“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.