Long ere this the assurance had been Imelda’s that Edith and Hilda were both true sisters of their brother Wilbur, and that they espoused sex reform in its highest sense, and when an hour later these two bright girls joined the Ellwood sisters Cora was again surprised to hear the same sentiments voiced in equally strong language. Hilda knelt beside the dumb-founded Cora, and while playfully fondling her hand told her of plans that had been maturing in that youthful head.
“Sometimes,” she said, “when we shall have more money at our command than now, we will build ourselves a home. O, such a glorious, beautiful home, in some retired or isolated spot, and our lovers shall come and share it. But only just so long as they are our lovers, for we want no masters. We shall be strong enough, and capable of standing at the head of our home ourselves, and directing its management. Don’t you think so? Our home shall be our kingdom, and we shall reign queens therein, and our lovers will be our dear friends and comrades, instead of husbands. Will not that be glorious?”
With an experience such as hers had been it was not much to be wondered at that Cora became an apt pupil of this, to her, new doctrine, and of which this trio of girls were such enthusiastic advocates. Edith and Imelda smiled as they listened to the glowing description of Hilda’s home while a new and wonderful light began to glow in the hazel eyes of the bewildered Cora, and then she began to question, and all the time one utterance of Hilda’s kept ringing in her ears: “When we shall have more money.” When? But first she wanted to know and understand, and for a while she kept the trio busy answering her questions. She had become deeply interested and now wanted fully to understand.
“How many are there in this scheme? How many such daring members are there?”
“Well,” answered Hilda, “there are four of us here; for of course you are in it. Then that wonderful brother of ours is the lover of a sweet girl in that western home of yours. Margaret Leland is her name.”
“Margaret Leland!” interrupted Cora, and looked inquiringly at Imelda. “Was there not—”
“The same,” said Imelda. “She was employed at the same store where we used to work, and for years has been my best friend. It is to her largely that I am indebted for my present views. But now please let Hilda proceed.”
“Well,” continued Hilda, “Margaret’s mother comes next. From all accounts we could not well get along without her and—well, I don’t know. Is there anyone else?”—looking inquiringly at the girls.
“I think,” answered Imelda, “It will be perfectly safe to count Mrs. Westcot in—‘Alice Day,’ Cora, I was speaking of her before. That makes seven, I believe, and who knows, by the time ‘our home’ is built there may be as many more.”
“And how many lovers are there?” asked Cora. This caused a little laugh.
“One I know, and two I believe,” was Imelda’s answer to Cora’s question. “Wilbur Wallace, the brother of these dear girls, we can be sure of, and Norman Carlton I hope may soon be able to see clear enough to be willing that woman should in all things decide for herself.”
“Who is Norman Carlton?”
A beautiful rosy color swept over Imelda’s sweet face, and Cora was answered. “O,” she said with a slight gasping sound, “now I know how you understood so well.” Then Hilda spoke:
“I have been waiting for Edith to make some kind of announcement, but she sings ‘mum.’”
“Hilda!”
“Edith! I am not afraid, sister mine. You know you met a very interesting gentleman last year in our rambles on the mountains.”
“Yes! but child, you also know that we have not seen him since, and as we had just received a call to come home immediately we left without a word of farewell;—then again we did not get a deep enough insight into the views of Paul Arthur to enable us to ascertain whether or not he is a free lover.”
“O, but I heard him express himself very clearly at one time on the subject of marriage. ‘It is the grave of love,’ he said, ‘the altar upon which the holiest emotions are sacrificed.’”
“It may all be true,” Edith replied, “but as I remarked before, we may never see or hear from him again.”
“But,” Hilda said, kissing Cora’s pale cheek, “have you no contribution to make in the shape of a lover?” slowly the rich color swept over the pale face; involuntarily her eye sought Imelda’s. Was there a meaning in the glance? She smiled.
“Can you see the rising sun?” Imelda asked, but for answer the pearly drops filled the sad eyes. “O, if I dared hope.” To the inquiring looks of the sisters Imelda replied:
“When Cora is stronger I am sure she will tell you her story in all its details, as you have proved yourself so trustworthy. A cloud at present overcasts the heaven of her love; but don’t clouds always in the course of nature move on, and are not the heavens always so much clearer and more beautiful after their removal? So hope, little sister. I expect ere long to look into the sunny laughing eyes of your Owen. The world is large but not so large but that the divine magnet of love will attract and direct each one to his or her affinity.”
