TWENTY TALES
BY
Twenty Women
From Real Life in Chicago
ANONYMOUS
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
FOR SALE ONLY
BY
NOVELTY PUBLISHING CO.
CHICAGO, ILL.
COPYRIGHT, 1903
BY
NOVELTY PUBLISHING CO.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
PREFACE 3
INTRODUCTION 5
A WOMAN’S ANGUISH 13
TALE ONE—The Diary of a Chicago Girl 17
TALE TWO—The Life Story of a Southern Widow 33
TALE THREE—A Story of the Chicago Ghetto 53
TALE FOUR—A Woman of Thirty-eight 71
TALE FIVE—A Forecast 89
TALE SIX—A Daughter of Proud Kentucky 103
TALE SEVEN—My Lover’s Bequest 129
TALE EIGHT—The Victim of a Drug 145
TALE NINE—What Happened to a Girl Who Flirted 163
TALE TEN—Sold at a Fixed Price 173
TALE ELEVEN—A Story of Suicide Bridge 181
TALE TWELVE—Two Babes and Two Mothers 193
TALE THIRTEEN—Not Guilty 205
TALE FOURTEEN—My Lover’s Daughter 215
TALE FIFTEEN—As Told to a Clergyman 221
TALE SIXTEEN—A Story of Stage Life 231
TALE SEVENTEEN—A Trip Across the Lake 261
TALE EIGHTEEN—One Woman’s Way 269
TALE NINETEEN—A Story of the Levee 291
TALE TWENTY—A Scientific Phenomenon 305
PREFACE.
“It may be weeds I’ve gathered, too;
But even weeds may be as fragrant,
With some sweet memory.
As the fairest flower.”
Without apology this book goes forth. If it is productive of some good,
it will have fulfilled its mission.
In presenting this work it is with a feeling of restitution. If I have
digressed from, or stormed the barricaded citadel of formal literature,
I have done so without hesitation, simply complying with an obeisance
to civility toward my fellow men. I have pictured life as a man of the
world is sometimes forced to see it, and not altogether as angels would
transcribe it.
If the manner in which the subjects are hereinafter treated and woven
into stories, meets the approval of the public, the work will have served
to indicate the power and simplicity of truth.—THE AUTHOR.
“All truth is precious, if not divine,
And what dilates the pow’rs must needs refine.”
INTRODUCTION.
“Without women, the beginning of our life would be helpless; the middle,
devoid of pleasure, and the end of consolation.”
“The very first
Of human life must spring from woman’s breast,
Your first small words are taught you from her lips,
Your first tears quench’d by her, and your last sighs
Too often breathed out in a woman’s hearing,
When men have shrunk from the ignoble care
Of watching the last hour of him who led them.”
In London alone there are eighty thousand fallen women, and, while the
number is infinitely smaller in Chicago, they all have a history, an
excuse to offer, and a tale to tell.
We have resided upon this terrestrial sphere just long enough to know
that the reformation of a fallen woman rivals the labors of Hercules. All
men have a physical nature and must meet people who appeal to it.
The conditions are such that there has arisen in society, a figure that
is certainly the most mournful, and, in some respects, the most awful,
upon which the eye of the moralist can dwell. That unhappy being, whose
very name it is a shame to speak; who counterfeits, with a cold heart,
the transports of affection and submits herself as the passive instrument
of lust; who is scorned and insulted as the vilest of her sex, and
doomed, for the most part, to disease and abject wretchedness of men,
then death.
Who will pity her? A poor unknown, who shall be lowered into a grave of
cold clay (and possibly in the potter’s field), among slimy, creeping
things that feed on foul air and putrid masses. Not even a slab to say,
“Here lies.”
With dreamy eyes and rum dulled brain, her companions take in the scene
without warning. They shrink not from the horrors of the charnel house or
the maggot filled grave; sin fascinates them as the cursed death giving
flame does the foolish moth. They continue to cultivate avarice, defy all
laws of nature and modesty, all rules of etiquette, and break down all
barriers which ordinarily defend pure womanhood.
“She is a rag and a bone and a hank of hair.”
Women of this class feel that they are social outcasts, that their sins
are as scarlet; they believe that they are past reform.
Herself, the supreme type of vice, she is usually the most efficient
guardian of virtue. But for her, the unchallenged purity of countless
homes would be polluted, and not a few, who, in the pride of their
untested chastity, think of her with an indignant shudder, would have
known the agony of remorse and despair.
On that one degraded and ignoble form are concentrated the passions that
might have filled the world with shame.
She remains while creeds and civilization rise and fall, the eternal
priestess of humanity, blasted for the sins of the world.
It is not our intention to perorate and dissertate on a theory calculated
to turn the world into a miniature heaven, for we don’t believe for the
fractional part of a moment that a general reformation of the fallen is
practicable or possible. It is not unusual that the men who deplore so
loudly the existence of soiled doves are the very men who are responsible
for their existence.
The only practicable solution that we may be tempted to offer, would be
for society to brand the men with the stigma of its contempt, the same as
it does the women, when he sinks himself below her level in an attempt to
pervert her purity.
If the immoral men were ostracized from polite society with the same
despatch that a weak woman is, society would be composed almost entirely
of women.
