The brown curly head was resting on the snowy pillow. The maimed arm had
been tenderly cared for, and already the tired eyes were drooping. It
had been such an exciting day. So many changes had taken place. Cora’s
heart had been stirred to its very depths and it was a relief to be at
last alone. Alice was bending above her, and to bestow her a good night
kiss upon the faintly smiling lips.
“Good night, dear one. I hope you may spend this first night within the
walls of this home in restful sleep. I, too, am tired and wish to rest.
If you should require anything, ring this bell, and I know Mary will
instantly attend to your wants. The fact that you are Imelda’s sister
will alone insure you the entrance to her heart.”
“O thank you! thank you ever so much. Everybody is so kind to me. I do
not deserve it, I am sure.”
“O yes, you do. How can you speak like that? And now once more, good
night.” Two pairs of warm clinging lips met in a loving kiss, then the
form of Alice vanished, and Cora was alone. In but a few minutes sleep
had closed the tired eyelids and happy dreams brought sweet smiles to
the rosy lips.
Alice glided quickly through the silent hall until she reached her own
cozy, comfortable room. It was in utter darkness, which fact, however,
did not intimidate her in the least. At times she rather liked the
darkness. It was then so pleasant to sit at the window star-gazing, and
let her thoughts wander whithersoever they would. So she crossed the
room to where a comfortable rocker was standing, and sinking into its
depths with a weary sigh, she prepared herself for her favorite
indulgence. Hastily undoing the fastenings of her dress she then clasped
her hands above her head, gazing up into the starlit heavens, gently
rocking back and forth in the darkness.
Suddenly she stopped and listened. It seemed to her there was someone
else in the room. She could have sworn that the sound of heavy breathing
had been borne to her ear, though now that she listened, everything was
quiet. But the feeling of another’s presence seemed conveyed to her in
the air itself—she felt it. With a quick nervous movement she rose and
walked across the room. She could feel her very lips grow cold, but with
a strength and courage of which one would scarce have believed the
little woman capable, she controlled every outward manifestation of
fear, and securing a match she deliberately struck it and, mounting a
chair, lit two jets ere she ventured a single look about her; then with
a smothered, frightened cry she would have fallen had not the man, whom
she had seen and recognized, caught her in his arms and prevented a
mishap. Gently he lifted her down and reseated her in the rocker at the
window. He, too, was pale, white to the very lips, as he saw the
impression his presence made upon the pale little woman. He stepped back
a few paces and waited for her to speak, and when no sound came he
hesitatingly, in trembling accents, articulated her name.
“Alice!”
But her only answer was a frightened look. Holding both his hands to her
in a supplicating manner, venturing a step nearer,
“Alice, am I never to be forgiven? Listen to me! If ever a man has been
thinking—if ever it has come to a human heart, or understanding, that a
great wrong has been committed, it has come to me. I know I have wronged
you. I know I have acted like a brute! But I would, in some way or
measure, make good the wrong I have done.”
The hands of Alice were closely pressed upon her wildly beating heart.
Her lips were twitching in a manner that caused Lawrence’s heart to give
a bound. In a moment he had forgotten that he was the supplicant. He
knelt at her side and caught both her hands in his, pressing and chafing
them.
“Alice! Alice! little girl. Don’t look at me like that. You need not be
afraid of me now, or ever again. I mean every word that I say. Come,
trust me! It is the one boon I ask”—and he gently drew the excited
little woman nearer to him, winding his arm about her as tenderly as of
yore. Laying his face to hers, his lips touched the pretty pink ears.
“Little sister,” he whispered, “can you, will you once more trust me?”
“Little sister?” Had she heard aright? What was the meaning the words
conveyed? A hysterical sob broke from her lips, and as she permitted him
to enfold her in his embrace, with an impulsive movement she placed her
hands on either side of his face,
“Lawrence! Lawrence! do you mean it? You have not come to mock me?”
“I mean it, little girl, every word of it. Henceforth, you shall be my
dearly cherished sister, with just the same liberty and privileges I
would grant to her, were you really a sister and dearly loved as such.”
A few moments she leaned back that she might the better look him in the
eyes. Then she wound her arms about his neck and nestled her head close
upon his breast and the words,
“I love you, Lawrence,” thrilled him to his innermost being. He
understood well the meaning of those words. He had called her sister,
and he knew the love she gave him now was the same as every pure woman
gives a dearly loved and cherished brother.
