“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!”