The Black Cat
February 1896.
=The Mysterious Card=, Cleveland Moffett.
=Tang-u=, Lawrence E. Adams.
=The Little Brown Mole=, Clarice Irene Clinghan.
=A Telepathic Wooing=, James Buckham.
=The Prince Ward=, Claude M. Girardeau.
=A Meeting of Royalty=, Margaret Dodge.
THE SHORTSTORY PUBLISHING CO. 144 HIGH ST., BOSTON, MASS.
No. 5. Copyright 1895 by The Shortstory Publishing Co.
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The Black Cat
A Monthly Magazine of Original Short Stories.
No. 5. FEBRUARY, 1896. 5 cents a copy,
50 cents a year.
Entered at the Post-Office at Boston, Mass., as second-class matter.
=IMPORTANT.=—The entire contents of this magazine are covered
by copyright and publishers everywhere are cautioned against
reproducing any of the stories, either wholly or in part.
Copyright, 1895, by the Shortstory Publishing Company. All
rights reserved.
The Mysterious Card.
BY CLEVELAND MOFFETT.
Richard Burwell, of New York, will never cease to regret that the French
language was not made a part of his education.
This is why:
On the second evening after Burwell arrived in Paris, feeling lonely
without his wife and daughter, who were still visiting a friend in
London, his mind naturally turned to the theater. So, after consulting
the daily amusement calendar, he decided to visit the _Folies Bergère_,
which he had heard of as one of the notable sights. During an
intermission he went into the beautiful garden, where gay crowds were
strolling among the flowers, and lights, and fountains. He had just
seated himself at a little three-legged table, with a view to enjoying
the novel scene, when his attention was attracted by a lovely woman,
gowned strikingly, though in perfect taste, who passed near him, leaning
on the arm of a gentleman. The only thing that he noticed about this
gentleman was that he wore eye-glasses.
Now Burwell had never posed as a captivator of the fair sex, and could
scarcely credit his eyes when the lady left the side of her escort and,
turning back as if she had forgotten something, passed close by him,
and deftly placed a card on his table. The card bore some French words
written in purple ink, but, not knowing that language, he was unable
to make out their meaning. The lady paid no further heed to him, but,
rejoining the gentleman with the eye-glasses, swept out of the place with
the grace and dignity of a princess. Burwell remained staring at the card.
Needless to say, he thought no more of the performance or of the other
attractions about him. Everything seemed flat and tawdry compared with
the radiant vision that had appeared and disappeared so mysteriously. His
one desire now was to discover the meaning of the words written on the
card.
Calling a fiacre, he drove to the Hotel Continental, where he was
staying. Proceeding directly to the office and taking the manager aside,
Burwell asked if he would be kind enough to translate a few words of
French into English. There were no more than twenty words in all.
“Why, certainly,” said the manager, with French politeness, and cast his
eyes over the card. As he read, his face grew rigid with astonishment,
and, looking at his questioner sharply, he exclaimed: “Where did you get
this, monsieur?”
Burwell started to explain, but was interrupted by: “That will do, that
will do. You must leave the hotel.”
“What do you mean?” asked the man from New York, in amazement.
“You must leave the hotel now—to-night—without fail,” commanded the
manager excitedly.
Now it was Burwell’s turn to grow angry, and he declared heatedly that if
he wasn’t wanted in this hotel there were plenty of others in Paris where
he would be welcome. And, with an assumption of dignity, but piqued at
heart, he settled his bill, sent for his belongings, and drove up the Rue
de la Paix to the Hotel Bellevue, where he spent the night.
The next morning he met the proprietor, who seemed to be a good fellow,
and, being inclined now to view the incident of the previous evening from
its ridiculous side, Burwell explained what had befallen him, and was
pleased to find a sympathetic listener.
“Why, the man was a fool,” declared the proprietor. “Let me see the card;
I will tell you what it means.” But as he read, his face and manner
changed instantly.
“This is a serious matter,” he said sternly. “Now I understand why my
confrère refused to entertain you. I regret, monsieur, but I shall be
obliged to do as he did.”
“What do you mean?”
“Simply that you cannot remain here.”
With that he turned on his heel, and the indignant guest could not
prevail upon him to give any explanation.
“We’ll see about this,” said Burwell, thoroughly angered.
It was now nearly noon, and the New Yorker remembered an engagement to
lunch with a friend from Boston, who, with his family, was stopping at
the Hotel de l’Alma. With his luggage on the carriage, he ordered the
_cocher_ to drive directly there, determined to take counsel with his
countryman before selecting new quarters. His friend was highly indignant
when he heard the story—a fact that gave Burwell no little comfort,
knowing, as he did, that the man was accustomed to foreign ways from long
residence abroad.
“It is some silly mistake, my dear fellow; I wouldn’t pay any attention
to it. Just have your luggage taken down and stay here. It is a nice,
homelike place, and it will be very jolly, all being together. But,
first, let me prepare a little ‘nerve settler’ for you.”
