In the days and nights that followed Imelda had every opportunity for studying this sister pair, with whom her manner of becoming acquainted was so different from that she had pictured. The first week was a trying time. Fever flushed the cheeks of the injured girl, tossed her head upon her pillow, and in her delirium she spoke of many things that caused Imelda’s face alternately to pale and glow.
If any reliance could be placed upon those wild utterances, “storm tossed” would rightly apply to the life she had been leading. In her troubled dreams she was living in an atmosphere that was strange to the much tried sister. At intervals she would recognize Imelda for a few moments; then there was a subdued light in the feverish eyes, a nervous twitching about the lips. Her hand would come creeping in a hesitating way, groping for that of her sister. Imelda thought she understood. Gently pressing the groping hand she would lay her cheek to that of the suffering girl and whisper,
“It is all right, Cora, never mind.” Sometimes in lucid intervals, tears would force their way from under the closed eyelids and roll down the faded cheek. Imelda would gently wipe them away and kiss the parched lips. But invariably the next moment wild fancies would hold sway and she would talk of things the patient sister could not understand.
Edith and Hilda were of the greatest help to Imelda. They would insist upon relieving her that she might refresh her tired frame with hours of balmy sleep, and also insisted that she should occasionally take a walk in the evening or morning air. Hilda more particularly proved herself a valuable assistant. The soft magnetic touch of her hand seemed to give ease to Cora in her most restless moments.
For more than a week her life hung in the balance. But her strong youth conquered, and after the ninth day reason returned to its throne. The gash upon the white forehead would be a disfigurement for life. Happily the prevailing fashion of hair dressing would almost completely hide the disfiguring mark. The cruel wound was yet far from being healed, but the danger was past. It now only required time for her to gather strength. Already she could sit daily for a few hours in a comfortable arm chair and enjoy the sweet pure air at the open window.
The Wallace sisters had positively refused to listen to any arrangement for removal of the patient. “She will remain,” they had said, “until quite well.” And here she still was, after two weeks had passed. A marked change had come over her. Imelda saw she was no longer the reckless, daring Cora of old. A spirit of refinement rested on the white brow, and shone in the no longer defiant eyes. There was a story in the pained lines of the decidedly pretty face. The loss of blood, the ravages of fever, and the pain of the broken arm had robbed her of every vestige of color. The ugly gash upon the white forehead had now healed enough to remove the bandage, and only a narrow strip of court plaster was needed to cover the still festering edges.
As she was somewhat of the same build and size as Hilda, that maiden had robed her in a pretty pink tea gown with a white silk front, trimmed at the neck and wrists with a soft fall of rich lace, a white silk cord encircled the waist. The heavy light brown hair had been combed school girl fashion, and hung in two plain braids over either shoulder. With the front hair Hilda had gone to some extra trouble to have it look nice. It was a mass of fluffy, curling ringlets, only at one end peeped the court plaster, merely indicating what was hidden. With that look of sadness, that was so new to the elder sister, and which softened every line of her face, Cora was far more than merely pretty.
As yet the time that intervened since the sisters had seen each other last had not been touched upon. Both seemed to avoid it as if by mutual consent. Today Cora lay back in her chair, her gaze fixed intently upon the outside of the window, but it was doubtful if she saw what was transpiring there. Imelda had been reading, now she also was resting. The book lay in her lap while she too permitted her gaze to wander. After a time, however, she recalled her wandering looks and directed them upon the face opposite her, and in doing so she saw that two pearly drops had stolen from beneath the half-closed eyelids and were slowly trickling down the white cheeks. Imelda noiselessly sank on her knees at her side, and taking the well hand of the girl in both of hers, she laid it against her cheek.
