, on a plane so low, and I cannot think that
Norman Carlton fails to see these things in their true light.
“It is wrong to seek to bind love in any way, and, try as we may, it
cannot be done! Love, the spirit, will ever be free. ’Tis only the body,
the house, the casket, that we can fetter and defile, and by that means
it, the body, becomes but an empty casket, which will soon fall into
decay when it has nothing to sustain it, while the little love-god goes
wandering on and on mocking and laughing at our futile attempts to hold
him fast.
“Then why should such attempts be made? Cherish him with tenderness,
strive to stand high in his regard, strive to attain to a noble manhood
and womanhood and he will forget his gypsy habits, his proneness to
wander. Feed and nourish him with that of which he is most in need;
develop for his especial benefit that in your own character and nature
which commands respect and admiration, and you will find him willing to
be held in his allegiance. You can do much to win him but you cannot
hold him by force, because there is absolutely no holding him. It cannot
be done, and it is wrong,—it is a sin and a shame, a crying shame, to
attempt it.
“Ha! ha! On the old track again! Always the same; always preaching; but
I cannot help it, my dear. It seems to have become my second nature. But
now I have a piece of news for you. Margaret did not tell you all.
“When this fair lady-love of mine will have taken to walking her own way
I know there will come many weary lonesome hours, for the coming winter,
so we have been laying some plans how to make them less irks me. Maybe
it is premature to say what these plans are, as much may happen to
prevent the realization; but here they are:
“About the time you expect sleighing in your eastern city, I intend, in
company with our fair Margaret’s mother, to set out on a trip. Do you
understand? My heart yearns for those precious sisters of mine, mere
babes almost they were when I saw them last. I want to clasp them in my
arms and kiss their lips, red with the wine of life; while Mrs. Leland,
I know, will win a place in the heart of every one with whom she comes
in contact. Yet I believe there is a particular reason that actuates her
in making this trip. There is a secret yearning and longing that will
not be quieted.
“By writing of the accident which reunited you with your sister you
aroused her mother heart by bringing before her mind’s eye her son
Osmond. The hope to again call her boy her own is the mainspring of the
desire to make this visit. How is it, little girl? Shall we be assured a
welcome? But there! I ought not to have asked this last question. It was
out of place, for of course we shall be welcome. But methinks it is time
to close or I will have covered as much paper as Margaret has done, and
it is not my desire to weary you. With the same cherishing love as of
old, I am as ever
WILBUR WALLACE.”
Imelda folded these sheets also and laid them to the others, but Norman
did not speak. With his head leaning on his hand he sat staring into
vacancy, Imelda gently, tenderly took his head between her hands and
bent it back so she could look into the clear blue orbs.
“And what does my Norman think of Wilbur now?”
“That he is right in every instance.”