The world’s fallen women are divided into two classes:
The woman whose nature is depraved, who is too coarse to realize or heed
the depth of her own infamy, and the woman whose circumstances have
forced her to a life of shame. Of the former, it is useless to take heed
for she understands nothing outside of her own depravity, and looks upon
reformation as a thing to be avoided. Fortunately she constitutes but a
small percentage of the half-world.
The reclamation of the other woman is almost as utterly impossible for
the reason that she has realized and suffered too much. We have homes of
refuge for the friendless, retreats for the fallen, and hospitals for
the poor, but after all the red tape formula for admittance has been
complied with, they dispense only the cold crusts of charity.
Where can a woman turn, whose suffering soul is tottering on the brink
of the world’s damnation? To whom shall she turn for the tender touch of
Christian pity, the charity of a human undertaking half divine? Surely,
not to the church that “Bows the knee to pomp that loves to varnish
guilt;” not to the women of merciless hearts and useless lives who
boast of chastity because of frozen veins; not to public charities who
advertise her squalor and her shame; not to the worldly man, whose aid
is; almost invariably extended in return for favors their families know
not of, but she turns to the hell of the world’s lost souls when men no
longer find her a convenience.
The modest woman of mental refinement finds a rival in the person with
a good figure (no matter how blatant), who is able to set the pace that
lures the men.
Whatever her personal merits may be, her position precludes the
possibility of her re-entering social circles that would be agreeable
to her. She sees the girls about her who have smothered their moral
scruples, wearing good clothes, going to entertainments and receiving the
attentions of gentlemen who have no hesitancy in being parted from their
money, if value is received, and it is small wonder if she, too, takes
the initial step that leads to the “crib” in the “tenderloin.”
After having established the reputation of being “game,” there is no
dearth of so called respectable men who are willing to be “kind” to her.
The men who are responsible for these conditions are not the rough men of
the lower classes, but the professional men, the men in business; many
with families and nice homes, who represent the respectable element in
the community.
If all the ancient prudes and wind-jammers, who are so intensely
interested in the fallen, would give their support to the decent men who
give their employes living wages, instead of straining their corsets to
wedge in next to the bargain counter in the department stores, whose
scale of wages breeds prostitution and moral depravity, they might
discover in the next decade, more self-supporting, decent women, and less
fair faces flushed with lust in the glare of the red light “brothel.”
In presenting this work to the public it is not the intention of the
author to bruise the hearts of fond parents, who may be able to recall
sad occurrences, after having read the following chapters; nor to censure
the subjects, whose life stories are told in the following narrations;
not to bring down unjust criticism on the head of any class; but rather
to point out in a measure, the reasons most apparent to a man of the
world, for licentious crime.
If asked why I have chosen Chicago as the field from which to gather data
for this volume, my answer would be, “because of its great population”;
because to it visitors flock from every part of; the United States and
many foreign countries; because it is nearer to the center of population
than any other large city, hence more often sought by wayward girls from
the surrounding territory, and the inducements which are held out to the
pleasure-loving public, whether those in quest of enjoyment be saint or
sinner, wolf or lamb, in gay Chicago are conducive to the character of
amusement and excitement necessary to the life of those whose stories are
herein told.
This book will claim its right to life by detailing the life story of
each one of these children of God, from the child-life in a quiet,
peaceful home in some rural hamlet, through the trials and vicissitudes
of unfortunate or misspent life.
This book, unlike the Bible, is all written in Chicago. The twenty
disciples come from twenty different places. They, endeavoring to lose
their identity in the whirl of racy life and excitement, seek the phantom
happiness in this great city. For a time all goes well. Gaiety and mirth
mingle, and fortune conspires with pleasure to mislead the novice; then
the scenes grow old; happiness eludes the grasp; tawdry garments no
longer please the eye; the tinsel tarnishes; disappointed hope begets
despair, and then a few grains of a friendly drug or the cold waves, of
the lake offer rest and relief. The city becomes pregnant with these poor
unfortunates, tortured by regret and shame, goaded down by necessity and
the scorn of former friends. Then there is birth—this book is born. It
goes out into the world to tell the naked truth for the good of mankind.
While this work is prepared from a truly moral standpoint, let it be
known that it is the intention to entertain as well as to instruct, to
deal with bare facts in order that the reader will thoroughly understand
the situation as it exists.
Should the reader, while in the act of drinking in the words of these
crushed flowers, find an instance wherein, by the recital of her story,
by sheer accident or otherwise, recognize the possessor of that story, do
not, for the love of humanity, be so unkind as to say, “I told you so.”
You may know, aye adore, some man whose fault it is that that particular
girl was placed in the position which makes the tale of her life so
miserably sad to some and yet so racy and full of color to others. If,
after having read the story of his wrong-doing, together with the pain he
has caused, he does not develop into a different sort of a man, put him
down as an iniquitous night-bird, fit to flit and hoot by night in search
of prey; one in whom a spark of manhood never glows and whose crimes and
abominations are myriad, marking him as a loathsome creature, who fears
the truth and shuns the light of day; one whose conscience is seared
beyond redemption and who possesses no conception of charity, pity,
sorrow or regret.
It is a pitiable and cruel fact that the great source from which the
ranks of scarlet are replenished, are young women from the country, who,
disgraced in their own community, fly from home to escape the infamy and
rush to the city with anger, desperation and revolt in their hearts. Oh,
that society would punish more severely the respectable seducers and
destroyers of innocent women.