“What is it, Cora?” she asked gently. “Can you not trust your sister and tell her all?” But as if the words had loosened the flood gates of her soul the tears gushed forth in torrents from the hazel eyes; the white teeth sank deep into the quivering lips, as if to quell the sobs that broke from them. Drawing her hand away from Imelda she covered her face while she sobbed as if her heart would break. For a while Imelda did not speak, but permitted the storm to spend its strength, knowing full well she would feel all the better for it. When she had become more calm Imelda passed her arm about her waist and leaned her head against Cora’s arm.
“Won’t you tell me?” she again pleaded. Again the lips quivered and the tears flowed.
“Oh, Melda, Melda, how can I? You in your purity cannot understand. If I tell you all you will withdraw your clean immaculate hands from me and—Well, what matters it? I have chosen my path and no doubt can continue to walk in it. When a girl once steps aside from the straight way it is not supposed that she should ever wish to return. That circumstances rather than desire could send a woman on the downward course to ruin is not considered at all probable. I may have been wayward and wilful in the past. I know I was not good and gentle and dutiful as you were. But I was not possessed of the same strong nature, and if I have done wrong, believe me, Imelda, I have also suffered.”
There was bitter pain in the words that seemed to dry the hot tears. Her mood was changing. She was at this instant more like the Cora of old than she had been since the accident. Imelda did not like it; she feared it might lead her back to the old defiance, but she hoped not. It should not, if womanly ingenuity could prevent it. So she determined not to notice the underlying bitterness. She pressed the unhappy girl’s hand and said:
“Don’t be too sure of so easily ridding yourself of your sister. I do not intend to lose you again. Do you think it was for the mere pleasure of the thing that I have been watching with you night and day for the past two weeks? Oh, no! Since I have found you I intend to keep you with me. An only sister is not lightly lost sight of.”
This last caused Cora quickly to turn her head.
“An only sister? What about—little Nellie?”
A sharp pang pierced Imelda’s heart. The question showed her that Cora did not know of the changes that had taken place. But as she hesitated Cora seemed to understand.
“Is little Nellie dead?” she asked.
“Yes!” softly answered Imelda’s voice, as her arms tightened about Cora’s waist. “Little Nellie is sleeping in our mother’s arms.”
Imelda felt the tremor in the weakened frame, but no answer came from the pallid lips. But when she looked up she observed the tears again stealing from beneath the closed lids.
“Dead! dead!” she whispered, “and I was not there. Maybe it was better so. If she had known all that had taken place in my life it would only have added another bitter drop to her already overflowing cup. But you, Imelda! What are you doing here so many miles from our western home? How came you here?”
“Do you remember Alice Day, who used to work at the store where we were both employed?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you also remember that it is long since she is no longer Alice Day but Mrs. Lawrence Westcot. Lawrence Westcot’s home is in Harrisburg and I have the care of her children, two sweet little girls.”
“Yes, here. And just here, I may as well tell you of another circumstance. On the day which came so near being your last our old time friend with her two little girls and myself were out driving in her carriage when through the throwing of a stone our horses took fright, and like mad they dashed through the streets and—Well, do you understand the rest? I was in the vehicle that caused you a broken arm and an almost broken head.” Cora smiled sadly.
“A pity it was not wholly broken,”—for which she was reproved by Imelda.
“Don’t let me hear such words again. I will not listen; but first tell me why you should use them and then let me judge.”
“Let you judge,”—fell in bitterest accents from Cora’s lips. “Chaste, honest, truthful, will you be able to judge me?”
“I hope so, and as I hope that I am all that you say, you must not forget to add ‘just.’ That is another attribute to which I aspire. Now trust me, little sister, and ease that aching heart. You will feel better when it is all over; I am very sure.” So at last Cora gathered up courage and began the confession that in the last few days so often had hovered upon her lips.
