Title: Hilda’s Home: A Story of Woman’s Emancipation
Author: Graul, Rosa
Language: English
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                              HILDA’S HOME
                    A Story of Woman’s Emancipation


                                   BY
                               ROSA GRAUL

                                   ❦

                           CHICAGO, U. S. A.
               M. HARMAN & CO., 1394 WEST CONGRESS STREET
                                  1899

                          PUBLISHER’S PREFACE.


In the order of nature the ideal precedes the actual. In back-woods
phrase, “The wind-work must precede the ground-work.” “The ascent of
life is the ascent of ideals.” Ascent means action, change, involving
effort, struggle, aspiration. Aspiration implies or pre-supposes
DISCONTENT.

The author of the story, “Hilda’s Home,” preaches the gospel of
discontent—dissatisfaction with the old, desire for the new. With Ella
Wheeler she says,

          Be not content; contentment means inaction—
            The growing soul aches on its upward quest.
          Satiety is kin to satisfaction—
            All great achievements spring from life’s unrest.

          The tiny root, deep in the dark mould hiding,
            Would never bless the earth with leaf and flower,
          Were not an inborn restlessness abiding
            In seed and germ to stir them with its power.

The author of “Hilda’s Home” preaches the gospel of Freedom—equal
freedom, the gospel of Liberty coupled with responsibility. With Spencer
she would say, “Every one has the right to do as he pleases so long as
he does not invade the equal right of others.” With Macaulay, Rosa Graul
would say “The cure for the evils of Liberty is more liberty.” Hence she
has no fears that under Freedom the Home and the Family would cease to
exist, or that woman will be less loving and lovable, or that man will
be less manly and honorable. On the contrary she maintains that only in
the soil and atmosphere of freedom is it possible for true womanhood and
manhood to live and flourish.

While devoting considerable space to the subject of industrial
reconstruction, the central aim of “Hilda’s Home” is the emancipation of
womanhood and motherhood from the domination of man in the sex relation.
“Self-ownership of woman” may be called the all-pervading thought of the
book now offered to the impartial and truth-loving reader. With Havelock
Ellis in his “Psychology of Sex,” Rosa Graul would say:

“I regard sex as the central problem of life. And now that the problem
of religion has practically been settled, and that the problem of labor
has at least been placed on a practical foundation, the question of
sex—with the social questions that rest on it—stands before the coming
generation as the chief problem for solution. Sex lies at the root of
life, and we can never learn to reverence life until we know how to
understand sex—So, at least, it seems to me.”

A word of warning: Let no reader expect perfection in the following
pages, either in ideal or in its manner of presentation. The editor and
publisher offer this work to the reading public not for its literary
merits, not for the excellence of its plan nor for the originality of
its conception. The writer of “Hilda’s Home” is a poor, hard-working,
unlettered woman; one whose advantages in the way of preparation for
literary work have been almost nil. The great, the distinguishing merit
of Rosa Graul, as an author, is the simplicity, the naturalness with
which she tells of the varied experiences that educate and prepare the
various characters of her story for living in a co-operative home. For
the life history of these children of her brain she is indebted, so she
informs us, to the cold hard facts of her own experience and personal
observation. “Experience teaches a dear school but fools will learn in
no other,” saith the proverb. The trouble with us all is that we are so
slow to learn, even in the bitter school of experience. In no department
of life is this comment so universally applicable as in the sexual or
conjugal relations of women and men. Hence the necessity of plainness of
speech and honesty of thought, on this subject, no matter how
iconoclastic or revolutionary the thought may be.

Prominent among the criticisms made upon the economic ideal herein
presented is the absence of all reference to the “Labor Exchange,” and
the apparent acquiescence by the co-operators in the old monopolistic
financial system. In answer to this objection it may be said that our
story was written some years ago, and before the publication of books on
Labor Exchange and other modern economic reforms, and though an appendix
was prepared to supply this lack, the addition would have increased the
size of the book beyond its prescribed limits.

By others it is objected that an ideal home could and should be built
without the aid of the millionaire’s ill-gotten dollars. To this it may
be replied that the earth with all it holds, including the accumulations
called “capital,” belong to the living present, and not to the dead
past, and that if the legal heirs of past accumulations, the Owen
Hunters of today, can be induced to build model homes for the use of
those who may be ready to utilize them, there would seem to be no
rational objection to such attempts at rectification of past wrongs.

To close this brief preface, which must serve also as introduction and
appendix, let it be remembered that “Hilda’s Home” is offered not as a
final solution of all the problems of human life, but rather as a
suggester of thought upon some of the most important and most perplexing
of these problems. In all great reforms the public conscience must first
be aroused to see the necessity of such change. If this unpretentious
volume can be made the vehicle or means of helping to educate and
stimulate the public conscience to the point of putting into practice
the reforms advocated therein, the chief object of the author, as well
as of editor and publisher, will have been realized.



                             HILDA’S HOME.



                               CHAPTER I.


“And I may hope? You will not give me a decided no for answer?”

The time was a lovely June evening. The moon was at its full, wrapping
everything in a silvery haze, while the air was laden with the sweet
perfume of roses and of new-mown hay. The scene was the lawn of a
beautiful suburban home on the outskirts of the city of Harrisburg.
Under the swaying branches of the silver maples that lined the carriage
drive leading to the house could be seen a maiden and youth walking
slowly back and forth, his fair head bent slightly forward, anxiously
awaiting the answer from the trembling lips. The flash of the dark eye
and the heightened color of her usually pale face gave evidence of a
tempest within. Then slowly the dark eyes were raised to the blue ones
above them, and slowly came the answer,

“I do not know!”

“You do not know?” He repeated the words as slowly, surprise struggling
in the tone of his voice as he spoke.

“Imelda, surely you know if you love me, if you are able to grant my
heart’s desire?” Saying which, he caught her hand in his and drew her
out of the shadows into the bright light of the full moon.

“Look at me, Imelda, and tell me what you mean! Can it be that I have
been deceived in you? I believed you loved me. I thought I had often
read the proof of a tender emotion in your eyes; and now you tell me you
do not know.”

Deep feeling quivered in every cadence of his voice. He was terribly
excited, terribly in earnest; so much was easy to see.

The smile that for a moment played about her lips was a sad one. Softly
and clearly the words fell from them.

“You have not misunderstood me. I do love you, O, so much, but—” The
sentence remained unfinished. With a low, happy cry he gathered her in
his arms. His silken mustache swept her cheek, his lips closed firmly
over hers. For a moment all else was forgotten; their souls blended in
that kiss—a draught fraught with divinest love. It was bliss, ecstacy,
such as only those are able to enjoy who are possessed of a pure mind.
For a few moments the girl gave herself up to the enjoyment of blissful
consciousness. Then with a determined effort she freed herself from his
embrace, laid her soft hand upon his shoulder and, standing with her
head slightly thrown back, said: “But—I do not know if I can marry you.”

Surprise showed plainly in his every feature. “You love me, and do not
know if you can marry me! Imelda, you are an enigma. I cannot understand
you. What can you possibly mean?”

A sigh escaped the parted lips. “I mean, my Norman,”—laying a hand on
either of his cheeks—“I mean that I would fain keep my lover! I am
afraid of a husband. Husbands are not lovers.”

The surprised look upon his face intensified until it became perfectly
blank. “Husbands are not lovers? Child, who put such notions into your
head? As husband and wife, when we are such, then will be the time of
the perfect blending of our love—you mine and I thine. Imelda, now that
I know the sweet boon of your love is mine, I want to realize it in its
fullness. You must grant me the consummation of it.”

Again she was folded in his arms, pillowed upon his breast, while his
cheek rested against hers. She felt the increase of his passion in the
kisses he pressed upon her lips. His breath mingled with hers. She felt
and heard the mighty throbs of his heart, while his love for her seemed
almost to overpower him. She felt her blood in a feverish glow as it
pulsed through her veins; it was heaven, but—a shudder suddenly shook
her frame, she whispered, hurriedly, intensely: “No! No! No! I can not,
can not marry you. I am afraid!”

With a mighty effort conquering the tumult of his emotions, but still
holding her closely pressed, he could only articulate, “But why? Why
should you be afraid when I love you, oh, so dearly? I want you for my
own, my precious one—my very own, where never the breath of another man
can touch you; where you will be mine forever more.”

“And when the time comes that this feverish love-fire of yours shall
have burned itself out, when you begin to tire of me,—always me—what
then will I do with my intense love nature? a nature to which love is
life and without which I cannot live. What then, Norman, will become of
me?” She lay back in his arms and again holding his face between her
hands she asked the question with a fierce intensity that left her voice
a mere husky whisper,—“Norman, Norman, what then will become of me?”

Norman Carlton was more than surprised; he was fast becoming puzzled.
There was every evidence that the girl he was holding in his arms bore
him a deep-rooted love, but that she should, at the outset,—at the very
moment of the meeting and blending of these two intense natures, that at
such a time there should arise in her heart a fear of the future,—fear
that a time might come when his love for her might not be the same, did
not at all accord with the knowledge he, until now, possessed of the
feminine nature.

Woman, as he had found her, was only too willing to believe all the love
rhapsodies of man. If he but offered her marriage he was always held by
the gentler sex to be the soul of honor. And really, thought he, what
greater honor could man confer upon woman than marriage? To make her his
wife, to give her his name! Yet here was a woman who with the intensity
of a perfectly healthy and normal endowment, bore him a love which only
such an one could give, and yet—and yet withheld the trust that he,
until now, had found inseparable from the love of woman.

She seemed to be possessed of a doubt that his love would be a lasting
one, in the face of the fact of his having just made her an offer of
marriage,—using the argument, against all his passionate wooing, that
love would not last. He had heard, but had read little, of the doctrines
that were at this time being agitated in society, of marriage being a
failure; that there was no true happiness in domestic life, etc., etc.
Could it be possible that this girl, who had wound herself with the most
tender coils about his heart, had imbibed such heresies? He hoped not!
The love he bore her was a pure love, and a pure love only he must have
in return, and could a love that he had heard termed “free love,”—such
as he understood the term, be a pure one? She loved, and yet refused
marriage. She clung to the lover and repelled the idea of a husband.
What could it mean! It was beyond Norman Carlton’s conception of pure
womanhood.

He was indeed the soul of honor. He held all womankind in high esteem.
He revered his mother, and held his sister as one to look up to. His
highest conception of happiness was the mutual love of the sexes, the
consummation of which meant marriage. His idea of home, and of home life
was something exalted, while his ideal of a wife was a thing to be held
apart from all the world. She should be his to care for, to make smooth
the rough paths of her life, to protect and guard her. She should be the
mother of his children. He felt, he knew his love would be as lasting as
the hills. Why then should she fear? With conflicting emotions he gently
clasped her hands while he sought to read what was hidden within the
depths of those brown wells of light.

Gently, softly, he spoke: “Why should my girl doubt the strength, the
durability, of my love? Does not intuition tell her it will be safe to
trust me?”

“Aye, I do trust you, Norman. I would willingly place my hand in yours
and follow you to the end of the world. With your love to lean on I
would wander with you to some isolated spot where there was no one else
to see the whole year round, and be happy, O, so happy, and yet——”

“And yet what?”

“How do you know that this love will last? How is it possible to speak
for the future? How can you, or I, or anyone, control the fates that
have or may have, other affinities in store for us? How can we know—O,
Norman, how can we know? Believe me, I do not doubt your love. I know
its precious boon is mine, but the future is dark, and I fear to trust
myself to its unknown mysteries.” And sobbing she sank upon his breast.

Here was indeed an enigma. Would he be able to solve it? Willing to
enjoy the present but fearing to trust the future. This queer girl was
conjuring up dread, though often heard-of facts, but in his case utter
impossibilities. Trembling for the love that at present so surely was
hers, lest by some dread possibility in the future she might lose it,
yet dreading, fearing to enter that indissoluble marriage tie thereby
securing unto herself for life the object of her love. Long the lovers
wandered up and down the shady walk. That their love was mutual, that
there was a natural affinity between their souls, that both possessed
that in their make-up which was necessary for the completion of the
other, was apparent, yet while he longed and plead for that closer tie
called marriage, in order to perfect their relations, she shrank from it
as from some dread abyss.

“Let us be happy just as we are,” she pleaded. “We can walk and talk,
kiss and sing, and be unutterably happy when we are together. Please,
please do not let us speak of marriage. I almost hate the mere mention
of it. I have seen so much of the misery it contains. Of all the married
people I have known, after the first few months or perhaps the first
year, generally after the first babe has come, they have drifted
apart,—they do not miss one another when separated, and I know of but
very few cases indeed where happiness reigned queen in their homes. I
have known many happy lovers who found, after entering into the
matrimonial state, that they had made a sad, a very sad mistake. They
did not realize what they had expected. I do not want to think that such
would be our case, but I cannot conquer the fear of it. Let me be happy
in the knowledge that your perfect love is mine in the present hour. I
have no fear of losing you. I feel, I know, that I am as necessary to
you as you are to me.”

And with that he had to be content, for the time being at least. She was
his by all the bonds of affinity that nature had established between
them. He felt that she was pure and good, although he knew next to
nothing of her past life. The handsome home that lay just in front of
them, whose beautiful grounds, bathed in the silvery sheen of moonlight,
was but a temporary home, for this queenly girl. Her position in it was
only that of a menial. Its pretty sparkling mistress had brought her
home with her from a visit to that western metropolis, Chicago, “A
friend of my school days,” she had said. “An orphan in straitened
circumstances.” So she had entered its stately portals as a companion to
its mistress, a nursing governess to two pretty little girls of four and
six years.

As Alice Westcot was a favorite in society, and as her husband, Lawrence
Westcot, was a man of prominence, this obscure western beauty, although
appearing in a somewhat lowly position, was, with a certain hesitancy,
but withal rather graciously, received. To be sure, society was careful
not to make too much of her—that is, the lady portion of it. O, woman!
how cruel you can be to your sister woman. Dainty lips curled while fair
delicate hands drew more closely dainty skirts when this unknown queenly
girl drew nigh. It is only fair to say that she was not treated thus by
all women—society women. Now and then true worth was found under the
butterfly exterior. Women could say nothing against her, even if they
would say nothing for her. Men doffed their hats, while their admiring
eyes followed the fair form. But there was something in her bearing and
manner that commanded their respect. As yet no man had dared to address
her in anything but a respectful tone.

But little cared Imelda for the haughtiness of the one or the admiration
of the other. Pretty, lively Mrs. Westcot treated her more like a sister
and friend than a menial, and often in the seclusion of her chamber,
where she could lay aside the mask of conventionality, the bright little
woman had made a confidant of Imelda. Then all the life, all the smiles
and animation, would disappear. The blue eyes would fill with tears, and
the trembling lips confess such tales of woe as would blanch the roses
on the health-glowing cheeks of the horrified girl, while the lips of
the listener would answer: “Again! Again has marriage proven a failure!
Is it ever, oh! is it ever, anything else?” Her lips would quiver, the
dark eyes would fill with unshed tears as a fair face, a sunny smile,
and eyes which seemed pure wells of truth, arose before her mental
vision. Then she would question, “Are all men alike? Is it ever and
always the fate of woman to be the slave of men?”

Norman Carlton was a friend and visitor of the Westcots, and as Imelda
ever moved freely about the house, it was not long until they met. Both
frank and pure in heart and mind, both worshipers at nature’s shrine, it
was not strange they should be attracted. Indeed, it would have been
strange had it not so been. They loved. But Imelda’s past had been
freighted with so many dark experiences and observations of married
misery, of married woes, that she felt no desire to bring her sweet love
dream to a sudden end—to deal it a death blow by placing upon it the
seal of marriage.

“If you knew, you would understand,” she said in answer to his wondering
gaze.

“And may I not know?”

“Some time, Norman, some time, but not yet awhile, not yet. Tonight let
me be happy, boundlessly happy.”

So they walked up and down under the silver maples until the hours
waned. The moon had changed her position, and the brightly lighted
windows were fading into darkness. Thus reminded of the flight of time,
they parted—she to seek her snowy draped chamber and dream of what the
dark future might perchance have in store for her. Sunny, golden dreams
they were, to judge by the happy smile that lingered on the lips where
yet his kisses lay warm, while again a thought of those darker times
that lay hidden in the past, would break in upon the sweet present and
like a somber cloud overcast the heaven’s blue, so would she feel a
gloom cast over her young happiness. Shivering she disrobed and sought
her couch, that she might, in sweet slumber, forget the world and its
woes, and thus continue her waking dreams of him who constituted her
heaven.

And Norman? With his head bared to the cool air, he watched the graceful
form flit across the lawn and disappear within the house. Then,
murmuring, “You are a mystery, my sweet queen, but, for all that, my
pure love. Whatever it may be that makes you differ from other women I
know that none but pure emotions can stir that fair bosom. Good night,
my winsome love! Good night! Whatever the sad experience may have been
that has seemingly destroyed your faith in man, I mean to win it back. I
mean to prove to you clearly that at least one man is worthy the
unbounded trust of one pure woman.”

A little while longer he stood, until a light, flashing from one of the
upper windows, told him that Imelda had entered her room, and was
probably preparing to retire. Again his “Good night” was wafted upon the
air in a love-laden whisper, and then his firm tread could be heard
receding in the distance as he wended his way quickly under the
whispering silvery maples.



                              CHAPTER II.


What of Imelda’s past? What were the dark forbidding shadows that
threatened to overcast her future?

Nothing unusual; interwoven only with a story such as has darkened many
another young girl’s life. The history of one woman’s life, the threads
of which were woven so closely with hers as to hold her to those past
memories as in a net in whose meshes no loophole had been left. Imelda’s
mother, just such a bright, beautiful and queenly girl as she herself
now was, had wrecked her life upon the rock upon which thousands daily,
hourly are wrecked. Of what this rock consisted we shall see as our
story proceeds.

Nellie Dunbar was the child of poverty. She was one of eight children,
whose parents probably could not have taken proper care of one. So,
instead of giving Nellie that which every child has the right to demand
of those who take upon themselves the responsibility of ushering
children into existence, viz: a thorough education to develop their
mental capacities; proper care of their young bodies to enable them to
become full rounded women and men; careful, tender nurture of both body
and soul—instead of giving Nellie and her numerous brothers and sisters
all this it was only in their very young days—days when the minds of
children should be free and unburdened of care save childhood’s plays,
that they were able to send them to school at all. While yet of very
tender age, when toys and books should have been their only care, these
were laid away upon the shelf and their young strength pressed into the
much needed work of helping to support the family.

Oh, ye parents of the millions! Do you ever think of the wrongs daily
and hourly perpetrated upon the children, those mites of humanity whose
advent into the world you yourselves are directly responsible for; upon
whose unborn souls you place a curse that is to work out its woes in the
coming ages—children who with all their unfitness are to become in turn,
the parents of the race?

Nellie found work in a cloak factory, and, as she sat day by day bending
above her machine she often almost cursed the fate that made her a
working girl; only she had been taught that such thoughts were impious.
That it was a good and all-wise “God” who had mapped out her life, and
that it would be wicked to be anything but thankful.

But Nellie’s heart was rebellious. Not always could she quell the
longings that would well up therein. So when one day a handsome,
dark-haired, dark-eyed man found this beautiful uncultured bird she fell
an easy victim. It was the old, old story over again, of a trusting
maiden’s love and of man’s selfish appetite. Not that he was a greater
villain than men are wont to be, but men, like the bee, are used to sip
the honey from every fair flower hereon they may happen to alight. He
knew he would be envied the possession of the love, the favor, of this
beautiful creature, by all of his friends, while the possession itself
would be unalloyed bliss to him.

But a time came when his plaything tired the man of fashion and culture.
He would have dropped it, but he had reckoned without his host. Maddened
by the sneers and innuendoes of her hitherto companions and by the
insults of men, all the latent devil that lies hidden and veiled within
the heart of many a loving woman, was aroused. Having managed to purloin
from her brother’s pocket a shining little toy and hiding it within her
heaving bosom, she sought her betrayer’s side. With burning cheeks she
demanded of him to do her justice.

He would have tried again to soothe her fiery blood with honeyed words,
but they had lost their power. Her faith in him had been destroyed;
never again could she trust him. He sought to allay her fears with fair
promises; he would marry her, if she would wait a few days; he wished to
arrange his affairs; he would prepare a home for her.

The young girl’s eyes flashed ominously as she answered: “No! I will not
wait. Now! instantly, do I want my due.”

Herbert Ellwood began to grow impatient. He was tired of the scene.
Curbing his temper, however, he again made answer: “This evening, then,
I promise to be with you although you are very foolish not to wait a few
days longer, until I should have had prepared a home to take you to.”

She looked like a lovely fury as she stamped her foot in rising anger.
“Now!” she cried. “Now, within the hour! I cannot, I will not trust you
one moment longer.”

The hot blood mounted to his white forehead,—Did this pretty fool think
that she could command him?—him who had always been the darling of fair
women?—him who needed but to hold out his hand to find it eagerly
clasped by any of a dozen fair ones? Scorn curled his lip, and the
habitual gentleness from his manner suddenly fled.

“Enough,” he cried.—“I am tired of this. Go home and wait until I come.”

With this he turned his back upon her, making it very plain to her that
he considered the obnoxious interview at an end. But the demon in the
girl’s heart was now fully aroused. With a quick step she had reached
his side. Despair and anger gave her strength. By one quick movement she
whirled him round when he found flashing in his eyes the shining barrel
of a revolver.

“I will avenge my honor on the spot, here and now,—wipe out my shame in
your blood if you delay an instant longer to do me the justice I
demand.”

She spoke the words in a tragic manner. She had worked herself into a
frenzy, and Herbert felt it was dangerous to longer trifle with her—that
she was capable of executing her threat. So he submitted to the
inevitable. With a sigh he donned his coat and hat and hailing a hack
they were quickly driven to the nearest minister’s whose son and
daughter witnessed the ceremony.

Through it all Nellie’s cheeks were the color of blood; her eyes gleamed
like living coals. When all was over, her overwrought nerves gave way.
Breaking into a fit of hysterical weeping, she sank at her unwilling
bridegroom’s feet. Frightened and shamed he gathered her in his arms,
carried more than led her from the bewildered minister’s presence into
the waiting hack.

He was at a loss where to take her. He could not take her to his
bachelor apartments. He feared to take her to her mother in the
condition she was in, knowing only too well that the ignorant woman
would not hesitate to heap abuse upon her daughter’s head when she knew
all. So, after a few moment’s consideration, he named some distant hotel
to the waiting hack driver, where, upon their arrival, he procured rooms
and saw that she was properly cared for.

It was long ere she became quiet. The unhappy girl walked the room,
backward and forward, while a storm of sobs shook her form. For a time
Ellwood feared insanity would claim her. He was not at heart a bad man,
and such an ending to this day’s work would have been most unwelcome to
him. He had been living merely to enjoy himself, as a certain class of
young men are in the habit of doing, though it be at the expense of some
other member of the human family, probably not stopping to think, not
realizing, what the cost may be to that other. He had fallen desperately
in love with Nellie’s fair face and, had she loved him “more wisely,” as
the saying is, it is likely he himself would have proposed marriage. But
his fever having cooled somewhat he recognized only too well the fact
that they two were not mated; that true happiness could never spring
from such an union.

But—well, things had taken a different course. Full well he knew that he
had wronged the beautiful but uncultured girl. He was now called upon to
make reparation, and marriage had set its seal with its “until death do
us part,” upon them.

As remarked before, he was not a villain. Now that the deed was done it
took him but a short time to make up his mind to abide the consequences,
be they what they might. He knew they were unsuited to each other; that
they had very little in common, but he knew that she was beautiful. He
would never need to be ashamed of her appearance. He had had the benefit
of a splendid education. He had a lucrative position, and by casting
overboard many of his old habits and associates he thought they might be
able to get along. Then, too, she was used to work. She knew and
understood the value of money; surely with her experience in life she
would be able to manage—would understand the art of housewifery.

Alas, he did not know, did not understand how this having been used to
work all her life caused her to hate work. As he had been lavish with
her—spending his money freely when in her society, the idea had taken
deep root in her brain that he was wealthy; whereas he had only that
which his position—bookkeeper, secured him. She had denied and stinted
herself so long that now she meant to enjoy.

It was not an easy matter for the young man to be true to his resolves
and do what he considered his duty by her. If, in those first hours when
her grief had been at its greatest, he had folded her to his heart with
real affection, instead of forcing himself to every caress—to hide the
deep disappointment in his inmost heart—may be he might yet have
reawakened the love that through deceit had turned to Dead Sea fruit
upon her lips. Or, if she with womanly tenderness had coaxed his ebbing
love into new life, things might have been different. But, as it was,
the hour wherein she had found herself compelled to force him to comply
with her demands and make her his wife, in that hour her love for him
had died—died for all time.

Had she been a woman cultured and refined she would have scorned him;
that lacking, she was simply indifferent. She no longer cared for that
which once had constituted her heaven, but, on the contrary, was
inclined now to a desire to get even with him, as the saying is. It was
not a great soul that Nellie was the possessor of. A poor but
pretty—nay, a beautiful girl, born under circumstances such as children
of her are usually born under, surrounded and reared in the same manner,
what could you expect?

And Herbert Ellwood? Ah! he felt more keenly. The sowing of the wild
oats that young men are unhappily supposed to have a right to sow, and
even ought to sow, according to the views of some—had only for a time
threatened to stifle that which was good and true in his nature; and
bitterly in his after-life did he rue the sowing.

After having made up his mind that there was now but one proper course
for him to pursue, that course he meant to pursue. Days passed on. He
soon found that to harvest his crop of wild oats was not so easy or so
pleasant as the sowing had been. Nellie’s temper was the rock upon which
all his good resolves stranded. He would have taught her many things
that would have had a tendency not only to make her a polished lady but
which would have been of daily, almost hourly use to her, but she
mistakenly argued that as she had been good enough in the past to while
away the time with, pretty enough to cause him to fall in love with her,
she was good and pretty enough now as his wife, just as she was. She did
not understand that it was ever so much more difficult for a wife to
attract and hold a husband, even in those few cases where love rules
supreme in the home of the married couple, than it is for a bright and
sparkling young girl to win a lover.

But time sped on; the months passed by and then came the hour when the
cause of this most unhappy union was ushered into existence—a little
brown eyed babe. The fair Imelda was born. For a while it seemed as if
the young couple would return to the love of their earlier days. The
advent of the little creature was something wherein they had a common
interest. But as Nellie grew stronger her attention was all taken up by
baby, who proved a charming dimpled darling, cooing and laughing in the
faces of both parents alike.

But the young mother never was the old self again. The charming girl
soon developed into a fretful discontented woman. The man that found
life such a disappointment gave all his love to his baby daughter and it
was not long until the baby screamed and struggled at his approach.
Perched upon his shoulder, her tiny hands buried in his clustering
curls, she would babble and crow with delight. For the time Herbert
Ellwood would be happy, but even this sight—a sight that would have
melted most young mothers’ hearts with pride and happiness, was only
another bone of contention between them. Squabbles and quarrels were of
daily occurrence.

Nellie was irritable and dissatisfied. Her health was failing her.
Herbert was tired and disgusted with his unpleasant home, and began to
spend his evenings away from it. In consequence many lonely hours fell
to Nellie’s lot. Often her pillow would be wet with tears. She was
unhappy and knew not the reason. She laid the blame at Herbert’s door;
whereas he, poor fellow, had done all in his power to bring things to a
different issue. He had miserably failed.

But neither knew the reason why. Both failed to understand that as they
had ceased to attract, as they had scarcely so much as a single thought
in common, they should long ago have parted. They were falling in with
that most abominable practice of modern times and of modern marriage,—to
“make the best of” what contained _absolutely no best_!—as their union
was miserably barren of all good qualities. Each was conscious of a dull
aching void, with no understanding as to how it could be filled.

Time passed on, and other babies came,—unwelcome, unwished for mites of
humanity that sprang from the germ of a father’s passion, gestated by a
mother with a feeling of repugnance amounting almost to hate. What
mattered it that in the hour of birth each new comer was caught lovingly
to the mother’s breast, when in that moment of mortal agony the
wellspring of her love had been touched. No amount of _later_ love could
undo the mischief done _before its advent_.

Some of these babes were ill-natured and puny from their birth, born
only to pine away and die, racking again the mother’s heart. Two others,
a boy and a girl, grew to be the torment of the household and the bane
of their mother’s life. And still the babies came, and oh! so close, one
upon the other, until the poor mother thought life was a burden too
great to be borne.

Such a flood of anger and hate towards the father and husband, would
sweep over her heart as the knowledge of each conception was forced upon
her! At such moments she felt as though she could kill him.

Reader, can you read between the lines? Can you see the hidden skeleton
in this miserable home? Do you understand how it all could have been
avoided? Herbert Ellwood, as stated before, was not a bad man. Instead,
he possessed many noble qualities. But he was a child of modern society.
He was a husband, possessed of a wife. He had always been what the world
calls true to that wife. He was possessed of health, strength and
passion. Is it necessary to say more? The story is a plain one, and an
old one. The thinking reader will find little difficulty in discerning
that theirs was the curse of modern marriage life.

[Illustration]



                              CHAPTER III.


Such had been the early life of Imelda Ellwood. Surely not the best of
environments for the development of a young character, but, singularly
enough, Imelda’s was so sweet and pure a nature that in spite of all the
close contact with impure elements she remained thus pure and sweet. But
early she became disgusted with home life, measuring all to which the
name applied by the standard she had known. Even as a child she was wont
to say: “I will never marry.” Home to her meant the elements of war. Her
brother Frank, just fifteen months younger than herself, and sister Cora
again only sixteen months younger than Frank, were the torments of her
life. Frank’s teasing propensities were so great that he was utterly
reckless as to his methods of indulging them, so he succeeded in making
those around him miserable. If Imelda had a new book, he was sure to
damage it in some way. If she had a new article of clothing, he would
ridicule it until the very sight of it became hateful to her. If she
made an engagement to go somewhere and he became aware of the fact he
would contrive to make it impossible for her to keep it, or at least to
detain her so long that she was robbed of the greater part of the
pleasure she had expected to derive from it.

Cora was tantalizing, obstinate and contradictory; always opposed to
everything that Imelda wished. Sometimes she felt that she almost hated
them. Added to this her mother cast a heavy burden upon the tender
shoulders of the young girl. Almost always with a babe in her arms, or
expecting one, she let her shafts of ill-temper play upon her eldest
daughter. Often it seemed there was a certain bitterness and
vengefulness directed against Imelda as the author of all her
troubles—it having been her expected coming that caused the consummation
of this most unhappy marriage. Conscious of having in some way incurred
the ill-will of her mother, but unconscious as to the _how_, Imelda
often wept bitter tears at the unjust treatment she received at the
hands of her who should have been the child’s best friend. In this case
it was the father who proved himself such. Early these two found in each
other a comfort and help such as is rarely known between father and
daughter.

To her he imparted all the knowledge that should have been the mother’s
care, and although the little Imelda saw but little of the inside of a
schoolroom, she grew up a really fine scholar.

After having instructed her in all the rudimentary branches, he taught
her the classics. He taught her elocution, music,—instrumental and
vocal, book-keeping, shorthand, etc. Next, German and French.

Herbert Ellwood was a scholar, and he made a scholar of his daughter.
She was eager to learn, and it was a pleasure for him to teach her. Even
this proved a bone of contention in that home,—a home which was as
unlike what a home should be as could well be imagined. Her mother
grumbled over the wasted time, poring over books when there was so much
work to be done. Cora turned up her saucy nose and said, doubtless the
time was coming when she would have to humbly bow to Madame Doctor, or
Lawyer So and So, or Professor of some University; while Frank thought
more likely she was getting ready to catch some “big beau,” and maybe
become “My Lady” to some rich foreigner, some great Lord, or something
of that sort. Imelda had by this time, to a certain extent, become
callous to such taunts, and quietly went her way, performing obnoxious
duties that were waiting to be done, with no one else to do them.

But as the years went by changes came. First; the greatest and most
lamentable of them all, was the death of her father.

For years past he had been ailing, and the time came when he was unable
to work. At first he brought his books home in the evening, and with the
assistance of his faithful child strove to complete the task he found
himself unable to cope with alone, and, by working hours after he had
been compelled to lay aside his pen Imelda was able to finish his work
for him. But the time came at last that he was unable to do anything. He
could no longer go to his daily labor. All day long he would sit near
his open window and watch the busy turmoil in the streets below. Then he
become too weak even for that; so he lay upon the bed watching his
beloved child, and wondering what she would do when he was gone. His
wife and other children did not seem to worry him. His thoughts were all
concentrated upon Imelda, and Imelda’s heart almost broke as she watched
the thin white face grow thinner and whiter day by day. Now and then the
thin emaciated frame would be convulsed with a fit of coughing that
would leave him perfectly exhausted. Tenderly she would smooth his
pillows, would hold a cooling drink to his lips, then with a firm hand
she would smooth his brow until under her gentle, soothing influence he
would fall into a light slumber.

Then Imelda would glide away from his bedside, and, if possible, seek
her own room for awhile, where she could relieve her overcharged heart
of the load that was suffocating her. Tears would flow and ease would
come. Although her mother had in her early childhood taught her to pray,
Imelda never now thought of seeking aid or relief in prayer. She had
long been a skeptic. She had seen the dark side only of life, and she
often wondered if life held any brightness for her? How often had she
asked without receiving an answer: “Why must my young life be so
different from that of other girls?”

Just at present the fear of losing her beloved father was paramount to
everything else, and while she felt as though an iron hand was clutching
at her throat she watched and saw his life slowly ebbing away, and, at
the close of a calm, balmy autumn day he quietly fell asleep, never
again to awaken, and on the 18th of October, Imelda’s seventeenth
birthday, he was laid away to rest within the tree-shaded cemetery.

After that, Imelda had more duties to perform, heavier burdens to bear.
Contrary to what might have been expected, her mother refused to be
comforted, and became even more fretful and irritable than before.
Imelda moved about calm, pale and tearless, but with oh! such an aching
weary heart. But never a word passed her pale lips—for who would have
understood that ceaseless pain—and for which she was reproached as being
heartless and unfeeling.

Although Herbert Ellwood had always been able to command fair wages,
there had been nothing laid aside for a rainy day. His wife never had
been what is known as a good housewife. She believed in taking the
things the gods provide and let the morrow take care of itself. So when
he was no longer able to follow his daily occupation, they were without
means. His long and lingering illness had plunged them heavily into
debt, the burden of which rested solely on Imelda’s slender shoulders.
And—they must live! Both sisters found work behind the counters of a dry
goods emporium. Cora grumbling and daily declaring that it was a shame,
and that she was determined to make a change as soon as a chance
offered. Frank too, was told that it was time he placed his shoulder to
the wheel, as the combined efforts of two girls were hardly sufficient
to support a family of five, for there was another little girl of two
years: “Baby Nellie” she was called. But Frank would put his hands in
his pockets, whistle the latest air he had heard at some low “variety
show,” bestow a kick upon the frolicking kitten, make a grimace at baby
Nellie and walk out as unconcerned as though there were no such thing in
the world as the worry and trouble of procuring food for hungry mouths
and clothes for freezing backs, or paying rent to keep a miserable roof
over their heads. Imelda’s face would perhaps grow a shade paler and the
trembling lips compress more tightly, but farther than that she gave no
sign. From her mother it would generally bring forth a flood of tears.

Imelda would feel as though a cold hand was clutching at her throat as
she watched her mother. Poor mother! What had life brought to her? It
had been one long succession of trials, sorrow and woes without the
ability to cope with them. Once, and only once, Imelda ventured to
gently wind her arm about her. With an impatient movement the poor woman
had brushed it aside, accompanied with an irritable, “Don’t!” After that
Imelda never ventured to approach her again. Her sensitive spirit had
been deeply wounded, but she also knew that her mother could not by any
possibility understand her. So she tried hard not to bear her any ill
will. She eagerly sought for every excuse she could think of for the
mother whose life she knew had been made up more of thorns than roses.

So, the weeks and months went by in a weary routine, but bringing with
them new troubles and fresh sorrows. Frank, who had persistently refused
to put his hands to any kind of work, had idled away his time with
companions who were wholly as bad if not worse than himself. Under the
leadership of one more bold than the rest they had for some time been
perpetrating deeds of petty larceny until they were caught in the act.
The most of them were arrested and a term of work house stared them in
the face. Frank, however, with one other succeeded in absconding. This
was the news that was brought home to the despairing mother and
grief-stricken sister. Never again had the poor mother seen or heard
aught of him. They knew that he possessed a passionate love for the
water and they felt sure that he had gone to sea.

And yet another trouble awaited them. Cora, who was now sixteen years of
age, and who gave promise of beauty in the future, though as yet
undeveloped, had formed the acquaintance of a graceless scamp, fair of
face, with but the possession of a decidedly insipid smile—a brainless
fop with an oily tongue. The willful girl had been meeting him for some
time before Imelda became conscious of the fact. Long and earnestly did
she strive to reason with the refractory sister, pointing out to her the
many defects of this very objectionable lover.

But Cora had always been obstinate, and the years had brought no change
in this respect. In plain words, she told Imelda to mind her own
business. A short time after she disappeared—leaving a note stating she
had “gone to live with one with whom she could have a little peace,” as
she expressed it.

For some time the mother and sister were unable to trace her
whereabouts, but one evening, some six weeks later, Imelda had an errand
to another portion of the city. Returning about ten o’clock she hailed a
car and presently found herself seated opposite her runaway sister, and
with her the partner of her flight. To judge from the manner of both
there was little happiness or love or _peace_ between the couple. Even
to an ordinary observer it would have been apparent from the sulky and
extremely careless outward appearance of the two that Cora’s love dream
had been cut very short.

After the first shock Imelda conquered her fear of risking an
altercation in so public a place and seated herself at Cora’s side.
There was something in the defiant attitude of the girl that caused her
heart to stand still with a nameless dread, but she forced herself to
speak.

“Cora,” she said, “are you married?” Cora paled, and in her companion’s
eye was a wicked flash. A hesitating “Yes,” fell from the lips of the
wayward sister. Intuitively Imelda felt that she was telling a
falsehood, and her heart sank within her. She understood that the
willful girl was leading a life of deliberate shame. Only a short time
until she would be cast off, and then——?

Imelda could not bear to contemplate the “then!” With a sound like
rushing waters in her ears, she arose from her seat and staggered toward
the entrance of the car. She must get away from the near presence of the
twain, out into the open air. She felt that she must suffocate in there.
How she reached home she never knew, but _that_ night sleep was a
stranger to her eyes. The next day she went about her work a trifle
paler, her footsteps a trifle slower. While her mother fretted over the
child that could leave her in such a fashion without one thought of the
pain she was inflicting on loving hearts, she never heeded the drooping
gait and the pained expression upon the face of her eldest child.

The winter had come and gone, and come again and the watchful eye of
Imelda detected that the mother’s step was slower. The tall figure was
slightly bent and an unnameable something about her struck terror to the
daughter’s heart. She drooped and faded day by day, and the much tired
girl knew that darker days were coming. Often on coming home in the
evening she would find her mother lying on the bed, not asleep, but
broken down, without ambition enough to lift the weary head from the
pillow; little Nellie crying bitterly with cold and hunger, or perhaps
the poor baby had sobbed itself to sleep upon the floor while its mother
seemed to have lost all interest in what was going on around her.

Imelda moaned in despair. She was needed oh, so much at home. The
ailing, wasted form of her mother appealed so strongly to her aching
heart for the care there was no one to bestow. The baby felt like ice as
she pressed the tiny thing to her heaving bosom. But how could they live
if she remained at home? Only what her tender hands were able to earn
did they have to keep the wolf from the door. And if she ceased to work?
What then?

Imelda knew and felt that darker days were coming, darker than she had
yet known, and her impotence to ward them off almost drove her to
despair. But the time came when she felt that she could no longer remain
away from the bedside of the dying mother, come what would. To make
matters still worse little Nellie had contracted a severe cold, and many
sleepless nights fell to her share walking to and fro, from the bedside
of the sick woman to that of the ailing child. One by one all the little
comforts and luxuries of former days were parted with. Pretty trinkets
her father had given her and which, therefore were of great value to
her, were all sacrificed.

In the early spring the change came. The baby had been unusually
feverish for several days while the mother was sinking fast. The night
was bitter cold and Imelda knew she must not sleep. Both patients were
nearing their end. Folding her shawl more closely around her shoulders
to be more comfortable, she prepared for her long and dreary vigil.
Never a word did the mother speak, breathing heavily in a dull stupor.
Toward midnight she moved uneasily. Imelda bending over her saw her lips
move. She bent lower and caught the whispered words, “Frank, Cora.” That
was all.

The wayward ones, who had taken their mother’s life with them, to them
the last breath was given. Nellie and Imelda were with her. It was the
absent wayward ones that had left a void. When the morning dawned, it
was to find the weary woman at rest; the woman whose life had been one
long mistake. The baby moaned. Imelda lifted her to her knee, and as the
sun sent its first rays through the dim window pane the fluttering
breath left the little purple lips, and Imelda was alone—alone with her
dead!

[Illustration]



                              CHAPTER IV.


After the body of her mother had been laid away, by the side of that of
her dead husband, with the youngest of eight children clasped in her
arms, Imelda changed her home to a little attic room. When all was over
she returned to the store where she had now been employed three years.

In the early days of her engagement there she had become acquainted with
a bright cheery little girl, Alice Day by name, with whom she had become
fast friends, although a greater contrast one could scarcely imagine
than existed between the personalities of the two girls. The one, small,
bright, saucy, sparkling; the other, tall, stately, sad. Although Alice
did not have that high order of intelligence that Imelda was the
possessor of, yet she was so purely child-like and frank, that they at
once attracted each other; each supplying to the other that which she
did not possess. Their friendship, however, was of short duration.
Pretty Alice had a lover, a traveling salesman at the time, whose home
was in the east. He was about to establish a business of his own and so
would no longer have opportunities of seeing his little lady-love; a
state of affairs that did not meet the approval of either the young
gentleman in question or that of the fair Alice. So he proposed to take
her with him as his wife.

Alice was married and Imelda saw no more of her friend. Now and then a
letter came and she knew that the husband was prospering; that Alice
lived in a beautiful home, and that two sweet babies, girl babies, had
come to make music in that stately home.

About the time that Alice left the store to become a wife another girl
found employment with the same firm; a tall, stately girl whom to
describe would be extremely difficult. Fair as a lily, ruddy as a rose,
with a bearing almost haughty. One moment a laughing, rollicking sprite,
the next if some unlucky individual dared to address her with a freedom
she thought uncalled for her blue eyes would emit such scornful flashes
that you almost felt their scorching heat. The color would rise in her
cheeks until they were stained a dark hue; her lips would be compressed
so firmly that they appeared almost white.

Sometimes it appeared as though two distinct and separate spirits
inhabited the body of this girl, so utterly would the different moods
change her from one to the other. We might go still farther, and say
there were three spirits. Three in one, for there was still another
phase of her character. In the first, she was the rollicking, teasing,
mirth-provoking sprite, the next, she was soft, melting, a child of
dreams, and in the last a proud, scornful, haughty woman. Talented and
gifted by nature, her character was as yet unformed. Future events would
determine which phase would predominate.

Such was Margaret Leland when first Imelda knew her. The two girls were
soon strongly attached to each other. Margaret was very sympathetic and
Imelda was in need of sympathy. Misery loves company, it is said. So
when Imelda one evening told her the story of her life, with all its
trials and shadows,—which revelation was made after the death of her
father, Margaret reciprocated by giving a history that was fully as sad
as her own. Interwoven with her life were just as bitter tears, and if
Margaret had not stood above an open grave her life had nevertheless
been overshadowed by such tragic events that it took all the innate
pride of her nature to enable her to hold up her head. Probably to this
very cause was due the fact that she sometimes let this pride carry her
to extremes.

It was on a fine summer evening not long before wayward Cora had
deserted them that Imelda and Margaret had been walking together and
found a seat in beautiful Lincoln Park. Imelda had just finished
relating her story, omitting nothing of the mistakes that had been so
fatal to the happiness of her parents. “I cannot understand,” she
concluded, “why it was they were so utterly unhappy. It often appeared
to me that my mother almost hated my father, although he was far above
her mentally, possessed of remarkable intelligence, having had the
benefit of an education so thorough that often I have wondered how a
match so unsuited was ever made. I have never known my father to be
really unkind, although often impatient, as my mother could be very
trying. However, I have often sought to excuse her for that; her health
for years had not been of the best and the babies would come oh, so
close! Poor mother! I suppose almost any woman would have broken down
under it.”

“I should think so,” replied Margaret’s low sweet voice. “Only think!
eight children in how many years?”

“Fifteen,” answered Imelda, “and you must remember, too, she had three
miscarriages in that time. Yes, it was too much. Do you know,” she
continued musingly, “that the thought often comes to me, that while
lover’s love must be great, it is not great enough, not strong enough to
withstand the storm of married woes. I have never had a lover, but have
often dreamed of lover’s joys. But tell me, where do you see lovers
among married people?”

“Married lovers are indeed a rare sight,” Margaret answered, “and,” she
continued, startling the ear of the listening Imelda, “love certainly is
a beautiful dream. I know of what I am speaking, for it has come to me,
e’en that; but ‘_marriage is a failure_,’ and, as I think now, I do not
believe I shall ever trust myself to its deceiving, cruel fetters.”

“Then what will you do?”

“Remain as I am, free as the birds of the air. No man shall ever say to
me, ‘thou shalt’ or ‘thou shalt not’!”

Imelda stared at her friend in open-eyed wonder.

“What then will become of your love?” she asked.

Margaret’s lips trembled as a sigh escaped them. “Ah, Love, sweet
entrancing Love! Imelda, he is a fickle boy; promising you heavenly
bliss to entice you into his meshes. They sound so fair, these promises,
so bewitching in the rosy hue he weaves about them, until——”

“Until what?”

“Until you permit his alluring voice to entice you into those rose-woven
and satin-covered fetters called marriage bonds. Then, in a most
tantalizing manner, after all loopholes of escape have been closed, he
takes his departure with mocking laughter and leaves you only the
blackness of despair. Your weak hands are not powerful enough to hold
him with all the man-made laws of the land. He comes to us all unsought,
in rose-strewn dreams. If you would retain his blissful presence you
must meet him full of trust and confidence. Fetter this laughing, happy
boy and he will slip from between your clinging, clutching fingers. In
spite of yourself he is gone. You are alone, bound to a loathsome
corpse. Never again will the sweet little cajoler walk by your side, in
the old form, to soothe your aching heart with his warm perfumed breath.
And if ever, in very pity for you, he shall make the attempt to draw
near in another form, to warm your frozen heart, you are forced by the
cruel laws of a cruel society with your own trembling hands to murder
him.

“Marry? No! I may enjoy a lover’s love, may mount with him to realms of
bliss, and when the time comes that we have outgrown each other, the
time when one may be mounting too fast for the other to keep up, as when
one becomes a weight, clogging the footsteps of the other, then at
least, no unnatural fetters will have bound us. We can still follow our
own sweet wills, and should Love again with his winsome wiles approach
me with his golden dreams, I shall then be free to clasp him in my
embrace. I may once again be happy in the sunshine he is sure to bring
with him, and shed around him.”

Awestruck Imelda listened. Margaret’s cheeks were glowing with
excitement. Her eyes shone with a splendor Imelda had never noted there
before, while the look in them seemed far-away. Where were her thoughts?
What visions floated before her mind? Was it the lover she spoke of,
with whom she was mounting to unknown heights of bliss, or was she
looking into the far-away future where he was the same, and yet not the
same? When Love shall have taken upon himself a different guise than he
at present wears? Who knows? Imelda listened spellbound to this dreaming
girl, almost fearing to break the silence that ensued.

“Margaret, who taught you that? Where did you learn to hold such views
of love and marriage?”

Almost instantly the entranced look faded from the face of the beautiful
blonde. That most holy glow gave way to a sickly pallor. The lips
quivered like those of a grieved child, and the eyes filled with tears.

“Experience,” she faltered.

“Experience? You?”

“Yes, Imelda. Listen. I will now tell you the story of _my_ life. Or,
more properly speaking, that of my mother; but which has nevertheless
influenced mine to such an extent that all my life, I suppose, the
results of it must walk by my side, follow me wherever I go. To begin
with, my mother has been what the world calls ‘a divorced woman’.”

“Divorced!” Imelda exclaimed in a startled manner.

“Yes, divorced! Married at the tender age of sixteen, she thought all
that was needed to make earth a heaven was the complete union with the
man she loved. A few week’s she lived in a fool’s paradise. She was
young, inexperienced, with character undeveloped, else even in that
short time she must have seen and understood the innate coarseness of
the man who was her husband, whom she had promised to love, honor and
_obey_, and who is my——father! In a very short time it dawned upon her
that they had no tastes whatever in common. A brutal coarseness soon
became manifest that caused her to shrink at his every touch. He soon
came to understand this and it roused the very devil in him. He
delighted in torturing her in every conceivable way. He did not even
stop at blows.”

“_Blows!_ Oh,—” gasped Imelda. A bitter smile for a moment curled
Margaret’s lips, and then she proceeded:

“And that man is my father. Oh, why must I say it!” It cost her a great
struggle to proceed. Imelda asked her to refrain, but Margaret insisted
that she must tell her all, saying, “I would have to tell you some time
that we may fully understand each other,” and in a few moments she
continued:

“The thought of separation never entered her mind in those days. She
worked; a slave could scarcely have been more driven. A slave! Can it be
possible there ever has been a worse slave than my mother was? And then
the babies came. All through the time of gestation she had to work, to
perform the hardest labor, and often my——father would come home
intoxicated and, if it was possible for him to descend a step lower than
was his wont, that was the time. I myself know little or nothing of
those days, but my mother has made me her confidante, and every word she
has told me is engraven on my heart. Oh, how she must have suffered in
those awful, awful times! She was helpless under his brute power, and
the relations that should only be the expression of a pure and holy
love, that should, in my opinion, be fraught with divinest bliss, became
to her the tortures of hell. Many a night sleep was a stranger to her
eyes, and, other nights again, sleep came only after her pillow had been
drenched with tears. Under such circumstances her children were born. Is
it any wonder that the world is filled with criminals and idiots?

“How it was ever possible for me to be what I am is more than I can
comprehend. I know I am far from perfect. I am terribly self-willed and
can never bear being crossed. My mother was proud and self-willed also,
and though she learned to hate and loathe the man whom according to law
she was in duty bound to love, and though she suffered untold agonies I
think her pride, her self-respect, would never permit her to stoop to
anything that would degrade her, if we except the fact that she was
forced to live in marriage with a man who was in every way a brute. It
is to this pride and self-respect, I think, that I owe it that I am able
to lay claim to a higher and better nature than it could otherwise have
been possible for me to possess.

“Oh, the disgust that I feel when I hear matters pertaining to sex made
light of. These relations to my mind are something sacred and pure. But
the sensual man who believes that woman was made for his use only—the
man who commits continual outrages upon the woman who is legally bound
to him, upon her who bears the name of wife—such men defile the air with
their very breath.

“If under such circumstances a woman in her own soul, through her
superior mind, can create and hold a world of her own, making it
possible to ward off many evils that would naturally be the inheritance
of her children, what may she not do under conditions that are
favorable? Thus I think it was that mother stood above my father as the
stars are above the earth.

“But I have deviated. The years passed, and three times she had become a
mother. Always for a short time after the advent of a little one my
father seemed to show some marks of humanity, treating mother with some
show of kindness, but not for long. It would soon wear away and when the
trying season of gestation was upon her again he would be tenfold worse.
My mother thinks the reason for this was that during those seasons she
was more averse than ever to sex relations, which relations on his part
meant neither more nor less than debauchery of what should have been an
act personifying and realizing holy love. She would shrink from his
touch as from a reptile. Not being able to understand her, as he was not
possessed of a single refined instinct, it had the effect to infuriate
him.

“Seven years my mother led this life. Her first born, a boy, died when
he was a little more than a year old. Then I was born. After that came
another boy. When Osmond was two years old and I four, my mother one
day, with both of us left my father’s house forever. During the last
year or two matters had been growing worse and still worse, until
finally they had become unendurable.

“My mother being a well-developed woman and possessing strong attractive
powers would unconsciously draw the passing glances of men wherever she
might chance to be. In spite of all she had been compelled to pass
through, feeling was not yet dead within her. An intelligent and
attractive man always had the power to move her to animation and life.
This, again, my father could not understand, and to his many other
faults was added that of an insane jealousy. It was the last straw that
broke the camel’s back. Having been subjected to his indignities until
she was able to bear them no longer she resolved to submit to no more.
So one wet, cold evening in the early autumn she returned to her
childhood’s home.”



                               CHAPTER V.


“But if my mother thought she was now freed from her husband’s
persecutions she was soon to be undeceived. He dared not enter her
father’s home but when the shades of evening came she soon found it was
not safe to step outside of the house as she never knew the moment that
he, like some uncanny apparition, would suddenly appear before her, and
soon he succeeded in making her so nervous that she was almost afraid of
her own shadow.

“Added to this trouble was the necessity of procuring work, for my
grandfather was not blest with any surplus of this world’s goods. It was
with him as with so many thousands of others, weary work from early morn
until late at night, in order to make both ends meet. The feeding of
three new boarders and the procuring of proper clothing for them was a
matter of no small importance.

“So having treated herself to several weeks of rest my mother most
seriously began to think of suitable employment, and one day began the
weary search for work. Many were the disappointments met with ere that
search was successful. But at length the tiresome tramp was ended. She
had answered an advertisement for chambermaid at a hotel and been
engaged. Little enough did it promise to bring her. It was the best,
however, she was at that time able to do. Having had no educational
advantages no very large field was open to her, and the need at hand was
pressing.

But her trials, it seems, had only begun. It soon leaked out that my
mother was a woman with that obnoxious appellation a ‘grass widow.’ She
was young yet, only twenty-three, and libertines, both young and old,
thought her their rightful prey. But her proud spirit rose to the
emergency. None ever ventured to accost her a second time with undue
familiarity. It was a severe strain upon her, nevertheless, and she had
not been very strong of late. Soon the effects of this strain became
apparent, and often she feared she must utterly break down. All that
winter she was under a doctor’s treatment, who would insist she must
have rest, absolute rest, or he would not answer for the consequences.

“But how could she rest? She had her two children besides herself to
clothe, and she could not bear to think of being an added burden to her
father’s family. So she only more firmly compressed her lips and bravely
worked on.

“No doubt she would have rallied more quickly but for the incessant fear
she was in of meeting my father. He shadowed and dogged her footsteps.
He threatened to steal her children. He circulated the vilest reports
about her and well nigh succeeded in ruining her reputation. When she
appeared upon the streets or in any public place she imagined she could
feel the stare of every man she met. All this had much to do in keeping
her poor in health and spirits.

“But as time passed her unusually strong nature began to assert itself.
Being freed from the curse of sex slavery her nerves became stronger.
The dark circles under her eyes disappeared. By and by she began to gain
strength in spite of the doctor’s assertion that she could not do so
without positive rest. But the knowledge of having her every footstep
dogged, her every action watched, was a constant horror to her, and she
often wished—if it were not for her children,—that she were at rest in
the grave.

“But at twenty-three it is not so easy to die. The young pulsing blood
courses with too much strength and warmth in the youthful veins. So she
lived and grew strong, and by and by youth more fully asserted itself.
She again took an interest in life and her cheerful ringing laugh could
now sometimes again be heard, making glad the hearts of her children and
friends.

“But yet another trial awaited her. My father was getting tired of
single-blessedness. At different times he had sent messengers to my
mother to ascertain when she intended returning to her home and duties.
To all such she made the answer—‘Never!’ So, just two years from the
date she had left him, he entered suit for divorce.

“I cannot understand how that man’s blood flows in my veins. Of all the
despicable means imaginable none were omitted to gall her sensitive
nature. He dragged her fair name through all the mire and filth known to
the divorce court. She was tortured with numberless disgusting
questions, such as I think no one has the right to ask, even though
holding the highest office in the land. The loathsome secrets of her
chamber of horrors were dragged into the light of day, for the court
must know _why_ a woman _dared_ to desire to leave her husband.

“The offensive questions that were asked her, and even more offensive
remarks made in an ‘aside’ by the prosecuting attorney, stung her to the
quick. Her white and trembling lips refused to answer but still the
torture went on. They must lash the quivering bleeding heart until she
was on the verge of insanity.

“Then the daily press took up the refrain. My father, of course, was the
wronged party. The man always is. Nothing of his inhuman treatment
appeared in their columns, but a blazoning of all the lies and slanders
he had in his maliciousness hurled at her defenseless head. Oh, the
sneers and the scoffing! I wonder how she ever lived through it.