After the two had lingered a moment over their Manhattan cocktails,
Burwell’s friend excused himself to call the ladies. He had proceeded
only two or three steps when he turned, and said: “Let’s see that
mysterious card that has raised all this row.”
He had scarcely withdrawn it from Burwell’s hand when he started back,
and exclaimed:—
“Great God, man! Do you mean to say—this is simply—”
Then, with a sudden movement of his hand to his head, he left the room.
He was gone perhaps five minutes, and when he returned his face was white.
“I am awfully sorry,” he said nervously; “but the ladies tell me
they—that is, my wife—she has a frightful headache. You will have to
excuse us from the lunch.”
Instantly realizing that this was only a flimsy pretense, and deeply
hurt by his friend’s behavior, the mystified man arose at once and left
without another word. He was now determined to solve this mystery at any
cost. What could be the meaning of the words on that infernal piece of
pasteboard?
Profiting by his humiliating experiences, he took good care not to show
the card to any one at the hotel where he now established himself,—a
comfortable little place near the Grand Opera House.
All through the afternoon he thought of nothing but the card, and turned
over in his mind various ways of learning its meaning without getting
himself into further trouble. That evening he went again to the _Folies
Bergère_ in the hope of finding the mysterious woman, for he was now more
than ever anxious to discover who she was. It even occurred to him that
she might be one of those beautiful Nihilist conspirators, or, perhaps,
a Russian spy, such as he had read of in novels. But he failed to find
her, either then or on the three subsequent evenings which he passed in
the same place. Meanwhile the card was burning in his pocket like a hot
coal. He dreaded the thought of meeting any one that he knew, while this
horrible cloud hung over him. He bought a French-English dictionary and
tried to pick out the meaning word by word, but failed. It was all Greek
to him. For the first time in his life, Burwell regretted that he had not
studied French at college.
After various vain attempts to either solve or forget the torturing
riddle, he saw no other course than to lay the problem before a detective
agency. He accordingly put his case in the hands of an _agent de la
sureté_ who was recommended as a competent and trustworthy man. They
had a talk together in a private room, and, of course, Burwell showed
the card. To his relief, his adviser at least showed no sign of taking
offense. Only he did not and would not explain what the words meant.
“It is better,” he said, “that monsieur should not know the nature of
this document for the present. I will do myself the honor to call upon
monsieur to-morrow at his hotel, and then monsieur shall know everything.”
“Then it is really serious?” asked the unfortunate man.
“Very serious,” was the answer.
The next twenty-four hours Burwell passed in a fever of anxiety. As
his mind conjured up one fearful possibility after another he deeply
regretted that he had not torn up the miserable card at the start. He
even seized it,—prepared to strip it into fragments, and so end the whole
affair. And then his Yankee stubbornness again asserted itself, and he
determined to see the thing out, come what might.
“After all,” he reasoned, “it is no crime for a man to pick up a card
that a lady drops on his table.”
Crime or no crime, however, it looked very much as if he had committed
some grave offense when, the next day, his detective drove up in a
carriage, accompanied by a uniformed official, and requested the
astounded American to accompany them to the police headquarters.
“What for?” he asked.
“It is only a formality,” said the detective; and when Burwell still
protested the man in uniform remarked: “You’d better come quietly,
monsieur; you will have to come, anyway.”
An hour later, after severe cross-examination by another official,
who demanded many facts about the New Yorker’s age, place of birth,
residence, occupation, etc., the bewildered man found himself in the
Conciergerie prison. Why he was there or what was about to befall him
Burwell had no means of knowing; but before the day was over he succeeded
in having a message sent to the American Legation, where he demanded
immediate protection as a citizen of the United States. It was not until
evening, however, that the Secretary of Legation, a consequential person,
called at the prison. There followed a stormy interview, in which the
prisoner used some strong language, the French officers gesticulated
violently and talked very fast, and the Secretary calmly listened to both
sides, said little, and smoked a good cigar.
“I will lay your case before the American minister,” he said as he rose
to go, “and let you know the result to-morrow.”
“But this is an outrage. Do you mean to say—”Before he could finish,
however, the Secretary, with a strangely suspicious glance, turned and
left the room.
That night Burwell slept in a cell.
The next morning he received another visit from the non-committal
Secretary, who informed him that matters had been arranged, and that he
would be set at liberty forthwith.
“I must tell you, though,” he said, “that I have had great difficulty
in accomplishing this, and your liberty is granted only on condition
that you leave the country within twenty-four hours, and never under any
conditions return.”
Burwell stormed, raged, and pleaded; but it availed nothing. The
Secretary was inexorable, and yet he positively refused to throw any
light upon the causes of this monstrous injustice.
“Here is your card,” he said, handing him a large envelope closed with
the seal of Legation. “I advise you to burn it and never refer to the
matter again.”
