And thus it is that the threads of our story once more unite. Again the
figure of a man is pacing up and down the platform, awaiting the
incoming train and, at last it comes thundering in and makes a brief
halt, Norman’s eyes rest upon the stalwart, manly figure of the
companion of his earlier days, and the clasp of the hand that follows is
almost painful. But even in that first quick meeting, when joy lights up
the eyes of both, Norman sees the change in his old-time friend; sees
the lines that the flight of years alone has not engraven on the
handsome face.
“What is it Owen? There is that in your face which tells me all is not
well. Have you been sick?”
“Heart-sick—yes! to the extent that life sometimes seems but a burden?”
“Why should a man of almost unlimited wealth, such as you possess, speak
in such a strain?”
“Why, indeed! You speak as though wealth could buy happiness.”
“And can it not? Do you not know what untold, what inconceivable misery
could be turned to joy with the assistance of wealth?”
“In thousands of cases, yes. In my own instance, no! Wealth cannot heal
a breaking heart, cannot buy the happiness which has fled.”
“I believe I possess a panacea for an evil such as yours. The society of
sweet women will restore you to life and love.”
“Don’t speak of woman and love to me. I have done with em!” Norman
smiled.
“O, I have touched the right cord, have I? But that is a bold assertion
which you have just made—that you have done with women forever. Yet I
assert that you must—you must and you will be won.”
“Don’t you know that I am a married man?”
For a moment Norman looked him searchingly in the face; then, as if
satisfied, replied,
“And what if you are? Are you sure that that fact should prove a barrier
to future happiness?”
Owen Hunter in turn now looked Norman searchingly in the face—
“How am I to understand you? That the Norman I once knew, and who I know
possessed such high-strung ideas of honor, should express himself thus?”
A slight flush rose to Norman’s brow. Hastily he opened his lips to
answer but as quickly checked himself——
“No more, now! This is scarce a proper place to discuss the sort of
topics we are drifting into. Without doubt ere we part there will be
moments more opportune for thorough discussion. At present I am eager to
introduce you into a most charmed and charming circle.”
Owen shook his head.
“I have come to you for quiet, Norman. My heart is sore, and needs rest.
I would rather not meet strangers. Besides I have with me a friend whom
I wish to introduce to you; also to ask your forbearance for thus
imposing on your hospitality as that is what I am about to do. Another
storm-tossed soul in need of rest and quiet; one who has drained the
bitter-cup of sorrow to its very dregs.” Turning he approached a man who
had hitherto stood motionless at some little distance. A man well worth
looking at. Tall, well proportioned; dark, heavy beard and clustering
hair; with an unspeakable sadness in the deep, gray eyes.
“I claim your hospitality for Milton Nesbit, as well as for myself, and
promise that neither shall be too great a burden on your kindness, if
you can secure us the welcome of your mother and sisters. I know it is
much I ask of you, as our intimacy in the past years can scarcely be
called by the name of friendship—but permit me, Mr. Nesbit, this is the
friend of my college days, Norman Carlton, of whom I have been telling
you.”
Extending his hand and firmly grasping that of the stranger, Norman
said:
“Permit me to welcome any friend that Owen Hunter may introduce. You are
worthy, or he would not ask it: As for our friendship in the past, if we
have not been intimate friends it has not been for lack of mutual
attraction but rather that the ties that bound us were not close enough,
and it is not too late to make them closer. I always felt the most
profound admiration for the sunny tempered youth I knew as Owen Hunter.
“Thank you, for your generous welcome,” replied a grave, musical voice.
“I am but as an instrument in the hands of Mr. Hunter. I follow where he
leads. Later I hope you will bid me welcome on my own account.”
“Spoken like a man. I feel that already I may speak the words of welcome
in your own behalf. But come, dinner will be waiting, and in a well
regulated household, as you both understand, to the good housewife that
is abomination, and my mother knows what good housekeeping is. But set
your mind at rest; she will tender you the welcome I ask for my friends.
Formal and precise she may be, but she is also a most gracious hostess.
