For nearly five weeks after regaining complete consciousness I lived and
gathered strength in that bare and polished room at the hospital. Dust
found no place to stick there, it was all so slippery, and the flies
were discouraged when they came in and found it so miserably antiseptic.
The food was sterilized and peptonized until there was nothing a fly
could find in my pre-digested tid-bits to snuggle up to--it was just
like licking the plaster off the wall or biting the glazed, enameled
paint on the bed. The enameled iron furniture seemed to be made to order
without cracks, and there were no tidies or fancy work about. Any insect
that came in, slipped around until he figured it was a toboggan slide
and a mighty poor place to spend the day.
"Please send out for all the newspapers containing accounts of the fire
and let me read them," I requested one day soon after my wits improved.
"No, indeed; I shall not. Reading is the worst thing you could do,"
said Hygeia. "You are gaining and must take no risks."
So it went. There was no one to obey me. I brooded over my hard luck.
But life would have been wholly dismal in such a room without the
companionship of one of those inspiring daughters of Hygeia. Now that I
am beyond the confines of that room I must confess there seems to be
little in life anywhere without one. Bachelors are quickly restored by
their antitoxin cheer, but there is a more dangerous bacillus hidden in
this powerful living therapeutic agency which in afteryears works its
damaging, enervating effect in the heart of a man. They save but to
slay! Can there be no healing balm benign in a woman's tender sympathy?
Cannot the microbe of remorse be isolated from this serum beautifully
administered by melting eyes and graces so fair that we wonder to find
them so near our bitterest experiences? But there are wounds that will
not heal; some mysterious infection lingers in them to sustain a slow
fire, and the ashes of its discontent clog the channels till life seems
cast in the vale of death.
But no more of this anguish! I have not told her name--in this at least,
I shall be wise. I have not told of her family; why she became a
daughter of AEsculapius; and beyond those dancing blue eyes, she shall
not enter here. Neither shall anything be written of the things that
passed between us during those five weeks of my convalescence. What
matters it? Was I not in the world simply to be tempered and hardened by
all the adversities to which a heart may be subjected? And was I not an
inhuman wretch, who touched with the sting of sarcasm, ridicule and
scorn the vital things that interest normal beings? To me she became
only Hygeia--a goddess!
What a man of thirty years needs is mirth more abundantly than at
twenty, but the clouds were too thick around me then to take sane views.
Contentment comes when a man can shake the clouds inside out and bask in
the reflection of the silver lining that makes the other half of the
comedy agreeable. I seemed to be plunged into despair, to be confined in
a dungeon, with the devils of hate and all the monsters of abandoned
hopes shooting their tongues at me from the crannies of the damp, green
walls that hedged me in. Were they to be my torturers to the death? Then
why send a sick man to the hospital?
Even though my mind had been at peace otherwise, it would have been
impossible for me to regain my habit of unconcern and reliance upon my
own resources, deserted by the man in whom I had anchored my faith since
boyhood. Thought of his guilt oppressed me.
"Which would you rather go to--a wedding or a hanging?" I abruptly
questioned the nurse, waking from a troubled nap.
"Calm yourself all you can. You are not so well to-day."
"I am beginning to think better of a hanging," said I. "It seems like a
sure thing, so it's well to get used to it."
"Tut, tut!" said Hygeia softly, adjusting a cold cloth to my brow. She
reported to the doctor that I was wandering again. But I wasn't crazy. I
was looking for consolation.
The detectives had reported Jim with the undertakers in the same
carriage that night, while I was at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and the card
of the notorious Collins, whose specialty, cremations, removed all
traces of such crime, lay on the table. I waited to inquire about the
card until the next morning. The morning came and here I was, alive, but
hardly thankful for my escape. Why was it, I asked myself, that the only
two circumstances, the carriage and the card, that pointed with any
directness to Jim Hosley's guilt, should have come under my notice the
same night? Why, if he had deceived me for years, should he leave a
damaging card where it could be seen by me at a time when he was deep in
one of his most awful crimes? But, on the other hand, had he not fooled
me for ten years? So why should he be careful about the mere card of an
undertaker? How did he know where I had gone that night to be
enlightened? Still, why did he squirm and appear so uneasy when I went
out? Was it only because he had so much to tell me about his
disappointment over the interview with Mr. Tescheron? Certainly, that
must be it. Then came the last "but" of all--Why didn't he come to see
me, or why had I not heard from him? If Jim Hosley had been devoted to
me like a loyal friend there was no possible way for me not to have
heard from him before this. Any man in his right mind could take the
same state of facts and reach no other conclusion. Suspicion had worked
its way through narrow openings, and my doubts were giving way to
convictions, so that soon I believed I would be as much against Hosley
as the fiery Tescheron, when goaded by the mercenary Smith.