“I understood nothing of all this at the time, but since I have become
old enough to understand, my mother herself has told me all the dark
story, and I never get done wondering how she ever was able to bear it.
Methinks if it had been _me_ there would have been murder in my soul. I
really believe if a man would subject me to such insults and abuses I
could in my righteous anger plunge a knife into his black heart!”

“Margaret! Margaret!” gasped Imelda, “how can you talk so?”

Margaret had arisen and stood with clenched teeth and hands. Her lips
compressed and eyes flashing, a picture of towering wrath. Then suddenly
breaking down she burst into a storm of uncontrollable grief and tears.
Imelda rose, and gently placing an arm about the weeping girl sought to
draw her to her side.

“Come, sit here,” she said, “and compose yourself. Remember all this has
long since past, and——remember also——he was your father!”

“_My father!_” With ineffable scorn were these words uttered. “To my
everlasting shame and sorrow, be it said, he _was_ my father, but do you
think that that fact would deter me from denouncing him as the monster
he is? And you can say it is all long since past! Oh, Imelda, Imelda, in
this _one_ instance,—my mother’s case,—is in the past, but oh! in how
many thousand cases is it not true today? It is _now_, that those
horrible deeds are being perpetrated. Oh, thou _holy_ ‘_sacred_’ thing
called _marriage_! How many sweet, pure temples of womanhood you are
daily, hourly defiling, by the unrestrained lust hidden under thy
protecting shelter. O, that I could proclaim it over the world; O, that
I could reach the innermost recesses of every pure woman’s and every
trusting maiden’s heart. Beware, oh! beware the serpent’s sting. How
long, oh, how long has the burden, the blame of the _downfall_ of man
been placed upon the slender shoulders of woman, while man stands
smiling by, gloating to see how easily the burden is kept there by that
horrible bug-bear custom. As it has been customary for her to bear it it
is supposed she always must bear it.

“Man sets up one standard of morals for woman and another for himself.
She, according to his idea of the term ‘pure,’ must keep herself _pure_,
undefiled, untouched. That means, to strangle nature’s desires, nature’s
voice and nature’s longings until some man who has been letting his
passion run riot, desecrating nature’s gifts until what remains is but a
wreck and mockery of true manhood, comes to claim her in her
inexperience. Then, in thousands of cases he drives her to insanity or
to an early grave, with his insatiable lust.

“Marry! I would not marry for all the wealth that is yet hidden within
the bowels of the earth. I will never, never, permit myself to become a
piece of property, wherewith some one man may do as he wills. I intend
to remain sole owner of my person.”

Imelda was awed by the storm of passion that shook the stately form of
her friend. Her words seemed metallic shafts of a “white heat,” entering
her sensitive soul. Could it be possible that man under his smooth
outward seeming, could be such a monster? Surely, surely such are only
exceptions, rare exceptions, never the rule. Her pure soul revolted at
the horrible accusations to which Margaret had just given utterance.
And, perhaps, this horror was intensified by hearing such accusations
drop from the lips of a girl whom she had always regarded as the
impersonation of maidenly purity.

And was not this girl pure? Yes; one look into that face, shining with a
glory almost unearthly, was sufficient assurance of that. But were those
accusations true? Again the conviction forced itself upon Imelda that,
so far as Margaret herself was concerned, those lips were certainly not
expressing a falsehood. But where, where had she learned to speak in
this manner? She spoke of the sweetness of love and the bondage of
marriage in the same breath. How could she speak of the desirability of
the one without the sanction of the other? They must go hand in hand,
and bear the risks attending such association. There was no other way.

These thoughts passed rapidly through Imelda’s mind; faster far than it
takes to trace them. Believing she might have misunderstood her friend
she could not but give speech to the doubts that were agitating her.

“Margaret! Margaret!” said Imelda, “calm yourself. Your words and manner
are so strange; I am unable to comprehend them. How can you speak thus
of marriage and yet welcome love? Surely I have not been mistaken in you
when I thought you a pure woman. You could not mean to make holy love
illicit, and desecrate it by removing the holiest of all holy sanctions,
marriage?”

Margaret’s sweet excited face underwent a change. The color faded
slowly, leaving it purest white. The firmly closed lips trembled; the
fireflash in the eyes died out; slowly the tears gathered in them until
the great pearly drops rolled down over the white cheeks, splashing upon
her tightly clasped hands. A sad look overspread the expressive face as
she said:

“My Imelda, have I shocked you? When you have been observing married
people, married life and all the consequences attending it, as long and
as closely as I have been, you will see as clearly as I now do that of
all things imperfect under the sun, _marriage_ is the _most_ imperfect.”

“But what would you do?” again questioned Imelda.

An added sadness seemed to settle upon Margaret’s face as she answered:

“Nothing, nothing at present. My mind is in a tumult seeking to break
through the cobwebs and mists that are beclouding it. I often think,
think, think, until my brain reels and then find myself no farther than
at the beginning.”

“But you were telling me, or giving me to understand that you have a
lover. I cannot understand how you, with the withering contempt in which
you hold man, could ever fall in love.”

Like a gleam of sunshine a smile flitted over Margaret’s face. “O,
Imelda! I am only human, and a child of nature, and nature demands, you
know, the attraction of the sexes, and Wilbur Wallace is a man _above_
the average.”

“You love him?”

“I love him.”

“But then——how——” stammered Imelda, not knowing how to shape her
question as to how Margaret’s views of marriage would meet those of the
young lover in question.

Margaret smiled. She understood what Imelda would ask.

“_He has not asked me to be his wife._ He does not wish it. He loves me
too well to place me in a bondage, the chains of which might wear my
life away. He would take me as I am, cherish me as something holy, lead
me where I am weak, but teach me to be strong.”

“And you are going to accept this offer? or——probably have accepted it!”
came in broken accents from Imelda’s stiffening lips.

But Margaret slowly shook her head. “I do not know, my dear, I do not
know. Here is where the cobwebs and mists keep everything enshrouded in
such utter darkness that I cannot see. O, that they would either clear
away, that I might see, or that I were daring enough to explore the
darkness and daring enough to take the risks I might incur. But here I
stall. Wilbur understands, and patiently waits. I know he is trustworthy
but I have not the courage.”

“And it is this lover of yours that has been poisoning your soul with
such radical ideas? O, Margaret, beware! you know the old adage men are
deceivers ever, and I would not have my Margaret among the lost.”

Margaret turned and looked at Imelda as if a sudden thought had struck
her. “I will say no more,” she said; “but I would have you know _him_,
my lover. Will you promise to meet me here next Sunday afternoon at two?
I will then take you where you will meet many radicals, and Wilbur
Wallace among the rest. There will be a lecture, the subject being,
‘Modern Radical Reform.’ A very interesting discussion is expected. Will
you come, Imelda?”

Imelda’s sweet dark eyes were filled with a troubled look, but the
searching glance with which she scanned the face of her friend could
detect nothing but the utmost purity and truth.

“I will come,” she said.



                              CHAPTER VI.


Just as the city clocks were striking the hour of two Imelda neared the
seat that the two girls had occupied a few evenings previous. Margaret
was already awaiting her and a bright smile lit up her countenance when
she espied her friend.

“On time, Imelda. I am glad. I feared you might have changed your mind,
as I had not seen you at the store for several days. I thought something
might have happened to prevent your coming, or that possibly I might
have frightened you.”

“Mother has not been feeling well. That explains my absence. As to
changing my mind, I had given you my promise. Do you not know me
sufficiently well by this time to know that I never willingly break it?”

“Forgive me, dear,” said Margaret, as she drew her arm through Imelda’s.
“I did not mean to imply you were fickle-minded, as some girls often
are, but you will admit that our conversation of a few evenings ago
would be a stronger test than most girls would prove equal to. But”
(looking at her watch) “we will have to walk rapidly if we would be on
time. I never like to enter after the meeting has been opened; it always
creates more or less of a disturbance.”

The girls walked briskly to the car, then rode about thirty minutes when
another five minutes walk brought them to their destination. The little
hall was already well filled, and as Margaret led the way up the aisle,
she was greeted with smiles and nods from all sides. It was apparent
that she was well known and it was at once observed that she was
accompanied by a stranger. Many were the admiring glances bestowed upon
the beautiful girl. However, there was not long time for conjecturing
who she might be, as a rap upon the desk soon called the meeting to
order. A tall, dark man of perhaps thirty years had arisen. Imelda
thought she had rarely, if ever, seen such piercing black eyes, which
accompanied by a dark, heavy moustache, gave the speaker a somewhat
fierce appearance, as in a clear, strong voice he began:

“Friends! Comrades! I am highly pleased to see so many here upon this
occasion, when we hope to be able to offer you a by no means common
treat. The lecturer is one well known in radical circles,—a woman who by
her undaunted courage and brilliant intellect has won for herself an
honored name. This is a time when many reforms are discussed and
agitated. Many are openly avowing their faith and belief in this or that
reform, while many more not so daring do not openly join themselves with
radical movements. In their inmost hearts, however, they are with us,
while others again as yet are ‘on the fence,’ their hearts torn with
doubt, their understanding still clouded with the mists of superstition
and prejudice. But as they are more or less earnest seekers of truth,
these mists will clear away and they will be enabled to see things in
their true light. Not much more than ten years ago the word ‘socialism’
evoked from the average man and woman only a smile of contempt. Those
who were pleased to apply that cognomen to themselves were looked upon
as a species of mild lunatic. Anarchy was regarded with a still stronger
aversion (as indeed it yet is). The general impression of this class of
people was that they were lazy, even to filthiness. It was believed by a
great many that the most severe punishment that could be inflicted upon
an anarchist was to condemn him to a bath (laughter.) He was considered
a dangerous individual, as he was supposed to be one who would not
hesitate to knock a fellow workingman down and force him to share his
hard earned wages. It was believed he was ever ready to blow out the
brains of some other individual who happened to be possessed of a little
more than himself of this wicked world’s goods, and was considered at
best a dangerous lunatic. But today? Even our worst enemies are forced
to respect us (applause). We know they fear us. Not in the sense they
once did, but they fear our influence upon the working class, the
so-called bone and sinew of the American nation.

“There are many other reforms. Each and all have their advocates showing
that the people are awakening out of their deep lethargic sleep and are
beginning to think. Not least among these reforms, is the reform in
matters pertaining to sex. The thinking men and women of today no longer
can close their eyes to the fact that the vices and immoralities of the
masses, as well as those of the so-called better classes, are spreading
in a manner truly appalling. But worst of all, and attended by the worst
possible results, is the sex slavery of the married woman. To discuss
these reforms in their varied phases is what of the head. Her figure was
too slight, her face too pale, her features too irregular to lay any
claims to beauty, but as she opened her lips and began calmly to speak
she at once claimed the full attention of her audience. Having arranged
her discourse in a careful manner, it was utterly impossible to
misunderstand her meaning, and as she gradually warmed to her subject
the tired look faded from the large, intelligent gray eyes, her cheeks
became slightly flushed, the fair brows seemed irradiated with a
luminous glory.

Soon Imelda seemed spellbound as she listened to the clear bell-like
voice that conjured up picture after picture before the mind’s eye. The
speaker painted the contrast between the very wealthy and the very poor.
On the one hand rolling and rioting in luxury, on the other wallowing in
filth; the sinful idleness of the one, the lavish toil of the other.

“If you will follow me,” she said, “I will lead you to the homes of
poverty, of toil, of subjection, of vice and of crime, and again to
where the so-called refined elements dwell. Together we will search for
the truth, together lift the veil and seek for the inward cause of the
outward effect.

“In the abode of poverty we find a pale and emaciated woman bending over
her sewing at a late hour of the night. The wintry winds howl and the
has brought us here today. Before doing so, however, we will listen to
the discourse about to be delivered by the able lecturer, Althea Wood. I
now have the pleasure of introducing to you Miss Wood.”

Here the slender, black-robed figure of a woman arose and moved to the
side of the speaker, greeting the assemblage with a slight and graceful
inclination window sashes creak! The fire in the stove has burnt out.
Her fingers stiffen as the hours speed on. Upon a pallet in the corner
lies outstretched the figure of a man. From time to time a low moan
escapes the pallid lips. Beside him lie the forms of two children, pale,
wan and emaciated.

“Why all this? Because in the days of health and strength, when he
received wages that were something more than a mere pittance, confident
that he would always be able to provide for those he loved, this man had
been neglectful of the future. They had lived comfortably and enjoyed
life.

“But by and by, because of over-production in commodities there had come
long months of enforced idleness. Then, because of privation and mental
anxiety this man had fallen a victim to that dread disease, consumption.

“And now, although and because, on every street, magazines of clothing
were overflowing, so that there was scarcely room to store any more,
this poor woman must wearily toil by the midnight lamp to increase the
already superabundant supply of clothing. Although and because the
granaries were filled to bursting, she and hers must go hungry. Although
and because the market is overstocked with coal this poor family must
shiver with cold through the long wintry nights. Although and because
the millionaire and his family cannot find means or ways to spend the
millions wrung from the sweat of the weary toilers, is this
heart-rending suffering of the poor.

“Lightly as we entered we depart from this abode of woe. We try the next
door. This time it is a woman’s form that lies outstretched upon a
miserable pallet. Several small children, scantily clad are playing upon
the bare floor. A young girl stands at the window, looking out at the
fast-falling snow. In her hand she holds on open letter. She is fair to
look upon. Decked with the world’s riches men would rave over her. But
what are the emotions stirring this young heart? Her mother, brothers
and sisters are starving. All her scanty earnings cannot supply the sick
mother the needed medicines and the family with necessary food and
clothing.

“Just one year ago the husband and father had been brought to this then
cheerful home, crushed almost out of the semblance of humanity, by the
accidental falling of timbers carelessly piled by his fellow workman.
‘The firm should be held responsible,’ had been a frequent comment by
those who knew of the occurrence; but the victim was buried, and soon
the matter was forgotten by all except the bereaved family.

“Again it was a case of improvidence; of happy content. The husband and
father had lavished his love and his earnings upon his wife and
children. They had lived and enjoyed life, without thought of a ‘rainy
day,’ and now they were destitute.

“The letter in the girl’s hand shows her a way out. She has but to give
her hand in marriage to their landlord, upon every lineament of whose
face is written ‘hard, hard.’ But he is rich, and if she would barter
her youth and beauty for his hoary head and his money, he would to see
to it that a good doctor should be at once provided for the mother and
also that the wants of the little ones should be cared for. If no—they
owed him six months rent, and on the morrow they would be forced to seek
another roof to cover their heads and bodies from the wintry weather.
And thus the cold, hard alternative was presented to this inexperienced
girl, this rosebud just opening to the sunshine of life, with its dreams
of love and happiness—the cold hard alternative of sacrificing herself
in a loveless marriage or of seeing her sick mother and young sisters
and brothers turned out into the pitiless storm. Stern poverty bade her
smother her dream of conjugal bliss on the altar of duty to mother,
sisters and brothers.

“Another picture: Again sickness in the abode of poverty. One beautiful
sister bending over the dying form of another,—dying for want of care,
want of medicine, want of food. A high fever is racking the prostrate
form and the despairing sister knows that if the sufferer does not soon
receive the needed relief she will be beyond its need. No work—and if
she had work she could not leave the sick one, as there is no one else
to care for her. Where to get the money to bring relief—aye, to save
life!—is the question staring her in the face, awaiting answer.

“There is a way by which the money may be procured, and there is a pain
in the look of the well sister that far exceeds that on the features of
the unconscious sufferer. It marks every line of the fair face; it
settles deep about the compressed lips.

“As the night shadows deepen she grasps a light wrap and throws it over
her head. She bends, kisses the burning lips with her own icy ones and
with a gasping sigh goes forth into the chill dark night. Not far does
she go till she leans against a lamp post, as if for support. The wind
blows her scanty skirts about her but she does not heed. The minutes
pass by until a half hour has sped, when a man comes along, walking with
a rapid step. He is buttoned up to his chin in a great fur-lined
overcoat. As he nears her she holds out one cold, stiffening hand, as if
asking for charity, but no sound passes her lips. He stops and looks at
her. She sees he is young, but the look in his eye makes her flesh
creep. She flings the covering from her head, showing a face of
exquisite beauty. The act has caused all her wealth of glossy raven hair
to fall over her shoulders.

“Ah! she was an exquisite tempting morsel, but what mattered it for her!
She was but the child of poverty. When she returned to the bedside of
the sick sister, an hour later, there was an unnatural light in the dark
eye, a hectic flush on the otherwise pale face. But the trembling hands
held _gold_; she could now procure the sorely needed help for the
sufferer.

“And why is all this? Because of man-made laws; because of ‘tyranny of
the dead;’ because of the dictates of society; because of the iron rules
of state and church; because of helpless poverty in chains of submission
to accursed monopoly.



                              CHAPTER VII.


“Now walk with me a few blocks onward. A different portion of the city
is reached. Here are carriages filled with ladies dressed in velvets and
furs. Their dainty persons adorned with flashing jewels. They throng the
operas, concerts, reception rooms, while faultlessly attired swains hang
upon their every word. Their life is one round of seeming pleasure.
Daily and nightly emotions, aspirations, good and true and pure, are
recklessly trodden under foot. Fair hands are sold while hearts are
crushed. The highest bidder is sure to win the stake. They take the
yellow gold their fair bodies have bought them and with it deck the
casket whose contents are one mass of corruption. The smiling lips hide
the starving aching heart.

“And whence comes the gold for which this daily barter of souls take
place? Coined from the life blood of the poor. Every cup of the
intoxicating wine of life they lift to their lips is seasoned with the
sweat, the life blood of the toiling masses. Sighs are woven into the
glittering meshes of their silken robes. Crystallized tears are the
pearls the seamstress has sewn into the glittering folds as she plied
her needle in the dead of night.

“And the fawning swains? The lady whose dower is the most golden is the
favored one. The oily tongues daily, hourly, fabricate the smooth
falsehoods. They swear love eternal, and for the time being make martyrs
of themselves to worship at the golden shrine. What matters it that he
has led a life that would lay low the silver head of a fond mother; a
life that would paralyze a proud and loving sister’s heart; that would
blanch the confiding maiden’s cheek,—could they but know. But they do
not know, and so the sensualist transmits the germ of poison and disease
to the coming generation.

“Women accept such moral and physical wrecks of humanity, with hollow
skulls added to their other numerous imperfections, and in nine cases
out of ten the women are just as shallow brained as the men they accept.
While the man of fashion is seen at the gambling table, at the
racecourse and in the drinking saloons, flirting with gaudily dressed
girls, the woman of fashion discusses the latest style of party dress,
counting on her finger-tips how many masculine hearts have been laid at
her feet, and, in order to kill time, pores over the latest novel.

“And from this seed, sown in such reckless fashion, the coming
generations are to grow. What is to furnish genius to those unborn
generations? Whence is to come the soulful man and woman? How is purity
to thrive in an atmosphere of poison and corruption?

“When we enter the realm of the law and look into the records of crime,
we find the account simply appalling. When we read the number of
divorces granted, and the vaster number applied for and not granted, we
wonder whether there are any left who still honestly advocate wedlock.
Read the pleas upon which those divorces have been granted and they will
show you that so long as loveless marriages are entered into, so long as
men and women are mismated, just so long will the marriage bond mean a
galling bondage; and so long as such marriages are entered into and
children begotten from them; so long as the prospective mother sees in
the coming child only an added burden; so long as this child is
undesigned and undesired; and so long as the gestating mother suffers
for and craves what are impossibilities to her, just so long will there
be crimes and records of crimes; just so long will prisons be filled
with criminals.

“What is the most numerous of the reasons that form the pleas for
divorce? ‘Illicit love’! In spite of all laws; in spite of the iron hand
of custom, in spite of the trampling underfoot of all the tender
passions known to the human heart, that heart demands and will have its
rights. What matters it if society has cased it in outward fetters that
are supposed to confine it to prescribed limits. When nature demands its
rights this casing becomes too small; the fetters too weak to bind. The
frail, weak human heart expands and swells until its bonds burst and
like a caged bird regaining its freedom, the heart seeks its mate in the
free wild wood to follow nature’s law. The divine law of freedom is
written deep within the human heart. No matter how deeply it is
encrusted under the ice of mercenary motives; no matter how firmly
clutched by social custom, when love comes knocking for admittance all,
everything, must give way before his all-conquering power. Bar and
double bar the doors, but ‘Love still laughs at locksmiths,’ and ‘Love
will find a way where wolves fear to prey.’

“O, Love! love! love! How thy holy, thy soul-redeeming power has been
defamed! Unholy passion, that burns and sears with vice the hearts of
men, has oft been mistaken for that holy flame. Love, sacred love will
elevate, will cleanse from all impurities, will awake ambition, will be
an incentive to noble deeds, to a noble life. But passion alone
enervates, disgusts, wears out both body and soul; it drags down its
votaries to groveling depths.

“But how seldom do mothers teach their children the difference between
the two? The smiling mother gives her innocent daughter to a hoary head
and a seared heart if there is but a golden covering to them. A
‘splendid match’—from a worldly view—is all that is needed. But the
sequel too often shows how splendid the match has been. Only when the
heart is still in death does it no longer throb with pain and sickening
dread at the touch of him who should have thrilled her whole being with
exquisite happiness. How many are able to read aright the story in the
still white face?

“Go visit the homes of the dead and see there the number of graves that
entomb the forms of youthful wives and mothers. Go enter the abodes of
the insane and count the rows of staring eyes proclaiming a living
death,—all caused by the barter of sex life. Go through the length and
breadth of the land and see the signs of heart-break; the pitiful misery
that is the lot of mankind, and all caused by ‘Man’s inhumanity to man,’
and especially man’s inhumanity to woman.

“Go where you will, into lordly mansions of the rich, into the hovels of
the lowly poor, and see the subjection of woman unto man. He rides
roughshod over her most sacred and tender ideals. Every hope in the once
bounding heart has been crushed. Her fate is to please her ‘lord and
master,’—to keep _his_ home for _him_; to entertain _his_ guests; to
bear _his_ children; to rear them for _him_ to dispose of as _he_ may
see fit—thus forcing her to bring into the world a race of slaves, a
race degenerated by having implanted in the heart of the unborn child
all the evil passions that naturally rankle in the breast of woman so
enslaved and outraged.

“The soul is unthought of in this reproduction, which merely takes place
to satisfy the animal in man. The desire, the inclinations of the
mother, are not considered. To cater to the passions of man, to be the
mother of undesired children is her _natural_ sphere in life. She must
thank God that she has been selected thus to be the instrument to
perpetuate the race. Home, sweet home, has been sung until it echoes and
re-echoes throughout the land, but to millions of women it has been
simply a prison, a hellish prison.

“The church, ‘the man of God,’ its instrument, stands upon one side. On
the other side stands the state. In case the church is not strong enough
to control woman, the state holds up to her aching eyes the terrors of
the ‘law of the land.’

“Oh, the path of woman is a straight and narrow one! Woe unto her if she
dares to depart therefrom. And yet you wonder how it is that criminals
throng the land; that there are so many that will not respect the rights
of others. Did anyone ever respect any rights of the mother that bore
them? Why; she _had_ no rights! Then how could any one respect them?
Bound by man-made law and church superstition from her infancy her fate
is linked fast with that of the working class. She and they must alike
be kept in subjection.

“O, workingmen, O ye toilers, ye producers! O womankind! mothers of
coming generations, awake, arise, and hand in hand, break the bonds that
enthrall you, that enslave you, body and soul. Refuse to longer be any
man’s slave. Assert your rights. Clamor for your freedom, and rest not
until you have obtained it.

“It is impossible that in squalor and filth, purity should be gestated.
Assert your freedom, O women! Demand it, clamor for it, fight for it!
Never for one moment cease to struggle for it. Be united in your
efforts, hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, and the day is sure to come
when victory shall be yours.”

“I am afraid,” the speaker went on,—“I am afraid I have been telling you
more of the evils that need reform than of the methods of securing that
reform; and, while I am radical in the extreme, yet I condemn not one
single method or idea that may help to bring about one single reform, be
it ever so small. ‘Rome was not built in a day,’ and the world will not
be reformed in a day, or a week, or a month, or a year. But as the days
and weeks and months and years speed by, each reform will furnish its
aid in bringing about the much desired result. Everyone who is working
for reform, or in other words, working for humanity’s best welfare, no
matter in what line it may be, is doing his or her share of the work,
and will doubtless receive the full credit that is due them. Only this I
would add, while everyone is riding his or her own hobby, I would look
beneath this mass of corruption and unearth the underlying cause. To lay
the ax to the root is what must be done in order to fell the giant, and
to be able to do this we want freedom, _freedom, freedom_! No more laws
to bind our thoughts and shackle our hands. We want to be free, to let
the hearts within our bosoms beat as they will; free to follow the
dictates of our normal desires; free to extricate ourselves from the old
and customary when we recognize it as evil; free to let our souls soar
into the regions above the clouds; free to enter the upper chambers of
the mind; free to tear down the structure of rottenness that enables the
few to drain the life blood of the millions and to coin it into shining
gold wherewith to perpetuate their power. Free to use our own
inheritance, the grand gifts of nature.

“O thou glorious, O thou great, grand, redeeming ‘Liberty’! Thou shalt
yet wave over this beautiful world the banner of holy brotherly love!
Thou shalt yet secure to us this much needed freedom. Thou shalt yet see
its fruits in the coming generation of a new-born people,—when poverty,
hunger and misery will be unknown! When crime will be a forgotten word;
when the rule of the church, like that of the state, will be a thing no
longer remembered; when prisons will be swept from the face of the
earth; when justice, glory-crowned, at the right shall stand; when
charity no longer has a place, since her vocation shall be ended; when
the awaiting of unborn humanity will be regarded the coming of a joyous
event, and when disease shall have succumbed to the master hand of
science, death no longer a dreaded monster, but a friend that comes only
as a result of nature, to claim those that have lived their glorious
life to the end, and who fain would resign that hold upon it in exchange
for the peaceful rest that follows the well-performed labor of the day.

“O, friends and comrades! to hasten that day I ask you to join the band
that but yesterday was small indeed, but which today has swelled to such
size as to alarm those that would place their feet upon your necks, and
which will continue to swell more rapidly day by day until the
down-trodden will arise as one man to demand their natural birth right.”

With glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes the speaker took her seat amid
deafening applause.



                             CHAPTER VIII.


A long drawn sigh flattered from the trembling lips of Imelda while
Margaret’s face glowed with excitement equaled only by that of the
speaker. When the excitement which followed had abated somewhat, the
presiding officer rose and again his strong, clear, but pleasant, voice
was heard. Almost instantly the profoundest quiet reigned. His handsome
face had caught something of the general excitement and he carelessly
threw back the black locks that clustered about the open brow.

“Friends and comrades,” said he. “You have listened to the discourse of
a noble woman, on a most important subject. A noble woman, because she
dares to assert her womanhood; dares to assert the _I_. She dares to fly
in the face of custom, in the face of power. She dares to point out
where evils lie hidden. Dares to show you where the curse of poverty
stalks; where its birth place is, side by side with that of vice and
crime. She has pointed out glorious possibilities for those who may dare
in the present to provide a way to secure the rightful inheritance of
the many. And to judge by the applause you have accorded to her you have
rightly understood and justly appreciated her. But notwithstanding this
appreciation we know that not all our friends agree with our lecturer,
and so, in accord with our custom we will now hear what others have to
say. We invite you, one and all, to take part in this debate, and let us
know what your views are. ‘Free discussion’ is our motto at these
meetings.—”

The chairman resumed his seat and an expectant hush fell upon the
assemblage. One, two minutes passed; then arose a gentleman upon whom
the snows of many winters had fallen, to judge by hair and beard, but
whose general appearance otherwise did not show old age. His
business-like, “Mr. Chairman,” had a pleasant sound, while general
attention was now directed toward him.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “courtesy would at any time demand of
me that I treat ladies with the greatest respect, yet the lady who today
has entertained us, and who has given us the benefit of her intelligence
and knowledge of humanity, has not told us all the causes of the
trouble. I must pay her the compliment to say that she understands how
to handle her subject. I too have observed many instances of despairing
young girls who sacrifice themselves by selling themselves for life, or
for an hour, in order to obtain the means wherewith to make brighter the
declining pathway of some loved one. I have known cases wherein the
betrayed, outraged maiden had given her trusting love in vain, and was
then driven to seek an untimely grave. In the homes of the wealthy it is
a well known fact that love seldom enters. With environments which ought
to bless the unborn generations decay and degeneracy is even more marked
than among the poorer classes, since among the latter love does often
take by the hand the maiden and lover to join them together, and, for a
while at least, hovers over the pair. Often one child, and sometimes
more, is the result of loving union. But where only sordid gain is the
object of marriage the fruits must of necessity be of an inferior order.
To my mind, this evil, this marriage evil, is the worst of all evils.
Instead of the home being the birth place and cradle of love and truth
and peace, it is the hot-bed, the breeding place of vice. The unwelcome
child incarnates the germs of disease, of vice and crime. The
dissatisfied mother implants in her offspring abnormal desires and
passions because her own desires have been dwarfed and disregarded. Thus
the enslaved mother sows the seeds of tyranny in her child. It matters
not if such a home be one of plenty or want. One breeds the roue, the
other the criminal of the future. I only wish to state here that so long
as the people bow to an ‘unknown God’; a God who is supposed to rule
somewhere up among the stars, in a place called heaven; a God who will
punish those who have been truer to nature than to the impossible
teachings of the church, by burning them in everlasting fire, and so
long as the people sustain a state or government that holds them in
bondage; a state to which they must pay tribute for every privilege they
enjoy, even unto the privilege of choosing a mate; so long as the
credulous people pay tribute to the parasites called politicians who
fasten themselves wherever they can find a foothold, just so long must
we continue to endure the evils portrayed by the last speaker. So long
as labor is a slave to capital, so long as the workingman is but an
irresponsible part of the machinery that produces wealth for the few,
just so long will woman be a slave to man, and just so long will
children be a curse instead of a blessing, and just so long will crime
and disease stalk abroad. The workingman must first strike for and gain
his freedom. Then the emancipation of woman will follow. I have nothing
farther to say.”

Amid appreciative applause the man of many winters resumed his seat.
Next arose a man with snapping black eyes and jetty hair who with
cutting sarcasm dissected the lecture, telling his hearers that in
ninety-nine cases out of a hundred all the poverty, the ill-luck, was
due to the man or woman’s own fault. “The working people,” said he, “as
a class, are lazy; they are extravagant; they are vicious. They would
rather spend their leisure time in saloons, swilling beer and poor
whiskey, and in playing cards, than with their families at home; they
would rather lounge and loaf upon street corners than do an honest day’s
work; they would rather follow a course that would lead them to steal,
and even murder, and thereby get them into the penitentiary where they
would be only too well treated. If it were not for the church who with
her gentle and peace-diffusing influence keeps the working classes in a
measure content, and under control, there would be no telling to what
deeds of outrage the ignorant, licentious masses of people would go.
Take away the influence of religion and what would be the result?
Without fear of a god or devil, like a brutal horde of wild beasts with
nothing to restrain them, they would fall to murdering and plundering
everything and everyone that stood in their way, regardless of
consequences, just so they could satisfy their ungovernable appetites.”

The only thing this man could think of that could be done was to make
more laws; laws more stringent and binding. Then enforce them to the
letter.

“We speak of loose morals,” said he. “Could there be anything more loose
than the ideas of marriage that are fast becoming popular? There are
almost as many divorces petitioned for and granted as marriages entered
into. Divorces are too easily obtained. The laws are too lax. If such
were not the case people would be more careful in entering the holy
portals of marriage. But there are so few that any longer consider
marriage as something holy that it is becoming a menace to the country.
Again I ask for more laws. Let them be stringent and let them be rigidly
enforced. Let those that are forming such contracts and entering into
the bonds of marriage, understand that it is for life, that there is no
escaping the consequences, and then people will get along better.”



                              CHAPTER IX.


There was not much applause this time, when the speaker resumed his
seat. Some few laughed, but here and there, as you cast your eye over
the audience, you could see compressed lips and flushed cheeks. But as
the platform was a free one, where everyone was invited to freely speak
his convictions, no one attempted to interrupt the speaker, although
many felt the hot blood of indignation mount to their cheeks.

Almost immediately upon his resuming his seat a woman rose, and, upon
addressing the chairman, had the right to speak accorded her. A woman
probably forty years of age, but looking nearer thirty. A woman who in
her youth might have been handsome and who was yet passably fair. Of
figure she was tall and well developed. The light brown hair was combed
back so as to leave the low brow free and uncovered. The blue eyes were
sparkling with a light that was not caused by a sense of pleasure. The
finely curved lips were quivering with suppressed emotions as she
fearlessly walked forward and faced the audience.

“Friends! Comrades!” she began, with a voice both clear and strong. “It
is not often that I feel myself called upon to make any remarks at these
meetings. My sentiments generally are so clearly expressed and so well
defended by those who are better able to treat the subjects that as a
rule are under discussion here, that I find more pleasure and benefit in
listening to others than in taking part in discussion. But this
afternoon I feel impelled to make a few remarks, hoping that you will
bear with me if I am not able to express myself quite as concisely and
correctly as I might wish. I do not wish to find fault with our lecturer
in regard to what she has said, but—if it could be called a fault—with
what she did not say. Although she has painted you pictures most dismal
and saddening I can assure you the half, nay, the one tenth has not been
told. Methinks there are some things that she has too lightly touched
upon, and which our friend, Mr. Roland, has somewhat more plainly
pictured. The ‘looseness’ that Mr. Warden so much deplores in divorce
laws does not exist. In fact these laws are so stringent as to place the
possibility of obtaining a divorce beyond the reach of the poor. Divorce
laws, like all other laws, are for the special benefit of the moneyed
class. They can avail themselves of divorce if they see fit, and that
they do see fit rather often is quite evident. And for once I must give
the privileged class credit for something. Notwithstanding Mr. Warden’s
lament that divorces are so easily obtained I claim there is nothing
more difficult. The most excruciating torture that it is possible to
inflict upon a sensitive and refined woman is to drag her into our
modern courtroom and subject her to the quizzing process of shameless
lawyers, who ply her with numberless questions that cut to the quick the
sensitive heart and lacerate it as though some diabolical machine filled
with knives of all shapes and sizes were making mince-meat of it. These
lawyers luxuriate in cruelly delving in these wounded and bleeding
hearts so that it takes a woman of tremendous courage to willingly
undergo this dissecting operation, and therefore comparatively few seek
the redress of the law. It drags forth, into a foul atmosphere, the most
sacred treasures, and defiles them with the vileness that so often is
found in the precincts of the law. It hurls a woman from her pinnacle of
respected womanhood into the depths of disgrace. It prohibits her from
the companionship of the good and pure. It ostracises her from what is
called ‘good society,’ it points the finger of scorn at the child that
calls her ‘mother.’ If that child be a boy there is a chance for it to
win its way in the world, but if it be a girl then hard will it be for
her to gain a foothold upon the steep and rugged pathway she will have
to climb.

“How can a sensitive, womanly woman desire to confront a room filled
with coarse, unsympathizing men and relate to them the stories of her
woe? How can she tell of tears shed in the dead of night; of how her
sacred womanhood has been abused; of how her outraged person is forced
to submit to his loathsome touch? Broken down, suffering from
oft-repeated child-bearing, tired unto death with her manifold duties,
sick in soul as well as in body, I say how can she tell all this, with
all those strange leering faces about her? She would rather go on
suffering until death comes to her release, or perhaps her overburdened
brain gives way, while the world wonders: ‘What could have been the
reason? She had such a good, industrious, sober husband, who has always
so handsomely provided for her every want, and such a nice large family
of children growing up around her. How could she have been else than
happy?’

“They really cannot understand what could have caused her brain to give
way. Aside from this, not everywhere is it possible to obtain a divorce
for such reasons as I have just mentioned. In some states if she is not
treated to blows, neglected with her children to such an extent that
cruel want speaks from the hollow eyes and sunken cheeks, she will be
told she has no just cause for complaint, and should go home
submissively to her liege lord and master, thankful for the home
provided for her, and should bow her head in humility to the great and
all-wise God who has made all things well.

“O, it is a noble sphere that has been marked out for woman—marked for
her by her owner, her lord, her master! Why cannot she be content, why
cannot she be satisfied? Aye, satisfied! O, if she could only be aroused
to universal dissatisfaction, there would be hope for her emancipation
in the near future.

“Our friend, Mr. Roland, has made the remark that in order to free
woman, man, the workingman, must first be freed,—the economic conditions
must first undergo a universal change. Then why, in freedom’s name, is
woman’s cause not more frequently urged as an argument to that end? O,
that woman herself would only awake to a sense of her condition! O,
sisters, awake! Hasten the advent of the coming day that proclaims your
freedom from the tyranny of man, by aiding him to obtain the rights that
are justly his. Lend your aid in freeing man from the thralldom of state
and monopoly, and ever bear in mind that the same blow which shatters
your brother’s fetters will also free you. That which insures his
freedom and independence will do the same for you. For when the day
comes in which justice reigns, she can no longer stand with blindfolded
eyes while woman’s life is fettered.”

As the speaker ceased, and the applause burst forth, Imelda bent her
head near Margaret, whose cheeks glowed like twin roses.

“Who is she?” she asked, and Margaret in answer whispered:

“My mother!”



                               CHAPTER X.


For an instant Imelda was startled. She had never seen Mrs. Leland and
had pictured to herself a different woman; but as she looked again she
could see the likeness between mother and daughter, and there crept into
her heart a thought of her own mother, and she contrasted the weary,
fretful, listless woman with this mother of her friend, who, after the
life of trials and sorrows that had been hers, had arisen in such
splendid self-confidence; who had burst the chains that bound her; who
now dared to hurl such scathing truths, like firebrands into a magazine
of powder, as it were, ready to stand by the result the explosion must
bring forth. She began to understand the source whence her young friend
received her strength of character.

Mrs. Leland’s words, even more than those of the lecturer, burned into
her heart as her thoughts wandered to her almost worshiped father, now
sleeping under the ground. Over her tortured heart crept a fear that
possibly even he had not been to that fretful, oft-times unjust mother,
all that he might have been. There might have been pitfalls carefully
hidden from her sight—for her mother never made a confidante of her
child. But she knew of the inharmonious life that had been theirs. She
could not remember ever having caught sight of the holy flame of love
between them. And yet—the babes had come. She knew the mother had not
desired them. She felt dazed. Her head swam, as these thoughts coursed
through it in much less time than it takes to trace them here.

But again someone was speaking, and again the horrors of married life
were pictured. How woman is sold! Woman has no outlet for her
overcharged feelings save in tempestuous temper and tears. Generally, in
time, the temper is subdued and the tears alone remain, and the world
wonders why woman so soon loses her attractive powers; why the sparkling
girl overflowing with magnetism turns so soon into the pale, weary,
hollow-eyed woman who finds life’s happiness turned to Dead Sea fruit
upon her lips.

As Imelda listened she felt as though a cold hand were clutching at her
throat. The world seemed slipping from beneath her feet. Then another
rose and in his turn spoke of the holiness of marriage, of the holiness
of the church, of the holiness of the state. Like hollow mockery the
words echoed and re-echoed in Imelda’s ears. What could be holy now
after she had seen the evil withdrawn and the sickening truth exposed to
view. Like one in a dream she listened and wondered that any one could
still be sincere in uttering such words as in all good faith this man
seemed to speak. It seemed as if, all in a moment, where had heretofore
appeared rose-strewn paths, she now saw only pitfalls whose yawning
depths were ready to engulf those who foolishly set their feet upon the
treacherous edge. Still, as in a daze, she realized that the speaker was
done, that once more Althea Wood was speaking. The clear, sweet voice
resounded through the room.

“My friends,” she said, “it would be indeed difficult to express the
pleasure I have felt listening to the discussion this afternoon. Nor can
I express how thankful I am that my cause has been so warmly championed,
notwithstanding the efforts of those who cannot as yet see this question
in the new light in which it is viewed by many of you. I agree with
those of my friends who claim that this vexed question does not receive
the attention that it deserves. It is sad and pitiful, but true, that
the average man and woman are so unwilling to hear this subject
discussed that it requires a great effort to speak of it. They may be
willing to pick up a book that treats on this subject, and, screened in
the seclusion of a private room, try to digest the writer’s ideas, but
under the fire of other eyes to hear from the lecturer’s lips these
tabooed subjects is quite another thing. So long, however, as sex is
considered impure, something for which the human race should blush, just
so long will it be not only a difficult but painful subject for
lecturers to discuss. The consciousness that we would probably be
misunderstood is unpleasant.

“O, that I might live to see the hour when this beautiful earth shall be
freed from the crushing fetters of custom; from the deadly poison of
superstition and prejudice; from the grinding heel of monopoly,—to see a
race of men and women enlightened, liberated, self-reliant, free. Not an
enforced freedom, keeping them ever on their guard, fearing the lurking
enemy in the entrenchments, back of the bulwarks of authority and the
fortifications of avarice and low desires. No! the time for such
hypocrisy will then have vanished. We shall then hail the time when a
race of freemen shall exist because of the universal demand for and
recognition of it. The race will have become purified in the fires of
truth, love and justice. When it shall have risen to the height where it
will have attained the full knowledge of its worth; where and when it
shall have demanded its rightful birthright, the right to own itself;
the right to the product of its toil; the right to recognize truth
wherever it is found.

“Just so soon as you make that demand, earnestly and sincerely, your
right will have come to you. Begin with recognizing the great truth that
you are an individual, that you are rightfully sole owner of your own
mind, of your own brain capacity. Let no outside influence enthrall you;
break your chains, set your mind at liberty, and it will soon work out
the salvation of the body. When once you can see that there are fetters
the desire to break them will come; the effort to break them will follow
the desire.

“Before I close I will say to my Christian critics that if there were
not so many laws there would not be so much of the ignorance of which
they now complain. Laws and customs keep the masses in the old ruts,
destroying the strength wherewith they otherwise could elevate
themselves to nobler heights. To the everlasting disgrace of the church
it must be said that its influence keeps the deluded masses in their
benumbed condition, content to spend their miserable lives in abject
slavery. Pitiable is the fact, but cruelly true, that many of them
desire nothing more ennobling than to seek oblivion of their troubles in
the depths of the intoxicating bowl.

“But Freethought is not the cause of this desire. Her mission is to
break the fetters that bind man’s mind; to sweep away the cobwebs and
mists of superstition; to slay the tyrant prejudice that bars the
entrance to the new and the true.

“When the truths of science shall have been mastered by the law-ridden
and priest-ridden people, when they shall have obtained the right to own
themselves, then with the disappearance of ignorance will also disappear
vice and crime. My heart aches at sight of this poor, deluded, cheated
people, daily robbed more and more by laws that were made for none but
slaves to obey. The rich man makes them and of course never expects to
come in contact with them otherwise than to inflict them upon those who
produce his wealth. Love needs no fetters. Nothing binds human hearts
but Love.

“So, once again I urge you to awake; to come to a realization of your
own thralldom, and then in turn to help others to awake to a
consciousness of this yoke of slavery borne by you all. Then the world
will move onward; will move rapidly toward that millennium that is to be
the realization of evoluted humanity.”



                              CHAPTER XI.


As the meeting was dismissed, all in a moment the earnest truth-seekers
were transformed into a social assemblage. Hearty handshaking abounded
and equally hearty laughter was heard upon all sides. For several
minutes it seemed to Imelda that she had been forgotten by her friend
who had been joined by the chairman of the afternoon, but she had more
than enough to occupy her mind in observing the scene before her, and
reviewing the two hours she had just passed through. Many and
conflicting were her emotions. Every word, almost, that had been spoken
had sunk deep into her heart and she again experienced all the
sensations of surprise and indignation she had felt, the mere memory of
which almost caused her heart to stand still and chill the blood in her
veins. Never in all the years of her young life had she dreamed of such
dark depths of hopeless woe.

Just then a hand lightly touched her arm and she heard Margaret’s sweet
voice:

“Imelda, my dear friend, permit me to introduce to you another friend,
Mr. Wallace.”

Imelda suddenly found herself confronted by the chairman of the meeting.
The interruption was opportune, as it recalled her to herself. Wilbur
Wallace’s darkly bronzed face was all aglow. A happy light shone from
the dark eyes and the clear strong voice had a ring in it that could
have been caused only by something very pleasant. The next moment
Imelda’s hand was folded in his strong clasp while the words: “I
consider myself fortunate in meeting Miss Ellwood here this afternoon,”
most pleasantly struck her ear, and he continued: “I very much hope that
the pleasure may be often renewed.” Imelda felt the icy clutch slowly
being removed that had been holding her enthralled; a more life-like
smile lit up her face as she replied:

“The pleasure will be mutual, I assure you.”

“Then we may hope to see you here again?”

“Why not?” she asked. “I have heard much this afternoon which, although
not pleasant in itself, was both new and interesting, and I have no
doubt I shall be able to learn much here which would be impossible for
me to learn elsewhere. While the facts, as they have been shown here
today, are almost impossible to believe, yet if true, it is time I knew
something about them. But I cannot see the remedy; how do you propose to
alleviate, or rather to banish such evils?”

Imelda’s dark eyes looked questioningly into the now serious face of
Wilbur Wallace, whose answer promptly came.

“The solution of that problem will, no doubt, be the work of future
years, albeit much can at the present time, and also in the near future,
be done to make the way clear. ‘Making the way clear’ is what we trying
to do. This is a meeting place for thinkers—free thinkers, all of them,
and no matter what their ideas of God, of the church, may be, they all
have come to the conclusion that there is something wrong somewhere, and
that church and state bear a large share of the blame, is plainly to be
seen. The so-greatly despised ‘anarchist’ is, I think, more largely
represented than others.” There was a quick uplifting of the brow of the
young girl at the mention of the word ‘anarchist.’

“I do not understand,” she said. “The colors wherewith I have seen the
name painted are not very attractive. If I have had a mistaken
impression I would like to have my error corrected.” At this moment the
old gentleman, Mr. Roland, accompanied by Miss Wood, stepped up to the
little group.

“What matter of importance is being discussed here with so much
interest?” broke in his pleasant voice. “I must confess to a desire to
join with you, but first permit me.” Here followed the necessary
introductions, then Wilbur Wallace spoke.

“Miss Ellwood being a stranger to our circle, is also a stranger to the
ideas usually discussed here. Consequently she finds them not unmixed
with a certain amount of gruesomeness.”

“And what particular idea, or object, or fact, is it that fills you thus
with unpleasant feelings?” asked Mr. Roland of Imelda.

“I think almost everything that I have heard spoken of here today. If
all I have heard here today be true, every young girl would be justified
in shrinking from marriage as she would from the brink of a dark abyss.”

“That is well expressed,” said Miss Wood; “and if we could but impress
that idea upon the mind of every woman there would soon be a new state
of affairs. When woman learns the true worth of herself she will insist
on the right to dispose of herself as she will see fit, and not as she
is commanded to do by the arbitrary laws of a society that is man-made.”

For a few moments Imelda was lost in thought, then her dark eyes flashed
upward.

“I understand that if woman could be successful she would be able to
enjoy a glorious freedom. But would not this very freedom have some very
undesirable results? Undesirable as a large family of children may be to
the majority of women, as it most inevitably dooms them to a life of
drudgery, yet under circumstances of unlimited freedom, such as you
advocate, how long would it be until the race would begin to dwindle
away? For many women, as I know them, would prefer not to be mothers at
all, and very few of them would wish for a large family. We all know
that the life of the infant is but a tender plant that sometimes does
not long survive the hour of its birth. Do you think such a state of
things would be desirable?”

“My dear Miss Ellwood,” Mr. Roland replied, “the idea of the extinction
of the race would indeed not be pleasant to contemplate, but the perfect
freedom of woman would naturally overcome the very dangers you fear. The
desired and gladly welcomed child will of necessity be superior to that
which is undesired and unwelcome. When a prospective mother is filled
with thoughts of that coming event she lives during that period only for
the well being of that mite of humanity. She will seek to observe, to
study, the laws of nature to their fullest extent, and being in the
possession of sexual freedom will soon learn to understand these
glorious laws. So children will be born into the world in a more normal
and healthy state than is now the case, and the result will be fewer
little graves. Then again woman will develop mentally and she will
bestow upon her unborn babe a legacy of brain power that at present,
under our corrupt social system, is an utter impossibility. So even
though there would not be so many undesired unfortunate beings called
into life the quality would be so vastly superior that the loss in
quantity would be anything but loss,—rather gain.”

“I agree with you,” Imelda said, “but here the question arises, How will
woman be enabled to gain this freedom that is to bring about so many
desirable results?”

Young Wallace made answer:

“Woman’s awakening to the consciousness that it is needful will be the
cornerstone upon which her freedom will be built, but she will need the
help and support of outward influence. So long as man is the slave of
‘the almighty dollar,’ so long will woman be the slave of man, because
in the present state of society she is dependent on man for her
maintenance. The economic battle goes hand in hand with that for woman’s
rights. Man needs woman’s aid in this battle for the rights of humanity,
and the blow that shatters the shackles of wage-slavery will also break
the chains that hold her sex in bondage. When the race becomes free her
battle will have been won, and she can begin to build up a new and
glorious race.”

Wallace’s eyes glowed as the enthusiasm wherewith he had spoken sent the
blood bounding through his veins. Imelda saw that Margaret’s eyes rested
with something more than mere admiration on his darkly handsome face.
All in an instant she understood—“Margaret’s love.” It shone in the
depths of her deep blue eyes, it trembled upon the sweet, dewy lips, it
burned in the glow of her cheek.

Imelda’s eyes reverted again to the face of the young man with renewed
interest; but her searching glance could detect nothing to his
discredit. It was a frank, open, manly countenance wherein she gazed, a
face women would involuntarily trust and little children love.

“At the same time,” now spoke Miss Wood, “you will permit us to begin to
exercise just a little of that freedom now. We will begin at home with
our individual selves and proclaim that no man shall ever say to us,
‘Thou shalt,’ or ‘Thou shalt not.’ How is it Miss Ellwood and Miss
Leland?”

The question was put rather laughingly and banteringly, as she turned
first to one, then the other of the two girls. Imelda had no answer but
a heightened color, but Margaret held out her hand which Miss Wood
readily clasped.

“I am with you,” she said. “I intend to win my lover’s love and hold it
too, but I will never buy it at the price of my freedom.”

“Bravo!” came simultaneously from the lips of the gentlemen, while the
hand of the elder gently patted her shoulder.

“That is what I call making remarkably free with my daughter. She
belongs to me and I object,” and the pleasant face of Mrs. Leland became
visible in close proximity to her daughter and Mr. Roland. Margaret’s
laugh rang out in sweetest music.

“Now! now! Mamma, you know better than that. If I am your daughter, I am
not your property. Don’t you know if I find pleasure in feeling Mr.
Roland’s hand on my shoulder—why—you have nothing to say.” This last was
said in so saucy a manner that it caused a general laugh, which having
subsided, she with sudden recollection added:

“Pardon me. I almost forgot, mamma,—this is the very dear friend I have
so often told you about,—Imelda Ellwood.” Mrs. Leland’s eyes rested for
a moment searchingly upon the face of the young girl; then, satisfied
with what she saw there, clasped both hands in hers and in a few words
caused her to feel quite at her ease. Then seating herself, she said:

“Proceed now. I know that I have broken into the midst of something very
interesting.”

“Only a continuation of our discussion,” replied Mr. Roland. “We have
been considering the rights of women in particular, and those of
humanity in general. The reason in this case is, to convince a beautiful
woman and win her as a convert,” bowing to Imelda, “which I hope is
justification in this case for becoming eloquent. I can assure you that
you have missed something, Mrs. Leland.”

“Well, if such is the case, I am sorry, but who is the convert that is
to be? You, Miss Ellwood?” looking inquiringly into Imelda’s face.

“Just so,” she answered, “and if I can gain a clearer insight into
things, the efforts of my friends may prove successful. But I must
remark that I seem to have gotten into a very pronounced set of
radicals.”

“Are you frightened?” asked Wilbur Wallace with a laugh, in which the
rest joined.

“Not in the least,” she retorted, “although the term ‘radical’ always
left the impression on my mind of something of a rather wild character.
But really, if what I have seen of them this afternoon are fair
specimens, they are a very well behaved species.”

A general laugh followed. Mr. Roland pronounced it almost six o’clock
and time to disperse. As a parting admonition Miss Wood turned to
Imelda.

“You seem to be a young woman of more than ordinary intelligence. It is
such as you whom we wish to win, to take an interest in the fate of
womankind,—in the fate of humanity. Permit your friend, Miss Leland, to
induce you again to join this circle, and I hope when next I see you
that I will find you one of us, heart and soul. Good bye, now, friends,
may your every effort be blessed with success.” With these words they
parted, she clinging to the arm of Mr. Roland, leaving our little group
of four alone. Arriving at the outside they found that it had already
grown quite dusk. For a moment there seemed to be an indecision on the
part of Margaret and Wilbur as to which direction they should take, when
Mrs. Leland decided the matter for them.

“Come with me to the nearest car, Margaret. It will take me almost to
our door, so I can very well go alone, while you and Wilbur can
accompany Miss Ellwood to her home.” Imelda protested, saying she was as
well able to go alone as Mrs. Leland, but the elder lady insisted,
supported by her young friends, and as a matter of course carried the
day.

“By the time you return,” she said, “I will have luncheon ready. Good
night, now, Miss Ellwood, I will not say good bye, as I hope to see you
often.” Waving her hand in adieu, she mounted the car and was gone.

Five minutes walk in another direction brought them to the car that it
was needful to take to reach Imelda’s home, and soon they were being
whirled along to their destination. The car was almost deserted, which
gave them an opportunity to continue their conversation. Margaret did
not say much, but seemed rather to enjoy listening to her friend and
lover as they traversed the same ground that she had passed over not so
very long since, for although the daughter of a radical mother, that
mother had not always been radical. The time was not very far gone by
when the old prejudices still held her in bondage, and the fear of what
the world might say, restrained her in all she would say and do.

Margaret long felt the influence of those earlier teachings. It had been
harder for her to break away from the old beliefs and superstitions than
for her mother; but—“Love works wonders” was true in this case. Wilbur
Wallace was of that type of men who are sure to win conviction where
once they gain a foothold. Gifted with a bright intellect and a manner
of speech both positive and fluent, he carried conviction to the minds
of his hearers. It had been at an entertainment, to which she had
accompanied her mother, that Margaret had first met Wilbur. The young
couple had from the first been attracted, which attraction soon ripened
into more than mere friendship.

But young Wallace was not without bitter experience; as he had observed
home and family life he had found it anything but perfect. He had seen a
sweet and gentle mother suffer from the arbitrary monogamy of her
married life to such extent that it had laid her in an early grave. The
lesson of the ending of that life had entered like a corroding iron into
the soul of her first born, a boy then but eighteen years of age. From
the hour his idolized mother was laid beneath the green sod he had never
entered his father’s home. Life was a problem he had set himself to
study, and the more he studied the greater the problem became. But he
was not easily daunted. He kept his eyes open, thus soon discovering
that the world was full of wrongs that needed righting.

Soon Wilbur Wallace’s name was classed among those who were laboring in
the cause of the poor and lowly. But woman’s cause seemed ever to lie
nearest his heart. The memory of one sweet woman lay enshrined within
the depths of his heart; for her sake he sought for truths that should
be the means of saving other women from a like heart-break. The faces of
two weeping girls, as he had seen them last, would arise before his
mind’s eye, and more firmly than ever did the resolve become rooted to
save them from a like fate. The years had rolled by; he was twenty-seven
and his sisters young women of twenty and twenty-three. He had never
seen them again, for many miles separated him from the place that had
known his childhood days.



                              CHAPTER XII.


Then had come the hour of temptation to him. Sweet Margaret had come
into his life, and he found himself shaken to the very depths of his
being, but he came forth conqueror. He loved the girl with all the power
of an intense nature, but he would never seek to bind her. His love
should bless her but never prove a scourge. The girl’s heart had grown
faint when it had caught his meaning. Love, sweet, pure soul-redeeming
love, had come to her, but not such as the world knew it. She was not to
know the meaning of the word wife. O, how her love had been tested! But
love had conquered, and together they had studied the problem that had
at first appeared as though it would prove the shoal upon which their
bark of life was to be wrecked. But the skillful hands of reason had
warded off the dreaded disaster and had safely guided them through the
rocks out into the smooth waters of the mid ocean, but for the present
they were adrift; as yet they could not see the shore, the haven where
they might safely be anchored. Now and then this caused the trusting
maiden an anxious pang, the honorable man a deeper pain than he wished
to betray, but the sky was clear, bright sunshine and smooth waters made
the way very pleasant. So they were content to drift on.