My sisters also you will find pleased to meet you. But they do not
belong to the charmed circle to which I insist on introducing you. No
protests! I will have my way. You are already announced, and in this
instance I mean to be firm. You would scarcely be a man if our many
charmers cannot succeed in dispelling the clouds, and a man must be of
flinty hardness who could listen to our song-bird, sweet, winsome Cora,
without being moved.”
Owen started.
“Cora! did you say?—Cora? But pshaw! why should I excite myself over a
name. There are hundreds of Coras in the world. But lead on. We are
ready to follow.”
So they piled into the cutter and as they dashed over the snow quite
forgot their sorrows, and as events of their college years were gone
over they soon felt better acquainted than they had ever felt in the
olden days. But Milton Nesbit was quiet, very quiet. He only spoke when
spoken to, and Owen now realized that it would be better for him to
mingle more with others in order to awaken again in that crushed and
bleeding heart an interest in life—to deaden the pain that was ever
gnawing at his vitals, and though at first Nesbit refused to join the
two friends when evening drew near, preferring to remain at home, and
although Owen, too, would have much preferred to remain in the seclusion
of his room, he feared to hurt the feelings of his kind host, and
therefore sacrificed his own desire to that of Norman’s. As for Milton,
Owen believed it absolutely necessary that he should accompany them, and
insisted on his doing so.
Unwilling to seem boorish, with a sigh Nesbit prepared to make a martyr
of himself. So when Norman’s cutter drew up to the Westcot mansion he
brought two guests instead of the one expected, but both were made
equally welcome. For some reason Norman had not mentioned the name of
his intended guest. No intentional oversight, I ween. He had never heard
the name of Cora’s lover and therefore could not have known the link
binding these two, so when the name of Owen Hunter was announced, each
of the girls started. Owen must have thought, for an instant, that they
acted strangely, but quickly recovering themselves they extended a
hearty welcome. Soft white hands were clasped in the manly ones; rosy
lips were wreathed in sweetest smiles. But as Norman’s eyes went about
the room he missed Cora, and he asked Imelda where her sister was.
“I believe she was telling baby Norma a story and when that was finished
Meta wanted a song, so when she gets through entertaining the little
folks she will no doubt make her appearance,” she said.
Owen again started—upon being presented to Imelda Ellwood, and the two
names kept forming themselves into one. “Cora, Ellwood; Cora, Ellwood!”
Surely he must be going mad. It was only a coincidence, thought he. To
find his own sweet girlie here would be too good to be true. So he
devoted himself to Imelda and found himself admiring the intelligent,
gravely sweet girl who was so well informed on whatever subject might be
broached.
Milton Nesbit had been passed round, so to say, from one fair maid to
another, and all were struck with the sad beauty of his manly face, but
unable to elicit many words from him, as his thoughts were many miles
away with the fair woman he had left behind him. But now it was Alice
who was talking to him. That incessant little chatterbox did not give
him much time to talk or to think, even if he had been so inclined,—she
had so much herself to say. It was said in a way so quaint and sweet,
and as she was mistress of the house and a married woman he felt himself
more at ease and more free in her society, and ere long she managed to
hold his attention, and soon he found himself admiring the dainty color
in her cheeks, the pearly teeth gleaming from between rosy lips, the
mischief sparkling in the clear blue eye, while her voice sounded like
tinkling music. The large room was pretty well filled with ladies and
gentlemen, but as she pointed each one out to him it was with a word of
praise and love for some peculiar trait, attraction or accomplishment.
Not one disparaging word, and as his eyes followed her indications he
thought he had never found so much harmony.
While his eyes were roving from one to another they rested on Cora who
had but just entered the room. Was it that he had not seen her before,
or was it that she possessed some feature more attractive than the
others? His eyes followed her every movement as she gracefully found her
way to the piano and seating herself thereat began a prelude, and soon
the rich, full voice filled the room with its rare music, while the
sweet tones slightly trembled as the words dropped from her lips:
Across the sobbing sea of doom
The weary world is slowly drifting.
Eyes wet with tears peer through the gloom,
Yet see no sign of rest or rifting.