I cannot tell how hard it was for me to believe this of Jim Hosley, that
great, lumbering fellow, handsome and manly, the personification of
comfortable, attractive indolence and agreeable indifference.
"Pity you never saw Hosley," said I to Hygeia. She was now prepared to
hear me speak of him at any time.
"What did he look like? Dark and swarthy; rather short, I imagine, with
curly, black hair."
"Turn that upside down, inside out and stretch it and you'll have it,"
said I.
She laughed and left the room.
What a charming fellow Jim was to get on with! Perhaps those virtues had
been his resources in a wild career of crime and his strongest allies in
effecting a concealment of his true self. Thus my analytical mind
threshed out the ramifications of possibilities. My intimate relations
with him for so many years further convinced me that if he had followed
that long career of crime outlined by Tescheron he must have begun when
he was playing "Injuns" up in Oswegatchie County.
Then I would cheer myself with the thought that something in Jim's favor
would turn up soon and all would be well again, and we would get a new
outfit of stuff for about eighty-five dollars--that's what we paid
before--and start in housekeeping again; perhaps on the second floor, so
as to get in line with the inexorable law of falling bodies.
Mr. Tescheron, I supposed, would somehow blame Jim for the fire and
count it part of the grand plot to seize his daughter. Well, it was all
too much for me, with my weak body and easily fatigued brain. It was
hard work to keep my nerves calm under the circumstances.
My brother Silas had come down to see me, but when I began to mend he
returned to Oswegatchie County, completely worn out with three weeks'
tramping on city sidewalks. He made a number of inquiries for me
concerning Hosley at the City Hall and among our old neighbors. He could
learn nothing, however, so it was clear that Jim had departed for parts
unknown. Silas carried back the news of my returning health to the
folks, and was also able to inform them that the cars ran all night down
here in New York--a matter they had never seen reported in the papers
and I had never referred to in my letters. When he left, I was as
lonesome as a retired pork packer dabbling in the fine arts. It seemed
that
"Turn where'er I may I find
Thorns where roses bloomed before
O'er the green fields of my soul;
Where the springs of joy were found,
Now the clouds of sorrow roll,
Shading all the prospect round."
These lines of George P. Morris came to mind, and they, too, recalled
Jim Hosley and the early days when I began to be the middleman in his
love affairs, and gave my aid to his amorous cause by writing his love
letters. I had worked Shakespeare, Scott, Burns, Byron and Morris (the
only five we had handy) in relays to support his fervent song of love,
for behind the scene with my pen Jim said I was a wonder in stringing
this fetching gush together. But I tried to be modest about it. There
was enough in those five to marry the inhabitants of Europe to those of
Africa. I understood that anything Jim said to a woman would be taken in
good part, and those love letters in which the green fields of his soul
must have appeared well irrigated by those bubbling springs of joy,
undoubtedly pleased the fair dames and, I supposed, did no harm. But a
joke is the most dangerous thing a middleman in the love business can
engage in. The business is full of danger anyhow, but joking is worse
than dynamite.
If the mechanical part of our arrangements had been seen by the young
women--Jim generally asleep and I copying the poetry from a clumsy, big
book and scratching my tousled head for sentiment enough to glue the
verses together in a prose somewhere near the same temperature--I don't
suppose there would have been many victories. Perhaps there were none;
Jim never spoke of results; he kept them to himself and I don't know
what he did with them. All the margin there was in it for me was the
literary exercise which in value hardly covered the cost of the ink.
Perhaps he had married each one of the women and had killed them off,
because he enjoyed the excitement of courtship's gamble more than the
sure thing of matrimony. If so, I was undoubtedly an accomplice,
although entirely innocent. A jury, however, might not take that
comfortable view of it, if a handwriting expert were called and took
seven weeks to tell them his story. They would certainly hang me to get
home.
