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.