Still angels bright from some far height,
Repeat through hoots of weary waking—
“Hope’s starlight shines through darkest night,
To keep the world’s great heart from breaking!”
Listening to the words they all knew there was an undercurrent of
meaning attached to the simple strain that a stranger would not be apt
to detect. And yet Milton Nesbit understood, as well as if the story had
been told him in so many words, that the gifted singer had known sorrow,
and slowly his gaze sought Owen Hunter. What was it? Owen had risen from
Imelda’s side, evidently unconscious that he was acting strangely, that
he was, to say the least, impolite. He had neither eyes nor ears for
anything else but the fair singer. As if fascinated the song drew him to
her side. He repeated the words:
“Hope’s starlight shines through darkest night”—
whispering them close to the pink shell ear,
“O Cora, my own, is not the night over? May the morning now at last
dawn?”
Quick as a flash Cora whirled about on her stool, and with the one glad
cry, “Owen!” cast herself into his arms, regardless of the many eyes
resting upon them, and was held by him in an embrace so close as if he
meant never again to let her go.
As if in that one glad happy cry all her strength had been spent Cora
lay back faint and white in her anxious lover’s arms. Had the sudden joy
killed her? He strained her close and kissed the white cold lips; then
bearing her to a couch he began chafing her hands, helplessly looking
about,
“She has fainted; can no one help me restore her?”
Quickly an anxious circle gathered about her, but Paul Arthurs soon
reassured them.
“It is nothing—only the reaction. She will be herself in a few moments.”
Taking a small vial from an inside pocket of his coat he forced a few
drops between her lips and in a few moments had the satisfaction of
seeing her open her eyes.
“Take her away where she can have rest and quiet for half an hour; then
she will be quite herself again.”
Winding her arm about her, Imelda was about to conduct her away when
Owen laid his hand detainingly upon her arm,
“Will you not permit me?”
There was so much pleading in the manly voice and clear blue eyes that
Imelda could not refuse him.
“You will take good care of her?” with a smile.
“Will I?—as of my life! May I, Cora?”
For answer Cora quietly laid her head against his shoulder, smiling into
his eyes, and thus he led her from the room.
What if instead of the half hour they remained two long hours? and what
if they thought it such a very little while and that they had not had a
chance to say anything at all? Who would blame them? Doubtless it was
true that they had said very little. Their hearts were too full to
speak: too full of unutterable love and happiness, and certainly none in
that room thought of blaming them. And when they returned Imelda and
Norman were the first to greet them. Cora’s arms wound themselves about
her sister’s neck while the men clasped hands with an undercurrent of
feeling such as they had not felt before,
“So this is your charmed circle?” asked Owen Hunter in a husky voice,
and smilingly Norman made answer:
“Don’t you find it so?”
There was a suspicious moisture in Owen’s eyes and his voice visibly
trembled when he again asked,
“And no censure meets us here?”
“Why should there be?”
But the man of the world could not understand. His friend knew that he
had left a wife, that his love for this girl was an illicit one; yet
here he stood clasping his hand in a manner that seemed to indicate to
the fortune-tossed Owen that Norman was proud to do so. So he drew him
aside and asked the meaning of it all.
Nothing loath, Norman devoted himself for the next half hour to
answering his eager queries, seeking to initiate him into the sweet
love-laden theories of the new doctrine to which he himself only a few
months ago had been a perfect stranger. Leaning against a pillar Owen
stood half hidden in an alcove, lost in amaze and wonder; his eyes
following every movement of the girl he so madly worshiped.
But still another was watching and waiting for a solution of this
mystery. Milton’s sad gray eyes saw the happiness of his friend; had
seen him catch the fainting figure in his arms; had seen him press his
face against hers and kiss the white lips. He could only guess that in
some unlooked-for manner he had found the woman for whom he had so long
been vainly seeking, and in the excitement which followed he for a time
was overlooked and forgotten. But soon the merry peals of laughter,
sweet music and soft strains of song again filled the room, and then, at
the urgent request of Wilbur, Margaret read some strong dramatic scenes
from various plays, holding her listeners spellbound with the purity of
her voice, the strength and clearness of the rendition and the depth of
feeling which she exhibited. So, as the evening passed, Milton Nesbit
became more and more puzzled as to what it was that made this circle so
charming—so delightfully entertaining that all his perplexities were for
the time forgotten and that caused his sorrows to be dispelled as mist
in the sunshine, and his heart to grow warm once more.