So first my grief and loneliness recalled the lines of the poet whose
music I had used to Jim's advantage, and then followed the matters
attached to the same chain of thought. The moment was ripe for one of
those coincidences that occasionally arise to startle us. It came sure
enough, and gave me the worst shock of all, for when I afterward
considered its full meaning, I realized that I had for ten years been
the innocent tool of the criminal whom Tescheron had discovered after an
investigation of six hours. Had the truth been revealed to the world,
thought I, with evidence of Hosley's guilt, my bust would be lined up on
the same shelf with his in the Hall of Infamy.
"Must I to the lees
Drain thy bitter chalice, Pain?
Silent grief all grief excels;
Life and it together part--
Like a restless worm it dwells
Deep within the human heart."
More of Morris came to mind. I was sitting alone in the sun parlor at
the hospital that morning, gathering strength in the abundant sunshine
that poured through the glass windows on all sides, reaching from roof
to floor. Wrapped in a single blanket, in my cushioned wheel chair, I
was as comfortable as a man with a half dozen or so newly knit bones
could feel if he sat perfectly still and did not exhaust his energies by
worrying over the slow ups and the rapid downs of life, as one who had
dropped five stories into the depths of solitude might, if not careful
to turn to the saving grace of his philosophy and political economy.
Learning is the only thing a man can count on in the bottomless pit, and
then it won't help him unless he has a little humor for a light. Alas!
my light had gone out.
Well, I was sitting there sunning myself and thinking how deep a hole I
had fallen into, when Hygeia appeared, as ever a vision of loveliness, a
picture of a merry heart gathering the sweets of life and scattering the
seeds of contentment by passing busily from one task to another, full of
the joy of sound health and thankful for the privilege of service. How
did she find time to pursue a course in medicine? Her ambition amazed
me.
"A gentleman wishes to see you, sir," she said, and she handed his card
to me. It read:
A. OBREEON,
30 West 24th Street,
New York.
Private Detective Service.
I felt that light was about to break on a dark subject, and I was not
mistaken. A. Obreeon was as much Dutch in appearance as French in name;
he had a rosy, round face and cheeks that were like a picture of two red
apples. He seemed husky enough to be a corner groceryman, who benefits
incidentally through the fresh air advantages bestowed on his vegetables
to keep them marketable. His beard was trimmed to look like a farmer's,
with a clean-shaven upper lip--a form of barbering that prevents
bronchitis, but not soup. No one would suspect him of anything except
tight boots, for his mouth and forehead were wrinkled as if he were
suffering from acute cornitis; you might call it "an injured air," for a
man who has just run a sliver in his toe shows the same symptoms.
Mr. Obreeon seemed interested to the point of being worried when I asked
him to have a seat, and at this and every suggestion he was taken with
violent shooting pains, and his lips were pursed for a drawn whistle of
discomfort. A smooth man was never so ill at ease. Any promoter who will
abandon his air of supreme confidence and adopt the Obreeon principle of
disinterestedness in all worldly affairs except his agony, will pull
millions from the pockets that now begrudgingly yield ten thousand
dollar allotments in return for smooth talk concerning gigantic
ventures, as viewed from the sub-cellar of enterprise.
Obreeon apologized for coming; said he ought really to be home, he felt
so badly; had been so wretched, etc.; but he had waited so long, if he
was going to do anything with me, it must be done now. Then he would
draw a few whistles, pinch up his face and screw his mouth around in a
way that convinced me he had no axe to grind. No one but a
philanthropist would go out to see a man when in such pain.