Margaret had learned to understand the meaning of the glorious freedom
that her lover sought to secure to her. She had looked deep into the
mysteries of married life with the aid of that mother whose experiences
had been so terrible. She had learned also to walk with open eyes and to
read the signs as she walked. And oh, how her pure soul revolted at the
hideous sights that were covered with a filmy veil, sights that the
gauze like covering made only the more horrible by the vain attempt at
concealment.

She lifted the smiling blue eyes to the clouded face of her friend who
seemed almost to have forgotten her presence.

“Well, Imelda, what do you think? Do you now understand how I could
express myself as I did some days ago?”

“I understand now, as I did then, that you had just cause to mistrust
the present institution of marriage. I do not blame you, but there is
still much that is not clear to me. What else can we do, if we would not
sacrifice nature’s truest, purest instincts?”

Margaret slowly shook her head, and scarcely above a whisper came the
words:

“I do not know.”

Wilbur had been observing the girls and had heard the low-spoken words.
A sad smile played about his lips.

“Wait,” he gently said. “The problem is too great to be solved in one
short afternoon. It has caused me considerable thought for quite a
number of years. As yet I have found no satisfactory solution, but do
not despair of eventually doing so. When woman becomes conscious of her
true worth she will soon find means to have that worth recognized. I
think, however, for a first lesson, Miss Ellwood has done extremely
well. Suppose we discuss some commonplace subject for a change. The
weather for instance. Have we not been having some very fine weather for
October?”

Both girls looked up, first at Wilbur, then at each other. There was
nothing remarkable about discussing the weather, but just at this moment
it sounded ridiculous, and but for the fact that Wilbur’s face was like
an impenetrable mask they would have burst out laughing. As it was they
controlled the desire and soon found themselves discussing plays,
literature, art, etc., which they found very interesting.

The minutes passed by and soon they arrived at their destination. The
parting words were said, Wilbur giving expression to the sincere wish
that she would again join their circle.

And Imelda did join them, again and again. She seemed drawn to the
circle in the lecture room by some magic force. Question after question
on that radical platform was brought up for discussion. The fields of
science also were explored. She soon found that she was able to learn at
that place more in a few short months than in all probability she would
have learned in the outside world in years.

Many were the battles she was called upon to fight with the deep rooted
superstitions of other days. Idol after idol crumbled to dust beneath
the merciless fingers, but bravely she held out while scale after scale
fell from the weak eyes until at last they grew stronger and she could
see as with a new light. Bright and clear was now what had seemed dark
and murky before. The new truths burst upon her in all their splendor
and at last Imelda was ready to take her place in the world as an
inspired priestess of the new realm of thought; of the new truths by
means of which the world should be renovated and womankind uplifted.

Thus time had slipped by and brought its changes to Imelda. Her mother
had been laid to rest at her father’s side, and in spite of the desire
of her friends to share their home, she had made one for herself. Humble
though her little attic room might be she was queen in its realm.

They were indeed dark days that now fell to the lot of Imelda. It was
hard to hide the aching heart beneath a smiling exterior, but it was
part of her daily task, and bravely did she accomplish it. But when she
returned at night to spend the evening alone in her little room, it was
then that she was often overcome; it was then that the over tired spirit
gave way to grief. As she looked around at the many little mementoes of
earlier and happier days, they brought vividly to her memory the times
when her father, with his favorite child at his side, had permitted her
to look into the depths of his artist soul. If home had not always been
the most pleasant of places, yet at those times she had not known the
meaning of the word sorrow as she now knew it. Father and mother were
now sleeping in the silent grave. The brother and sister who ought, by
nature’s ties, to be more closely drawn to her now than ever before,
were, she knew not where. And in the new light in which she now looked
upon the world, she felt more sorrow than anger toward the wayward
absent ones. O, if she could but have the assurance that the future
would develop the better part of their natures she felt she could
willingly forget the past. Could she but find them! She thought that
perhaps there might yet be a way of reaching their hearts; but never a
word did she hear from either. If it had not been for the friendship of
Margaret, who was more and more a true sister to her, her life would
indeed have been lonely and dark.

Nor was Margaret her only friend. Among the circle of radicals where
Imelda was a constant attendant she found many that were sympathetic in
more ways than one, but none attracted her more powerfully than did Mr.
Roland. He was more like a father than a mere friend, and fatherly had
often been the advice that the kind and sympathetic old gentleman had
given her. One other, also, had an influence over her life and strongly
did she feel herself attracted in this direction. That other was Wilbur
Wallace. In spite of the love he bore the winsome Margaret, the sad
dark-eyed Imelda had the power to stir his heart to its very depths.
Fain would he have folded both sweet girls to his great loving heart and
cherished them there as priceless treasures. Margaret saw and understood
what was going on in the heart of the man she loved, but she understood
also that that which was “her own” would remain her own, and she “feared
not.”

Margaret was right. Even though Imelda’s head was sometimes pillowed on
the breast of her lover and even though he should kiss the tears from
the sad eyes and hush the fear of the trembling lips, what of it? The
love that was to throw Imelda’s whole being into a tumult was yet to be
called forth by another. This love that she felt for Wilbur Wallace was
a sweet, tranquil affection, undisturbed by the passions that clamor for
possession. Knowing and understanding this, the two girls were more firm
friends than ever. If now and then Wilbur felt a stronger emotion; an
emotion that would cost him an effort to subdue, no one but himself was
aware of it. He knew that the time had not as yet come that it would be
practicable to give vent to his feelings in the manner that he felt was
right and natural, and that the well being and happiness of both these
girls was far too dear to his noble heart for him to cause them one
needless pang.

Thus matters stood when one day Margaret startled them by stating her
determination to prepare to go upon the stage. She knew that she
possessed dramatic talent of no mean order, and had often expressed a
desire to choose the stage as a means of earning a livelihood. Nor did
she meet with opposition now from her friends, although they were at
first somewhat taken aback. Within a week she was in the hands of a
competent teacher. This, of course, necessitated study, and instead of
spending so many of her evenings as she had hitherto done in the society
of Wilbur and Imelda, she was forced to devote her spare time to books.
This fact caused Imelda and Wilbur to be more often thrown together than
ever before. Now it was music they practiced together; then it was a new
book they read and discussed, while now and then they would go and hear
some good opera. As a general thing when such was the case Margaret
would go also, as she passionately loved the queens of song; and her
sweet lips only curved in a happy smile as she observed the good
understanding between the two whom she so dearly loved. That such a
thing could be possible as Imelda winning her lover from her never once
entered Margaret’s mind. And she was right. Wilbur Wallace did not hold
lightly the gift of his Margaret’s love.



                             CHAPTER XIII.


Thus matters went on. The cruel, piercing winter months had waned; balmy
spring with her flattering promises had again visited the land, and in
turn was now giving place to the sultry days of summer. The tired shop
girls, behind their counters, looked as though they could barely drag
their weary limbs along. Imelda had for some time felt as though she
could not possibly hold out much longer when, near the close of an
unusually hot and close June day, a lady, small of figure and dressed in
the airiest of summer costumes, came tripping down the aisle and
stopping just in front of Imelda’s counter said:

“Some real laces, please.”

With a start and smothered cry of “Alice!” Imelda went forward and the
little lady caught the stately head and drew it down, imprinting the
warmest of kisses upon the pale lips.

“Still in the old place? I thought I would find you here, providing you
had not done as I did—got married and settled down as the queen of some
fair home.”

A silvery laugh dropped from the cherry lips, but the laugh sounded just
the least bit forced, and the bright glow on the rounded cheek,—was it
really the flush of perfect happiness? Imelda looked long and carefully
into the blue eyes, but though they were clear she could not read within
their depths, the dimpling smile hid everything, if there was anything
to hide.

“Why, where did you get your cranky ideas? O, I forget,—you still live
in Chicago, which city, as I believe, has known many changes, and, I
suppose, the people who inhabit the dear old place must of course change
with it. But Harrisburg is a rather conservative town, you know, and
radical or progressive ideas are not much indulged in by its people. How
is it? am I right? have you been imbibing some of these new foolish
notions?”

Imelda smiled. This little chatterbox was rattling on at a great rate,
on a subject she evidently knew little about, and had already exhausted
her store of knowledge. What would she think if she knew exactly what
Imelda’s views at present were? The girl behind the counter had an idea
that her visitor would be somewhat shocked. So she only answered:

“Maybe I have, it is in the air, you know, like a contagious disease.”
Alice laughed.

“Is it dangerous?” she asked, but not waiting for a reply she continued:

“Have you time? I would like to have you with me this evening so that we
could enjoy a quiet dinner together. May I call for you?”

A flush stole over the pale face. When had such a pleasure ever been
offered her? For a moment she hesitated, then threw scruples to the
winds.

“Yes; you may come. I will be ready. This is indeed kind of you to make
me such an offer, and I assure you I shall appreciate it.”

The dainty gloved hand was raised in a mock threatening manner.

“If you speak again in that strain I shall punish you by failing to put
in an appearance. But I must not forget—your address, please.” Imelda
wrote name of street and number on a slip of paper and Alice Westcot
tripped down the aisle and out to where her carriage was in waiting.
Imelda’s lips quivered as she watched the friend of former days pass
out.

There were but few of the girls in the store now who had known Alice.
The few who had seen the meeting between the two wondered who the richly
attired lady could be who was on intimate terms with the sad faced but
well liked companion and co-worker who had a smile and kind word for all
but who made friends with none—none except the jolly, mirth-loving but
proud Margaret Leland.

Imelda sighed as the form of Alice disappeared. Who would have thought,
looking at the dainty figure, that in former years she had stood at the
self-same counter where Imelda now presided. That she had wealth at her
command was easy to be seen. But was she happy? If she was not she knew
well how to hide it. No casual observer would have noticed anything
wrong and when her carriage in the evening drove up to the number that
Imelda had given her the pretty figure was robed in daintiest white.
When Imelda appeared in the doorway in her plain black lawn and simple
sailor hat she hesitated a moment. She knew she would look out of place
at the side of this richly attired lady, and she would rather not go.
But already Alice was calling to her to come. “For,” she said, “we want
a good long evening together and we cannot afford to waste time.”

Imelda hesitated no longer. Why should she? Did the possession of wealth
alone make Alice Westcot her superior? She told herself, No! They had
been friends in the days of long ago, Imelda had found Alice a dear
girl, sweet and pure and true, but for all that she knew that mentally
this little woman was not her equal.

So she took her place at Alice’s side without further hesitation and
they were soon whirling along toward one of the beautiful parks. Imelda
gave herself up to the luxury of such delicious comfort, such sense of
pleasure as seldom came to her. Alice chattered on at her side, telling
her all about her life; telling her of the many bright spots it
contained; of the beautiful home with its richly furnished rooms, its
charming grounds and surroundings; of the husband who showered wealth
upon her; of the two pretty blossoms—her little daughters, one dark eyed
with glossy curls like the father and who was named Meta, while the
youngest was fair and flaxen-haired like herself, and had been given the
name of Norma.

Imelda listened like one in a dream. Was Alice’s life all sunshine? She
made bold to ask her. For a moment the bright sunny face clouded, then a
silvery laugh rippled from the ripe red lips.

“Why not? Certainly it is sunshine, all sunshine. Have I not everything
my heart desires? No more hard work, no more eking out and economizing,
no more planning how to make both ends meet. My husband’s purse is open
to me always. I have nothing else to do but be happy.”

And then, not giving Imelda time to ask any more questions, she in turn
began to question her. She poured such an avalanche of questions upon
her that Imelda did not know which to answer first. So bewildering was
the torrent that Alice was obliged to repeat them more slowly. Imelda
answered them all to the satisfaction of the persistent questioner who
gradually came in possession of all the dark facts that had brought so
much pain into the young girl’s life and only at the close of the story
did she understand that Imelda was all alone and her tender little heart
swelled and two pearly drops fell upon the hands of the girl as she
lifted them and pressed them to her cheeks.

“My poor, proud girl,” she said, “how you must have suffered! Listen,
Imelda. How would you like to live with me? O, no!” she said as she
looked into the surprised eyes of the girl, and read therein a refusal.

“I understand you too well to offer you a home without a way of earning
it. I understand your proud nature better. But I would like someone
trustworthy to take care of my little daughters. For really I am too
much of a butterfly to have so grave a charge on my hands without some
one more competent to aid me. I do not understand how to train my
babies. But you, who have had so much experience, would know always what
to do and they really are such dear little darlings. I am sure you would
soon learn to love them and then you should be treated as just the lady
that you are, not as a servant but as my own dear friend, and you should
have so much time all your own when you might read or paint or study,
and you shall cultivate that precious talent of yours, music. Say yes,
dear, you shall never be sorry for it, I promise you,” and the little
cajoler wound her arm about the neck of the dumb-founded girl and laid
her face against hers and coaxed and kissed and plead until Imelda gave
the so much desired promise. Then Alice was happy as a child and said
that Imelda must leave the store instantly so she could prepare to go
with her when she should return to her home.

“I expect to remain only a little over a week, and until then you shall
come and live with me at the hotel where I am staying.” But to this
Imelda would not listen. It was all so sudden she could hardly realize
what it involved. A sharp pang entered her heart as she thought of
Margaret and Wilbur. Ah, yes, it meant to give up these tried and
trusted friends. No! oh no, she could not leave without devoting some of
the last hours of her stay in the dear old city that had always been her
home, to the friends whose lives were so closely woven in with hers. She
finally succeeded in making Alice understand as much. In the morning
when she told Margaret, it seemed at first as though she could not
comprehend it. The large soft eyes filled with tears and the sensitive
lips quivered when the comprehension came home to her, but she bravely
choked a sob as she said:

“You are right. Why should you wear out your life, standing day after
day behind the counter in that store, when opportunities are offered you
that do not fall to the lot of every working girl. Yes, it is certainly
my advice to accept this offer, and make the most of it. But I insist
that you spend the evening with me at my mother’s home. We must make the
most of your short stay with us.”

Imelda did not refuse. She felt it was not so easy to sunder ties. She
also felt a sadness steal over her as she thought of how soon she was to
turn her back upon all the scenes of the old life, and some very sharp
pangs made themselves manifest.



                              CHAPTER XIV.


The evening found her with her friends. After supper Wilbur came and was
told of the projected change. He bent a quick searching glance upon
Imelda and in the eyes that met his he thought he read a subdued pain.
All through that evening Imelda was unusually quiet. Wilbur and Margaret
played and sang but Imelda only listened. Mrs. Leland once in passing
behind her chair, laid her hand upon the glossy dark hair, slightly
bending the head so she could look into the dark eyes, saying in a low
tone:

“Are the dreams of the future not bright, dear Imelda? Don’t let the
shadows of the past follow you into the future. Keep a brave heart and
it will be strange if the future does not contain for you something for
which it is worth your while to work and wait.”

The dark eyes of the girl filled with a pearly mist.

“Thank you, Mrs. Leland. When you, who have certainly seen some of the
very darkest sides of life can still give such encouragement there must
indeed be a bright side to all things, only I am parting with so much
that is pleasant in the present, while the future is yet a sealed book.
Not knowing what it may contain, it is not very wonderful that I should
feel the least bit sad.”

“But you are to be an inmate of a beautiful home and the companion of
the friend of former days.” Imelda smiled.

“Yes, of former days, indeed. In the present she is no longer
all-sufficient. I have been walking in the pathways of progress. She has
been lingering in those of blind faith, of contentment and of duty. I
fear there will be many lonely hours for me.”

“There may be,” said Mrs. Leland, “but also, maybe, you can take this
little girl by the hand and lead her by your side. Who knows what your
work in this new life you are about to enter really may be? So be of
good cheer. At all events it is not to another world, or even to another
continent you are going. You can send us your thought and your love and
receive a return in a few days. I know Margaret and Wilbur will both
expect a great many of the white-winged messengers, and they will keep
your fingers busy in their spare moments.”

She bent and kissed the warm lips of the girl and passed out of the
room, soon returning with a basket of luscious fruit. For a time the
music was hushed while the fruit was discussed. But as all things, the
best as well as the worst, must come to an end, so with Imelda’s visit
to her dearly cherished friends. As the evening was far advanced when
Imelda rose to go home, Margaret coaxed her to remain with her.

“For I am,” she said, “so soon to lose you altogether, that I want to
make the most of the short remaining time.” But Imelda was longing to be
alone.

“Not tonight, dear. Tonight you must excuse me. I cannot help it, but I
have so much to think about, so much to do yet. But tomorrow night, if
you wish I will come and remain with you,” and with that Margaret had to
be content. “Instead,” Imelda went on, “I would have you come with me.
It is not so very late yet, and a walk will do you good. Wilbur will
make it doubly pleasant coming back. What say you?” But now it was
Margaret’s turn to shake her head and say:

“Not tonight. But that does not mean that you will be permitted to go
home alone. Wilbur will take care of you. Will you not?” Wilbur smiled.

“It seems I have nothing to say in the matter but am quietly disposed
of,” he said with a spice of mischief, “the arrangement suits me,
however, so I will not object. Or, have you objections, little girlie?”
He looked at Imelda in such a quizzing manner that the tell-tale blood
dyed the pale cheeks to a dark crimson.

“If you desire objections, Mr. Impudence, it will not be a difficult
matter to satisfy you.” Whereupon the young man, in mock humility,
begged her not to deal with him too severely, plead for pardon, and
solemnly promised that he would not offend again. Thus laughing and
jesting they prepared to part for the night. Ready to start Imelda stood
some moments at the door gazing up into the starlit heavens. Wilbur in
the meantime wound his arm tenderly about his beloved Margaret. For a
moment she was enfolded in a close embrace; pressed to his manly breast,
his lips closed over hers in a tender clinging kiss. “My own precious
one,” he murmured,—“you love me?”

“As my life.”

Again their lips met, then he stepped forward to Imelda’s side and
together they walked toward the humble home of the girl. For awhile
neither spoke, and when at last their voices did find utterance it was
only to speak of commonplace matters. Their hearts were too full to
converse much; least of all of that which was uppermost in their minds.
Imelda’s leaving would make a great change for them all, and Wilbur felt
that it would make a decided change in his life. He almost feared to
give expression to his feelings,—certainly not under the starlit
heavens. So, when after a quiet walk through the nearly silent streets,
they reached the home which soon would know Imelda no longer, he
stopped, loth to leave her, and she, as if divining his thought, simply
said, “Come,” and just as simply he followed her up the three flights of
stairs into the little room where he threw himself into an arm chair at
the open window. Imelda was about to strike a light when he said:

“Don’t, please; come and sit here with me. It is easier to talk with
only the light of the moon.” And Imelda did as he requested, moving her
chair so that she sat just opposite him, but for awhile it seemed that
the moon, which was full and flooded the city with its pale silvery
glory, was not going to prove an inspiration to conversation, for the
moments slipped by until half an hour had passed, and as yet neither had
spoken. But now Wilbur turned and laid his hand gently upon that of the
dreaming girl.

“Imelda!” Low, soft, tremulous, the name dropped from his lips. She
started. Why was it that the mere sound of her name should thrill her
so?

“Imelda!” Again the low-spoken name came to her ear like sweet,
thrilling music, and suddenly, ere she knew how it had happened, she
found herself encircled by two strong arms, her head pillowed upon the
heaving breast, and the bearded lips pressed close to hers in a burning
kiss. Tender words and endearing names greeted her ear.

“O, my darling, it is hard to see you go, not knowing when, if ever, I
may see you again, and just as you were becoming so dear to me.”

“But Margaret?” came in a trembling whisper from Imelda’s quivering
lips. He held her closer still as he made answer.

“She is the dearest, sweetest woman that ever loved a man.”

“But she trusts you,” came from the trembling lips.

“And why should she not? Am I not trustworthy? Darling, she knows the
love I bear her is all her own, and surely, you do not think her so
small that she should deem it necessary in order to hold her own, my
heart must be held in such narrow confines that none other, though she
be equally pure, equally good, may find room therein? You do not think
that, do you? No, my love; Margaret is too true, too noble a woman to
fail to understand that no matter how boundless the love may be Imelda
has won, it cannot detract one iota from that which is hers in her own
right. I could not love her less if I would, notwithstanding the new
love which you, my darling, have won, and I cannot believe that Imelda
has been one of our number all this time without having learned to
understand that there is nothing so pure as the love that is free, free
to bring blessings upon the object that inspires that love. Love is
limitless. Each new object that finds its way to the innermost recesses
of a true lover’s heart brings new stimulus that each in term may reap
the benefits, the added blessings that are bound to come with the
calling into life of each new love.”

Wilbur Wallace was laying his whole soul bare before the pure eyes of
the young girl, and O, what a storm of emotions swept over her soul!
What a new import, and how different, these words conveyed from the
standards that had been taught her from her earliest infancy. A little
over a year ago she would have believed it to be rank treason to
passively listen, with such a sweet sense of enjoyment stealing through
her veins, to such passionate words of love from Wilbur’s lips,—and now?
Well! try as she would, she could not detect a feeling of guilt. On the
contrary she was conscious of being very happy at that precise moment,
and the conviction that had for some time been making itself
manifest,—that it is right to love, and to enjoy that love, whenever and
wherever Cupid may make his appearance, was forcing itself more clearly
upon her mind. She now began to believe and understand that nature is
right. That love must always be right, and so her answer to Wilbur was
only to nestle closer to his side.

It was not the first time that he had encircled her waist with his arms,
and kissed the ripe dewy lips. She had always permitted it, smiling like
a happy child, as she looked into the pure dark eyes above her. Often he
had drawn both fair girls to him, an arm about each slender waist, a
fair and a dark head resting upon either shoulder. Margaret never
thought that Imelda was robbing her, and into Imelda’s head the idea
never entered that such proceedings were not right, although he had
never folded her quite so closely, nor pressed her lips so firmly as he
had done tonight, and now she felt he was giving expression to more than
the friendship he had hitherto tendered her. With a mighty bound her
heart told her that Wilbur loved her! And Imelda?

O well, she was a woman! and as far as we have known her we have every
reason to pronounce her a true woman, true to all of nature’s holiest
instincts. So, who would or who could blame her when she gave herself up
to the subtle warmth that had crept into her heart and pervaded her
whole being? She felt her pulses throb and thrill, and knew she was
under the influence of the sweetest of all human emotions, but feeling
them to be pure she gave herself up to the influence of the hour, and to
the love that had unawares crept into her life.

Yes! Imelda now knew that she loved, even as she was loved, and the
minutes passed until they grew to hours—hours of pure holy joy, and when
Wilbur left her the dawn had crept into the east, and with his kisses
resting upon her lips she still sat at the open window, dreaming of the
raptures that life—sweetened by magic love—had brought her. And soon the
waking dreams merged into the sleep of youth and innocence as the brown
eyes closed; and still the smile hovered about the dewy red lips as they
in tender cadence whispered—“Wilbur!”



                              CHAPTER XV.


The morning hours passed. The sun rose high in the heavens and still
Imelda slept; slept until the noonday rays fell across the fair flushed
face. The heat soon made the room uncomfortably warm, waking the
sleeping maiden who, confused at first, did not understand how she came
to be sleeping at the open window. But all in a moment memory returning
with a swift rush, brought back the sweet hours of the departed night.
The red life blood stained the fair cheek and obeying the first impulse
Imelda’s face was buried in her hands, hiding the blushes that stained
it. Such holy memories she would keep hidden even from the sun’s bright
rays. Then brushing the tangled tresses from her brow she cooled the
burning face with fresh cold water, darkened her room and disrobing lay
down upon her bed to rest the aching limbs that had become cramped by
reclining so long in an uncomfortable position.

But the desire to sleep had fled. Thoughts in the brown head revolved in
chaotic confusion. The sweet love dream wove rosy fancies until chased
by the more realistic thoughts of the near future, causing a feeling of
sadness until rose-hued love again conquered.

Thus for an hour or more, in sweet reveries indulging, and when the
excited nerves were becoming soothed, and soft slumber gently closing
the drowsy eyes, a low rap sounded upon the door. The next minute
Margaret was sitting upon the edge of the bed, chaffing and teasing
Imelda for being so lazy.

“It is easy to be seen,” she was saying, “that you were born for
something better than standing behind a counter, measuring laces. What a
perfect lady you would make, to be sure. Your very first holiday you
must use in practicing the airs, the manners of a fine lady.” Her clear
sweet laugh rang out while she bent and kissed the red lips of her
friend.

Imelda’s soft rounded arms wound themselves about the fair form bending
above her and drew her close to her fast beating heart. Laying her lips
to Margaret’s pink shell-like ears, she rapidly whispered; then drawing
back, eagerly did she look into the now quiet and pretty sobered face of
Margaret, who seemed to have sunk into deep thought.

“Margaret,” whispered Imelda. “Margaret what have you to say?” The large
blue eyes rested lovingly on the dark face before her, darker hued still
because of the burning blushes that were mantling it. Margaret’s answer
was to bend low and lay her face close to hers. Her eyes shone brightly
as she clasped Imelda to her breast.

“What have I to say? Why, as you followed the dictates of your heart you
have done perfectly right. Wilbur is so grand so noble a man, how can a
woman help loving him? You did not think I would find fault with you for
doing precisely as I have done? Maybe, if I thought it were possible
that you could win him away from me it might be that I would not treat
the matter so coolly,” [a new light dawned in Margaret’s eyes] “for I am
only human, and I love him, O, how I love him! I find in him my nearest
realization of heaven—as I can think it. He is to me life itself. If the
star of my love were suddenly to set I think my life would go out with
it. My love has power to sway me like a storm-tossed bark, like a mighty
oak in the wind. And you, Imelda? Tell me what is your love like.” The
waves of rich blood were flooding the face of the questioned girl.

“Not like that,” she said. “Mine is a quiet joy; it is peace; it is
balm. Like oil on troubled waters; a calm after a storm; a haven of
rest. To lose him would bring me pain, deep and lasting, but not a
complete wreck. But O, Margaret, I don’t want to think of anything like
that. The mere thought hurts.”

How long the girls would have gone on in this strain can never be known,
for at this moment a rap again resounded on the door of the room.
Imelda, frightened, quickly drew the covers closely about her form, the
next moment she was merrily joining in the silvery laugh of Alice who
had entered without waiting to be bidden. The dainty figure was attired
in rich black lace that became the lily fairness of the sweet face
exceedingly well. It was the first meeting between Margaret and Alice.

“A pretty, merry child,” was Margaret’s inward comment.

“Proud and haughty,” was Alice’s first thought. That was always the
first impression Margaret made on others, and only in the measure that
new acquaintances won their way into her heart did she unbend; only to
the nearest and dearest did she show the child of nature that she really
was. It was not long, however, until winsome, pretty Alice had found
that way, and for a while Margaret dropped the proud air that became her
so well and descended to the mimic and burlesque. She recited selections
of emotions and passion, until tears filled the eyes of her auditors,
then suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye, the broad brogue of Irish
Bridget caused them, with blinded eyes, to hold their sides, convulsed
with laughter. Then followed a negro song, ending with an Indian
war-whoop; whereupon she sat down upon the floor at their feet and asked
them if they did not think it rather foolish to so exert themselves with
laughing, such a warm day. “It is so exhausting, you know, and so
vulgar!” and waving her fan back and forward in the most approved
languid, lady-like style, she elevated her slightly retrousse nose,
while her companions went into new convulsions of laughter.

Leaving them to recover their composure she rose and stepping to the
window drew aside the curtains. In a moment she was lost to her
surroundings; her thoughts following her eyes into the distance, into
the future. Incomprehensible dreamer she was, as she gazed up into the
azure sky. The pearly teeth sank deep into the crimson lips. Tightly the
white slender hands were interlaced, while the large eyes became soft
and lustrous, a mist rising therein, and presently tears were falling
upon the folded hands, recalling her from dreamland to the realistic
present. Just then Imelda’s arm was wound about the snowy neck and her
quick eye caught sight of the tear drops. Her heart gave a quick
apprehensive bound.

“What is it?” grasped the paling lips as she caught the tear-bedewed
hands in hers. “Am I the cause?”

But already Margaret’s mood had changed; a bright smile played about the
sensitive mouth.

“No, dearest,” she said, “how could you.”

But Imelda was not so easily satisfied. The cruel fear entered her heart
that Wilbur might be the cause. The painful thought was reflected in her
eyes. All in an instant Margaret understood. Folding her arms about her
friend’s neck she said:

“Not that, Imelda, never that! I am not so foolish, but I do not
understand myself today. It is a day of my many moods. I am as changeful
as an April day. I was thinking of the future, what it may bring me. Do
not think, silly child, that your pure love for Wilbur has caused my
tears. Not of that was I thinking. Oh, the curse of poverty! I love
beautiful things. I love fame. I love wealth. I love a home, and I love
little children. [This last came almost in a whisper.] What will, oh
what will the future bring? Any of these? and which of these? will any
of my dreams be realized? Sometimes a sort of despair comes over me when
I think of the hours of trial, of pain, of suffering my dear mother has
been compelled to endure, with her nature so well fitted to enjoy and to
bless. A kind of wild anger sometimes takes possession of me. It has
been nothing but plod and work. Then I think if her fate is to be mine,
over again, I could curse the day I was born.

“But those feelings do not often last long. The determination to conquer
buoys me up. I mean to sway the world, and—I will! I will fight for
freedom until I obtain it. I will not permit myself to be shackled and
fettered. Society has placed fetters enough upon me at my birth; and I
will not add to their number. Free as the wild winds I mean to be. I
will conquer fate. The day shall dawn that victory shall be mine; and
then those I love shall be happy as the laughing sunshine of a summer’s
day.

“And to curb some one else!—to curb you, my sweet Imelda, could I do
that and be consistent with my ideas of justice? Never again, my dear
girl, never again insult me with that suspicion. Now good bye, my
precious one, this evening I expect you to be with me.”

Bending she kissed her, and without bestowing a single glance upon the
surprised Alice, Margaret was gone ere Imelda had fully comprehended her
meaning.



                              CHAPTER XVI.


Imelda had seen Margaret in similar moods before, and she knew of the
intensity that sometimes lurked beneath the smiling exterior. She knew
Margaret’s most dearly cherished desire was some day to be a mother. To
press the rosy dimpled infant, the child of the man her heart owned
king—to her jubilant heart was her dream of dreams. But with this gift
that she so craved she demanded no common conditions and environments.
To call into being a perfect child she must be a perfect mother, and she
understood, only too well, that she could not be that, surrounded with
imperfect conditions.

Something had vividly portrayed this dream before her eyes today. Imelda
understood the fierce storm of emotions that sometimes shook the nature
of the proud girl to its very foundations. But Alice did not understand.
She was rather frightened than otherwise at the storm that had so
suddenly burst from the lips that had but a short time previously been
overflowing with gayest merriment. The depths of feelings thus exhibited
was a revelation to her. She had never heard such wild, such passionate
words from any one, much less from the lips of a woman. In a helpless
manner she turned to Imelda for explanation. But Imelda appeared to have
forgotten the presence of Alice, as she sat blankly staring after the
receding form and at the door through which she had passed, and only
after Alice had twice spoken her name was she recalled to herself. With
a deep heart-felt sigh she arose and began arranging her simple toilet,
but never a word did she say of the queer manner of her friend, until
again the voice of Alice aroused her.

“What was it you said? O, the meaning of this strange outburst. I don’t
know if I would be able to explain the moods of Margaret. I doubt if
anyone could explain them, but she is the dearest, sweetest, noblest
woman that ever lived. Her life, like mine, has been overshadowed by
those of her parents. She understands the meaning of the finger of
scorn, and her proud spirit rebels against it.”

“The finger of scorn? What do you mean? Explain yourself.”

“Margaret’s mother is a divorced woman.”

“A divorced woman!” broke, in a surprised cry, from the lips of the
young woman. Another question seemed to hover on them, but checking
herself she waited an answer. Imelda smiled. She understood what was
going on in the other’s mind. When, in all the past, had a woman gone
through the dread ordeal of the divorce court that the world in general
and women in particular did not believe that she was not in some way to
blame for all the shame that had been heaped upon her? She who had the
strength to dare to go through the calumny of the divorce court was, in
the minds of many, composed of some grosser material than that was used
in the composition of women in general, and little Alice Westcot was by
no means above the common.

How could she be? Had she ever been taught otherwise? She had yet to
learn that the divorced woman, instead of being a coarse-grained
creature of the slums is more often possessed of a nature most refined,
and far superior to her surroundings. She had yet to learn that it was
for that very reason, often, that the divorced woman bears the shame,
the disgrace and the calumny heaped upon her by the cruel process of the
law, in order to escape a state so distasteful to her sensitive soul
that death itself is preferable to the continued endurance of bondage.
Imelda knowing this could only smile, but she hastened to say:

“Yes! her mother was married to a man that Margaret is anything but
proud to acknowledge as a father. He was coarse and brutal; often
descending to so low a level as to strike the woman who was the mother
of his children. Margaret’s mother was a woman very sensitive and
refined. The only wonder to me is that she ever could have made the
selection that she did, unless the fact that she was little more than a
child could be considered an explanation. He drank, he cursed her, he
struck her. He did not provide. The more she worked the less did he do,
and the more he depended upon her efforts to gain a livelihood, until
finally one day she took her babes (she had two of them) in her arms and
left the man who had made of her life such a miserable ruin.

“As time passed he sought to induce her, by every effort in his power,
to return to him; but his efforts were unavailing. She would rather, she
says, have thrown herself with a babe clasped in either arm into the
cold waves of the darkly flowing river than again return to the bondage
from which she had escaped. For, added to all the other indignities she
had been forced to bear, were the constant outrages perpetrated upon her
womanhood, and which she could no longer endure.”

“The brute!” broke, in a passionate exclamation, from the lips of Alice.

Not heeding the interruption, save by a quick sharp glance at the young
woman by which glance she noticed that her lips were compressed and the
delicate hand clinched, she proceeded with her story.

“Finding her mother could not be induced to return he finally entered a
suit for divorce, and here the demon nature of the man showed itself in
its most depraved form. It would have been the easiest thing in the
world to have obtained a divorce upon the grounds of desertion, as
nothing could ever have induced her to return to him, but that did not
suit his vile purpose. He circulated all the unclean, defaming reports
about her that his low mind could concoct, which brought Mrs. Leland to
the verge of insanity.

“At last it was all over. Once more she was a free woman, but defamed
and disgraced before the world. It was then she registered a vow that
the world should yet pay her the respect that was her due, and nobly has
she kept her word. Her daughter Margaret can go with head erect into the
best society, while she herself is everywhere treated with the most
marked respect. But for all that, Margaret has oft times felt the stigma
her father has placed upon her mother, and through her upon her own
name, and many of these fierce outbursts,—one of which you have just
witnessed, are due to that fact. But Margaret, like her mother, is pure
gold, and no taint remains upon her, or upon her equally true and pure
mother.”

As Imelda finished speaking she finished also her toilet, and sinking
into a low rocker, in a tired manner, laid her head against its back.
Presently Alice slipped forward and knelt at her side. She laid her face
against Imelda’s knees but said nothing. For a few moments the young
girl permitted her to retain this position, then laying her hand upon
the fair head and gently brushing the blond hair from the white temples,
said:

“What is it, Alice?” A change had come over the merry features. A
hitherto unthought-of sadness dwelt in the light eyes where also a
suspicious moisture was visible, and with a noticeable effort she
conquered something that was gathering in her throat.

“Nothing,” she replied. “What should I have to say? Only Mrs. Leland’s
history has placed a new light upon divorce in my eyes. I have never
heard a case thus discussed, or seen it placed in such light before. She
was at all events a brave woman, and I would like to meet her. As for
Margaret I know I shall always love her.”

“If you really wish to meet Mrs. Leland nothing will be easier,” Imelda
said. “I am to spend the evening with them. You can accompany me and
judge for yourself.”

“Thank you. But you must remember, Margaret has not invited me. So you
see I cannot go.”

“Nonsense! I see nothing of the kind. Margaret is not responsible for
the oversight she has committed and I will take it upon myself to
introduce you into their pretty but simple home. But really, I feel
hungry. I have not taken food today, and my stomach demands its rights.”

“Not taken food today? Why, Imelda! what do you mean? Do you know what
time it is?”

“I must confess that I have not been troubling myself to ascertain, so
cannot answer your question.”

“Well, you seem to attach little importance to the craving of the inner
man—or woman, which is it in this case?” laughed Alice. “But for all
that, will answer my question myself for the enlightenment of your
pitiful ignorance. It is now half past two. I am usually not any too
early a riser myself but long ere this I generally have eaten my second
meal.”

“Little gourmand!” smiled Imelda. “I wonder you do not say it is time
for a third one.” Alice laughed lightly.

“That is a libel,” she said. “I protest; but in order that you may be no
longer exposed to the danger of starving yourself I insist that you now
go with me. I will take care of you in the most approved style.”

Imelda protested. “A glass of milk, some fruit and a piece of cake, will
be all-sufficient and I have a supply of that on hand.” But Alice
insisted so strenuously that Imelda succumbed and in a short time both
were comfortably seated at a table in a restaurant awaiting the dainty
viands that Alice had ordered notwithstanding the protesting looks of
Imelda. But Alice only laughingly shook her head and proceeded to call
for some little extras. It seemed to afford her a peculiar pleasure to
press these little attentions. She was happy to be able to contribute
towards furnishing some little pleasure for the friend for whom she knew
life had hitherto not turned the sunniest side, and Imelda soon came to
understand that it was useless to protest against her friend’s
generosity.

Having finished their meal they seated themselves in the carriage that
stood in waiting, and were soon bowling along the shady drives. For
awhile thought was busy with each of the fair occupants. Imelda was
thinking of the changes that had come into her life, past and present.
How many sighs, how many tears lay in the bitter past. She shuddered as
with cold, on this blazing hot day. No, no! She was done with it. She
did not desire to resurrect its skeleton memories, even though some
dearly loved ones belonged to that past. But the present? Were not the
changes the present was bringing also fraught with bitterness? Yes, but
not without hope. The green banner of hope was held high, indicating the
coming of better times. There would be sweet memories mixed with the
pain of parting. And the future? She would win it, she would conquer it.
She would not be less brave than Margaret who so earnestly vowed to
conquer all obstructions.



                             CHAPTER XVII.


While such thoughts surged through the brain of Imelda, what was it that
clouded the brow of fair Alice, causing now and then the ruby lips to
part with a tremulous sigh? What caused the eyes to grow dim, the
child-like mouth to quiver? Was there a skeleton in her closet also? Ah,
could we always but lift the veil and look underneath! What aching,
breaking hearts the smiling lips sometimes mask. Imelda looked up just
in time to see a bright drop splashing upon the dainty gloved hand, but
which was hastily brushed away. Another moment and the young woman was
laughing and chatting in a way that showed a light and merry (?) heart
underneath, and Imelda forbore to question. The two had a very nice
drive, enjoying the parks and open air sports. The hours of rest were
doing Imelda a world of good, reviving her spirits and calling a rosy
hue to the pale face.

The evening found them at the home of the Lelands, where they were both
heartily welcomed. Alice watched the faces about her, wondering whose
lover the handsome Wilbur Wallace was. She read in his face an almost
worshipful love when his eyes rested on the proudly regal Margaret,
while they followed with a passionate intensity every movement of the
queenly Imelda, which glance would soften to a holy glow when he bent
his head above her and when his hand touched hers. Alice felt the warmth
of Mrs. Leland’s motherly manner, and soon found that her heart was in
every word she uttered. Although here and there a silver thread could be
seen among the brown, her manner was as bright and youthful as that of
the young girl’s. Later the generous hostess brought in fruits, cake and
cream, and merry sallies were passed round, while the refreshments were
being discussed. Music and singing came in also for their share, and
Alice felt that she had passed a very pleasant evening indeed.

The absence of all formality was not the least pleasing feature. The
naturalness of every movement and action was refreshing in the extreme
to Alice, whom the wealth of her husband had led, during the years of
her married life, into those circles of society where empty phrases and
society small talk are paramount, but which must be delivered in a
stiff, formal, cut and dried manner. To talk, to act, to laugh, to eat,
to drink, to sleep, to rule—that is society life; anything but to be
natural. O, how homelike the little circle was! The evening passed by
and the time came for parting. Margaret reminded Imelda of her promise
of yesternight, and tendered the same invitation to Alice, but the
latter did not accept.

“No! no! I would only be intruding. It is enough that I am about to
separate these precious friends without intruding upon the last days and
hours they can have together. With many thanks for the pleasant evening
I have spent I will bid you good night. Tomorrow is another day when I
shall see you again.” Leaning back in the cushions of her carriage she
was rapidly driven to her hotel. Wilbur kissed both fair girls and for a
moment his arms wound about Imelda’s form. She could feel the beating of
his heart and heard his rapid breathing. She smiled into his face, wound
her arms about his neck, laid her cheek against his, for an instant
touched her lips to his whispered “Good night,” and the next instant had
slipped from his embrace, and from the room.

Margaret was standing at the window gazing at the starry heavens when
she heard the door close after Imelda’s retreating form. Turning she saw
that they two were alone. Again she turned to the window giving him time
to recover himself, and when a few minutes later she crossed the room to
his side Wilbur had regained his composure. She laid both hands upon his
shoulder and looked into the dark eyes.

“Wilbur,” she whispered. Only that one word, the mention of his name,
but O, it spoke volumes. The next moment he had caught her to his breast
and covered the fair face with kisses.

“My darling! my darling!” he said. “You love me, you trust me?” There
was a suspicious moisture in the dark blue eyes as she crept closer into
his arms.

“You know I do.” The girl’s heart was passing through a fiery ordeal.
Would she prove pure gold? Long were they locked in each other’s
embrace, not a word was spoken, but the lips were sealed each with the
vibrating glowing lips of the other. Holding her thus close he drew her
to his knee as he sank into the swelling cushions of an arm chair, and
Imelda’s dark head had for several hours pressed the snowy pillow ere
Margaret sought her side. She leaned over and kissed her on the forehead
when the white lids opened and the soft arms closed about the neck of
her friend. Thus the two clasped in each other’s arms a dark head and a
fair one pressing the same pillow, their breath mingling, they fell
asleep, and not until Mrs. Leland gently shook them and laughingly
called them the seven sleepers, did they awake.

“I am afraid you would be ‘my ladies’ of the first water could you live
according to your inclination. I believe girls are naturally lazy.” Thus
teasing and laughing she moved about opening the shutters and letting in
the bright sunshine.

“Only see how you have let the golden hours of the morning fly away
lazily hugging your bed.” But the smiling faces on the pillow did not
look as though this moralizing had anything to do with them. Margaret
saucily told her mother that she (her mother) was only sorry that she
could not lie there at that hour and enjoy a lazy nap, but if she would
be kind enough to cease moving about and give them a little chance they
would think the matter over, and in a little while come downstairs and
have some breakfast.

“Which means, you saucebox, that I am to leave the room and go to
prepare your breakfast. Very well, Miss Indolence, but I hope you will
condescend to make your appearance when it is prepared.” Thus bright and
cheerful the new day began, and in a little while fresh and rosy,
attired in white muslin dresses they made their appearance. Margaret had
insisted that Imelda should wear one of her own snowy robes for the
morning.

“I am tired of seeing you in this everlasting black.” So the somber gown
had been laid aside and when later in the day Alice came to carry Imelda
off she clapped her little hands in delight at the sight of the spotless
robes. She wanted her to retain the pretty dress for the day, but to
this Imelda would not consent, so she had her way. Then Alice asked
Margaret to join them for the day. “I shall need your advice and help.”
Both girls looked up with a questioning glance, but Alice shook her head
and said:

“No! I will answer no questions, only come.” They were not long in
doubt, however, as to what it was that Alice wanted Margaret’s advice
for. They drove up to a large dress goods emporium where they selected a
variety of beautiful fabrics. Soft gray woolens and dainty white
muslins; also a handsome black silk. At first Imelda did not understand
that they were meant for her; and when she realized it; it was too late
to protest. She was scarcely more than half pleased, as Alice counted
out the price for the pretty material, and made up her mind to accept it
only as a loan, and so she told Alice. Alice did not object, only said:

“There are many things you will need and it will not be a question of
how soon you will return the amount; that can be settled some day when
you leave me. I would far rather, however, have made you a present of
these few necessary articles.” Imelda flushed.

“If you do not wish to offend me, you will cease to speak in such a
strain. I can understand that I look very much out of place with my
plain black muslins, but as your companion, nursery governess to your
children I will hardly need much costly apparel.”

“As my friend,” corrected Alice. “Whatever else you may be; whatever
position you may insist upon filling, I wish it distinctly understood
that you are my friend. An orphan, in reduced circumstances, if you
will, but always, most assuredly my friend.” Thus the matter was settled
for the present. Imelda bit her lip. Alice did not understand that the
act of kindness, as she meant it to be, was, and must be most galling to
the proud spirited girl; but no further comments were made at that time.
The fair trio with their purchases next drove to a dressmaking
establishment. Under protest Imelda was measured, and the order given to
have the dresses made on short notice.

“You have nothing to say in this, only to obey,” Alice had said with
merry laughter. Thus the days slipped by one after another, until
Imelda’s trunks were packed, awaiting the expressman to take them to the
depot. She herself was arrayed in her traveling dress, a plain soft gray
serge, seated at the window awaiting her friends who had promised to
escort her to the depot, Alice having said that she would meet her
there. Tears stood in her eyes as she let them wander over the familiar
objects that she was to take leave of now forever. Many a little trifle
was stored away in the bottom of her trunks, but other and larger
articles she was now forced to part with. Many a token had been given to
Margaret, but there were still others that had to be disposed of, which
Wilbur had promised to do, and as she now heard a familiar step coming
up the stairs she quickly, with a convulsive start, laid her hand upon
her heart and turned her face to the window. Another moment an arm had
drawn her into a close embrace and she lay sobbing upon a manly breast.



                             CHAPTER XVIII.


Quite a while she lay thus, for the first time giving full vent to her
feelings. She had not intended to do so, but of what avail are good
resolutions when the heart is full to overflowing; when every fiber
clings to some loved object from which it is about to be separated, and
she had not known how close her heart had clung and was clinging to this
handsome, noble man, this lover of her best, her almost only friend. In
spite of all the teachings and theorizing of later days the thought
would steal into her mind—was it right? Is it right? Was she, O, was she
wronging that noble girl? But Margaret’s clear eyes still wore the same
sweet, shining light that they had always been wont to wear. Always
cheerful, always loving. If she considered herself wronged she certainly
understood how to most successfully hide it.

But in giving shape and being to such a thought, was she not wronging
Margaret? Her ideas of right and wrong were far too lofty to permit her
for one instant to entertain such a sentiment. Would not the idea that
those precious friends by their love were wronging her, be equivalent to
placing a curb upon the natural outpourings of their hearts? Would not
this thought be an infringement on personal liberty? To prove that she
had been wronged Margaret must analyze the how! Could it in this case be
otherwise than that some one person had taken or appropriated something
that was her own, her personal property? Now how could any one rob her
of her own? She knew and felt that that which was her own no one else
could take from her, for just as soon as that which she had thought her
own was appropriated by another, the unquestionable, the insurmountable
truth confronted her that the said object had not been her own. Or,
again, if such could once have been the case it proved now her inability
to hold it and consequently at the same time proved her unworthiness.
Are we, is anyone, justified in an attempt to forcibly retain that which
in nature is attracted elsewhere?

Margaret in her reasoning would have answered “No!” Therefore it was the
height of folly to speak of robbing her. And when the object in
question, as in this case, was the heart of a man, was it not a question
so easily answered as not to leave a shadow of doubt that he who bore
the heart in question in his bosom was the natural owner thereof, and as
such, was possessed of the indisputable right to dispose of it?

But Imelda, through his love for her, might sway that heart? O, yes!
that was her right, as he had granted it to her. That another, equally
pure and good girl had the power to win and sway him also proved only to
her that his nature was more grand, his character more noble, his mind
more pure, and his heart vastly larger than that of other men. No!
Margaret did not feel herself wronged, although she knew that Imelda
held an equally warm place in his great heart.

But as yet Imelda did not fully realize and understand the full grandeur
of Margaret’s nature; how wholly uncalled for her fears were; and when
she gave expression to this fear that was making havoc with her peace,
Wilbur who knew and understood the noble sentiments of his brave
Margaret answered the agitated girl:

“Where is the usually clear-headed woman, the woman who has discussed so
often these questions of right and wrong? of individual liberty, of
universal liberty? the question of the emancipation of women from sex
slavery? the woman who has been claiming and agitating for herself, and
for her much wronged sex, the right to the indisputable ownership of
herself? In accordance with all this, would you now place all your
holiest and purest feelings and desires in a bondage most unnatural?
Would you not by such action admit the right of one person to dictate a
‘thou shalt’ and ‘thou shalt not’ to another? Look up, my sweet. You do
not think me, and believe me, still so far in the old ruts and so deep
in the old superstitions and prejudices that in order to love one girl I
must prove false and disloyal in my allegiance to another.

“See! as yet we have not arrived at the point of action. We have not yet
the strength to stand and walk alone. As yet we are only theorizing. The
few advocates of Love in Liberty with whom we have been associating in
an intimate circle are not egotistic enough to expect our women, our
girls, to shake off the restraining hands of society and act in accord
with their beliefs and views. That would mean ostracism. We dare not
place so heavy a load upon weak shoulders without giving them the
assurance that at all events their future is provided for. Stern,
demoralizing poverty binds our hands, and until ways and means are found
which will show us in a clear light the road we are to travel we must
conquer nature’s desires and wait, patiently wait. But shall this
circumstance prevent us also from folding the sweet loved ones to our
hearts and from laying the kiss of pure and holy love upon their lips?
Never! Imelda, you would not ask it. What is it to us if the whole world
declares the human heart is capable of only one small dwarfed love. We
know better; we who have been developing under Nature’s teachings. We
will follow nature’s promptings and permit our hearts to expand in the
sunshine of their beauty, wherever and whenever this beauty bursts in
its glory upon us.”

Placing his hand gently under and raising the tear-wet face until he
could look into the shining moist eyes, and bending low his lips pressed
hers in a long and lingering kiss, and by and by under the influence of
his caresses and soothing words a quiet peace stole over Imelda, only
that subtle pain that held her heart, as with an icy grip would torment
her and—well she knew what caused it.

“But,—‘Harrisburg’”—Wilbur was speaking—“is not the end of the world by
any means. We will meet again, my love. I feel it. Probably when the
clouds have passed away, when we can see clearer and know what we can do
and ought to do. And then, who knows, in that unknown future into which
you are about to step, may be a work for you to perform. Your destiny
may be lying awaiting your coming. There you may find him who will prove
your best loved one. Nay, sweet one; shake not your head. I am not vain
enough, not conceited enough to think that I alone should possess the
power to sway your gentle heart. No! I hope you may prove yourself
stronger and greater than the common everyday woman, whose ideal of pure
love is centered in one poor, weak mortal with his one, two, perhaps
more, sterling good qualities yet who will prove himself lacking in
others equally good, nay, perhaps better qualities, which will be
represented in another man but which by her must be passed by unnoticed
because not centered in the person of her one love. No! my darling. I
hope the time will come when a grander passion will come to you than I
have inspired.”

Wilbur smiled as he again folded her close and kissed the trembling
lips. “I appreciate the sweet tender love that fills and swells your
gentle breast, but I know, if you do not, that it will be another than
myself who will be able to shake this woman’s heart of yours to the very
foundation of your being. Under the influence of a mightier love than
you have yet felt you will awake to your full strength. Then will come
the time when you will arise to the height and glory of your work in the
cause of humanity, in the cause of womankind.”

He spoke the words soothingly, smoothing the glossy dark braids, as if
thereby to cause the pain of the present hour to gently pass over. Did
he feel that his words would prove prophetic? With a swift motion
peculiar to herself she threw her head slightly back looking upward into
the earnest eyes, taking his face between both her hands, she said,
softly, gently:

“Wilbur, you are a man among men! A friend whom any woman might well
count a priceless treasure. Whether or not it is true that my heart will
find another whom, in time, it will own king, this much I do know, that
I know of no place where I would rather rest than in your strong
sheltering arms, but the time has come that I must stand alone. I am
about to weigh the last anchor that holds me to the old life. In a few
hours I shall be speeding away, cut loose from all the old ties. I will
be brave now, and calmly look the coming time squarely in the face.”
Saying which she disengaged herself from the encircling arms.

“Where is Margaret?” Scarcely had the question dropped from her lips
when the answer came just outside the door.

“Here! I am late, I know, and that too when I wanted to be here early in
order to have one more hour with my darling girl, ere we are parted. But
mamma was quite sick this morning; something unusual for her, as she
generally has such good health. I left her sleeping, however, and
feeling much better.” This last in answer to the anxious inquiry that
fell from two pairs of lips at the same time.

“O, my precious, precious darling, must I really lose you? I cannot
realize that it can be true that I am to lose my friend, my Imelda;” and
the two girls sank into each other’s arms, clasping each other in a
tender loving embrace, mingling their pain and tears. Wilbur stepped to
the window and studied the tops of the buildings upon which he gazed in
order to give these two tried and true friends an opportunity for a last
exchange of a multitude of thoughts and emotions that were thronging
their breasts and seeking utterance in incoherent speech. But time is
merciless in its flight. Wilbur turned to remind the girls that the
final moments were drawing very near.



                              CHAPTER XIX.


“Mrs. Westcot will be getting uneasy if we tarry longer and indeed we
certainly will have no time to lose if we wish to meet our little friend
at the appointed hour.”

Thus admonished the girls made haste to prepare to leave. A few minutes
later the three were seated in a car hurrying toward their destination.
Imelda had bade Mrs. Leland farewell the evening before—at whose home
had been spent the last evening the three friends were together. She had
also found present there quite a number of her radical friends whom Mrs.
Leland had notified of the coming departure of Imelda Ellwood; and had
invited them to meet her at her home. All who had received an invitation
had come, for Imelda was a favorite and had found her way into many
hearts. All were sorry to lose the society of the intelligent young lady
friend and co-worker in the cause of humanity. None had expressed more
deep regret at the loss they were all about to sustain than our white
haired friend, Mr. Roland. He had taken Imelda by the hand, long and
earnestly had he spoken, giving her much fatherly advice, privately and
otherwise, as to the life she was about to enter upon. Among total
strangers the fact that Alice Westcot had been a girl friend in former
days did not weigh much with the old man. She was only one weak woman.
In the midst of these new surroundings Imelda would often find it
difficult to walk erect and self-reliant in the new path.

“It will hardly be an atmosphere of truth,” said he, “with which you
will be surrounded, but rather one of deceit and falsehood. Your powers
of discerning the pure from the debased will be severely tried. There
will be work to be done, for the true worker is ever on the alert. You
must be an opportunist, ever awaiting the chance to strike while the
iron is hot. Ever keep your eyes open. Point out the defects of a rotten
system; the unholiness of an unmated marriage; the uncleanness of lives
united without love; the loathsomeness of keeping up the semblance of
love when it has long since become a putrid corpse. Keep your mind
clear. Never let lust—passion—in the guise of love, draw near your side,
tainting your fresh young life with sickening noisomeness. It is
difficult to see clear in the dark labyrinth of society customs, and you
may stumble and fall. And oh, the difficulty of rising after such fall!
If it requires almost unlimited strength to obtain a firm foothold at
any time in the whirlpool of fashion and custom, it will require
strength superhuman to rise in a struggle in which you have once sunk,
and it will take all your strength of will power, all your keen sense of
honor and justice, all your sweet natural purity and self conscious
pride to always hold that queenly head erect and walk firmly among the
slippery pitfalls that unseen may lie along your every path.”

It was not a very pleasant contemplation that her aged friend had called
up before Imelda’s mental view, but probably a much needed and wholesome
lesson. “Forewarned is forearmed,” and if Imelda’s future was to escape
the temptation that so often besets the lives of beautiful women, so
much the better for her, as it would save her many little struggles of
the soul. But on the other hand it would never tend to harm her that she
knew something of the dark precipices of life. So she thanked Mr. Roland
for the well meant kindness that had prompted his words, and in bidding
him good bye she had permitted him to kiss her young fresh lips, well
knowing that only the most disinterested concern for her future prompted
the action.

One and all of the many kind friends had a parting admonition, a well
meant advice, a loving word of farewell, all expressing the hope at some
future time to meet her again. Mrs. Leland had folded her in her arms
and held her there as a mother does her tired babe, and indeed Imelda
had been tired. The events of the evening had been full of conflicting
emotions. The taking leave of friend after friend was not a light task,
and it had been a drain upon her strength. She would have much preferred
to spend this last evening quietly in the close circle of her most
intimate friends, and yet she also knew that she owed it to these others
who had always shown themselves so appreciative of her friendship, of
her small endeavors to aid them in their grand work of humanity. She
felt the desire to see them all once more before forever stepping from
the enchanted circle, and above all she would have been sorry had she
failed to receive the parting clasp of Mr. Roland’s hand.