* * * * *
Once again a week had passed, and again merry laughter resounded through
the rooms. Happy voices were heard blending in song while skillful
fingers evoked sweet strains of music. But faces which were new within
these rooms—though not new to us, were revealed in the bright light.
Edith and Hilda Wallace had found their way into this enchanted circle
tonight. Alice was seated at the piano. Her fingers lightly running over
the keys, playing the accompaniment to Cora’s rich sweet voice as it
rose and fell in the cadence of sweet strains of song. The two were like
a world unto themselves tonight, paying little attention to the others,
each of whom was absorbed in giving attention to someone else. While
Hilda actually seemed to fascinate Lawrence Westcot,—so absolutely was
his attention riveted upon the sweet serious girl who possessed such a
fund of knowledge that he thought he never had been so rarely
entertained, Edith had taken Norman Carlton in tow, and by her serene
and placid manner had so captivated him that for the past hour he had
actually forgotten his queenly Imelda, who in her turn was talking just
as seriously to a smooth-faced boy whose bright, intelligent countenance
was a perfect mirror of the emotions that were being stirred within that
young breast. Sometimes the blue eyes flashed, and with a quick peculiar
motion of the hand he would toss back the fair hair from the white open
brow; then he would ask question after question that, with never failing
readiness, Imelda would answer.
“Wait right here,” she said, “I will return in an instant,”—and in a
very short time Imelda reappeared, carrying a small package in her hand.
Before undoing it she laid her hand on his.
“I may call you Osmond, may I not?” The clear eye met hers in a
responsive glance; in turn he laid his hand over hers and in a tone
which had a hearty ring he replied:
“Certainly! It will afford me the greatest pleasure to have you do so.”
Reseating herself in the chair she had a few moments ago vacated, with
deft fingers that were slightly trembling, Imelda undid the cord that
bound the package. The next moment Margaret’s sweet face was brought to
view. The boy’s hand trembled as he reached for it, and in his face was
reflected the emotions that were stirring his young soul. Imelda watched
him closely, as for a long time his eyes were riveted on that fair
reflection, and when with a fluttering long drawn sigh he laid it aside
without comment, she also said nothing, but handed him a second
portrait; this time the face reflected being that of Mrs. Leland.
It seemed almost Margaret over again, the resemblance was so great; only
where time had touched it; the years having left their trace—but only
lightly. The brow was just as smooth as that of the young girl, the eye
as clear and sparkling; the hair dark and full. But there was a line
about the expressive mouth,—an expression on the face that was not on
the younger one, and which only experience could have stamped thereon.
It seemed to the boy standing there, holding in his hand the picture of
his mother, as if in the eyes gazing at him there was a pleading,
yearning look that went straight to his young heart. His sensitive lip
quivered and with another sigh he laid this picture also down. He kept
his eyes downcast as if he dared not look into those searching dark orbs
that were so eagerly fastened upon him. In a little while a woman’s soft
hand was laid upon his and——
“Osmond,”—a pleading voice spoke,—“do either of those faces portray
aught but purity? Do you think your mother” (laying her hand on the
picture), “with a face like that, could be capable of anything but what
is good and pure and noble?” His eyes were raised to hers, and they were
dim with unshed tears.
“I don’t know. But my brain seems reeling. When I look at the face of
the girl you say is my sister a feeling comes to me as though I should
be proud to proclaim her as such to the world; while she who is my
mother seems to draw my very soul from me. Looking at them both a
feeling overcomes me as if I had lost something to which I had a right,
but which has been withheld from me. But when I recall all that which my
father has told me of bygone years it seems as if they were handsome,
glittering, fascinating serpents looking up at me, luring me from my
allegiance.” Imelda took both the boy’s hands in hers.
“Look at me,” she said. “In the first place, tell me—do you think I
could be guilty of all the cruel, unholy things that have been reported
of your mother?”
“Why, no! no! A thousand times no! It would be impossible. One look into
your face, into your eyes, would convince me of that.”
“Thank you! but do you think, my young friend, that I could hold one
near and dear who is so vile as you have been taught to believe your
mother to have been? Now listen: I do not want you to take my word for
all that I have told you of these my best friends. Only wait, come here
often. Here you can become acquainted with the sentiments that fill your
mother’s whole heart and soul, and which find a reflection in every word
uttered by your fair young sister. You seem, despite all the prejudices
with which your young life has been poisoned, to yet have remained pure
in heart. You are brave and truthful. Now from this time forth in
justice to your mother, study your father; his modes of life; his
sentiments; his every action, and compare it to that which he has told
you of the woman who, being the mother of his children, ought to be
shielded and protected by him from every breath of scandal; instead of
which protection he has blazoned such awful tales about her that it
takes almost superhuman courage and bravery on her part to live them
down. So I ask you again, in justice to the woman who is your mother,
will you henceforth keep your eyes open?”
