Cora and Norman had not seen any of this by-play. He had taken her by the hand and led her to a tete-a-tete, and seating himself by her side soon had drawn her into conversation. A group of exotic plants was, by this movement, placed between themselves and the others, and as scarce a word had been spoken they were in ignorance of what had transpired. Lawrence Westcot now raised his eyes to Imelda who had stood during the scene without speaking. She read in that glance a request which he presently put into words.
“Will you favor me with a few moments of your presence?”
Once before he had asked of her that question, the memory of which sent the rich blood in hot waves over her neck and brow. What did it mean? The words she had uttered when in righteous indignation she had swept from his presence now came back to her:
“And until such time, do not dare to speak to me!”
Only once before had he “dared” to speak; that was when she so unexpectedly ran into his arms. Then it had not been of his seeking; but now? An anxious look gathered in the sweet brown eyes.
The tone as well as the words were full of entreaty, so, silently she moved forward a step and bent her head in token of acquiescence. A glad light for a moment lit up his eyes, then stepping to Alice he said:
“You will excuse us? I will try and not keep her long.”
A look of wonderment filled her eyes. When had Lawrence ever paid open attention to Imelda? Again the question arose in her mind, “What does, what can it all mean?” But she readily answered, “Certainly, I will excuse you. I shall do very well. I feel so much better now.” With a low “Thank you,” he turned from her to Imelda whose hand he took and placing it on his arm led her to the open window leading to the veranda, followed by the eyes of the surprised Alice.
Imelda understood, but only the quick indrawing of her breath gave token that the idea of going out into the open air under the starlit heavens had anything unpleasant in it for her. Slight as had been the sound and involuntary the action, Lawrence Westcot had taken note of it. His teeth sank into his lips but otherwise he gave no sign. Down the garden pathway to the fountain’s edge whose silvery sparkling waters had witnessed so many and so very different scenes he led her, and then quietly dropped her hand. Stepping back a pace or two he folded his arms and confronted her. For a minute or more he did not speak, although his lips twitched nervously. Was he waiting for her to utter the first words? If so, he was doomed to disappointment for the proud lips did not open.
“Miss Ellwood!”
A slight uplifting of the head, that was all. Whatever he had to say, she would not help him one iota.
“Miss Ellwood, a man does not often find himself placed in a position quite so awkward as that in which I find myself this evening, in having asked you for this interview.” He paused a moment ere he went on. “Some two months ago I spoke words to you that tonight I feel ashamed of. I approached you in a manner that was ungentlemanly—unmanly. For the feelings that had crept into my heart I make no excuse. I simply had no control over them. A hot, fierce desire and longing for something that was denied me; a confused comprehension of what that something was, made me unjust—and—cruel to the woman who is so unfortunate as to be my wife. Having through the merest chance overheard a conversation of yours and hers, thereby gathering something of your strange ideas and opinions, but utterly failing to comprehend them, I permitted the passion that had taken possession of me to have full sway. A woman who does not believe in marriage, what would you?
“In my insufferable conceit I supposed I had but to stretch out my covetous hand in order to satisfy the fire of my passion. I was rudely brought to my senses by the reproof of a pure mind and by the righteous scorn of insulted purity. In an instant, almost, I came to understand my mistake and would have given much to have been able to recall my words. But you had dealt my pride an ugly blow. It was not an easy matter to humble myself to the woman who had treated me to well merited scorn. I had hoped time would close the breach and that this painful scene would be spared me. Men of world are not wont to retract insulting words, especially when defeated in their object. But something besides wounded pride would not let me rest. There is something here,”—touching his breast, “a painful aching void that makes life a mockery, a misery. The unmanly act of that evening is a burden which at times is almost unsupportable. Will you help me remove it? Will you say that you forgive?”
He had spoken in hasty, jerky, broken sentences. In a pleading manner he held out his hand to her. But the girl stood with downcast eyes and did not see it, and the hand fell nerveless to his side.
Slowly she raised the white lids. In the uncertain light of the starlit night he could not see into the depths of the dark eyes, but as he bent closer he thought they were dimmed, and that her voice was vibrating as she now in turn extended to him her hand and simply said:
“I forgive you.”
Hastily the hand was grasped and bending over it with the same pleading accents in his voice he said:
“May I?”