Cora told how short the dream of happiness had been that had enticed her to leave home and listen to the tempter’s words. How the promised marriage had been put off from day to day, and from week to week, until the truth burst upon her that he never had had any intention of making her a wife. A scene similar to that recorded somewhere near the beginning of this narrative was again enacted. Cora was no less emphatic in her demands than her mother had been before her. But there was a difference: Herbert Ellwood was a gentleman; one of nature’s noblemen. But Tom Dixon did not know the meaning of the word “honor,” and when he was tired of his plaything he simply cast it aside. Neither threats, tears or prayers could avail anything. Alone, a stranger in a strange city she was helpless. He had taken her as far as New York, and for a while the disgraced girl was tempted to end her life in the quickest way possible. Desperate indeed was her position; without money; awaiting an event which, if nature had justice done her, should be the crowning joy and glory of a woman’s life, but which, instead, made her a wretched outcast, a homeless, friendless wanderer.
Her voice was husky and her cheek fever-flushed as she proceeded with her story, not daring to meet the eye of her sister.
“I had been considered pretty, I know, both of face and form, and these drew the attention of a man who had protected me from the brutal insults of some roughs, and who, noticing my condition and circumstances, and, attracted by something that even now I cannot account for, took me under his immediate care and protection. I soon discovered that he possessed a tender heart, as well as a well filled purse. Placing me in the hands of a skillful physician he procured a nurse, and, when my baby was born, saw that I had every attention.
“At first I hated the little innocent because of its father, but after it had lain in my arms and at my breast the unnatural feeling gave way to one that might have brought me some happiness if I had been permitted to keep it. But just two weeks from the day I first felt the touch of the baby lips the little unwelcome life went out, and I was left more wretched than ever.
“I did not love my new lover, (for such he was). I don’t think I was then capable of love. My heart was so full of bitterness. But Owen Hunter had been kind to me when he who according to nature ought to have protected me had cast me off. This stranger had cared for the despairing outcast and tided her over the stormiest waters. But there came a day when he seemed to expect a return, a compensation.
“He came to call upon me one evening about two months after my baby was born. As he often came this fact was nothing new, and his coming always brought with it a certain degree of pleasure, but on this particular evening he drew me upon his knee, fondled me, paid me pretty compliments and ended by making me the blank proposal to become his mistress.
“I had been passive under his caresses, never thinking what it all meant, but now it burst upon me like a thunderbolt, and I saw only a repetition of past experiences. I cast off his encircling arms and tottering to my bed threw myself down and gave way to an outburst of tears and sobs. For a while he let me have my way; then came and sat beside me upon the edge of the bed and talked to me for some hours. He was enamored of my pretty face; called me beautiful, and wanted me all to himself. He promised me a life of ease; lots of money and pretty clothes. He said he could not understand how a man could be so heartless as to cast aside a girl so pretty. He loved me well enough, he said, to have cared for my little babe had it lived. He thought he had proven to me that he was trustworthy, and if I was but willing to try him he was sure I would never rue it.
“As I said before, I did not love him, but I felt a kindly feeling for the really handsome man, which feeling I tried to persuade myself was love. I was cast adrift without a friend or a dollar. What more natural than that I should give heed to the sympathetic voice? Then the thought came to me: If he so loved me he might be willing to make me his wife. So permitting him to take me in his arms and kiss me I took his face between my hands and asked him, would he not marry me? He laughed, as if it were some good joke, but held me all the closer, and still laughing shook his head.
“‘Make you my wife, little girl? No! no! It is not a wife that I want, but someone to love me; someone to whom my coming will be sunshine; whose laugh will be music to me; who will be sure to make the evenings I am with her happy ones, and wives don’t generally do that!’
“I did not understand then what he meant though I did so later. What I did understand was that he refused to marry me. Whatever else the offer contained it was not fair promises that he did not mean to keep. Well, why should I continue? I felt that here was a haven of rest, what else was open to such as I? My past would always be a barrier to my moving among so-called respectable women, and I was desperate.