Another lamentable fact is that those who enter into this diabolical
traffic, are seldom saved. We have avoided no labor or pains in our
researches on this subject, and we wish all who read this to mark well
our words.
When a woman once enters a house of prostitution and leads the life of
those who dwell there, it is too late for redemption and there is no
hope for her. When a woman once nerves herself for the fatal plunge, a
change comes over her whole character and, sustained by outraged love,
transformed into hate by miscalculating but indomitable pride, revenge
and the excitement of her new environments, her fate is fixed, her doom
is sealed.
Hence this book, “TWENTY TALES BY TWENTY WOMEN.”
A WOMAN’S ANGUISH.
“Sitting alone by the window, watching the moonlit street;
Bending my head to listen to the well known sounds of your feet;
I have been wondering, darling, how I could hear the pain,
When I watched with sighs and tear-wet eyes and waited your coming in
vain.
“For I know the day approaches when you will tire of me,
When by the door I may watch and wait for the form I will not see;
When the love that is now my heaven, the kisses that make my life,
You will bestow on another, and that other will be your wife.
“You will grow tired of serving, though you do not call it so;
You will long for a love that is pure, the love that we two know.
God knows that I loved you dearly, with a passion strong and pure,
But you will grow tired and leave me though I gave up all for you.
“I was pure as the morning when I first looked upon your face;
I knew I never could reach you, on your high exalted place,
But I looked and loved and worshiped, as a flower might worship a star,
But your eyes shone down on me and you seemed so far, so far.
“And then I knew that you loved me, loved me with all your heart,
But we could not stand at the altar, we were so far apart;
If a star would wed a flower, the star must drop from the sky,
Or the flower, in trying to reach it, would droop on its stalk and die.
“And you said that you loved me dearly, and swore by the heaven above,
That the Lord and all His angels would sanction and bless our love,
And I was weak, not wicked, my love was pure and true,
And sin itself seemed a virtue, when only shared by you.
“We have been happy together, though, under a cloud of sin;
But I know that the day approaches when my chastening will begin.
You have been faithful and tender, but you will not always be,
And I think I had better leave you while your thoughts are kind of me.
“Oh, God! I could never bear it; it would madden my brain, I know;
So while you love me dearly, I think I had better go.
It is sweeter to feel my darling, to know as I fall asleep,
That some one will mourn and miss me, that some one is left to weep.
“That to die as I would in the future, to fall in the street some day,
Unknown, unwept and forgotten, when you have cast me away;
Perhaps the blood of the Savior can wash my garments clean;
Perchance I may drink the water that flows through the pastures green.
“Perchance we may meet in heaven, and walk in the streets above,
With nothing to grieve or part us, since our sinning was all through
love.
God says, ‘Love one another,’ and down to the depths of hell
Will he send the soul of a woman, because she loved and fell.
“Perchance if we had never met, I had been spared this last regret,
This endless striving to forget; and yet, I could not bear the pain
Of never seeing you again.
Ah, leave me not, I love but thee; blessing or curse whiche’er thou be;
Oh, be as thou hast been to me, forever and forever.”’
And so in the moonlight he found her, as around her beautiful clay
(Lifeless and pallid as marble, for her spirit had flown away),
The farewell words she had written she held to her cold, white breast,
And the buried blade of a dagger told how she had done the rest.
TALE ONE.
THE DIARY OF A CHICAGO GIRL.
This story is a copy of the diary kept by a wealthy Chicago girl, who was
found dead in her room.
“When lovely woman stoops to folly
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?
“The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is—to die.”
JANUARY 1.
I, Louise Montgomery, twenty-five years of age, and in full possession of
all my faculties, do hereby affirm that I will herein chronicle all the
noteworthy happenings of my life for the period of one year.
Little diary, I am surprised that I, having reached the mature age of
twenty-five, should become so sentimental as to wish to keep a diary.
What has prompted me I cannot say. Time may reveal it.
The old year has just passed into eternity and the New Year has
but commenced his reign as I write. Yes, a new year with all its
possibilities. I hope at the end of this year I may look back upon it
as the one bright year of my life. I have not made a thousand good
resolutions, as I have done hitherto, but mean to meet the trials and
temptations of each day as bravely as possible.
I am not in love yet, little diary, and I want you to bear witness to
this fact. There is a man whom you do not know, and to whom I shall
introduce you now, for if I can convert him to my way of thinking by the
end of this year, I shall not have lived in vain, and I shall have much
to tell you about him as the days go by.
He is married, this man of whom I speak. That in itself would preclude
the possibility of my loving him now, or falling in love with him in the
future.
He has a lovely wife and one child. He speaks of her often and dwells on
her excellent qualities, until I too love her.
He loves her? Maybe he does, but I fear he does not, not to the fullest
extent. It must be my work of this year to teach him the error of his
way. He has never by word or action intimated that he cares for me, but
I am sensible, not conceited, and know he is—well, he likes to tell how
happy he is, too well. People who are thoroughly happy give no thought
to the opinion of the world, but live only in the sunshine of their
beloved’s presence. I think my task will be a delightful one. He is
awfully good looking, very tall and well developed, polished and withal
so interesting. It was strange how we became interested in one another
the very first night of our meeting. That Thanksgiving ball will be a
memorable one. How striking he looked in his full dress suit and how
perfectly he dances! I wonder what New Year resolutions he has made.
