From this explanation it was evident that neither of the two elder daughters had any too much love for the stepmother, who was domineering in character. Of late years the freedom-loving Edith had refused to submit to her many dictations. She absolutely refused in any manner to be a subordinate. When Hilda found her sister making such a brave effort to free herself from the domination of the stepmother she was not long in following her example. The stepmother appealed to the father, who in turn ordered his daughters to explain.
Edith did explain. She said that Hilda and herself were now old enough to judge for themselves in all personal matters. They demanded freedom in all their actions. If it were refused them at home they would seek a home elsewhere. With youth and health they were confident they would not starve.
But Edmund Wallace was a proud man. After the disastrous ending of his first marriage, with the second wife, brilliant and fashionable, at his side,—a woman who seemed better to understand how to manage her husband than did the timid Erna before her, Mr. Wallace had been more successful financially. Dabbling in politics he had secured to himself political and social position and hence the idea that his daughters should leave his house to find a home elsewhere was not at all to his liking. Such a thing would draw attention, and cause unpleasant notoriety. So, for once, he sided with his daughters and gave his wife to understand that they were at liberty in all personal matters to do as they pleased.
The haughty woman was almost strangled in her anger, but found herself forced to submit. But if she could no longer domineer there were a thousand other ways in which she could make the lives of the girls a daily torture. The result was that Edith again turned to her father, telling him that under existing circumstances they could not and would not longer remain. So another and more decided change was made. A room was assigned to Edith and Hilda as their “sanctum.” Through the political influence of the father positions were secured for both girls, which furnished them with pocket money to spend as they saw fit. The salary of each was sixty dollars per month, twenty of which each contributed toward keeping up the establishment. This arrangement made them independent, and from the day it was made both refused to take part in the household duties. Mrs. Wallace had to procure hired help. Then it was she came to realize the full value of these despised stepdaughters. But as she considered it beneath her dignity to unbend towards the girls there was a constant frigidity between them.
There were four children from this second marriage, two girls and two boys; the girls being the eldest. All four were away at school. Mr. and Mrs. Wallace were away spending the hot summer months at some mountain resort. The girls having vacation, nothing averse, took charge of the house, expecting later in the season to spend a week or two on some quiet country farm. To the circumstance of the absence of the rest of the family was it due that Cora had found such a haven of rest under this roof prepared by the kind and loving hearts and hands of this sister pair. That she herself was the sister of one who had such a warm friend in that absent brother who to them personated the whole of manly graces and perfections, made it to seem more like a privilege than otherwise that they should have been permitted to lavish their tenderest care upon her; besides the sufferer had won for herself a place in these sisterly hearts that was all her own, a place that no one would be able ever to deprive her of.
Alice had often called during the past two weeks but as yet had not seen the injured girl. Somehow Cora had always been asleep and it was deemed unwise to awaken her. Norman also had found his way several times to the Wallace abode, as indeed it would have been strange if he had not. When making his first visit he said:
“It seems we are destined to love under difficulties—always someone claiming the love and attention of the woman that I would fain monopolize.” When he heard that in this case the claim came from the lost and erring sister a cloud had for a moment rested upon his manly face. Then gravely and tenderly he had said, kissing the pure forehead of the girl he loved,
“Do what you think is your duty, and what you think is best, my sweetheart. I would not have you do otherwise,”—and then Imelda had gone back to her sister’s bedside with a much lighter heart and with a new sense of happiness. Today, as she stood watching the face of the sleeping sister, thoughts and feelings came crowding upon her that she herself might have found difficult to analyze. Poor Cora, thought Imelda, how manifold and how oft painful had been her experiences. If she had dealt many a cruel blow to others, in the thoughtlessness of youth, it was very evident that she had suffered much and keenly, and yet—looking at her experiences without prejudice, was she not, in some respects, more to be envied than to be pitied or condemned? This very reckless daring that was Cora’s chief characteristic, had secured to her a term of such intense, such exquisite happiness that Imelda, with her high strung morals, could never hope to attain, and as she bent to kiss the sleeping girl she whispered:
“You possess more courage than the sister you think so pure. You are more true to nature and to yourself than I.”