That night the ill-fated man took the train for London, his heart
consumed by hatred for the whole French nation, together with a burning
desire for vengeance. He wired his wife to meet him at the station, and
for a long time debated with himself whether he should at once tell her
the sickening truth. In the end he decided that it was better to keep
silent. No sooner, however, had she seen him than her woman’s instinct
told her that he was laboring under some mental strain. And he saw in
a moment that to withhold from her his burning secret was impossible,
especially when she began to talk of the trip they had planned through
France. Of course no trivial reason would satisfy her for his refusal to
make this trip, since they had been looking forward to it for years; and
yet it was impossible now for him to set foot on French soil.
So he finally told her the whole story, she laughing and weeping in turn.
To her, as to him, it seemed incredible that such overwhelming disasters
could have grown out of so small a cause, and, being a fluent French
scholar, she demanded a sight of the fatal piece of pasteboard. In vain
her husband tried to divert her by proposing a trip through Italy. She
would consent to nothing until she had seen the mysterious card which
Burwell was now convinced he ought long ago to have destroyed. After
refusing for awhile to let her see it, he finally yielded. But, although
he had learned to dread the consequences of showing that cursed card, he
was little prepared for what followed. She read it, turned pale, gasped
for breath, and nearly fell to the floor.
“I told you not to read it,” he said; and then, growing tender at the
sight of her distress, he took her hand in his and begged her to be
calm. “At least tell me what the thing means,” he said. “We can bear it
together; you surely can trust me.”
But she, as if stung by rage, pushed him from her and declared, in a tone
such as he had never heard from her before, that never, never again would
she live with him. “You are a monster!” she exclaimed. And those were the
last words he heard from her lips.
Failing utterly in all efforts at reconciliation, the half-crazed man
took the first steamer for New York, having suffered in scarcely a
fortnight more than in all his previous life. His whole pleasure trip had
been ruined, he had failed to consummate important business arrangements,
and now he saw his home broken up and his happiness ruined. During the
voyage he scarcely left his stateroom, but lay there prostrated with
agony. In this black despondency the one thing that sustained him was
the thought of meeting his partner, Jack Evelyth, the friend of his
boyhood, the sharer of his success, the bravest, most loyal fellow in
the world. In the face of even the most damning circumstances, he felt
that Evelyth’s rugged common sense would evolve some way of escape from
this hideous nightmare. Upon landing at New York he hardly waited for the
gang-plank to be lowered before he rushed on shore and grasped the hand
of his partner, who was waiting on the wharf.
“Jack,” was his first word, “I am in dreadful trouble, and you are the
only man in the world who can help me.”
An hour later Burwell sat at his friend’s dinner table, talking over the
situation.
Evelyth was all kindness, and several times as he listened to Burwell’s
story his eyes filled with tears.
“It does not seem possible, Richard,” he said, “that such things can be;
but I will stand by you; we will fight it out together. But we cannot
strike in the dark. Let me see this card.”
“There is the damned thing,” Burwell said, throwing it on the table.
Evelyth opened the envelope, took out the card, and fixed his eyes on the
sprawling purple characters.
“Can you read it?” Burwell asked excitedly.
“Perfectly,” his partner said. The next moment he turned pale, and his
voice broke. Then he clasped the tortured man’s hand in his with a strong
grip. “Richard,” he said slowly, “if my only child had been brought here
dead it would not have caused me more sorrow than this does. You have
brought me the worst news one man could bring another.”
His agitation and genuine suffering affected Burwell like a death
sentence.
“Speak, man,” he cried; “do not spare me. I can bear anything rather than
this awful uncertainty. Tell me what the card means.”
Evelyth took a swallow of brandy and sat with head bent on his clasped
hands.
“No, I can’t do it; there are some things a man must not do.”
Then he was silent again, his brows knitted. Finally he said solemnly:—
“No, I can’t see any other way out of it. We have been true to each
other all our lives; we have worked together and looked forward to never
separating. I would rather fail and die than see this happen. But we have
got to separate, old friend; we have got to separate.”
They sat there talking until late into the night. But nothing that
Burwell could do or say availed against his friend’s decision. There was
nothing for it but that Evelyth should buy his partner’s share of the
business or that Burwell buy out the other. The man was more than fair
in the financial proposition he made; he was generous, as he always had
been, but his determination was inflexible; the two must separate. And
they did.
With his old partner’s desertion, it seemed to Burwell that the world was
leagued against him. It was only three weeks from the day on which he had
received the mysterious card; yet in that time he had lost all that he
valued in the world,—wife, friends, and business. What next to do with
the fatal card was the sickening problem that now possessed him.
He dared not show it; yet he dared not destroy it. He loathed it; yet he
could not let it go from his possession. Upon returning to his house he
locked the accursed thing away in his safe as if it had been a package of
dynamite or a bottle of deadly poison. Yet not a day passed that he did
not open the drawer where the thing was kept and scan with loathing the
mysterious purple scrawl.
In desperation he finally made up his mind to take up the study of the
language in which the hateful thing was written. And still he dreaded the
approach of the day when he should decipher its awful meaning.