“To make a long story short I accepted his offer. But this man was truly kind to me. Through it all he never once attempted to take a liberty I had not first granted to him. He never forced his attentions upon me. He soon seemed, however, to understand better how matters stood. A change came over him. Although many were the evenings that he spent with me he was not the same. I missed the joyous happy laugh, and his impulsive caresses were toned down to a light kiss, given at his coming and going. He no longer remained very late. He brought me books and flowers; he prevailed on me to take an interest in many studies, offering to be my teacher. A handsome piano found its way into my rooms on which he taught me to play. Having made the discovery that I possessed considerable talent in music and also that my voice was above the common, he did not rest until a competent vocal teacher was procured for me. Evening after evening he was at my side aiding me in my studies; leading me on and on until I was surprised at the capabilities that had lain dormant in my nature. I awoke to a hunger and thirst for knowledge, and day by day I applied myself more diligently to my studies. I was beginning to be ambitious, the wellspring of which I did not as yet understand, but I would see the smile of pleasure and approval light up his face and I felt rewarded. One evening when about a year had passed he paid me this compliment:
“‘My little girl is quite an accomplished lady now.’
“I can yet feel the flush of pleasure, the blood mounting to my brow, as he laid his hand with caressing touch upon my head, lightly brushing back my hair. The action was new. Long ago he had laid aside the lover and was merely the friend and teacher, and it puzzled me to understand the meaning of it at first. I had not heeded it much, but gradually my feelings had undergone a change. He always treated me with such perfect respect just as if I were some high-bred lady. I learned to admire him first and then a warmer feeling crept into my heart. When evening came I counted the moments until he would arrive. Sometimes it would be late, then a spirit of unrest would make me miserable with the fear that he might disappoint me, and when such would be the case, as it sometimes happened, the spirit of unrest and disappointment would not let me sleep. I awoke to the knowledge that I loved him now if I had not done so during those first weeks of our acquaintance, and with this knowledge another feeling made itself apparent. I felt that I was under obligation to him. He was keeping me as a lady when I had no right whatever to accept anything from him. One evening I electrified him by telling him that I was going to look for work. For a moment he looked at me as if he thought I was not in my right mind, then he peremptorily asked:
“‘What is the meaning of this foolish notion?’
“‘I have been a burden on your hands long enough.’
“He laughed,
“‘A burden? Well! well! What put that idea into this little dark head?’
“‘Is it then so strange that I should desire to turn to practical advantage all the knowledge I have gained through your kindness? I am sure it is time I sought, in some measure, to repay you, and how better can I do that than by doing something practical?’
“A troubled look rested on his face as his eyes searched mine.
“‘Will you believe me, little one, that the evenings spent here are the one pleasure in which I indulge? the pleasure to watch your mind expand and grow; the one pleasure which nothing else can replace? And what of your studies? They are as yet by no means complete. What is to become of them while you work to earn a living?’
“The sound of his voice changed. ‘I do not want to hear such foolish words again. Until your studies are mastered you are to think of nothing else.’ That vibrating voice robbed me of all power of resistance; and so no more was said on this subject, but I felt my heart go out to him more and more.
“But why did he never caress me now? Did he no longer love me? Considering our relations in the early part of our acquaintance it was strange; but I felt a restraint that would never permit me to show what I felt. The day he paid me the compliment of being an accomplished lady I felt my heart leap with joy. O how I longed to throw myself into his arms and repay him in a warmer manner than I had ever dared show him. But this indefinable something stood between us and held me to my place. The next evening, and every evening after that, I took extra pains with my dress. I wanted to look nice when he came, and with greater impatience than I had ever known I awaited his coming. Often I succeeded in drawing a word of praise from him which would send the blood bounding through my veins.
“One evening about a week after he had so effectually overruled my intention to seek work I arrayed myself in a soft gown of purest white, a color which Owen most particularly admired. But on that evening I waited in vain. The hours came and went but they did not bring Owen. The next evening the same experience was repeated and every evening for a week, but the man who had become so dear to me did not come; and the thought was slowly forcing itself into my mind that he would never come. If in the past there had been hours of despair the prospect of the coming time seemed so much darker that truly life would not be worth the living if I was again to be forsaken.