Thus bringing hope and cheer to the weary aching heart of the girl, the days, one by one passed by.
Several weeks more had now passed away. Cora had gained rapidly in strength, and as Mr. and Mrs. Wallace were now daily expected to return home and the girls wishing to avoid an explanation it was thought best to remove the patient to the abode of the Westcots. Alice was also anxious to have Imelda return as she was fast losing all control of her little daughters. Tender, loving mother that she was she was totally unfit to train her little ones. Besides she was not yet really strong.
With an unwilling heart Cora had bade good bye to the sisters who had shown her so much kindness and love. Imelda’s eyes, too, had filled with tears as she kissed both gentle girls, but she carried with her the promise that she should soon see both at “Maple Lawn.” Cora’s cheeks were tinged with a faint peach-bloom color denoting the return of health, and her eyes sparkled as she and Imelda were swiftly driven along towards the outskirts of the city where the Westcot mansion was situated amid its beautiful gardens. Just as the setting sun was casting the last golden rays across their path the carriage drove up the beautiful maple-drive to where little Alice, in daintiest of white gowns, was awaiting them, her eyes sparkling with joy at the prospect of having Imelda once more with her. The little girls also, arrayed in their pretty white dresses, were watching for their “Miss Meldy.” They clapped their little hands and fairly danced with delight when the figure of their young teacher alighted. They grew somewhat quieter when a second lady, so pale and languid, stepped from the carriage and slowly followed the more quickly moving Imelda. She caught the little ones in her arms and they clung to her as if they would never again let go of their beloved friend. Alice, finding herself overlooked in this meeting, turned to Cora. Holding out both hands in welcome she made the sad-eyed girl feel that her words were no formal phrase, but that they came from a warm impulsive heart.
“I hope not to be a burden long,” said Cora. “I am beginning to feel quite strong now, and in a short time hope to be able to look about for some work to do.”
Alice laid her hand upon her lips.
“Not one word more. A burden indeed! On the contrary I feel as though I had a great deal to make good. This, (touching with her dainty finger the red mark which was just peeping from beneath the mass of ringlets that covered the young girl’s forehead) this will be a constant reminder of what might have proved a fatal accident, and as yet I have had no opportunity to right the wrong that has been done.” Cora protested but Alice had her way, as that little woman invariably did have. She herself conducted her up the wide staircase to the room which had been set apart for her and which adjoined Imelda’s.
“I thought you two might want to be near each other,” she explained. “Better now let me help you dress for dinner. I will be your dressing maid. How long do you expect still to nurse your arm? It must be tiresome to have it so tightly bandaged.”
Cora smiled.
“O yes,” she said. “It will be quite pleasant when I shall be able to move about with more freedom again. I will not then feel so much as if I were a constant task on some one’s hands, so almost perfectly useless.”
“Please don’t!” in a pleading manner the little woman spoke the words. “Can I not make you understand that you are not a task and burden? Had it not been for that almost fatal drive those long weary weeks of pain would have been spared you—”
“And in all probability I should have missed meeting the best of friends,—would have failed to find my one, my only sister. No! no! the little pain that I have endured does not so much matter, and if you can all have patience with me until my strength returns and I am once more myself I am sure I have every reason not to complain, for the good the last few weeks have brought me far outweighs everything they may have contained of unpleasantness.”
Thus chattering in a friendly way Alice was endeavoring to array Cora in a pretty gown of soft, clinging, warm-hued material, but the fussy little woman was far too excited to be of any real use, and not until Imelda appeared, already dressed, was her toilet completed. With deft and ready fingers Imelda lent the needed assistance, then selecting some of the bright-hued flowers from a vase filled with the various blooms of mid-summer, and which was standing upon a small table near one of the open windows, she twined them in the dark chestnut coils, then fastening a bunch at the snowy throat and standing at a distance she measured her sister with a critical and admiring look.