When Cora awoke, refreshed from a long sleep, she would have resumed the recital of her story but Imelda positively refused to listen. Instead the invalid was again arrayed in the pretty wrapper and, with the assistance of Hilda, was led down the broad stairway to the handsome parlor. Here the trio of girls read, played and sang for her amusement, and several times during the evening Cora’s clear, sweet laugh rang out, making music in Imelda’s heart. An unbroken night’s rest followed, and the next morning found the sisters once more seated by the window and Cora ready to take up the thread of her narrative where she had left off the day before.
“Owen Hunter was the only child of very wealthy parents. They were the possessors of millions. All the advantages that wealth can procure had been his. At college he had graduated with the first honors. He was gifted with talents of high order—a poet born; a musical genius, and his gift of song alone would have made him famous, had he so desired. But, as is so often the case with natures of this kind, he was very impulsive. The blood in his veins was extra hot, and at the early age of eighteen he had got himself entangled with a dark-eyed southern beauty, whom he deemed the perfection of all womankind. His mother had died when he was sixteen, else she might perhaps have been able to guide him with loving gentleness where reason and parental commands failed. The girl with whom he had fallen so madly in love was also wealthy, and had had the benefit of a thorough education—that is, a fashionable one. She knew how to dance, how to bow gracefully. She possessed an exhaustless supply of small talk, quick of repartee, brilliant and witty. She knew how to haughtily snub a social inferior—and so on through the long list of fashionable accomplishments.
“Owen saw only the fascinating smile and the wild, witching beauty that had set fire to his brain. For some reason his father was opposed to an alliance with Leonie Street. Perhaps he better read beneath the attractive surface. But Owen was determined, and when he was scarcely twenty he married the girl who had so completely bewildered his senses. Young as he was he was at the head of a large business firm. His father of late had been in poor health, and upon the young man’s shoulders was laid the burden that had become too heavy for those of the older man. And when his father died, stepping into his inheritance he found himself worth some twenty millions of dollars.
“Long ere this, however, Owen Hunter discovered that he had made a grand matrimonial mistake. The woman he had married was only a fashion plate, with this difference. A fashion plate is called inanimate, whereas Mrs. Hunter was possessed of a temper so fiery that she became quite dangerous when something occurred to arouse her ire. In her passionate moods she was so vulgar as to be disgusting. One babe had come, but as if her passion was a poison that killed, the little thing lived only a few days, and none other ever came.
“Of short duration had been their honeymoon. She managed soon to thoroughly disenchant her boy husband—to cure him of the infatuation that had led him to brave even his father’s displeasure; displeasure which might have meant a great deal to him, as his father was noted for a certain bull-dog tenacity or stubbornness. When once he took a stand, either for or against, he would hold to it, to the bitter end, no matter if later he found that only he was in the wrong and all others in the right.
“Since there was no sweet baby smile to woo and win the hearts of these two, Owen and Leonie Hunter daily drifted farther and farther apart, neither caring, or little caring, what the other was doing. His millions were at her command wherewith to satisfy her every whim, and this wealth enabled her to worship at the shrine of fashion, to her heart’s content. Their ‘home’ was a mansion; one of the most beautiful of homes but Owen Hunter only went to it to sleep, and not always then. Sometimes home did not see him for weeks at a time. The clubs suited him better than the princely mansion which contained his dark-browed wife. His wedded experience had made him reckless, and he made the most of what his wealth would buy him. He was not by nature bad; not by any means. He was only what circumstances had made him. Deep down hidden in the innermost recesses of his being were the germs of a noble manhood, but those germs were fast going to decay for want of the magic touch which would waken them to life and growth. Sometimes he felt heart-sick and soul-weary when he realized that with all the wealth at his command there was none so poor as he; that his bosom bore a starving heart. In all the vast multitudes of the great city there was not one face to brighten at his coming, to smile a welcome at his return to the place he called home.
“In a mood like this, one evening as he was passing a deserted thoroughfare he was attracted by a woman’s cry. A woman was struggling in the grasp of a man. A well directed blow felled the ruffian to the earth while the rescuer caught an almost fainting girl in his arms.
