The morning hours passed. The sun rose high in the heavens and still Imelda slept; slept until the noonday rays fell across the fair flushed face. The heat soon made the room uncomfortably warm, waking the sleeping maiden who, confused at first, did not understand how she came to be sleeping at the open window. But all in a moment memory returning with a swift rush, brought back the sweet hours of the departed night. The red life blood stained the fair cheek and obeying the first impulse Imelda’s face was buried in her hands, hiding the blushes that stained it. Such holy memories she would keep hidden even from the sun’s bright rays. Then brushing the tangled tresses from her brow she cooled the burning face with fresh cold water, darkened her room and disrobing lay down upon her bed to rest the aching limbs that had become cramped by reclining so long in an uncomfortable position.
But the desire to sleep had fled. Thoughts in the brown head revolved in chaotic confusion. The sweet love dream wove rosy fancies until chased by the more realistic thoughts of the near future, causing a feeling of sadness until rose-hued love again conquered.
Thus for an hour or more, in sweet reveries indulging, and when the excited nerves were becoming soothed, and soft slumber gently closing the drowsy eyes, a low rap sounded upon the door. The next minute Margaret was sitting upon the edge of the bed, chaffing and teasing Imelda for being so lazy.
“It is easy to be seen,” she was saying, “that you were born for something better than standing behind a counter, measuring laces. What a perfect lady you would make, to be sure. Your very first holiday you must use in practicing the airs, the manners of a fine lady.” Her clear sweet laugh rang out while she bent and kissed the red lips of her friend.
Imelda’s soft rounded arms wound themselves about the fair form bending above her and drew her close to her fast beating heart. Laying her lips to Margaret’s pink shell-like ears, she rapidly whispered; then drawing back, eagerly did she look into the now quiet and pretty sobered face of Margaret, who seemed to have sunk into deep thought.
“Margaret,” whispered Imelda. “Margaret what have you to say?” The large blue eyes rested lovingly on the dark face before her, darker hued still because of the burning blushes that were mantling it. Margaret’s answer was to bend low and lay her face close to hers. Her eyes shone brightly as she clasped Imelda to her breast.
“What have I to say? Why, as you followed the dictates of your heart you have done perfectly right. Wilbur is so grand so noble a man, how can a woman help loving him? You did not think I would find fault with you for doing precisely as I have done? Maybe, if I thought it were possible that you could win him away from me it might be that I would not treat the matter so coolly,” [a new light dawned in Margaret’s eyes] “for I am only human, and I love him, O, how I love him! I find in him my nearest realization of heaven—as I can think it. He is to me life itself. If the star of my love were suddenly to set I think my life would go out with it. My love has power to sway me like a storm-tossed bark, like a mighty oak in the wind. And you, Imelda? Tell me what is your love like.” The waves of rich blood were flooding the face of the questioned girl.
“Not like that,” she said. “Mine is a quiet joy; it is peace; it is balm. Like oil on troubled waters; a calm after a storm; a haven of rest. To lose him would bring me pain, deep and lasting, but not a complete wreck. But O, Margaret, I don’t want to think of anything like that. The mere thought hurts.”
How long the girls would have gone on in this strain can never be known, for at this moment a rap again resounded on the door of the room. Imelda, frightened, quickly drew the covers closely about her form, the next moment she was merrily joining in the silvery laugh of Alice who had entered without waiting to be bidden. The dainty figure was attired in rich black lace that became the lily fairness of the sweet face exceedingly well. It was the first meeting between Margaret and Alice.
“A pretty, merry child,” was Margaret’s inward comment.
“Proud and haughty,” was Alice’s first thought. That was always the first impression Margaret made on others, and only in the measure that new acquaintances won their way into her heart did she unbend; only to the nearest and dearest did she show the child of nature that she really was. It was not long, however, until winsome, pretty Alice had found that way, and for a while Margaret dropped the proud air that became her so well and descended to the mimic and burlesque. She recited selections of emotions and passion, until tears filled the eyes of her auditors, then suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye, the broad brogue of Irish Bridget caused them, with blinded eyes, to hold their sides, convulsed with laughter. Then followed a negro song, ending with an Indian war-whoop; whereupon she sat down upon the floor at their feet and asked them if they did not think it rather foolish to so exert themselves with laughing, such a warm day. “It is so exhausting, you know, and so vulgar!” and waving her fan back and forward in the most approved languid, lady-like style, she elevated her slightly retrousse nose, while her companions went into new convulsions of laughter.
Leaving them to recover their composure she rose and stepping to the window drew aside the curtains. In a moment she was lost to her surroundings; her thoughts following her eyes into the distance, into the future. Incomprehensible dreamer she was, as she gazed up into the azure sky. The pearly teeth sank deep into the crimson lips. Tightly the white slender hands were interlaced, while the large eyes became soft and lustrous, a mist rising therein, and presently tears were falling upon the folded hands, recalling her from dreamland to the realistic present. Just then Imelda’s arm was wound about the snowy neck and her quick eye caught sight of the tear drops. Her heart gave a quick apprehensive bound.
“What is it?” grasped the paling lips as she caught the tear-bedewed hands in hers. “Am I the cause?”
But already Margaret’s mood had changed; a bright smile played about the sensitive mouth.
“No, dearest,” she said, “how could you.”
But Imelda was not so easily satisfied. The cruel fear entered her heart that Wilbur might be the cause. The painful thought was reflected in her eyes. All in an instant Margaret understood. Folding her arms about her friend’s neck she said:
“Not that, Imelda, never that! I am not so foolish, but I do not understand myself today. It is a day of my many moods. I am as changeful as an April day. I was thinking of the future, what it may bring me. Do not think, silly child, that your pure love for Wilbur has caused my tears. Not of that was I thinking. Oh, the curse of poverty! I love beautiful things. I love fame. I love wealth. I love a home, and I love little children. [This last came almost in a whisper.] What will, oh what will the future bring? Any of these? and which of these? will any of my dreams be realized? Sometimes a sort of despair comes over me when I think of the hours of trial, of pain, of suffering my dear mother has been compelled to endure, with her nature so well fitted to enjoy and to bless. A kind of wild anger sometimes takes possession of me. It has been nothing but plod and work. Then I think if her fate is to be mine, over again, I could curse the day I was born.
“But those feelings do not often last long. The determination to conquer buoys me up. I mean to sway the world, and—I will! I will fight for freedom until I obtain it. I will not permit myself to be shackled and fettered. Society has placed fetters enough upon me at my birth; and I will not add to their number. Free as the wild winds I mean to be. I will conquer fate. The day shall dawn that victory shall be mine; and then those I love shall be happy as the laughing sunshine of a summer’s day.
“And to curb some one else!—to curb you, my sweet Imelda, could I do that and be consistent with my ideas of justice? Never again, my dear girl, never again insult me with that suspicion. Now good bye, my precious one, this evening I expect you to be with me.”
Bending she kissed her, and without bestowing a single glance upon the surprised Alice, Margaret was gone ere Imelda had fully comprehended her meaning.