I mean to ask him, if he is at the dance tonight. No, I guess I won’t
either; men are conceited and he might think I had been giving him rather
more thought than mere casual acquaintance would warrant. Perhaps he
doesn’t realize his danger. Well, I must retire now to pleasant dreams.
JANUARY 2.
Oh, what a grand time I had last night. I was the belle of the ball and
Mr. Forsythe said he never saw me so radiant. I felt a little as if I
ought not to allow him to say it, but I couldn’t really find a reason for
criticising him for what many others said, and then, too, if I assume
that he is doing wrong, when he may never have thought of it, I shall
spoil all my chances for doing good. I know I did look my best, for
that clinging black crepe gown is most becoming. I wonder how Nell is
progressing with her affair. Somehow she doesn’t seem to me to be looking
very happy.
JANUARY 6.
I didn’t intend to neglect you so soon, my father confessor, but I have
been so busy and so tired at night that I couldn’t keep my eyes open, and
I want you to be as much of a credit to me in appearances as my own deeds
are to be.
There has been nothing of vital importance to set down here this time. I
had a long talk with Nell Sears today and I conjectured correctly about
her being unhappy. She is engaged to Professor Kurtz, but he says it is
impossible for him to marry her publicly, as long as he teaches in the
University, for they would discharge him. That seems queer to me. I
think I shall investigate the matter for my own satisfaction, for who
knows, a Professor might propose to me sometime. He wants her to marry
him quietly, and she doesn’t want to do it I wouldn’t if I were she. A
society girl in her position would run a great risk, I think.
JANUARY 10.
I had a long talk with Mr. Forsythe today. When I told him I was going
away tomorrow he looked sad, and said he should miss me very much. You
see it was this way. We met by sheer accident at the silk counter at
Field’s. He was matching some silk for his wife, and I was searching
for something suitable for a new evening gown. He helped me select an
exquisite thing, all pink and silver. I think I overstepped my limit as
to price, but I didn’t like to “haggle” when he was standing there. He
said I would be the center of attraction wherever I wore that, and some
other complimentary trifles, not worth mentioning. By the time we had
concluded our purchases it was luncheon hour and he insisted on my going
up to the tea-room with him.
He asked me if I would write to him while I was away; that it would be
such a pleasure to hear how I was enjoying myself. I gave a reluctant
consent after he said, “If you knew how much good it would do me, you
would not refuse.”
I wish I knew whether I did right or not.
JANUARY 25.
Detroit is such a lovely city and I am having such a royal, good time,
that I have neglected thee, my little white-faced friend.
Florence has kept me going every minute. I met a Mr. Ford last night and
of all the men I have met since coming here I like him the best. He loves
music, poetry and flowers, and we are very congenial.
I have been here two weeks and have not kept my promise to Mr. Forsythe
to write. I must do so tonight, so farewell, my friend, for tonight.
FEBRUARY 1.
I received such a delightful letter from Mr. Forsythe this afternoon.
Such poetical sentiments, such pen pictures! It was certainly the most
beautiful letter I ever received. I wonder what he could have thought of
my poor, little missive. Still it is worth something to have inspired
such a beautiful reply. I wonder how soon I ought to answer. I should
like to get another from him soon, but I wouldn’t have him know it for
the world.
FEBRUARY 15.
I had another letter from Mr. Forsythe today. It was just a note
inquiring for Mrs. Madden’s address. It makes me smile. Men aren’t so
very sharp after all. As if I couldn’t see that the inquiry was only an
excuse to write to me and a gentle reminder of the fact that I owe him a
letter.
FEBRUARY 23.
Well, whom do you suppose was at the ball tonight? I was never so
surprised in my life. It was a club dance and Mr. Forsythe was there. I
did not know he was in the city. Oh, what a grand waltz we had! He said
business had called him East and he thought he would stop at Detroit for
a day before going on to New York.
Of course we know it was some one who wore a pink gown and has brown
eyes, don’t we?
He is dear, he looked down into my eyes and said, “What beautiful
unfathomed depths your soul has, though I can get but a peep at it
through those eyes.”
I can’t help it, I like to hear him say those things, although I ought
not to allow it and I know it. He is coming to call this afternoon.
FEBRUARY 25.
Well, he was here and Florence thought he was lovely. She came in
for a few moments and then excused herself, so we had the time all
to ourselves. I don’t know how I dared to do it, but it seemed as if
something impelled me to, and I said, “Mr. Forsythe, I don’t believe you
are as happy as you say you are. If you were you would not encourage
yourself so much.”
He was silent what seemed to me an interminable length of time and I
thought, “Now, my lady, you have spoiled your chances to do a good work,
by a word inopportunely spoken.” But I was wrong. He came over to me and
sat down beside me on the couch. He took my hand in his and said, “Miss
Montgomery, you are right, but you are the only one who has discerned it,
or at least the only one who has said so.”
Then I told him I was sorry I had been so abrupt, but he assured me that
it was all right and that he was glad I had spoken because now he would
feel free to talk the whole matter over with me.
He said his wife was good and kind, in fact, I don’t know that he said
anything but nice things, now that I stop to think of it.