“That was the way in which I became acquainted with Owen Hunter. He offered to see me to my home. I told him I had none. He seemed to understand it all in a moment, and afterwards he told me that he did so understand. A young woman whose condition was so apparent, and no home, could have only one story to tell,—a very common story, and at that moment he felt, as he afterwards explained, just as forlorn and alone, just as hopeless and homeless. It was as if I had touched a hidden wellspring. He drew my arm through his and said:
“‘Come.’
“I was trembling in every nerve. The terror I had undergone almost paralyzed me. He saw I was almost unable to stand.”
“‘Will you trust me?’
“One look into the clear eyes told me that it would be safe, and I only nodded my head. I could not trust myself to speak. I hardly knew how it happened, but in a few moments more I found myself seated in a closed carriage, and that night I slept safely housed, with a little confidence in mankind restored.
“You know the rest. I told you the story yesterday; of how he came to love me and I him, until our love glorified our lives. Never until the darkly passionate woman stood before me did I know that another had a stronger claim upon him than I. He did not know through what chance she had become possessed of his secret. He felt sure she cared little, only it gave her a chance to empty the poison vials of her temper and spleen in a manner that she was conscious would strike me in a vital spot.
“‘She thinks to part us, loved one,’ he said, ‘but she shall not succeed. I will not sacrifice the only bright spot that makes my life worth living. You, my darling, have redeemed me. You have taught me the bliss of the love of a true woman. You have made a new being of me, and to you I belong; while you are mine by the might and power of that holy love that you bear me.’
“O, Imelda, forbear to judge me from the high pinnacle of morality and purity upon which I know you stand. Although I had made up my mind to disappear out of his life—that he should not know what had become of me,—but this one last night I wanted to be happy, happy in the present hour and in the feeling that he was mine and I his. I would not think of the morrow and what it would bring. I only gave myself up to the hour and to my love, and when the bright sun of another day had risen he still held me so closely in his arms that it seemed he meant never to release me.
“‘Have patience, my own one,’ he said, ‘if you should not see me for some time. I will have much to arrange, but when all shall have been attended to I will fly to you, never again to leave you; for I cannot, I will not give you up.’
“I thought my heart would break, as he held me in his arms, whispering to me his plans of hope and happiness. But I forced back the scalding tears and with smiling lips kissed him goodby. I stood at the doorway and watched him out of sight.
“‘Out of sight!’ Could it have been out of mind as well, it would then not have been so hard to bear. I re-entered my room, threw myself upon my bed and wept myself to sleep.
“Long hours I lay thus. When at last I awoke the sun was high in the heavens; my limbs were weary and my heart heavy, but I knew I had work to do, the hardest part of which was to write Owen a letter wherein I should bid him farewell, as I thought it better to part than that I should be the cause of his ruin. I had some money, money he had given me, and many valuable jewels and trinkets. To me they were possessed of a double value as they were the gifts of his love. I packed a trunk with such things as it seemed necessary that I should take with me; selecting the plainest of my dresses. Then having sent old Aunt Betty on an errand, I managed to procure a wagon to take my few belongings to the ferry and thence to the depot and—I have never seen him since.
“It is only two short months ago, but to me it seems ages. Not caring whither I was going, as all the world was alike to me, I procured a ticket with scarce an idea where it would take me. My trunk checked, I patiently waited for my train. For two hours I never stirred, gazing fixedly at my tightly clasped hands. Had not the strangeness of my demeanor attracted the attention of an old gentleman who kindly asked me where I was going, I might have missed my train. He doubtless saw something in my face that was not quite satisfactory for he asked to see my ticket and found that my train would be due in a few minutes. Taking me under his immediate care he saw that I was made comfortable, as, fortunately, he was to take the same train, and was bound for the same destination.
