“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.