But, little diary, I think I have discovered the trouble. I don’t believe
she understands him. She doesn’t appreciate the depth of his nature. It
may be no fault of hers; she associates with him daily and feels herself
so much a part of him that she has ceased to analyze him. It is not that
he has ceased to be interesting to her, for she loves him devotedly, but
it is the nature of a man to desire commendation and encouragement. He
doesn’t wish it to be taken for granted that he is doing well, but wishes
to hear words, words.
A deep bond of sympathy exists between us. I understand and he feels that
I understand. Oh, I am sure now that I can do good!
MARCH 1.
Well, little diary, you and I are going to return to Chicago Wednesday,
back to our home and our work. I am not going to send Mr. Forsythe any
word, but will surprise him by appearing in person at Mrs. Carter’s party
Friday night I wonder how he will look and what he will say.
MARCH 7.
The last words I wrote the other night were, “I wonder how he will
look, what he will say.” His face was a study, pleasure and surprise the
dominant emotions. He said only three words as he clasped my hand in his.
“Welcome home, Louise.” Louise! How he drew out the syllables. I never
before realized that my name was musical. I asked him how all the family
were and he said well and happy. Then he said Mrs. Forsythe was there and
he wanted us to meet. She is lovely, and as they came up to me she was
looking at him so fondly and proudly, I could see the devotion in her
eyes. I couldn’t help feeling a sharp twinge of my conscience as I stood
chatting to her, but I should not, for my intentions are the best, and if
she knew all the circumstances she would commend me, I know.
MARCH 16.
Sister and I were among several guests at Mr. and Mrs. Forsythe’s box
party last night and Robert managed to have the chair next mine, and
when “the lights were dim and low” he found my hand and gave it a gentle
squeeze and said, “I want to have a long talk with you soon, without fear
of interruption, and I know of no way this can be had unless you meet me
down town and take dinner with me.”
I asked him if he thought it was right, and he said, “You know I would
not ask you to do anything I thought was wrong.”
So I have promised to go. I wonder what in the world he is going to tell
me.
MARCH 27.
We had dinner at Rector’s at four o’clock today. Robert told me that he
loved me. I was dumbfounded and must have shown it plainly. I asked him
if he was in the habit of making love to young women. His lips quivered
and he said, “I don’t blame you for being offended, but I swear to you
that this is the first time I ever told a woman I loved her when I had
not the right to do so. I am sorry, so sorry, I have told you, for I
might have gone on suffering alone, and you would have never been the
wiser, while now I have made you unhappy, too. Can you forgive me?”
He leaned over toward me and looked into my eyes so eagerly for an
affirmative answer that—well, how could I refuse forgiveness, and then,
you know, my work must be considered.
APRIL 2.
Nell had an “All Fool’s” party last night, and such pranks as we played!
Of course Robert was not there, because only the young people were there,
and it seemed rather strange; in fact, I know I missed him, but this is
only for you to know, my faithful. Mr. Ford was there and he is awfully
nice, knows just what to do to make a girl comfortable. I am going to the
opera with him tonight. I shall enjoy it immensely with him, I know.
APRIL 14.
O dear! Robert is jealous of Mr. Ford. He happened to be at the opera
that night and saw us. He says he did not mean to be too observing, but
that he loved me so well that he couldn’t keep his eyes off me, and that
Mr. Ford must be in love with me, too, from the attention he bestowed
upon me.
APRIL 26.
Florence has been here since the 15th on a shopping expedition and we
have had no end of fun. She insists on my returning with her and so I
think we will go, you and I.
MAY 15.
Have been here two weeks and had a wire today from Robert. He will be
here the 17th, to remain a few days. I am just wondering what I can do
with Mr. Ford while he is here, for I shall have to devote every minute
to Robert, and that won’t please Mr. Ford very well. Oh, dear! I’m always
getting my wires crossed.
MAY 17.
I met Robert at the train today and before I could say a word he had put
his arm around me and kissed me, right on the lips. His first kiss, May
17th.
MAY 20.
Robert was here tonight and Florence had gone to the theater, we were
left alone. He took me in his arms and kissed me again and again and
every kiss thrilled me like an electric shock. I felt the blood tingling
to the ends of my fingers. I never felt so strange in my life. I pulled
away from him as soon as I could, but, oh, those kisses. They seemed to
intoxicate me. I felt as if I had been transported to Elysian fields,
and could die happy right there with my lips pressed to his. We had such
a nice visit. He says I am his guiding star, and that everything has
gone better since he knew me. I told him that he must never forget his
wife and he assured me that he would not, could not when he had such a
sweet reminder, even if she were not always so good and kind. He said,
too, that she could not satisfy the longings in his soul which had been
there for years, until he met me. That a man must have love, sympathy and
encouragement to fill his life and make it complete.
JUNE 4.
I had a telegram from New York this morning. It was from Robert asking me
to meet him there. I—shall I go or shall I not?
JUNE 6.
I have decided to go. I had some shopping to do anyway, and I can do
better there than here or in Chicago.
JUNE 10.
When I arrived here, Robert had a beautiful suite of rooms engaged for me
at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. He told me more about his life at home, and
its deficiencies, and that his health was failing him. I am dreadfully
worried about him, he looks badly. I wonder what I ought to do? If she
only knew how he felt and that she was the cause of it, she might do
differently, but it is such a delicate matter, I am afraid to interfere.