“Yes,” came in soft accents from the trembling lips. An indescribable sensation stole over her as she felt the pressure of the warm bearded lips upon her hand. A feeling of gladness filled her heart. She felt that the emotion displayed by this man was genuine, and that she knew she might safely trust him. She laid her other hand gently over his that was holding hers and softly spoke:
“It is enough, please. I feel that you have spoken the truth, in recognition of which I feel bound to pay you honor. Let me hereafter see on your face the light of self-contained manhood. I am more glad to be able to respect you, the father of my two precious charges. Now let us return. Alice was not feeling well and Cora may wonder.” His only answer was to again kiss the hand that was still resting in his; then again placing it upon his arm together they retraced their steps to join their friends in the parlor.
As Imelda and Westcot re-entered the drawing room they found Cora and Norman so deeply interested in conversation that their entrance was not heeded. Cora’s cheeks were glowing and her eyes shone like twin stars as the words flowed in a stream from her lips. Alice was sitting quiet and unobserved in the shadow of the aforementioned group of exotic plants, listening to every word that fell from the ruby lips. Cora spoke well. Norman had said but little, but that little to advantage. Adroitly asking a question here and making a remark there he had succeeded in drawing her out and was surprised to find how well informed she was on many subjects of which most young women have absolutely no understanding. Cora had studied to advantage; for with love to teach, it had not been so much a task as a pleasure. It was also a pleasure for her to converse with this refined and handsome gentleman. Until now Owen Hunter had been the only man of that type she had ever come in contact with. It had seemed to her that there was none other. But to her surprise and great pleasure she found that her sister’s lover was in every respect the equal of the man who until now had stood out in her life alone.
Just as Imelda and Westcot were entering, the poets, both American and foreign, were being discussed, and Norman felt a little surprise when Cora said that Shelley and Byron were her favorites. In speaking of these he found her most familiar with Byron,—“Queen Mab” being the only production of Shelley’s she had as yet read, while he could mention scarce any of Byron’s works that she was not familiar with. When asked, which she liked best, she unhesitatingly replied, “Manfred.”
“What! that gloomy pessimist, who continually takes you to the very depths of despair, and finally closed so tragically?”
“Yes. I like it because it portrays so truthfully and vividly the heartaches that so often lie hidden beneath the smiling exterior. It lifts the veil and shows the hidden woe. Oh, why must all nature be thus perverted? Why must all the grandest passions thus recoil upon themselves? The story makes me shudder as if I stood upon the brink of a chasm. It chills my very blood, but it has a weird, strange fascination for me. I always return to it and it has done much to stimulate my dormant brain to action. It has taught me a lesson in thought.”
The re-entrance of Imelda and Lawrence at this juncture brought the conversation to an end. A hasty glance from Norman showed him that an understanding had been effected. A quick look passed between the two men and a feeling of gladness entered the heart of Norman, for the sake of all concerned. For a short time the conversation became general, then Cora was asked to once more sing for them. After a little hesitation she did so, and the strains of sweet “Annie Laurie” filled the room. No noisy applause greeted her when she had finished, but every head was bowed and some of the eyes were moist. The last lines had been sung with even more pathos than the first, but the fluttering, quavering sound indicated something more than pathos. Cora was fatiguing herself. In an instant Imelda recognized the fact and hastily arising said:
“Not another line. We have been forgetting that you have been ill, and are taxing you beyond your strength. Come, you must retire at once and I will attend you.” But Cora shook the brown curly head.
“No! no! I shall not accept your service this evening. You will remain right here, while our friend here, I know, will assist me for this once. Am I right, Alice?”
“Most certainly. Right you are, and as we are two to one, Queen Imelda is overruled. So just consider yourself sent about your business while I shall tuck the covers about this little girl’s form.” Thus jesting and laughing Alice in triumph bore the tired Cora off to her own domain. At the same time Lawrence also discreetly withdrew. “To indulge in the solace of man,” was what he said, to seek the companionship of a cigar; thus leaving the lovers alone. So many weeks had passed since an evening of undisturbed quiet had been theirs that now they had so much to say that the hours sped far into the night ere they finally separated. After Cora and Alice had bidden them good night and Lawrence had withdrawn, Imelda said:
“Look,” struggling from his embrace, “what I have got! a long sweet letter from my Margaret, with one enclosed from Wilbur. She says she is getting along much better and faster with her studies than she had at first expected, and she now hopes that in the fall she may begin with her chosen work. Listen to what she says:”
“MY OWN IMELDA!—To use the expression of gushing school girls, I am just dying to see you. Save my mother and Wilbur, I have no one to whom I can talk just what is in my mind. I have many radical friends here, in dear old Chicago, but none quite far enough advanced to admit them into the innermost recesses of my heart. It is so hard, so very hard, to replace a tried, a trusted friend. In all probability this very circumstance is not without its advantage as thereby I am better able to apply myself to my studies. During the evening hours I have an assistant and it would be natural to suppose that during those hours my studies would progress the most. But, strange to say, we continue to rehearse the same first act—somehow we cannot get beyond it—with some variation, it is true, but in reality the same. I expect after a while we shall surely be perfect. But of what the second contains I am at present not able to give you an idea. It is still a sealed book. To confess the truth however, I care but little, so long as the first act gives such exquisite pleasure, I am perfectly willing to let the second take care of itself. All the same my arms are in the best of trim to give you a good hugging—a regular bear-hug. Maybe I can impress you. If so, let me know.