“With weak and trembling hands I once more arrayed myself for his coming. I wore a loose robe of creamy silk fastened only with a white silken cord at the waist. My last week’s experience had robbed me of the roses that the few previous weeks had called to my cheeks. It was Sunday evening and I hardly dared hope that he would come that night. It was the sweet Maytime and a great bunch of lilacs filled their room with their fragrance. The evening was warm. Doors and windows were open, and I think I must have fallen asleep in my rocker for I heard no sound, yet was aroused suddenly by the feeling of a face close to mine. For a moment I was frightened and involuntarily uttered a cry, but the next moment seeing who it was, and forgetting everything but that he, my friend, my lover, had returned, I sprang to my feet and with the cry, ‘Owen! Owen!’ I cast myself upon his breast and twined my arms about his neck. In that moment I knew that he had not ceased to love, as I had feared, for holding me close in his arms he pressed me to him and almost smothered me with his kisses, whispering again and again,
“‘My little girl, my own little woman, you love me now, my sweet? I have not waited in vain?’ I answered him only with a happy laugh. My heart was too full for anything else, but he understood, for he again rained kisses upon my face calling me by every endearing name that love had ever invented. He never rightly explained why he had remained so long away, but I understood then that circumstances over which he had no control had caused it, and little did I care in my new-found happiness, for I was happy,—happy as I had never thought I could be. I sat upon his knee with my arms clasped about his neck until away into the night. We had not struck a light; he would not let me be free long enough to do so. There was no need, he said, and I know that not one softly whispered word of love was lost, and with the most perfect ease his lips found mine. The hour had come and gone that he was wont to leave me, but as midnight approached he laid his lips to my ear and whispered words that for a moment caused my heart to stand still; and then to bound as if to break its confines. The past year had made a different woman of me and I now, as never before, wanted the respect of the man whom I loved. He felt my heart beating so madly and I know he guessed the cause. He laid his face to mine and pleadingly, tremblingly spoke:
“‘Darling, can you not trust me? my timid fluttering birdie? I would not harm one shining hair upon this precious head.’ And I did trust him, for O Imelda, I loved him, I loved him. You, looking down from your pure and lofty heights can not understand it, but it was all so different from that first experience that I had. I tried to realize the enormity of my wrong-doing but I could not feel impure when I was in his arms. My love for Owen was something different from what I had hitherto deemed love to be. I felt myself lifted above everything sordid, everything unclean. Every feeling, every thought connected with him was as something holy, and now, as then, the thought will force itself upon my mind: How is it possible that true, pure love can ever be deemed impure! when its fires are so purifying only holy emotions find room in the heart.
“But our love was without sanction of either church or state and therefore the world would place its seal, its stamp of ‘outcast’ upon the brow of such as I. But is it not somewhere written that much shall be forgiven to those who love much? And the short time that followed I was madly, intensely happy, while Owen seemed to be no less so. He would catch me in his arms and lift me up as if I were a baby while his blue eyes shone with a light as of heaven.
“‘My own darling! my precious one!’ O, how often did he say these words while I pressed his fair head to my heart and thought heaven was in his arms.” Cora broke off with a choking sob, while the tears once more rolled down the pale cheek. Imelda was still upon her knees at her side, was still fondling the white hand when Cora again turned to her:
“Why don’t you turn from me? I who have been a mother, who have granted to man the greatest boon of love a woman can bestow,—without first being a wife! Why are you not angry with me? I am sure I deserve it!”
“Why, my poor, dear Cora! Why should I be angry with you? For loving a noble man? I hope I am not so narrow, and that I am able to judge you more fairly.”
Cora’s hazel eyes expanded to their utmost extent.
“Melda, what do you mean? I do not understand. Do you not curse him and despise me?”