When it was all over, the lips quivered and the eyes filled with tears,
as she laid her face to Mrs. Leland’s. The young matron gently passed
her hand over the dark head brushing the heavy waves of hair from the
white brow and in doing so discovered that Imelda was feverish. There
had been too much excitement and she feared it might prove detrimental
to the health of the young girl, so she had a nice fresh cup of tea
brought for her, then folding her close in a farewell embrace she kissed
her again and yet again, giving her much good counsel and many cheering
words. She had then sent her home, as she insisted upon going. More like
a sister than otherwise did Mrs. Leland seem to the parting girl as
indeed she always felt thus toward the young matron. The girls never
thought of keeping secrets from her; she was one of them, as she always
made it a point of being in the confidence of Margaret, which was given
voluntarily, as indeed it would have been difficult to be in the society
of this woman and not have full confidence and trust in her. She won it
from them and the girls knew only too well they could find no better
place for the safe keeping of that which they wished to entrust to her.

But we have been devious and must hasten to rejoin the three friends as
they now meet the little lady so anxiously awaiting their arrival at the
depot. Her face lit up with an unmistakable expression of relief, the
words she spoke the next moment giving proof of the anxiety to which she
had been subjected.

“O, at last! at last! I thought you would never come. I had all kinds of
visions—of runaway horses, of some great fire, of some accident wherein
you figured as the heroine. Then too I thought you might have changed
your mind at the eleventh hour. Indeed I felt quite miserable.”

The whole company laughed. Imelda kissed the little excited woman.

“You seem to have but a poor opinion of me. Don’t you know that
fickle-mindedness is not counted among my faults? We still have fifteen
minutes left I believe,” looking up at the timepiece in the central
waiting room, “so just please calm yourself. I am a fixture. You need
not fear that you can easily rid yourself of me now.” Imelda continued
in this light tone. The others imitating her example. The object to be
gained thereby was easily discerned, for neither wanted to display the
aching heart that lay hidden within the bosom, but for all that none was
deceived. The eye so eloquently speaks the language of the heart and
their telegraphy was sending swift messages back and forth. All too
quickly the passing moments flew. The train was ready and would not
wait. Both fair young travelers were safely seated in their Pullman car.
The last farewell had been spoken, and as the puffing engine steamed out
from the depot the fluttering of white handkerchiefs was the last view
the friends had of each other. With tear-wet eyes Margaret watched the
outgoing train, Wilbur’s face bearing almost as sad a look as her own.
When would they meet again?



                              CHAPTER XX.


Thus had come the beginning of the new life and the past lay enshrouded
in shadows. Almost at the threshold of that new life Imelda was met by
him whose coming Wilbur had, in last moments preceding the sundering
from the old life, prophesied. With Wilbur’s kisses yet warm on her
lips, every beat of her heart responding to the love he bore her, there
had been room in that heart to receive the impress of another’s image.
While still the memory of Wilbur’s caresses thrilled her the kisses of
the new-found lover sent the blood bounding in ecstacy through her
veins. Those precious friends of the past, would understand? But
Norman,—would she ever succeed in leading him to such heights of
progress as to enable him to see by the light of understanding the
glorious beauties of a boundless freedom?

As yet she had not reached the topmost heights herself, was not yet
standing in the full glare of light that should show her the path that
lay in the direction of perfect freedom. But she had seen the brilliant
star in the distance and she knew of dark depths that were concealed,
the dungeons where prejudice and superstition held in bondage all of
nature’s pure desires. She vowed never, never to wear the galling yoke
of marriage.

She was deliriously happy in this new love. She found their thoughts
blending in all things pertaining to nature. Only as yet Norman had paid
little attention to progressive thought on this particular subject.
Possessing an innate veneration for all women, he expected to find
heaven in the arms of one. That such a thing is not possible we would by
no means assert, for, contrary to the general rule that arbitrary laws
prove the ruin of loving hearts and sensitive lives, there are cases
where the one love has proved to be the happiness of a lifetime; but it
is time that we rid ourselves of the illusion that a compulsory marriage
law can command such fidelity and steadfastness that such cases instead
of the rare exception—as they really are—will be the rule. The knowledge
of perfect freedom—the freedom that means none may have the right to
say, “Thou shalt” and “Thou shalt not,”—with the power this knowledge
can give we rise to glorious heights, and in such knowledge is created a
love which in its abandonment to love, its power to achieve, its
strength to endure, a life opens before us that can never be attained
when fettered within prescribed limits.

It was thus that Imelda felt, and to point out to Norman the way wherein
he would be enabled to obtain the same views was what she felt to be now
her task. But oh, the difficulty, the magnitude of her task! At least
such it seemed to her.

Then, too, there arose another specter from the dark past. Norman
Carlton was the descendant of a proud family. In time past they had
ranked with the proudest and wealthiest of the country, and were still
reckoned among the first. His mother was a dainty aristocrat, his
sisters cultured and refined ladies. No doubt the pride of blood had
been instilled into his mind from early infancy. Would his love stand
the test of Imelda’s past? Her father? Yes, her father had been a man as
cultured and refined as ever a Carlton had been,—she felt that. But on
the side of her mother she knew it was different. Then like dark
apparitions appeared before her mind’s eye the forms of Cora and Frank.
These two were certainly living proofs (if they were yet living) of bad
blood in her veins. How would it be when this record of her gloomy past
was laid before him? Would he stand the test?

True, Imelda understood, with the high ideals she possessed, that if he
did not stand those tests he was unworthy her love. But again, love in
its unborn glory fails to grasp such philosophy, and longs only for the
completion of the union of loving hearts. With all these difficulties in
mind Imelda was not looking to the distant future. It was rather the
near future with which she had to contend, the winning of her best loved
lover.

After parting from Norman under the waving maple trees and after being
refreshed by a healthful sleep her mind wandered to those other friends
in their distant western home, and, grasping her pen, she spent two
hours in writing; at the end of which time two closely written sheets
lay before her. Having sealed and mailed the same she joined Alice and
the two little ones at the breakfast table. Lawrence Westcot had
breakfasted at a much earlier hour and had gone to his business. Usually
Imelda joined him, as she was an early riser, but this morning the early
hours had been given to her letter which had been directed to Margaret.

“Rather an unexpected pleasure,” was Alice’s comment as Imelda made her
appearance and seated herself at the table. She generally came to assist
the little ones, as they were sometimes unruly and clamorous until the
hungry little stomachs had been satisfied. But that she should wait so
long ere satisfying her own physical wants was a new departure and Alice
looked as though she would like an explanation. Imelda smiled.

“I have been writing letters,” she said.

Alice did not seem wholly satisfied. The new sweet light that shone in
the young girl’s eyes could hardly have been produced by the doubtful
pleasure of writing letters in the early morning hours. (Alice always
found writing letters a task.) But she asked no questions at present,
though a troubled look shadowed the blue eyes as she turned her
attention to discussing the dainty meal before her. Imelda attended to
the wants of the little ones first and then sent them scampering off for
a morning romp. Scarcely had their childish forms disappeared from view
when an anxious “Well?” dropped from the lips of Alice. Imelda smiled.
Feigning not to understand, she repeated the “Well,” with an additional
“What is it?”

“O, pshaw, Imelda,” she said, “You cannot deceive me; something has
happened, and you may as well tell me first as last.”

Imelda’s laugh rang out merrily at this assumption of the little lady.

“Your sense of perception is very acute this morning, but I will no
longer keep you in suspense. Norman Carlton made me an offer of marriage
last evening.”

“You have accepted!” exclaimed Alice. For the moment it was hard to read
the pale, immovable features.

“No I have not accepted.” Alice sighed, while a puzzled expression
settled upon her face. She found the young girl rather difficult to
understand. Why was she so slow in telling what there was to tell?

“Finish your breakfast, Alice, and then I will tell you all.” Thus
assured a little more attention was paid to the tempting viands, but
Alice for some time was toying impatiently with her knife, waiting until
the imperturbable Imelda should be done with her breakfast. Presently
she folded her napkin, thus indicating that she was through. Then she
arose and said:

“Come, Alice, we will go either to your room or mine where we can talk
undisturbed.” The proposition met the favor of the young woman and soon
they were seated in the cosy room of the fair mistress.

Alice listened while Imelda took her into her confidence and told her
the story of her love. She knew of Imelda’s aversion to marriage. She
had come to understand some of her views and though she did not indorse
them yet she could not but recognize much in them that would prove an
everlasting blessing to humanity could they be put into practice. She
felt if it were opportune she would not hesitate to hold out her longing
hands for the tempting boon of freedom. Had she not told Imelda of
moments when she felt like cursing the fetters that bound her even
though they were golden? But Lawrence Westcot was known as an honorable
man; one who heaped upon his wife golden favors; who daily sought to
strew her pathway with flowers. All of this was true, yet time and again
the blue eyes would fill with tears. The merry sprite was not always
such when within her own chamber, and Imelda’s confidence called forth
no answering smile, and yet Imelda knew she always wore her brightest
smile when the handsome young man was a visitor at their home. With an
effort Alice banished the gloomy look and wished her friend happiness
when she would become the wife of Norman Carlton.

“But,” said Imelda, “have I not told you? I will never be his wife.”



                              CHAPTER XXI.


“You will never—be—his wife? And yet you are happy—in his love? Imelda,
what do you mean?”

“I mean,” Imelda replied, “to be wiser than you were, little one. I mean
to always keep my lover.”

This was too much, and Alice burst into tears. That Imelda was surprised
was a mild way of expressing her emotion. A dim suspicion was born in
her mind, which, however, she tried to repress. No, no; she did not
believe it,—and yet it might be. She would watch, she would see. Taking
the excited little woman in her arms, Imelda kissed and tried to soothe
her, and after a time was apparently successful. Then she went to look
after her little charges. No sooner had the door closed upon her
retreating figure than Alice with trembling fingers locked it and
casting herself upon the bed burst into a storm of sobs, for which there
was no apparent cause, and which were so passionate that the merry
mistress of the beautiful home could scarcely be recognized.

Surely a strange creature is woman. Of unfathomable depths her caprices;
whose moods are so various that it would prove an almost impossible task
to solve the pretty riddle. In some such way as this the conventional
novelist would doubtless comment upon the action of Alice, but we know
better than to judge her thus. It was neither a caprice nor mood that
caused the bitter sobs to shake her to her inmost being. She was no
riddle. It was all plain enough to those who would see. Nature’s voice
was clamoring for nature’s own. But man-made laws, with iron hand, stood
between.

Alice had not known why,—why, spite of the disgust she sometimes felt at
the life surrounding her, she yet was light and happy. She had not yet
understood what it was that brought the sunshine to banish the clouds of
her life. But what had she to complain of? If you had asked her I doubt
if she would have been able to clearly answer the question, yet it was
all so clear, so apparent.

Her husband was all that has been stated, but no special credit could
attach to him for that. Wealth was his to command. He never thought of
refusing any wish of hers that money could satisfy. If any one had
accused Lawrence Westcot of unkindness to his wife he would have opened
wide his eyes in surprise. Did she not have everything that heart could
desire? That she would turn from him when he approached her; that little
ripples of disgust shook her frame as he bent to kiss her; that her eyes
would flash in angry scorn when he attempted to secure to himself the
rights the law gave him—certainly was not his fault. That he was not
fine-grained enough to desist on such occasions could be no reason for
laying blame on his shoulders. Was she not _his_?—his by the wholly
rites of matrimony? And why should she not comply with his desires and
demands?

And yet, handsome Lawrence Westcot was a favorite wherever he went,
especially with the fair sex. Strong, healthy, full of spirits, there
were few who stopped to look for traces of greater refinement, but
rather enjoyed the fiery look that would sometimes cause a rush of blood
to the fair face that came under its power.

But we will leave Lawrence Westcot for the present and return to Imelda.
As nothing happened during the hours of the day that would be of
interest to us we pass them over until the shades of evening brought her
handsome lover to her side. She had donned a soft white cashmere. No
ornament of any kind, only a snowy rosebud nestling amidst the dusky
coils of hair. The flushed cheek and the happy light in the dark eyes
made a picture to gladden the heart of any lover. She was sitting in a
reclining position in a large arm chair, shading her eyes from the
bright light of the chandelier, with a fan artistically finished with
black lace, sparkling with diamond dust, a present of the fair Alice,
who was sitting at the piano, softly playing an accompaniment to a sad
little air that she was singing. A mass of pink gauze enveloped Alice’s
slender form like a cloud, from which the shoulders rose and gleamed
like marble. A beautiful picture, thought Norman, as he stood in the
open doorway.

But another had also been feasting his eyes upon the fair form. From the
low French window which led to the balcony without, another pair of eyes
were gazing upon Imelda’s fresh young beauty. Lawrence Westcot was
standing there in the shadow of the night. Not a glance did he have just
then for the little woman who was his wife and who was softly singing to
herself. His whole being was thrilled by that other who now glanced
toward the door. The look which beamed from her face at that moment was
a revelation to him and the look on Norman’s face corroborated it.
Muttering a curse his teeth sank deep into his lip. Quickly he stepped
further into the darkness and was lost in the winding walks of the
beautiful garden.

Intuitively Norman knew, when his eyes rested on Imelda’s figure, that
she had dressed for him. Never had she appeared anything but beautiful
to him, but tonight she seemed to surpass herself. He had never seen her
in anything but somber black, or at best in a soft, unassuming gray
gown; so that the effect of the pure white of her attire this evening
was a revelation. After greeting the hostess he seated himself at the
side of his loved one. Alice meanwhile, continuing her singing,
evidently trying in vain to hide the tears in her voice. But her fear
was needless. The world for these two did not extend to where she was
sitting. They were wholly absorbed in each other.

Finding herself so utterly overlooked, Alice rose from her seat and
gliding to the open window soon found herself gazing up into the starlit
heavens. What was it that so rebelliously stirred her inmost soul? Had
the two in the parlor wronged her in any way? Were not both dearly loved
friends, and was it not her desire that both should be happy? Slipping
down from the balcony into the walk below which was flanked on either
side with blooming plants, Alice fled down, down until the splashing of
a fountain greeted her ear, beside which she now sank. Dipping her hand
into the cool water she let it play over the white fingers. Her bosom
heaved and in a little while the crystal drops from her eyes mingled
with the sparkling waters of the fountain. She was fighting out a
battle, here under the starlit heavens. How dare she own even to herself
what it was that moved her so? Was it the poisoned arrows of Imelda’s
views that had sunk deep into her soul?

“No, no!” was the answer she made to this question; “Be truthful. When
you acknowledge so much, go farther and acknowledge still more. Remember
this man was your friend long ere Imelda came to be a pleasant companion
in your house; long ere you ever heard one word of the girl’s beautiful
doctrine. His voice was music, his smile heaven to you.

“But oh, I did not, could not know,” continued the unhappy woman to
herself. “Only when she came and told me of what she had won, did my
heart awake and realize what its cravings are; what all this sunshine in
my life means. Now all will be darkness, utter darkness!” and as if the
climax had now been reached the white hand covered the quivering face,
and the pearly drops trickled from between her fingers.

After awhile the storm in the heaving bosom was somewhat allayed; her
breathing became more regular, the sobs ceased and removing her hands
she was about to lave the tear-stained face in the cool water when she
became aware of the near presence of a man, whom she now saw was leaning
against a large fir tree and watching her every movement.

The suddenness of her discovery almost caused Alice to scream. Although
the man had risen she could not for the moment decide who he might be,
as he was standing in the shadows, but seeing that he was discovered he
stepped out into the full light and—with a gasp Alice recognized her
husband. How long had he been standing there, how long had he been
watching her? A somewhat defiant air settled upon her countenance as
without a word she proceeded to lave her face, as she had intended
doing.

“Rather a queer place for making your toilet, is it not?” he queried. “I
believe there could have been more suitable places found in your home.”

Alice would rather not have answered, but felt it was not good policy to
pass his words over unnoticed.

“I have a splitting headache, and came out into the open air and it was
very tempting to feel the cool water on my burning temple.”

His lip curled. “I have not the least doubt,” he made answer, “that your
head aches. It seems to be the natural result when a woman indulges in
such a ‘good cry’ as I have witnessed during the last half hour. Was the
cry a result of the headache or the headache the result of the cry?”

Alice detected the sneer underlying the words, but chose to appear
unconscious.

“Whichever you please; my pain is great enough to cause the tears, and
tears again are liable to produce headache.”

“Prevaricating!” he sneered. “But, my lady, I see deeper, and have been
seeing rather deep for some time past. But to change the subject, I have
had a revelation tonight. Our friends, your friend and mine, have
concluded to become more than friends; that is, if appearances do not
deceive.”

His eyes were resting searchingly upon the face of the woman before him,
and his cunning was in vain. Not a line of the pale face moved. She
continued laving the aching brow and swollen eyelids and vouchsafed him
no answer.

“You heard what I said?”

“I heard what you said.”

“Well, what do you think of it?”—this time impatiently.

“Think of it? What could I think of it but that Imelda could not do
better. I must compliment you on having a friend whom I consider a
gentleman in every respect.”

“O, indeed! It is quite a compliment I must acknowledge, but if you
think you have washed yourself enough permit me to remind you it would
now be in good taste to return to the house and pay just a little
attention to our guest.”

For some reason he was pleased to be most sarcastic tonight. Such moods
she feared. His tongue was then sharper than a two-edge sword. So then
she drew the filmy lace handkerchief from her bosom and proceeded to
wipe the water from her face. Suddenly, and taking her quite unawares,
he bent and kissed the white shoulder. As if stung by an asp she pushed
him from her with such force that he nearly fell backward into the
water.

“How dare you?” she exclaimed. His face was white to the lips.

“I will show you how I dare if you dare to repeat such an action. A
pretty pass it has come to, if I may not kiss my own wife when I choose.
Return to the house with me at once. This moonlit show has been kept up
long enough.”



                             CHAPTER XXII.


Without a single word Alice turned and walked back to the house with her
husband at her side, but when they returned to the brightly lighted
rooms they found them empty. Norman and Imelda had disappeared.

Alice, to avoid further persecution, fled to her own room where she
hastily disrobed and sought her couch, but her temples were throbbing in
a manner that did not promise sleep. She lay for some time pressing her
hands to the aching head, when she heard steps outside her door and
immediately after a quick rap. She recognized both step and rap. She lay
with bated breath, giving no indication that she heard, when the rap was
repeated more loud and forcible than before. Again no answer. A third
time the rap was repeated, accompanied by a loud demand to open
immediately.

“Not tonight, Lawrence,” came in pleading, quavering accents. “I am sick
tonight.”

“Open!” he demanded.

“Please, Lawrence,” pleaded the voice within.

“Will you open?” came threateningly from the outside. Trembling in every
nerve Alice rose and unlocked the door to admit the man she called
husband.

“What do you mean?” he asked, grasping her arm in a manner anything but
gentle, “what do you mean by locking your door?”

By this time Alice was wrought up to a hysterical pitch. With a quick
movement she threw off the hand that held her.

“I locked the door to be safe from intrusion. I am sick tonight, and
wish to be alone.”

“I dare say,” was the unfeeling response. “If it had been some one else
who wished admittance, our honored guest, for instance, the door would
not have been so firmly locked. Your husband, however, is not so
welcome.”

“Lawrence!” almost shrieked the sorely tried woman. “How dare you!”

“O, I dare anything, as you will soon find. Just now, I order you back
to your bed, and to keep quiet until I join you, in a few moments.”

“Lawrence! You—do—not—mean to stay?” gasped the poor suffering woman.

“Well, I—just—mean—to—stay;” mimicking her frenzied appeal.

“But I am sick tonight, oh, so sick!”

“The sickness then must be rather sudden. But madam, it is rather a
flimsy trick to rid yourself of your husband’s presence. I advise you,
however, to take matters more coolly. By this time you ought to
understand and to know who will come out victor.”

And Alice did know who came out victor in this instance. But the morning
dawned upon a fever-flushed face, and ere the sun was many hours in the
heavens a doctor stood at the bedside of the little wife, who gravely
shook his head as he listened to the ravings of his patient, which—if
such utterances can be relied upon—revealed a tale of woe to the
attendants that ought to fill the heart of every true woman and man with
horror.

The hours passed into days and the days into weeks, and yet the fever
raged unabated. Imelda, who passed the days and nights in sleepless
anxiety at the sick woman’s bedside was well nigh worn out, even though
an experienced nurse was there to share the responsibilities and care.
The little ones were banished to another portion of the house, so that
their childish prattle and laughter might not disturb the sick mother.
Lawrence Westcot came and went to and from the sick chamber, wearing a
gloomy countenance, but his presence there was not at all helpful, as it
invariable caused the patient to be very uneasy and restless, even
though he did not come within the range of her vision. She seemed to
feel his presence and the physician fearing the effect upon her nervous
system advised the husband to make his visits short. Sometimes he bent
above her, laying his hand upon her fevered brow. Unconscious though she
was she would with a quick nervous movement throw his hand aside,
muttering incoherent words.

Both Imelda and the nurse observed that invariably the sick woman would
be worse after those visits of the husband; although of short duration
they were glad when they were over.

Almost three weeks passed ere the much-feared crisis came. By this time
the patient was very weak and it was apparent that life hung by a
thread. Anxiously bending over the couch the two friends watched while
the clock ticked the hours away. Slowly they crept on; slowly, softly,
almost imperceptibly the life of the sufferer seemed to ebb away.

Twelve, one, two o’clock, and still no change. Half past two, the door
of the room softly opened and Lawrence Westcot entered. Imelda’s heart
gave a bound. Why must he come at such a time? Stepping softly he drew
near. Imelda placed her finger upon her lips in token of caution. Coming
close to the side of the dying woman he stood gazing down upon her. What
his thoughts might be could not be known from the calm, unmoved
appearance of his countenance, but certainly they were not pleasant
thoughts. How could they be, when he so well knew what had brought his
wife so close to death’s door? If she should die, would not her death
lie at his door? Would he not be compelled to own himself her murderer?

Five, ten minutes passed, then Alice moved. Imelda laid her hand upon
his arm and bent a pleading look upon him. Immediately he stepped back
into the shadows of the room and there waited the issue. Restlessly the
head moved upon the pillow. The eyelids quivered and fluttered open, the
lips moved, Imelda bent to catch the low whisper that was merely a
breath.

“Water!” came faint, scarcely audible, from the fever-parched lips. With
a teaspoon a few drops at a time were administered, the patient
apparently gaining strength from the cooling liquid. The blue eyes
opened wide, but they were clear with the light of reason. Presently
they closed again, and soon a slow, even breathing told that sleep,
natural restful sleep, had once more come to the sufferer’s relief. The
nurse bent above her and listened, laying her fingers upon the
fluttering pulse. Presently, standing erect, she whispered:

“She is safe for tonight. I will continue the watch. Miss Ellwood, you
had better retire and rest.”

Imelda’s breast was heaving. The strain had been a severe one, and
feeling that it would be impossible long to control herself she hastily
left the room, followed by Westcot. Just outside the door he laid his
hand upon her arm.

“She will be saved, you think?” He seemed to be anxious and serious. Had
not this man with his cruelty almost murdered the woman who was as yet
lying at death’s door? It cost Imelda an effort to be civil.

“I believe so,” she answered. “According to the doctor’s statement if
she should safely pass this night there is every hope of her recovery.”

For several moments he did not answer, then—“Thank you,” and ere Imelda
was aware of his intention he had taken her hand and lifting it he
quickly touched it with his lips. With a hasty movement she withdrew her
hand, but before she could speak he had said “Goodnight,” and swiftly
walking away left her standing there alone.

Imelda stood looking at the hand he had kissed, and then with an
unconscious movement drew her handkerchief across the spot his lips had
touched. She shuddered. What did it mean? Without waiting to answer her
own question she turned and hastily sought her room. She was tired, O,
so tired. Never since Alice had been tossing in the fever had she known
what it was to sleep a whole night through. Snatching an hour, or two at
most, always ready at a moment’s notice to return to her post at the
side of the sick one, she had scarce found time to eat or catch a breath
of fresh air,—and now it was three o’clock in the morning. O, how
tempting looked the snowy draped bed. She felt as if she could sink into
its soft embrace, never to rise again. The night was already well
advanced; two or three hours at most was all she expected to sleep. The
faithful nurse was just as much in need of rest as herself. A moment she
hesitated. Should she risk it? The nurse was positive that for the rest
of the night Alice would sleep. She no longer hesitated, but hastily
disrobing and donning a snowy nightdress, scarce had her head touched
the pillow when she was already unconscious and in the land of dreams.



                             CHAPTER XXIII.


For the first time Imelda’s mind was free. She had left Alice sleeping.
Not in a dull, feverish stupor, constantly interrupted with delirious
mutterings but sleeping, actually and really sleeping. And although her
breathing was only a gentle fluttering, it was so weak, it was a quiet
sleep, and she knew that for a few hours, at least, she could safely
trust her to the faithful nurse. So Imelda slept the sleep of the just.

When the morning sunlight streamed through the open window, flooding the
room with its bright glory, a servant had softly entered and with deft
fingers closed the shutters, darkening the room so that the slumbers of
the completely exhausted girl might not be disturbed; the nurse
meanwhile remaining faithful and true to her trust. Now and then a maid
softly opened the door to listen, but Imelda slept on, and when the
doctor came he gave the order to let her sleep by all means, until she
should awake of herself. So the hours of the day passed and the evening
shades were falling ere that death-like sleep was lifted and Imelda
opened her eyes. The deep hush and darkness that prevailed left her for
a long time in semi-unconsciousness, a delicious drowsiness folding her
in its power, but by and by it passed away, leaving her brain more
clear, and presently, all in an instant, she knew and remembered.

But how long had she slept? It was three o’clock when she sought her bed
and only two hours before the morning light would appear. It was still
dark, yet she did not feel as if she had slept only a short time, but
rather had the sensation of having slept a long while, she was so wide
awake, and—yes! she was hungry, very hungry. She reached out her hand
for her watch, which she remembered having placed upon the stand near
the bedside. It was there, but when she placed it to her ear she made
the discovery that it had stopped. Then she struck a light, having a
lucifer always within reach. By the flickering flame she saw that her
watch had stopped at twenty minutes of two. A puzzled look overspread
her face. What did it mean? Just then she thought she heard a footstep
outside her door; the next instant the door was softly opened.

“Who is there?” she hastily inquired, her heart giving a bound, as she
was not in the habit of leaving her door unlocked. Could she have
forgotten it? A soft laugh answered her.

“Is it you, Mary?” she asked, recognizing the voice.

“Yes, Miss Imelda, it is I. Have you decided to return to life? I was
beginning to fear you were going to sleep right over into the next
world.”

“Why, what time is it?” was Imelda’s next question, still surprised and
puzzled.

“Almost eight o’clock.”

“Eight o’clock! Why, Mary, you ought to have called me ere this. Mrs.
Boswell ought to have been relieved some time ago. But why is it so
dark? I thought I had the windows open.”

“So you had. I made free to close them but will open them now,” saying
which the girl unfastened and opened the shutters. Instead of the bright
sunshine, as Imelda had expected, only a hazy twilight filled it with
dim shadows.

“What does this mean?” she stammered. “Why, it is quite dark. Did you
not say that it is almost eight o’clock?” She was growing impatient.
Mary’s laugh again rang through the room.

“Yes,” she said “it is eight o’clock, not in the morning but in the
evening.”

Imelda was sitting bolt upright in bed now.

“What! Do you mean to say that I have slept all day through?”

“Just that, and nothing else.”

“O, that was wrong! I ought to have been called long ago. How is——” she
stopped, a sudden fear holding her tongue a prisoner.

“Mrs. Westcot is getting better,”—supplementing the unfinished question
and answering it at the same time. “She, like yourself, has been
sleeping all day.”

“And Mrs. Boswell——?”

“Has also had a nap while I sat with Mrs. Westcot, and if you will rise
and dress I will prepare you some—breakfast,” and laughing again she
disappeared leaving Imelda to her own reflections, but first having lit
the gas overhead. No hesitation now. Hastily she arose and quickly made
her toilet. Donning a wrapper she twisted the dark hair into a shining
coil, and in a few minutes descended to the dining room where Mary had
spread for her a tempting meal.

Imelda was a favorite with the servants, who were always willing to do a
favor for this fair girl from the west, who was so considerate. It was
well known that Mrs. Westcot was also from the western metropolis, and
they often wondered if people in the west generally were so kind and
considerate. It would have been impossible for the gentle-hearted Alice
to assume aristocratic airs, therefore she could always depend upon her
servants, and all hearts were filled with fear while the gentle mistress
was raving of real or fancied woes, and when at last, after weary weeks,
the crisis was over, it was as if a heavy cloud had passed away, and the
gloomy faces were bright.

Having done ample justice to the generous repast, and feeling much
refreshed, Imelda sped to the chamber above. Softly she opened the door
and moved to the bedside. Mrs. Boswell was sitting with her elbow
resting upon the bed, her head upon her hand. She never moved as Imelda
stepped to her side. Bending down she found that the nurse was fast
asleep. A pang smote her that while she, in the strength of youth, had
slept the day away the much older woman had continued at her post. True,
Mary had said that she had relieved her for awhile, but Imelda knew that
she, like herself, needed a good long rest, and she decided that she
should have it. Seeing that Alice too was sleeping, she gently touched
Mrs. Boswell on the shoulder and slightly shaking her the nurse awoke
with a start. Imelda held up a warning finger to prevent her from making
an outcry. But the woman was frightened. She felt guilty at having been
found asleep at her post of duty. Hastily reaching for her watch she
breathed a sigh of relief.

“Only ten minutes,” she whispered. “She has been sleeping so long,”
indicating Alice, “that I suppose the quiet has overpowered me.”

“And no wonder,” said Imelda,—“you are certainly in need of rest. I will
now take your place while you sleep all night and all day tomorrow, too,
if you wish. So just give me the directions for tonight, and then away
to your couch.” The woman smiled.

“Thank you. I am only too glad to accept.” After giving the proper
directions she added: “And now if you will excuse me I will accept your
kind offer and sleep. Mary took my place for several hours or I fear I
could not have held out. In the morning I will be ready to take my place
again.”

So the nurse withdrew and left Imelda alone with her sick friend, and as
she largely imitated the example of the young girl and slept until the
afternoon of the next day, Imelda had a long watch before her.

But we are forestalling. While the nurse has gone to recruit her
strength in sleep we will remain with Imelda and follow the outline of
her thoughts as she watched her sick friend. Over three weeks have now
passed since the promenade of the lovers in the moonlight under the
silver maples,—the evening after that on which for the first time she
had discarded her mourning garments, when they had spent two happy hours
together, Imelda adroitly preventing a repetition of the pleadings of
the night before. She was happy, and was willing that Norman should know
it. He in turn had been content to drink the kisses from the dewy lips
and leave the morrow to take care of itself.

Since that evening Imelda had seen but little of her lover. If he came
in the evening she scarcely ever had longer than a half hour to give
him. The cloud that hung above this house was too dark to admit of much
happiness or joy for them. On the other hand it did not give them the
leisure to discuss the question nearest their hearts, and Imelda did not
wish it just now.

Long ere this, had the answer come to the long letter that she had
written to Margaret. But not alone in Margaret’s delicate tracing had
the answer come. A long letter had also come in the bolder handwriting
of Wilbur Wallace. Her heart gave a bound as she recognized the hand,
while the rich blood rushed in a hot wave to her face dyeing her
temples, ears and neck. What would he have to say? With a beating heart
she had opened it. Something impelled her to lay Margaret’s aside until
she first perused Wilbur’s letter.



                             CHAPTER XXIV.


With Imelda we will read Wilbur’s letter:


“MY DARLING: The fact that I am writing this to you must of necessity be
proof that Margaret has laid before me your letter containing the news
that already the event has come into your life which I, in our parting
hour, prophesied would come. Though I still claim you as my darling, and
though my heart still goes to meet you with the same tender emotions, I
cannot do otherwise than say I am pleased. I am glad that that other has
so soon stepped into your life, and, building upon the past, I take the
responsibility on myself of giving the advice you ask of Margaret.

“The fact alone that you love this man, that your heart has so fully
gone into his keeping, is to me the best evidence of his
trustworthiness. Not but that you, as well as many another, are liable
to make mistakes as to the character of any individual you may come in
contact with, but in a case of spontaneous love I feel and know that the
purity of mind itself, of which you are possessed, would intuitively
recognize that which is not equally pure.

“That Norman should still be bound by old superstitions and creeds may
prove an obstacle to the speedy consummation of your love. It is here
your work begins; here your strength will be tested. If you would be a
priestess in our holy work you will be expected to remain true to the
sentiments you have so often expressed. Your soul must remain free and
unfettered, even though the man may be purity personified. Not a
semblance even of the power the law gives to a husband must you put into
his hands. If your love is great enough to trust him he will be generous
enough to trust you, or he is not the man he has represented himself to
be. If he is not generous enough to trust you, then your intuition will
have been at fault—the blindness of a common love has been laid upon
your vision.

“Where lies the beginning of your work?—you ask. I will tell you. Your
first duty is one that you owe to him and to yourself. You say that in
your past life lie hidden many dark spots. It is your duty in this case
to lay bare these dark spots in the full light of day. It is thus you
will test his strength of character. As he comes of a long line of
Puritan ancestors this will be necessary. The old prejudices may be so
deeply rooted that, rather than take to his arms one who, although not
responsible for the actions of others, may by the ties of blood be
allied to those that are, he may be willing to crush out a love that
would leave his own heart mangled and bleeding. If such should be the
case, my little girl, I understand full well that bitter pain must then
for a while gnaw at the cords of your heart. But it will pass, and in
passing leave you purer and stronger than ever.

“If, on the other hand, he stands the test I feel sure it will be only a
short time until his whole soul will come to understand the grand
sublimity of full and untrammeled liberty. Love cannot be fettered. Love
will always remain free; the greater his freedom the more certainty is
ours of retaining him to make bright our lives. Try to fetter him, he
unfolds his wings and mockingly takes his departure. Then, what are we
to do with our empty lives?

“In justice to woman we must admit that she is at the greater
disadvantage, no matter in what light the case may be placed. In
marriage, it matters not how just may be the man whom she calls ‘lord,’
she is, she remains, his property, according to the mandates of the law.
No matter how willing he may be that she shall enjoy perfect freedom,
society takes it upon itself to place a watch upon her. If her husband
has no sense of honor, or of what is due to himself, the stern finger of
the law points it out to him. Society prepares a code for her that she
is bound to respect and accept as her guide. The path which he is asked
to walk is not nearly so straight. There are many recesses and angles in
it, if he chooses to explore them. If he does so quietly nothing will be
said.

“On the other hand, we know only too well if woman refuses marriage, it
is equivalent to throwing away all hope of ever enjoying life as nature
has designed. If she dares to thus enjoy she is ostracized from society.

“At the present time we are still in the dark. But may we not hope,
sometime, to grow strong enough to defy the mandates of society? May not
love find a way that shall yet defy all the lynx-eyed agents of a
corrupt moral code? May we not hope that man and woman both may yet be
natural as the new-born babe, when it is first placed in the mother’s
arms—at nature’s fount?

“Will you be strong, my Imelda? Think you, you can take your Norman by
the hand and lead him on until he stands upon your own sublime heights?
Until he stands at your side? Then side by side to explore the unknown
heights that still lie beyond your field of vision?

“Be brave, my precious one; be strong, and when the time comes when we
shall meet again (and I feel that it will come), and I fold you to my
heart, pressing warm kisses on your lips, some prophetic spirit tells me
that your Norman will stand by and understand.

“There must and will come a time when the full glory of a free love will
be understood and enjoyed. So look up to the goal in view; bravely work
on, and remember there is strength in the knowledge of unity of thought
and purpose of those who work in a like cause, even though your friends
with their supporting love are distant. Remaining as ever, loving you
with a love that is absolutely pure, I am yours for truth of purpose,
and for the best humanity.

                                                                WILBUR.”


A long drawn sigh escaped the lips of Imelda as she laid the closely
written sheets upon her knees. Well she knew that he was right. In the
still hours of the night watches, by the side of the sick friend the
thought had come to her again that open truth was the only course for
her to pursue. But oh, how gigantic the task appeared. In all the three
weeks the subject had never been touched upon again by them. Few indeed
had been the moments she had been able to accord him, her strength being
tested to its utmost in her capacity as nurse. Being well aware of the
state of things Norman Carlton was far too noble to press for the reason
of the loved girl’s views at such a time. For the present he accepted
the boon of her love as a priceless jewel of whose possession he was
assured.

But Imelda knew that the hour was coming when he would expect an answer
to his question, and, as Wilbur had stated, it was then her work would
begin. If she dreaded that coming hour, was she to blame? Folding the
letter she placed it back in the envelope and with the action there came
to her with overwhelming force, the realization of the grandeur of this
man’s character. What purity, what nobility! Even as the new love more
fully filled out her life so did she understand better the true worth of
the man who had first called her love into being.

“O, Margaret darling,” was her mental comment, “when your heart chose
Wilbur as its best beloved, it made a grand selection; no one will ever
find his way into your life who will be able to look to you from a
loftier height than that upon which he stands.”

Recalling her wandering thoughts she next opened the epistle from
Margaret, for such it proved to be. Such a long, warm, glowing letter;
overflowing with the love her pure young heart contained. She had filled
page after page, concluding with the words:


“And now my dearest girl, I think I have made my meaning clear. I have
given you the best advice that I know of. I know, however, that it is
the same as Wilbur’s, only perhaps in other words, and I feel that now
we shall not be disappointed in our brave girl. Let me add one thing. I
understand fully how difficult the making of such a revelation will
prove; and yet it _must_ be made. I can see nothing else you can do and
remain true to yourself and lover. Not the shadow of a suspicion, of a
deception, must lie between you. I will not say disgrace; that will
exist, if it exist at all, only in Norman’s _mind_. But now for my
advice:

“Write the history of your life. That will be easier. You can tell him
all, everything, without the disadvantage of seeing in his face the
emotions that such a history might call into play. He will have time to
think and understand the full import of it all. You will not then
receive an immediate answer prompted by an impulse that might prove a
barrier to your love. Cool, calm reflection is necessary in such a case,
and as my own Imelda possesses her full share of common sense she can
but see the wisdom of such a course.

“Be brave, my dearest friend, my own loved one. If this man is worthy of
your love he will stand the test. If he does not stand it, then I can
but say he was not worthy. And now remember—three hearts beat in love
for you, and the united strength of that love is bent on the success of
your heart’s dearest hope (for of course my mother knows), and hoping to
be reunited in a not too distant future, thus writes and advises your
most sincere and loving friend,

                                                              MARGARET.”


This letter had been folded and placed side by side with that other one.
Long had Imelda sat with bowed head and folded hands. Yes! both kind and
loving friends were right. An inner voice told her this was the only
course to pursue. But the condition of the sick friend had not permitted
her to think of it. Every minute of her time had been devoted to her.
Her lover must wait until the dark, uncertain hours would be past; but
now as Imelda sat and watched the peaceful sleeper, she realized that
she could not spend the long hours of the night watch to better
advantage than in the performance of this duty. The dreaded hour had
passed; hope and sunshine were again seeking admittance at the portals
of this home, and Norman was waiting, patiently waiting, for his answer.
So when the morning broke, with its pale light, she folded the closely
written sheets. With trembling hands and beating heart she wrote the
address and sent them to their destination. Would he stand the test?
When tried by this crucial ordeal, would he prove faithful and true?



                              CHAPTER XXV.


The sultry summer day was at its close, and Norman Carlton had just
finished reading the letter that Imelda had written the night before. A
troubled look was upon the frank and honest face, as he stood at the
open window looking out at the falling shadows, but seeing nothing. In
one hand he still held the fateful sheets; the other hand he held to his
aching temples. He stood and gazed until dusky twilight faded into
starlit night. Ever and anon a deep sigh escaped the drawn lips as he
thought, and thought, and thought.

But what was it he thought? Did that miserable tale of woe show him only
the impracticability of an alliance with a child of the people? A woman
whose mother had no right, according to the views of society, to the
title of “lady;” whose sister had made an outcast of herself; whose
brother might, even now, be occupying the cell of a criminal; whose past
life had been one long privation and struggle with fate. His own lady
mother and sister! Was it not his duty to first consult their views,
their feeling upon the matter?

Or was it that he was made of more noble material? Were his views so
broad that it was of no consequence what the world might say? It could
hardly be expected, when we consider the training of his past life, that
he would now have no battle to fight. It was not pleasant to know that
the woman who had won his love should be so unpleasantly connected, but
while this knowledge was to him most depressing, it also had the effect
of raising, many fold, the respect he held for her. What could have been
easier for her than to keep these matters secret? It gave him a better
insight into the nobility of her character. She at least was truth
itself. She would prove trustworthy. She was above reproach. He was
doing battle with the old prejudices based on society codes, as they
rose, one by one, to assail his love.

But to do him justice his love wavered not for one instant. If the
setting be tarnished, will that fact diminish the lustre of the diamond?
He knew that his jewel was of the purest; why should the setting trouble
him? But all was not yet plain to him. He remembered that night under
the maples; when she had refused him marriage—not love. Love she had
given then as freely as now. He saw it then, he knew it now. But now
again she makes the same refusal. “You understand now,” she wrote, “why
it is that I cannot marry you.”

His noble manhood was all alert now. Does she think so meanly, so basely
of him as to suppose that he would add to the burden that had so many
years been resting upon those slender shoulders, by withdrawing his
proposal? If that is what she thinks, her opinion of him is not so
exalted as he could wish and—he must seek her—must see her tonight. With
him to think was to act, and a few minutes later finds him on the way to
the woman of his choice. It was with a dazed feeling that he stood upon
the marble steps awaiting an answer to his ring. What would be the
outcome of this night’s quest?

His card again found her at the bedside of the patient preparing for
another long night watch by herself. Her heart beat high when the little
bit of pasteboard was placed in her hand. Mrs. Boswell had not yet
retired. She saw the flush steal over the fair brow and an understanding
came intuitively to her as to what it meant. It was not so many years
ago that she too had received a lover’s visit, and she knew so well that
since the illness of Mrs. Westcot the young girl had no time to spend on
friends or lovers. So she kindly said:

“Go and see your friend. I am not tired tonight and can well remain
several hours longer.” With an appreciative “Thank you” Imelda accepted
the kind offer and descended to the drawing room, where but one jet of
gas was burning which but dimly lit the room.

Scarcely had she entered when she felt herself folded with strong arms
to a wildly beating heart. Lips that whispered, “My own love,” were
pressed firmly to hers. Her heart was full, her bosom heaving. That he
held her thus was ample proof that to him she was just as lovable now as
before he knew her wretched story. Brushing the soft dusky waves of hair
from the flushed temples, he asked:

“Will my girl have a little while to spare for me tonight? I would have
you walk with me under the maples. Will you come?” Without a word she
turned to the hallway and taking a soft white scarf from a rack, threw
it over her shoulders and said:

“Now, I am ready.” Together they wended their way to the silver leaved
trees where once more they paced back and forth, his arm about the
graceful form, his head bent until it rested against hers. Every
attitude betokened the love they bore each other. O, how he talked, how
he plead. But the slender girl at his side was strong and firm. She
understood the ground she was treading upon. She met him at every turn.

He loved her, and as he listened to her arguments, as he watched the
sparkle of her eye, as he got a better insight into her life, he felt
that here was indeed a woman of superior qualities, a woman possessed of
rare intellect. And as she met him, point after point, he began to see
things in a different light. Dim and hazy at first yet still he saw a
difference. Not that he showed an inclination to acknowledge the truth
of any of the pictures she painted. O, no! not quite so easy are
deep-rooted superstitions and prejudices uprooted. Yet she gave him food
for thought.

She pointed out to him conditions as they exist throughout the country,
She showed him how one vexed question is entangled with another. She
drew his attention to the masses of workers who with their dollar a
day,—sometimes a little more, sometimes even less,—have no time for
self-improvement, no time for healthful recreation. That recreation
which is of an elevating character, is quite unattainable and that which
is within their reach is of the most demoralizing kind. The swilling of
vile drinks, with vile companions in dens still more vile.

She spoke of the overburdened wife and mother, wearing away her life in
drudgery and loneliness. At the close of his day’s toil the husband
brings no love to the cheerless home. That which he had named and
believed love on their wedding day has long since fled; yet of this
union springs unwishedfor children; children gestated in an atmosphere
of hate; idiots and criminals ushered into being to fill our prisons and
insane asylums. The employer class, on the other hand, feast upon the
wealth these unfortunates produce, and by their excesses sow the seeds
of crime in their offspring.

“On all sides,” said Imelda, “through the force of circumstances young
lives are lost in the sloughs of vice and shame. Woman sells her virtue
to the highest bidder; the one for a passing hour, the other for a life
time. Which of the two is the worse? The merciless and unnatural codes
of society demand the unsexing of woman by strangling nature’s desires,
then these codes permit one man to drive her to the grave or to the mad
house through the power given to him by the law. The woman that would be
true to her normal instincts, the woman that would practicalize her
natural right of being a mother, must first sell herself for all time to
some man, who, in return, forces upon her what at first was a pleasure
and a blessing but now a hundred-fold curse. To surrender herself in
love with holiest emotions is a sin, is a demoralization. To endure the
hated embrace of the man who long since murdered every trace of that
holy love, is a duty and virtue.

“To escape such thralldom is to her an utter impossibility, as the only
way out lies through that most damnable of abominations, the divorce
court, where every pure instinct of a sensitive woman’s nature is
outraged to such extent that generally she prefers, of the two evils,
the marital outrage to that of the divorce court.

“And yet the world goes on. Ignorant mothers bear and rear ignorant
children. From their birth nature is strangled. They are fed and clothed
in an unhealthful, unnatural manner, so that the wonder is, not that
there are so many small graves but rather that so many survive. The
little girl with propensities to romp is told she is a hoyden, a tomboy.
The boy with refined sentiments, that he is a ‘sissy,’ and so on
throughout the long category. We are bound, fettered, on all sides from
the cradle to the grave. No matter what misery, what woe, springs
therefrom, never go your own way but travel only that which is mapped
out for you by custom which has been foisted upon society. O, it is so
unnatural, so miserable, this binding, this fettering, this laying down
laws that are made only to be broken.”

She had spoken rapidly, and had warmed in her enthusiasm. Her head
thrown slightly backward with a motion most graceful, her eyes shining
with a glory that was beautiful, and Norman did not fail to be struck by
it.

“How can it all affect us, my sweet?” he asked. “Are we not far above
all the horrible pictures you have drawn?”

“I hope so,” she answered. “I do, indeed, hope we are above it, but
don’t you see every picture has its ground work in the ‘Thou shalt not,’
of some law? Every picture has its clanking chains and the heaviest is
always the marriage chain. Don’t you see, don’t you understand?” He
folded her close in his arms, an action which she by no means resented.

“And must our sweet love be sacrificed because of those horrible
conditions? Have you not more faith in the voice of your heart?” Tears
sprang to her eyes. O, how hard it was to steel that heart to the
pleadings of the precious voice. How could she make him understand that
he possessed the unbounded trust, the most unconditional love of her
whole being?

“I have all the faith in the world in you,” she said, as with trembling
fingers she caressed the fair locks that fell in clustering masses over
the open noble brow.

“Can you not see, can you not understand that I love you with all the
strength of my being? Let us be happy now, in the present, in that love,
and trust to the future to lift the veil, to dispel the clouds,”—and he
could not dissuade her. He kissed the tears from the shining dark eyes.
His love for her grew with every hour. He realized that bitter suffering
in the past had sown the seed of the present strength of character and
growth of views to which until now he had given but a passing thought.



                             CHAPTER XXVI.


But now? One thing Imelda had achieved. She had led Norman into the
realms of thought. She had made him think as he had never thought
before. He now began to see the real cause of human misery. Asking a few
well directed questions he soon had the missing links needed to
supplement Imelda’s life history. She told him of the fair-haired girl
whom she loved better than a sister; the girl whose mother’s life had
been blighted through that self-same marriage curse. She told him of
that cherished friend who through the same curse had seen a worshiped
mother laid beneath the sod—which tale she ended by requesting him to
write those friends; to become acquainted with them; to test their
friendship. Norman agreed to do this, and not many days later a letter
of his was speeding across the prairies bearing his worded desire to
know better those who had in earlier days befriended his Imelda, and who
wielded such influence over her.

But to those enthralled in love’s golden fetters time speeds on rapid
wings. When Norman looked at his watch he found it pointing to half past
ten. A pang smote Imelda’s heart as she thought of the lonely watcher up
in the sick chamber, and hastily sought to disengage herself from the
encircling arms of her lover. A half dozen more love-laden kisses and
the young girl was bounding across the open grounds followed by the fond
eyes of her lover who watched her until she disappeared within the
portals of the house ere he wended his way homeward.

No sooner had Imelda stepped into the hall, softly closing the door
behind her, than, from the open door to the right, leading into the
drawing room, stepped Lawrence Westcot. Imelda drew back. She did not
care to encounter anyone just now, least of all Lawrence Westcot.
Planting himself directly across her path, but speaking with faultless
courtesy he said:

“Miss Ellwood will you grant me the favor of a few moments
conversation?” at the same time holding open the door for her to pass
through. Imelda paused, hesitating. What could Lawrence Westcot desire
to say to her? Besides it was already late. Her conscience smote her for
having absented herself so long from the sick room, and she certainly
felt no desire to be alone with this man at this hour of the evening.
But he was waiting, holding the door for her to pass through, quite as a
matter of course. Much as she was disinclined to do so she yet felt that
she could not refuse without appearing rude, and so, reluctantly passing
him she entered the room, while he closed the door after them.

The room was dimly lit, as before when she had entered it earlier in the
evening. Imelda paused under the single burning jet. He came forward and
turned it to a brighter blaze, then wheeled forward a chair for her to
be seated, but which she declined, shaking her head in a positive
manner.

“I beg your pardon, but I would rather not, Mr. Westcot. It is time I
return to Alice. Mrs. Boswell kindly relieved me this evening of several
hours of responsibility. I have already overstayed my time. I do not
wish to give it the appearance of an imposition, so if you have anything
to say to me I must beg of you to hasten.”

She had taken a step or two backward and stood with her hand resting
upon the back of the chair Westcot had placed for her, the soft folds of
the white shawl that had been loosely thrown over her head and
shoulders, the glow of health and happiness upon her cheek and in the
dark brown eyes—Lawrence Westcot felt the magic beauty of the picture
before him. It was doubtful if he heard a word of what she had spoken;
certain it was that he paid no attention to it. Suddenly Imelda became
conscious of his burning gaze, and in a moment her face was dyed from
brow to chin with a hot wave of color, and again she spoke:

“If you have something to tell me, Mr. Westcot, will you please do so
without loss of time? I do not wish that Alice should be waiting.”

“Let her wait,” he said hastily, huskily. “She is not wanting for
anything. I have just come from there. Mrs. Boswell is with her and can
manage very well. Besides, why should you make such a prisoner of
yourself? The nurse is paid for her work; let her do it. A little while
longer will not hurt her.”

Utterly surprised, Imelda for the moment was unable to speak, but almost
instantly recovering her self-possession:

“Was it to tell me this you have asked me to come in here?” He heeded
not the withering scorn in her voice, but stepping nearer he possessed
himself of one of her hands.

“Why should I not tell you that, and a great deal more if I choose?
True, you never gave me a chance, but can you not see that I madly love
you?”

“Sir! You forget yourself!” Imelda snatched her hand from him and
stepped several paces backward. Nothing daunted the next moment he again
was at her side.

“Why should I not tell you, and why should you not listen? Do I not know
your views on love and marriage? According to them you cannot deem my
love for you a crime because I am a married man.” With these words he
attempted again to take her hand, but she, by mustering all her strength
pushed him from her with such force as to almost unbalance him.

“How dare you?” she articulated. The face that only a few moments ago
was dyed scarlet was now ashen in its pallor.

“I dare it because I love you,” came in low, almost hissing tones from
lips that were now pale as hers, while his black eyes glowed like living
coals.

“Do you think I will meekly surrender you to that—no! I will not call
names—to that so-called friend of mine? I tell you no! a thousand times
no! I acknowledge no barriers, as I know you do not, and I swear to you
that you must and shall be mine!”—and ere Imelda was aware of his
intention he had gained her side, his arms like bands of iron were laid
about her shoulders, and the next instant she felt his hated kisses upon
her lips. For a moment she was powerless, and only for a moment, when
with strength of desperation she tore herself from his embrace.

“You are the most despicable creature upon this earth! I will tell you
what barriers stand between us. First and foremost your utter lack of
manhood. By whatever despicable means you may have obtained an inkling
of my views, let me tell you that you have failed, utterly failed to get
the least gleaming of the truth. Know that a creature so wholly devoid
of principle and honor may never hope to win the favor of a free woman.
Know you that love can neither be forced nor bought. When you come to
realize and understand this you may speak to me again—not until then.”

With an imperious movement she swept by him, leaving him bewildered and,
for a moment, totally subdued. Had he failed to understand her? What a
glorious creature! and what superb scorn. Did she know what stood
between Alice and him? At the thought of Alice a dark frown swept over
his face. What was the meaning of that?

Upon winged feet Imelda flew up the broad stairway and into the sick
room. Her strength was at an end. Staggering she would have fallen, had
not the nurse seen her condition in time and caught her in her arms.
Carefully she laid her upon the lounge. Alice was sleeping, as indeed
the last few days and nights she had slept almost constantly, which fact
enabled the nurse to pay all her attention for the next half hour to
this new patient. Finally Imelda returned to consciousness, but only to
break into an uncontrollable fit of weeping. For a little while the
nurse permitted this fit to have full sway, but when the storm had spent
itself and Imelda became more composed she stepped to the stand where
there was quite an array of medicines. Mixing a soothing draught she
handing it to Imelda, saying:

“Take this,” and, quite as a matter of course Imelda drank the cooling
drink.

“Now,” continued Mrs. Boswell, “go to your room and lie down.” But this
time she was not so readily obeyed. Imelda’s frame shook as with a
chill.

“I would rather not. Please let me remain where I am. I shall soon
recover and be all right again.”

“No! no! the sick room is no place to sleep. I insist that you go to
your own room and bed, if you would avoid being sick yourself.”

But Imelda on no account would have traversed the lonely hallway again
tonight, for fear of meeting in some shadowy nook the man she had just
left below in such a storm of passion. Mrs. Boswell soon realized that
for some unaccountable reason Imelda seemed afraid, though this was a
weakness she had not hitherto noticed in the girl, but she understood
too well that she was in need of perfect composure and rest, and the
sick room was no place for these. Stepping to the bedside of the
sleeping patient she bent over her and listened for a moment to the
quiet breathing; then she said:

“Come, I will go with you. It will be perfectly safe to leave our
patient for a few moments.” Then taking the agitated girl by the hand,
she led her through the hallway to her own room. Lighting the gas jet
she next turned down the bed clothes and quietly but quickly assisted
her to disrobe and helped her into the snowy night robe. She would then
have tucked her into her bed but Imelda refused, as she wished to fasten
the door after the retreating form of the nurse, who thereupon returned
to the bedside of the sleeping Alice to watch the night away when she
herself had expected to spend it in needed rest and sleep.



                             CHAPTER XXVII.


Since recording the events of the last chapter, weeks of summer sunshine
have passed away. Alice, dressed in a soft fleecy white cashmere
wrapper, is reclining in her own cozy room, upon a comfortable lounge
which has been drawn closely to the open window from where she can watch
the golden rays of the setting sun as it disappears beyond the distant
hills. Pale and wan she looks, but the sparkle of returning health is in
her eyes as they rest now and then upon the forms of her two little
girls who are seated in childish fashion upon the floor, and with their
baby fingers trying to wind wreaths of ferns and flowers that are heaped
in a low basket that has been placed with its contents at their
disposal.

Imelda in one of her soft gray gowns was seated in a low rocker. The
book from which she had been reading was lying unnoticed in her lap; her
eyes, too, were wandering through the open window to enjoy the golden
glory of the setting sun. For a while nothing was heard but childish
voices in childish glee. Both fair women were busy with their own
thoughts. Imelda had lost some of her wild-rose bloom. The clear-cut
features were almost colorless as marble. There was a constrained look
upon them; yet now and then they would brighten as with an inward light,
and reflect the happiness that she, in those moments, felt; but they
soon gave way again to that other look, a deep sigh betokening the
change of thought.

