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.