Imelda shook her head.
“Neither,” she answered. “Although I do not quite understand, yet according to your description of the man I get the impression that he was noble and good. Nothing at all to warrant a judgment so cruel from me. But now you must keep calm or I shall not permit you to speak farther. I insist that you lie down and rest, as this excitement may prove injurious to you.”
“And if it should make an end of my miserable life it might be the best thing that could happen to me. I have been of but little good in the world,—only to bring pain and sorrow into the lives of others.”
“Now, now, Cora! Is it right you should talk like this when you have but just finished telling of the love of your Owen and the happiness you have brought to him?” Cora put her hand to her head.
“You confuse me,” she said. “To hear you speak like this causes me to doubt my senses. I do not understand.” Imelda smiled.
“But you will understand, by and by, when you know all. Now I am waiting to hear the rest of your story.”
“The rest of my story? Would that it ended there; then, maybe, I might still have some faith that my life is not all in vain. But to return and finish. My dream was too bright and beautiful to last. Such intense bliss is not for this world. I ought to have told you before how I lived. Owen had furnished a small house for me in princely style. It was far up town and stood in a grove of trees and isolated from the neighborhood. A most beautiful garden was attached to it with richly scented flowerbeds and vines and ivy-covered arbors. Certainly a lovely spot and a perfect lovers’ home. From the windows I could see the blue waters of the Hudson and often I watched the stately steamers proudly sail up and down its silver-hued bosom. As I stated once before, Owen had procured a nurse to attend me in my hour of trial, a faithful colored woman, and she had lived with me from that time on, keeping my nest a bower of beauty. She always thought I was Owen’s wife and he said nothing to dispel that belief. She probably often thought it queer that during all that year he had spent only a few hours in the evening of each day with me, but she never said anything.
“One day when I was more happy, if that were possible, than usual, a carriage drove up to my little heaven. A footman opened the door and a richly attired lady stepped therefrom and slowly came up the shaded path. Old Betty met her at the door; I heard them speak but could not understand what was said. The old woman led the lady into our cosy little parlor and then came to me in my own pretty bed chamber upstairs. She brought me a card upon which I read, ‘Mrs. O. Hunter.’ She was a woman of perhaps twenty-eight or thirty years of age, very tall, a decided brunette with flashing black eyes. Her features were sharp, and a look indicating that her tongue could be as sharp. I looked helplessly at her and then at the card in my hand.”
“‘Mrs. Hunter?’ I said, bowing—but her stiff head never inclined. In a haughty, heartless manner she spoke,
“‘If you are able to read you ought to find that correct. Mrs. Owen Hunter,’—with a decided stress upon the ‘Owen.’ I was beginning to feel dazed. ‘Mrs. Owen Hunter’! My Owen’s name. Who could she be?
“‘Well?’ I asked.
“‘Well!’ she repeated. ‘Does not that speak for itself? If not I will endeavour to be still more plain. I am tired of having my husband spend his nights away from home. I warn you, girl! Owen Hunter is my husband, and the father of my children. If I still find, after this, that he continues coming here, I shall find means to put an end to it, and to make it go hard with you!’
“I was as if stunned! My head swam, as I listened to this threat. My Owen the husband of this woman! Impossible! Surely, surely, there is some terrible mistake here. Not for one instant did I permit myself to believe the cruel accusation that had been hurled at me, but without deigning me another look she turned in haughty scorn to leave the room when her eye caught sight of a crayon picture—Owen’s picture, my most especial pride, which had been placed upon an easel. A look like a thunder cloud passed over her face, and before I could think what her intention might be she had swooped upon it, knocked it down, and setting her foot upon it crushed the glass into a thousand pieces, cutting and hopelessly ruining the precious picture. With a cry of dismay I stepped forward, but it was too late, and with a mocking laugh she swept from the room, leaving me in a heart-broken condition.
