Recalling her wandering thoughts she next opened the epistle from Margaret, for such it proved to be. Such a long, warm, glowing letter; overflowing with the love her pure young heart contained. She had filled page after page, concluding with the words:
“And now my dearest girl, I think I have made my meaning clear. I have given you the best advice that I know of. I know, however, that it is the same as Wilbur’s, only perhaps in other words, and I feel that now we shall not be disappointed in our brave girl. Let me add one thing. I understand fully how difficult the making of such a revelation will prove; and yet it must be made. I can see nothing else you can do and remain true to yourself and lover. Not the shadow of a suspicion, of a deception, must lie between you. I will not say disgrace; that will exist, if it exist at all, only in Norman’s mind. But now for my advice:
“Write the history of your life. That will be easier. You can tell him all, everything, without the disadvantage of seeing in his face the emotions that such a history might call into play. He will have time to think and understand the full import of it all. You will not then receive an immediate answer prompted by an impulse that might prove a barrier to your love. Cool, calm reflection is necessary in such a case, and as my own Imelda possesses her full share of common sense she can but see the wisdom of such a course.
“Be brave, my dearest friend, my own loved one. If this man is worthy of your love he will stand the test. If he does not stand it, then I can but say he was not worthy. And now remember—three hearts beat in love for you, and the united strength of that love is bent on the success of your heart’s dearest hope (for of course my mother knows), and hoping to be reunited in a not too distant future, thus writes and advises your most sincere and loving friend,
Margaret.”
This letter had been folded and placed side by side with that other one. Long had Imelda sat with bowed head and folded hands. Yes! both kind and loving friends were right. An inner voice told her this was the only course to pursue. But the condition of the sick friend had not permitted her to think of it. Every minute of her time had been devoted to her. Her lover must wait until the dark, uncertain hours would be past; but now as Imelda sat and watched the peaceful sleeper, she realized that she could not spend the long hours of the night watch to better advantage than in the performance of this duty. The dreaded hour had passed; hope and sunshine were again seeking admittance at the portals of this home, and Norman was waiting, patiently waiting, for his answer. So when the morning broke, with its pale light, she folded the closely written sheets. With trembling hands and beating heart she wrote the address and sent them to their destination. Would he stand the test? When tried by this crucial ordeal, would he prove faithful and true?
CHAPTER XXV.
The sultry summer day was at its close, and Norman Carlton had just finished reading the letter that Imelda had written the night before. A troubled look was upon the frank and honest face, as he stood at the open window looking out at the falling shadows, but seeing nothing. In one hand he still held the fateful sheets; the other hand he held to his aching temples. He stood and gazed until dusky twilight faded into starlit night. Ever and anon a deep sigh escaped the drawn lips as he thought, and thought, and thought.
But what was it he thought? Did that miserable tale of woe show him only the impracticability of an alliance with a child of the people? A woman whose mother had no right, according to the views of society, to the title of “lady;” whose sister had made an outcast of herself; whose brother might, even now, be occupying the cell of a criminal; whose past life had been one long privation and struggle with fate. His own lady mother and sister! Was it not his duty to first consult their views, their feeling upon the matter?
Or was it that he was made of more noble material? Were his views so broad that it was of no consequence what the world might say? It could hardly be expected, when we consider the training of his past life, that he would now have no battle to fight. It was not pleasant to know that the woman who had won his love should be so unpleasantly connected, but while this knowledge was to him most depressing, it also had the effect of raising, many fold, the respect he held for her. What could have been easier for her than to keep these matters secret? It gave him a better insight into the nobility of her character. She at least was truth itself. She would prove trustworthy. She was above reproach. He was doing battle with the old prejudices based on society codes, as they rose, one by one, to assail his love.