“How I reached Harrisburg I suppose I shall never know, for one day I awoke to find myself in a hospital bed, my face wan and thin and too weak to lift my head. I was told that I had been brought there four weeks before, delirious with fever, and that I constantly required the care of several nurses. But youth was in my favor and I soon regained health and strength, and in two weeks more I was discharged. It was the old gentleman who had befriended me on the train who had also caused me to be taken where I would be cared for during my illness, and through his kindness it was that I found my belongings when able again to care for myself.
“It had been just two weeks since my release from the hospital when the accident occurred that brought me here. If my thoughts had been with me I don’t think it could have happened. But Owen’s image still lives in my heart. It is not so easy to obliterate it therefrom, right or wrong. I still love him.”
Here Cora’s overwrought feelings again gave way, and she sobbed as if her heart would break. Imelda gently placed her arm about the weeping girl’s neck and pressed her against her own bosom. Tenderly she brushed her hair and kissed the tear-wet eyelashes. With a quick unexpected motion Cora caught the hand that was caressing her cheek and pressed it to her heaving breast.
“Can you still find room for me in your pure and stainless heart? Can you still love me? But oh, you can’t understand how hard it was to give him up. Indeed! indeed! I have tried so hard to overcome this love, but it is stronger than I. It overcomes me.”
Imelda bent and kissed the quivering lips. “Poor little sister! Have I been so cold and merciless in the past as to cause you to believe that I am so small and narrow as to heap censure upon this bowed head? to still farther lacerate your bleeding, aching heart? No, no! you poor child. If in the past you have been childishly wayward I may not always have rightly understood you. If you have dared to fly in the face of society, of man-made laws, it is you who have been the sufferer, and when the sweetest boon that comes to woman’s life was held out to you and you were brave enough to grasp it and to bask in its glorious sunshine, I certainly cannot condemn you. I had not dreamed that the material of so grand a woman lay hidden beneath the surface of that saucy, independent child. A grand and glorious woman indeed is my sister Cora, and I am proud of her!”
Cora’s great hazel eyes were opened wide with astonishment. As if by magic the tears ceased to flow; her face grew deathly white; huskily she whispered,
“What is it you mean, Imelda? I do not understand. I have heard your words but have not caught their import. The Imelda that I know regarded a life such as I have been leading a deadly, hideous sin, and your words almost imply that——I——have done right.”
“They do imply it, darling! I think you have been brave and true and strong. It might be, though, that it was because you were not so strongly bound, as I, by the fetters of prejudice, but I also am getting rid of these fetters and hope soon to be a free woman, and in the measure that I am gaining liberty I understand better what it means to others to be deprived of that precious boon. Sister mine, my eyes have been opened to many evils existing in this world, and the starvation of woman’s sex-nature until marriage, when the starvation generally changes to surfeit and sex slavery is one of the greatest evils that this world knows. A few men are intelligent and noble enough to understand this; men who suffer almost as much from this accursed system as do most women, and, little girl, your Owen was one of these noble men. After all you have told me about yourself and him I am rather surprised you did not dare the world and claim your own.”
“Imelda! This from—you! I wanted to save him from himself. I know he would never have given me cause to rue it had I entrusted myself, my life, to his care. He was too noble, too true for that. But you know the law gives him to that other woman, and how it would have hurt him in the society wherein he moves and in which he ranks so high.”
“I understand. Love blinded you to your own interests while you sought to guard only his, forgetful of the fact that every pang that was torturing your own heart would find an echo in his. Oh, what a horrible structure is society; built as it is upon the quivering hearts of poor bleeding humanity!”
Cora listened in open-eyed wonder to the words that fell from the lips of her sister. To her unsophisticated ears they sounded like rank treason, only that she knew that Imelda’s mind and heart were not capable of treason. Long and earnestly therefore did the elder sister talk to the younger one, trying to make clear her views and theories, and as Cora caught their import a new hope, like sweet balm, crept into the weary heart. Was she then not the loathsome and vile thing the world would have her believe herself to be? Could it really be that true love, soul-elevating, ennobling and purifying love, does not need the sanction of state and church to give it those redeeming qualities? O, how like another being she would feel if the sweet consciousness could be hers that she was not unclean and defiled; but that her love was just as pure and holy as in its highest, noblest sense it ever could be.