One afternoon, less than a week after his arrival in New York, as he was
crossing Twenty-third Street on the way to his French teacher, he saw
a carriage rolling up Broadway. In the carriage was a face that caught
his attention like a flash. As he looked again he recognized the woman
who had been the cause of his undoing. Instantly he sprang into another
cab and ordered the driver to follow after. He found the house where she
was living. He called there several times; but always received the same
reply, that she was too much engaged to see any one. Next he was told
that she was ill, and on the following day the servant said she was much
worse. Three physicians had been summoned in consultation. He sought
out one of these and told him it was a matter of life or death that he
see this woman. The doctor was a kindly man and promised to assist him.
Through his influence, it came about that on that very night Burwell
stood by the bedside of this mysterious woman. She was beautiful still,
though her face was worn with illness.
“Do you recognize me?” he asked tremblingly, as he leaned over the bed,
clutching in one hand an envelope containing the mysterious card. “Do you
remember seeing me at the _Folies Bergère_ a month ago?”
“Yes,” she murmured, after a moment’s study of his face; and he noted
with relief that she spoke English.
“Then, for God’s sake, tell me, what does it all mean?” he gasped,
quivering with excitement.
“I gave you the card because I wanted you to—to—”
Here a terrible spasm of coughing shook her whole body, and she fell back
exhausted.
An agonizing despair tugged at Burwell’s heart. Frantically snatching the
card from its envelope, he held it close to the woman’s face.
“Tell me! Tell me!”
With a supreme effort, the pale figure slowly raised itself on the
pillow, its fingers clutching at the counterpane.
Then the sunken eyes fluttered—forced themselves open—and stared in
stony amazement upon the fatal card, while the trembling lips moved
noiselessly, as if in an attempt to speak. As Burwell, choking with
eagerness, bent his head slowly to hers, a suggestion of a smile
flickered across the woman’s face. Again the mouth quivered, the man’s
head bent nearer and nearer to hers, his eyes riveted upon the lips.
Then, as if to aid her in deciphering the mystery, he turned his eyes to
the card.
With a cry of horror he sprang to his feet, his eyeballs starting from
their sockets. Almost at the same moment the woman fell heavily upon the
pillow.
Every vestige of the writing had faded! The card was blank!
The woman lay there dead.
[Illustration]
Tang-u.
BY LAWRENCE E. ADAMS.
Among the most interesting souvenirs that Marston, the naval officer,
brought from the Orient was a curious portrait, evidently the work of a
native artist, painted in brilliant colors on a panel of foreign wood.
More striking than the workmanship of the portrait, however, was its
subject, a small Chinese boy, apparently not more than ten or twelve
years of age, but wearing the uniform of a high Japanese naval officer,
and adorned with a whole string of jeweled decorations.
Here is the history of the portrait:
When the Japanese flagship steamed out of the harbor of Canton on the
day that war was formally declared between Japan and China, it carried
one human being whose name was not on the ship’s rolls,—and he belonged
to the enemy. He became a passenger under the following circumstances:
Just before the ship weighed anchor a small steam launch was sent back
for the commander and superior officers, who had been detained until
late. Among these officers were three Americans, all graduates of the
Annapolis academy, who had been engaged by the Japanese government as
advisers during the coming hostilities. As the little launch wormed its
way through the maze of picturesque craft and sampans,—the curious little
Chinese house-boats,—which crowded the bay, the eyes of the American
officers were riveted by a curious sight. To the top of a wooden stake
to which a sampan was moored a little Chinese boy clung, swaying to and
fro, eyeing delightedly the steam launch as it shot through the water.
In his anxiety to see the fun, however, he had disregarded the weakness
of this reedlike support, which, when a passing sampan collided with it,
suddenly broke off short, plunging the little chap into the water. At
first the launch’s passengers paid slight attention to the accident,
knowing that these little natives are as much at home in the water as on
shore. Indifference, however, gave way to concern when the child’s shrill
cry for help rang through the air, followed by the mad efforts of every
sampan-man within sight to get away from the drowning boy, instead of
to him. It was now evident that the little fellow had become entangled
in a floating coil of rope, and that his drowning was a matter of a few
seconds; yet not one of the Chinese boatmen but watched from a distance
and in silence the small hero’s frantic struggles for life. Indeed, the
little Mongolian was already disappearing in the waters of the bay when
the steam launch, at the signal of the commander, veered in its course,
and a strong arm snatched the little body from the waves. As for the
sampan-men, they watched the rescue with cries of amazement. This was
because of the curious law existing in certain provinces of China that
whosoever saves a life, the rescued one may lawfully look to the rescuer
for support forever after. It is plain that this barbaric edict virtually
puts a premium on death; but the explanation lies in the fatalistic
religion, which holds that whenever a man falls into peril it is by the
express wish and will of the gods, and that to rescue him is to obstruct
their just decrees.
Meantime the officers, who had arrived on shipboard with their protégé
before it had occurred to them to plan for his disposal, were examining
their find as though he had been a new and curious toy. To send him
back to shore was impossible, as they were already steaming out of the
harbor. The only course, then, was to keep him on board, at least during
the voyage to Japan, a plan rendered all the easier by the fact that the
little heathen was, according to his broken Japanese, both homeless and
friendless.