As the last rays of the sun died out in a golden halo, Alice slowly
turned her head and for a while lay watching her friend. “A penny for
your thoughts, my dear,” she said with a smile, thus recalling her to
present things.

“They are not worth it,” Imelda made answer. “They are but vague and
unreal dreams.” Alice’s pale face quivered.

“Vague and unreal,” she repeated. “Ah, my precious, as long as they are
vague and unreal, you may count yourself happy. It is the real and
tangible that makes life a burden. Why have I returned to it? I am sure
I would have been many times better off had they laid me beneath the
green sods.” A pitiful quiver was in the sad young voice, and Imelda
felt a sudden pain at her heart as she heard and understood. The next
moment she knelt at the side of the invalid.

“Why should you talk like that? See, that is why you should be here,”
pointing to the little ones. Little Norma was laughing and clapping her
chubby hands. She had just succeeded in crowning, with the work of their
childish hands, the elder and more stately Meta who was attempting a
dignified mien under the high honors. The dark-eyed elf looked so comic
that Alice could not repress a smile even though a tear trickled over
the pale face. Just then a step in the hallway was heard, and the next
moment a figure stood in the open doorway.

“Papa! papa!” Norma’s baby voice rang out, and the next instant the
little one flew to meet him. He stooped and lifted the flaxen-haired
child to his arms. The baby arms were twined about his neck. But little
Norma’s welcome seemed the only one that was accorded him; even Meta
hung back, shy and quiet. She walked backwards to where the fair young
mother lay, who clasped the child to her fast beating heart. Imelda rose
quickly from her kneeling position and stepping to the open window
turned her back to the other inmates of the room. Lawrence Westcot saw
and understood. For just one moment his black eyes emitted a flash like
a smouldering flame and his white teeth sank deep into his nether lip.
But not one word passed those lips that would have betrayed what was
taking place underneath the quiet exterior. He had not seen Imelda since
that night three weeks ago, when his words had been like cruel blows to
the pure, proud girl. She had managed to keep out of his sight, and he
did not possess the courage or daring to force himself into her
presence. This lack of courage kept him also from the sick room of his
wife, which was probably most fortunate for her chances of recovery.
Never once, since her return to consciousness, had her eyes rested upon
his face. If she missed him it certainly did not cause regret. It is
more likely, however, that she did not think of him at all, in those
days.

Certain it was that when he suddenly stood, unannounced, in her presence
her heart gave a great bound and then seemed to stand still. Could she
have thought that he would never come near her again? But the silence
was now becoming oppressive. Not a word from anyone only little Norma’s
cooing, caressing—“Papa, papa,” as the little hands patted the dark
inscrutable face. With the little one still in his arms he took several
steps forward toward the frightened little woman seated upon the lounge.
With a start and a gasp she drew Meta with one arm still closer to her,
while the other hand was uplifted in a manner intended to wave him off.
Seeing the gesture he instantly stopped. An indescribable look passed
over his face. Could it be pain? He hesitated a moment, then kissed the
baby face and set little Norma down.

“Papa is not wanted here,” he said in a tone that sent a strange thrill
to the heart of either woman. Was it the same voice they were wont to
hear? No sneer, no sarcasm. How husky it had become! Did it not sound
like regret? Ere they could recover from their surprise he was gone and
they were once more alone. The excitement that those few minutes had
brought had been too much for Alice. The next moment she was sobbing
hysterically, and for the next half hour Imelda had her hands full in
trying to restore quiet and peace. For seeing the mother weep caused
both little girls to fling their playthings aside in true childish
fashion and join with their tears. Alice was still very weak, or this
episode could scarcely have affected her as it did; and to do Lawrence
Westcot justice, he had no intention of inflicting pain when he went to
his wife’s room that evening.

Nevertheless Imelda felt bitter as she reflected what life must mean to
this timid, nervous little woman when the mere sight of the man to whom
she was bound could throw her into such a hysterical state. O, how wrong
it all was, how wrong! After a while, however, she became more quiet and
at Imelda’s suggestion she soon retired. Imelda mixed for her a soothing
drink and soon had the satisfaction of hearing the even, regular
breathing of the sleeper. Long ere this she had sent both little girls
away with their nurse, so she had the hours of the summer evening to
herself. It was quite warm, the evening shadows were deepening, and
following an inward prompting she soon found herself in the garden
walks, wending her way to the fountain. This was a favorite place with
her. Its cooling spray was so pleasant after the oppressive heat of the
day. She dipped her hand into the cooling liquid while her thought
strayed away to distant friends.

The evening before she had spent in the society of Norman, who had that
day received a second letter from Wilbur Wallace. He had expressed
himself well pleased with the tenor of those letters as they showed to
him the writer as in a mirror of light, and of whose character he was
forming a high opinion, even though he could not yet second all the
ideas placed before him for inspection. Yet, although he found these
ideas impracticable in the extreme, as he expressed it, he could not but
pronounce them exalted and pure, beyond those of men in general. Imelda
longed to see these two men friends, and the prospects were that her
wish would be gratified.

Another thing that had proved of interest to Norman was that Harrisburg
had been the early home of Wilbur Wallace, the discovery of which fact
was as much a surprise to Imelda as to Norman, as he had never made
mention thereof. He gave as a reason for not having done so that the
place held little of that which was pleasant to his recollection. It was
beneath the waves of the Susquehanna that his mother had found her
watery grave, and if it were not that his sisters still lived there he
would have been glad to forget that there was such a place. But, he had
gone on to say, in his last letter to Imelda:

“Since you, my precious friend, have made your home in Harrisburg, I
have often desired to tell you that my idolized Edith, who is the
eldest, and the equally precious younger sister, my sweet Hilda, are
living somewhere at no great distance from your present home. So many
years have passed since I have seen them that they have grown almost
strangers to me. Do you think you could take interest in them sufficient
to visit them in my name? Both dear girls often send me long and
affectionate letters, wherein they tell their ‘stranger’ brother all
about their girlish affairs, and if there is any saving virtue in
thoughts transferred to paper I may hope to keep those blessed souls
pure and unstained through the strength of the love that they bear me.”

“Could she be sufficiently interested in them?” Imelda smiled as her
heart warmed to those unknown girls. She would love them as sisters of
her own. Had she known she would long since have hastened to meet them;
now she must wait a little while longer until Alice would be stronger,
so that she could either leave her or persuade her to come with her. She
thought of them this evening as she playfully let the water run through
her fingers. In her mind she pictured the meeting with them and then she
thought of the report she should send Wilbur, and then her thoughts
strayed away to her own wayward sister, of whom she had never again
heard so much as one single word, or received one sign of life. She did
not know if she was still among the living.

Imelda’s heart grew warm and yet sad. What had become of Cora? To what
depths had she sunk? or had there been enough latent good hidden
somewhere in her character to once more extricate herself and rise to
higher ground? “Cora, O Cora! where are you to night? Don’t you know
your sister loves you?” and as if in answer to the prayerfully spoken
words a voice at her side low and intense spoke her name. “Imelda!” As
though the voice had struck her speechless, she stood with stiffening
white lips unable to move or speak until her name was repeated.

“Imelda!” Then——

“Frank!” broke from them in a husky whisper.



                            CHAPTER XXVIII.


“Frank! You? Where did you come from?” turning to the form that from the
darkness had stepped to her side. The old reckless laugh rang upon the
still night air:

“Not afraid of me, sister mine, are you? I have come from somewhere out
of the darkness surrounding us, but I am not dangerous. I have never
done anything worse than steal when I was hungry; but as that happens on
an average about twice, sometimes thrice a day I have that unpleasant
duty rather often to perform. But what is a fellow to do? The world owes
me a living, you know, and exerting myself to the extent of taking
something wherever I can place my hand upon it is about as much work as
I care to do.

“Say sis,” he went on in his reckless manner, to the horror-struck girl,
“you couldn’t give a fellow a little spending money, now could you? You
are in a pretty feathered nest here, you must admit. I always knew and
said such saintly goodness and beauty must have their reward. I knew too
you were not quite so innocent as you would have us believe. Say, now,
honor bright, how much is this most honored brother-in-law of mine
worth? To judge from the appearance of yonder noble mansion and these
surrounding grounds, he must command more than a few thousands, and as I
would like to put in an appearance at your next grand entertainment a
few hundred would not come amiss. You would not like to be ashamed of
me, eh?”

Almost paralyzed with horror Imelda listened. Was this man, who was
scarcely more than a boy, her brother? Oh, shame, shame! Her brother,
born of the same mother! She understood. He thought she was married and
he asked her for some of that supposed husband’s money. Was it possible
that the man sleeping in his far western grave was the father of them
both?

“Well, ’Melda, can’t you give a fellow an answer? I am waiting
patiently. Gad, but you have managed nicely. It seems I struck it
handsome when the brakeman found me snuggled away in a freight car, the
other night, and insisted that my room at that particular place was more
welcome than my presence. Think I shall remain here, instead of playing
tramp any longer. It will certainly be a change. Only I suppose I can’t
present myself in my present plight at the front door of my illustrious
brother-in-law’s mansion. So, sis, you will have to fork over some of
the shiners so’s I can make the desired change.”

“Frank!” now broke in Imelda’s horror-struck voice. “Frank! Will you
stop? How dare you think any of all the terrible things you have been
saying? You seem to take it for granted because you find me here in the
grounds of a handsome home that it is my own. I am not married, as you
seem to think, but am only a servant in the house you see yonder. So you
see all your talk about a rich brother-in-law is the veriest nonsense,
and the sooner you leave here and find yourself some honest work to do
the better it will be for you.”

“Look here, ’Melda,” he cried, catching her roughly by the arm, “you
can’t come any such chaff over me! I want money! I know you have it, and
I swear you are going to give it to me.” Imelda felt the blood in her
veins turning to ice, not from fear, but from the horror that her
brother had come to a level such as this.

“Let go of my arm,” she said in a calm, even voice. “Have you ever known
me to speak a falsehood? I have no money, and what is more, if I had I
should not give you a cent. You know me well enough of old to know that
I never say what I do not mean; so I repeat, let go of my arm and leave
these premises as quickly as possible. Until the time that you can prove
yourself a man I forbid you ever to speak to me again. Go to the home of
our childhood and at the graves of those to whom you owe your being,
make the resolution that you will be a son worthy of your father, and if
you can keep that resolution a time may come in the future that you may
again call me sister. Now for the last time, go,”—saying which she
brushed his hand from her arm and turning walked quickly away.

She had not proceeded a dozen steps when she ran into the arms of
someone standing there in the darkness. A cry broke from her lips. She
was almost overcome with terror. Were the grounds infested tonight? Her
heart throbbed with such force it seemed she would suffocate. She could
not utter a sound. Who was it? She only heard a heavy breathing and on
trying to extricate her hands they were held tighter.

“Don’t fear,” spoke a voice which sent a new thrill of fear to her
heart, for it was the voice of Lawrence Westcot!

“Don’t fear, you are quite safe. I have heard the greater part of what
transpired a few steps from here, and I will walk with you to the
house.”

Imelda was too weak to protest much against this offer. She shivered as
he drew her arm through his and led her silently to the house, but in
spite of her terror and repugnance at his touch she could not but notice
that he treated her with profound respect. He led her to the entrance,
opened the door and held it for her to pass through.

Without a single word she left him. Scarcely able to keep on her feet
she dragged herself up the broad stairway to her room; then without
removing any of her clothing, she sank upon the bed whereon she lay long
hours without moving so much as a finger. As the morning dawn stole
through the windows she rose and disrobed, a storm of sobs shaking the
slender figure while tears bedewed her pillow.

On the following day, and on many following days it was difficult to say
which of the two, Alice or Imelda, was the paler, the more listless;
whether in the depths of the blue or brown eyes lay hidden the keenest
pain.

Norman came and went. He saw the change in the girl he loved but could
not fathom the cause. He asked if she were sick; a shake of the head was
the only answer. It was all she could do to restrain the tears in his
presence. It would have been a luxury to sob her unhappy story out upon
his breast, but shame sealed her lips. So she bore her sorrow as best
she could, and in time its keen edge wore off. Frank seemed to have
disappeared as suddenly and completely as he did once before. Now and
then, as the memory of that evening more vividly rose before her mind’s
eye, she would whisper to herself.

“O father! my ever dear father! how thankful I am you did not live to
realize all this. How thankful that your proud head has not been bowed
with shame such knowledge would have brought you,”—and as these thoughts
seemed to give new strength her own head would be uplifted, while a look
of pride could be read in that high-bred face.



                             CHAPTER XXIX.


The events recorded in the last chapter had for a while caused to be
forced into the background the desire in Imelda’s heart to become
acquainted with the sisters of Wilbur. The affair with Frank was of a
nature so unpleasant that the remembrance of it seemed to crush out all
youth and life in the proud sensitive heart, but as time is wont to heal
all wounds so also did the effect of that dark night’s occurrence
gradually vanish. As the days and weeks went by on the ceaseless wings
of time Imelda again became interested in what was going on around her.

Toward evening of a sunny day in August when Alice had been feeling
better, brighter and stronger than usual she expressed the desire for a
drive. Accordingly the carriage was ordered. Both little girls, sweet as
snowy blossoms, in fresh white dresses, looking dainty and charming as
two little fairies, were lifted upon one of the seats, their lively
spirits keeping busy the hands and mind of their young governess. Alice
leaned languidly back among the cushions and let her eyes rest
alternately upon the glowing landscape and upon the two restless little
elves. As it had been quite a while since they had the pleasure of
driving with their pretty mamma it was really a treat for the little
ones—this driving past pretty gardens filled with gorgeous flowers and
trees laden with ripening fruit. Soon they were passing through the more
thronged streets when suddenly,—no one knew just how it happened but
some boys were playing in the streets. Either in their play or because
they had been quarreling among themselves a stone was thrown. Then
followed a plunge and a rear of one of the horses, a piercing scream
from the inmates of the carriage, and then horses and carriage went
plunging down one of the busiest streets—the flying figure of a woman as
she hastened to get out of the way—a horrified cry at her having been
run down—the figure of a man standing in the path of the runaways, a
firm hand grasping the reins of the beasts as with an effort almost
superhuman they were brought to a standstill. Snorting, trembling,
restive, it was no easy matter to hold them, but the young man with the
almost boyish face was equal to the task. A crowd soon gathered around.
The carriage door was opened and the frightened ladies and children
lifted therefrom. Alice could scarcely keep upon her feet. Just then it
was remarked that someone had been run over and injured,—a young girl,
someone else added. At hearing this Alice would have fallen had not
Imelda caught the swaying figure in her arms.

“Oh,” she cried, “I hope she is not killed or seriously injured. We must
find out who she is and how badly she has been hurt, and—oh, wait! Where
is the young man who so bravely rescued us, periling his own life to
save ours. Where is he? Who is he?”

Upon looking round they found that he was still holding the horses,
patting and coaxing them, speaking to them as if they were intelligent
beings, while the driver was also busy trying to pacify them. Upon
request someone spoke to the young stranger, telling him that the ladies
whom he had just rescued wished to speak to him. A comic grimace for a
moment distorted the handsome face, then a merry smile played about the
ripe red lips, then quickly stepping to the sidewalk, he dropped his hat
and bowing asked if he could be of any further service. As he stood with
uncovered head awaiting the pleasure of the ladies a sensation flashed
through Imelda’s mind that somewhere she had seen this face before. The
poise of the head, a trick of the hand, even the very smile playing
about the lips seemed familiar, but she found it impossible to place the
resemblance. Alice in the old impulsive manner held out both small white
hands to him.

“You will permit me to thank you, will you not, for the service you have
done us today? But for your bravery we might all have been killed.” The
boyish face dimpled all over with sunny smiles, as he tossed the fair
hair from the heated and damp brow.

“I beg your pardon lady, but I think almost anyone would have done as
much. It was not so wonderful a thing for me to do. I am used to the
handling of horses, it was only a spicy adventure, that is all, and if I
thereby was of any important service, why, I am only too glad, I can
assure you.”

“But will you not give us your name? I want to know to whom I am
indebted.”

During all this time Imelda was studying the youthful face of this
stalwart young stranger. Where had she seen that face, or one like it?
Meta was clinging to her skirts, her great dark eyes staring at the
handsome boy, for he really was little more than that. Little Norma was
clinging to her mother and was still sobbing in childish fright.
Ignoring the question of the young mother the young man laid his hand
upon the head of the sobbing little one, which action hushed the sobs,
while she lifted her blue eyes in wonderment to the smiling face.

“Never mind, little pet,” said he, “when you are a young lady you will
have forgotten all about the naughty fright you have had today. Don’t
you think so, little Dark Eyes?”

This last to Meta who never for a moment had let her shining dark orbs
wander from the fair face of the young rescuer.

“I don’t know,” was the naive answer the sweet childish voice made,
which provoked a merry peal of laughter from the boyish lips. Alice too
was smiling now, but if he thought to divert her thoughts from the
question she had asked he was mistaken, for as soon as she could again
recall his attention she repeated the request.

“Well now,” the young man replied in a hesitating manner, “I really have
not done anything worth mentioning, and——”

“Please,” interrupted Alice. “I want so much to know. As an additional
favor I ask it.”

“Very well, then,” he answered with a sort of desperation, at the same
time hunting in the depths of his pockets and fishing therefrom a bit of
pasteboard.

“I believe my name is scrawled on this. If that is of any value to you,
you are certainly welcome to it,” and with that he handed her the little
white card.

“Osmond Leland,” Alice read. Like an electric shock did the words thrill
Imelda. Her hand caught the arm of her friend.

“What is the name? Read it again. I fear I have not heard aright.”

“Osmond Leland,” repeated Alice. “I am sure that is the name written
very plainly,” and she handed the card to Imelda. The young man began to
look with surprise at the beautiful agitated face of the lady who seemed
to find something queer about his name. She turned to him with a quick
imperious movement. All in an instant she knew why his face seemed
familiar.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Leland, but have you not a sister?” A flush
slowly mounted his brow, even to the roots of his hair. The surprised
look in his face deepened. Who was this lady that she should ask him
such a question?

“I believe I have a sister. Yes, but how could you know of this?”

“Her name is Margaret?” entirely ignoring the latter part of the young
man’s answer.

“I believe that is her name,” he again answered becoming still more
mystified.

“And her home is in Chicago, where she lives with your mother?” Again
the flush mounted to his brow. There was a little stiffening of the
lines about the mouth as he answered somewhat coldly.

“She lives in Chicago with her mother,” placing a marked emphasis upon
the “her.” Imelda noticed it and a pained look crept about her lips. She
hesitated, scarcely knowing how to proceed. Alice was watching her.
Quickly she understood that the young man who had rendered them such
signal service must be the brother of the precious friend of Imelda,
whom she herself had learned to love in the short time she had known
her, for her own sake. Imelda had told her all the sad story. The boy
had been many years under the influence of that worthless father. Had he
instilled the poison into his heart? It would almost seem so. How would
Imelda proceed? She seemed to hesitate for a few moments, then
suddenly,—

“I left Chicago only a few months ago. Margaret Leland was my most
precious friend in that great city. A woman pure as pure gold; reared,
instructed and cared for by her mother whose life is consecrated to
truth and purity. Margaret Leland and her mother are women whom any man
in the land might well be proud to own as sister and mother.”

Imelda had spoken quickly, her words savoring just a little of
excitement. They sounded like a defense, with just an undercurrent of
pleading for justice for those loved ones, to one whom fate had placed
in a position where he was ignorant of that which ought to concern him
most in life. He seemed to understand her desire. After a slight
hesitation, his embarrassment growing greater every moment.

“If the ladies will kindly permit I would be thankful to avail myself of
the permission to call upon them.”

Imelda reached out her hand.

“I would be so pleased. I will have much to tell you.” Alice, in her
turn, hastened to express her pleasure, giving him her card, and while
she clasped his hand in both of hers she gave him, as a parting
salutation:

“Do not forget or hesitate to come. I, too, know both sweet ladies
referred to. Let me assure you they are ladies, pure and good.” Then
giving her driver orders to wait she again spoke to young Leland,
telling him that they were anxious to ascertain the truth of what they
had heard, that a young girl had been injured; whereupon he offered to
accompany them. They retraced their steps the distance of a square,
where they found quite a number of people gathered who were discussing
the accident. Upon inquiring they found that the girl had been picked up
bleeding and in an insensible condition, but that before she could be
taken to a hospital a young lady, opposite whose home the accident had
occurred and who had just returned from shopping, had opened her
hospitable door and had cared for the wounded girl. Some bystanders
remarked that in all probability her kind action would not meet the
approval of her father, or that of her stepmother. But Miss Wallace, it
was replied, had a mind of her own, and usually she followed its
dictates. The house was pointed out to Alice and Imelda, and to judge
from the outward appearance it was by no means the abode of poverty.
Mounting the steps they rang the bell. Upon stating their errand, they
were asked to enter.

Young Leland here bade them farewell for the present, promising them
soon to call at the home of the Westcots. The anxious ladies were then
shown into the parlor and left to themselves. They could hear that there
was a commotion of some kind. There were hasty steps to and fro; voices
in the distance; orders given, etc. After a while the door opened and a
beautiful dark eyed young lady entered. In a voice full and rich she
said:

“If I have been rightly informed, you ladies were in the carriage that
dashed over the unfortunate girl who has been hurt?”

Both ladies had risen.

“Yes! to our great sorrow, such is the case,” said Alice. “Some boys
were throwing stones and hitting one of our horses caused the sad
accident.”

“And were none of you hurt?” looking from one to the other and from them
to the little ones.

“No, thank you; not hurt at all. We escaped with only a terrible fright,
but the unfortunate young girl,—who is she? Is she seriously injured?”

“Who she is we have as yet no means of ascertaining as she is still
unconscious. From appearance she is a working girl; she is very plainly
dressed, but there are evident marks of refinement, as though she might
have seen better days. How seriously she is hurt we also do not know. As
I have said before, she has not yet regained consciousness. We know,
however, that she has been hurt about the head. An arm also is broken,
but the doctor hopes she is not inwardly injured. She seems to be in a
weak condition of body as from recent illness. I have left my sister in
charge while I came to you, ladies, so as not to leave you too long in
suspense.”

It was evident the fair speaker was desirous that her callers would take
their leave, as her attention was doubtless required somewhere else.
Imelda had not spoken. She experienced again the same sensations that
she had when she first saw young Leland. Again the face before her
seemed strangely familiar, but she was unable to place it. Was it to be
a repetition of her former experience of an hour ago? But how? Alice was
in the act of leave-taking, giving minute instructions as to her place
of residence in case of an unlooked-for development of the case, for she
said:

“I feel as though we are in a measure responsible for the sad accident,
and I shall want to know if there are any serious results.” Ere the
young lady could give an answer Imelda could no longer resist the
impulse to speak what was in her mind. Laying her hand upon that of the
beautiful stranger.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, “but will you kindly tell me with whom I
have the honor of speaking? I do so much want to know your name.” The
great dark eyes sparkled as she answered:

“The favor you ask is but a small one indeed, and easily granted. My
name is Edith Wallace.”

“Edith Wallace!” echoed Imelda. “Are you a sister of Wilbur Wallace?”

For a moment a look of surprise rested on the face of Miss Wallace;
then,

“Is it possible! can it be Imelda Ellwood?”

“I am Imelda Ellwood.” In a moment the hands of both fair girls were
joined in a firm clasp and, as if drawn together by a strange magnetism,
their lips also met.

“Wilbur has told me all about you, but as he did not send me your
address, my sister and I had to wait patiently for you to come to us.
And this, I suppose,” turning again to Alice, “is the lady with whom you
make your home?” An introduction followed and instead of dismissing the
two, Miss Wallace now insisted that they should remain awhile longer.
“That is,” she added, “if you can pardon my seeming neglect, as my
attention will have to be a divided one. My sister Hilda is with the
patient and the doctor at present and to them I must soon return.”

“Take me with you,” pleaded Imelda. “I have had a great deal of
experience with the sick and maybe shall be able to be of some help to
you. Besides, I feel curious to see this girl. I feel somewhat guilty as
to the cause of her suffering, although we were the unconscious and
unwilling cause. Yet I feel we owe her more than the wornout phrase, ‘I
am sorry!’”

Protesting yet consenting, Edith after having again excused herself to
Alice, who was by this time reclining in a large easy chair, and having
supplied the little ones with a charming picture book, she led the way.
Leading her guest up a softly carpeted flight of stairs she noiselessly
opened the door into a large airy chamber furnished in light refreshing
tints. Snow-white curtains draped the windows while the bright light was
toned to a mellow glow by wine-colored blinds.

A sweet-faced young girl was sitting at the side of the snowy draped
bed, watching the pale face on the pillows. So intent was she that she
never turned her head at the entrance of the new comers, thinking it was
her sister alone that was returning. The light brown hair was a
struggling mass of curls that, although brushed and combed, constantly
escaped from their confinement. The face was almost colorless, the brow
rather low, and the eyes a deep, dark gray. Tender, loving, with a full
share of animal spirits, Hilda Wallace was loved wherever she went. Not
quite so beautiful as the elder sister, Edith, she was just as
attractive in her way.

In the one quick glance Imelda gave her she understood her fully. Before
the watcher and obstructing the view, stood the doctor with the
forefinger of his right hand resting upon the wrist of the girl’s left
and uninjured hand. With his left hand holding his watch he was counting
the pulse beats. At the foot of the bed stood a woman of about forty
years, apparently the housekeeper. Her eyes were bent as intently upon
the quiet form as those of the others in the room. Edith stepped up to
her and for a few moments whispered in her ear. Nodding assent and
softly tiptoeing the housekeeper slipped from the room. Edith gently
moved around to the other side of the bed and bending over the sufferer
listened to the almost imperceptible breathing.

“How is she, doctor? Do you apprehend any danger?”

The man of science shook his head. “Not immediately,” he said, “but she
will require careful nursing. She has an ugly cut upon the head and we
will have to prevent inflammation or brain fever may set in. It is
important to keep her head cool. Do not forget to change the ice bandage
every few minutes. The broken arm is nothing serious in itself and will
soon be all right, but it may add to the fever the first two or three
days. She ought to have been taken to a hospital instantly. I am afraid
it may be some time now before she can be removed.”

“That is not to be considered,” said Edith. “We have room enough and
also willing hands that it will do good to get some practice in the art
of relieving pain, and if it should prove necessary we can call in the
help of a professional nurse. But I wish I knew who she is. I am sure
her friends must be very anxious about her.”

The doctor merely nodded his head in a grave manner, giving vent to some
very expressive grunts. “Very well,” he said, “very well; if you are so
willing I am sure I am more than satisfied. I know I can trust the
patient in your hands, Miss Wallace. You and your sister are a host in
yourselves; so in your care I leave her. My part of the work being done
for the present I will now go. Should there be an undesirable change,
let me know;” and with a few more general instructions he bowed himself
out. Edith would have followed but he prevented her from doing so.

“No; I can find the way myself while your place is here—and—good
evening, ladies,”—and he was gone.

Until now Hilda had not spoken a word. Her whole attention was directed
to the care of the sick girl, every few moments lifting the cloths from
her head and replacing them with others taken from a vessel of ice
standing by the bedside. All this time the sufferer never spoke, never
moved. Imelda could not see her face as it was turned partly away, and
partly concealed in a deep shadow. Edith now spoke.

“Hilda, do you see this lady?” whereupon the girl’s head quickly turned.

“O, I did not know that there was anyone here,” she said in tones of
liquid music. Hastily turning to Imelda, “I beg your pardon”—then to
Edith. “Whom did you say? I don’t understand.”

“Which is quite natural,” answered Edith smiling, “as I have not said
who; and as I know you will never guess I may as well tell you. It is
Imelda Ellwood; the young lady Brother Wilbur has so often told us
about.”

“O! Imelda Ellwood!” exclaimed Hilda, with a glad little cry, her face
brightening with a sudden joy. “I am so glad,” and impulsively extending
both hands she kissed her in greeting.

Just then a smothered sound was heard from the bed. With her well hand
the wounded girl grasped the cloth from her head and dashed it across
the room.

“Who said Imelda? Where is she? I know of but one Imelda, and she is
far-away. Ha! ha!” laughing wildly.

“I wonder what Imelda would say? my beautiful and good sister Imelda, if
she could see me tonight. Would she soil her pure hands to wash mine? I
thought I heard someone speak her name. Say, do you know her?”—and her
glance travels unsteadily from face to face. As her eyes rested upon the
white face of Imelda they settled there in a stony, set manner. Her lips
twitched convulsively as she slowly raised herself upon her well arm.
With a quick movement Imelda now cast aside the hat that she still wore.
The next instant she had caught the weakened but fever-flushed form in
her arms.

“Cora!” She spoke the name calmly, and in a tone of voice tender and
gentle, as if the meeting and finding of the wayward sister here was a
matter of course. Laying her cool hand upon the heated brow and gently
brushing the tangled hair therefrom.

“Cora, be calm and quiet or you will harm yourself. Come, lie down and
go to sleep.” From the manner in which these words were spoken one would
scarce have thought that anything unusual had happened. The influence of
both words and manner was instantly felt by the suffering girl.
Obediently she permitted herself to be laid back upon the pillows. Her
eyes closed. Her hand went up to her head; then to her injured arm, thus
indicating where the pain was that tortured her. Hilda had by this time
replaced the cold cloths. Low moans escaped the lips of the patient and
soon two large tear drops stole from beneath the closed eyelids. Imelda
gently brushed them away, now and then murmuring a caressing word so low
that only the prostrate girl could hear. Her hand passed back and forth
across the fevered brow. The magnetic touch seemed to do her good.
Gradually the sufferer became more quiet, and when the parched lips
asked for water it was Imelda’s hand that passed the cooling drink. In a
little while the breathing became more regular, and presently Cora was
asleep.

In all this time there had not been spoken one word of explanation.
Whatever of curiosity the sisters may have felt none was expressed.
Quietly they waited until their guest should of her own accord explain
what seemed so strange. When Imelda felt certain that her sister was
fast asleep she gently withdrew her hands and raising her eyes to those
of Edith she indicated that she wished to speak to her. Not wishing to
make the least sound in the sick room the two went out together, leaving
Hilda once more to watch with loving care at the bedside.

As soon as the door was closed upon their retreating figures Imelda
turned and looked Edith Wallace full in the face. It was an ordeal she
felt called upon to pass through, and though a severe one she resolved
to meet it bravely.

“Do you understand what that girl is to me?” pointing to the door of the
room wherein the sick girl lay.

“I have an inkling,” replied Edith, “but do not quite understand.”

“She is my sister!” Like a wail the words came from Imelda’s lips. She
had managed to hide her real feelings while in the atmosphere of the
sick room, but now she was in danger of losing control of herself.



                              CHAPTER XXX.


“Come with me,” said Edith, and she led the way to a room at the other
end of the hall.

“Here we will be undisturbed, and you can tell me all you wish to
impart. But I wish you to understand that I expect you to say nothing
that may cause you pain to recall. The fact that this girl is your
sister makes her much less a stranger to me than she would otherwise
have been. Come, sit here in this chair, here where you will be shaded
from the rays of the setting sun. Now, if you are comfortable you may
proceed.”

What a cozy, homelike room it was. A bright glowing red was the
predominating color, softened by the lace curtains and snowy draped bed.
Here and there was a dash of gold. The warm hues seemed just suited to
the glowing beauty of the girl who sank into a seat opposite the chair
wherein she had placed Imelda, and here, in the cool half-dark room, was
told the sad story of how this wayward sister had left the home of her
childhood to go with her lover.

Of her own suspicion, however, that Cora had never been a wife Imelda
could not bring herself to speak. How could she know how these sisters
would judge? She only told that from the hour that Cora had left her
home until now they had never seen her; never heard from her, “and now I
am afraid,” added Imelda, “she will be a burden upon your hands, an
imposition upon your kindness for an indefinite length of time.”

“Hush! Not so, my friend,” interrupted Edith. “I may call you friend,
may I not? Would I not have done as much for an utter stranger. Why then
not do it for one whom my brother holds most dear, meaning yourself, of
course; and I can not help accepting your sister in the same light.
But,” she added smiling, “do you not think we have treated your friend
Mrs. Westcot, rather badly considering it is over an hour since we left
her alone to pass the time away as best she could,—and now the shades of
night are beginning to fall.”

Imelda uttered a little frightened cry. “O, I had forgotten! Poor Alice.
I must go to her at once. But first, if you will permit, I must see Cora
is still resting.” So, stopping for a moment to inquire of Hilda as to
the condition of the patient, and being assured that she was still
asleep and perfectly quiet, the two found their way down the wide
stairway to where the little woman had been left to entertain herself.
Here they found that that tired little morsel of humanity had fallen
fast asleep in the depths of the large arm chair wherein she had settled
herself, while the little girls seeing “Mamma” asleep and having been
taught at such a time to be very quiet had climbed into a chair, which
Meta had pushed up to a window, and were watching the stream of travel
and traffic on the street.

As the door opened little Meta turned her head and seeing Imelda uttered
a glad cry. It had been a tiresome task to entertain the baby mind of
Norma, and the little heart beat joyfully at the prospect that the
charge was over. The cry woke Alice who started up a little confused,
but immediately she remembered where she was. Edith apologized for her
seeming neglect, but added:

“I am sure you will excuse me when you fully understand. I will go now
and see to arranging our simple evening meal, for of course you will
take tea with us. In the meantime your friend will make the necessary
explanation.” With these words, having first lit several gas jets, and
ere Alice could formulate a protest she withdrew and left the two
friends alone.

But Imelda spoke not a word. Exhausted and broken-hearted she sank into
the nearest chair and bowing her head upon her hands her overcharged
feelings gave way. Breaking into an uncontrollable fit of weeping, sobs
shook the slender figure while tears trickled fast through her fingers.

Alice was speechless. Surprise at this seemingly uncalled for outburst
of feeling, seemed for the moment to rob her of the power of utterance.
The little ones stood with eyes wide open, wondering why “Aunty Meldy
should try!” as little Norma expressed it. By and by Alice collected her
wits sufficiently to take the hands of the weeping girl and drawing them
from her face asked her what it all meant. When Imelda had somewhat
conquered her emotions she said:

“Alice, you have been a true friend to me always. You have made me your
confidant in many things. You know much of my earlier life, but not all.
You knew I had a sister and brother; you think they are dead, as I
simply told you that I had lost them, but the inference is not true.
Both have stepped out of my life and have been as dead to me, for
several years. I have sometimes almost wished they were indeed dead.
Wild and wayward they had cast aside the restraining influence of home
and had gone—we knew not whither. Never a sign of life did they give,
and my mother went to her grave calling vainly for her absent ones.

“Within the last few weeks, however, the knowledge has come to me that
both are alive. Several weeks ago I encountered Frank in the grounds of
Maplelawn. Laboring under the misapprehension of believing me to be
mistress of the handsome mansion he asked me for money. Finding I
occupied only a servant’s position he had no further use for me, and
disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared. I know not what has again
become of him; and”—with a choking feeling in her throat—“upstairs with
a broken arm and a bleeding head lies my sister Cora! Do you now
understand?”

Imelda turned and going to the window gazed blankly into the darkening
night. She had spoken hastily and in broken accents, as if ridding
herself of a very disagreeable duty. It was not pleasant to speak of
these family affairs. For her they meant shame and disgrace, even though
her whole being recoiled from word or act impure. Her burning brow was
pressed against the cool glass and her hand upon her aching heart. Many
indeed had been the trials she had been called upon to bear. Had it not
been that such rare and true friends had been hers to smooth her rough
pathway, and had it not been for the love of a true man’s noble heart,
she would often have found life not worth the living. As she stood there
waiting she knew not for what, a hand stole softly into hers and a
gentle voice said:

“Imelda! I am sorry, so sorry for you, but—I wish I had a sister! I have
no one in all this wide world that has a claim upon me except my
children. There was a time when Lawrence was my heaven, but now—you know
and understand—that time belongs to the past. You have a sister. Let us
hope that the finding of her will prove a blessing to you. The same
blood flows in your veins. It were strange indeed if some of the same
noble emotions did not also move her heart.” Imelda was moved. She had
never heard Alice speak with so much depth of feeling. She had not
thought her friend possessed so much real character.

“Thank you,” she said. “I hope so, indeed; but do you understand? I will
now be compelled to remain here for some time to come. The doctor says
it will not be advisable to have her removed; so I am in a manner bound
to remain, which means that you will for a time have to do without me.”

By the sudden pallor of Alice’s cheek it was very plain that she had not
thought of that, but bravely she put down all feelings of self.

“Very well, we will get along without you until such time as your sister
can with safety be removed; then we will have her brought to Maplelawn
where you can nurse her until she shall have perfectly recovered.”
Imelda started.

“Oh, no! That would be kindness too great to accept. It would be too
much; besides how would Mr. Westcot accept the situation? It would be an
imposition; there is no gainsaying that. No! no! Alice. I cannot accept
your kind offer. As soon as it is safe she will have to be removed to a
hospital where I shall make arrangements, if at all possible, to have
the care of her. If that cannot be done, why then—I shall have to do the
best I can for her.”

“Nonsense, Imelda, do not speak like that. Lawrence has never yet
refused me an expressed wish and I certainly do wish to have you near me
as much as possible. But there will be time enough to discuss these
matters later, for the present it is undoubtedly understood that you
remain here. The rest we will trust to future developments. Just now,”
she said, in order to change the subject, “I wish you to help me lay
this sleeping child upon the tete-a-tete, as she is becoming quite
heavy;” and while Imelda was arranging an easy position Edith returned.

Alice was more anxious to return home now, as she would have to do so
without her trusted and faithful companion, but Edith insisted on
refreshments first, and while they were being partaken of she sent out a
servant to have Alice’s carriage brought up to the house. But the
carriage was already waiting for them, and had been for some time.
Osmond Leland had been possessed of forethought enough to attend to that
matter. Edith explained to her guests that when she and her sister were
alone they dispensed with the culinary art to a great extent, as they
were both fond of fruits, and in the summer it was no difficult thing to
have a variety of fruits on hand.

“Maybe I am a little indolent,” she explained smiling, “but I do not
like to roast my brains above a great fire, and by the same token I do
not like to see someone else do it either; so this is the result.”

There was no occasion, however, for Edith to make excuses. The ladies
found the simple meal very refreshing. After it was over Imelda told
Alice what few articles she deemed it necessary that she should send
her; for as a matter of course she would remain for the present, and
take upon herself the chief care of the wayward but now suffering
sister. With the two sleepy little girls Alice was then snugly tucked
away in the carriage and the driver being cautioned to be very careful,
replied there was positively no cause to fear. It was not likely that a
similar accident would again occur; had it not been for the throwing of
that unlucky stone the trustworthy beasts would never have played such
pranks. With a wave of the hand Imelda saw the carriage disappear, and
with a heavy heart she again ascended the stairs to relieve the patient
Hilda, and to take upon herself this new duty of nursing back to life
wayward, erring Cora. To life? and what else? The sequel will show.



                             CHAPTER XXXI.


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.”

“Here in Harrisburg?”

“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 your wife?’

“‘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.



                             CHAPTER XXXII.


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.



                            CHAPTER XXXIII.


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.



                             CHAPTER XXXIV.


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.

“Will you, please?” he asked.

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.”



                             CHAPTER XXXV.


The brown curly head was resting on the snowy pillow. The maimed arm had
been tenderly cared for, and already the tired eyes were drooping. It
had been such an exciting day. So many changes had taken place. Cora’s
heart had been stirred to its very depths and it was a relief to be at
last alone. Alice was bending above her, and to bestow her a good night
kiss upon the faintly smiling lips.

“Good night, dear one. I hope you may spend this first night within the
walls of this home in restful sleep. I, too, am tired and wish to rest.
If you should require anything, ring this bell, and I know Mary will
instantly attend to your wants. The fact that you are Imelda’s sister
will alone insure you the entrance to her heart.”

“O thank you! thank you ever so much. Everybody is so kind to me. I do
not deserve it, I am sure.”

“O yes, you do. How can you speak like that? And now once more, good
night.” Two pairs of warm clinging lips met in a loving kiss, then the
form of Alice vanished, and Cora was alone. In but a few minutes sleep
had closed the tired eyelids and happy dreams brought sweet smiles to
the rosy lips.

Alice glided quickly through the silent hall until she reached her own
cozy, comfortable room. It was in utter darkness, which fact, however,
did not intimidate her in the least. At times she rather liked the
darkness. It was then so pleasant to sit at the window star-gazing, and
let her thoughts wander whithersoever they would. So she crossed the
room to where a comfortable rocker was standing, and sinking into its
depths with a weary sigh, she prepared herself for her favorite
indulgence. Hastily undoing the fastenings of her dress she then clasped
her hands above her head, gazing up into the starlit heavens, gently
rocking back and forth in the darkness.

Suddenly she stopped and listened. It seemed to her there was someone
else in the room. She could have sworn that the sound of heavy breathing
had been borne to her ear, though now that she listened, everything was
quiet. But the feeling of another’s presence seemed conveyed to her in
the air itself—she felt it. With a quick nervous movement she rose and
walked across the room. She could feel her very lips grow cold, but with
a strength and courage of which one would scarce have believed the
little woman capable, she controlled every outward manifestation of
fear, and securing a match she deliberately struck it and, mounting a
chair, lit two jets ere she ventured a single look about her; then with
a smothered, frightened cry she would have fallen had not the man, whom
she had seen and recognized, caught her in his arms and prevented a
mishap. Gently he lifted her down and reseated her in the rocker at the
window. He, too, was pale, white to the very lips, as he saw the
impression his presence made upon the pale little woman. He stepped back
a few paces and waited for her to speak, and when no sound came he
hesitatingly, in trembling accents, articulated her name.

“Alice!”

But her only answer was a frightened look. Holding both his hands to her
in a supplicating manner, venturing a step nearer,

“Alice, am I never to be forgiven? Listen to me! If ever a man has been
thinking—if ever it has come to a human heart, or understanding, that a
great wrong has been committed, it has come to me. I know I have wronged
you. I know I have acted like a brute! But I would, in some way or
measure, make good the wrong I have done.”

The hands of Alice were closely pressed upon her wildly beating heart.
Her lips were twitching in a manner that caused Lawrence’s heart to give
a bound. In a moment he had forgotten that he was the supplicant. He
knelt at her side and caught both her hands in his, pressing and chafing
them.

“Alice! Alice! little girl. Don’t look at me like that. You need not be
afraid of me now, or ever again. I mean every word that I say. Come,
trust me! It is the one boon I ask”—and he gently drew the excited
little woman nearer to him, winding his arm about her as tenderly as of
yore. Laying his face to hers, his lips touched the pretty pink ears.

“Little sister,” he whispered, “can you, will you once more trust me?”

“Little sister?” Had she heard aright? What was the meaning the words
conveyed? A hysterical sob broke from her lips, and as she permitted him
to enfold her in his embrace, with an impulsive movement she placed her
hands on either side of his face,

“Lawrence! Lawrence! do you mean it? You have not come to mock me?”

“I mean it, little girl, every word of it. Henceforth, you shall be my
dearly cherished sister, with just the same liberty and privileges I
would grant to her, were you really a sister and dearly loved as such.”

A few moments she leaned back that she might the better look him in the
eyes. Then she wound her arms about his neck and nestled her head close
upon his breast and the words,

“I love you, Lawrence,” thrilled him to his innermost being. He
understood well the meaning of those words. He had called her sister,
and he knew the love she gave him now was the same as every pure woman
gives a dearly loved and cherished brother.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Once again a week had passed, and again merry laughter resounded through
the rooms. Happy voices were heard blending in song while skillful
fingers evoked sweet strains of music. But faces which were new within
these rooms—though not new to us, were revealed in the bright light.
Edith and Hilda Wallace had found their way into this enchanted circle
tonight. Alice was seated at the piano. Her fingers lightly running over
the keys, playing the accompaniment to Cora’s rich sweet voice as it
rose and fell in the cadence of sweet strains of song. The two were like
a world unto themselves tonight, paying little attention to the others,
each of whom was absorbed in giving attention to someone else. While
Hilda actually seemed to fascinate Lawrence Westcot,—so absolutely was
his attention riveted upon the sweet serious girl who possessed such a
fund of knowledge that he thought he never had been so rarely
entertained, Edith had taken Norman Carlton in tow, and by her serene
and placid manner had so captivated him that for the past hour he had
actually forgotten his queenly Imelda, who in her turn was talking just
as seriously to a smooth-faced boy whose bright, intelligent countenance
was a perfect mirror of the emotions that were being stirred within that
young breast. Sometimes the blue eyes flashed, and with a quick peculiar
motion of the hand he would toss back the fair hair from the white open
brow; then he would ask question after question that, with never failing
readiness, Imelda would answer.

“Wait right here,” she said, “I will return in an instant,”—and in a
very short time Imelda reappeared, carrying a small package in her hand.
Before undoing it she laid her hand on his.

“I may call you Osmond, may I not?” The clear eye met hers in a
responsive glance; in turn he laid his hand over hers and in a tone
which had a hearty ring he replied:

“Certainly! It will afford me the greatest pleasure to have you do so.”

Reseating herself in the chair she had a few moments ago vacated, with
deft fingers that were slightly trembling, Imelda undid the cord that
bound the package. The next moment Margaret’s sweet face was brought to
view. The boy’s hand trembled as he reached for it, and in his face was
reflected the emotions that were stirring his young soul. Imelda watched
him closely, as for a long time his eyes were riveted on that fair
reflection, and when with a fluttering long drawn sigh he laid it aside
without comment, she also said nothing, but handed him a second
portrait; this time the face reflected being that of Mrs. Leland.

It seemed almost Margaret over again, the resemblance was so great; only
where time had touched it; the years having left their trace—but only
lightly. The brow was just as smooth as that of the young girl, the eye
as clear and sparkling; the hair dark and full. But there was a line
about the expressive mouth,—an expression on the face that was not on
the younger one, and which only experience could have stamped thereon.
It seemed to the boy standing there, holding in his hand the picture of
his mother, as if in the eyes gazing at him there was a pleading,
yearning look that went straight to his young heart. His sensitive lip
quivered and with another sigh he laid this picture also down. He kept
his eyes downcast as if he dared not look into those searching dark orbs
that were so eagerly fastened upon him. In a little while a woman’s soft
hand was laid upon his and——

“Osmond,”—a pleading voice spoke,—“do either of those faces portray
aught but purity? Do you think your mother” (laying her hand on the
picture), “with a face like that, could be capable of anything but what
is good and pure and noble?” His eyes were raised to hers, and they were
dim with unshed tears.

“I don’t know. But my brain seems reeling. When I look at the face of
the girl you say is my sister a feeling comes to me as though I should
be proud to proclaim her as such to the world; while she who is my
mother seems to draw my very soul from me. Looking at them both a
feeling overcomes me as if I had lost something to which I had a right,
but which has been withheld from me. But when I recall all that which my
father has told me of bygone years it seems as if they were handsome,
glittering, fascinating serpents looking up at me, luring me from my
allegiance.” Imelda took both the boy’s hands in hers.

“Look at me,” she said. “In the first place, tell me—do you think I
could be guilty of all the cruel, unholy things that have been reported
of your mother?”

“Why, no! no! A thousand times no! It would be impossible. One look into
your face, into your eyes, would convince me of that.”

“Thank you! but do you think, my young friend, that I could hold one
near and dear who is so vile as you have been taught to believe your
mother to have been? Now listen: I do not want you to take my word for
all that I have told you of these my best friends. Only wait, come here
often. Here you can become acquainted with the sentiments that fill your
mother’s whole heart and soul, and which find a reflection in every word
uttered by your fair young sister. You seem, despite all the prejudices
with which your young life has been poisoned, to yet have remained pure
in heart. You are brave and truthful. Now from this time forth in
justice to your mother, study your father; his modes of life; his
sentiments; his every action, and compare it to that which he has told
you of the woman who, being the mother of his children, ought to be
shielded and protected by him from every breath of scandal; instead of
which protection he has blazoned such awful tales about her that it
takes almost superhuman courage and bravery on her part to live them
down. So I ask you again, in justice to the woman who is your mother,
will you henceforth keep your eyes open?”

A dark wave of color swept over Osmond’s face, then with outstretched
hand, he said:

“I promise you that I will!”

This conversation closed, the pictures carefully laid away, their
attention was called to the other occupants of the room. The first words
that greeted their ears fell from the lips of Hilda. They listened.

“You speak of the prevailing spirit, of too little charity of man to
fellowman,” said Hilda, “and again of single instances where charitable
deeds rise to the heights of grandeur, only regretting that they are too
few, too rare to be of any real value to humanity. Aye! they are indeed
too rare; but I do not believe in charity. I do not like her. I have no
room for her. Does she ever draw near to the side of justice? Is her
garb not rather a cloak wherewith to hide all the abounding and
heartless cruelty which seizes and retains the lion’s share of the
product of all the weary hours of toil that produce the wealth wherewith
these deeds of charity are done?

“But that is only one kind of charity. That charity which is supposed to
overlook, to condone, and even to justify what society treats as faults
and sins—O, how I hate it! For while charity pretends to do all this, in
reality it condemns every idea, every thought, every action that is not
in strict conformity with the prevailing standards and customs of
artificial society. Charity enchains liberty; it blindfolds and fetters
justice. No! a thousand times no! I scorn charity, no matter in what
garb she may seek to approach.”

Hilda’s dark gray eyes shone with a lustrous light as she finished her
animated speech. Imelda thought she had never seen her so attractive.

“Bravo, little girl,” she exclaimed, “your words ought to inspire brave
hearts to noble deeds.”

Hilda blushed as she replied,

“O no, I do not aspire to so great honor; but at times I feel I must
give way to my feelings. They oppress me so.”

“Will you permit me to ask a question?” It was Lawrence who spoke.

“A dozen if you wish.”

“Then tell me what would you put in place of charity which you so
discard? You cannot but acknowledge that there is great need of a
helping hand.”

“Thank you, Mr. Westcot. Had you tried for a week you could not have
asked a question that would afford me greater pleasure to answer. ‘What
would I substitute for charity?’ Why, Justice! Justice every time. Where
Justice reigns there can be no place for charity. She will not be
needed. She will have lost her vocation. Let justice be done to the
great masses, to the struggling individual, and where would there be
occasion to call for the assistance, the services, of the haughty dame
with her mock humility? None whatever! Where plenty and peace have found
a home there will be no occasion to air her gaudy plumage. And in a
short time her very name will have assumed a strange sound. Aye, it
would be forgotten from little usage; would become extinct, obsolete.
Once pushed into the background she would quietly step down and out and
be heard of no more.”

“And,” added Edith, “with the advent of justice and the exit of charity
another thing would become extinct, and that is power—the power of
money. When justice is done, the toiler, the producer, receiving the
full value or equivalent of his labor, it would be impossible that a few
favored idlers should grow fat—in wealth and ease, while the masses
starve. No more strikes, no more robbery, no more bloodshed. Peace,
happiness, prosperity—would not that be an ideal world?”

Here the refrain was taken up by Imelda.

“No strikes, no robbery, no bloodshed! Do we properly consider the full
import of these words? We hurl the curse of baseness, of low and brutal
instincts, we charge the birth of vice, crime, hatred and what not, all
upon those who toil and produce. If in a measure it is true that the
very air surrounding this class of humanity is often pregnant with all
the elements that breed a state of things so depraved, is it to be
wondered at? Let us take into consideration what the women of the
despised classes are called upon to pass through. Let us ask the why and
wherefore. When hunger and starvation stares her in the face; when the
demon drink has entered her home; when the husband and father is thrown
out of work through no fault of his; when the monster monopoly has shed
precious blood, and made her home desolate—what then, think you, breeds
in the heart of woman? Her every thought, her every breath, must of
necessity be freighted with—murder! Then the little helpless unborn, the
human embryon, that is being gestated and fed with such nourishment—must
not a race of murderers, of criminals of every description, be the
product of such creative conditions?

“When mothers are free to choose the fathers of their babes; when they
can have just the conditions their hearts long for; when they can be
free from care and anxiety; when every woman has learned the science of
becoming a perfect mother; when every mother understands the fearful
responsibility of becoming such; when every father is filled with a
sense of the high honor that has been conferred upon him in being chosen
to be such; when, in consequence, he recognizes the duties he owes to
woman and her offspring, and when, in every act of his life he seeks to
aid her in perfecting the coming being; then, and not till then, may we
expect peace and joy and happiness. And to bring about such a state of
things justice must be done.”

Strange words these, that fell for the first time, upon the ear of young
Osmond Leland. He heard thoughts expressed that struck him as grand,
lofty, sublime, but—but—did they not savor of—well, the insane? Was
there any sense in dreaming of such impossibilities? As each of these
young ladies in turn had spoken they had appeared to him as though
surrounded with a halo, such a sublime light had shone in their eyes.
But again, it seemed, to him, as if their reasoning was devoid of
reason, and his mind reverted to the discarded figure of charity. He
could conceive of no other way to reach the suffering masses. Until now
he had scarcely thought of it. But now? What sort of women were these
that could express themselves thus? What was it Imelda had said?

“Wait, and come often. Here you can become acquainted with the
sentiments that fill your mother’s heart and soul, and that find
reflection in every word uttered by your sister.”

He could not comprehend the reasoning of these young women, but the air
surrounding them seemed so truly holy and pure; such as had never been
his fate to come in contact with. And his mother and sister?—Were they
as these? Had he much to forgive his father for? He felt dazed. Was this
also a case where gross injustice had been done?

“But how, young ladies, would you make all your grand ideas
practicable?” asked Lawrence.

“By proclaiming liberty,” answered Hilda. “Liberty will insure justice,
and justice liberty. The two combined will make truth possible. To be
truthful is to be natural, and nature is pure, nature is chaste. Only
think what it all would mean to be free! We hear the cant of freedom, of
liberty, of a ‘free country,’ all around us, when in reality it is all a
miserable sham! Every word must be guarded, every action fettered. We
must eat, drink, sleep, walk and talk all according to a prescribed
fashion; must bow to fashion, to custom. We may not even welcome a child
to our arms when we desire it, unless we have first allowed shackles to
be placed upon our freedom; unless we have first bartered our womanhood
for motherhood—often turning what should be a priceless boon to a most
bitter curse.”

Hilda’s eyes were sparkling with brilliant flashes, but the eyes of
Cora, who with Alice had drawn near, were downcast, and on the dark
lashes clung two pearly drops. Music and song had ceased; the two
performers, Alice and Cora, had for some time been listening to the
soulful words that were being spoken. The sweet lips of the agitated
girl were quivering as with pain, her hands tightly clasped as she
repeated, “turning the precious boon so often into a bitter curse.”
Turning to Hilda and kneeling at her feet Cora laid her face upon her
knee.

“Is the curse never to be lifted?”

“Yes! When woman is ready to be blessed; when she has learned to keep
herself pure; when the sacred temple of her body no longer is invaded by
the curse of lust; when man no longer dares to intrude, to force his
unwelcome attentions upon her, but patiently bides his time at a
respectful distance.”

“You speak of the ‘millennium,’ of the perfection of the race. Must our
lives be one long sacrifice to secure that end?” Hilda shook her head as
with both hands she lifted the tear-wet face.

“I hope not! Whilst we all have a work to perform in the meantime, I
believe we may yet be able, in our own lives, to so far lift ourselves
out of and above all the pains that make life such a weary round of
toil, as to be able to enjoy just a little in advance, of what the
coming future will bring the now enslaved race. When we are brave
enough, when we are strong enough to live as our inmost convictions tell
us is right and true and pure, we may then hope for a little happiness,
or perhaps a great happiness, just as we make ourselves ready to receive
and appreciate it. And I feel so sure, so sure that here, just right
here around us, a band is forming, true and staunch, that by its unity
will enable us yet to realize what now seem but dreams!”

“You are speaking of that ideal home of yours?”

“Yes! If only—if only—I could once see the way clear as to where the
means are to come from. Money! ‘Filthy lucre,’ as it is called, I fear
is the rock that will upset our plans.” But now Cora’s eyes were
shining.

“Money, money,” she murmured. “I think I know who would furnish it—only,
will he not spurn me now after I have disappointed him so, and brought
the bitter pain to his heart? O, will he believe that it was all for
love of him and not for myself that I seemingly flung aside the
priceless treasure of his love?”

“If it is really that; if his love is a priceless treasure, he but
awaits the call and you will find him at your side.”

“And she,” murmured Cora “whom the law gives to him and him to her,—she
will never willingly give him freedom.”

“Wait and you will see!” came the assuring answer. “Somehow I feel that
all will be as we desire.”



                             CHAPTER XXXVI.