I pity him so much. He is coming to see me tonight. He has said no word,
but the hungry look in his eyes speaks to my heart more forcibly than
words. He will take me in his arms again tonight, and once more I shall
feel the thrill when our lips meet in one long kiss, and maybe I shall
say, “Robert, take me for your own, if it will restore you to health.”
JUNE 12.
Robert came. We talked over the whole matter. I asked him if there was
anyone else in his life. He said _no_! That he had never loved anyone but
me. Then—then, I put myself in his arms and said, “Robert, take me!” He
said, “Little girl, are you sure you want to make the sacrifice?” I said,
“Yes.” I gave myself willingly for pity’s sake, not for love, because I
do not love him. Then our compact was sealed with a kiss. Our lips met,
and soon I was all his.
How can I entrust this to you, my silent friend? How can I sully your
white pages with a relation of my conduct. The world would call me bad if
it knew. I should not be the highly respected Louise Montgomery, that I
have always been, and all because I have chosen to bring happiness to one
who was dying for love.
I wonder if I can go back to the old scenes and feel the same; feel
that I am worthy to mingle with the old friends. Yet why should I feel
thus? If anyone is wronged it is I. It must be the imaginings of a
super-sensitive conscience, or the result of early training which makes
me feel unworthy. I wonder what our Rector would say if he could look
down into my heart and see; can it be possible that there are others in
our set who are as guilty—I must not think it, much less write it. But
after all, I do not regret. I have made a sacrifice for a worthy cause.
JUNE 30.
Back home again and getting ready to go away for the summer. Have seen
Robert three times since I returned, and we seem to grow nearer and
dearer to each other.
JULY 10.
Petoskey never seemed one-half so beautiful to me as it does this season.
Even the people are nicer. The men are kind and attentive but towering
over and above them all, I can see the face of the one man I love. Yes,
little diary, I love him now, he has woven himself into my very nature
even in this short time. “I could not forget you, dear Robert, if all
these men were kings and princes, for you are my prince and my king. Your
dear letters are such a comfort to me, and I am so happy in your love,
even though I know there is no future.”
How I miss him! It is always he who thinks of the little things that go
to make up a woman’s life.
JULY 31.
My sweetheart is coming today. I am counting the hours. Just three hours
and twenty minutes and I shall be with him once more. What a perfect day
this. Nature seems to reflect my joy.
AUGUST 1.
We are going for a long drive today, through the fragrant pine woods. We
will be alone for the first time since he came. I can feel those dear
arms about me, those full, soft lips on mine, even now.
AUGUST 14.
Robert is going today, and with him goes the brightness. We have had
such a glorious two weeks of constant companionship. We will be reunited
soon, though, for he is going up into Canada to find a quiet, country
home where we can spend the best month of the whole year—beautiful, hazy
October. I am supposed to be going to New York.
“Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.”
SEPTEMBER 3.
Florence is here and I have taken her into my confidence, not from
choice, but because it seemed necessary. I am sure she loves me just as
well as before, but she says it is wrong, all wrong. That I am making the
greatest mistake of my life; that no man is worthy of the sacrifice, and
that in time, even though he is true now, he will weary of me. Ugh! “She
made me to shudder and grow sick at heart.” But I do not believe it. Is
he not my “Roumald,” I his “Clarimonde”? How many times he has said, “To
know you is to know all women.” And that satiety itself I set on fire.
SEPTEMBER 30.
At last, at last! I leave on the North-West today for the “Soo,” where
Robert joins me, and together we go to Collinwood, on Georgian Bay.
He found a beautiful country home near there, which is ideally quiet and
overlooks the Bay.
OCTOBER 2.
We are on our way. Oh, the joy of this trip, the perfect contentment.
Robert’s face has been radiant with happiness all day. When I see him
in his strength, and manly beauty, enjoying God’s choicest gift, good
health, and know that I am the cause, should I not rejoice?
OCTOBER 16.
What an ideal spot! It beggars description. We are so happy. Sometimes we
stroll together through the woods, where the warm tinted Autumn leaves
make a soft carpet for our feet. When we tire, we sit down and he reads
to me by the hour. What a beautiful world! I never dreamed of such tender
solicitude as he shows me in every action. At night if I stir or murmur
in my sleep, he awakens me by drawing me closer to his heart and saying,
“What is it, pet, are you in pain?” I laugh at him and tell him he must
not be so foolish. He says in reply that he loves me every minute of the
day and night, that his thoughts are filled with me, whether waking or
sleeping, and that he loves to waken me for he is sure of two soft arms
stealing around his neck in a warm embrace, and two red lips seeking his.
NOVEMBER 1.
Oh, dear! It is all ever, this, the very happiest month of my life. As
we were about to leave the room where we have been so happy for the last
time, he clasped me to his breast and sobbed like a baby and I wept
with him. Oh, dear! how can I ever give him up again to those to whom he
belongs?
NOVEMBER 6.
At home once more. I am so lonely and desolate. Little diary, I wonder if
this is punishment. Yet, if I have done no wrong, why should I think this
is punishment?
NOVEMBER 23.
Dear God! If I might have been spared this great agony! Anything but
this! My idol shattered and my heart broken. He was not true, and I
trusted him so implicitly! How could he deceive me so? There was another
woman who entered his life before he ever met me. She either heard or
imagined that he had transferred his affections to me and came to me with
all, asking me to give him up, because he is all she has in the world.