But if the boy had seemed a nuisance in prospect, he was anything but
that in reality. Shrewd as any Bowery ragamuffin, the little fellow’s
alert ways and quick wits were the unfailing delight of the three
American officers. More imitative, even, than the Japanese, he picked
up their language and customs with such incredible ease that in a few
days he was more Japanese than any subject of the Mikado. Indeed, before
many weeks had passed, the entire crew was accustomed to the curious
spectacle of one of the enemy enjoying the most marked attention and
hospitality that the ship could afford.
But, besides his imitativeness and shrewdness, the little Mongolian
had one accomplishment that gained the awe-struck admiration of
his Oriental friends. That was the power of discovering objects at
incredible distances as easily by night as by day, a power due partly to
inheritance, and partly to his profession. The lad was an interesting
specimen of the Oriental class of beings known as rat-catchers. This
means more than the word implies. They are not rat-catchers by vocation
alone, but, strangely enough, they are born to the trade. In addition
to many other talents which he had inherited from a long line of
rat-catching ancestry, little Tang-u,—the “rat,”—as the boy was called,
had the power of seeing his way clearly in almost the dead blackness of
night. Sometimes, indeed, it seemed as though he was endowed with a sixth
sense in this matter, being able to walk straight into a dungeon-like
room and to bring forth any object without the least hesitancy. Courage,
also, he had developed to a rare degree, for the rats in the docks of
China, and in the underground passages from warehouse cellar to cellar,
and sewer to sewer, where he plied his trade, are the fattest and most
savage of the rodent tribe the world over; so large, indeed, that
the skins of two of them will make a pair of gloves, and the carcass
will supply a family with dried _fillet de rodent_ for a week. These
rat-catchers spend days and weeks in the underground passages, and day
and night are almost the same to them.
Now that he could no longer exercise his strange gift in his accustomed
way, Tang-u would often amuse himself by standing for hours on the deck,
peering out through the mist or the darkness in search of things hidden
to common eyes. Indeed, among the Americans he soon became known as the
“kid with the telescopic eye,” while the commander, on various occasions,
allowed him to accompany the men in the lookout, where he discovered
objects often in advance of the field-glass. Even the dark waters of the
ocean were not proof against the vision of the little heathen, whose
bright eyes would detect curious fish as they swam around the ship,
many feet below the surface; while a fog that blinded the ordinary eye
proved no obstacle to his keen sight. Before long every one came to the
conclusion that a boy whose eye was equal to a combined field-glass and
search-light was a valuable addition to a modern warship; and on more
than one occasion during the months of the war the little Chinaman’s
discernment was appealed to as gravely as though he had been thirty years
old and a Japanese officer, instead of a ten-year-old Chinaman.
On one occasion, indeed, Tang-u’s sixth sense made him for five minutes
the ship’s commander.
It was late in the evening before the memorable engagement of Port
Arthur. The flagship, which, having passed unscathed through months of
war, had been recently ordered to this stronghold, had just anchored in
the harbor, and preparations were making for the night’s defense. The
torpedo net had not yet been lowered, but the whole ship resounded with
the bustle and hurry of preparations for what every one felt would be the
most decisive battle of the war. Meantime Tang-u stood alone near the
bow, peering out through the darkness, as was his custom upon arriving in
a strange place, in search of some new and interesting sight. Suddenly,
above the confusion, there rang out a shrill little scream, and Tang-u,
with his eyes bulging from his head, rushed towards the admiral, and,
pointing out to sea, frantically shrieked: “Tor-pee-to! tor-pee-to!!”
Instantly every eye followed the direction of the tiny finger. The sea
looked unruffled. Not a soul on the deck, even by straining his vision
to the utmost, could verify Tang-u’s cry. Yet so accustomed had they
become to relying upon the little fellow’s keen sight that the admiral
gave instant orders to lower the net. In a moment there was a sound of
hurrying feet, a hundred hands were raised to the ropes, and the great
net fell into place. Before the splash of the falling net had died
away, there was a thundering explosion, and a tremendous upheaval of
water, like that of a mighty geyser, shook the huge ship from bow to
stern. It was indeed a torpedo that Tang-u’s keen eyes had detected far
away through the approaching night. But swiftly as it came, the boy’s
marvelous vision had been swifter. The well-aimed missile of destruction,
that in a moment more would have destroyed the flower of the Japanese
navy, had, in coming in contact with the netting, exploded harmlessly,
flooding the deck with water. The great warship with over three hundred
souls had been saved from annihilation,—and by one of the enemy.
A few months later, when Tang-u’s exploit was brought to the notice of
the Mikado, that dignitary conferred upon the little Chinese rat-catcher
the rank of honorary admiral in the Japanese navy.
And it was in this way that a heathen nation furnished the youngest naval
hero in existence.
[Illustration]
The Little Brown Mole.