"There is a matter which I wanted to see you about before going to my
friend Smith," said Mr. Obreeon. "Of course, I know he is working on
this case--we tip each other off sometimes, you know, and would like to
have this bit of evidence." He pointed to a small leather bag. I eyed
it, but failed to identify it as a Hosley exhibit. "Some of my men
gathered this evidence at the fire," he continued. "Of course, what I
have found out won't be of any use to them unless they have plenty of
Hosley's handwriting for expert examination--"
Hosley's handwriting! My swallowing was on walnuts. I could see that
they were close on Jim's trail, but I dared not reveal where I stood in
the matter or that Tescheron had not been near me. If there was any
handwriting it must be mine, moreover, for Jim never wrote; he sent
telegrams in great emergencies. I pulled myself together, offering to
get Mr. Obreeon a drink or a drug that would ease his intense pain, so
that he might be persuaded to remain and divulge all he knew. This man
was at work independently of Smith, and might help me. No, he would not
take anything, thank you, as it might cause him to collapse! Gracious,
but I was afraid he might collapse. He assured me he shared my fears,
and made me promise he would be taken at once in the ambulance to the
address on the card, should the worst happen. My assurances calmed him
and he proceeded, but with great effort:
"Yes, I have here one hundred and sixty-two letters written by Hosley.
I--"
At that moment the collapse was on me. I fell back in my recovery a
clean two weeks, because of the nerve force squandered in trying to take
that in.
"I think they prove he was connected with the woman down-stairs, for
after the fire my men found them in one of her private boxes, tied up
with a lot of her letters. But I have here only those written by him."
"Perhaps another man named Hosley wrote them," I ventured, after
recovering, "if you found them so; Hosley is not such an unusual name."
"Well, now, that's just what I want to get at, Mr. Hopkins. Maybe you're
right, and so, of course, I wouldn't want to bother Smith with 'em, you
know, if they are only a false clue; he'd only laugh at me, you see. As
you, I understand, are friendly with Tescheron and against this Hosley
as much as he is, I thought I'd consult you first and find out if these
letters were really written by your Hosley or another. If they are his,
I think I have the evidence you all will want."
Letters written by Hosley, and found with that woman's things! Then I
had written them and they might prove to the world that I was his
accomplice in crime, for if he had won her heart with these letters and
had done away with her, as alleged, and Smith had the evidence to prove
it, then I was his pal. My protestations of innocence would not avail.
There were the letters and Smith had the specimens of my handwriting in
the many messages sent to Tescheron at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. But how
lucky for me that the sleuths of Obreeon and not those of Smith had
found them! How I clutched at that thought! Surely all luck had not left
me. How fortunate that Obreeon did not suspect me as an accomplice, for
with those letters he might have convicted us both!
How eagerly I reached for them as Obreeon took them from the bag while
undergoing a wave of pain that I felt sure took his attention from me!
They had been written for Jim several years before in one of his most
severe cases. That villain, Hosley, had certainly fooled me. I could see
that I had been his dupe all through. I, his chum from boyhood, blinded
at every turn by this clever knave! But at last I was getting wise to
the trickery of the world; from this time forth I would be wary of every
suggestion and live and die alone to insure the preservation of my
innocence. What a harvest of whirlwind these letters would have brought
me had they passed into the hands of Smith or the authorities! Here's
where the profits come in, thought I, when a fellow sets up to do a
jobbing business in love, as I read on and on through the first pile,
pretending to have some difficulty in recognizing Hosley's handwriting.
A few off the top of pile No. 1 ran as follows:
April 4,----
My Dear Miss Brown:
You have not forgotten the honor granted to me at Mrs. Pratt's. May
I call to-morrow evening? I shall be eager to hear from you.
Sincerely,
JAMES HOSLEY.
April 10,----
My Dear Miss Brown:
You and I in H, middle aisle at Daly's, to-morrow night. Jolliest
show in town under these rare circumstances. If I come early, you
must pardon me, for I shall be so eager to meet you again.
The star, the breeze, the wave, the trees,
Their minstrelsy unite,
But all are drear, till thou appear
To decorate the night.
Sincerely yours,
JAMES HOSLEY.
Great Morris! It must have made him squirm in his grave.
April 12,----
Dear Miss Brown:
Thank you for the kind invitation for to-morrow evening.
Sincerely,
JAMES HOSLEY.
April 14,----
Dear Miss Brown:
What a delightful time we all had at Mrs. Pratt's last night! I shall
call to talk it over with you to-night.
Sincerely,
JAMES HOSLEY.
April 15,----
Dear Miss Brown:
What a pretty name Margaret is! I had no idea all your friends called
you that.
O lingering rose of May!
Dear as when first I met her;
Worn is my heart alway,
Life-cherished Margaretta.
And when we parted last night, believe me,
As morn was faintly breaking,
For many a weary mile,
Oh, how my heart was aching!