“I had not known that Owen had a wife, and as yet I could scarcely believe it true. If such was the case I knew full well it was to her he belonged and not to me. How I managed to live through that day I do not know. My heart felt like stone in my breast; no tears came to ease or quench the aching, burning pain.
“In the evening Owen came whistling up the garden path, his handsome face all aglow with the sunshine of happiness. He came bounding into the room where I was sitting and the next instant he had caught me in his arms and was madly straining me to his breast, smothering me with kisses. But suddenly he seemed to discover something amiss in my manner. Holding me away from him the better to look at me he said,
“‘What is it, birdie? not sick are you?’
“‘Yes,’ I said, struggling with the tears,—‘heart-sick.’
“All the sunshine, all the laughter was gone from his face in an instant.
“‘Explain, sweetheart, what is it?’ For answer I pointed to the ruined picture.
“‘Why’——he stammered. ‘What has happened?’
“To speak would have been impossible. I felt as if a cold, unseen hand was clutching at my throat. So I merely handed him the card with the name of ‘Mrs. Owen Hunter’ upon it. I shall never forget the look of dismay that passed over his face.
“‘Do you mean to say she has been here?’ he articulated. I merely inclined my head. His arms fell slowly away from me and stepping to the open window, he stood looking out into nothing for a long time,—so long, indeed, that I thought he had forgotten that I was there. When he turned back to me his face looked in the gray twilight as if it had aged ten years.
“‘And will my sweet love send me away because of this woman?’ He asked the question holding my hand in both of his, closely pressed to his cheek. His voice did not sound the same. All the laughter, all the life had left it. I saw he was suffering, and the knowledge did not tend to lessen the pain that was tugging at my own heart. I answered his question with another.
“‘She is. But what of that?’—doggedly.
“‘Only that you belong to her, and not to me.’ Then he caught me in his arms and held me so fast he almost crushed me.
“‘No! no!’ he huskily said, ‘it is false. I do not belong to her. It is you that holds me, body and soul. That woman never married me,—only my money!’
“‘But your children?’
“‘What children?’
“‘Why, yours—and hers.’
“‘There are none!’
“My head swam; she had said, ‘The father of my children,’ and he said. ‘There are none.’ I looked into the clear blue eyes and believed him. But in spite of that I knew my dream of bliss was ended. In his madness he made the proposition that we should leave together,—go to some distant city, to Europe, anywhere where we could remain together. The world was wide and in some small corner we would find room where we might be happy.
“But to this proposition I would not listen. My mind was already made up. I would leave—leave without saying a word about it. I could not bear the thought of being the cause, perhaps, of his ruin. If I told him I knew he would never consent; but this one last night he was mine, and with that shadow threatening to engulf us we loved with the intensity of despair. But before the night had waned, clasped closely in his arms he told me the story which had wrecked his life.”
With a weary movement Cora leaned her head against the bolstered back of her chair. Imelda saw that her sister was exhausted. Reproaching herself for having permitted her patient to do so much talking she gave the order, “Not one more word!” and helping her to disrobe she gently assisted her back to her couch. With a new tenderness she arranged the pillows and then insisted upon perfect quiet.
“Tomorrow will be another day, and time enough to proceed.”
Cora did not protest, and soon the weary eyes were closed in slumber. Long did Imelda watch the sleeping girl while she was conscious of a new feeling toward this erstwhile wayward sister. Her heart went out to her as it had never done before, and henceforward she knew she would not be quite alone in the world as she had been. She felt that she had now found her sister, in more senses than one.
Just here it might not be out of place to make mention of that other pair of sisters to whom these two were at the present time under such heavy obligations. It had seemed rather queer to Imelda that the two should be all alone in this large house, as she had understood from what Wilbur had told her that the sisters lived in the home of their father who with the second wife had quite a family of children, but of whom there was not a trace to be seen. Only a day or two ago, however, Edith had explained to Imelda how matters stood.