Neither of the men could quite understand the last words that passed
between the girls, but Norman understood enough to know that whatever
might be their meaning no ignoble subject would be thus discussed.
Lawrence Westcot shook his head, but trusted. He was beginning to find
these girls very trustworthy. Only Osmond felt as if standing upon some
unseen brink. Hilda’s enthusiastic words and manner had not been clear
to him. He had caught the words but not their full import, and yet—what
was it she had been saying about womanhood being sacrificed, of being
“bartered”? Had she meant that marriage necessitated such sacrifice? But
surely, surely she had not meant that a child could be welcome without
the marriage blessing—a child outside the sacred fold of wedlock? In a
dazed manner his hand went up to his head. “Here you can become
acquainted with the sentiments that fill your mother’s heart and soul,
and find a reflection in every word uttered by your sister.” As with a
red hot iron the words seemed burned into his very soul. These his
mother’s sentiments? This his sister’s religion? His eyes rested upon
the faces of the girls; a sweet purity was reflected upon each while
Hilda appeared surrounded with a halo. Some strong impulse drew him
closer to them; he felt uplifted, borne upward, floating in cloudy
mists—a feeling of widening, expanding, filled his being until the words
of Hilda again came surging in his ears, “we may not even welcome a
child to our arms when we desire it unless we have first permitted our
freedom to be shackled, made a barter of our womanhood for motherhood,
thereby turning the precious boon into a bitter curse.” Blank horror
made his blood run cold; he felt as if an icy hand was clutching at his
throat.

“What is it—are you not feeling well?” Imelda asked the question and
Edith’s soft warm hands gently pushed him into the nearest chair,
handing him a drink of ice water. She understood perfectly well what it
was that ailed him, and feared they might have repelled him so much that
he would not again seek their presence. So with her ready woman’s tact
she led the conversation to other subjects. Music and art, the beautiful
in general, were discussed, and finally a request was made that Cora
should sing again ere they parted for the night. She surprised them by
singing a hymn. But all understood there was a meaning underlying the
usual import of the words, “We shall know each other better when the
mists have rolled away.”

It was with very mixed feelings that the good nights were spoken, and as
Hilda’s hand for a moment lay in Westcot’s a look from his dark eyes
flashed into hers, a look that sent the warm blood in a glow to her
face, flooding it to the very roots of her hair. Accompanied by the two
young men, Norman and Osmond, the sisters were rapidly driven home, the
pressing invitation “to come again,” still ringing in the boy’s ears;
and when at the door of the home of this sister pair Hilda also held out
her hand to Osmond asking him to call there. After a moment’s hesitation
he placed his hand in hers and promised.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Days and weeks had again sped on, each day bringing its own events and
lessons. The summer’s sunshine had changed to the glow of autumn, and
just as marked had been the changes with many of our friends. More firm
had become the bond of friendship and love that bound them together,
more clearly defined—because more clear the ideas, the ideals that
formed the central attraction around which love and friendship
clustered; day by day they understood each other better, and also
themselves better, and their lives became purer, higher, nobler.

But still they were waiting, waiting. They recognized that their work
was not yet done, but pulses beat higher, eyes shone brighter, smiles
more radiant, as they were learning the old, old story over again. At
least several of our charming circle were being blessed with that
experience. Lawrence Westcot’s heart was once more drinking in the
lessons of love, and his nature was broadening and expanding under its
influence, while Hilda seemed almost glorified, as she moved about, soft
snatches of song dropping from her lips. Edith was almost as happy,
sunning herself in the reflection of her sister’s new-found love. Alice
also saw and was happy. The old child-like merriment had returned and
the rooms resounded with merry jests and silvery, tinkling laughter.

One evening when Alice had surprised Norman in the gloaming she had not
been able to resist the longing, yearning spirit. Creeping up behind him
her little snowflake hands had closed his eyes. Ere he had caught the
meaning of it a pair of warm dewy lips had been pressed to his. Then she
would have fled, but quick as lightning her hands were made prisoners
and, despite the desperate struggles of the furiously blushing little
woman, she was drawn into the circle of light where Norman in a most
wicked manner enjoyed her dire confusion. But presently drawing her to
him and enfolding her in his arms he whispered:

“Now for revenge!” The drooping moustache brushed her face and for a
little while Alice felt herself smothered; so sweet, so clinging, so
really in earnest were the kisses which were pressed upon her lips, and
when a few minutes later she came flying into the presence of Imelda,
who had both the little girls standing at her knees trying to teach them
some object lesson, the young instructress looked up in some surprise at
the disheveled figure. The fair hair was tossed and its owner was
pressing both hands to her flaming cheeks. Ere Imelda could frame the
question that was trembling upon her lips Alice had sank beside her on
her knees and hid her face in her lap.

“Don’t say a word,” she whispered, “until you have heard what I have to
say,” and drawing the dark head down so that she could place the rosy
lips to her ear, she hurriedly whispered a few sentences and then drew
back to watch the effect. Imelda’s face betrayed nothing; she only
placed her arm about her friend’s neck and for a few moments laid her
face upon the fluffy hair, then after kissing her repeatedly she said,
with a sweet smile:

“I believe it is about time that these little folks receive their
evening meal and then to bed. So, for a little while I must be excused.”

An hour later as Imelda was standing in the embrasure of a window, a
manly head bent above her; an arm tenderly drew her head to be pillowed
on his breast while the whispered words, “My own, my best beloved,”
caused her own heart to beat in answering throbs and a sigh of sweet
content parted her lips.

Only Edith, in those days of pure happiness, wore a look in the dark
eyes that portrayed a something hidden in their fathomless depths, a
far-away dreamy look that spoke of hopes not yet realized. Sometimes
when no eye was looking a suspicious moisture would gather in the dark
wells and for a while would dim their glorious luster, but not for long.
Where there was so much warmth of heart and joyousness of spirit it was
not possible that one whose life had been so practical would cast a
shadow upon the bright faces around her.

There was yet one other whose happiness consisted in dreaming of the
future and waiting hopefully and patiently what it might possibly bring,
and that other was Cora. But not in idleness was she waiting. He should
not have reason to think that she had wasted precious time; so she had
studied on. Not only studied but already she was using her talents to
advantage. As soon as she was strong enough she had insisted on doing
something to be self-supporting, and through the aid of her friends she
had been successful in obtaining quite a class of music pupils, foremost
among whom was Meta who gave promise of future wonders. One hour in the
early morning, however, found her with another pupil, and that pupil was
Imelda. Much as she desired it Imelda had not hitherto found the time
and opportunity to apply herself to this study, for which she possessed
a talent that surpassed even that of Cora, whose music had settled in
her throat rather than at the ends of her fingers. More than once Cora
had said:

“Not long till you must have a more competent teacher.” Thus the sisters
daily grew more close together with an appreciation of sisterly love in
their hearts such as is rarely known by those who have been cuddled in
the lap of fortune since their infancy.

But there was still another—another growing daily in light, in breadth
and in intelligence. Osmond Leland had returned again, and yet again, to
the charmed circle and was, as it were, born into a new life. And as,
day by day, he better understood the sweet purity of these girls, so
also did the events in connection with his old life stand out in glaring
contrast. To his sorrow and dismay he found, upon close investigation,
that his father’s life was neither pure nor truthful. Contrasted with
the pure nature-love and poetic beauty displayed in every word spoken by
these new friends the coarse and lewd jests indulged in by his father
and his companions could not fail of effect. It was but a short time
until he felt his soul revolt at their ribaldry. More and more he felt
himself attracted and, still more often he found himself seeking the
society of the coterie of fair girls who each in turn imparted their
ideals and dreams to the susceptible young heart, so eloquently that it
went out to each and all in answering throes, and at the same time there
was born in that heart a secret yearning and longing for the mother and
sister who were as strangers to him. Often when he sought the Westcot
home at an earlier hour in the day he had the, to him, rare pleasure of
a romp with Alice’s baby daughters. Norma would clap her chubby hands
and scream with delight, while Meta’s dark eyes would glow and sparkle.
But while Norma, with all a baby’s delight of pulling her victim’s hair
would soon tire, and was content to cuddle up in his lap where she would
often fall asleep, Meta would softly steal up behind and take possession
of him in a more gentle manner. Her soft little fingers had a peculiarly
tender touch as she patted his cheek and toyed with his hair, arranging
the blond curls into a mass of ringlets. She would thus keep her fingers
busy for an hour or more, and never seemed to tire. The dark eyes would
have the same glad sparkle at the end as at the beginning, and Osmond
seemed to enjoy the performance as well as the little ones. On several
occasions he had stretched himself out upon the carpet when the serious
bright-eyed sprite would lift the fair head and pillow it in her lap and
while toying with his hair would put him to sleep. This would afford her
extreme pleasure. She would not permit anyone so much as to whisper
while she guarded his slumber.

The young mother and her girl friends watched the play with amusement
and pleasure. Was there already a spark of the future woman in the
little child’s heart?

Thus the autumn with its gorgeous colors had come and gone. Chilly days
and raw wet nights were now in order, but the glowing fires in the
grates added to the cheerfulness of the rooms and the closely drawn
curtains closed out all that was unpleasant and dismal. Then came the
icy frosts and the first snow and with it a letter from Wilbur
announcing the long promised visit to himself and Mrs. Leland. Edith and
Hilda were almost wild with joy and anticipation. At last! at last! this
so long, so sorely missed brother coming home to his own, to clasp them
in his arms, and they counted the days and hours until he should be in
their midst. But theirs were not the only hearts that beat high at the
contemplation of the coming event. Imelda was scarcely less excited than
were the sisters. With a tender cadence the name “Wilbur” lingered upon
her lips, but not for him alone did her heart beat with joy. Mrs. Leland
received no small share—her bonny Margaret’s mother. And yet another
heart beat with a strange flutter in anticipation. Osmond, when told of
his mother’s expected visit, had turned white to the very lips. Faint
and trembling he had sunk into a chair, and for the remainder of the
evening had been unusually quiet and absent-minded.

“What is it? Not pleased, Osmond?” The boy looked up into Imelda’s eyes
and she saw that his own eyes were filled with tears.

“Do you know, do you realize what this meeting may mean to me? My heart
is going out in advance to the woman who is my mother. I know I shall
love her. I know that I shall find her all that my mind has pictured. I
know that I shall find in her eyes a new life; in her eyes and arms,
such as I have never known. But what else will it mean for me? Great as
has been the fall of respect for the man who is my father, when I
contrast his life and teachings with what I have here been taught,—yet
for all that he is my father! That fact remains. The forming of new and
purer ties means the sundering of some old ones, and although I can only
win thereby an untold amount of good, the fact still remains that it
hurts.”

Imelda’s hand gently passed over the clusters of fair curls as she said,

“I can but honor you for an emotion that is the surest proof of a heart
good and undefiled. I feel certain that if you will follow its dictates
you will soon be able to judge whether it was affection for you which
caused your father to pierce your mother’s inmost soul by depriving her
of the child she had nourished with her heart’s blood. Can you think of
more refined cruelty than to rob a mother of the babe that has lain for
months beneath her heart, and that, with the most excruciating pain and
with great peril to her own life, has been born into the world? Do you
think a father’s affection can excel, or even equal, the love of a
mother? Then think of the years of hungry yearning that have filled that
gentle soul.”—

The boy had not answered, but throughout the evening had remained quiet,
lost in thought. But after that, day by day a restlessness had come over
him scarcely permitting him to remain any length of time in one place.
More glaring became the father’s coarseness as with a critical eye the
boy followed his movements—his actions and his words. Often he found
himself remonstrating with him. At first these remonstrances had
elicited blank surprise, then he had been rudely laughed at and taunted
that he must have fallen in love with some Sunday school Miss.

“That’s all right,” Mr. Leland had said. “Couldn’t help being sweet on
the little creatures myself. In fact am so occasionally yet, but not to
the extent that it is going to interfere with any enjoyment in life.
Don’t be foolish, boy. Kiss the pretty soft lips and tell her pretty
nothings to satisfy her; that need not prevent you from doing just as
you please; and by no means, let me tell you, will it affect me. Girls
are pretty playthings that help to while away the time, but the man is a
fool who permits one of them to affect him more seriously. I have had a
dose of it which I have no desire to have repeated.”

Fearing a tirade against a certain woman who all unconsciously had grown
into his affection he swallowed his disgust and left his father to
himself. Judging his mother by those other women whose “sentiments” were
the same as hers he came to wonder how it had come about that she could
have linked her fate with that of his father. He reproached himself for
entertaining such thoughts, but yet was unable to banish them. And so it
came that often and still more often Osmond found his way to the Westcot
home. Sometimes he would also wend his way to the home of the Wallaces,
but as the sisters had no control there outside their own sanctum it was
not quite so homelike and harmonious, not quite so natural and free.
More often he would stop at their door only a few minutes to leave it a
little later with both sisters under his care. Thus it was that time
went by and the change, the most important event in young Leland’s life,
came nearer.——

All day long the soft, fluffy masses had been falling, noiseless,
incessant, covering hill and plain, and enveloping the world, as it were
in one vast winding sheet. The merry sleigh bells were tinkling, but it
was more work than pleasure to be out in the soft yielding masses of
fresh fallen snow. The hearts of the young beat with glad anticipation
of coming pleasures, but older and wiser heads took it not so lightly.
They looked more seriously at the mass of whirling fluffy flakes as they
came piling down faster and even faster until you could see scarce a
half dozen feet before you, while anxiety crept into many a heart. And
not without cause. Already every train was late, and there was much fear
of trains being snow-bound. In the evening, when in spite of unpleasant
weather our friends gathered at the Westcots’ they wore very serious
faces indeed. According to the dispatch they had received, informing
them on what train the dear expected ones would leave Chicago, they
would be due in Harrisburg the following morning at ten o’clock. If they
had started at the time intended they would in all likelihood be
detained many hours. If they were fortunate enough to lie over in some
city there would be no harm done, but on the trackless prairies it would
be far from pleasant at the best. There was no music and singing that
night. Too much anxiety for merry-making, and at a much earlier hour
than usual they again dispersed. Edith and Hilda’s hearts were heavy as
they kissed their girl friends good night. So long, O so long they had
hoped and longed and waited for this brother to come, and now—Surely,
surely their fondest hopes would not be thus rudely shattered. With a
mighty effort the tears were forced back and bravely they clung to
cheering hope. Just as they were about to descend the stone steps
leading from the front of the building, two strong arms wound themselves
about Hilda’s form and lifting her bodily carried her safely to the
waiting cutter. Warmly and snugly she was tucked in by loving hands and
just for one moment a pair of mustached lips touched hers, then the
words were whispered in her ear: “Courage little girl! be brave and
strong. Tomorrow evening someone else will be claiming kisses from these
sweet lips. Our precious ones will surely come.”

It was the first time Lawrence had put his love into words and action,
and the trembling lips of the blushing maiden thanked him for the sweet
cheering words.

Norman had performed the same office for Edith. To save her feet from
damp and cold he also had carried her down to the waiting cutter and
tucked her in beside Hilda. Then taking his seat beside Osmond, another
hasty good night, and soon the tinkling of the bells were lost in the
distance.

Osmond was quiet; he had been quiet all the evening. Scarce a word had
dropped from his lips. It is very doubtful indeed if the girls felt more
keenly than he the danger threatening the travelers. The tension on his
nerves drove him almost mad. He dare not give expression to his fear. It
meant so much, so much—this coming of his mother. If she should perish!
With a sudden clicking sound he clinched his teeth while the horror of
the thought caused him to close his eyes. Would he then be able to say,
“It was all for the best”?

The dismal drive came to an end. The girls were safely seen inside their
home. Osmond was next deposited at the door of his father’s dwelling and
shortly after Norman also was housed within the four walls of his room.
When the morning broke the snow was still falling with a likelihood that
there would be no change very soon. The trees were bending and breaking
under their load and only with the greatest difficulty could either man
or beast move about. Trains which had been due the day before could not
be heard from, owing to the fact that in many places the telegraphic
wires had been broken. Evening again came, but as yet no news from the
expected train whereon our travelers were supposed to be.

About noon the fall of snow had ceased: a change of temperature had set
in; gradually it had been growing colder until at midnight of the
following night the cold had reached an intensity which was almost
unbearable. This added greatly to the horror of the possible situation
of the travelers, and our friends were in a fever of anxiety. With
blanched faces they moved about in their respective homes scarcely able
to endure the dreary hours of waiting.

Again the night passed and another intensely cold day was ushered in,
and not until noon did any news reach them. A message was wired from
Pittsburg that the train had been snow-bound in Ohio. Rescue trains had
been sent and in all probability if nothing farther occurred to cause
another delay, the train would reach Harrisburg by Thursday evening
where it had been due Monday morning.

Impatience must be curbed. Another night and day must pass ere they
could hope to fold their loved ones to their bosoms. But tedious as the
hours had moved, the day was at last nearing its close, only a few more
hours and then?—Just as the clocks were striking the hour of nine the
puffing monster came steaming into the city with its load of human
freight.



                            CHAPTER XXXVII.


Heaving bosoms, concealing madly beating hearts, were hidden under the
heavy fur-lined wrappings. In the excitement and bustle of the jostling
throng our waiting friends greatly feared missing the travelers in the
murky light, but just as the train was again pulling out, Imelda espied
a lady and two gentlemen who seemed hopelessly seeking someone judging
from their hurried glances. Quickly walking up, that she might the
better look at their closely muffled figures, she was recognized by the
lady traveler, and,

“Imelda!” broke from her lips as she stepped forward and folded the
girlish form in her arms, kissing her again and again.

“Dearest Mamma Leland!”—and the kisses were returned with interest. When
released it was to be again enfolded in a pair of stronger arms—this
time a perfect bear’s hug. Then followed hasty introductions. Several
more embraces, wordless, but nevertheless speaking volumes, and then
Norman spoke:

“Save the caresses for an hour later; they will keep, I am sure. This
weather is not at all inviting, so pile into the waiting sleighs; that
we may go where a welcome is prepared for you.”

“One moment,”—It was Wilbur’s strong pleasant voice. “I make bold to
bring you a fellow traveler who has been of great value to us. Mr. Paul
Arthurs, I think deserves a better fate than to be left to the tender
mercies of a cheerless hotel on a night like this.” These words were
followed by a hearty invitation and welcome. At first Mr. Arthurs
protested against intruding so summarily on perfect strangers, but was
shortly overruled, and a few minutes later the sleighs were flying over
the smooth surface of the already beaten track, and in a very short time
the piercing night air was exchanged for that of the warm rooms at the
Westcot mansion. Willing, friendly hands were assisting each of the
travelers to warmth and comfort. Mrs. Leland was supplied a soft warm
robe, a loose wrapper from Imelda’s wardrobe. As there was no
possibility of procuring their trunks before morning, dry hose and
fur-lined slippers were provided for the weary nether limbs. After a
refreshing bath Imelda’s deft fingers neatly and tastefully arranged the
tired woman’s hair. Then telling her that she looked ever so much better
than a half hour previous, she escorted her to the parlor to find that
the men had just preceded them. Both the gentlemen guests had been
supplied from Mr. Westcot’s wardrobe, and they looked fresh and bright
enough to give the impression that they were there for an ordinary
social call. Wilbur’s eyes lit up with a bright gleam as Imelda entered.
Without a moment’s hesitation he held out both hands and drawing her
close, held her face where the full light of the chandelier overhead
fell upon it—for a minute drinking in the full glow of her beauty,
watching the rich color come and go in the fair cheeks. Then taking the
sweet proud face in both his hands he kissed the ruddy lips, once,
twice, thrice.

“Now,” he said, “I want to look at someone in the——daylight I almost
said; ’tis the gaslight, I mean, which is almost as bright.”

Norman was standing near, leaning with his elbow on the piano, watching
the scene before him with a warm light in his eyes. Understanding well
who Wilbur’s “someone” was, he stepped forward and extended his hand
with a pleasant, happy smile lighting up the handsome manly countenance.
For a few moments the black and blue eyes met, each reading in the
depths of the other’s soul; each satisfied with what he saw and read
there. It was a moment, “When kindred spirits met,” when “soul touched
soul.” As they stood there, man to man, hand clasped in hand, each knew
and felt that he had found a friend worthy of the name, and when a
woman’s soft hand was laid on theirs, as if in blessing, it was Norman’s
lips that touched the woman’s hand, but Wilbur’s dark face was laid
close to hers, and as their lips met the whispered words fell upon her
ear:

“Imelda, gem of women, in this precious brother you have found a jewel
worthy of the finest setting. You have been a sweet and successful
teacher.”

With the pure love-light in two pairs of eyes reflected in her heart she
turned to leave them together. Little gushing Alice was just getting
through making Mrs. Leland welcome when the eyes of the latter fell upon
a sweet face, lit up by a pair of dreamy hazel eyes. Something in the
face struck her as familiar, but she was unable to place it. The girl
saw and understood and was in the act of moving forward when Imelda
caught the look on Mrs. Leland’s face. In a moment more she stood at
Cora’s side, laying her face to hers she said:

“Do you understand?”

“I do,” Mrs. Leland replied. “It is your sister.” Here again after a few
moment’s conversation Imelda had the satisfaction of knowing that two
hearts, both dear to her, would meet and love.

In glancing about she espied Edith deep in conversation with the
stranger, the traveling companion of Mrs. Leland and Wilbur. He was
holding her hand in a close clasp and looking into the dark eyes in a
way wholly surprising in a stranger on such short acquaintance. The
color was coming and going in the sweet face and her eyes had in them
most plainly an answering warmth. He certainly was a very handsome man;
one that any woman would be apt to turn and look at again when meeting
him in a ballroom or on the street. Fair, with a light curling beard and
a free open countenance; tall and well proportioned he was a picture of
manly beauty. Edith looking up and, seeing her friend’s perplexed and
wondering gaze, smiled and beckoned,

“You are surprised, I see, at our seeming unwarranted familiarity, but
do you remember the day when Cora made her first appearance downstairs
after the accident, and we were weaving such golden plans for our
future? Well you also remember that Hilda spoke of a gentleman we had
met in one of our summer vacations in the mountains? I see you do
remember. I had thought the friendship of Mr. Arthurs was to be only a
pleasant memory when lo and behold I recognize him in this traveling
companion of our loved ones, and to make the surprise more complete,
Harrisburg was his destination, as he was coming here on matters of
business and intended remaining in the city for sometime.”

Imelda expressed her delight in finding in him a friend of her friends,
and was about to move on when Mr. Arthurs asked for Hilda. That maiden
was discovered serenely smiling and rosily blushing while listening to
some, from all appearance, highly interesting tale of Lawrence
Westcot’s. Edith forthwith drew her new-found friend in the direction of
the two.

With a happy smile upon her face, reflecting the sunshine of her heart
in her eyes, Imelda was flying from group to group when they suddenly
rested upon the sad face of a boy whose form was half hidden in the
heavy curtain of a deep bay window to which he had withdrawn himself. In
a moment she saw it all. The boy had requested not to be introduced to
his mother at the depot. He would wait a more favorable opportunity.

“It would only excite her,” he said, “and be very unsatisfactory.”

His request had been granted, but in the excitement that followed he had
momentarily been forgotten. Not dreaming that her son might be among
this group of bright intelligent people Mrs. Leland was giving her every
thought to winsome Cora whose heart was being drawn out to meet hers in
glad response.

Imelda crossed the room to where Osmond stood. His eyes filled with
tears as she approached,

“Why so sad, my boy? Cheer up! Do you think you are now ready to look
into your mother’s eyes?”

“My mother! how strange the words sound; but I am afraid!”

“‘Afraid!’ Afraid of what?”

“Of the disappointment that may possibly fill them when they rest on me.
It would hurt if there should be but a momentary reflection therein.”

Imelda’s gentle hand lifted the chin of the boy that was drooping in a
dejected manner,

“Those words that speak of the fear of a disappointment show that you
have not known a mother’s heart. Come now and have this fear cast
out,”—and taking the trembling boy by the hand she drew him from his
hiding place and approached with him the woman to whom he owed his
being. Laying one arm about his neck Imelda drew his face to hers, with
her other hand she touched Mrs. Leland’s arm to draw her attention.

“See! Mamma Leland. Who is this I bring you?”

It was a moment of intense expectation. Mrs. Leland quickly turned, and
for a moment stared—then gave a quick gasp. That face! Just for a moment
she had thought it was Margaret, so great was the resemblance, but only
a moment. His look was strange and yet not strange. From his face she
glanced to that of Imelda, and back again to the boy. She rose from her
chair pressing both hands to her madly beating heart. Her face became
deathly white. Slowly the boy’s hands were extended towards her—an
agonized pleading look lay in the large blue eyes.

“Mother!” broke from the pallid lips.

“Osmond!” echoed the mother, and then she folded her long lost child,
her darling boy! in close embrace near to her wildly beating heart.

For a moment Mrs. Leland felt faint and dizzy, then her pent-up feeling
found vent in a flood of tears, with which were mingled those of Osmond.
The tension on his nerves had been too great, but both strove hard to
conquer their emotions, and for some time they sat in a wordless
embrace, reading what they felt in each others eyes. Tenderly her
trembling hand smoothed the sunny locks and the pearly drops again
gathered in her eyes as she thought how her baby had been permitted to
grow and develop, until he stood upon the brink of manhood without the
guidance of her hand. His boyhood’s years—they had come and gone without
bringing her mother’s heart the privilege of watching over the tender
soul’s moulding. O, to have been with him! to share his joys and to
soften and smooth his childish troubles.

But now? Why dwell upon the past with its many bitternesses and trials?
Did not the present moment outweigh all the sufferings? all the dark
hours of woe? Her boy was still her own, with a soul pure and true.
Should she not rather be thankful? With an overflowing heart she drew
the boy’s face down to hers, giving vent to all the pent-up feelings
that were causing her heart to heave and her lips to seek a loving,
clinging mother’s kiss. Imelda’s eyes filled with tears; without another
word she gently touched Cora’s arm and together they withdrew, leaving
the two to enjoy their new-found happiness.

Imelda drew her sister in the direction of the piano, where Norman and
Wilbur were still standing, welding the friendship that was to last
throughout all the years of their after-life. With a little dextrous
movement the girls managed to reach the instrument without attracting
the notice of the men and only when Cora’s rich, sweet voice filled the
room with joyous song did they become aware of their close proximity.

Every voice was hushed, every word suspended while she sang. Who was
this girl, possessed of such a glorious voice? When the music ceased and
the song ended Cora turned and faced her audience. Wilbur was struck
with the rare beauty of the face, coupled with a strange sense of
familiarity. Imelda smiled, as she caught the puzzled look upon his
face,

“It is Cora, Wilbur.” That was their introduction—just as a matter of
course—feeling they would need no other. But Wilbur was not satisfied,
and begged that Cora would sing again; and she, nothing loath, did sing
again. It was the first time this week she had sung—with the anxiety for
the possible fate of the absent ones she had had no heart to sing. But
tonight she felt happy; so why should she not? Turning over the pile of
music her eye fell upon “The Wandering Refugee.” The music was sweet, if
the words were sad; and as the sad, sweet strains filled the room their
influence was felt by everyone present, toning down the exciting joy
that filled every heart. Just as the last notes died away a rasping
noise was heard at the window. Glancing up they became aware of a white
face being pressed against the large pane. Only a momentary appearance,
and almost in an instant it was gone. But in that instant both girls had
seen it and—had they recognized it? Both pairs of lips breathed the
prayer—“I hope not!”

Such a wretched looking, such a deathly white face! Imelda quickly moved
over to the window, but no sign was to be seen of a human being. Had
they been mistaken? Was it only a chimera of the brain, conjured up by
the sad, weird words of the song? Heaving a deep sigh she turned away,
shaking her head to the enquiring sister. No one else had seen the face
at the window.

At this juncture Alice claimed her right as hostess, and insisted that
all should direct their steps to the dining room, there to partake of a
warm repast which had been prepared for the hungry travelers. Around the
table another hour passed by in pleasant conversation in which many a
treasure of mind was unfolded, and where bright eyes sent electric
sparks back and forth—sparks that were ever ready to kindle love’s fire
wherever they might happen to alight, until at length, breaking in upon
the running conversation Westcot said,

“Will not someone be kind enough to relate the experiences and dangers
of the late journey?”

Wilbur laughed.

“I suspect they are greatly magnified—in your imagination greater far
than in reality. Snow-bound we were; that is true enough; not a pleasant
experience, I grant you. By the storm-king we were forced to remain in
one spot, consumed more or less with anxiety and by impatience to move
onward. The change to bitter cold caused us some suffering, but being
well supplied with wraps and blankets its keenest edge was blunted.
Perhaps the greatest danger that menaced us was the lack of provisions,
but that also was warded off.

It was night when our train was brought to a standstill, and when the
morning dawned we saw only a vast unbroken field of snow, spread out
before our eyes. The outlook was far from cheerful. Not having thought
of such an emergency we had supplied ourselves with no provisions
whatever, and the probability was that we would become acquainted with
empty stomachs before reaching our journey’s end.

“Just opposite us across the aisle our friend here, Mr. Arthurs, had
taken his seat and, as misery loves company, it was not long ere he made
our acquaintance. Pardon me, Arthurs,” laughed Wilbur, “I did not mean
that you were so very miserable but that we were all so miserably
situated that your kind heart prompted you to lighten our misery by
coming closer to us. Well, as the day wore on we all became
uncomfortably conscious that there were appetites waiting to be
appeased. The supply carried by the train was not a large one and the
steward was asking shameful prices. Mr. Arthurs made the proposition
that we make an attempt at exploration, to see if there were no human
habitations near. At first Mrs. Leland would not listen to such a thing,
fearing we might get lost, but her fears were overruled and we made
preparation for a tramp through the deep and softly yielding snow.

Following the base of a hill, near which our train had stopped, we
walked about a mile when in the distance we discovered quite a village.
It seemed an endless tramp but at length we managed to get there and
make our needs known. The villagers proved to be a rough but kindly
disposed people and, combining business and humanitarianism, some hours
later they brought to the cold and hungry travelers a supply of hot
coffee and sandwiches at reasonable prices. This removed the deadly fear
of starvation, and although the temperature was very, very cold our
situation was endurable. Towards evening of the second day rescue trains
arrived. The snow had been cleared from the tracks by the persistent
labor of many men who had worked night and day with their shovels, and
soon we were once more speeding on our way rejoicing.

“By this time our new friend had proved himself a friend indeed, and
having made the discovery that his destination was the same as ours we
invited him to make one of our party. And to judge from present
appearances he is not at all sorry for having accepted the invitation.”

Every eye turned in the direction of Mr. Arthurs, at whose side Edith
had found a seat. So deeply was he interested, just then, in something
Edith was saying that neither had heard the closing remarks of Wilbur,
but at the sudden hush both looked up to find all eyes resting upon them
in smiles. A flush mantled their faces, but, joining in the laugh at
their expense the matter was quickly disposed of, and now, having
satisfied their hunger Norman said he thought it time they were seeking
their respective homes, the night being far advanced, and rest being
much needed. Both Wilbur and Mr. Arthurs spoke of going to a hotel,
which proposition was most strenuously objected to by the Westcots who
insisted that they make their home with them during their stay in the
city.

But to this neither of the young men would listen; for this one night,
however, they did not refuse to accept the kindly proffered hospitality.
Tomorrow they would make other arrangements. Hasty preparations were
then made for the departure of the others, and Mrs. Leland’s heart
contracted painfully at the thought of letting her boy go from her, even
for one night. But chiding her selfishness she gave him a good night
kiss. As Norman opened the door, the outer vestibule door and was
passing down the stone steps he suddenly stopped. Across the lower step
a dark object was lying which proved to be the cold and stiffened form
of a man.



                            CHAPTER XXXVIII.


Norman’s cry of alarm soon brought the others to his side. To the
question, “What shall be done with him?” Alice replied,

“Bring him in immediately.”

So the inanimate form was lifted and carried inside, not to the heated
rooms but to one where the fire had gone out, leaving it cold and chill.
Imelda and Cora stood with clasped hands, a frightened look in their
eyes; looking at each other, expecting what they dared not think or
breathe aloud.

The body of the unfortunate man had been carried past them without
either having caught a glimpse even of the white face, leaving them in
cruel uncertainty as to the identity of its owner. Norman spoke of
procuring a doctor when Paul Arthurs spoke:

“With the kind permission of all present I offer my service, as I am a
physician.” This was news, and under the circumstances a very agreeable
surprise. The offer was most gladly accepted. Requesting Wilbur and
Norman to lend their assistance Doctor Arthurs began the work of trying
to resuscitate the seeming dead body, and for two long hours the three
worked hard and faithfully. When they had about given up all hope of
recalling the fleeting spark the discovery was made that the blood was
beginning to circulate while faintly perceptible respiration gave hope
of returning consciousness. After a thorough cleansing the body was
wrapped in a soft, warm blanket and put to bed. The chances now were
that a life had been saved, but—to what end?

The young physician had made a sad discovery, one which indicated that
the patient was at best the victim of an incurable disease. He who lay
before them unconscious of his condition, was but a boy in years but
already a physical wreck, through the indulgence of a most pernicious
sexual habit. Hollow eyes and sunken cheeks told the sad tale. The drawn
white face was encircled by clusters of dark, curling hair; in health he
evidently had been a handsome lad. Now his appearance was anything but
prepossessing.

“There we see the result of ignorance on the part of some one,” spoke up
the young physician. “The ignorance of parents in regard to the meaning
of childhood, or the ignorance of a boy who did not know, or understand,
the meaning of life, and the right uses of life-giving organs and
forces.”

Neither of the young men had a word to say, but stood with eyes riveted
on the ghastly face. Why did that face seem so strangely familiar? and
while they looked this strange feeling grew. Like a flash a revelation
came to both and their eyes met in a sympathetic glance. Norman became
white to the very lips. In Wilbur’s eyes was a troubled look, as he met
the glance of the other, but across that motionless form he extended his
hand to the other who without a moment’s hesitation placed his own
therein. It was like a compact, this involuntary action, and in that
silent clasp there was something conveyed that told to each that they
had drawn a step nearer to each other; that in the future they would
stand still closer as friends. Wilbur turned to the young physician,
pointing to the prostrate form,

“We have made a discovery!”

“And which is——”

“That this unfortunate young man is Frank Ellwood!”

“Frank Ellwood? Who is he?”

“The brother of the sisters, Imelda and Cora Ellwood.”

“Ah!” The word was long drawn and hesitating. Paul Arthurs did not as
yet understand; so, briefly as possible, Wilbur related just enough to
enable him to grasp the situation.

The young doctor’s face became sad and overcast. O, why is this young
life blighted? Why should this burden be laid upon those young
shoulders? But he felt it would not be for long. Disease, with its fatal
clutch, had fastened upon the vitals of the young man, and it was only a
question of a very short time until the fell destroyer would claim the
victim for his own.

When an hour later, with returning consciousness Frank opened his eyes
it was to find two fair faces bending over him, faces wherein only love
and compassion were to be seen. While Imelda gently brushed the dark
hair from the pale face Cora took his hand and laid her face upon it. In
his weakness he saw but did not understand. As if their presence brought
him peace and comfort he again closed his eyes and soon the regular
breathing told that he was in the land of dreams. Gently, lovingly, the
sisters nursed the erring brother back to life, with never a word of
reproach for the wasted past. They understood only too well their task
would be of but short duration, and when the paroxysms of coughing shook
the weakened frame it was all they could do to stay the tears that would
well up in their eyes.

But soon the time came when he asked to have their joint presence
explained, and it was Cora who told him all—all the bitter struggles and
experiences of both their lives; of the heavy overhanging clouds, but
which clouds were now beginning to show their silver lining.

Frank made no comment. He seemed broken in spirit as well as in body.
The once strong and healthy young athlete seemed now only to desire rest
and quiet, and when the glad spring time came with its new life and
budding joys, its sunshine and song, they folded the waxen hands upon
the pulseless breast, decked his coffin with the first sweet flowers of
spring and laid the emaciated body away from sight.

Poor boy! Wayward and reckless from his childhood up he had plunged
headlong into all the vices that lure passionate youth from virtue’s
path, and yet—had he sinned more than he had been sinned against? If he
had erred, if he had gone wrong, surely he had paid the forfeit. It was
a heavy price, that of his young life, and it ill becomes us to sit in
judgment upon him. Lawrence and Alice had insisted that he remain an
inmate of their home, and a bright sunny room had been placed at his
disposal, where he remained until the end.

In the meantime much of interest had transpired, ere the dawn of that
sad spring morning. On that memorable night that had brought so much of
joy, and also so much of pain—the finding of the long lost brother—our
friends had separated as they had at first intended doing, with the
difference that those departing had remained a few hours longer at the
Westcots than they had expected. With the feeling of uncertainty as to
the fate of the frozen man none experienced a desire to leave until the
news came that he would recover temporarily at least; and when the
suspicions of the sisters had proved to be correct—that the unfortunate
stranger was indeed their brother, so long dead to them—then, as the
hour was very late, whispering words of hope the good nights were at
last spoken. The Wallace sisters with Osmond and Norman as escorts were
rapidly driven to their home; Edith’s hand had been held just a little
longer and closer by the young physician than would seem to have been
necessary, and Mrs. Leland had held her boy very close as though the
separation about to take place was for an unknown period of time,
instead of only one short night,—but finally they were whirled away over
the freezing snow, and in due time deposited each at their respective
doors.

Mr. Wallace did not often inquire into the doings of his daughters. Long
since he gave over the attempt to control their actions, feeling that
they could well be trusted. On this occasion, however, the hour had been
so unusually late when they had come home that he could not refrain from
asking where they had spent the evening, or rather night, as was in the
“wee sma’ hours” that they had sought their room. A moment Edith
hesitated, then,

“At the Westcot’s—they are entertaining visitors from Chicago, the
belated trains causing us also to be late.”

Edith again hesitated before answering. Should she tell the truth? It
was extremely distasteful to this pure-minded girl to speak a falsehood.
She felt she could not possibly keep the fact a secret that her brother
was in the city. The sisters exchanged a quick apprehensive glance, then
endeavoring to appear calm as possible Edith said:

“The interest might possibly be greater than you think, and you will
perhaps agree with me when I tell you that one of them bears the name of
Wilbur Wallace.”

Mr. Wallace, who was just partaking of his morning meal, arrested midway
the cup which he was about placing to his lips and stared at his
daughter as if he had not heard aright.

“Who? What is that you say?”

“Wilbur Wallace,” repeated Edith with slightly trembling voice. Slowly
the cup that was poised in mid air was again replaced upon the table.

“Do you mean to say that it is your brother to whom you refer?”

A slight inclining motion of the head was Edith’s only answer. She
almost feared to look at her father, and when she did so she found the
strong man had turned deathly pale; his lips twitching nervously, and
presently with a gasping sound came from his lips:

“Wilbur! Wilbur!” and his head sank upon his hand, in which attitude he
remained a long while, then slowly, without again speaking, he rose,
donned overcoat and muffler and went out into the crisp, wintry, morning
air. His manner was a mystery. The girls looked at each other and shook
their heads.

In the evening when they again met at the family table he looked more
like himself but was strangely quiet, not at all like the Elmer Wallace
who was wont to carry himself with an air of such importance and
assurance. Even his wife took note of the matter and inquired as to the
reason, but received no answer for her pains.

Several days thus passed by. Regularly each evening after supper a span
of horses with a dashing cutter drove up to the door; a youthful driver
would spring therefrom and would carefully tuck the waiting girls
therein and drive away, returning always a little before midnight. Then
there was a change. Beside the boyish figure a more manly one had taken
its place. Tall and well built, every movement of that form betokened
health and strength. At such times the face of another and older man
could be seen at the window, watching the figure of the younger man as
he sprang to meet the girls. Eagerly he listened to catch the sound of
the voice speaking words of greeting to the sisters, watched him tuck
the robes closely about them, heard his deep-toned laughter mingle with
their silvery ripples, and in a few seconds more they would disappear.
Long hours would intervene, but when the tinkling bells announced their
return, as though it had been watching for their advent, the face at the
window was always there, until the good nights were spoken and the merry
music of the bells was lost in the distance.

But Mr. Wallace never asked for his son; though deep down in his heart a
longing was making itself manifest. Now that he knew that his first born
was once more near him in the same city, to look into his eyes, to clasp
him to his bosom, to have a share in his life, was a desire that was
daily growing upon him. Yet he could not bring himself to sue for it.
Day by day the longing grew stronger until it became almost unbearable.
This longing was the more strongly felt when he glanced at his younger
children, the result of his second marriage. All of them, the whole
four, had not been sent, this season, to boarding school, as they were
not at all well, and they had made life anything but pleasant for the
rest of the household. The eldest boy, Homer, the father had hoped would
soon have been ready to graduate, but the lad showed an unaccountable
aversion towards his books. He was surly, sullen and irritable, with a
languor of manner that caused the parents to fear that he might be
breeding some fever. The others were no better. Elmer was hollow-eyed
and nervous. The girls, Hattie and Aleda, were fretful and hysterical to
a degree that made life a misery to those about them.

The parents were anxious and fearful, pampering them in mistaken
kindness, thereby making perfect tyrants of them all. Only Edith and
Hilda would not submit to the whimsical demands of the younger children,
and when Mrs. Wallace complained and lamented about the ill health of
her darlings Edith would reply:

“Insist on it that they all take exercises every day—exercise of a
nature that will tax their strength, and ere long you will see a
change.”

“Yes, I am sure there would be a change. You certainly are the most
heartless girl I have ever met. Compel my sick children to work? I
believe it would please you if they should die, for that is what such a
course would result in, I am sure.”

Mr. Wallace would look at them, then at the bright and cheerful faces of
his eldest daughters. Then he would remember the face and figure of the
stalwart young man whose movements he had of late been watching from the
window and would wonder how it was that the children of the delicate
Erna should be healthy and robust while these younger children, whose
mother was apparently so strong and healthy, should be so delicate,
apparently candidates for early graves. More than ever he longed to be
reconciled to his first born. But his stubborn will would not bend. Had
Wilbur come to him he would have welcomed him with open arms, but that
he should go to Wilbur his iron will and stubborn pride would not
permit. So he stifled the voice of his heart, only he could not cast out
the longing therein, and day by day he grew more restless, dissatisfied
and irritable while the state of affairs at home grew daily more
unpleasant.

One day, it was clear and frosty, Mr. Wallace was on his way home to
dinner, walking along at a brisk pace. Part of his way lay along the
railway track, when at a short distance ahead of him he saw a boyish
figure in which he recognized his son Homer. The boy was walking at a
very slow pace with downcast eyes seemingly forgetful of his
surroundings when the rumbling of the wheels of an approaching train was
heard. The boy however, paid no heed. Mr. Wallace gave a cry of warning
but the boy was so lost in thought that he never heard. The train was
approaching at an alarming rate of speed.

“Homer! Homer!” the distracted father cried, but unconcerned the boy
walked on. Mr. Wallace started on a run but despaired of reaching him.
He repeated his warning cry when suddenly the boy tripped and stumbled,
almost fell—recalling him to himself, but the nearness of the
approaching train, the certainty of impending fate seemed to stun him
and he stood stock still, with white set face, awaiting the coming
shock. Mr. Wallace calling again, “Homer! Homer! quick, aside,” covered
his eyes with his hand so as not to witness the dread disaster.

The next moment the train went speeding by, sending the icy chills
through his veins. Dreading to look up, expecting to see only the
mangled remains of his child Mr. Wallace with white lips and blanched
face, opened his eyes to see a stalwart, manly figure, a face encircled
by clustering dark locks, lit up by piercing black eyes, and in his arms
holding the half-fainting form of Homer.

The revulsion of feeling was so great that the strong man reeled, and
when he saw and recognized who it was that had been the savior of his
boy a film gathered over his eyes. He staggered as he made his way to
where the stranger stood, still clasping the careless boy in his arms.
Both hands were outstretched to clasp those of the rescuer but the stiff
lips refused to articulate the words he would have spoken.

By this time Homer had recovered himself sufficiently to free himself
from the firm clasp, and to say,

“All right, old man! No need of being so scared. I have not gone to
‘kingdom come’—not just yet.”

But not on the boy were the eyes of Mr. Wallace riveted. As if
fascinated they hung upon that other young face while his own was
working strangely.

“I presume you are the father of this young man?” spoke a clear,
full-toned, manly voice.

“Wilbur!” came in husky, broken accents from the pallid lips of Mr.
Wallace. “Wilbur, do you not know me?”—in a hesitating, supplicating
manner, extending both hands to the young man.

Wilbur started and changed color, retreating a step and bending a
searching glance upon the elder man. “You are——my——”

“Father!” interrupted Mr. Wallace. “Yes, I am your father, and the boy
whose life you have just saved is your brother.”

The boy gave vent to a long drawn whistle,—

“Say, Gov’nor! this is news. Where did you manage to have him stowed
away all this time?”

The face of Mr. Wallace flushed darkly red.

“Homer, I am ashamed of you. You would please me much by being a little
less ill-bred.” Then turning again to Wilbur and again extending his
hand,

“Will you permit the past to be forgotten? Must I ask in vain that my
boy, my first born, will lay his hand in mine?”

The husky pleading of the voice touched Wilbur. After a few moment’s
hesitation in which the past seemed to confront him,—in which he seemed
to hear the splashing of the icy waters of the Susquehanna river as they
closed over the head of the hazel-eyed little mother, so many years
ago—a shudder passed through his frame; then his eyes fell upon the boy,
almost a young man, but with a sullen look on the otherwise fair face,
thereby marring its beauty—the disrespectful manner towards his father,
showing an equally marred character. Then his eyes turned to the face of
the father who had so long been a stranger to him, and what they saw
there again touched his better nature. No! it certainly was not the face
of a happy man. There were lines in it that the flight of years alone
had not traced. It looked careworn and worried. Slowly, involuntarily
his hand was raised and laid in the outstretched palm whose fingers
closed about it almost like a vice. Several moments passed ere Mr.
Wallace had controlled himself sufficiently to speak, then hurriedly,
anxiously,—

“You will go with me? I want you at home.”

Wilbur shook his head, but his father only held his hand the faster.

“I will take no refusal. For once I am going to give Edith and Hilda a
pleasant surprise. Come, Homer, we will not keep them waiting at home
for us any longer.” Without answering the boy turned his steps homeward,
while Mr. Wallace drew Wilbur’s arm through his.

“You will come I know, and the girls will be happy.”

Half reluctantly and wholly longingly he permitted himself to be led
away and almost ere he knew he found himself standing at the door of the
well known house before which of late he had so often stood.



                             CHAPTER XXXIX.


Edith gave a gasp when she saw the noble form of her brother enter the
door at her father’s side; but she welcomed him by laying her white
round arm about his neck and kissing him. Hilda stood for a moment
looking from one to another in a bewildered manner, then a bright light
almost transfigured her face. Gliding to her father’s side she surprised
that individual by winding her arms about his neck and pressing her
fresh dewy lips to his. Then laying her cheek to his whispered:

“I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

What was it that arose in his throat and dimmed his eye? When had a
sweet woman’s kiss been pressed upon his lips before. He laid a
trembling hand upon the back of a chair to steady himself while his eyes
followed the hazel-eyed girl—so like the Erna of long ago. For just one
moment it had seemed to him that it had been she who whispered that
“Thank you.” That it had been her cheek resting against his. A sigh
escaped his lips as he thought of how short duration had been their
happiness. Why had it been so short? Even now he could not understand;
but he felt a glow of satisfaction, such as he had not known in many a
long year, as he watched the group of three. For the first time a
feeling of conscious pride swelled in his heart at the thought that they
were his children. Mrs. Wallace, when she entered the room in her
sweeping robes was not exactly delighted when the guest of the evening
was introduced to her, but had enough of good grace to tender him a
kindly welcome when she heard of the service he had rendered her own
son. Besides this splendid young giant commanded her respect whether she
would or not. She always did admire handsome men, and Wilbur was
decidedly handsome. So once more—what he believed would never again be
possible—Wilbur found himself sitting at his father’s table, partaking
of his bread, of his hospitality, and felt conscious that he was doing
right; knew that his idolized sisters sanctioned it. Both were extremely
happy and, conscious of that happiness, Wilbur felt as if inspired, and
talked as he had never before talked. His sisters were proud of him and
his father was surprised and astounded at the store of knowledge he
possessed, at the ideas that had possession of his active brain, and a
new light dawned upon his mind.

It was, he now began to see, this brother who had been the teacher of
the sisters, developing them into the splendid independent women that
they were. Even Mrs. Wallace became interested, although most of that
which he said was as so much Greek to her. It was of so foreign a nature
to her. She found more to disagree with than agree to, yet she found
herself listening to every word. Stranger than all, Homer was aroused;
his senses were alert. Where had he ever heard such doctrines propounded
before? Certainly not in such a strain. Yet he had heard them, and with
his mates of the boarding school had jeered and laughed and scoffed at
what they termed “would-be-reformers.” Now he began to see how much
superior were these thoughts when compared with the useless studies with
which his head had been crammed, and with the teachings of the dime
novels which he and his mates had devoured—inflaming their passions and
leading to the formation of vile habits.

While Wilbur was speaking he had been watching the flushing and paling
face of the boy. A suspicion of what made him languid and nervous and
sullen forced itself upon his mind and he forthwith made up his mind to
take the lad in hand. He also observed that none of the other children
possessed a healthy color, but with this one he was, for the moment,
most interested. He remained all the afternoon, partaking again of the
evening meal, thereby causing him to draw still nearer to the slumbering
heart and senses of Homer; at the same time winning his way into the
hearts of all the others. So when after supper as usual a double-seated
cutter drawn by a span of fiery horses came dashing to the door, Wilbur
surprised that young gentleman by inviting him to join them.

“It will do him good,” he said, glancing at his father.

Thus Homer made the acquaintance of this circle which was to influence
all his after-life. As soon as an opportunity offered Wilbur drew young
Arthurs aside and had a prolonged conversation with him, their eyes
frequently resting on the pale face of the boy. Presently Mrs. Leland
was also drawn into the conversation and when it ended all understood
what was expected of them.

Mrs. Leland drew near the boy who was a stranger in their midst, and in
a pleasant motherly fashion began to talk to him, gradually drawing him
out, finding much intelligence stored away in the youthful mind but
which had all been going to waste for the want of a guiding hand and
skillful touch to turn it into proper channels. Edith and Hilda watched
while a feeling of joy filled their hearts. Was there really something
more than self-will, indolence and haughty overbearing in the nature of
the boy, hidden beneath that repellant exterior? Presently it was
Imelda’s turn to exert her gentle influence on him in her bright,
animated manner, and when Cora’s voice filled the large room with a
burst of song he felt as if lost in a new world. The two sisters knew he
was taken care of, and in their turn devoted themselves to the invalid.
Poor Frank! They had the satisfaction of seeing his face light up and
the color come and go in the wan cheeks. He had learned to love the
circle which nightly met here, where naught but love seemed to reign,
while Mrs. Leland was almost worshipped by him. Was ever mother so kind
to erring boy before? If his own mother—but here he stopped. She too had
been erring, suffering. She belonged to his wasted past. She had been an
over-indulgent mother to him, in spite of her fretfulness and
peevishness, and at this late day he felt that it would be wrong for him
to throw a stone upon her grave. While Hilda toyed with his white hand
Edith was standing at the back of his chair, smoothing back the
clustering locks from his brow. A sense of peace and quiet came over
him, such as he had not known in the olden days. Now and then a much
meaning look passed between the young physician and the elder sister,
calling forth a warmer hue to the fair cheek. Hilda enjoyed the same
kind of by-play with Lawrence, to whom it seemed impossible to gain more
than a few moments at a time at her side, while Mrs. Leland was more
successful with her boy lover. When the good nights had been spoken and
our party was whirling homeward, Homer was very quiet, He was deeply
impressed with all he had seen and heard, and his thoughts were busy.

Next morning, earlier far than had been Homer’s habit to rise, two
strong, young figures appeared at the door asking admittance, and
sending the merry tinkle of the bell through the rooms. Wilbur and
Osmond, ready for a hunting trip, had come to take Homer with them. The
boy was tired from being out so late the evening before, and at first
was not at all inclined to join them. It seemed he could not muster
enough of will force to face the crisp morning air, while Mrs. Wallace
objected with all her strength, being positively sure that her darling
would take cold because he was not at all strong. But Wilbur carried his
point. A half hour later, warmly clad and well equipped for their day of
sport they set out, being soon joined by Dr. Arthurs, Norman and
Westcot, they formed quite a party of hunters. As they started away from
the Westcot home a pair of dark eyes, watching them from the window of
the invalid, grew dim and a pair of lips quivered in helpless longing.
But fair woman’s hands took him in tow and made it so pleasant and
entertaining that he forgot the manly sports the others were following.

The hunters were out long hours. Up hills and down valleys, through
woods and meadows, across rocks and frozen brooks they went. Warming to
the excitement of the sport, which sent the blood bounding through his
veins Homer forgot he was weak and tired. The reaction set in, however,
and when they returned he slept long hours, but when the evening came he
was ready and anxious to go to the home of the Westcots.

Next morning another excursion had been planned and again they carried
Homer with them. This time they managed to take Elmer also, in spite of
the protests of the anxious mother who saw certain death in store for
her pampered darlings—tramping about these rough mornings through the
snow; and when she saw them return so tired they almost fell asleep on
their feet she felt more anxious than ever. Soon, however, a change made
itself manifest. They were less fretful and discontented. Their eyes
were brighter, a more healthy color tinged their cheeks, while they ate
with an apparent appetite.

Paul Arthurs now frequently called at the house. He also prescribed a
new course for the younger children. He forbade sweetmeats, spices and
condiments. A simple diet of bread, milk and grain foods, fruits and
nuts, he told the mother, was far more wholesome than the meats and
highly seasoned food they had hitherto been accustomed to.

“Give them a daily bath, then rub them until a warm glow shows itself;
then plenty of outdoor exercise. The cold will not hurt them, but rather
benefit them. Let them go coasting, skating and snowballing until they
are tired out, so tired that they scarce can keep on their feet, and my
word for it, Madame, if you follow this course, you will soon have the
satisfaction of seeing the glow of health in the faces of your children.
They need no medicine. They are suffering from a nervous debility that
only exercise in the open air and wholesome simple food will correct. I
look to you,” turning to Edith, “to see that these directions are
carried out. You understand, I am sure?”

Edith as well as Hilda did understand. The young doctor as well as the
girls did not dare to tell Mrs. Wallace the true reason of the delicate
state of health of all her children—that the seeds thereof had been sown
in the abominable boarding schools she would have considered highly
improbable. At however slight intimation of the real cause she would
have been liable, in her passion, to turn them all from the house and
thus her children would have been robbed of the only chance of regaining
their health. So they wisely kept the secret they had penetrated and
insisted on a course of treatment that these pampered darlings thought
extremely cruel. But soon the effect was apparent, and there was hope
that the morbid cravings might be destroyed, and a strong and pure
manhood and womanhood be secured to them in the future.

So it was that a new life entered this house, and in a manner scarcely
noticeable. A better footing was established between the stepmother and
the daughters. There was more peace and quiet. Once in a while the order
was reversed and the circle would gather in the Wallace home, but not
often. There were many reasons why it should not be the same. The
visitors were made welcome, it is true, but the entertainers must at all
times be guarded in their speech. They could not be quite themselves;
and then Frank never gathered enough strength to bear the fatigue of the
drive back and forth in the cold night air. One or the other would
remain at home with him, as in spite of his protests his sisters and
friends would not consent to leave him alone.

Mr. Wallace had tried hard to induce Wilbur to take up his abode in his
house during his stay in the city, but in this the son was obdurate. He
had buried and consigned to oblivion much of the past, for the sake of
his sisters and also for the sake of those other children who were also
his brothers and sisters, and whom he would, as it were, snatch from an
early grave, but he could not bring himself to lay his head on the
pillow beneath the roof that should have been a loving shelter to his
own precious mother; in the home of the man who should have loved and
cherished instead of driving her with his criminal neglect to a watery
grave. When such thoughts came to him it was all he could do to curb the
ill-will that would fill his heart, and only by the force of his strong
will did he succeed in banishing a feeling of hatred.

Meanwhile Wilbur became more dear day by day, to the father, whose heart
went out to the children of his first marriage as it had never done to
the younger ones.

Thus the weeks passed away and Christmas was drawing near when the mail
brought a letter from Margaret to her mother. A cry of joy broke from
her lips as she read its contents.

“What is it?” cried the girls in chorus.

“O, listen! It is almost too good to be true!”

“And now, dearest mamma, let me wind up this epistle by a little bit of
news. By some strange and opportune circumstance we have no engagement
for two weeks, beginning with Christmas morning, and now I mean for a
short time to join that precious circle of which I have heard so much.
O, you don’t know how impatient I am as the time draws near. I am
longing, am homesick for you all. It is sweet, this thing called fame
and homage, to be greeted and rewarded with applause, but the heart-felt
affection of your loved ones is something different, and O, so much more
satisfying.”