She has no home, no one to care for her and supply her wants as I have.
How could he do it? How could he do it? Not quite a year. Oh, the agony
of it!
I went to him with her statement and he said it was true, but that
he never loved her. I cannot believe him. I cannot believe anyone or
anything now. I have no one I can tell. I must suffer all alone. Florence
is the only one and I would die before I would tell her. My pride won’t
allow me to admit his perfidy to anyone. I cannot bear to have the world
think ill of him, even now. How can I live and bear it? I will not.
I cannot. I will end it all. Goodbye, little diary, my only faithful
friend. You, too, might have proved false had you the power. Goodbye.
TALE TWO.
THE LIFE STORY OF A SOUTHERN WIDOW.
NOT QUITE THE SAME.
“Not quite the same the springtime seems to me,
Since that sad season when in separate ways
Our paths diverged. There are no more such days
As dawned for us in that last time when we
Dwelt in the realm of dreams, illusive dreams;
Spring may be just as fair now, but it seems
Not quite the same.”
“Ah, good evening, Mr. Philmore! I have been expecting you. Have this
chair, please.”
As I took the proffered seat I gazed steadily at my hostess. A woman
in possession of all her natural charms, a picture of health, a vision
of grace and an example of nobility. Time had softened her features;
the sweetness of childhood had grown tenfold in the process of matronly
perfection. The erectness of carriage, the finely traced features, the
shapely hand and dainty foot, so highly arched, denoted the purest type
of refinement, while no artist conceived more graceful curves than those
which were so plainly noticeable as one ran one’s eyes from head to feet;
gowned in some soft, clinging black silk, the contour of her figure was a
feast for the eyes of gods. The soft, dulcet tones in which she plainly
articulated, were of sufficient sweetness to attract one to her if that
were the only charm which she could bring to bear.
Nothing had been left undone in the furnishing of the elegant house in
which she lived; rich draperies adorned the walls, tapestry of the rarest
quality fittingly relieved the handsome oriental rugs and handsomely
frescoed ceilings. Potted plants placed here and there sent out such a
fragrant odor that it was almost impossible for one to believe that it
was midwinter and that the mercury hovered uncomfortably near zero. The
bric-a-brac and pictures were so well selected and artistically arranged
that one could readily see the rare good taste and culture which was a
dominant feature in the appointment of the entire establishment. The
cheeriness seemed to add a halo to the surroundings; the perfect harmony
with which all things were blended seemed to soften one’s nature to a
sense of responsibility toward things infinite.
Large, liquid brown eyes rested softly on me, and the satiny complexion
of Mrs. Penway glowed with such a beaming radiance of congeniality that
despite her forty or more years, I felt as though I were basking in the
sunshine of youthful smiles. Coupled with all the beauty and symmetry
there was a distinct imprint of sadness on her features, which was
readily detected. They were not the hardened lines which denote misery
and want as associates to suffering, not the expression of hardship, but
rather that “resigned to duty” look.
After commenting on the weather and general topics of the day I came to
the point by asking Mrs. Penway if she had her narration written.
“No; I think, Mr. Philmore, that I shall recite the incidents to you as
they transpired and ask you to be kind enough to arrange the statement
into sentences best suited to your purpose.”
“Very well, I will do the best I can to tell the tale in a readable
manner.”
“To begin with, I am a native of Southern Missouri. My parents being
Scotch, I feel that my ancestry is traceable through a long line of
descendants. My father was engaged in the lumber business. It was his
custom to buy large tracts of timber land, then placing his mill at
convenient points he would proceed to convert all the available timber
into marketable lumber. Money proved to be the blessing and curse, which
was eventually the cause of more suffering than one cares to bear.
“Years ago my father purchased a body of land in Arkansas, covering an
area of twelve thousand acres. In the transaction he became financially
involved to such an extent that he was compelled to go for assistance
to some of the large dealers to whom he was in the habit of selling the
greater part of his output. At this call for aid a man came to our home
to talk the matter over. He had the appearance of being a man of fifty
years of age; he was wealthy, very wealthy; he remained there for ten
days, during which time he seemed to grow very fond of me as a child and
would often pat me on the head, coaxingly calling me his little girl.
“After he had gone, I overheard my parents talking. Father said, ‘Well,
that is a load off my mind.’ ‘And one off mine,’ said my mother. Then
she broke down and cried. Between the sobs I could gather but little.
However, I heard her say, ‘I know she will never be happy.’
“I had not the slightest idea to whom she referred. Next morning she
called me to her. ‘Dear,’ she said, ‘you are going away.’
“‘Oh, where to?’ I cried in my childish delight and anticipation of
travel.
“Noting my eagerness and mistaking it for joy at leaving home, my mother,
with tears streaming down her dear white face, said, ‘Are you happy to
think of it?’
“‘No, not that, mother,’ said I, ‘but I should like to see and learn of
things which I have heard so much about and have known so little.’
“‘Well, dear, you are to go away from us and go into school. We, your
father and I, have concluded that it is best.’
“‘But mamma, won’t that cost a great deal of money?’
“‘Yes, but your father now has his affairs in shape so that he can afford
to educate you.’