“Now look at yourself. Do you think you would please a fastidious eye?” The vision that met her gaze as she turned to the mirror was a mixture of girlish sweetness and of serious womanly dignity. Returning health and strength were filling the fair form with a roundness and tingeing the serious, half-sad face with exquisite color. Cora gave more than a passing glance at the reflected full-length image, and while she looked the eyes of both fair women in attendance were watching her face, and presently they saw the lips quiver, the eyelids droop and the crystal drops force their way from under them and cling like liquid pearls to the dark lashes. Imelda’s face bent over her sister’s till it rested on the dark-crowned head. Instinctively she felt what the thoughts were that caused the tears to gather, but she had not one word to say. Cora’s well hand went up to Imelda’s face and her lips whispered,
“He whom my appearance would please is not here; so what does it matter?”
Imelda shook her head and forced a smile to her lips.
“Ah, but, little sister, it does matter. Don’t you know that you are to meet someone else tonight that I wish so much to be pleased!” Playfully smiling she lifted the drooping face and looked into the tear-wet eyes. The questioning look in them suddenly gave way to one of understanding.
“I had forgotten that I was of some importance tonight. Yes, you are right. It does matter, and I do want to please.”
Dinner was now announced and the trio descended to the dining room. Here Lawrence Westcot was awaiting them. Imelda had not seen him since the unpleasant meeting with Frank in the garden, and unexpectedly finding herself opposite the dark-eyed passionate man threatened momentarily to disconcert her. A flush mounted to her brow, then receded, leaving it marble white. But quickly regaining her self-possession she saw that no one had noticed anything amiss. Mr. Westcot came forward and in a few well chosen words expressed his pleasure at her return: next he acknowledged the introduction to Cora, for a moment closely studying her face. The dinner came off rather quietly to say nothing of the feeling of restraint felt by all. Alice seemed to have lost the fear that for so long had been a drawback to her full recovery, at least it was not now so apparent, but there was no confidence as yet established between herself and Mr. Westcot. They were more like strangers who found the task of getting acquainted a tedious and irksome one. Imelda, with the consciousness that the memories of the past brought her, felt great constraint, and it is not to be wondered at that Cora felt the influence thus brought to bear upon her, and felt quite uncomfortable. The ladies spoke in monosyllables, and although the efforts of Lawrence Westcot to produce something like a flow of conversation, to bring a feeling of harmony to the little company, were almost incessant they fell decidedly flat. So when the meal was brought to a close the feelings that were retained were anything but pleasant. Lawrence made his excuses almost instantly and withdrew, thus clearing the field and leaving the ladies to themselves. They were not slow in taking advantage of the fact that they were alone, and as the husband paced the veranda the voices of the chatting and laughing women came very clearly to his hearing. A bitter smile curved his lips. He felt that he was no longer welcome in his own home. Yet was any one to blame but himself? But what had he done, he asked himself, other than men were wont to do? Nothing! he felt sure. But an inward voice whispered,
“These women are not like other women. You have not understood them, but have taken it for granted that they were the same. When too late you recognized the fact, and all your efforts to set yourself right in your own home have been vain. Yet have these efforts been all they should have been? Have you in reality done all that could be done?”
He leaned against a pillar and gazed into the darkening shadows of the coming night while thought chased thought. Yes! he would make one more effort, for was not the life he was leading in his palatial home fast becoming unbearable? While he was dreaming with open eyes a queenly head appeared before him, crowned with a glorious wealth of dark hair. Passionately dark eyes emitted flashes of fire, scornful in their scintillations.
Passing his hand over his eyes with an impatient movement he heaved a weary sigh and in a tone that was almost a moan the words broke from his lips, “Why, O why is this all!”
Just then a step aroused him, and glancing up the friend of other days stood before him. Very seldom indeed had Norman Carlton favored Maplelawn with his presence in these later days. The harmony that had once existed there was broken, though he did not understand why, and in consequence remained away. Westcot had long ago recognized the injustice of the unmanly words he had in a fit of passion hurled at his wife, and if he had needed proof that he was wrong, Carlton’s remaining away during the enforced absence of Imelda Ellwood and his sudden reappearance at the very moment of her return, ought to give him that proof. But to do him justice, he no longer needed it, and if he believed he had read correctly a secret page in her life he knew only too well who it was that had digressed farthest from the prescribed line. Norman would have passed him but he laid a detaining hand upon his arm.
“I understand the attraction,” said Westcot, “but no harm will be done if you will give me a half hour first. We have been drifting apart, and I would not have it so. Something has gone out of my life, leaving it empty; and sometimes life itself seems a burden. Will you assist me to make a reparation?”
