Imelda had seen Margaret in similar moods before, and she knew of the intensity that sometimes lurked beneath the smiling exterior. She knew Margaret’s most dearly cherished desire was some day to be a mother. To press the rosy dimpled infant, the child of the man her heart owned king—to her jubilant heart was her dream of dreams. But with this gift that she so craved she demanded no common conditions and environments. To call into being a perfect child she must be a perfect mother, and she understood, only too well, that she could not be that, surrounded with imperfect conditions.
Something had vividly portrayed this dream before her eyes today. Imelda understood the fierce storm of emotions that sometimes shook the nature of the proud girl to its very foundations. But Alice did not understand. She was rather frightened than otherwise at the storm that had so suddenly burst from the lips that had but a short time previously been overflowing with gayest merriment. The depths of feelings thus exhibited was a revelation to her. She had never heard such wild, such passionate words from any one, much less from the lips of a woman. In a helpless manner she turned to Imelda for explanation. But Imelda appeared to have forgotten the presence of Alice, as she sat blankly staring after the receding form and at the door through which she had passed, and only after Alice had twice spoken her name was she recalled to herself. With a deep heart-felt sigh she arose and began arranging her simple toilet, but never a word did she say of the queer manner of her friend, until again the voice of Alice aroused her.
“What was it you said? O, the meaning of this strange outburst. I don’t know if I would be able to explain the moods of Margaret. I doubt if anyone could explain them, but she is the dearest, sweetest, noblest woman that ever lived. Her life, like mine, has been overshadowed by those of her parents. She understands the meaning of the finger of scorn, and her proud spirit rebels against it.”
“The finger of scorn? What do you mean? Explain yourself.”
“Margaret’s mother is a divorced woman.”
“A divorced woman!” broke, in a surprised cry, from the lips of the young woman. Another question seemed to hover on them, but checking herself she waited an answer. Imelda smiled. She understood what was going on in the other’s mind. When, in all the past, had a woman gone through the dread ordeal of the divorce court that the world in general and women in particular did not believe that she was not in some way to blame for all the shame that had been heaped upon her? She who had the strength to dare to go through the calumny of the divorce court was, in the minds of many, composed of some grosser material than that was used in the composition of women in general, and little Alice Westcot was by no means above the common.
How could she be? Had she ever been taught otherwise? She had yet to learn that the divorced woman, instead of being a coarse-grained creature of the slums is more often possessed of a nature most refined, and far superior to her surroundings. She had yet to learn that it was for that very reason, often, that the divorced woman bears the shame, the disgrace and the calumny heaped upon her by the cruel process of the law, in order to escape a state so distasteful to her sensitive soul that death itself is preferable to the continued endurance of bondage. Imelda knowing this could only smile, but she hastened to say:
“Yes! her mother was married to a man that Margaret is anything but proud to acknowledge as a father. He was coarse and brutal; often descending to so low a level as to strike the woman who was the mother of his children. Margaret’s mother was a woman very sensitive and refined. The only wonder to me is that she ever could have made the selection that she did, unless the fact that she was little more than a child could be considered an explanation. He drank, he cursed her, he struck her. He did not provide. The more she worked the less did he do, and the more he depended upon her efforts to gain a livelihood, until finally one day she took her babes (she had two of them) in her arms and left the man who had made of her life such a miserable ruin.
“As time passed he sought to induce her, by every effort in his power, to return to him; but his efforts were unavailing. She would rather, she says, have thrown herself with a babe clasped in either arm into the cold waves of the darkly flowing river than again return to the bondage from which she had escaped. For, added to all the other indignities she had been forced to bear, were the constant outrages perpetrated upon her womanhood, and which she could no longer endure.”
“The brute!” broke, in a passionate exclamation, from the lips of Alice.
Not heeding the interruption, save by a quick sharp glance at the young woman by which glance she noticed that her lips were compressed and the delicate hand clinched, she proceeded with her story.
“Finding her mother could not be induced to return he finally entered a suit for divorce, and here the demon nature of the man showed itself in its most depraved form. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to have obtained a divorce upon the grounds of desertion, as nothing could ever have induced her to return to him, but that did not suit his vile purpose. He circulated all the unclean, defaming reports about her that his low mind could concoct, which brought Mrs. Leland to the verge of insanity.