As he was one of the handsomest of the finely formed men in the room it
did not take long for feminine eyes to detect that fact. Many were the
admiring glances bestowed upon him. But there was something in the sad
face which forbade intruding. Only Alice—airy, fairy Alice, was not
backward. She again sought his side, showing him books, etchings,
engravings, and albums filled with selections of art gems. Her sweet,
airy manner, the soft tender voice, acted like a charm upon his
overwrought nerves, and he soon found himself thoroughly enjoying her.
Lawrence, Wilbur, the young physician and the Wallace sisters had formed
a little circle and were discussing economics. Imelda was devoting
herself to her brother; making the evening pleasant for him; answering
his questions as to the meaning of Cora’s strange demeanor in connection
with this handsome and refined looking stranger. Frank had already
learned much, was learning every day, but all was not quite clear to him
yet as to what it was that made these pure-minded women and men so
different from others he had met and known in his reckless and checkered
life. She told him that it was a lover of their sweet and lovable Cora,
who, like himself, had once been reckless and wayward. Margaret, her
mother and Osmond formed another group to which still another was
attached. Homer had found a seat at Mrs. Leland’s feet, resting his head
against her knee, her hand gently toying with the clustering locks. The
boy said scarcely a word, only listened. Mrs. Leland had also very
little to say, only now and then a casual word. The brother and sister,
however, who until a few days ago had been as strangers, had much to
tell, and were opening their hearts, one to the other. Margaret was
delighted with the gems she found stored away in this boy’s mind.
While in this quieter mood they were surprised by a sudden burst of
melody from the piano, evoked by the touch of a master hand. Nesbit
having confessed to Alice that he was musically inclined, that
bewitching morsel of humanity had so importuned him that, unable to
resist, he soon found his heart swelling with emotion as he evoked the
rich strains. This burst scattered the groups, and once more they formed
into one whole circle. Nesbit’s music was followed by singing and then
by Margaret’s selections, then in what seemed a very short space of
time, Cora and Owen were again of their number, and finally, when the
good nights were spoken it seemed there never had been quite such a
feeling of content lodged in the innermost recesses of every heart then
and there present.
The following day brought back the two newcomers at quite an early hour.
They did not now protest against coming. They were there every day and
evening, until the hour of Margaret’s departure drew nigh. How brief the
time allowed them had seemed. Wilbur drank in the glory of the blue
wells, kissing the dewy lips again and again. Mrs. Leland folded her
child close. It seemed almost harder to let her go now than it had been
the first time. Osmond’s eyes grew dim.
“I did not know how dear a sister might be. It will seem like a dream,
if I must give you up so soon.” And although Margaret’s heart was sad
she tried to hide it under a smiling exterior.
“Never mind,” she said. “It will not be for long. A few short months
will soon pass by, then a long summer will be ours to do with just as we
see fit—a long delicious summer of enjoyment and planning. Listen! they
are planning now. We are in that, and must hear all about it.”
Slipping one hand through Osmond’s arm, the other arm about the waist of
her mother she drew them to where the others had drawn a circle about
Hilda who, having been importuned, was trying to make plain that vague
sweet dream of her future co-operative home, and none so attentive, or
none more so than Owen. She spoke of the spacious halls where the ardent
searchers after knowledge of any kind might find their teacher; of the
library stocked with volumes from the ceiling to the floor; of the
lecture hall and the theater; of the opportunities where every talent
could be cultivated; of the liberty—the free life—where every fetter
should be broken; of the dining hall where they would partake of their
evening meal midst flowers and music; of the common parlor where every
evening should be an entertainment for all wherein love and genuine
sociability should always preside; of the sacred privacy of the rooms
where each man or woman should reign king or queen—the sanctum of each,
closed to all intruders, consecrated to the holiest and divinest of
emotions and self-enfoldment. She spoke of the grand conservatories
filled with choicest flowers—the sweet-scented blossoms, the trailing
vines, the exotic plants; of the spacious gardens, the sparkling,
ever-playing fountains; of the delicious, health-giving baths; of the
life of unconventionality,—of the abandon; of the nursery rooms where
baby lips were lisping their first words and little toddling feet taking
their first uncertain steps; of the things of beauty surrounding the
prospective mother; of the unutterably sweet welcome that awaited each
coming child; of the full understanding that would be taught to woman of
the responsibility of calling into a life a new being; of how man would
revere her, how he would wait and abide her invitation; of the sweet
co-operation and planning how all should be worked to keep up the
financial part.