A dark wave of color swept over Osmond’s face, then with outstretched
hand, he said:
“I promise you that I will!”
This conversation closed, the pictures carefully laid away, their
attention was called to the other occupants of the room. The first words
that greeted their ears fell from the lips of Hilda. They listened.
“You speak of the prevailing spirit, of too little charity of man to
fellowman,” said Hilda, “and again of single instances where charitable
deeds rise to the heights of grandeur, only regretting that they are too
few, too rare to be of any real value to humanity. Aye! they are indeed
too rare; but I do not believe in charity. I do not like her. I have no
room for her. Does she ever draw near to the side of justice? Is her
garb not rather a cloak wherewith to hide all the abounding and
heartless cruelty which seizes and retains the lion’s share of the
product of all the weary hours of toil that produce the wealth wherewith
these deeds of charity are done?
“But that is only one kind of charity. That charity which is supposed to
overlook, to condone, and even to justify what society treats as faults
and sins—O, how I hate it! For while charity pretends to do all this, in
reality it condemns every idea, every thought, every action that is not
in strict conformity with the prevailing standards and customs of
artificial society. Charity enchains liberty; it blindfolds and fetters
justice. No! a thousand times no! I scorn charity, no matter in what
garb she may seek to approach.”
Hilda’s dark gray eyes shone with a lustrous light as she finished her
animated speech. Imelda thought she had never seen her so attractive.
“Bravo, little girl,” she exclaimed, “your words ought to inspire brave
hearts to noble deeds.”
Hilda blushed as she replied,
“O no, I do not aspire to so great honor; but at times I feel I must
give way to my feelings. They oppress me so.”
“Will you permit me to ask a question?” It was Lawrence who spoke.
“A dozen if you wish.”
“Then tell me what would you put in place of charity which you so
discard? You cannot but acknowledge that there is great need of a
helping hand.”
“Thank you, Mr. Westcot. Had you tried for a week you could not have
asked a question that would afford me greater pleasure to answer. ‘What
would I substitute for charity?’ Why, Justice! Justice every time. Where
Justice reigns there can be no place for charity. She will not be
needed. She will have lost her vocation. Let justice be done to the
great masses, to the struggling individual, and where would there be
occasion to call for the assistance, the services, of the haughty dame
with her mock humility? None whatever! Where plenty and peace have found
a home there will be no occasion to air her gaudy plumage. And in a
short time her very name will have assumed a strange sound. Aye, it
would be forgotten from little usage; would become extinct, obsolete.
Once pushed into the background she would quietly step down and out and
be heard of no more.”
“And,” added Edith, “with the advent of justice and the exit of charity
another thing would become extinct, and that is power—the power of
money. When justice is done, the toiler, the producer, receiving the
full value or equivalent of his labor, it would be impossible that a few
favored idlers should grow fat—in wealth and ease, while the masses
starve. No more strikes, no more robbery, no more bloodshed. Peace,
happiness, prosperity—would not that be an ideal world?”
Here the refrain was taken up by Imelda.
“No strikes, no robbery, no bloodshed! Do we properly consider the full
import of these words? We hurl the curse of baseness, of low and brutal
instincts, we charge the birth of vice, crime, hatred and what not, all
upon those who toil and produce. If in a measure it is true that the
very air surrounding this class of humanity is often pregnant with all
the elements that breed a state of things so depraved, is it to be
wondered at? Let us take into consideration what the women of the
despised classes are called upon to pass through. Let us ask the why and
wherefore. When hunger and starvation stares her in the face; when the
demon drink has entered her home; when the husband and father is thrown
out of work through no fault of his; when the monster monopoly has shed
precious blood, and made her home desolate—what then, think you, breeds
in the heart of woman? Her every thought, her every breath, must of
necessity be freighted with—murder! Then the little helpless unborn, the
human embryon, that is being gestated and fed with such nourishment—must
not a race of murderers, of criminals of every description, be the
product of such creative conditions?
“When mothers are free to choose the fathers of their babes; when they
can have just the conditions their hearts long for; when they can be
free from care and anxiety; when every woman has learned the science of
becoming a perfect mother; when every mother understands the fearful
responsibility of becoming such; when every father is filled with a
sense of the high honor that has been conferred upon him in being chosen
to be such; when, in consequence, he recognizes the duties he owes to
woman and her offspring, and when, in every act of his life he seeks to
aid her in perfecting the coming being; then, and not till then, may we
expect peace and joy and happiness. And to bring about such a state of
things justice must be done.”
