For more than a week her life hung in the balance. But her strong youth conquered, and after the ninth day reason returned to its throne. The gash upon the white forehead would be a disfigurement for life. Happily the prevailing fashion of hair dressing would almost completely hide the disfiguring mark. The cruel wound was yet far from being healed, but the danger was past. It now only required time for her to gather strength. Already she could sit daily for a few hours in a comfortable arm chair and enjoy the sweet pure air at the open window.
The Wallace sisters had positively refused to listen to any arrangement for removal of the patient. “She will remain,” they had said, “until quite well.” And here she still was, after two weeks had passed. A marked change had come over her. Imelda saw she was no longer the reckless, daring Cora of old. A spirit of refinement rested on the white brow, and shone in the no longer defiant eyes. There was a story in the pained lines of the decidedly pretty face. The loss of blood, the ravages of fever, and the pain of the broken arm had robbed her of every vestige of color. The ugly gash upon the white forehead had now healed enough to remove the bandage, and only a narrow strip of court plaster was needed to cover the still festering edges.
As she was somewhat of the same build and size as Hilda, that maiden had robed her in a pretty pink tea gown with a white silk front, trimmed at the neck and wrists with a soft fall of rich lace, a white silk cord encircled the waist. The heavy light brown hair had been combed school girl fashion, and hung in two plain braids over either shoulder. With the front hair Hilda had gone to some extra trouble to have it look nice. It was a mass of fluffy, curling ringlets, only at one end peeped the court plaster, merely indicating what was hidden. With that look of sadness, that was so new to the elder sister, and which softened every line of her face, Cora was far more than merely pretty.
As yet the time that intervened since the sisters had seen each other last had not been touched upon. Both seemed to avoid it as if by mutual consent. Today Cora lay back in her chair, her gaze fixed intently upon the outside of the window, but it was doubtful if she saw what was transpiring there. Imelda had been reading, now she also was resting. The book lay in her lap while she too permitted her gaze to wander. After a time, however, she recalled her wandering looks and directed them upon the face opposite her, and in doing so she saw that two pearly drops had stolen from beneath the half-closed eyelids and were slowly trickling down the white cheeks. Imelda noiselessly sank on her knees at her side, and taking the well hand of the girl in both of hers, she laid it against her cheek.
“What is it, Cora?” she asked gently. “Can you not trust your sister and tell her all?” But as if the words had loosened the flood gates of her soul the tears gushed forth in torrents from the hazel eyes; the white teeth sank deep into the quivering lips, as if to quell the sobs that broke from them. Drawing her hand away from Imelda she covered her face while she sobbed as if her heart would break. For a while Imelda did not speak, but permitted the storm to spend its strength, knowing full well she would feel all the better for it. When she had become more calm Imelda passed her arm about her waist and leaned her head against Cora’s arm.
“Won’t you tell me?” she again pleaded. Again the lips quivered and the tears flowed.
“Oh, Melda, Melda, how can I? You in your purity cannot understand. If I tell you all you will withdraw your clean immaculate hands from me and—Well, what matters it? I have chosen my path and no doubt can continue to walk in it. When a girl once steps aside from the straight way it is not supposed that she should ever wish to return. That circumstances rather than desire could send a woman on the downward course to ruin is not considered at all probable. I may have been wayward and wilful in the past. I know I was not good and gentle and dutiful as you were. But I was not possessed of the same strong nature, and if I have done wrong, believe me, Imelda, I have also suffered.”
There was bitter pain in the words that seemed to dry the hot tears. Her mood was changing. She was at this instant more like the Cora of old than she had been since the accident. Imelda did not like it; she feared it might lead her back to the old defiance, but she hoped not. It should not, if womanly ingenuity could prevent it. So she determined not to notice the underlying bitterness. She pressed the unhappy girl’s hand and said:
“Don’t be too sure of so easily ridding yourself of your sister. I do not intend to lose you again. Do you think it was for the mere pleasure of the thing that I have been watching with you night and day for the past two weeks? Oh, no! Since I have found you I intend to keep you with me. An only sister is not lightly lost sight of.”
This last caused Cora quickly to turn her head.