“At last it was all over. Once more she was a free woman, but defamed and disgraced before the world. It was then she registered a vow that the world should yet pay her the respect that was her due, and nobly has she kept her word. Her daughter Margaret can go with head erect into the best society, while she herself is everywhere treated with the most marked respect. But for all that, Margaret has oft times felt the stigma her father has placed upon her mother, and through her upon her own name, and many of these fierce outbursts,—one of which you have just witnessed, are due to that fact. But Margaret, like her mother, is pure gold, and no taint remains upon her, or upon her equally true and pure mother.”
As Imelda finished speaking she finished also her toilet, and sinking into a low rocker, in a tired manner, laid her head against its back. Presently Alice slipped forward and knelt at her side. She laid her face against Imelda’s knees but said nothing. For a few moments the young girl permitted her to retain this position, then laying her hand upon the fair head and gently brushing the blond hair from the white temples, said:
“What is it, Alice?” A change had come over the merry features. A hitherto unthought-of sadness dwelt in the light eyes where also a suspicious moisture was visible, and with a noticeable effort she conquered something that was gathering in her throat.
“Nothing,” she replied. “What should I have to say? Only Mrs. Leland’s history has placed a new light upon divorce in my eyes. I have never heard a case thus discussed, or seen it placed in such light before. She was at all events a brave woman, and I would like to meet her. As for Margaret I know I shall always love her.”
“If you really wish to meet Mrs. Leland nothing will be easier,” Imelda said. “I am to spend the evening with them. You can accompany me and judge for yourself.”
“Thank you. But you must remember, Margaret has not invited me. So you see I cannot go.”
“Nonsense! I see nothing of the kind. Margaret is not responsible for the oversight she has committed and I will take it upon myself to introduce you into their pretty but simple home. But really, I feel hungry. I have not taken food today, and my stomach demands its rights.”
“Not taken food today? Why, Imelda! what do you mean? Do you know what time it is?”
“I must confess that I have not been troubling myself to ascertain, so cannot answer your question.”
“Well, you seem to attach little importance to the craving of the inner man—or woman, which is it in this case?” laughed Alice. “But for all that, will answer my question myself for the enlightenment of your pitiful ignorance. It is now half past two. I am usually not any too early a riser myself but long ere this I generally have eaten my second meal.”
“Little gourmand!” smiled Imelda. “I wonder you do not say it is time for a third one.” Alice laughed lightly.
“That is a libel,” she said. “I protest; but in order that you may be no longer exposed to the danger of starving yourself I insist that you now go with me. I will take care of you in the most approved style.”
Imelda protested. “A glass of milk, some fruit and a piece of cake, will be all-sufficient and I have a supply of that on hand.” But Alice insisted so strenuously that Imelda succumbed and in a short time both were comfortably seated at a table in a restaurant awaiting the dainty viands that Alice had ordered notwithstanding the protesting looks of Imelda. But Alice only laughingly shook her head and proceeded to call for some little extras. It seemed to afford her a peculiar pleasure to press these little attentions. She was happy to be able to contribute towards furnishing some little pleasure for the friend for whom she knew life had hitherto not turned the sunniest side, and Imelda soon came to understand that it was useless to protest against her friend’s generosity.
Having finished their meal they seated themselves in the carriage that stood in waiting, and were soon bowling along the shady drives. For awhile thought was busy with each of the fair occupants. Imelda was thinking of the changes that had come into her life, past and present. How many sighs, how many tears lay in the bitter past. She shuddered as with cold, on this blazing hot day. No, no! She was done with it. She did not desire to resurrect its skeleton memories, even though some dearly loved ones belonged to that past. But the present? Were not the changes the present was bringing also fraught with bitterness? Yes, but not without hope. The green banner of hope was held high, indicating the coming of better times. There would be sweet memories mixed with the pain of parting. And the future? She would win it, she would conquer it. She would not be less brave than Margaret who so earnestly vowed to conquer all obstructions.