Sincerely,
JAMES H.
April 17,----
Dear Margaretta:
How long are you to be gone? Write me daily when away, that the
period of your absence from town may be as brief as you can make it,
to lessen the anguish of the one who "at the trysting place, with
tears regrets thee."
I shall be with you early this evening,
Yours as always,
JIM.
April 23,----
Dear Margaretta:
The time drags heavily, and were it not for the cheerful letter that
arrives every morning, so full of your enthusiasm for the unfolding
beauties of the spring and your tender assurances _occasionally_
given in return to the pleadings that pour from my overflowing heart,
it would seem that I could not bear the struggle against life's
disappointments. Time? What has time to do with love?
Love cannot be the aloe tree,
Whose bloom but once is seen;
Go search the grove--the tree of love
Is sure the evergreen;
For that's the same, in leaf or frame,
'Neath cold or sunny skies;
You take the ground its roots have bound
Or it, transplanted, dies!
My dear sweetheart, my love for you is the evergreen, and write me,
darling, not of the budding trees and the wild flowers so tender in
the morning dew, for there is an aggravating indirection to such
devotion. Write me, my dearest, so that I may feel
Those tender eyes still rest upon me, love!
I feel their magic spell,
With that same look you won me, love.
Oh! these spring days and thoughts of you combine to swell my song to
bursting. When, Margaretta, do you return? for I would behold again
Thy form of matchless symmetry,
In sweet perfection cast--
* * * * *
I miss thee everywhere, beloved,
I miss thee everywhere;
Both night and day wear dull away,
And leave me in despair.
The banquet hall, the play, the ball,
And childhood's sportive glee,
Have lost their spell for me, beloved,
My soul is full of thee.
Your story of the springtime is very sweet. The descriptions are
true to life, and as I read on and on, I behold the exquisite
beauties of your character, for as you so lovingly and simply tell of
the birds, the flowers, the brook and the mist enshrouding the lowing
kine, you artlessly sound the great depths of your own soul.
How I envy the winged denizens of the country! even those black
beetles you so playfully refer to on page 18, line 56. I wish _I_
might come in somewhere:--
Has Margaret forgotten _me_,
And love I now in vain?
If that be so, my heart can know
No rest on earth again.
A sad and weary lot is mine,
To love and be forgot;
A sad and weary lot, beloved;
A sad and weary lot!
And, of course, it pleases me to know they are making much of you
up there in the country. I can see the swains for miles around
polishing their manners and taking astonishing pains with their
Sunday's best, to make a good impression. They, too, are baring their
hearts to your melting glances, completely enchanted under the spell
of your womanly graces. But believe me, my darling Margaret,
When other friends are round thee,
And other hearts are thine;
When other bays have crowned thee,
More _fresh_ and _green_ than mine--
Then think how sad and lonely
This doting heart will be,
Which, while it throbs, throbs only,
Beloved one, for thee!
And oh, how I fear, not the spring songs of the birds so mellow with
love's endearing persuasion, the whisperings of the soft winds, nor
the caprice of the beetles, but the gentle pastorals of those sturdy
rural bards. List not to their tender minstrelsy, my darling! List
not to the country poet's song, but hie thee home to thy awaiting
Jamie. List not, for--
How sweet the cadence of his lyre!
What melody of words!
They strike a pulse within the heart,
Like songs of forest birds,
Or tinkling of the shepherd's bell
Among the mountain herds.
Can't you hurry home, Margaret? The town has not lost all its
fascination for you, I hope. Are there no other joys in life but the
top notes of the birdies and the murmurings of the awakening forest?
Come, come to me, love!
Come, love! Arise!
And shame the bright stars
With the light of thine eyes;
Look out from thy lattice--
Oh, _lady-bird_, hear!
Write me, my darling, the good news of your home-coming, that I may
greet you at the Grand Central. Oh, promise me that you will hasten
home, and name the minute the train is due, that I may be there an
hour early.
'Tis then the promised hour
When torches kindle in the skies
To light thee to thy bower.
Your only, devoted, well-nigh distracted, but fondly true
JAMIE.
Whew! Shade of Morris, forgive me for the base uses to which I
turned your love songs!