BY CLARICE IRENE CLINGHAN.
Three years ago, while spending a few weeks in New York, I was invited
to the home of Paul Fancourt, the famous naval architect, whose family
residence is on the shore of the Hudson, and but a short distance from
the city.
I found my old college friend, whom I had not seen for several years,
busily engaged with a set of drawings; but, notwithstanding his
enthusiasm in his work, he looked worn, haggard, and unhappy. On the
afternoon of the last day of my visit I pinned him down to a serious
talk, in the course of which I begged him not to undermine his health by
too close application to his favorite pursuit.
With a flitting smile he exclaimed: “Why, it’s all that keeps me alive!”
After a moment’s thought he added: “Of late years I have been weighed
down by the memory of a dark spot in my life—an unwritten chapter—until
at times it seems as though I must make a confidant of some one.”
Upon my assurance that I would be a most willing listener, he related the
following history:
“Twelve years ago,” he said, “when I was twenty-three, I met a singularly
handsome girl, a débutante enjoying the triumphs of her first season.
It does not speak well for the good sense of either of us, but I am
compelled to admit that within six weeks we had met, loved, married,
quarreled, and separated.
“The trouble between us was incompatibility of temper. This sounds
insignificant, but there was certainly an enormous lot of incompatibility
and much temper! We were very unhappy—at least, I was. We both said
things that could never be forgiven or forgotten. Before the honeymoon
was over I left my wife in this house, with a corps of servants and a
handsome balance at my banker’s, and started on a trip around the world.
“I was absent five years. During that time there was no communication
between my wife and myself, although I frequently heard of her through
correspondence with friends. Her conduct during my absence was most
exemplary. She remained in the place where I left her, but gave up
society. She studied art, making much progress, and I was informed that
her pictures and illustrations were selling for extravagant sums. She
seemed to have struck a popular art note and was playing upon it.
“These bits of information neither entertained nor amused me. Indeed, I
thought myself beyond the point where anything she might say or do could
interest me. Not that I had learned to care for any one else, but simply
because our short association had utterly destroyed my early boyish
affection. Before I had been absent a year her very image seemed effaced
from my memory.
“On my arrival in New York, however, I was irritated to learn that not
a penny of the money I had left at her disposal had been touched. I
believed she had done this for the purpose of annoying me and causing
me to look mean in the eyes of the world,—she, meanwhile, earning
her livelihood by her art. Being abundantly able, I wished to make a
settlement upon her; but, as she absolutely refused to talk with the
lawyer I sent to her, I was compelled, repugnant as the idea was, to seek
a personal interview. To this end I telegraphed Mrs. Fancourt on the
third morning after my arrival, asking if she would receive me at five
o’clock that afternoon on an urgent business matter.
“In less than an hour the reply reached me. I tore open the envelope and
read the one word which comprised the answer, standing alone, naked of
punctuation, on the yellow sheet: ‘Come.’
“‘That means war to the knife,’ I thought, tossing the paper on my
dressing-table. ‘No words wasted.’
“As I made preparations for the trip I caught myself glancing at the
letter now and then. ‘_Come!_’ After all, it had a certain charm of its
own, that word. Like all affirmative expressions, it possessed drawing
power. The more I looked at it, the more alluring it appeared. Then I
examined the signature. It was simply ‘Leila.’ Really, it was almost
coaxing.
“Arriving in this village just at nightfall, I hurried towards the
house which had been the scene of so much unhappiness. To my surprise,
it gleamed with lights, as if for some festivity. As I sprang up the
steps and laid my hand upon the bell the door was suddenly opened by a
maid-servant whose face was strange to me.
“‘Where is madame—Mrs. Fancourt?’ I asked.
“‘In the drawing-room, sir,’ she answered, and then discreetly
disappeared.
“As you know, the drawing-room in this house is connected with the front
hall by an arch, hung with portières. These were drawn. Pushing them
aside, I entered, and suddenly found myself in the warm glow of a big
wood fire which had been lighted in the fireplace. This crackling, cheery
blaze and the waning light of the October day were all that lighted the
room. There in the center she stood, clad in an exquisite gown of palest
yellow, and, as I moved towards her, I saw two hands, instead of one,
outstretched. The next moment I was holding them both, the cool, soft
fingers clinging to mine while she whispered: ‘Paul!’
“For a few seconds we looked at each other silently, breathlessly; then,
obeying that irresistible law that causes the needle to be drawn towards
the magnet, I bent and kissed her.
“All this took place as I have described it; but it would be impossible
for me to account for the feelings that actuated me. I know only that all
my bitterness towards my wife, all my dislike for her, in one revulsion
of mind changed to the most passionate admiration and affection from
the instant her lips touched mine. Dazed, astonished, I could not find
voice to speak, but Leila chatted quite naturally as she led me to a big
armchair on one side of the fireplace, while she threw herself on a low
divan piled with cushions on the other side, putting out a slim little
yellow-slippered foot to the blaze.