“Do you know I almost envy you your present surroundings? You have so many to love now. No, I don’t, either. That is not just the right thing to say. Rather, I am glad, O so glad, that you have found that wayward sisters of yours, that was. See, darling, how our doctrines have been verified in this case: that we are just what circumstances have made us. Who would have thought that the wilful Cora could be transformed into so noble a woman! But then you know love works wonders, and undoubtedly Owen Hunter must be one of nature’s noblemen, else the love upon which he fed the starved heart which gave itself into his keeping could never have produced such wonderful results.
“Now, my Imelda, it will be yours to develop the germ which this man has implanted, and when they again meet—which I feel assured they will do—he will not find occasion to regret the enforced separation. And now, kiss for me that precious sister pair who so truly belong to us. When your letter came, telling us all about them, describing their persons and characters so minutely that we imagined that they were bodily transplanted into our very midst, Wilbur could not restrain himself. His eyes filled with tears—tears that with overflowing heart I kissed away.
“O my precious friend, will the time ever come when we shall realize some of our dreams, or will fear, like a dark pall, always keep our heaven, our paradise, enshrouded in darkness and gloom? When these thoughts come to me I am sad. But you know I do not approve of that. I shake it off; and indeed I have not much chance or time to indulge in gloomy thoughts, as hard work stands by and keeps my mind busy.
“Jesting aside, my rehearsing is not all play, and my teachers are more than satisfied with me. They have given me the best of hopes that I shall, in the coming fall, be able to fill an engagement of some note. They tell me my talent is remarkable and that I must succeed. Professor Morris has written to the managers of several first class companies and daily expects an answer. Now, my girl, please do not accuse me of what is vulgarly termed ‘self-conceit,’ but you cannot know what it means to me to be successful. I love the profession that my talents fit me for, only second to that other object that thrills my whole being. I love, O Imelda, how I love Wilbur, the king of my heart. I love humanity, the down-trodden, and I love the liberty to do and to dare whatever my heart desires. And among those desires by no means the least is my love of the stage, despite the stigma that clings to it. But where so great the stigma as that which has fastened itself to the term ‘free love?’ or, for that matter, to any other reform?
“Two days later: The answer has come. An engagement has been secured me and—Hurrah! Imelda. In a few more weeks I shall be off on the road to see how easy or how hard it is to win bread and fame. If everything continues as favorable as the beginning appears to be my success is already assured. The vacancy that I am to fill is that of a leading lady, and I know I must strain every effort to please. My mother scarce knows whether she is pleased or sorry. I am sure she is the best mother any girl ever had, and while she is ambitious for me—while she desires to see me successful, her heart cannot conquer all its foolish fears. She fears the men of the world, and the very fact that radical ideas have been nurtured in my mind may bring me danger. But she forgets it also has brought me a knowledge that I could not well have acquired otherwise. I have been taught by object lessons, and I have learned to read character. It will not be an easy matter to try to pass off on me the spurious for the real, the genuine. Wilbur I know trusts me more fully, and why should he not? Does he not know that he is, and always must be, the best love of my heart? Always? Well, until I find some one who has scaled the ladder of life to a grander manhood, to nobler heights, he certainly will stand first, and I know so well such men are rare. He is glad for my sake that I have found an opening, but sad when he remembers that it necessitates a separation. He does not want to show the latter feeling, as he fears to cast a shadow on my glad prospects, but then you know, love is quick to note when every cord is not tuned to harmony.
“As yet I do not know at all where our company will be booked, but I do hope that sometime during the coming season we may stop for a week in Harrisburg. Do you think such a possibility would contain anything pleasurable?