This indeed was news and joy. Imelda knelt at Mrs. Leland’s side, laying
her head upon her motherly knee,

“O, I am so glad, so glad! for once our circle will be complete.”
Glancing up, her eyes met those of Cora. The look of pain and silent
reproach therein pierced to her very heart. Hastily rising, with a quick
step she was at Cora’s side, winding her arms about her she laid her
face to hers.

“Forgive me, little sister. For a moment I forgot that we cannot be
complete until one more noble man, your own Owen, shall have joined us.”

Cora smiled through her tears.

“There is nothing to forgive, only sometimes I grow so hungry, so heart
hungry, so love hungry. I know everyone here loves me, yet——”

“Yet the supreme love, the love of him who makes life’s sunshine for
you, is wanting; is not that so? But why, little one, do you not send
him the word which will bring him to you?”

“I do not know; but I have the feeling that for some reason it would be
useless. I will wait a little while longer.”

So a few more days went by and at last Christmas morning dawned. A
solitary watcher paced up and down the platform in front of the depot
awaiting the arrival of the incoming train, his impatience not
permitting him to seek the warmth indoors as many others were doing. Up
and down, up and down, he paced, the dark eyes glowing in their
suppressed eagerness when at last the whistle sounded on the clear,
crisp air and a few minutes later the thundering train discharged its
load of human freight, and was again putting away on its eastern course.
A tall, fair-haired woman was seen casting searching glances about when
a pair of arms were laid upon her shoulders. She was gently turned
about, almost at the same moment a pair of moustached lips pressing
hers,

“Margaret, my rare, sweet Margaret!”

“Wilbur!” Another kiss followed, then quickly she was assisted to a seat
in the waiting cutter, snugly tucked in with warm robes and furs and in
a few minutes more they were speeding along over the frozen snow.

“My mother, is she well? and Imelda, and Alice, and her babies, and all
the rest whom I have not seen, are they all well and happy?”

Wilbur laughed. “One question at a time if you please, my girlie. But as
to each and all I can give the same answer, so will I answer them all at
once with the one little word ‘Yes,’ and they have sent me along to
greet you, not but one and all are just as eager and impatient to greet
and welcome my darling. Only they have kindly conceded the privilege to
me to be the first to embrace my girlie, for which I certainly am
thankful. For when that bevy of women once have you in their
clutches—there now! I retract that word, but it is certain when they
have secured you I may not hope to again speak to you in a hurry. For
some time at least they will own you.”

By this time they were leaving the turmoil and noise of the city in
their rear and as the roads were quiet and deserted, the arm of the
young driver gently stole about the slender waist of the woman at his
side. Nothing loath the fair head rested against his shoulder while the
blue eyes looked up into the black ones with love unutterable. Again
their lips met in a clinging kiss.

“O sweetheart and lover, it seems so good once more to be able to nestle
in your arms.”

To press her still more closely was his only answer. Thus laughing and
talking, loving and kissing, they enjoyed to the utmost that drive in
the crisp, cold air, and soon they arrived at their destination, where
many open arms were extended to receive the fair Margaret.

“My darling!” and

“My own mamma!” were the caressing words exchanged as Mrs. Leland folded
her daughter to her heart. But not for long was she permitted to hold
her there. Imelda’s brown eyes were beaming with love and pleasure.
Alice was eager for a kiss, her two pretty babies wanted to be noticed
by this new auntie. Then Imelda drew her aside where the hazel-eyed Cora
was standing with one arm laid lovingly about the shoulders of a
pale-faced young man. Margaret needed no introduction. By letter she had
long since known of the finding of both of Imelda’s wayward ones, and a
single glance told her all. She took the girl’s face between her hands
and gently kissed the cherry lips.

“I am so glad for your own as well as for Imelda’s sake.”

This was her greeting and Cora understood, for her eyes filled with
tears. Frank’s hand she took between both of hers and knelt at his side.

“And you are the brother I have so often heard her speak about. For
Imelda’s sake you must be my brother also, as my own brother has been
absent for so long a time I can scarce remember him.”

Frank’s face became sad and his eyes misty.

“O, but your own brother is so much more deserving than I. Would that my
record were as clean.”

Margaret shook her head.

“Not so downcast and self-reproachful, my boy. We are so much the
creatures of circumstances we cannot well help doing just the things we
do. The past you have done with, only the future is yours, to make that
what it should be will be your task, your duty, your pleasure.”

In his turn Frank shook his head.

“No! no! even that boon will be denied me. My bad deeds can’t be undone;
to atone for them will not be permitted me. My days, my hours, even, are
numbered. No, no, please don’t. I understand what you would say. Why
should such a truth-loving woman as you seek to deceive me. I know it
all, and I suppose it is best so. Look, there at your mother’s side
another awaits to welcome you, one who is nearer and dearer to you than
such a poor wreck of humanity as I could ever dare hope to be.”

Following the direction indicated by Frank Margaret saw, standing at her
mother’s side, an arm thrown caressingly about her shoulders, a young
man as yet almost a boy, fair sunny locks thrown carelessly back from a
broad and open brow, a look of longing in the frank blue eyes, and
suppressed emotion quivering about the sensitive mouth.

Slowly Margaret drew herself up to her full height, with her eyes
fastened on that boyish and yet manly form. Was it—O was it——? Her
mother’s hand went up to his face and drew it close to her own, holding
it there, the other hand she extended to her daughter. With bated breath
Margaret crossed the room.

“Is it——”

“Your brother.”

Then both of Margaret’s hands were extended and both were clasped firmly
and tenderly, and,

“Osmond!”

“Margaret!”—spoken in a breath, and Margaret knew that at last her
mother had her heart’s one desire; her boy, her baby is once more her
own, and the sister is clasped in her brother’s embrace.

“O, this is indeed a merry Christmas, and you are the nicest Christmas
gift I could have wished for. But how is it, mamma, that you have not
written this to me?”

“Because I so sincerely hoped and believed that you would make it
possible to spend a week with us, and I wanted to surprise you. Have I
succeeded?”

“Indeed you have, my darling mamma. But is this boy always so
tongue-tied, having just nothing at all to say?”

Osmond laughed,

“I believe you are a saucebox! But that isn’t a bit nice of me, is it?
to call you names in the first moments of our acquaintance—with the
first words I address to you. I promise you to try and do better and say
something nice. I don’t believe you are easily spoiled and feel that I
may tell you, that already I am proud of my sister. I think they have
named you well—Margaret. A daughter of the Gods, divinely tall and most
divinely fair——”

“For shame, Osmond; to try to pay your sister compliments in such
wornout phrases.”

A laugh followed and the ice was broken. Margaret felt and knew that she
should love this brother. As the days of the following week glided by
she gradually came to know all there was to tell and to learn. Osmond
told her all about the father who opposed his coming here, when by
accident he discovered that it was the boy’s mother he daily went to
see; of the battle he had fought and how he had come off conqueror; of
how there had been much in common between them; but that of late he was
daily drifting more and more away from his father; then of how he had
come into this circle, and how he had gradually come to hear and then
understand their ideas; how he had come to know and understand what true
womanhood and manhood were, what they meant, and that he now knew that
his mother and sister were sweet and pure and true, notwithstanding the
teachings of his father.

Then Margaret had come to know the sisters of Wilbur, and knew not which
was the most love-worthy, the stately Edith or the sweet, gentle Hilda.
She saw the heightened color in the cheeks of the former when the young
physician was holding her attention; she saw the sparkling light in the
eyes of the latter and the answering light in those of Lawrence Westcot;
the adoration in Imelda’s glance as it rested on the splendid figure of
Norman Carlton, whom indeed she found to be all her friend had said of
him. “One of nature’s noblemen” was the best she knew how to describe
him. But to which, indeed, of the manly faces and forms should she not
have applied the same appellation? And O, how she enjoyed the society of
this bright circle! how swiftly the hours and days flew by. How soon she
knew her short vacation would be over and that again she must away to
her work.

She loved her work but she could not help feeling sad that her visit
would be of such short duration. She would nestle closer to Wilbur’s
side, and just a little more passion would creep into her kisses, when
she was folded against his heart, at the thought of the coming
separation.

So the first week of her vacation neared its close, and all felt more
than ever before the rapid flight of time, when one evening Norman
joined the circle holding a telegram aloft.

“Look,” he said, “this announces the visit of a friend of olden days, a
college mate, a most precious friend whom I will turn over to the tender
mercies of our ladies; a splendid fellow, wholesouled and true. Maybe
you girls can make another addition to our circle. He is well worth the
winning, though he be a married man.”



                             CHAPTER XXXX.


We must now retrace our steps for some months back to the golden summer
time.

In the great eastern metropolis, on the sunny banks of the beautiful
Hudson, almost hidden within a grove of wild plum and cherry trees,
stands a cosy cottage. Snowy lace curtains drape the windows. Creeping
vines almost cover it like a heavy green coverlet. On the shady porches
are arranged a profusion and variety of richly blooming plants. The
grass plots surrounding the house are dotted with beds of rare flowers
which fill the air with fragrance.

But in spite of all the tempting beauty of the place there was an air of
desertion about it that one felt rather than saw. The sultry summer day
was drawing to its close. Evening was casting its lengthening shadows
across the paths. Many of the beautiful blossoms drooped their heads as
if weary and sad, while every window and door was closely fastened.

There was not a single sign of life about the place, when suddenly the
click of the garden gate was heard, and a man with hasty steps came
walking up the path. His face was pale and handsome, his eyes blue, and
his drooping, silky mustache a decided red. The hair of the head,
however, was of a darker hue, a handsome brown. He was admitted to the
house by an old negress, whose face wore an extremely doleful
expression.

“Hello! Aunt Betty, what’s wrong? Your young mistress is well, I hope?”
But not waiting for answer he pushed by her, and was half way up the
stairway when the old woman’s voice arrested his footsteps.

“No use, Massa Hunter. The young Missis is not upstairs.”

“Not upstairs! Then where is she, pray? Tell me at once.”

For answer the old woman covered her face with her snowy apron and burst
into tears.

“What is the meaning of this?” the young man demanded. “Has anything
happened? Where is Cora? Don’t you see how you are torturing me?”

“I don’t know. Indeed I don’t! She just put on her plainest dress and
says to me: ‘I is going away, aunty, you can keep dis as a present from
me,’ and she gi’ me a purse all filled with gold. ‘You is to remain
here,’ she says, ‘until the massa comes and den you gi’ him dis.’ Then
she gi’ me lettah, and dat is all I knows.”

His face was ashy white and his hand shook as with palsy as the negress
handed him the missive which he instinctively knew was a farewell from
the one woman who was dearer to him than life. A deadly fear crept into
his heart as he went into the little parlor and closed the door as if to
shut out the glad sunlight while he read the words that had been penned
with a broken heart. Here and there a stain, a tell-tale mark had been
left by a falling tear.


“You will forget,” she wrote, “that such a one as I have ever crossed
your path. It is better thus. It seems my destiny only to bring pain and
suffering to those who love me.

“Do not fear I may sink again to the level on which you found me and
from which you rescued me. You have taught me a woman’s real worth and
no degrading action or word shall ever again soil my life. I was
reckless and daring to accept the priceless boon of your love without
first inquiring if you were free to love. I did not know, O, I did not
know, that law and custom had already bound you to another. I cannot
permit you to make a criminal of yourself, and when you return I will be
gone. Don’t seek to find me. What would be the use? The world is wide
and somewhere I shall be able to live out this life which consists of so
much more pain than joy. I am young and strong, and shall find work
somewhere. Good bye! Farewell, my Owen, my lover. Reserve in your memory
one little spot of green for your own unhappy.

                                                                  CORA.”


The closely written sheets fluttered from his hand and fell unheeded to
the floor. His head sank upon his arm where it fell upon the table. Thus
he sat long hours. The day had gone out in the gloaming. The twilight
hours passed and ushered in the dark night and still he sat there. Then
he arose and dragged his weary footsteps to the pretty bed chamber which
was to know her no more. There, where he had spent so many sweet and
indescribably happy hours, he threw himself upon the bed and buried his
face in the snowy pillows which her head had so often pressed.

At sunrise he left the sacred abode. He told the old negress to remain
and take care of the little home just the same as if her mistress were
there. Giving her a well filled purse he turned his back upon the place
where love had been wont to welcome him and went straight to the mansion
where dwelt the haughty Leonie, his wife.

                  *       *       *       *       *

“I will never give in! Never! never! I would scratch the eyes out of her
white face first!”

The shrill voice almost shrieked the words and the black eyes of the
angry woman flashed fire as the white face twitched with fury which
transformed it until it became almost hideous.

“I would murder the brazen hussy ere I would ——”

“Not another word! I will not hear your vile tongue defame her whose
shoes you are not worthy to wipe. Yon have driven my poor girl away. If
sin there be, it is mine. She never knew I had a wife. She was content
to give me her love until you drove her forever out of my life. So on
that score you can rest easy, but I repeat that I will not continue this
farce any longer. I have crossed the threshold of the dwelling that you
call home for the last time. I shall sever now and for all time every
tie that binds me to you. You can retain this house if you wish it. I do
not want it. I shall deposit a million dollars at my banker’s to your
credit. Then you can apply for a divorce just as soon as you may
desire.”

To be mistress of this lordly mansion was by no means a small thing.
When he made the declaration that she was to retain it together with a
princely fortune, an iron band seemed to loosen from about Leonie’s
throat but she gave no sign of her intense gratification.

Just then the tinkling of a bell was heard in the distance; a few
moments later a servant appeared with a card. Before Leonie could step
forward, Owen had already secured the card and as the man again
noiselessly withdrew he cast a quick glance at the name inscribed
thereon,

“‘Wilson Porter!’ Your name, fair lady, has lately often enough been
coupled with this one, and as Wilson Porter is neither a fool nor a
knave, to the best of my knowledge, I am sorry for him. He deserves a
better fate than to be drawn in by a woman of the Leonie Hunter stamp.
The immaculate woman who could hurl such withering scorn on an
unfortunate sister really ought not to throw stones as she herself is
the inmate of a glass house.”

He turned and left her standing there, and as he opened the door to pass
out he lifted his hat to Wilson Porter who had come to conduct Leonie to
Mrs. Van Gorden’s reception.

For days and weeks Owen kept up an incessant search for the missing girl
but no trace could be found of her whereabouts. His face became haggard,
his manner nervous and restless. Sleep fled his eyes, and as summer gave
way to autumn, followed by dreary winter, the conviction slowly forced
itself upon the mind of the lonely and embittered man that his dream of
bliss had ended.

Never in all this time had he seen Leonie. His life with her had been a
miserable failure and he never wished to see the dark passionate face
again. And in reality Leonie cared very little for the doings of her
truant husband. Now as before she queened it in society. As a matter of
course it was accepted that Wilson Porter on all occasions should be her
escort. The society world had become accustomed to that fact; there was
no longer anything new and strange about it.

But if Leonie cared little, Owen cared still less, and as on the clear
frosty night of Christmas eve the clanging of the merry bells were
calling the orthodox masses both rich and poor to commemorate the
birthnight of a world’s redeemer, he stood watching the surging masses
with a scornful smile curling the finely chiseled lips, he murmured:

“I wonder how much Christian love and charity has done to make the world
better. Bah! nothing but cupidity, sordid lust for gain, fill the hearts
of one class, whilst superstition, prejudice and ignorance rule the
other. The one class rivets the chains; the other hugs them. O how
beautiful the world might be if poor groveling humanity would but be
natural. Of all things under the sun possessed of life and motion the
human family alone is taught it is wrong to be natural, that it is right
to outrage nature’s laws, even though death be the penalty.

“I wonder if, in all New York to night, there is one who is more
wretchedly poor and desolate than I am, with my millions? Of what use
are they to me? They cannot buy me happiness.”

The heart-sick man paced the streets until they were wholly deserted. A
restless spirit kept him on the move until the bells of the Christmas
morn proclaimed “Peace upon earth, good will to men.” Again the scornful
smile curved his lips as he whispered: “Where is it? O, where is this
chanted peace?

As he was beginning to feel tired and was about to return to his hotel
his attention was attracted by the movements of a man a short distance
in advance of him who was staggering along the street as if intoxicated.
Impelled by some strange fascination Owen followed, never for a moment
taking his eyes off the figure in advance. The reeling man soon came to
Riverside drive, and thence to the Park which he entered and passed
through the winding paths down to the river’s edge. His movements became
more and more suspicious. Owen quickened his steps almost to a run and
just as he was on the verge of taking the fatal leap he reached the side
of the stranger, and hastily grasping him by the arm he quickly drew him
back. The man reeled and almost fell from the force of the impelling
motion. When he regained his equilibrium he turned his white and stern
face upon Owen who dared to interfere with his actions.

“Let go my arm,” came in a husky gasp from his lips. “By what right do
you compel me to remain where there is nothing but pain and sorrow,
where all is cruel deceit, blackness and lies, while down there in the
clear depths peace and rest await me?”

Owen retained his grasp while he looked the other full in the face. He
saw it clearly now. The man was not intoxicated; he was sick. The eyes
glowed feverishly from their hollow sockets, his cheeks were sunken,
what were to be seen of them, for the lower part of his face was covered
with a handsome flowing beard.

“You are sick,” said Owen, “and are raving.”

“Sick? Yes! Raving? Ha! ha! ha!” The wild weird laughter made Owen think
he was confronting a madman. “So would you rave were the bloodhounds of
the law hunting, dogging your every step.” Another chill crept over
Owen. Was it a desperate criminal he had encountered? Had he made a
mistake in attempting to interfere with the action of this stranger?
Then again, when he looked closer, he did not believe it. By the bright
light of the full moon the face before him showed not a single trace of
what he would expect to find in the face of a criminal. Sick and
delirious he might be, but nothing else. Speaking in an authoritative
manner he said:

“Come with me. This is no place for you. I will see that you are taken
home and cared for.”

“Home! Ha! ha! What a mockery the word is. I wonder if any one ever has
known by experience what the word implies?”

Owen was beginning to feel the effects of the cold. Here by the water’s
edge it was doubly keen and the standing still added still more to it.
Once more he spoke. “Come, you can not stand here all night, and surely
you have thought better of the rash action you contemplated. At any rate
I shall not move from your side until you come with me.”

A bitter smile for a moment rested upon the bearded face of the
stranger, then he said:

“Very well, some other time will do as well. Lead. I will follow, and
then explain why on this night of all others, when the world is
rejoicing over the birth of a redeemer I came so near seeking and
finding a watery grave.”

Owen accompanied the staggering stranger to Seventh avenue where they
had the good fortune to find a cab. Both men got in and were driven
rapidly to the hotel where Owen was staying, arriving there just as the
gray dawn was breaking. Having reached Owen’s rooms the stranger sank
exhausted into a cushioned chair. Owen assisted him to disrobe and
placed him on the couch where he was soon sleeping soundly, then
stretched his tired limbs upon a lounge and in a little while he also
was in the land of dreams.

It was almost noon when Owen awoke. He arose and walked over to the bed
whereon the stranger was still sleeping. While debating the advisability
of awakening the man before him the stranger opened his eyes. A
bewildered look for a moment filled them, then returning memory brought
with it recognition of the face before him and the circumstances which
brought him into the present surroundings. A bitter smile moved the
bearded lips as he half rose. Leaning his head upon his hand he let his
gaze wander about the luxurious apartment; biting scorn was in his words
as he spoke:

“It is not likely that you, who can afford surroundings like these,
would ever attempt so desperate a deed as you prevented me from doing a
few hours ago.”

“Why did you do it?”

“Why did I do it? You cannot realize to what utter despair and darkness
you have called me back. I will have all these battles to fight over
again, and the struggle is not an easy one, I can assure you.”

The bitterness that rang through every word betokened a despair that was
deep seated, and Owen’s heart was touched deeply.

“Tell me, and let me judge. But first, however, I think it would be
advisable to take care of the inner man. So while you arrange your
toilet, I will order some breakfast. It is somewhat late in the day for
that meal and all the more necessary that it should be partaken of.”

Accordingly a generous repast was ordered which was served in an
adjoining apartment. After they had finished their meal they drew their
chairs before the fire. The stranger leaned his head with its heavy
clustering hair upon one hand and sat staring into the glowing coals.
Owen did not disturb his train of thought but patiently awaited his
pleasure, and by and by he was rewarded. The hand dropped and the head
was raised.

“And now, since you have shown an interest in my case, I shall tell you
my story briefly. For years I have been the only support of a widowed
mother, an only sister and a delicate younger brother. My father has
been dead quite a number of years and sad as is the fact, it was rather
a relief to be rid of him. The more pitiful because of the fact that he
was a very intellectual man once, but hard luck during the early years
of his married life, when it seemed that there was no work for him to do
even though he offered his service for a mere pittance, had embittered
him. He had loved the girl he married and bright were his visions of the
future. But his misfortune made him desperate and he took to drink,
which transformed the gentle-tempered, loving man into a veritable
demon. Forgetting that unkind fate had already placed a much too heavy
burden upon the slender shoulders of the delicate woman the demon of
jealousy took possession of him. Discord dwelt where love and tenderness
once held supreme sway.

“Only when at great intervals he let drink alone long enough to clear
his befuddled brain, would the intelligent mind assert itself. But the
realization of his wretched condition and surroundings would then drive
him almost distracted and he would return to his cups with a wilder
abandon than ever. When in a drunken brawl he was struck down and they
brought the livid corpse to the wretched abode he had called home, the
unhappy family were conscious of a feeling of relief rather than that of
sorrow.

“I was then but fourteen years old, but tall for my age and on me fell
the task of supporting my mother and younger brother and sister. It was
little, indeed, that a lad of my age could earn; but we fared better
than hitherto. And as I grew older and was able to earn more our
condition improved.

“As my education had been sadly neglected in my childhood and I began to
realize it, I determined yet to master it, so my evenings were now
devoted to study. My sister, a very pretty and charming girl, when she
became old enough also added her mite by becoming a factory girl. Her
beauty made her position a difficult one, and her warm love nature,
which had been starved into a craving hunger, caused her to fall an easy
prey to the handsome, wealthy young scoundrel who was the son of the
factory owner.

“Her condition soon became apparent and when I questioned her she broke
down and confessed the whole pitiful story. She had not even the tender
words and caresses of her lover, now, to support her. He had tired of
his plaything and cast her aside. I understood what arts are employed to
lure to her destruction a poor loving creature and could only pity her
from the bottom of my heart. Not so, however, my mother. She had been
reared within the narrow confines of the church. Her standard of virtue
was, ‘touch me not,’ regardless of what the circumstances might have
been. So the mother who should have been her stay and comfort only cast
reproaches upon the head of the despairing girl, driving her almost
insane. My brother, too, would not forgive her for the disgrace she had
brought upon him. He would not speak to her. I have often seen him draw
back at her approach that her clothing might not brush against him.

“Of course he was very young then, only a boy, not yet fifteen, but it
would cut me to the heart to see the blood mount to her face. When it
became unbearable she would fly to me and I would try all in my power to
pacify her; drawing upon myself the condemnation of the others, who
could not understand how I could countenance such shamelessness.

“But even my sympathy could not sustain the breaking heart, and when the
trying hour came her strength failed, and with a little stillborn
girl-baby folded in her arms my beautiful sister was laid out of sight.

“Although my mother wept bitter tears, I fear she felt much relieved
that the matter ended as it did, for now grass would grow over the grave
of Millie’s shame. Robert, my brother, also seemed deeply affected. But
her name was never mentioned now. I knew best what the poor girl had
suffered, and it was a long time ere I could forgive either my mother or
my brother. Robert was not very sweet-tempered at best. From his birth
he had been delicate. A puny, fretful infant, he came at a time when the
nightly debauches of my father set my mother almost wild, souring an
otherwise gentle and loving nature.

“Notwithstanding his ailings, however, he was his mother’s favorite.
Though his advent had been dreaded, upon his arrival her heart went out
to him with a spasmodic passion. She never refused him anything it was
in her power to give, thereby showing a decided weakness of character.

“This was the worst thing she could have done, as it had the tendency to
develop all the bad traits of Robert’s weak character. As he was
physically unfit for work the support of the family rested entirely upon
my shoulders. But as the years sped by there came a change. A saucy
black-eyed maiden crossed my path and my fate was sealed. I loved her
with all the strength of my passionate nature. To me she seemed perfect
and I had no greater desire than to make her my wife. First, however, I
felt it my duty to tell her of the sad history of my early life. She
gave the black curls a saucy toss and said she could not see how all
this should possibly effect us any. I caught her in my arms and strained
her to my breast, my heart filled with admiration of the grand nobility
of character, which I thought was exhibited in those words; never once
dreaming that it was her very lack of character which prompted that
declaration.”



                             CHAPTER XXXXI.


“In a short time we were married. But my dream of happiness was short
lived. My wife and my mother had little in common, and often the
passionate red lips would utter words that wounded the elder woman to
the very heart. I soon saw how matters stood but was unable to control
them. I pleaded with Annie, I reasoned with my mother; but the two
beings whom I loved better than any others in the world had no love for
each other. Several times I spoke sharply to Annie and to my surprise
Robert sided with my wife against me and the mother who worshiped him.
This seemed to break her heart and it was not long until she closed her
eyes in her last long sleep.

“When all was over I again sought to reason with my wife. I folded her
to my heart whilst I could scarcely repress the sobs that would well up
from its depths. It seemed to me that she at first shrank from me, but I
thought it must be only imagination.

“She now often treated me to perfect storms of passionate caresses and I
was as wax in her band. No request could I deny her, and I found myself
rapidly sinking in debt. But I should not blame her. Poor child! she
knew no better. She had been left an orphan at an early age; cuffed
about from place to place, her heart always full of longings which were
never satisfied. When she married me she believed all that would be at
an end. What one man could do for his wife another should also do for
his. That this was impossible she could not understand.

“Sometimes I felt like cursing her, then overwhelmed by a rush of
tenderness I would almost crush her in my embrace and again she would
win the victory. But the time came when I felt the waves closing over my
head, and I surely must have been mad or I would never have done what I
did.”

The voice of the man broke and a suspicious moisture could be seen in
his eyes. For a moment, he laid his hand over them ere he proceeded:

“I robbed my employer’s safe of ten thousand dollars. I knew I would be
received with a storm of kisses and caresses which would outweigh
everything else. Let come what would, for once she should be perfectly
happy.

“With the stolen treasure in my pocket I hurried home, a full hour
earlier than usual, in a state of delirious excitement bordering upon
insanity. I found the door locked, but having my latch key with me I did
not ring but quietly let myself in.

“The little parlor was deserted; so was the dining room and kitchen. The
soft carpet deadened the sound of my footsteps. I went from room to room
and in Robert’s room I heard voices. The door stood slightly ajar.
Touching it lightly it opened several inches wider and the sight that
met my eyes broke my heart. Clasped close in each other’s arms; their
heads pressing the same pillow, were Robert and my wife. A quick
movement opened the door wide with a creaking sound; the two heard and
both started up as if electrified. Annie screamed and clapped both hands
to her face. Robert’s face was a study. Hate and defiance were written
in every line of it. With a sudden movement he took a revolver from his
pocket and leveled it at my heart. But quick as was his action I
forestalled him. With a single bound I gave his arm an upward blow
sending the bullet into the ceiling and the revolver to the far end of
the room.

“‘Madman!’ I cried. ‘What would you do? Have you not enough upon your
conscience that you would commit murder?’

“The sullen, defiant look upon his face deepened.

“‘I hate you!’ he almost hissed. ‘You are a constant bar to my
happiness.’

“Unjust as I knew this accusation to be I made no comment upon it but
asked:

“‘Tell me one thing, and without prevarication. Do you love Annie?’

“Quick as a flash came the answer,

“‘I do!’

“‘And you, Annie, do you love Robert?’

“But Annie sobbed and would not give an intelligible answer, until I
sternly repeated the question, and then, between broken sobs:

“‘O, I cannot help it. Indeed, indeed I cannot help it.’

“Staggering as beneath a blow I steadied myself for a moment against the
table, then, with a mighty effort of will recovering myself, I took the
stolen money from my pocket and threw it on the table.

“‘Take it,’ I said, ‘and make the most of it. I have now no use for it.
Be happy if you can, I shall no longer stand in the way. You are free in
every sense of the word to do as you choose.’

“I turned to leave the room when Annie threw herself sobbing in my way.
She clung to me in passion and despair, asserting again and again that
she ‘could not help it.’ Almost forcibly I loosened her hold and
pointing to the money on the table I said to Robert,

“‘See to it, that you handle the money wisely, and remember that this
girl now depends upon you for the comfort, of life. I have done with
both of you!’

“Overcome by a sudden impulse I once more caught her in my arms,
clasping her close to my breast. I pressed a last kiss upon her lips,
then putting the half-fainting form from me I rushed out into the cold
night air. I surely need say no more. You now can understand what drove
me to the verge of desperation. To find the woman who had driven me to
the verge of ruin, untrue, was more than I could bear. A day or two and
I would stand before the world exposed. The shame, the disgrace and the
walls of Sing Sing loomed up before my mind’s eye. I had been a slave
all my life to adverse conditions. And now to lose the one boon that I
prized above all others—my liberty! No, I would die first! And yet I had
it not in my heart to wish any ill to those two. True, I felt bitter
towards my brother, but for some reason the fact of his actual
helplessness was more clear in my mind than ever before. Have there not
been countless cases wherein this very defect has appealed to the hearts
of strong, healthy women?—and her pitiful ‘I cannot help it’ kept
ringing in my ears. I knew I never loved her more dearly than in the
moment I gave her up, or ever felt more tenderly towards him.

“Many conflicting thoughts surged through my brain; while constantly I
questioned, ‘Why? why?’ And you may think me mad, sir, but the more I
thought the more I blamed not them, the chief actors in this life
tragedy, but the system from which such abnormal conditions could arise,
and in one day make criminals of us all.”

Owen listened as if entranced. The excited man had arisen and was pacing
the room with hurried strides, wildly tossing the masses of dark curling
locks. After a few moments he continued:

“Often and often I had gnashed my teeth in helpless fury when the few
paltry dollars were laid in my hands that constituted the remuneration
for work which I knew was worth more than fourfold that which I
received. I knew if justice could be done I had only taken my own. But
that was not law.

“Now my mind wandered in another direction. I knew Annie and Robert had
been thrown long hours together in my absence. His weak, delicate
condition first awoke her sympathy, and ‘pity is akin to love.’ The
frequent squabbling during the life time of my mother helped develop
these feelings in her heart. So the weakling, who all his life had been
scorned and shunned by health-and-strength-loving maidens, suddenly
found himself the object of tender and sympathetic glances, and what
wonder that his starved heart became inflamed? I could see the whole
proceeding was but natural. But oh, the shame of it. No one else in all
New York would look at the matter as I did, when it became known. But
then the thought struck me, ‘Was it necessary?’ and must I fill a
convict’s cell? I answered: ‘No! No! No! Never!’ Thus for many hours I
walked the streets, thinking, thinking, thinking, until I found myself
at the water’s edge about to end all the maddening perplexities, when
your hand stayed my movements. So now you are in possession of facts
which I had expected to take with me into my watery grave.”

The strange recital was at an end. Wearily the narrator flung himself
into his chair and leaned back, white and exhausted. The bitter but
musical voice was hushed while Owen Hunter sat with his head resting on
his hand, lost in thought. Was the life of every good man a wreck? For
that the man who sat before him was a good man he had not a single
doubt. Aside from the bitter experience of his own life he had never
thought of the struggling, suffering masses of humanity. Ten thousand
dollars! He had no doubt that the sum seemed an enormous fortune to the
man before him, while to Owen it seemed scarce worth mentioning.

“What salary,” he asked, “did you receive?”

A bitter smile curved the lips of the other.

“Fifty dollars per month.”

Fifty dollars! How often had Owen thoughtlessly squandered as much and
more in a single evening; and here was a man who with his family had to
live a whole month on it. For the first time in his life the question
arose why it was that those who were the producers of all wealth should
have so little of it to enjoy; for the first time he asked himself.
“Have you a right to control so much money, while so many others are
suffering for the actual necessaries of life?” What had he ever done to
alleviate human suffering? In memory he saw large figures heading long
lists of charity. “Charity!” Suddenly the word seemed to him the most
cold and heartless in the English language. To offer charity where
justice was due! In that instant he resolved that the sons and daughters
of humanity, the many poverty stricken little children, should reap the
benefit of the money he controlled. He did not yet see his way clear,
and for the moment very wisely left the selection of methods to the
future. The present hour belonged to the deeply stricken man who had
permitted him to read the pages of his sad history.

“Will you not tell me your name?” he sympathetically inquired.

“My name?” With indescribable bitterness he spoke the words. “Why should
I not give it you? All New York will be ringing with it in a few days
when it will be known that the assistant bookkeeper of the firm of
Hunter & Co. has proven false to his trust. My name is Milton Nesbit!”

As if electrified Owen turned upon the man before him.

“Repeat the name of the firm by which you were employed!”

“Hunter & Co.”

With a gasping sound Owen sank back, pale to the very lips. Surprised,
Milton Nesbit turned inquiringly to him.

“Why, what is wrong; are you ill?

Owen shook his head.

“No! no! It is not that, but——Well, why should I search for empty words?
My name is Owen Hunter!”

It was now Milton Nesbit’s turn to gasp with surprise. He had been
holding his position some two years and in all that time had never seen
the senior member of the firm. He had been told it had not always been
thus; but for several years Owen Hunter no longer took an active part in
the business, and most of the newcomers had never seen the man for whom
they were coining and piling up money.

Milton Nesbit felt a strange thrill as his eyes rested upon the man who
was to be his judge. An unspeakable bitterness vibrated through his
voice when he again spoke.

“If you are the Owen Hunter of Hunter & Co. and if I were a good
Christian I should say that the workings of an Almighty God could be
traced in the events of this most fateful day; that he so willed it that
it must be just the man whom I have robbed whose hand should stay the
act which would have freed me from an accursed fate. But this just God
who is said to be all love will not have it so. Earthly justice must
first be satisfied; the almighty wrath must first be appeased by giving
man a chance to avenge himself upon his fellow man. I simply call it
cruel, relentless fate, which has pursued me so many years and which
dates from the earliest recollections of my childhood. Very well! pass
the sentence which I know lies in your power to enforce, for ‘money
rules the world,’ you know. Hand me over to the guardians of the peace
and let the law take its course. It matters little what becomes of me
now. I may as well sleep behind prison bars as anywhere else. The
sunshine of happiness has long since forsaken me; lost in the gloom and
darkness of despair.”

Oh, the bitterness, the hopeless misery in the strong man’s voice. He
had risen and walked back and forth the full length of the room, then
with his elbow resting upon the mantel, his hand supporting his head, he
stood glaring into the glowing coals, awaiting his sentence. But Owen
now no longer calmly sat enjoying the comforts of the room. As the other
ceased speaking he stepped to his side and gently laying his hand upon
his shoulder, said:

“Will you look me in the face?”

Silently Nesbit turned and faced Owen. For some minutes they stood thus
face to face; then Owen’s hand was extended.

“May I ask you to give me your hand in friendship?”

Surprise was depicted upon Nesbit’s face as he looked at the
outstretched palm, and then inquiringly into the face of the man to whom
it belonged.

“Friendship?” echoed Milton Nesbit, while he nervously passed his hand
over his forehead as if he would dispel the mists which seemed to him to
be gathering there.

“And why not? Am I selfish when I ask it? But with my millions a true
friend is something which I have not, and now I am waiting to feel the
clasp of genuine friendship. Do I ask in vain?”

Milton Nesbit’s face was a study. Queer little quivers were stirring the
muscles. Sinking once more into his chair he buried his face in both
hands. For some time neither spoke, then the deeply moved man raised his
head and looked the other searchingly in the eye.

“And how about the criminal?”

“Do you feel yourself one?”

The flash in the dark eye answered him even before the firmly spoken
words:

“No, I do not!”

“Then once more I extend my hand and ask, will you be my friend and
brother? I might be able to give you an insight into a life that would
verify the words, ‘All is not gold that glitters.’”

There was now no hesitation, and in that handclasp a life-long
friendship was sealed. A Christmas morn it was to these two, that all
their lives stood out clear and bright.

All that afternoon the two men sat in that quiet comfortable room, and
as Owen had first listened to one of the saddest of life histories, so
now, in turn, he opened his heart to his new friend, and in the first
hour of his new-found friendship he proved it no idle phrase, for in
this hour he claimed Nesbit’s trust and full confidence. If Milton could
not at first give his sanction to an affair like that of Owen, who
having already a wife, however unworthy, could take to his heart another
woman, and finding her as he had found her, should hold her above all
other women—this certainly, should excite no surprise.

Remembering the woman who, though false to him, he still loved, Milton
could not sit in judgment and condemn this other woman who had given the
wealth of her love to Owen without first asking leave of some third
person or persons. Just at present he could see nothing clearly. He
could feel, but was in no condition to reason. Owen saw and understood,
and knowing that in his present condition the best thing for Milton was
change—change of scene and of mental occupation, he at once decided to
put into execution a long-deferred plan of his own. He would travel; he
would take Nesbit with him as traveling companion; and just then he
remembered an old college mate whom he had not seen for many years. Why
not begin the proposed journey by making a call upon the friend of his
youth?

Accordingly a dispatch was at once sent to announce their coming and in
a very few days the two friends, who had become such in a way so strange
and unexpected, were comfortably seated in a luxurious Pullman car en
route for the west.



                            CHAPTER XXXXII.


And thus it is that the threads of our story once more unite. Again the
figure of a man is pacing up and down the platform, awaiting the
incoming train and, at last it comes thundering in and makes a brief
halt, Norman’s eyes rest upon the stalwart, manly figure of the
companion of his earlier days, and the clasp of the hand that follows is
almost painful. But even in that first quick meeting, when joy lights up
the eyes of both, Norman sees the change in his old-time friend; sees
the lines that the flight of years alone has not engraven on the
handsome face.

“What is it Owen? There is that in your face which tells me all is not
well. Have you been sick?”

“Heart-sick—yes! to the extent that life sometimes seems but a burden?”

“Why should a man of almost unlimited wealth, such as you possess, speak
in such a strain?”

“Why, indeed! You speak as though wealth could buy happiness.”

“And can it not? Do you not know what untold, what inconceivable misery
could be turned to joy with the assistance of wealth?”

“In thousands of cases, yes. In my own instance, no! Wealth cannot heal
a breaking heart, cannot buy the happiness which has fled.”

“I believe I possess a panacea for an evil such as yours. The society of
sweet women will restore you to life and love.”

“Don’t speak of woman and love to me. I have done with em!” Norman
smiled.

“O, I have touched the right cord, have I? But that is a bold assertion
which you have just made—that you have done with women forever. Yet I
assert that you must—you must and you will be won.”

“Don’t you know that I am a married man?”

For a moment Norman looked him searchingly in the face; then, as if
satisfied, replied,

“And what if you are? Are you sure that that fact should prove a barrier
to future happiness?”

Owen Hunter in turn now looked Norman searchingly in the face—

“How am I to understand you? That the Norman I once knew, and who I know
possessed such high-strung ideas of honor, should express himself thus?”

A slight flush rose to Norman’s brow. Hastily he opened his lips to
answer but as quickly checked himself——

“No more, now! This is scarce a proper place to discuss the sort of
topics we are drifting into. Without doubt ere we part there will be
moments more opportune for thorough discussion. At present I am eager to
introduce you into a most charmed and charming circle.”

Owen shook his head.

“I have come to you for quiet, Norman. My heart is sore, and needs rest.
I would rather not meet strangers. Besides I have with me a friend whom
I wish to introduce to you; also to ask your forbearance for thus
imposing on your hospitality as that is what I am about to do. Another
storm-tossed soul in need of rest and quiet; one who has drained the
bitter-cup of sorrow to its very dregs.” Turning he approached a man who
had hitherto stood motionless at some little distance. A man well worth
looking at. Tall, well proportioned; dark, heavy beard and clustering
hair; with an unspeakable sadness in the deep, gray eyes.

“I claim your hospitality for Milton Nesbit, as well as for myself, and
promise that neither shall be too great a burden on your kindness, if
you can secure us the welcome of your mother and sisters. I know it is
much I ask of you, as our intimacy in the past years can scarcely be
called by the name of friendship—but permit me, Mr. Nesbit, this is the
friend of my college days, Norman Carlton, of whom I have been telling
you.”

Extending his hand and firmly grasping that of the stranger, Norman
said:

“Permit me to welcome any friend that Owen Hunter may introduce. You are
worthy, or he would not ask it: As for our friendship in the past, if we
have not been intimate friends it has not been for lack of mutual
attraction but rather that the ties that bound us were not close enough,
and it is not too late to make them closer. I always felt the most
profound admiration for the sunny tempered youth I knew as Owen Hunter.

“Thank you, for your generous welcome,” replied a grave, musical voice.
“I am but as an instrument in the hands of Mr. Hunter. I follow where he
leads. Later I hope you will bid me welcome on my own account.”

“Spoken like a man. I feel that already I may speak the words of welcome
in your own behalf. But come, dinner will be waiting, and in a well
regulated household, as you both understand, to the good housewife that
is abomination, and my mother knows what good housekeeping is. But set
your mind at rest; she will tender you the welcome I ask for my friends.
Formal and precise she may be, but she is also a most gracious hostess.
My sisters also you will find pleased to meet you. But they do not
belong to the charmed circle to which I insist on introducing you. No
protests! I will have my way. You are already announced, and in this
instance I mean to be firm. You would scarcely be a man if our many
charmers cannot succeed in dispelling the clouds, and a man must be of
flinty hardness who could listen to our song-bird, sweet, winsome Cora,
without being moved.”

Owen started.

“Cora! did you say?—Cora? But pshaw! why should I excite myself over a
name. There are hundreds of Coras in the world. But lead on. We are
ready to follow.”

So they piled into the cutter and as they dashed over the snow quite
forgot their sorrows, and as events of their college years were gone
over they soon felt better acquainted than they had ever felt in the
olden days. But Milton Nesbit was quiet, very quiet. He only spoke when
spoken to, and Owen now realized that it would be better for him to
mingle more with others in order to awaken again in that crushed and
bleeding heart an interest in life—to deaden the pain that was ever
gnawing at his vitals, and though at first Nesbit refused to join the
two friends when evening drew near, preferring to remain at home, and
although Owen, too, would have much preferred to remain in the seclusion
of his room, he feared to hurt the feelings of his kind host, and
therefore sacrificed his own desire to that of Norman’s. As for Milton,
Owen believed it absolutely necessary that he should accompany them, and
insisted on his doing so.

Unwilling to seem boorish, with a sigh Nesbit prepared to make a martyr
of himself. So when Norman’s cutter drew up to the Westcot mansion he
brought two guests instead of the one expected, but both were made
equally welcome. For some reason Norman had not mentioned the name of
his intended guest. No intentional oversight, I ween. He had never heard
the name of Cora’s lover and therefore could not have known the link
binding these two, so when the name of Owen Hunter was announced, each
of the girls started. Owen must have thought, for an instant, that they
acted strangely, but quickly recovering themselves they extended a
hearty welcome. Soft white hands were clasped in the manly ones; rosy
lips were wreathed in sweetest smiles. But as Norman’s eyes went about
the room he missed Cora, and he asked Imelda where her sister was.

“I believe she was telling baby Norma a story and when that was finished
Meta wanted a song, so when she gets through entertaining the little
folks she will no doubt make her appearance,” she said.

Owen again started—upon being presented to Imelda Ellwood, and the two
names kept forming themselves into one. “Cora, Ellwood; Cora, Ellwood!”
Surely he must be going mad. It was only a coincidence, thought he. To
find his own sweet girlie here would be too good to be true. So he
devoted himself to Imelda and found himself admiring the intelligent,
gravely sweet girl who was so well informed on whatever subject might be
broached.

Milton Nesbit had been passed round, so to say, from one fair maid to
another, and all were struck with the sad beauty of his manly face, but
unable to elicit many words from him, as his thoughts were many miles
away with the fair woman he had left behind him. But now it was Alice
who was talking to him. That incessant little chatterbox did not give
him much time to talk or to think, even if he had been so inclined,—she
had so much herself to say. It was said in a way so quaint and sweet,
and as she was mistress of the house and a married woman he felt himself
more at ease and more free in her society, and ere long she managed to
hold his attention, and soon he found himself admiring the dainty color
in her cheeks, the pearly teeth gleaming from between rosy lips, the
mischief sparkling in the clear blue eye, while her voice sounded like
tinkling music. The large room was pretty well filled with ladies and
gentlemen, but as she pointed each one out to him it was with a word of
praise and love for some peculiar trait, attraction or accomplishment.
Not one disparaging word, and as his eyes followed her indications he
thought he had never found so much harmony.

While his eyes were roving from one to another they rested on Cora who
had but just entered the room. Was it that he had not seen her before,
or was it that she possessed some feature more attractive than the
others? His eyes followed her every movement as she gracefully found her
way to the piano and seating herself thereat began a prelude, and soon
the rich, full voice filled the room with its rare music, while the
sweet tones slightly trembled as the words dropped from her lips:

           Across the sobbing sea of doom
             The weary world is slowly drifting.
           Eyes wet with tears peer through the gloom,
             Yet see no sign of rest or rifting.
           Still angels bright from some far height,
             Repeat through hoots of weary waking—
           “Hope’s starlight shines through darkest night,
             To keep the world’s great heart from breaking!”

Listening to the words they all knew there was an undercurrent of
meaning attached to the simple strain that a stranger would not be apt
to detect. And yet Milton Nesbit understood, as well as if the story had
been told him in so many words, that the gifted singer had known sorrow,
and slowly his gaze sought Owen Hunter. What was it? Owen had risen from
Imelda’s side, evidently unconscious that he was acting strangely, that
he was, to say the least, impolite. He had neither eyes nor ears for
anything else but the fair singer. As if fascinated the song drew him to
her side. He repeated the words:

            “Hope’s starlight shines through darkest night”—

whispering them close to the pink shell ear,

“O Cora, my own, is not the night over? May the morning now at last
dawn?”

Quick as a flash Cora whirled about on her stool, and with the one glad
cry, “Owen!” cast herself into his arms, regardless of the many eyes
resting upon them, and was held by him in an embrace so close as if he
meant never again to let her go.

As if in that one glad happy cry all her strength had been spent Cora
lay back faint and white in her anxious lover’s arms. Had the sudden joy
killed her? He strained her close and kissed the white cold lips; then
bearing her to a couch he began chafing her hands, helplessly looking
about,

“She has fainted; can no one help me restore her?”

Quickly an anxious circle gathered about her, but Paul Arthurs soon
reassured them.

“It is nothing—only the reaction. She will be herself in a few moments.”

Taking a small vial from an inside pocket of his coat he forced a few
drops between her lips and in a few moments had the satisfaction of
seeing her open her eyes.

“Take her away where she can have rest and quiet for half an hour; then
she will be quite herself again.”

Winding her arm about her, Imelda was about to conduct her away when
Owen laid his hand detainingly upon her arm,

“Will you not permit me?”

There was so much pleading in the manly voice and clear blue eyes that
Imelda could not refuse him.

“You will take good care of her?” with a smile.

“Will I?—as of my life! May I, Cora?”

For answer Cora quietly laid her head against his shoulder, smiling into
his eyes, and thus he led her from the room.

What if instead of the half hour they remained two long hours? and what
if they thought it such a very little while and that they had not had a
chance to say anything at all? Who would blame them? Doubtless it was
true that they had said very little. Their hearts were too full to
speak: too full of unutterable love and happiness, and certainly none in
that room thought of blaming them. And when they returned Imelda and
Norman were the first to greet them. Cora’s arms wound themselves about
her sister’s neck while the men clasped hands with an undercurrent of
feeling such as they had not felt before,

“So this is your charmed circle?” asked Owen Hunter in a husky voice,
and smilingly Norman made answer:

“Don’t you find it so?”

There was a suspicious moisture in Owen’s eyes and his voice visibly
trembled when he again asked,

“And no censure meets us here?”

“Why should there be?”

But the man of the world could not understand. His friend knew that he
had left a wife, that his love for this girl was an illicit one; yet
here he stood clasping his hand in a manner that seemed to indicate to
the fortune-tossed Owen that Norman was proud to do so. So he drew him
aside and asked the meaning of it all.

Nothing loath, Norman devoted himself for the next half hour to
answering his eager queries, seeking to initiate him into the sweet
love-laden theories of the new doctrine to which he himself only a few
months ago had been a perfect stranger. Leaning against a pillar Owen
stood half hidden in an alcove, lost in amaze and wonder; his eyes
following every movement of the girl he so madly worshiped.

But still another was watching and waiting for a solution of this
mystery. Milton’s sad gray eyes saw the happiness of his friend; had
seen him catch the fainting figure in his arms; had seen him press his
face against hers and kiss the white lips. He could only guess that in
some unlooked-for manner he had found the woman for whom he had so long
been vainly seeking, and in the excitement which followed he for a time
was overlooked and forgotten. But soon the merry peals of laughter,
sweet music and soft strains of song again filled the room, and then, at
the urgent request of Wilbur, Margaret read some strong dramatic scenes
from various plays, holding her listeners spellbound with the purity of
her voice, the strength and clearness of the rendition and the depth of
feeling which she exhibited. So, as the evening passed, Milton Nesbit
became more and more puzzled as to what it was that made this circle so
charming—so delightfully entertaining that all his perplexities were for
the time forgotten and that caused his sorrows to be dispelled as mist
in the sunshine, and his heart to grow warm once more.

As he was one of the handsomest of the finely formed men in the room it
did not take long for feminine eyes to detect that fact. Many were the
admiring glances bestowed upon him. But there was something in the sad
face which forbade intruding. Only Alice—airy, fairy Alice, was not
backward. She again sought his side, showing him books, etchings,
engravings, and albums filled with selections of art gems. Her sweet,
airy manner, the soft tender voice, acted like a charm upon his
overwrought nerves, and he soon found himself thoroughly enjoying her.

Lawrence, Wilbur, the young physician and the Wallace sisters had formed
a little circle and were discussing economics. Imelda was devoting
herself to her brother; making the evening pleasant for him; answering
his questions as to the meaning of Cora’s strange demeanor in connection
with this handsome and refined looking stranger. Frank had already
learned much, was learning every day, but all was not quite clear to him
yet as to what it was that made these pure-minded women and men so
different from others he had met and known in his reckless and checkered
life. She told him that it was a lover of their sweet and lovable Cora,
who, like himself, had once been reckless and wayward. Margaret, her
mother and Osmond formed another group to which still another was
attached. Homer had found a seat at Mrs. Leland’s feet, resting his head
against her knee, her hand gently toying with the clustering locks. The
boy said scarcely a word, only listened. Mrs. Leland had also very
little to say, only now and then a casual word. The brother and sister,
however, who until a few days ago had been as strangers, had much to
tell, and were opening their hearts, one to the other. Margaret was
delighted with the gems she found stored away in this boy’s mind.

While in this quieter mood they were surprised by a sudden burst of
melody from the piano, evoked by the touch of a master hand. Nesbit
having confessed to Alice that he was musically inclined, that
bewitching morsel of humanity had so importuned him that, unable to
resist, he soon found his heart swelling with emotion as he evoked the
rich strains. This burst scattered the groups, and once more they formed
into one whole circle. Nesbit’s music was followed by singing and then
by Margaret’s selections, then in what seemed a very short space of
time, Cora and Owen were again of their number, and finally, when the
good nights were spoken it seemed there never had been quite such a
feeling of content lodged in the innermost recesses of every heart then
and there present.

The following day brought back the two newcomers at quite an early hour.
They did not now protest against coming. They were there every day and
evening, until the hour of Margaret’s departure drew nigh. How brief the
time allowed them had seemed. Wilbur drank in the glory of the blue
wells, kissing the dewy lips again and again. Mrs. Leland folded her
child close. It seemed almost harder to let her go now than it had been
the first time. Osmond’s eyes grew dim.

“I did not know how dear a sister might be. It will seem like a dream,
if I must give you up so soon.” And although Margaret’s heart was sad
she tried to hide it under a smiling exterior.

“Never mind,” she said. “It will not be for long. A few short months
will soon pass by, then a long summer will be ours to do with just as we
see fit—a long delicious summer of enjoyment and planning. Listen! they
are planning now. We are in that, and must hear all about it.”

Slipping one hand through Osmond’s arm, the other arm about the waist of
her mother she drew them to where the others had drawn a circle about
Hilda who, having been importuned, was trying to make plain that vague
sweet dream of her future co-operative home, and none so attentive, or
none more so than Owen. She spoke of the spacious halls where the ardent
searchers after knowledge of any kind might find their teacher; of the
library stocked with volumes from the ceiling to the floor; of the
lecture hall and the theater; of the opportunities where every talent
could be cultivated; of the liberty—the free life—where every fetter
should be broken; of the dining hall where they would partake of their
evening meal midst flowers and music; of the common parlor where every
evening should be an entertainment for all wherein love and genuine
sociability should always preside; of the sacred privacy of the rooms
where each man or woman should reign king or queen—the sanctum of each,
closed to all intruders, consecrated to the holiest and divinest of
emotions and self-enfoldment. She spoke of the grand conservatories
filled with choicest flowers—the sweet-scented blossoms, the trailing
vines, the exotic plants; of the spacious gardens, the sparkling,
ever-playing fountains; of the delicious, health-giving baths; of the
life of unconventionality,—of the abandon; of the nursery rooms where
baby lips were lisping their first words and little toddling feet taking
their first uncertain steps; of the things of beauty surrounding the
prospective mother; of the unutterably sweet welcome that awaited each
coming child; of the full understanding that would be taught to woman of
the responsibility of calling into a life a new being; of how man would
revere her, how he would wait and abide her invitation; of the sweet
co-operation and planning how all should be worked to keep up the
financial part.

“O,” said she, “it should, it would be paradise!—this my dream. But ah
me! it is only a dream.”

As a being transfixed Hilda stood among them, her eyes shining, her
cheeks glowing, her bosom heaving, looking far beyond them into space. A
feeling came over Lawrence Westcot as with bated breath his eyes rested
on her, of how utterly unworthy he was of the love of a creature so
grand, so superior. A still, small voice whispered, “Make yourself
worthy!”—and then and there a high resolve was formed in his mind that
he would surely do so. A solemn vow rose as a silent prayer from the
depths of his heart that some day he would realize that sweet
invitation. With him every man in the room became conscious of a feeling
of inferiority, but not an impulse to bow in humility. Rather each head
was crested higher with a feeling of lofty aspiration.

Owen Hunter answered the closing remarks of Hilda’s dream picture:

“Why, my dreaming maiden, should your dream be but a dream?”

A sad smile played about her lips,

“You forget that it is such an expensive one. It would take a fortune,
an almost limitless fortune, to build us such a home. Of course we could
be very, very happy in our little circle, as it is, in a much smaller
and less expensive home, but I would have it large, so that we might
welcome all who possess the same lofty thought to our circle, so that we
should be able to give to the world an object lesson in the art of
making life worth living, so grand and so glorious that the whole world
would want to imitate our example.”

Owen smiled.

“What an enthusiast! Take my advice, little one, and until this grand,
this glorious home can be ours, help us with your lofty aspirations, and
help us not to despise our more limited advantages and privileges. In
the meantime we will try to become more worthy of so perfect a home—as
some years must of necessity elapse ere it can be completed.”

“Have I not said it is only a dream? How can I dare to hope it could
ever be realized; and when I come to this home, day after day, and
realize what privileges are ours the feeling sometimes comes to me, how
wrong-headed I am to be constantly sighing for still more.”

Owen shook his head,

“You are mistaken, Miss Hilda. Your sentiments and aspirations are not
wrong. Harmonious and beautiful as is the life that has been granted you
through the mutual understanding and sympathy of our kind host and
hostess, it is by no means complete. So dream on, plan on, and if there
is an architect in our circle he shall transfer these plans to paper,
and, as soon as practicable, we will look about us for a suitable site,
and when the spring sunshine calls all nature again to life, work shall
begin, and what has so long been only a vague dream shall, all in good
time, bloom into a living reality.”

All eyes hung on the lips of the speaker. All ears drank in his words.
Could such a thing be possible? Only Cora seemed to understand. Pressing
close to his side, she drew his hand with a caressing motion to her
smiling lips. With a hasty movement he withdrew the hand to lay it on
the head covered with the soft fluffy hair; he pressed it close to him.
Hilda drew a step nearer and extending both hands,

“You mean——O, Mr. Hunter! do you really mean that it can be done? that
the home can and shall be ours? But how? how?”

