I do not know whether up till then I had had the least consciousness of
possessing what is called the detective instinct. But, at the prospect
of this quest, so much like that of the proverbial needle in a haystack,
as I did not even know my sister’s married name and something within me
forbade my asking it, I experienced an odd sense of elation followed
by a certainty of success which in five minutes changed me from an
irresponsible girl to a woman with a deliberate purpose in life.
I am not going to write down here all the details of that search.
Some day I may relate them to you, but not now. I looked first for
a beautiful woman, for the straight, slim, and exquisite creature I
remembered. I did not find her. Then I tried another course. Her figure
might have changed in the ten years which had elapsed; so might her
expression. I would look for a woman with beautiful dark eyes; time
could not have altered them. I had forgotten the effect of constant
weeping. And I saw many eyes, but not hers; not the ones I had seen
smiling upon me as I lay in my crib before the days I was lifted to the
dignity of the little brass bed. So I gave that up too and listened to
the inner voice which said, “You must wait for her to recognize you. You
can never hope to recognize her.” And it was by following this plan
that I found her. I had arranged to have my name spoken aloud at every
counter where I bargained; and oh, the bargains I sought, and the
garments I had tried on! But I made little progress until one day, after
my name had been uttered a little louder than usual I saw a woman turn
from rearranging gowns on a hanger, and give me one look.
I uttered a low cry and sprang impetuously, forward. Instantly she
turned her back and went on hanging, or trying to hang up, gowns on
the rack before her. Had I been mistaken? She was not the sister of
my dreams, but there was something fine in her outline; something
distinguished in the way she carried her head which--
Next minute my last doubt fled! She had fallen her length on the floor
and lay with her face buried in her hands in a dead faint.
Oh, Roger, Roger, Roger! I had that dear head on my breast in a moment.
I talked to her, I whispered prayers in her unconscious ear. I did
everything I should not have done till they all thought me demented.
When she came to, as she did under other ministrations than mine, I
was for carrying her off in my limousine. But she shook her head with
a gesture of such disapproval, that I realized I could not do that. The
limousine was my father’s, and nothing of his was ever to be used for
her again. I would call a cab; but she told me that she had not the
money to pay for it and she would not take mine. Carfare she had; five
cents would take her home. I need not worry.
She smiled as she said this and for an instant I saw my dream-sister
again in this weary half-disheartened woman. But the smile was a
fleeting one, for this was to be her last day in the store; she had no
talent as a saleswoman and was merely working out her week.
I felt my heart sink heavily at this, for the evidences of poverty
were plainly to be seen in her clothes and the thinness of her face and
figure. How could I help? What could I do? I took her to a restaurant
for food and talk, and before she would order, she looked into her
purse, with the result that we had only a little toast and tea. It was
all she could afford and I, with a hundred dollars in bills at that
moment in my bag, could not offer her anything more though she was
needing nourishment and dishes piled with savoury meats were going by us
every moment.
I think, if she had let me, I would have dared my father’s displeasure
and been disobedient to his wishes by giving her one wholesome meal.
But she was as resolute of mind as he, and, as she said afterwards,
had chosen her course in life and must abide by it. My love she would
accept. It took nothing from Father and gave her what her heart was
pining for--had pined for for years. But nothing more--not another thing
more. She would not even let me go home with her; and I knew why when
her eyes fell at the searching look I gave her. Something would turn
up, and when her husband’s health was better and she had found another
position she would send me her address and then I could come and see
her. As we walked out of the restaurant we ran against a gentleman
I knew. He stopped me for a passing word and in that minute she
disappeared. I did not try to follow her. I could get her street and
number from the store where she had worked.
But when I had done this and embraced the first opportunity which
offered to visit her, I found that she had moved away in the interim,
leaving everything behind in payment of her rent, except such small
things as she and her husband could carry. This was discouraging as it
left me without any clue by which to follow them. But I was determined
not to yield to her desire for concealment in the difficult and
disheartening task I now saw before me.
Seeking advice from the man who has since become my employer, I entered
upon this second search with a quiet resolution which admitted of no
defeat. It took me six months, but I finally found her, and satisfied
with knowing where she was, desisted from rushing in upon her, till I
had caught one glimpse of her husband whom, in the last six months,
I had heard described but had never seen. To understand her, it was
perhaps necessary to understand him, and if I could not hope to do this
offhand, I could not fail to get some idea of the man from even the most
casual look.
He was, as I soon learned, the fetcher and carrier of the small ménage;
and the day came when I met him face to face in the street where they
lived. Did he disappoint me; or did I see something in his appearance
to justify her desertion of her father’s home and her present life of
poverty? If I say Yes to the first question, I must also say it to the
last. If handsome once, he was not handsome now; but with a personality
such as his, this did not matter. He had that better thing--that
greatest gift of the gods--charm. It was in his bearing, his movement,
the regard of his weary eye; more than that it was in his very nature or
it would have vanished long ago under disappointment and privation.