“O,” said she, “it should, it would be paradise!—this my dream. But ah
me! it is only a dream.”
As a being transfixed Hilda stood among them, her eyes shining, her
cheeks glowing, her bosom heaving, looking far beyond them into space. A
feeling came over Lawrence Westcot as with bated breath his eyes rested
on her, of how utterly unworthy he was of the love of a creature so
grand, so superior. A still, small voice whispered, “Make yourself
worthy!”—and then and there a high resolve was formed in his mind that
he would surely do so. A solemn vow rose as a silent prayer from the
depths of his heart that some day he would realize that sweet
invitation. With him every man in the room became conscious of a feeling
of inferiority, but not an impulse to bow in humility. Rather each head
was crested higher with a feeling of lofty aspiration.
Owen Hunter answered the closing remarks of Hilda’s dream picture:
“Why, my dreaming maiden, should your dream be but a dream?”
A sad smile played about her lips,
“You forget that it is such an expensive one. It would take a fortune,
an almost limitless fortune, to build us such a home. Of course we could
be very, very happy in our little circle, as it is, in a much smaller
and less expensive home, but I would have it large, so that we might
welcome all who possess the same lofty thought to our circle, so that we
should be able to give to the world an object lesson in the art of
making life worth living, so grand and so glorious that the whole world
would want to imitate our example.”
Owen smiled.
“What an enthusiast! Take my advice, little one, and until this grand,
this glorious home can be ours, help us with your lofty aspirations, and
help us not to despise our more limited advantages and privileges. In
the meantime we will try to become more worthy of so perfect a home—as
some years must of necessity elapse ere it can be completed.”
“Have I not said it is only a dream? How can I dare to hope it could
ever be realized; and when I come to this home, day after day, and
realize what privileges are ours the feeling sometimes comes to me, how
wrong-headed I am to be constantly sighing for still more.”
Owen shook his head,
“You are mistaken, Miss Hilda. Your sentiments and aspirations are not
wrong. Harmonious and beautiful as is the life that has been granted you
through the mutual understanding and sympathy of our kind host and
hostess, it is by no means complete. So dream on, plan on, and if there
is an architect in our circle he shall transfer these plans to paper,
and, as soon as practicable, we will look about us for a suitable site,
and when the spring sunshine calls all nature again to life, work shall
begin, and what has so long been only a vague dream shall, all in good
time, bloom into a living reality.”
All eyes hung on the lips of the speaker. All ears drank in his words.
Could such a thing be possible? Only Cora seemed to understand. Pressing
close to his side, she drew his hand with a caressing motion to her
smiling lips. With a hasty movement he withdrew the hand to lay it on
the head covered with the soft fluffy hair; he pressed it close to him.
Hilda drew a step nearer and extending both hands,
“You mean——O, Mr. Hunter! do you really mean that it can be done? that
the home can and shall be ours? But how? how?”
Cora slipped down upon her knees at Hilda’s side and caught both hands
in hers.
“Did I not tell you long ago, when I told you that story of my
heartaches and my noble lover, that he possessed almost limitless
wealth? He could not be one of us did he not consecrate some of his
millions to the happiness of others. It is in his power to lay the
foundation stone for the future ideal society, giving to the world an
example of how people should live. Don’t you see, my Hilda? Owen is
wealthy, and is going to build us our home.”