Cora slipped down upon her knees at Hilda’s side and caught both hands
in hers.

“Did I not tell you long ago, when I told you that story of my
heartaches and my noble lover, that he possessed almost limitless
wealth? He could not be one of us did he not consecrate some of his
millions to the happiness of others. It is in his power to lay the
foundation stone for the future ideal society, giving to the world an
example of how people should live. Don’t you see, my Hilda? Owen is
wealthy, and is going to build us our home.”



                            CHAPTER XXXXIII.


From that day forth a new life entered the charmed and charming circle.
Lawrence proved to be the architect required, though he had never called
his talent in this line to a practical account. Guided by Hilda’s vivid
imagination, inspired by her enthusiasm and aided by the practical
suggestions of Owen, the plan grew, and by the time the first green of
the young spring appeared upon the landscape they were ready for action.
Margaret had left them at the call of duty, and could only from afar
share in the excitement and enthusiasm. Every heart was beating high
with hope, and with the advent of warmer weather, Owen, Wilbur, Lawrence
and Norman kissed their loved ones good bye and started on a prospecting
tour.

Mrs. Leland was importuned to remain with the girls. Why should she
return all alone to her western home?—though the probability now was
that the west would be where their new home would be located. Just at
this time, too, came the change that caused the sisters’ eyes to grow
dim with tears and a feeling of sadness to pervade every heart. Frank
was daily growing weaker, his cheek more hollow and white, his hands
more waxy, and intuitively the girls clung to the more mature woman. On
a bright sunny morning in the early part of May the tired lids closed,
never to open again. Although almost every day brought a letter from
some one of the absent ones yet they were still far-away when the death
angel made his entrance into the midst of this happy circle, subduing
their spirits with infinite sadness when they realized so well what had
caused this painful result. So Frank’s body was laid away to sleep
beneath the daisies, and Imelda’s and Cora’s tears mingled as they knew
that another bond was broken—only they two remained, united by ties of
blood, but they also realized that it was better so. At best he had been
to them but a wreck of what he might have been. Margaret had joined them
just in time to lay a flower upon his pulseless breast and was now with
them again for a brief time.

The young physician, Paul Arthurs, and Milton Nesbit had settled close
by, and Paul was beginning to have quite a practice as he was fast
becoming known. For some time however, something seemed to have been
secretly gnawing at his heart, and when his manner had been warmest
towards the stately Edith he would suddenly and abruptly leave her,
until his conduct became quite an enigma to her. One morning he laid a
pack of written papers in her hand and told her to read, and——ah, well!
why dwell upon a sad story longer than absolutely necessary? He loved
the queenly girl but was conscious of such a lack of worth on his own
part that he felt it would be best to give her up. Somewhere under the
green sod slept a woman whom he believed the poison of his own body had
murdered. Having first made a wreck of himself, almost, by early
transgressions, the meaning of which he had been ignorant of, he had
later contracted the germs of a loathsome disease. In his unpardonable
ignorance he married a sweet, confiding, loving girl whom he loved with
all his heart but whom he irreparably wronged by permitting his poisoned
manhood to mingle with her pure womanhood; and when her baby girl was
laid in her arms her eyes closed in that sleep that knows no waking, and
the baby slept with her—under the circumstances the very best, probably,
that could have happened. He was quite young when all this occurred—in
the early twenties, a period of his life he never liked to think of. It
was after that experience that he gave himself up to the study of
medicine, and then he underwent a most rigid course of treatment,
including very stringent rules or habits of diet, bathing and open air
exercise.


“I can now look a pure woman in the eyes and know of a certainty that no
harm can come to her through me, but for all that, the past is a blur
upon my life, a stain which nothing can ever wash away. One word from
you, my heart’s queen, will send me to my place and keep me there. I
could not accept the sweet love shining in your eyes when I know my
utter unworthiness, without laying bare the past, the memory of which
follows me like a mocking fiend. Sweetheart, say but the word and I will
never become an inmate of that home which now is being planned—if you
deem me too impure, too unworthy to associate with the unsullied
whiteness that will congregate there. But O, my darling! I love you as
only a man can love when his manhood’s strength is most fully developed;
but I must abide the verdict you may render.

                                                      Yours suppliantly,
                                                      PAUL.”


And what had been sweet Edith’s verdict? When next they met it was in
the garden, under the blossom-laden trees. Paul was sitting with his
head resting on his hand unaware of her approaching footsteps. From the
rear she approached until she stood close to his side, when without a
moment’s warning two soft warm hands drew his head back, two warm, dewy
clinging lips were touched to his bearded ones, and the next moment he
was pressing his cherished Edith to his heart, pouring all the pent up
love of a strong nature into her willing ears. His errors of the past
belonged to the past. She saw only a noble manhood to which she felt it
would be safe to trust her womanhood.

About this same time, also a strange restlessness took possession of
Nesbit. A nightly visitor at Maple Lawn, he seemed to enjoy the society
of the fair women there with the keenest relish. Alice’s slight figure
seemed perpetually dancing before his eyes and a great longing filled
his heart. Alice, too, was restless. The color would rush in waves over
her face at the sound of approaching footsteps. Although he saw and
understood, yet he never said a word. With all the sweet possibilities
the future so temptingly held out to him he kept his lips firmly closed
while he knew full well that this fair little woman might be his for the
asking.

One morning in early June Nesbit electrified them all by abruptly saying
that he was going to New York. All looked their surprise. Margaret
asked,

“Why?”

Alice nervously plucked the first full-blown rose to pieces as her color
changed from red to white and white to red, but Margaret’s question was
evasively answered. Again she asked,

“When will you return?

To which she received a short, “I don’t know.”

Bidding them all good bye he turned to go, when his eye rested for a
moment on the swaying form of Alice who found it difficult to stay the
hot tears. He hesitated a moment then, approaching the spot where she
stood, in a low voice said,

“Come with me down the maple walk.”

Silently they walked until they reached the end, then,

“Do you know why I am going away?”

She shook her head.

“Because my heart yearns for you, and in that vast city dwells a woman
whom I call wife. She has not been what the world calls true to me, yet
I have treasured her long and faithfully. I feel I ought not to speak of
love to another woman so long as she may have need of me. I know it was
her own hand that cast the dice, yet I feel that I must know her fate
ere I entirely cut loose from her. Oh, I loved her, Alice, in the days
when she was mine, and still a latent tenderness lingers in my heart.
Maybe she was not wholly to blame, but I have learned new lessons since.
I feel a little woman here would prefer me to all others and my heart
yearns to claim her. Will you kiss me just once ere I start on this
journey which may bring me I know not what?”

Tenderly he raised the drooping head and forced the downcast eyes to
look into his. It was too much. Two lips quivered pitifully, like those
of some grieved baby, and two great tears rolled over her cheeks down
upon the snowy whiteness of her gown. The sight robbed him of
self-control. He gathered her in his arms, the tiny morsel, and held her
there like some wee baby.

“I only want to see that she does not suffer; that she is taken care of,
and then I will return. Indeed I will. Do not fear”—and then he was
gone.

Thus Milton Nesbit left Maple Lawn and the charmed circle it contained,
and another day brought him to old familiar scenes; brought him to the
home where he had loved and suffered. It was Annie who opened the door
in answer to his ring. Pale-faced, with a trace of tears about the eyes,
with a gasp she caught her breath as she saw and recognized the man
before her. He saw the effect of his appearance upon her and a great
pity welled up his heart for her. Calmly he greeted her with,

“Will you not bid me enter?”

Hesitatingly she did so; speaking never a word, only stepping back she
threw open the door of the well known little parlor. Within its cool
shade he took both her hands in his,

“What is it, Annie? Trust me—tell me all. I have not come to censure you
but to see that you are cared for. Has that scape-grace brother of
mine——”

“Don’t,” she said, “Don’t blame him. He may be faulty, but he loves me.
Ah, yes, he loves me more than I deserve. I made him reckless with my
foolish cravings. Every wish of mine was satisfied. I could not realize
that ten thousand dollars was not a limitless fortune, and when Robert,
always delicate, broke down altogether, we were almost penniless. I
tried then to repay him. I nursed him and I worked for him. All the
pretty things he gave me I again sold, but I am afraid I cannot retain
him. He is slipping away from my grasp, and oh! I love him so, I love
him so.”

Almost choking, the words broke from her in a smothered sob. Her hands
went up to her face and the tears trickled down through the thin, white
fingers as the sobs shook her frame. A lump rose in Milton’s throat,

“Take me to him!”

“You will say nothing harsh or unkind?”

She asked it with a fearful tremor in her voice. He took one trembling
hand in one of his, the other with a gentle caressing motion he laid on
the brown head,

“When was I ever so unkind to you that you should fear me now? Lead on,
little girl. He is my brother, and he is sick.”

With an effort she checked her sobs and dried her tears.

“Come,” she said. He followed her up the stairway into what had once
been their joint bedroom, and there reclining upon a lounge at the
window, his eyes wandering wearily, lay Robert. Pain and care had made
sad havoc with the delicate frame. Annie glided to him and knelt at his
side laying her cheek to his hand.

“Robert,” she said softly, “Robert, someone has come to see you!”

Turning from the open window his eyes fell upon the brother they both
had so wronged; his face became ghastly,

“Milton, you here!”

Milton stepped forward,

“Softly, brother—no undue excitement. I bear you no ill will. I have
learned to realize that it was not all your fault. It was all the
outcome of circumstances over which none of us had any control. I have
not come to censure you, but to look after your welfare. Without means,
how can Annie give you the care you need?”

Robert scarcely could believe he heard aright,

“You do not hate me, then—me, the destroyer of your happiness? Oh, you
mock me!”

“No! I do not mock you. True, you both have caused me suffering, but it
was only the cleansing fire needed to purify the grosser part of my
nature. I don’t blame you now—it was only natural. What is it your
doctor prescribes for you? I want to see you get well and strong, and
you can not do so with the load of anxiety I know your heart is burdened
with.”

Annie bowed her head and wept, and Robert was too weak to restrain the
tears that would start.

“O, Milton,” said Annie, “you are good; you are noble; how can we ever
repay your kindness?”

“Tush! tush! little woman; say no more about it, but answer my question.
What is it the doctor prescribes?”

“Oh, he prescribes what is far beyond our means,” sobbed Annie. “An
ocean voyage may do wonders for him, the doctor says; and a tour in
foreign lands. The sunny skies of Italy, the mountain breezes of
Switzerland—a summer’s sojourn there might give him such health as has
never been his.”

Milton stepped to the nearest window and gazed meditatively
into—nothing. This would take more money than be had at his command,
although he had quite a snug sum with which many necessities could be
procured for the sick brother, but that was all. Should he call for aid
upon the friend who had already been all too generous to him? Why not?
Did he not know that his call would not be in vain? and was not the life
of his brother at stake, and also the happiness of the woman who had
once been all in all to him? These facts were now uppermost in his mind;
all else was forgotten. Yes! he would ask Owen to aid him. So turning
from the window he said:

“Cheer up, Annie, Robert shall have his voyage and tour, and you shall
go with him. And when you return I hope to see the roses blooming in
your cheeks. Possibly it may be wisest for you to remain abroad several
years, spending your summers in the mountain air, your winters in the
sunny south, in balmy Italy. In return I only wish to be kept posted as
to all of your movements, I want regular reports as to the state of your
health and when you are ready to return I may have something to tell you
which I think will surprise you as much as you have been surprised
today.”

In this strain he went on leaving them neither time nor opportunity to
say much. Preparations were immediately begun. A telegram was sent to
Owen. In a few days the required amount in ready cash was at their
disposal, and two weeks from the day Milton first appeared at the side
of his brother he saw him and Annie safe on deck the steamer “Anchor,”
surrounded with every comfort money could buy.

“Be judicious with your supply of money,” was his parting injunction.
“Let past experience be a warning. It is to regain your health you are
taking this voyage. Remember and be wise.”

And Robert’s answer had been,

“I will! so help me the memory of my noble brother.”

As Milton bade Annie good bye, clasping her hand in his, he for a moment
looked deep into the starry eyes, then bending he touched his lips
tenderly to hers. Thus he left them. “Will it be for their good?” he
asked himself. “Ah, well; time will tell!” Twenty-four hours later he
held Alice in his arms, pressing burning kisses upon her sweet lips,
while Lawrence saw and understood all. For Lawrence, in company with the
others, had returned during Milton’s absence, and could well afford to
smile, for had not a pair of serious gray eyes smiled him a welcome
which had the promise of heaven in it?

What had been the result of the prospecting tour? A rare, sweet spot of
Mother Earth had been found, with just enough of rugged wildness to show
to advantage nature’s grandeur. Mountains in the distance; a rolling,
undulating country; a winding river and the glassy bosom of the lake.
Last, but not least, the towers and chimney pots of a distant city. All
this could be seen from the rounded knoll gently sloped to its base,
around which wound a merry rippling brooklet.

Thence a level meadow land which could be laid out in lovely lawns,
parks and drives. Still farther on patches of woodland to the right and
left; meadows with lowing cattle; a charming spot indeed, surrounded by
nature’s loveliest scenes. Only about ten minutes walk to the little
station-house south of the knoll, where almost every hour of the day
trains passed and stopped, and which in forty minutes would carry you to
the heart of the city. But it was not until the early days of August
that ground was broken and work begun upon the mansion that was to stand
a pattern and a beacon for the generations to come. The winter months
put an end to the work and the long stormy evenings were again spent as
before. But again spring returned and again the work was resumed.

At the same time hot-houses were built; a vineyard laid out; orchards
planted with rare fruit trees, and berry patches cultivated. Grounds
were laid out; drives made; miniature lakes appeared; grassy knolls;
groups of trees; charming arbors; inviting summer-houses; cozy retreats
and lovers’ nooks. To produce all this meant work—work to many willing
hands; bread to hungry mouths. Owen paid the bills with generous hand,
while each day at lunch time the workers enjoyed an hour or two of
repose and shelter from the sun.



                            CHAPTER XXXXIV.


Another winter came and still the home was not finished, but now the
work on the buildings could still go on, as it was mainly within doors
and under shelter. In the heated rooms the skilled workmen found their
tasks easy, and under their hands the rooms were rapidly turned into
bowers of beauty and use. The gardeners were kept busy during all the
winter months and in the early springtime commenced their outdoor work
of beautifying the place. Fountains, statues and other objects of beauty
and use grew as if by magic. The hot-houses and conservatories were
wonders of beauty and elegance. Then came the work of furnishing the
building. Again money was not spared to make everything perfect. Every
nook and arch contained some rare piece of art—of sculptured work.
Exquisite paintings graced the walls. Breakfast and noonday meals were
to be taken in what was called the breakfast room. This room was
arranged simply for comfort—warm and cozy for the winter, cool and
shaded for the summer. The furniture was covered with leather. The
breakfast was to be simple, consisting principally of milk, grain foods
and fruits. The mid-day meal to which it was expected few would gather
was again simple—fruits and nuts playing a leading part.

But in the evening when all should be gathered together to enjoy as well
as eat—but we are anticipating—too eager to lift the veil from the
future. Let us wait, rather, until all our dear friends shall be
gathered, to partake of their first evening meal here in the new home;
for the present let us go on with our description of this glorious
structure.

And yet, how shall we describe it? The most vivid fancy fails to do it
justice. The corridors, whose floors are inlaid with tile; the marble
staircases; the painted walls; the carved ceilings; the cozy private
rooms—each in itself a gem; books and music to be found in them all;
each a sanctum for the owner thereof. The library, the music room and
the drawing room, each perfect as to form and dimensions; each flooded
with brilliant light, or softly toned down as the fancy would demand or
occasion call for, yet all arranged so as not to cause needless work.

It was the desire and expectation of this happy household to have such
only move about the rooms as were fairly intelligent and cultured. “We
don’t want them to be servants, who do the work in this home.” Owen had
remarked, “but comrades and mates, each doing a share. No drones. Drones
and idlers do not deserve to enjoy.”

Among the details worthy of particular mention were the bath rooms. Not
little tubs wherein one person could scarce recline, but a bath in which
the bather could splash and swim and romp, not a bath in which false
modesty would allow a single occupant only, but one in which a bevy of
bathers could enjoy the luxury at the same time. Hot and cold water;
steam baths and shower baths—O what a blessing in the cleansing,
purifying element! bringing health and strength to all who are wise
enough to rightly use it. Just watch the healthy babe in the bath, as it
kicks and splashes and screams with delight. Was there ever a more
beautiful sight?

Then we come to a wing of this grand building which as yet was, and for
a little while would be, closed. Not that this wing was not furnished or
completed in every little detail, but the use to which it had been
dedicated was not yet here. One or more hearts were waiting and hoping
for love’s crown—in more than one breast the expectation was strong that
at their knock the mystic door would open. What was this mysterious
wing? The sanctum of the prospective mother!

Here she was to be surrounded by every beauty and comfort that art could
supply and that money could buy. Wherever her eyes should turn they
would rest upon representations of nature’s most perfect work—the nude
human form! From the little dimpled cupid to the graceful undulating
curves of the perfect woman and the outlines of the strength and beauty
of the perfect man. Here was the workshop of art. The expectant mother
would here be taught to mold the clay, to use the pallet and brush or in
the quiet and rest secured her here she could learn to wield the pen.
Her gems of thought would thus influence and mold the mentality of her
unborn child, and would leap like flashes of sunshine to the world
without. Here the builder of the coming child could withdraw to perfect
rest and quiet, and here she could steep her soul in music and poetry,
and the child which was asked for, which was longed for and demanded, as
a pledge of love—the child which was begotten under holiest influences
and gestated under such perfect surroundings—could such a child be
anything else than ideal? anything less than divine? Released from all
the old superstitions of right and wrong; seeing absolutely no wrong in
holy love, with a conscience that waits not for sanction of church or
state for the consummation of love, but follows only nature’s
dictates,—who would dare to set the seal of impurity upon the product of
such desires, such holy aspirations, such hopes and such longings!
Gently, reverently, we close the door of this holy of holies until it
opens again to the knock of the favored one.

Is there still more to tell? O yes much more, but space and language
fail. We cannot tell you half there is to tell. There is the concert
hall, the lecture hall, the dancing hall, the theater—all awaiting their
turn to be unlocked, for hope is strong within the breasts of the little
band that their number will not always be so small, but that in a few
short years every room in the spacious building will have its occupant,
every hall its throngs of visitors.

In still other rooms beyond, where baby-life is to thrive, the cooing,
kicking, little mortals will not be wanting. Where the nurse, to whose
care the little treasures are to be entrusted, fully understands the
responsibility of her work. No gorging her little charges with sweets,
souring their little stomachs; no dosing with soothing syrups and
paregorics, sleeping potions, horrid teas and what not, dulling and
stupefying their brains and destroying the natural brightness of the
child’s mentality. O no! This nurse understands better what is for the
good of the dimpled, rollicking morsels of humanity entrusted to her
care, and as a result she can sleep soundly the long night through. The
babes do not disturb her. The perfectly healthy treatment they receive
lulls them to sleep and they lie coiled up like downy balls, the chubby
fists resting on the dimpled cheeks. What heart would not such a picture
gladden?

Are we anticipating again? The picture is so alluring that we cannot
help letting our imagination wander, sometimes, but we must return and
bring our friends to the now finished home.

It was the close of a sultry summer day, late in August, when Owen,
stepping abruptly into the midst of our friends at the Westcot mansion,
said:

“Our home is finished! When will you be ready to start for the new
quarters?”

This question, though long expected, was not readily answered. All were
eager to start, yet much was still to be attended to. The Westcot home
had been sold, as it stood, with all its handsome furnishings. The
younger Wallace children had lived, during the past year, almost wholly
at the Westcots, though Mrs. Wallace had at first demurred not a little.
But as the change in them grew daily more apparent she had fully
consented, and had left them almost entirely to the management of her
stepdaughters. In the spacious grounds of the Westcot place they were
taught to play and romp and enjoy themselves in a style they had never
known. The plan of sending them to boarding school had been given up. A
boarding school education was fashionable—yes, but horribly
demoralizing. It was to be purchased at the expense of sparkling eyes
and glowing cheeks. “Better not,” Edith had said. “Mrs. Westcot’s little
girls are taught at home; why not give these girls home lessons also?”

Accordingly Edith taught them their grammar, their arithmetic and
geography. Hilda heard their reading and spelling and superintended
their writing. Imelda taught them music and drawing while Cora
cultivated their voices.

They were now no longer overburdened with long hours of study, when body
and brain were weary. There was now plenty of time for healthy romping
games, long strolls in the shady woods where they became interested in
the mysteries of botany, and when evening came, though the day had been
so pleasant the curly heads scarce touched the pillows ere sleep had
closed the tired lids, not to open again until the morning sun peeped in
at the eastern windows.

The boys received similar treatment. As Paul’s clear and experienced eye
almost instantly detected the cause of the evil that was threatening to
make a wreck of their young lives, the same methods had from the first
been made use of to fill their unemployed hours.

Such had been the lives of our friends, and now came the task of moving,
or of emigration. The old familiar scenes, the walks and drives, the
groves and the cooling fountains, would know them no more. Mr. and Mrs.
Wallace had long since known of this project and it was with sincere
regret they saw the day approach when they should say good bye to these
elder, and at one time considered burdensome children. But far worse
than they had expected—their younger children refused to remain behind,
but insisted on going along to the new home.

At first Mrs. Wallace would hear none of it, but as they begged so hard,
and were seconded by all the members of the “colony,” she finally gave
her consent.

Of course it is not to be supposed that Mr. and Mrs. Wallace, especially
the latter, fully understood the nature of the home to which her
children were to be taken. She was too thorough a woman of the world to
countenance a scheme so unconventional, so outlandish. She only knew
that it was a co-operative home her children were going to; that they
had become bright, healthy and strong since she had given them into the
care of her stepdaughters, and as she knew she would now have to send
them away again to complete their education she wisely concluded it was
better to send them where she felt assured they would be properly cared
for, and more so as it was just as easy for them to come home on a
vacation from the co-operative home as from any other school. And—yes,
she could go to see them. The invitation had been tendered her, so that
matter was satisfactorily settled.

Osmond, too, had a severe battle to fight. His life for the past two
years had been a series of battles. His father had soon discovered the
presence of Osmond’s mother, and knew of his visits to her. With a
volley of oaths he had issued the command that Osmond should never go
near her again. To his surprise the boy not only demurred to this but
firmly declared that he would go to see his mother as often as he
desired. Almost dumb-founded the father shouted:

“What! Court the society of that outcast! that shameless creature who
knows not the meaning of the word decency? the woman who——”

“No more of that!”—came in firm, almost defiant tones from the lips of
the boy. “You have slandered the best and purest of women long
enough—the woman I am proud to own as my mother! An accident made me
acquainted with her and with her friends, and never until then did I
know what purity meant, what true manhood and womanhood meant. My mother
and my sister are women with whom any man might well be proud to claim
kinship. I will not give up their companionship. I would rather cut
loose from you!”

Mr. Leland stormed, fumed and cursed, but to no avail. The boy was firm.

“I will disinherit you!” he exclaimed. “I will cut you off without a
cent!”

“Do so!” was the calmly uttered reply. “Then I will find some work to do
and will transfer my life altogether to the side of my mother.”

At this point Mr. Leland wisely desisted. Somehow he hoped to circumvent
the boy; hoped to regain full control, forgetting that Osmond’s mind was
daily developing, and that he was now able to think for himself. So when
the son’s intention of going away with his mother and sister became
known another storm broke loose. But Osmond was firm, and on the morning
that witnessed the departure of the colonists he appeared with the rest,
equipped and ready for the journey. Meta’s dark head appeared beside
him. She was growing to be quite a big girl and all along the journey
she was his especial care. His “little sweetheart”—she had been termed
long since, and the grave-faced child was proud of the title.



                             CHAPTER XXXXV.


At the close of a warm sunny day they alighted at “Willow Grove,” the
name of the station nearest their future home. Wagons were in waiting,
upon which their effects were loaded.

“But we will walk!” said Owen, “only ten minutes. The exercise will do
us good, after our long confinement with scarcely any movement.”

And with an arm encircling Cora’s waist he led the way. Many were the
exclamations of delight as beauty after beauty unfolded itself before
their eyes, but when a turn in the roadway brought in full view the
imposing stone structure with its many arches and turrets, its profusion
of vines and flowers, a long drawn “Oh!” escaped from each beholder.

Owen drew Cora aside so as to permit the next couple, Lawrence and
Hilda, to be first. Silently every man bared his head. Lawrence kissed
the little hand resting upon his arm,

“Our Hilda’s Home!”

With hands clasped above her heart Hilda stood and gazed.

“My dream realized! Mine the dream, but yours,” turning to Owen, “the
realization. To you belongs the honor and greatness of this hour.”

“Tut, tut, little one! How worthless my millions without the
plan,—without the work of the mighty mind. Have you no wish reserved for
the architect?”

With tears suffusing her sight she turned and extended both hands to
Lawrence, who reverently knelt and bowed his head over them.

“Mine own! I may hope to win you now. To be worthy of your sweet love!”
Edith and Paul saw, and a quick glance of comprehension flashed from eye
to eye.

Owen’s arm encircled his precious Cora and a mystical silence fell over
this band of lovers. Who of them all could resist the supreme eloquence
of the hour? Margaret leaned her head against Wilbur’s shoulder and
Wilbur’s dark head was bowed over Margaret’s fair one, reminding one of
“Faust and Gretchen.” Imelda’s wine-brown eyes were drinking in the
adoration of Norman’s blue ones. Her hands went up to his face, taking
it between them.

“You understand me now?”

“Long, long ago, my dear one.”

And a kiss followed the words, a seal, the emblem of his love and trust.

Milton’s hand pressed a blonde head to his breast and the bright, happy
face that is turned up to him promises oblivion for the dark hours in
his past life.

Our stately Edith must not be forgotten. A warm glow suffuses her cheeks
as she also is drawn closer to a manly breast, and glancing up her dark
lustrous eyes meet those of the young physician in unutterable love and
trust.

Mrs. Leland is looking on; her eyes wander from the grand structure over
the spacious grounds and thence from couple to couple, every face
illumined with a commingling of love, hope and joy, as they stand
knocking at the door of an unknown world. Will it fulfill all their
expectations? Her eyes fill with tears. Unconsciously she folds her
hands as she reads the love-lit faces and sees there the fond hopes that
unite each lover couple. Presently an arm steals about her neck and a
cherished voice says,

“I will be your lover, my own mother. You are too young, by far, to be
thus left alone!”

She smiles as she answers:

“I know you are that, my boy, but in time you will be a true lover of a
true and perfect woman.”

Meanwhile the younger portion of our band make themselves more noisily
heard. They feel the influence of the surrounding beauty, and, as is
natural, give vent to exultant cries and shouts. Presently Elmer’s voice
is heard demanding:

“I say, why are we all standing out here? I am hungry and tired; a bath
and supper will go good, I’ll wager.”

Thus admonished a forward movement was again made, and in a very few
minutes the welcoming portals had opened and received them. Flowers!
flowers! A profusion of flowers everywhere. Each room had been furnished
and decorated with a view to being especially adapted to the tastes of
its future inmate. Owen took delight in pointing out each room to its
owner. When all had sufficiently admired their sanctums a half hour was
spent in baths and other refreshments. Pretty, airy and comfortable
dresses were donned. Some of the rare flowers that filled the vases were
fastened in the hair and at the waists of our happy girls and on the
coat lapels of those of the masculine gender. Then the way to the
drawing room was found, or simply the “parlor,” as was the term for this
surpassingly beautiful room.

Soon all had gathered in. The lovely “salon” had been duly admired—such
comfort and ease, so cosy and homelike. Everything beautiful. Rich, but
not too grand for use. Dinner, supper, or whatever you might choose to
call the evening meal, was then announced, and all repaired to the
dining hall. Have we already described this room? No! Then we must enter
with our dear friends and while noting the effect upon them we will try
to describe, just a little, what kind of place it was that had been
selected in which to partake of the main meal of the day.

An apartment ample in dimensions; high and arched; with walls of glass
to permit the light of day to flood the place; for other life was here
to thrive than that alone of our free love circle. Rare plants; palms
and cactus; trailing vines; sweet-scented flowers in great profusion and
under canopies as in an alcove, the dining table had been set, covered
with snowy linen and decked with flowers. Flowers in all shapes and
forms, and of all colors. Above the table suspended from the ceiling was
hung a large bell, formed of white carnations, held in place by two
cupids floating in the air. The center of the table held a huge basin of
finest porcelain, forming a miniature pond containing a delicate
fountain showering coolness into the sweet-scented air. The basin itself
filled with the most perfect of water lilies, the golden centers
gleaming in the snowy depths. Vases filled with rare roses; delicate
green wreathings; the various dishes; while the air was filled with
delicious music,—low and sweet. Luscious fruits, nuts and sweet new
milk, and such simple fare, formed the chief part of the repast that had
been prepared. Meats and rich pastries had been dispensed with. But when
had the participants ever enjoyed a meal more keenly? The folding doors
of those transparent walls had been thrown wide open and the pure
refreshing evening air was wafted to them, bearing with it the promise
of golden future; while jest and wit and mirth flashed and sparkled like
costly jewels in the bright gas light.

But time was gliding by on tireless wings. The sun was nearing the
horizon, casting its last golden rays aslant upon distant waters of the
river, and farther on the lake, causing the waters to be resplendent
with the reflection of the setting orb. Like a living, glowing,
quivering mass of liquid fire were the dancing, rippling waves, and all
looked on this display of nature’s charms with a feeling of awe and
veneration. Silently they stood grouped, loving forms were drawn closer
and firmer together as they watched the grand and glorious sight. Slowly
the glowing orb sank beyond the distant heights; slowly the waters
changed their gleaming brilliance to a more somber quietness; and as
daylight disappeared ushering in the twilight with its fantastic
shadows, the coming night sent forth its heralds, the weird humming of
the near insects and the occasional hoot of the distant owl. The rising
moon cast its mellow rays on the peaceful landscape, causing the waters
of the lake in the distance to gleam with a silvery sheen. All these
brought with them a quiet peace that could never be felt in the heart of
the busy city.

No music or song thrilled the air on this first evening in the new home.
Hearts were too full for utterance; too full for mirthful joy. Tired
with their journey, filled with grave and subtile musings our friends
sought quiet rather than mirth. The new life had begun. Dreams were now
to be tested, verified, and each and all looked anxiously to the
future—a future filled with hope, with trust, with high anticipation,
and yet never for one moment forgetting that this same future would
bring grave duties and responsibilities—duties and responsibilities that
would show whether or not this little band of reformers, of innovators,
was composed of the right elements to achieve success in a comparatively
untried field of human endeavor.



                            CHAPTER XXXXVI.


Five years have passed since the dedication of that beautiful home;
years that have brought their changes; as time invariably does. The
mystic rooms—the sanctum of the expectant mother—have been occupied,
again and yet again. Our royal Margaret was the first to come under the
spell of its sweet and wonderful influence. Giving herself up to the
delightful occupations provided for in these secluded rooms, keeping
ever in mind the grand result which was to come of it, one morning after
a night of pain and suspense Wilbur kissed a fine, beautiful, healthy
boy that was laid in his arms. Kneeling at her side with his head
resting on the same pillow with the fair white face of his peerless
Margaret the whisper greeted his ear:

“I am blessed today beyond the measure of women.”

Who shall say that his happiness did not equal her own.

Another had not been long in following her brave example. When Cora’s
baby girl was laid upon her breast Owen’s measure of happiness was
filled and tears blinded his eyes as he kissed the mother of his child.

The two sisters, Edith and Hilda, both brought joy and happiness to
their lovers’ hearts by presenting them with miniature reflections of
themselves, and Norman had held Imelda’s boy to his heart.

By this time the babies that first came to the new home were making glad
the hearts of their mothers by their childish prattle; some of the
mothers were watching the first trembling footsteps, and now Alice was
waiting, watching for the coming hour. Milton watched with worshipful
tenderness the little fairy whose love was life to him.

New faces also now greet us. New comers have helped to fill the precious
home, who were just as good and worthy as those whose fortunes we have
so long followed.

But to return to the young mothers. They did not devote all their time
to their darling babies. O, no! Dearly as they loved them they found
that they had other work to do while the little ones were left to the
care of those who were perfectly trustworthy, Not to be petted, not to
be pampered and spoiled, but left to those who understood how to get to
the depths of each baby nature.

When it is remembered what preparation had been made for their advent it
is not surprising that they were wonderfully good babies. When it is
remembered with what joy they were welcomed—welcomed while still in the
first stages of foetal growth; how carefully the prospective mothers had
been kept under calm, sweet and pure influences; how their minds had
been kept active without taxing their strength; how constantly their
souls had been bathed in the luxury of sympathy and love; how every part
of their natures had been kept teeming with life—overflowing life; how
carefully undue excitement had been warded off; how they were given
every opportunity for cultivating the higher instincts,—the spiritual
nature;—when all this is remembered we cannot help seeing that, on the
principle of natural causation, the children of such mothers and of such
influences could not be other than exceptionally well endowed and
exceptionally well behaved.

But when the months had passed, during which the mother should give her
personal care and attention to her cherished babe, it was transferred to
the sole care of the experienced nurse, and she herself returned to her
usual work, whatever that work might happen to be. There were so many
fields open, and each made her choice. The head gardener was glad to get
help in the tending and nursing of his plants and flowers. Nimble,
dextrous fingers were needed to fashion the garments to be worn by the
occupants of the home, and this large and beautiful home needed many
willing hands to keep it beautiful. All this however was work which
could be entrusted to and performed by stronger hands, if other work
should prove more attractive, work in which more than ordinary
intelligence and skill were required. Among our band were teachers of
music and song, as might be expected of the artist soul seeking
expression. Margaret had kissed her lover and baby good bye and had
given another season to her loved profession, and had returned again
with, O, such longing and love for the home and the circle of loved ones
it contained.

But there was other work. The forty minutes required to reach the heart
of the city were used by quite a number, morning and evening. In the
heart of the city rose a grand emporium many stories high, where many
hundreds of young women and men were employed, and which was the
property of the home circle; an emporium which had been built by Norman
and Lawrence and fitted up by Owen, and which was one of the largest
business places in the great city; an emporium where people of all ages
and sizes could purchase for themselves an outfit from the crown of
their heads to the soles of their feet. There was the tailor’s
department and that of the dressmaker. There the milliner fashioned
pretty headgear, and there all the beautiful artificial flowers, of
which countless numbers were used from week to week were made. There the
visitor would go from floor to floor, from department to department, and
would find every place to have its own attraction, its own work.

But the most beautiful department of them all was that of the florist,
where nature’s handiwork was heaped up in wild and charming confusion,
and where these floral beauties, by deft and cunning fingers, were
arranged into designs without number, and in this department it was that
you could see our own fair girls moving about, giving orders here,
lending aid there, and again seeing that patrons were promptly served.
All was life, all were busy, yet none were overworked, as none worked
longer than five hours here. At seven o’clock in the morning when the
doors were opened, they admitted what was termed the morning “turn.” And
when twelve o’clock announced the noon hour the merry throng, laughing
and singing arrayed themselves for the street and went trooping out like
a merry flock of birds, for their day of work was over. It was a day’s
work, and thus they were paid. With the striking of the hour of one, the
afternoon “turn” began, and others filled the places of the morning
workers. So the faces of the saleswomen and salesmen were always fresh
and smiling, with none of that tired, wornout appearance that is so
often noticeable in the young faces you meet behind the counter.

Where were all these employes housed? Heretofore as these people
generally are housed. Those who still had a father or mother or both
living, lived with them; in most cases large families crowded into two
or three rooms. Others who were not so fortunate, had to submit to all
the discomforts of cheap boarding houses, or lived in some stuffy back
room or bleak attic. But a change was about to take place. Today the
large business building is closed. No one moves about its wide halls and
its many departments. It is a grand “fete” and gala day. Today is to be
dedicated the grand new home which has been erected for them.

                  *       *       *       *       *

After two years of life in their co-operative home its inmates were
convinced of its success and felt almost like thieves that they should
enjoy so many privileges which were beyond the reach of those to whom
they gave employment, and then the plans were made for a new home, and
again Owen’s millions did service and now a beautiful and grand
structure had been erected. But not so far-away from the place of work
as their own. That would have been cruelty to the morning “turn” who
were expected to be at their post at the hour of seven, and equally
unpleasant for the afternoon “turn” as it would cause them to be late
for their evening meal.

Right on the outskirts of the city, where fifteen minutes would be all
that would be required to bring them back and forth, a site was bought
upon the brink of the beautiful river, elevated just enough to be beyond
the reach of any possible flood. A park had been laid out which in time
would be one of the handsomest the city could boast of, with its
miniature lakes, its splashing fountains, its dense shrubbery, its
gleaming statuary and flowery banks. And right in the midst of these
beautiful surroundings this monster home was built. For three long years
the workmen toiled, until when finished it was the finest of its kind
that fancy could depict. A place where home pleasures would be given the
workers, such as they had never known; where every arrangement had been
made to amuse, to instruct, to educate, to develop the inmates. It
boasted of its school rooms, its college, its sculpture hall and
artist’s studio, its lecture hall and theater, for which the best of
traveling troupes were to be engaged, with perfect arrangements for the
accommodation of those troupes. Here the players would not have to
undergo the extra fatigue, after their tiresome work, to again dress for
the street, catch the last cold car which was to take them to their
place of lodging. No, indeed! The theater of the workers’ home was a
marvel of its kind. Large, airy, comfortable and well furnished rooms
were attached to it, a room to every player, so near and convenient to
the stage that it was not necessary to dress in little boxes or holes
for their work. Here they could dress in quiet and comfort and then rest
until the signal to begin was given.

When through with their work, in the pleasant, comfortable dining room
connected with the theater for the convenience of this hard-working
class of people—how hard-working few, not of the profession, ever
realize—a simple but refreshing repast was served, which repast was so
restful and had so much of real comfort in it that the traveling bands
invariably forgot that intoxicants were absent from it.

Then there was a library with its thousands of volumes containing
reading matter of every kind, but always choice, always select, always
instructive. A large billiard room was also there. Then came the
gymnasium for the development of physical strength and where both sexes
were expected to participate. There was to be a singing class and
dancing school.

The baths were not forgotten. Larger, more complete than at the first
home—so many more were to make use of them here.

All arrangements were complete. A large, airy hall where breakfast and
the mid-day meal were to be served. But here, as in that other home, the
evening meal, which would be the chief meal of the day, was to be taken
amidst nature’s beauties in a large and beautiful conservatory. Owen had
spent a fortune in furnishing it with the required plants which were of
the rarest kinds. A miniature lake was formed in its center, wherein the
little golden speckled beauties were dashing and splashing about in
their merry chase. A fountain was reared in its center composed of half
a dozen nude mermaids holding their hands aloft, their finger tips
forming a circle from which the water was flung aloft in showering
spray. Sweet voiced songsters filled the air with their thrilling music.
Flowers bloomed in wild profusion; huge vases were filled with their
brilliant treasures wherever they could be suitably placed.

At several places small artificial hills had been erected, ferns and
grasses growing amidst the rocks. Through a small rocky ravine the water
came tumbling into a basin below, forming a small lake. Palms, cactus
and other plants were grouped at convenient places. Nooks and alcoves
without number had been arranged wherein the tables had been placed and
were now spread and awaiting the hungry guests, each table seating about
a dozen and through it all rare, sweet music, coming from some hidden
source lulled the tired senses to rest and quiet.

The last preparations had been made. The last garlands had been hung. To
every room its inmate had been assigned, which promised them all the
same sweet privacy when privacy was desired, as in the first and smaller
home. Every room was furnished cozily and comfortably, and every inmate,
if so they desired, could claim some musical instrument for their
private use, besides which there was a music hall where first class
musical instruments of all kinds abounded. A number of the best teachers
had been engaged to supervise the different departments, to teach and
bring to light the hidden talents that none might be lost, but all shine
in their full glory.

The grounds were something wonderful, or in time would be so, when the
years would have done their work. The drives were beautiful, so wide and
clean. Ponds covered with waterlilies. Fountains everywhere. Lover’s
nooks and cozy retreats. Plants, shrubbery and flowers in glorious
profusion, and artistic designs wherever the eye might rest. Down the
sloping banks of the river wide, spacious stairways of hewn stone had
been made which led down beneath the laving waters. Skiffs, large and
small were moored here, inviting and wooing lovers of the watery element
to trust themselves to its glassy bosom, to be rocked on its silvery,
rippling waves and be borne whithersoever they might wish.

Owen had made a deep hole in his millions. Lack of funds should not
prevent success. And now the new inmates of this wonderful home were
waiting the summons to their first evening meal. All the “salons” of the
lower floors were swarming with gayly dressed maidens and with young men
attired in their best. Instinctively they knew that henceforth they must
always put their best efforts to the front, and the blending of youthful
voices in merry laughter made the listener glad.

But not all were young that were assembled here tonight. Many there were
who had seen the darker side of life and who in all probability would
prefer the solitude and quiet of their own rooms to the noisy
merry-making of a careless and care-free youth.

And among all those who found a home within the walls of this
magnificent structure those had not been forgotten whose labor had
produced it, had made it the thing of beauty it now stood. As might be
expected the builders had grown to love it as they worked, and the
knowledge that they should enjoy its beauties and comforts when finished
had stimulated them to work more eagerly and with extra skill until the
day of its completion.

But now all are ready. At last the signal is given, the doors are flung
wide, and just as the music of a brass band clashes through the
resounding halls, playing a march from one of the master composers, the
workers, all the workers, pour into the monster conservatory.

They thought it was fairy land opened to their view, floating in a sea
of light. Among the rest we see the members of our own circle, scattered
about here and there, every face radiant with happiness reflected from
within.

No waiters are in attendance. At every table one of the fresh young
maidens plays the part of hostess. On a smaller table near at hand, all
the side dishes have been arranged. Tanks with new sweet milk, ice water
and hot water; nothing that is likely to be desired has been forgotten
or omitted. The next evening another of the young ladies will be
detailed to preside.

When supper is over the tables are let remain as they are. The day’s
work is over. In the morning many busy hands will restore order, and by
noon everything will again shine with tasteful beauty; the tables reset,
fresh flowers filling all the vases, and the dishes awaiting refilling.

After they have all steeped their senses in the beauties of the
surroundings and have satisfied the cravings of appetite the evening’s
pleasures begin. Music, song and tableaux have been arranged with
exquisite skill. Cora’s voice has lost none of its richness, none of its
charms. On the contrary it is more flexible, more sweet and full, more
perfect in every respect, and well it may be. Has she not spent two
years in hard study after they came to the home, in making herself
perfect in her art? At many a concert, during these years, has her
sweet, thrilling voice been heard, and tonight she almost outdoes
herself. She is perfectly happy and throws her whole soul into her work;
deafening applause rewards her.

Margaret’s rendition of “Deborah” meets with equal favor. She never
fails to please.

Then follows some renditions of music wherein Imelda and Milton both
excel, for they too have been spending time in developing their precious
talents.

The evening’s entertainment then concludes with a series of tableaux,
three in number, entitled “Progress,” which are received with storms of
applause. They represent “The Past, the Present and the Future.”

There is one feature that has not been announced upon the program. One
whom we have almost forgotten to mention has opened the evening’s
festivities with a short address, dwelling on the object, the aim, the
hopes that are to follow the evening’s work. That one is an old time
friend, probably forgotten by most of our readers. It is an old,
white-haired gentleman with a well preserved air about him. It is the
Mr. Roland, of the lecture room of the olden days and the fatherly
friend of our Margaret and Imelda, and who is followed by another almost
forgotten friend, the lecturer “Althea Wood.”

When the curtain has dropped on the last tableaux the assembled audience
refuses to be satisfied. They well know whose money has erected the
palatial building and “Owen Hunter! Owen Hunter!” is now the cry. In
response to this call Owen steps upon the stage and in a slow, graceful
manner saunters up to the footlights. Waiting for the stormy welcome to
subside, then in slow even tones he begins:

“Friends and comrades! You do me far too great honor in thus calling me
to the front. What you term an act of greatness is simply one of
justice. No merit is due to me that I control millions of dollars while
millions of my fellow human beings this night are starving. My early
years were droned away in luxury, ease and pleasure hunting, and in all
probability I would have gone on thus to the end had not circumstances
given me a shaking up, thereby showing me something of the darker side
of life.

“What these circumstances were, what the means by which the awakening
was brought about I cannot here tell you. The story would be too long.
But I awoke to a sense of the fact that I was of no use whatever in the
world. With the aid of minds superior to mine a home was planned, one
for a small number of congenial friends who wished to try co-operation,
and having proved it a success, this one for the busy bees of our great
industrial hive was next planned.

“You have, until now, been the employes of the ‘Home Company.’ From this
day forth you are partners therein. You will receive your salaries just
the same as heretofore. At the end of the year the accounts will be
squared and a dividend declared with which you are to pay your rent,
so-called, for your home, but which in reality you are buying. For when
you have paid rent amounting to the sum it has cost to erect this
building, you will be the owners of it, not I. Moreover, you shall not
be taxed with a shameless interest, and when your home is paid for and
the original capital again garnered in, there will be countless other
employes who are in need of a home like this, and which it will devolve
upon us to erect. Do you see?”

And see they do! Such deafening shouts of applause never before filled a
hall. It is a perfect uproar and it takes some time ere quiet can again
be restored. Owen smilingly shakes his head——

“You do me too much honor, as I have before remarked. Believe me, you
have much more reason to thank the bright minds and gentle hearts of the
ladies of the ‘Home’ than—

“Three cheers for the ladies!”—someone shouted, and three rousing cheers
were given, and then three more, and yet again three.

Owen sees that they are getting excited, and that he will have but
little chance to say more, so he determines to end it at once.

“That is all, comrades. With the best of wishes for the future well
being of your home, and with the sincerest hopes for the happiness of
each of you I bid you good night—as I see it written on many bright,
young faces that their restless feet are anxious for the dance to
begin.”

Another deafening round of applause follows. They would recall him but
Owen will not respond.

The crash of music is then heard, sending forth its inviting strains,
and soon the light footsteps trip to the measured chimes and the hours
speed in happy merriment.

With such surroundings, such inducements, it will not be difficult to
keep the young maidens fresh, healthy and pure-minded, and to keep the
young men away from the influence of drink, of vice, of demoralization.
No danger that they will unsex themselves through starvation of their
sex natures. The needed magnetism is theirs through their constant
mingling, and while this is only the beginning, while they have so much
yet to learn, there is every hope, every evidence that the home will
develop fine, healthy and intelligent women, strong, brave and noble
men.

Already Owen has another home planned, to be situated farther out into
the open country. “Products of the soil” will furnish the chief
employment of this group of workers. Not all men and women prefer the
bustling city life. There are many who cannot live and enjoy life away
from nature. They would pine for the open air, the green fields, the
cool shade of the woods. Only under the blue vault of heaven can
happiness come to them. And for such as these also it is the desire of
our friends to secure the advantages that only the co-operative home can
supply. Owen is determined to show that his millions have not been
vainly entrusted to his care, and that the advantages that wealth can
procure shall be theirs to whom the wealth justly belongs—the producers.

Here we must leave the inmates of the just completed and dedicated home,
on the threshold of their new life, and take one more farewell word to
our friends of the “F. L.” home—the children of my fancy, who have grown
under my care, and who have become inexpressibly dear to me.



                              CONCLUSION.


The evening meal is over. All have gathered on the broad veranda to
watch the golden sunset as it dips its slanting rays in the river
beyond. They are unusually quiet, even for this serious band. Last
night’s merry-making has made them just a little tired, besides which
their hearts are full of unuttered prayers for the future success of
that new home.

Mrs. Leland is sitting in the comfortable depths of an easy chair. A
sturdy little man of four summers perches upon her knee, patting
grandma’s cheek, tossing her hair in his efforts to smooth it, taking
her face between both chubby hands and drawing her head forward so that
he can kiss her happy, smiling lips and altogether making love in the
most approved child fashion.

Margaret is sitting at her feet, her arm thrown across her mother’s
knee, while her eyes with a happy, tender light follow the movements of
her boy, and her heart swells with fond tenderness and pride at the
knowledge that he is her very own.

At grandma’s back stands Wilbur whose eyes also follow the antics of the
boy when they for a few moments lose sight of the glorious sunset.

Mr. Roland is a visitor at the home tonight, and sits a little to the
right of this group, quietly drinking in the scene before him in the
pauses of the animated conversation he is carrying on with the brilliant
little lecturer, Althea Wood, who also is a guest at the home tonight.

Farther to the left are various groups. The two pairs of sisters—Imelda
and Cora, Edith and Hilda—have formed a circle, their babies forming the
center of their attention. There are little prattlers while one sweet
little cooing innocent lies close to Imelda’s breast.

O, the joys of young motherhood! And the group of men that were standing
a little apart felt the influence of the spell and each thought his
sweetheart had never looked more fair.

Alice in delicate health was reclining in an easy chair while Milton
with adoring eyes stood over her chair ready to do her slightest
bidding. O, if she were only safely tided over the coming hour of trial!
And as the sigh escapes him his hand caressingly toys with the bright
mass of shining hair.

Lawrence has his Norma perched upon his knee answering her many
questions. She has grown to be quite a big girl now, but has never
outgrown her early love for her papa, and ever with the old delight
greets his coming. The two are so near to Alice that she can comfortably
watch them, and while a smile of proud tenderness wreathes her lips, it
is Milton’s hand to which they are laid.

“My baby!” She whispered the tender words.

“A little longer patience,” is Milton’s whispered reply, “and your baby
will be your own!”

Her hand went up to his face with a caressing touch.

“I know,” she smilingly said, “but it was Norma I meant this time.”

He drew the hand to his lips as with a knowing smile he answered,

“Ah, I see!”

Lawrence now and then let his eyes wander to the mother of his child,
then they would turn to the group of fair young women where a pair of
sweet gray eyes met his in a tender glance, then to rest on the little
one reclining against his bosom. Which did he love most? His eyes lit up
with a glad tenderness as they rested on the little one and then he drew
the fair curly head so near him, close to his heart and hid his face in
the fluffy masses; could he himself answer the question?

Many other faces we see which are all new to us, but they are all men
and women worthy to be called by these names.

A group of the younger people have strayed down to the sweet-scented
gardens gathering flowers as they go. Osmond and Homer are fast friends.
Both are young men untouched by the rough hand of fate. Their young
manhood, so perfect in its strength and beauty giving them the
appearance of young kings, so proud, so lofty, was their bearing. Elmer,
too, could scarcely be termed a boy any longer. His twenty years sat
well on his broad shoulders and the eyes of the fifteen year old Meta
shone bright as stars, her cheeks flushed as he chased her through the
winding mazes of the park, and when he had caught her and kissed the
rosy lips she submitted as a matter of course with the most natural
grace.

Osmond had thrown himself at the feet of Hattie Wallace whose nineteen
summers sat lightly on her shoulders. She was such a fairy and with rosy
hued cheeks she listened to the soft, love-freighted words that fell in
whispers from Osmond’s lips.

Homer’s companion was a dark, soft-eyed young girl timid and shy who had
been an inmate of the home for one year, where she had come with her
mother who had fled in the dead of night from her husband and sought
refuge in this haven of rest, and Homer was teaching the sweet Katie her
first experience in the mysteries of love.

Aleda, the youngest of the Wallace girls was also there, and seventeen
years had developed a truly pretty and healthy girl from the delicate
querulous child. Another new comer had engaged her attention. Reading
from a volume of Tennyson, a boy scarce older than herself was reclining
at her feet. He too had been brought there by a mother, not one who had
fled the cruelties of an unappreciative husband, as she had never
applied the title to any man. He had been a child of love.

His mother, in the wild sweet delirium of a first love, had abandoned
herself to her artist lover without a thought of right or wrong. And he,
pure and noble had no thought of wronging her. But disease had early
marked him for its own, and ere the child of his Wilma had seen the
light of day his own life had closed in that sleep that knows no waking,
and she was left alone to buffet the storms of life as best she could,
an orphan and without friends. With a babe in her arms, of “illegal”
origin, the path of her life had not been strewn with roses. But amidst
all her privations and trials she had kept her love pure for her child
and had fostered only instincts pure and holy in the young mind, and
when she heard of the home she applied at its gates, telling her story
in pure, unvarnished words, never dreaming of an effort to hide any of
her past. Only by the light of truth could the delicate fair woman
thread her path through the world.

As might be expected, she had been received with open arms. Wilma, the
mother of Horace, our young poet, and Honora, Katie’s mother, could now
be seen as they stand arm in arm watching the golden sunset and the
children whose future promises to bring with it less of the pain that
has so early drawn silver threads through their own brown locks.

The world at large knew not the full meaning of this home as yet. The
world is yet too completely steeped in superstition and ignorance to
have permitted its existence had the full meaning been known. The
“Hunter Co-operative Home” it had been called, and thus it was known to
the world. It was known that babes had made their advent therein, but
none but the initiated knew that marriage as an institution was banished
from its encircling walls.

Would you ask us if happiness was so unalloyed within those walls that
no pangs of regret or of pain could enter there? Well, no! We are not so
foolish as to make such claim. There are hours of temptation; there are
moments of forgetfulness; there are sometimes swift, keen, torturing
pangs that nothing earthly can completely shut out. Our heroes and
heroines are not angels. They are—when the very best of them has been
said—only intelligent, sensible and sensitive men and women—but men and
women who are possessed of high ideals and who are striving hard to
reach and practicalize them. They live in a world of thought. They do
nothing blindly, inconsiderately; their every action is done with eyes
wide open. In trying to gain the goal they have set themselves to reach,
they strive not to think of self alone. The future of those who have
been entrusted to their care, the young lives their love has called into
existence, exacts from them much of self-denial. They are
individualists, yet not so absolutely such that they do not realize that
sometimes the ego must be held in check so as not to rob another of his,
or her birthright.

You ask again, “Does this home life, as you have pictured insure against
the possibility of the affections changing?”

And again we answer, No! Certainly not. Such changes will and must come.
Yet it is not to be expected that where there is liberty, in the fullest
sense of the word, life will be a constant wooing? Is it not the lack of
liberty that deals the death blow to many a happy, many a once happy
home? to many a home that was founded in the sweetest of hopes, the
brightest of prospects, only to be shattered and wrecked in a few short
years? aye, even a few short months or weeks? And when such a change
does come, in spite of all efforts to prevent, how great a thing it must
be to know yourself free! free to embrace the new love without the
horrible stigma of “shame!” as our modern society now brands it, and
which stigma causes such unspeakable misery, such endless suffering.

And if a woman desires to repeat the experience of motherhood, why
should it be wrong when she selects another to be the father of her,
instead of the one who has once performed this office for her? Why
should the act be less pure when she bestows a second love, when the
object of this second love is just as true, just as noble, just as
pure-minded as was the first one? Why should an act be considered a
crime with one partner which had been fully justified with another?

Reader, judge me not hastily. Judge not my ideas, my ideals, without
having first made a careful study of life as you find it around you. My
words are backed by personal experience and observation, experience as
bitter as any that has been herein recorded. Indeed I doubt if I should,
or could, ever have given birth to the thoughts expressed in these pages
had it not been for that experience—which is one of a thousand—and when
you have carefully weighed my words, think of the good that must result
to future generations when unions are purely spontaneous, saying nothing
of the increase of happiness to those who are permitted thus to choose,
and to live.

                  *       *       *       *       *

When, O, when will the great mass of humanity learn and realize that in
enforced motherhood, unwelcome motherhood, is to be found the chief
cause of the degradation that gives birth to human woe. When will they
see that unwelcome motherhood is the curse resting upon and crushing out
the life energies of woman; while on the other hand, the consciousness
of being the mother of a desired babe, a child conceived in a happy, a
loving embrace, needs no other blessing, no other sanction, no other
license, than such act itself bestows.

------------------------------------------------------------------------



                       List of Radical Literature


 Anarchy, Economics of. A Study of the Industrial Type. By Dyer D.
   Lum. Paper; 60 pages. (Scarce).                                   .25

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 Perfect Motherhood. By Lois Waisbrooker. Indicates the powerful
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 Red Heart in a White World. A suggestive manual of Free Society;
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 Revival of Puritanism. An expose of the spirit “which makes
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 Unrevealed Religion. An address by J. K. Ingalls. “To the
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 Wherefore Investigating Company, a novel dealing with the land
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 Why the Undertone? An open letter to Judge Joseph E. Gary, who in
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   lynching, under hypocritical guise of law, of men who
   entertained and expressed unpopular opinions. By Sarah E. Ames.
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------------------------------------------------------------------------



                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
      spelling.
 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.



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