Strange words these, that fell for the first time, upon the ear of young
Osmond Leland. He heard thoughts expressed that struck him as grand,
lofty, sublime, but—but—did they not savor of—well, the insane? Was
there any sense in dreaming of such impossibilities? As each of these
young ladies in turn had spoken they had appeared to him as though
surrounded with a halo, such a sublime light had shone in their eyes.
But again, it seemed, to him, as if their reasoning was devoid of
reason, and his mind reverted to the discarded figure of charity. He
could conceive of no other way to reach the suffering masses. Until now
he had scarcely thought of it. But now? What sort of women were these
that could express themselves thus? What was it Imelda had said?
“Wait, and come often. Here you can become acquainted with the
sentiments that fill your mother’s heart and soul, and that find
reflection in every word uttered by your sister.”
He could not comprehend the reasoning of these young women, but the air
surrounding them seemed so truly holy and pure; such as had never been
his fate to come in contact with. And his mother and sister?—Were they
as these? Had he much to forgive his father for? He felt dazed. Was this
also a case where gross injustice had been done?
“But how, young ladies, would you make all your grand ideas
practicable?” asked Lawrence.
“By proclaiming liberty,” answered Hilda. “Liberty will insure justice,
and justice liberty. The two combined will make truth possible. To be
truthful is to be natural, and nature is pure, nature is chaste. Only
think what it all would mean to be free! We hear the cant of freedom, of
liberty, of a ‘free country,’ all around us, when in reality it is all a
miserable sham! Every word must be guarded, every action fettered. We
must eat, drink, sleep, walk and talk all according to a prescribed
fashion; must bow to fashion, to custom. We may not even welcome a child
to our arms when we desire it, unless we have first allowed shackles to
be placed upon our freedom; unless we have first bartered our womanhood
for motherhood—often turning what should be a priceless boon to a most
bitter curse.”
Hilda’s eyes were sparkling with brilliant flashes, but the eyes of
Cora, who with Alice had drawn near, were downcast, and on the dark
lashes clung two pearly drops. Music and song had ceased; the two
performers, Alice and Cora, had for some time been listening to the
soulful words that were being spoken. The sweet lips of the agitated
girl were quivering as with pain, her hands tightly clasped as she
repeated, “turning the precious boon so often into a bitter curse.”
Turning to Hilda and kneeling at her feet Cora laid her face upon her
knee.
“Is the curse never to be lifted?”
“Yes! When woman is ready to be blessed; when she has learned to keep
herself pure; when the sacred temple of her body no longer is invaded by
the curse of lust; when man no longer dares to intrude, to force his
unwelcome attentions upon her, but patiently bides his time at a
respectful distance.”
“You speak of the ‘millennium,’ of the perfection of the race. Must our
lives be one long sacrifice to secure that end?” Hilda shook her head as
with both hands she lifted the tear-wet face.
“I hope not! Whilst we all have a work to perform in the meantime, I
believe we may yet be able, in our own lives, to so far lift ourselves
out of and above all the pains that make life such a weary round of
toil, as to be able to enjoy just a little in advance, of what the
coming future will bring the now enslaved race. When we are brave
enough, when we are strong enough to live as our inmost convictions tell
us is right and true and pure, we may then hope for a little happiness,
or perhaps a great happiness, just as we make ourselves ready to receive
and appreciate it. And I feel so sure, so sure that here, just right
here around us, a band is forming, true and staunch, that by its unity
will enable us yet to realize what now seem but dreams!”
“You are speaking of that ideal home of yours?”
“Yes! If only—if only—I could once see the way clear as to where the
means are to come from. Money! ‘Filthy lucre,’ as it is called, I fear
is the rock that will upset our plans.” But now Cora’s eyes were
shining.
“Money, money,” she murmured. “I think I know who would furnish it—only,
will he not spurn me now after I have disappointed him so, and brought
the bitter pain to his heart? O, will he believe that it was all for
love of him and not for myself that I seemingly flung aside the
priceless treasure of his love?”
“If it is really that; if his love is a priceless treasure, he but
awaits the call and you will find him at your side.”
“And she,” murmured Cora “whom the law gives to him and him to her,—she
will never willingly give him freedom.”
“Wait and you will see!” came the assuring answer. “Somehow I feel that
all will be as we desire.”