“‘It’s such a sorry day that I ordered this big fire, so your home
would seem pleasant after your long absence,’ said she, in her mellow,
vibrating voice. Then, looking at me across the fire, with a winning
smile, she added: ‘Besides, it was so good of you to come out to see me.’
“I looked at her, still amazed. I now saw that she was much changed.
Perhaps she was not so handsome as she had been in her early womanhood;
but what she had gained more than made up for that which she had lost.
She was thinner; her face had grown ethereal, luminous, spirituelle.
Surely, she had suffered, this fiery, savage-tempered girl, for the
hardness and selfishness had melted away from her face and left it
softened, lovely, and changefully brilliant. At first I thought her eyes
were darker; but I soon made up my mind that it was because the pupils
were so dilated. Then I knew she, too, was under the tension of strong
nervous excitement. Her manner, however, gave no suggestion of this. She
talked rapidly and almost continually, saying, apparently, whatever first
came into her mind.
“‘I suppose it seems frightfully dull to be here again. The
merry-go-round has stopped, and here you are at the place from which
you started. The curtain has dropped, has it not, dear? You’ve been
everywhere and seen so much; and now everything is at a standstill and
you feel a bit giddy from sudden lack of motion. It’s much the same with
me, only my merry-go-round isn’t so merry and not so far around. I’ve
just rotated between here and the New York art schools, and lived very
quietly. But I believe I’m doing all the talking. Would you like to
say anything—just a little word? Well, I won’t let you, for I know two
things. You are tired, and no man feels like talking before he has dined.
So not a word until after dinner.’
“In the dining-room another surprise awaited me. A miniature banquet
had been prepared, evidently in my honor, for I was the only guest. The
room was adorned with palms and vines, and the table was gracefully
decorated with roses and ferns, among which gleamed the silver and china.
Over all was the soft, almost moonlight effect of wax tapers. The only
objection I could make to anything was the flowers on the table, which
partially concealed the face which I was now hungry to look upon. It
was what I believe is termed the Celtic type of beauty, quite common
among Anglo-Saxons,—dark brown hair approaching black, gray eyes, and a
complexion of creamy fairness.
“We were long at dinner, talking of everything but the subject I came to
introduce. I became reminiscent of travel; she was easily entertained and
was herself brilliant, serious, and amusing in turn. As we walked back
to the drawing-room at the close of the meal, I whispered, like a lover:
“‘Leila, I came to scoff, but I remain to pray. Can you forget the past?’
“She promptly put her hand over my mouth. ‘The past must remain a sealed
book,’ she commanded.
“And, so it did.
“In the hour that followed, spent before the open fire, I inadvertently
referred more than once to the forbidden subject. But each time I was
stopped by a warning gesture and an impressive, ‘Remember, not a word. We
begin life anew from this hour.’
“With every moment my desire for a reconciliation grew stronger. But when
at length she yielded, it was only on two conditions: first, that I would
never refer to the past; and, second, that our future be consecrated by a
ceremony of marriage.
“I readily agreed to the first condition and took the solemn vow
required; but at the second stipulation I laughed. But she said,
very seriously, that she could be reconciled to me under no other
circumstances. So, yielding to her whim, I ordered a carriage and we
drove to the house of an elderly clergyman in the village whom we well
knew, who, on hearing our story, willingly agreed to repeat the ceremony;
and, lightly, almost laughingly, the words of five years before were once
more said.
“Then followed five months of the most absolute happiness that was ever
accorded, it seemed to me, to human beings. It was an atmosphere of love,
joy, and ineffable content. The beauty of my wife, her changed nature,
and fine intuitions grew upon me day by day. There never was, I am sure,
a woman like her. I lived in her love; and yet I lost it forever on
account of a thing of such infinitesimal importance that it drives me
nearly mad to think of it. This object was no more nor less than a little
brown mole on my wife’s neck, just below her left ear.
“It came about in the following manner: One day, having returned from the
city on an earlier train than I had anticipated, I went to Leila’s room
and found her lying on a couch, fast asleep, her hands clasped behind her
head, and one slippered foot crossed over the other—in fact, the posture
in which Du Maurier’s famous Duchess was wont to ‘dream true.’ Knowing
she was a sound sleeper it occurred to me to softly kiss the little
brown mole to which I have just referred—something I had not thought of
since the days of our first short honeymoon so long ago.
“Carefully I pushed aside the masses of tumbled hair that lay across her
soft white throat, and bent over her. No—the other side—but, surely—what
did it mean? Her round neck of infantile whiteness and smoothness lay
before me, _but the little beauty spot was missing_! Nor was there the
slightest evidence that it had ever existed.
“I went downstairs and smoked a pipe on the piazza to think over this
mystery. But the longer I thought, the less I understood it.
“That evening I said to my wife: ‘Sweetheart, where is the little brown
mole that was just under your left ear?’
“For a moment she looked at me; then she said softly, but with a certain
power in her voice: ‘Have you forgotten your vow?’
“I stared a moment; then recalled my promise never to allude to the past.
