“And yet what?”
“How do you know that this love will last? How is it possible to speak for the future? How can you, or I, or anyone, control the fates that have or may have, other affinities in store for us? How can we know—O, Norman, how can we know? Believe me, I do not doubt your love. I know its precious boon is mine, but the future is dark, and I fear to trust myself to its unknown mysteries.” And sobbing she sank upon his breast.
Here was indeed an enigma. Would he be able to solve it? Willing to enjoy the present but fearing to trust the future. This queer girl was conjuring up dread, though often heard-of facts, but in his case utter impossibilities. Trembling for the love that at present so surely was hers, lest by some dread possibility in the future she might lose it, yet dreading, fearing to enter that indissoluble marriage tie thereby securing unto herself for life the object of her love. Long the lovers wandered up and down the shady walk. That their love was mutual, that there was a natural affinity between their souls, that both possessed that in their make-up which was necessary for the completion of the other, was apparent, yet while he longed and plead for that closer tie called marriage, in order to perfect their relations, she shrank from it as from some dread abyss.
“Let us be happy just as we are,” she pleaded. “We can walk and talk, kiss and sing, and be unutterably happy when we are together. Please, please do not let us speak of marriage. I almost hate the mere mention of it. I have seen so much of the misery it contains. Of all the married people I have known, after the first few months or perhaps the first year, generally after the first babe has come, they have drifted apart,—they do not miss one another when separated, and I know of but very few cases indeed where happiness reigned queen in their homes. I have known many happy lovers who found, after entering into the matrimonial state, that they had made a sad, a very sad mistake. They did not realize what they had expected. I do not want to think that such would be our case, but I cannot conquer the fear of it. Let me be happy in the knowledge that your perfect love is mine in the present hour. I have no fear of losing you. I feel, I know, that I am as necessary to you as you are to me.”
And with that he had to be content, for the time being at least. She was his by all the bonds of affinity that nature had established between them. He felt that she was pure and good, although he knew next to nothing of her past life. The handsome home that lay just in front of them, whose beautiful grounds, bathed in the silvery sheen of moonlight, was but a temporary home, for this queenly girl. Her position in it was only that of a menial. Its pretty sparkling mistress had brought her home with her from a visit to that western metropolis, Chicago, “A friend of my school days,” she had said. “An orphan in straitened circumstances.” So she had entered its stately portals as a companion to its mistress, a nursing governess to two pretty little girls of four and six years.
As Alice Westcot was a favorite in society, and as her husband, Lawrence Westcot, was a man of prominence, this obscure western beauty, although appearing in a somewhat lowly position, was, with a certain hesitancy, but withal rather graciously, received. To be sure, society was careful not to make too much of her—that is, the lady portion of it. O, woman! how cruel you can be to your sister woman. Dainty lips curled while fair delicate hands drew more closely dainty skirts when this unknown queenly girl drew nigh. It is only fair to say that she was not treated thus by all women—society women. Now and then true worth was found under the butterfly exterior. Women could say nothing against her, even if they would say nothing for her. Men doffed their hats, while their admiring eyes followed the fair form. But there was something in her bearing and manner that commanded their respect. As yet no man had dared to address her in anything but a respectful tone.
But little cared Imelda for the haughtiness of the one or the admiration of the other. Pretty, lively Mrs. Westcot treated her more like a sister and friend than a menial, and often in the seclusion of her chamber, where she could lay aside the mask of conventionality, the bright little woman had made a confidant of Imelda. Then all the life, all the smiles and animation, would disappear. The blue eyes would fill with tears, and the trembling lips confess such tales of woe as would blanch the roses on the health-glowing cheeks of the horrified girl, while the lips of the listener would answer: “Again! Again has marriage proven a failure! Is it ever, oh! is it ever, anything else?” Her lips would quiver, the dark eyes would fill with unshed tears as a fair face, a sunny smile, and eyes which seemed pure wells of truth, arose before her mental vision. Then she would question, “Are all men alike? Is it ever and always the fate of woman to be the slave of men?”
Norman Carlton was a friend and visitor of the Westcots, and as Imelda ever moved freely about the house, it was not long until they met. Both frank and pure in heart and mind, both worshipers at nature’s shrine, it was not strange they should be attracted. Indeed, it would have been strange had it not so been. They loved. But Imelda’s past had been freighted with so many dark experiences and observations of married misery, of married woes, that she felt no desire to bring her sweet love dream to a sudden end—to deal it a death blow by placing upon it the seal of marriage.
“If you knew, you would understand,” she said in answer to his wondering gaze.
“And may I not know?”