But that was all there was to the man,--a golden net in which my
sister’s youthful fancy had been caught and no doubt held meshed to
this very day. I felt less like blaming her for her folly, after that
instant’s view of him as we passed each other in the street. But, as I
took time to think, I found myself growing sorrier and sorrier for her
and yet, in a way, gladder and gladder, for the man was a physical wreck
and would soon pass out of her life leaving her to my love and possibly
to our father’s forgiveness.
But I did not know Theresa. After her husband’s death, which occurred
very soon, she let me come to her and we had a long talk. Shall I ever
forget it or the sight of her beauty in that sordid room? For, account
for it as you will, the loveliness which had fled under her sense of
complete isolation had slowly regained its own with the recognition that
she still had a place in the heart of her little sister. Not even the
sorrow she felt for the loss of her suffering husband--and she did mourn
him; this I am glad to say--could more than temporarily stay this. Six
months of ease and wholesome food would make her--I hardly dared to
think what. For I knew, without asking her, or she telling me, that
she would accept neither; that she was as determined now, as ever that
nothing which came directly or indirectly from Father should go to the
rebuilding of her life. That she intended to start anew and work her way
up to a place where I should be glad to see her she did say. But
nothing more. She was still the sister-mother, loving, but sufficient to
herself, though she had but ten dollars left in the world, as she showed
me with a smile that made her beautiful as an angel.
I can see that shabby little purse yet with its one poor greasy bill;--a
sum to her but to me the price of a luncheon or a gift of flowers. How
I longed, as I looked at it to tear every jewel from my poor, bedecked
body and fling them one and all into her lap. I had worn them in
profusion, though carefully hidden under my coat, in the hope that she
would accept one of them at least, But she refused all, even such as had
been gifts of friends and schoolmates, only humouring me this far, that
she let me hang them for a few minutes about her neck and in her hair
and then pull them all off again. But this one vision of her in the
splendour she was born to comforted me. Henceforth in wearing them it
would be of her and not of myself I should think.
Well, I had to leave her and go home to my French and Italian lessons,
my music-masters and all the luxuries of our father’s house. Should I
ever see her again? I did not know; she had not promised. I could not go
often into the quarter where she lived, without rousing suspicion;
and she had bidden me not to come again for a month. So I waited, half
fearing she would flit again before the month was up. But she did not.
She was still there when--
But I am going too fast. The meeting I was about to mention was a very
memorable one to me, and I must describe it from the beginning. I had
ridden in my own car as near as I dared to the street where she lived;
the rest of the way I went on foot with one of the servants--a new
one--following close behind me. I was not exactly afraid, but the
actions of some of the people I had encountered at my former visit
warned me to be a little careful for my father’s sake if not for my own.
Her room--she had but one--was high up in a triangular court it was
no pleasure to enter. But love and loyalty heed nothing but the object
sought, and I was hunting about for the dark doorway which opened upon
the staircase leading to her room when--and this was the great moment of
my life--a sudden stream of melody floated down into that noisome court,
which from its clearness, its accuracy, its richness, and its feeling
startled me as I had never before been startled even by the first notes
of the world’s greatest singers. What a voice for a place like this!
What a voice for any place! Whose could it be? With a start, I stopped
short, in the middle of that court, heedless of the crowd of pushing,
shouting children who at once gathered about me. I had been struck by an
old recollection. My sister used to sing. I remembered where her piano
had stood in the great drawing-room. It had been carted away during
those dreadful weeks and her music all burned; but the vision of her
graceful figure bending over the keyboard was one not to be forgotten
even by a thoughtless child. Could it be--oh, heaven! if this voice were
hers! Her future was certain; she had but to sing.
In a transport of hope I rushed for the dim entrance the children had
pointed out and flew up to her room. As I reached it, I heard a trill as
perfect as Tetrazzini’s. The singer was Theresa; there could be no more
doubt. Theresa! exercising a grand voice as only a great artist would or
could.
The joy of it made me almost faint. I leaned against her door and
sobbed. Then when I thought I could speak quite calmly, I went in.
Roger, you must understand me now,--my desire for money and the means I
have taken to obtain it. My sister had the makings of a prima-donna. Her
husband, of whose ability I had formed so low an estimate, had trained
her with consummate skill and judgment. All she needed was a year with
some great maestro in the foreign atmosphere of art. But this meant
money--not hundreds but thousands, and the one sure source to which we
might rightfully look for any such amount was effectually closed to
us. It is true we had relatives--an aunt on our mother’s side, and I
mentioned her to Theresa. But she would not listen to the suggestion.
She would take nothing from any one whom she would find it hard to face
in case of failure. Love must go with an advance involving so much
risk; love deep enough and strong enough to feel no loss save that of a
defeated hope. In short, to be acceptable, the money must come from me,
and as this was manifestly impossible, she considered the matter closed
and began to talk of a position she had been offered in some choir. I
let her talk, listening and not listening; for the idea had come to me
that if in some way I could earn money, she might be induced to take it.
Finally, I asked her. She laughed, letting her kisses answer me. But
I did not laugh. If she had capabilities in one way, I had them in
another.