“As my mother finished this last sentence a fresh torrent of tears sprang
from her eyes. It was all a mystery to me, for I had known of my father’s
difficulties; I could not understand the sudden turn of affairs. I
quickly resolved upon a plan which would at least enlighten me; there was
in the employ of my father a young man by the name of Landrie Grayson,
everyone called him ‘Lannie.’ He was a trusted man of affairs; things
which other men were never consulted upon were always brought to Lannie
for his advice. Lannie could explain to me the cause of this sudden
resolution on the part of my parents.
“Lannie stood quite six feet tall, while his broad shoulders looked as
though he could carry with ease and grace the burdens which might quickly
crush other men out of all semblance of humanity. If his blue eyes were
tender, they were only a relief from the firmly set jaws, which plainly
said, ‘I will,’ without so much as a movement of the rather thin lips. I
knew that Lannie would know and tell me, for he was honest; he had been
in the family for years; I had learned to lean upon him as a brother,
and as I sought him out from among the whirling pullies, singing saws,
and swiftly crawling belts that day, I felt proud to think that I had at
different times during my infancy sat on one of those square shoulders or
clung tenaciously to that sinewy neck, as Lannie had waded through slough
and brush, taking me from place to place in the forest; he had killed
the snakes and chased away the wild boars that would so frighten me in
childhood, and when young squirrels were susceptible to capture he would
always keep the cage well filled with every known variety with which the
woods abounded. If Lannie was the strong rod on which I learned to lean,
wherein was I to blame?
“Lannie saw me as I wistfully watched and waited, then giving some orders
(for he was papa’s foreman), he came to where I was standing and said,
‘What is it, Ailene?’
“‘Lannie, I want to tell you something.’ I think the tremor of my
childish voice impressed Lannie, for he asked me to go to the office, a
rough affair, but there were chairs there, and we could be alone and
away from the clanging saws and flying dust.
“‘Now tell me what it is, little one,’ said Lannie, as he closed the
door and took up a handful of curls which had crowded out from under the
gingham bonnet which I wore.
“‘Lannie, I am going away,’ said I.
“‘I know it,’ replied Lannie.
“‘You; who told you?’
“‘I heard the bargain.’
“‘Bargain; what’s that, Lannie?’
“‘I heard your father say that you could go.’
“‘Oh, did you hear him tell mamma?’
“‘No, I heard him tell the old man with the white side whiskers.’
“‘Do you know where I am going to, Lannie?’
“‘I only know that you are going away to school; the rich old man is to
select the place and you are to be sent there, and⸺’
“Lannie turned to the window without finishing the sentence. Presently he
resumed his speech again by asking if I was glad. I did not know what the
change in Lannie’s voice meant then, but I could not fail to notice it.
“‘Yes, I want to go and learn to be a lady, but—I—don’t like to go away
and leave mamma and⸺’
“‘And who, Ailene?’
“‘You, Lannie. I will be lonely with a whole lot of dressed up children
and mean old teachers around.’
“Before I had closed my sentence Lannie had drawn me to him and was
kissing me fondly.
“‘Oh, little girl, you don’t know how much Lannie will miss you, and to
think I won’t see you any more.’
“‘Why, Lannie, why do you say that? I won’t stay always.’
“‘No, but you see, little one, the rich man wants you for his own; he is
only waiting for you to be educated and grow into full womanhood. Then
you are to be his.’
“‘Hasn’t he any little girls of his own?’
“‘No, you poor dear, you don’t know what I mean; what it all means.’
“‘No, tell me, Lannie, for if it is not nice and good I don’t want to do
anything but just stay here.’
“‘Well, it’s this, Ailene; may God grant that you will forgive me for
disturbing your young heart, but your father came near losing all he had.
He applied to a firm for financial aid; the old gentleman who was here
furnished the much needed assistance under these conditions: That you be
educated at his expense and then he will marry you for he has fallen in
love with you.’
“‘Oh, the ugly old thing! I don’t want to marry him. I hate him. I don’t
want to marry anybody. I want to stay where you are,’ I cried.
“‘Yes, dear, I know, but a great deal depends on you, for you were not to
know it yet, and as I have been a witness to the contract and have been
sworn to secrecy you must not tell anyone that you know.’
“‘But I won’t go.’
“‘Yes, pet, you must go and remember that you are only fifteen now; you
are not expected to marry your father’s benefactor until you are nineteen
or twenty, changes may take place before the time arrives for you to
give up all hope.’
“It was a sad leave taking for more than me; I shall never forget the
pained expression in my mother’s face and the stern, sad look of my
father as I waved my hand from the car window.
“Lannie had carried a little basket of luncheon to the station for me,
and when I opened it on the train late that afternoon I found a handful
of wild flowers wrapped in a piece of the “Lumberman’s Journal,” which I
knew Lannie to be a regular subscriber of; there under the glass cover
are those same flowers, withered and faded beyond recognition, but the
sweet memory which clings to them makes them more precious to me than all
the blossoms this world contains.
“I had four years of school life with everything that money could buy,
kind friends, pleasant surroundings and indulgent teachers.
“But oh, how I longed for mother, for the woods, the vines and moss, the
whirr of saws, and the scream of the mill whistle and for Lannie. Oh, for
one hour in the tangled forest with strong, brave Lannie would have paid
me for all the suffering which I had to bear.