“And now—but no! I was going to tell you another piece of news, but that will be Wilbur’s privilege, as he, too, wants to write a few lines. But I really must bring this to a close, or it might prove a task instead of a pleasure to read it. Kiss all those precious friends for me and say something nice to that one particular friend who is not a friend but something so much warmer, and soon, soon send an answer to your homesick, loving—”
MARGARET.
Folding the closely written sheets Imelda looked up into Norman’s eyes and said:
“Well, sweetheart, what have you to say to my Margaret?”
“That she is a precious, sweet girl, and a true woman. I hope that she may indeed be successful in her chosen profession. But what has our friend Wilbur to say?” Without further comment Imelda unfolded another document and began to read:
“MY PRECIOUS FRIEND:—I wonder if, after all that our Margaret girl has written, I shall be able to find something more to say. I am sure she has told you all the news there was to tell and maybe if I should write too lover-like, someone would object. How is it? Do you think Norman Carlton would grudge me the kiss which I am craving and longing for? Methinks I read between the lines of the truly grand letters he has been writing us lately, a broadening, a widening out, that was not there at first. I believe him indeed to be a grand, noble nature, possessed of a high type of manhood. I am positive the germ is there, even if yet somewhat hidden and undeveloped, and it behooves you, my little girl, with womanly tact to develop it that he may yet stand in our foremost ranks, working for the universal good of humanity and for the special good of sister woman. I expect when we meet to take by the hand a brother worthy of the name.
“With his natural reverence for womanhood it seems to me it ought not to be a difficult task for him to understand the injustice, the unfairness, aye, the cruelty that is being dealt out to woman; to always doom her brain to slumber, to inactivity; to expect her to stand with idly folded hands, denying her the right to be her own judge pertaining to matters of womanhood; deeming her incapable of understanding her own affairs; dooming her always to submit quietly to what man may wish to impose upon her; using her as a pretty plaything with which to amuse himself in any manner man may see fit. O it is horrible to place woman, the creator, the builder of the race, on a plane so low, and I cannot think that Norman Carlton fails to see these things in their true light.
“It is wrong to seek to bind love in any way, and, try as we may, it cannot be done! Love, the spirit, will ever be free. ’Tis only the body, the house, the casket, that we can fetter and defile, and by that means it, the body, becomes but an empty casket, which will soon fall into decay when it has nothing to sustain it, while the little love-god goes wandering on and on mocking and laughing at our futile attempts to hold him fast.
“Then why should such attempts be made? Cherish him with tenderness, strive to stand high in his regard, strive to attain to a noble manhood and womanhood and he will forget his gypsy habits, his proneness to wander. Feed and nourish him with that of which he is most in need; develop for his especial benefit that in your own character and nature which commands respect and admiration, and you will find him willing to be held in his allegiance. You can do much to win him but you cannot hold him by force, because there is absolutely no holding him. It cannot be done, and it is wrong,—it is a sin and a shame, a crying shame, to attempt it.
“Ha! ha! On the old track again! Always the same; always preaching; but I cannot help it, my dear. It seems to have become my second nature. But now I have a piece of news for you. Margaret did not tell you all.
“When this fair lady-love of mine will have taken to walking her own way I know there will come many weary lonesome hours, for the coming winter, so we have been laying some plans how to make them less irks me. Maybe it is premature to say what these plans are, as much may happen to prevent the realization; but here they are:
“About the time you expect sleighing in your eastern city, I intend, in company with our fair Margaret’s mother, to set out on a trip. Do you understand? My heart yearns for those precious sisters of mine, mere babes almost they were when I saw them last. I want to clasp them in my arms and kiss their lips, red with the wine of life; while Mrs. Leland, I know, will win a place in the heart of every one with whom she comes in contact. Yet I believe there is a particular reason that actuates her in making this trip. There is a secret yearning and longing that will not be quieted.
“By writing of the accident which reunited you with your sister you aroused her mother heart by bringing before her mind’s eye her son Osmond. The hope to again call her boy her own is the mainspring of the desire to make this visit. How is it, little girl? Shall we be assured a welcome? But there! I ought not to have asked this last question. It was out of place, for of course we shall be welcome. But methinks it is time to close or I will have covered as much paper as Margaret has done, and it is not my desire to weary you. With the same cherishing love as of old, I am as ever
WILBUR WALLACE.”
Imelda folded these sheets also and laid them to the others, but Norman did not speak. With his head leaning on his hand he sat staring into vacancy, Imelda gently, tenderly took his head between her hands and bent it back so she could look into the clear blue orbs.
“And what does my Norman think of Wilbur now?”
“That he is right in every instance.”