Somehow, it impressed me differently now than when I had first taken it.
To be sure, I laughingly begged Leila’s pardon, assuring her there would
be no more lapses from rectitude in that direction. But from that moment
a strange restlessness took possession of me. I felt something impending.
In the morning I would wake with a singular sense of oppression, which
when traced to its cause always arrived at the same starting-point,—the
little brown mole which should have been on my wife’s soft white throat,
but was not.
“It was about this time that I noticed that there was not a likeness of
Leila in the whole house. When I went away there were many scattered
about,—water-color sketches, paintings in oil, photographs, and etchings,
for Leila had always been proud of her beauty. Now not one remained; even
the oil-painting that had been finished, as companion to mine, just,
after our first marriage, had been removed, though mine hung in its
accustomed place. I was about to call attention to this fact and ask the
reason, when I remembered that this circumstance, also, belonged to the
past, concerning which I had promised never to question, and was silent.
“My mind had now become so perturbed that it continually demanded
something on which to focus its attention. For this reason, I turned
my thoughts to my favorite pursuit,—naval architecture,—which had been
neglected for months. Before my trip abroad I had left in a sandal-wood
box in the library some unfinished plans, which I now decided to
complete. But as the box was missing and the servants knew nothing of its
whereabouts, I climbed to the attic to look for it myself.
“After an hour spent in a fruitless search I was turning to leave, when
my eye fell upon a large picture lying on its face among a heap of papers
in the darkest corner. I knew the frame, and the first glance at the
picture told me I had happened on what I was not looking for, but had
wished for,—a portrait of my wife. It was the one that had been painted
directly after our marriage.
“Dragging it from its hiding-place, I carried it to the long, low window,
and, propping it up against an old dressing-table in a position that
would catch a good light, I carefully wiped off the dust and cobwebs and
stood back to view it.
“As I looked I became as a man stricken with death! The face on the
canvas was not the face of the woman I loved and worshiped as my wife!
“How long I stood benumbed by this discovery I do not know. After the
first shock lessened and my senses began to act, I fell to studying the
portrait and comparing it with its living double.
“That there was a remarkable resemblance between the two it is
unnecessary to say; but at the same time there were so many points of
difference that I was amazed that I could have been so easily deceived.
There was, in fact, what might be termed a ‘family’ resemblance such as
often exists between two sisters, who, when together, are not thought
to be remarkably alike, but when seen apart are often mistaken for one
another. In the picture the ears were larger, the mouth smaller, the chin
less decided, the forehead a trifle narrower, and the eyebrows heavier.
“While I stood revolving in my mind this terrible mystery I heard the
sound of hurried footsteps. My wife had returned from her afternoon walk.
I went downstairs, arriving in the lower hall just as she entered. She
came sweeping in with her usual vivacity, her eyes bright, a faint rose
tint on her cheeks, enveloped in that atmosphere of exhilaration that
was like a breath of ozone, and which gave her a charm above ordinary
women.
“Something in my appearance must have startled her, for she paused at
sight of me and waited for me to approach. I went to her, kissed her, and
then, clasping her gloved wrists in mine, looked steadfastly at her and
said, ‘Dear, where is Leila?’
“In a moment her brilliant color faded. Her eyes fell. Then, suddenly
wrenching herself free from me, she moved unsteadily towards the
staircase, pausing with her hand on the banister only long enough to say,
‘You have broken your pledge. Leave me alone until to-morrow. Then you
shall know everything.’
“Then I heard the sound of her garments on the stairs, presently the
closing of her door, and the key turning in the lock.
“All that night I restlessly walked the floor of my room, trying to bring
order out of the chaos of my mind. Fear, love, trust, suspicion, all by
turns possessed me; but in the end my belief in the goodness of the woman
I loved conquered. At early dawn I knocked at my wife’s door. There was
no response. I tried the knob; it yielded and I entered. There was a dim
light in the room; but she was gone. On her dressing-table was a letter
which told me all.
“The first few paragraphs are sacred to me alone. I will begin her letter
where she commenced her own history.
“‘My name,’ she wrote, ‘is Olive Berkeley. I was born in England, the
only child of a retired naval officer. My father had a moderate fortune,
and for eighteen years I lived a quiet, carefree life in a Devonshire
country-house. During my nineteenth year my father’s income was so much
reduced by unlucky investments that we moved to London that I might study
art, with a view to supporting myself. Two years later my father, who
was my only near relative, died suddenly, leaving me less than a hundred
pounds clear of debt. By this time, however, I felt confident of success
in my profession, and, thinking America offered a better field than
England for a self-supporting woman, I came to New York. Here I took a
studio with the intention of giving lessons in drawing and painting.
“‘But the pupils did not come; my pictures failed to catch the popular
fancy; my money was soon spent. Overwork and worry culminated in
illness, and I soon found myself deeply in debt without a friend in the
world to whom I could apply for aid. In this extremity I accepted the
first work I could obtain—a situation as companion to Mrs. Paul Fancourt.