“‘Darling, can you not trust me? my timid fluttering birdie? I would not harm one shining hair upon this precious head.’ And I did trust him, for O Imelda, I loved him, I loved him. You, looking down from your pure and lofty heights can not understand it, but it was all so different from that first experience that I had. I tried to realize the enormity of my wrong-doing but I could not feel impure when I was in his arms. My love for Owen was something different from what I had hitherto deemed love to be. I felt myself lifted above everything sordid, everything unclean. Every feeling, every thought connected with him was as something holy, and now, as then, the thought will force itself upon my mind: How is it possible that true, pure love can ever be deemed impure! when its fires are so purifying only holy emotions find room in the heart.
“But our love was without sanction of either church or state and therefore the world would place its seal, its stamp of ‘outcast’ upon the brow of such as I. But is it not somewhere written that much shall be forgiven to those who love much? And the short time that followed I was madly, intensely happy, while Owen seemed to be no less so. He would catch me in his arms and lift me up as if I were a baby while his blue eyes shone with a light as of heaven.
“‘My own darling! my precious one!’ O, how often did he say these words while I pressed his fair head to my heart and thought heaven was in his arms.” Cora broke off with a choking sob, while the tears once more rolled down the pale cheek. Imelda was still upon her knees at her side, was still fondling the white hand when Cora again turned to her:
“Why don’t you turn from me? I who have been a mother, who have granted to man the greatest boon of love a woman can bestow,—without first being a wife! Why are you not angry with me? I am sure I deserve it!”
“Why, my poor, dear Cora! Why should I be angry with you? For loving a noble man? I hope I am not so narrow, and that I am able to judge you more fairly.”
Cora’s hazel eyes expanded to their utmost extent.
“Melda, what do you mean? I do not understand. Do you not curse him and despise me?”
Imelda shook her head.
“Neither,” she answered. “Although I do not quite understand, yet according to your description of the man I get the impression that he was noble and good. Nothing at all to warrant a judgment so cruel from me. But now you must keep calm or I shall not permit you to speak farther. I insist that you lie down and rest, as this excitement may prove injurious to you.”
“And if it should make an end of my miserable life it might be the best thing that could happen to me. I have been of but little good in the world,—only to bring pain and sorrow into the lives of others.”