A look of surprise overspread the face of the young man. Then he hastened to say:
“Certainly I will. Have we not always been fast friends in the past? I have no desire to let a friendship of almost life-long standing die a death so sudden.”
“Then come,” said Westcot, and together they wended their way through the grounds, and were soon lost in the shadows. When they returned an hour had passed. Both faces were perhaps a shade paler, a shade more serious, but the old confidence has been restored. What overtures had been made, what words spoken will never perhaps be revealed, but firmly clasping hands Norman spoke:
“You have my advice!”
“And I will follow it!”
“Thank you! You have spoken like a man. Under the circumstances I think it is the only way that is open, and I am a poor judge of human nature in general, and of women in particular, if such proceeding as you now contemplate will not restore peace and confidence to the little circle under your roof.”
With a last glance into the eyes of the other he dropped his hand and entered the room where the trio of women were trying to while away the hours that were to bring at least one fair girl’s friend and lover. Just as he stepped across the low French window Imelda was running her fingers across the key board of the piano. Cora was standing by her side. Ere he had advanced more than a step a voice of singular sweetness arose and filled the room. In an instant more a second manly face appeared in the frame of the open window. All unconscious of her audience the girl gave full vent in song to the feelings that swelled her breast. The notes rose and fell and vibrated, until the very air seemed to be full of life and feeling. With bated breath the men stood and listened, forgetful of aught else but the rare sweet music of the young pathetic voice; a voice that possessed the power of carrying them away beyond themselves. The song was a translation from the German by Heine—the famous “Lorelei,” a selection well calculated to try the strength and compass of the voice that attempts it. Its weird and melancholy pathos moved the inmost hearts of the listeners. As the last vibrant notes died away the sound of applauding hands fell upon the ear, and hastily turning the trio espied the two men standing just where they had entered. A blush overspread the face of the fair singer. It was the first time that other ears than those of Owen Hunter had listened to the magic sound of that voice when raised in song.
With a quick movement Imelda stepped forward and with outstretched hand greeted the new comer. By the heightened color of her face and the happy light that shone in the lustrous dark eyes Cora quickly judged who it was that so suddenly had stepped into their midst, and in a moment more was bowing in acknowledgement of the introduction which had followed. As she felt the searching glance the clear eyes bent upon her Cora again felt the tell-tale blood mount to her face, but with an effort overcoming the embarrassed feeling she openly returned the look. That which Norman Carlton saw within the depth of the hazel eyes must have been satisfactory for, extending his hand with a firm quick motion he said;
“I am”——pleased, he was going to say but changed it to—“glad to meet Imelda’s sister”—emphasizing the “sister.” “I hope we may be friends.”
“Thank you.” Scarcely above a whisper, and with a fluttering breath, the words dropped from the slightly trembling lips, and one felt, rather than heard, the depths of feeling contained in the two little words. In that moment Cora knew that she had found another friend. His words were no idle phrase. Imelda also understood, and her heart gave a great bound. Did it not mean much? She took a step backward,—she wanted the two to become better acquainted. Would they have anything to say to each other? A little while she would leave them together. Turning to the side of Alice who was carelessly standing just a little beyond, plucking the scarlet blossoms of a geranium to pieces, while her glance traveled a little nervously to the man who was still standing by the open window. What did it all mean?
For weeks now Mr. Westcot had studiously avoided meeting his wife. His meals were either taken late or away from home, and the drawing room had not once known his presence in all that time. Was the old life about to be taken up again? The white teeth sank into the red lips and a tremor seized and shook her form. She raised her hand in search of a support. Imelda saw her reel, and with a quick movement caught her in her arms. But another had watched this little by-play, and a few strides brought Lawrence Westcot to the side of the woman he called his wife. Pouring a little ice water from the pitcher that was standing near by he held it to her lips.
“Drink,” he said. Quietly obeying she drank a few swallows. Pushing a large easy chair forward in such position as would shield her face from the glaring light of the chandelier, he would have led her to it, but she evaded his hand and managed to reach it unaided. Bending over her he inquired the cause of her sudden indisposition. Nervously she answered:
“Nothing. It is nothing. I will be better in a moment. The coming home of the girls must have excited me. I thought I was stronger than I am.” Was it an anxious look he bent upon her? He did not speak, however, and quietly withdrew.