But now? One thing Imelda had achieved. She had led Norman into the realms of thought. She had made him think as he had never thought before. He now began to see the real cause of human misery. Asking a few well directed questions he soon had the missing links needed to supplement Imelda’s life history. She told him of the fair-haired girl whom she loved better than a sister; the girl whose mother’s life had been blighted through that self-same marriage curse. She told him of that cherished friend who through the same curse had seen a worshiped mother laid beneath the sod—which tale she ended by requesting him to write those friends; to become acquainted with them; to test their friendship. Norman agreed to do this, and not many days later a letter of his was speeding across the prairies bearing his worded desire to know better those who had in earlier days befriended his Imelda, and who wielded such influence over her.
But to those enthralled in love’s golden fetters time speeds on rapid wings. When Norman looked at his watch he found it pointing to half past ten. A pang smote Imelda’s heart as she thought of the lonely watcher up in the sick chamber, and hastily sought to disengage herself from the encircling arms of her lover. A half dozen more love-laden kisses and the young girl was bounding across the open grounds followed by the fond eyes of her lover who watched her until she disappeared within the portals of the house ere he wended his way homeward.
No sooner had Imelda stepped into the hall, softly closing the door behind her, than, from the open door to the right, leading into the drawing room, stepped Lawrence Westcot. Imelda drew back. She did not care to encounter anyone just now, least of all Lawrence Westcot. Planting himself directly across her path, but speaking with faultless courtesy he said:
“Miss Ellwood will you grant me the favor of a few moments conversation?” at the same time holding open the door for her to pass through. Imelda paused, hesitating. What could Lawrence Westcot desire to say to her? Besides it was already late. Her conscience smote her for having absented herself so long from the sick room, and she certainly felt no desire to be alone with this man at this hour of the evening. But he was waiting, holding the door for her to pass through, quite as a matter of course. Much as she was disinclined to do so she yet felt that she could not refuse without appearing rude, and so, reluctantly passing him she entered the room, while he closed the door after them.
The room was dimly lit, as before when she had entered it earlier in the evening. Imelda paused under the single burning jet. He came forward and turned it to a brighter blaze, then wheeled forward a chair for her to be seated, but which she declined, shaking her head in a positive manner.
“I beg your pardon, but I would rather not, Mr. Westcot. It is time I return to Alice. Mrs. Boswell kindly relieved me this evening of several hours of responsibility. I have already overstayed my time. I do not wish to give it the appearance of an imposition, so if you have anything to say to me I must beg of you to hasten.”
She had taken a step or two backward and stood with her hand resting upon the back of the chair Westcot had placed for her, the soft folds of the white shawl that had been loosely thrown over her head and shoulders, the glow of health and happiness upon her cheek and in the dark brown eyes—Lawrence Westcot felt the magic beauty of the picture before him. It was doubtful if he heard a word of what she had spoken; certain it was that he paid no attention to it. Suddenly Imelda became conscious of his burning gaze, and in a moment her face was dyed from brow to chin with a hot wave of color, and again she spoke:
“If you have something to tell me, Mr. Westcot, will you please do so without loss of time? I do not wish that Alice should be waiting.”
“Let her wait,” he said hastily, huskily. “She is not wanting for anything. I have just come from there. Mrs. Boswell is with her and can manage very well. Besides, why should you make such a prisoner of yourself? The nurse is paid for her work; let her do it. A little while longer will not hurt her.”
Utterly surprised, Imelda for the moment was unable to speak, but almost instantly recovering her self-possession:
“Was it to tell me this you have asked me to come in here?” He heeded not the withering scorn in her voice, but stepping nearer he possessed himself of one of her hands.
“Why should I not tell you that, and a great deal more if I choose? True, you never gave me a chance, but can you not see that I madly love you?”
“Sir! You forget yourself!” Imelda snatched her hand from him and stepped several paces backward. Nothing daunted the next moment he again was at her side.
“Why should I not tell you, and why should you not listen? Do I not know your views on love and marriage? According to them you cannot deem my love for you a crime because I am a married man.” With these words he attempted again to take her hand, but she, by mustering all her strength pushed him from her with such force as to almost unbalance him.
“How dare you?” she articulated. The face that only a few moments ago was dyed scarlet was now ashen in its pallor.
“I dare it because I love you,” came in low, almost hissing tones from lips that were now pale as hers, while his black eyes glowed like living coals.
“Do you think I will meekly surrender you to that—no! I will not call names—to that so-called friend of mine? I tell you no! a thousand times no! I acknowledge no barriers, as I know you do not, and I swear to you that you must and shall be mine!”—and ere Imelda was aware of his intention he had gained her side, his arms like bands of iron were laid about her shoulders, and the next instant she felt his hated kisses upon her lips. For a moment she was powerless, and only for a moment, when with strength of desperation she tore herself from his embrace.
“You are the most despicable creature upon this earth! I will tell you what barriers stand between us. First and foremost your utter lack of manhood. By whatever despicable means you may have obtained an inkling of my views, let me tell you that you have failed, utterly failed to get the least gleaming of the truth. Know that a creature so wholly devoid of principle and honor may never hope to win the favor of a free woman. Know you that love can neither be forced nor bought. When you come to realize and understand this you may speak to me again—not until then.”
With an imperious movement she swept by him, leaving him bewildered and, for a moment, totally subdued. Had he failed to understand her? What a glorious creature! and what superb scorn. Did she know what stood between Alice and him? At the thought of Alice a dark frown swept over his face. What was the meaning of that?
Upon winged feet Imelda flew up the broad stairway and into the sick room. Her strength was at an end. Staggering she would have fallen, had not the nurse seen her condition in time and caught her in her arms. Carefully she laid her upon the lounge. Alice was sleeping, as indeed the last few days and nights she had slept almost constantly, which fact enabled the nurse to pay all her attention for the next half hour to this new patient. Finally Imelda returned to consciousness, but only to break into an uncontrollable fit of weeping. For a little while the nurse permitted this fit to have full sway, but when the storm had spent itself and Imelda became more composed she stepped to the stand where there was quite an array of medicines. Mixing a soothing draught she handing it to Imelda, saying:
“Take this,” and, quite as a matter of course Imelda drank the cooling drink.
“Now,” continued Mrs. Boswell, “go to your room and lie down.” But this time she was not so readily obeyed. Imelda’s frame shook as with a chill.
“I would rather not. Please let me remain where I am. I shall soon recover and be all right again.”
“No! no! the sick room is no place to sleep. I insist that you go to your own room and bed, if you would avoid being sick yourself.”
But Imelda on no account would have traversed the lonely hallway again tonight, for fear of meeting in some shadowy nook the man she had just left below in such a storm of passion. Mrs. Boswell soon realized that for some unaccountable reason Imelda seemed afraid, though this was a weakness she had not hitherto noticed in the girl, but she understood too well that she was in need of perfect composure and rest, and the sick room was no place for these. Stepping to the bedside of the sleeping patient she bent over her and listened for a moment to the quiet breathing; then she said:
“Come, I will go with you. It will be perfectly safe to leave our patient for a few moments.” Then taking the agitated girl by the hand, she led her through the hallway to her own room. Lighting the gas jet she next turned down the bed clothes and quietly but quickly assisted her to disrobe and helped her into the snowy night robe. She would then have tucked her into her bed but Imelda refused, as she wished to fasten the door after the retreating form of the nurse, who thereupon returned to the bedside of the sleeping Alice to watch the night away when she herself had expected to spend it in needed rest and sleep.