When I had finished going over the letters I proceeded to be
extremely wise and diplomatic.
"These letters seem to bear Hosley's name," said I; "they might
help us--in fact, I am glad you took the pains to bring them to me.
Are there any more?" He might not have noticed how anxious I was to
have them all.
"Yes, you have the complete and most damaging documents in the
case," he answered. "They only need your identification, or if
there should be any handwriting for comparison, you can
understand--yes, just so--why, it would be easy without your
evidence. I see you appreciate their enormous value."
This fellow was getting around to talk cash in a way that made me
squirm, and as he eased off again his pain kept him engaged and
gave me a chance to think. When I wrote those letters I thought
they were pretty nice, but I never put any cash value on them, and
never supposed there would be any market for them.
"Mr. Obreeon," said I, "about what would compensate you for your
trouble in gathering up those letters?" I was calm.
"One thousand dollars." And as he said it his pain left him and
shot into me.
I rocked and gripped the chair. I could see there was no use to get
mad and talk loud, for he had me where there was only one move I
could make without getting in check, and that was into my
pocketbook. Besides, if I talked too much he might find where I
came in on the thing.
"Five hundred, cash down, I'll give you," said I, trying to look
disinterested, as if I dealt in autographs and letters of great
men.
"One thousand dollars, hair and all," said he, rubbing his palms in
a net-price manner.
"Hair?"
"Yes; there's a lock of Hosley's hair and some rings--everything is
included in my price."
What was it worth to keep out of the electric chair? That is the
way I figured it; it wasn't so much a question of letters and mere
poetry and hair.
"That's an awful price," said I, "_an awful price_."
"Well, let me take them around to Tescheron. My price to him will
be three thousand dollars, and I know from the prices Smith is
getting that he'll pay. Glad to see you improving. Anything in my
line, Mr. Hopkins, would be pleased to hear from you; old
established house--"
"Sit down! Sit down, Obreeon! I'll split the difference with you
and let you have my check." I touched a button and requested that
my new handbag containing my checkbook and fountain pen be
brought. Thank goodness, my bank account had not burned and my
reputation might yet be saved.
"No, Mr. Hopkins, I am favoring you, really I am, in this matter,
you know, and I could not--I could not cut that price."
What was the use? It almost cleaned me out, but I never hankered
after money if it meant publicity. You may say it was only a fad or
fancy of mine. I drew my check for $1,000 of hard-earned cash,
slowly gathered by years of saving out of a small salary, and gave
it to him, making sure I had the goods and extra fittings.
Mr. Obreeon started for home with warm feet and a remarkably steady
gait.
Well, I never thought any letters of mine would bring that sum in
the open market, and as for Jim's hair, I had known him to pay a
quarter to have a lot of it cut off and thrown away.
I did a little figuring with my pen after Obreeon left. Taking the
hairs and letters combined, they cost me an average price of $5.55.
I worked it out this way:
162--of my letters.
18--of Jim's hairs.
----
180--total hairs and letters.
You then divide $1,000 by 180 to ascertain the average price of $5.55.
Or, if you want to get at the price of each hair, counting the letters
as dead stock, you grasp at a glance that the hairs are just 10 per
cent, of the outfit, so you divide 180 by 10, and that gives you 18;
take this amount and you run it into $1,000, and you get the price per
hair as $55.55. When you arrive at this answer you may note that you
might have obtained it by multiplying the average price by ten. In other
words, the hair, if entirely loose from the poetry, costs ten times as
much. To get at the price of the poetry loose from the hair, you simply
divide $1,000 by 162, the number of letters, and that gives you $6.17 as
the price of each letter, wholly disregarding the hair. It will be seen,
therefore, that the commodity of highest value in an ordinary love
correspondence, such as this was, is the hair, so that it is important
for purchasers to consider if it is worth the price should the poetry go
out of style.
I have often thought I might have bought four or five Persian lamb coats
for--well, never mind. There is no cold-storage expense keeping this fur
of Jim's. Every deal shows its profit one way or the other, and sooner
or later you'll find it. There is a heavy expense attached to making
over Persian lamb coats, besides. What I have of Jim's coat I wouldn't
alter for the world, because whenever I have a craving for poetry with
hair, I turn to that and get all I want for some time to come, just at a
glance.