Thus had come the beginning of the new life and the past lay enshrouded in shadows. Almost at the threshold of that new life Imelda was met by him whose coming Wilbur had, in last moments preceding the sundering from the old life, prophesied. With Wilbur’s kisses yet warm on her lips, every beat of her heart responding to the love he bore her, there had been room in that heart to receive the impress of another’s image. While still the memory of Wilbur’s caresses thrilled her the kisses of the new-found lover sent the blood bounding in ecstacy through her veins. Those precious friends of the past, would understand? But Norman,—would she ever succeed in leading him to such heights of progress as to enable him to see by the light of understanding the glorious beauties of a boundless freedom?
As yet she had not reached the topmost heights herself, was not yet standing in the full glare of light that should show her the path that lay in the direction of perfect freedom. But she had seen the brilliant star in the distance and she knew of dark depths that were concealed, the dungeons where prejudice and superstition held in bondage all of nature’s pure desires. She vowed never, never to wear the galling yoke of marriage.
She was deliriously happy in this new love. She found their thoughts blending in all things pertaining to nature. Only as yet Norman had paid little attention to progressive thought on this particular subject. Possessing an innate veneration for all women, he expected to find heaven in the arms of one. That such a thing is not possible we would by no means assert, for, contrary to the general rule that arbitrary laws prove the ruin of loving hearts and sensitive lives, there are cases where the one love has proved to be the happiness of a lifetime; but it is time that we rid ourselves of the illusion that a compulsory marriage law can command such fidelity and steadfastness that such cases instead of the rare exception—as they really are—will be the rule. The knowledge of perfect freedom—the freedom that means none may have the right to say, “Thou shalt” and “Thou shalt not,”—with the power this knowledge can give we rise to glorious heights, and in such knowledge is created a love which in its abandonment to love, its power to achieve, its strength to endure, a life opens before us that can never be attained when fettered within prescribed limits.
It was thus that Imelda felt, and to point out to Norman the way wherein he would be enabled to obtain the same views was what she felt to be now her task. But oh, the difficulty, the magnitude of her task! At least such it seemed to her.
Then, too, there arose another specter from the dark past. Norman Carlton was the descendant of a proud family. In time past they had ranked with the proudest and wealthiest of the country, and were still reckoned among the first. His mother was a dainty aristocrat, his sisters cultured and refined ladies. No doubt the pride of blood had been instilled into his mind from early infancy. Would his love stand the test of Imelda’s past? Her father? Yes, her father had been a man as cultured and refined as ever a Carlton had been,—she felt that. But on the side of her mother she knew it was different. Then like dark apparitions appeared before her mind’s eye the forms of Cora and Frank. These two were certainly living proofs (if they were yet living) of bad blood in her veins. How would it be when this record of her gloomy past was laid before him? Would he stand the test?
True, Imelda understood, with the high ideals she possessed, that if he did not stand those tests he was unworthy her love. But again, love in its unborn glory fails to grasp such philosophy, and longs only for the completion of the union of loving hearts. With all these difficulties in mind Imelda was not looking to the distant future. It was rather the near future with which she had to contend, the winning of her best loved lover.
After parting from Norman under the waving maple trees and after being refreshed by a healthful sleep her mind wandered to those other friends in their distant western home, and, grasping her pen, she spent two hours in writing; at the end of which time two closely written sheets lay before her. Having sealed and mailed the same she joined Alice and the two little ones at the breakfast table. Lawrence Westcot had breakfasted at a much earlier hour and had gone to his business. Usually Imelda joined him, as she was an early riser, but this morning the early hours had been given to her letter which had been directed to Margaret.
“Rather an unexpected pleasure,” was Alice’s comment as Imelda made her appearance and seated herself at the table. She generally came to assist the little ones, as they were sometimes unruly and clamorous until the hungry little stomachs had been satisfied. But that she should wait so long ere satisfying her own physical wants was a new departure and Alice looked as though she would like an explanation. Imelda smiled.
“I have been writing letters,” she said.
Alice did not seem wholly satisfied. The new sweet light that shone in the young girl’s eyes could hardly have been produced by the doubtful pleasure of writing letters in the early morning hours. (Alice always found writing letters a task.) But she asked no questions at present, though a troubled look shadowed the blue eyes as she turned her attention to discussing the dainty meal before her. Imelda attended to the wants of the little ones first and then sent them scampering off for a morning romp. Scarcely had their childish forms disappeared from view when an anxious “Well?” dropped from the lips of Alice. Imelda smiled. Feigning not to understand, she repeated the “Well,” with an additional “What is it?”
“O, pshaw, Imelda,” she said, “You cannot deceive me; something has happened, and you may as well tell me first as last.”
Imelda’s laugh rang out merrily at this assumption of the little lady.
“Your sense of perception is very acute this morning, but I will no longer keep you in suspense. Norman Carlton made me an offer of marriage last evening.”
“You have accepted!” exclaimed Alice. For the moment it was hard to read the pale, immovable features.
“No I have not accepted.” Alice sighed, while a puzzled expression settled upon her face. She found the young girl rather difficult to understand. Why was she so slow in telling what there was to tell?
“Finish your breakfast, Alice, and then I will tell you all.” Thus assured a little more attention was paid to the tempting viands, but Alice for some time was toying impatiently with her knife, waiting until the imperturbable Imelda should be done with her breakfast. Presently she folded her napkin, thus indicating that she was through. Then she arose and said:
“Come, Alice, we will go either to your room or mine where we can talk undisturbed.” The proposition met the favor of the young woman and soon they were seated in the cosy room of the fair mistress.
Alice listened while Imelda took her into her confidence and told her the story of her love. She knew of Imelda’s aversion to marriage. She had come to understand some of her views and though she did not indorse them yet she could not but recognize much in them that would prove an everlasting blessing to humanity could they be put into practice. She felt if it were opportune she would not hesitate to hold out her longing hands for the tempting boon of freedom. Had she not told Imelda of moments when she felt like cursing the fetters that bound her even though they were golden? But Lawrence Westcot was known as an honorable man; one who heaped upon his wife golden favors; who daily sought to strew her pathway with flowers. All of this was true, yet time and again the blue eyes would fill with tears. The merry sprite was not always such when within her own chamber, and Imelda’s confidence called forth no answering smile, and yet Imelda knew she always wore her brightest smile when the handsome young man was a visitor at their home. With an effort Alice banished the gloomy look and wished her friend happiness when she would become the wife of Norman Carlton.
“But,” said Imelda, “have I not told you? I will never be his wife.”