work in a factory. All this time my baby was growing from the sphere of
long clothes, into prattling, toddling childhood. Father toiled long and
faithfully day by day; mother and I managed the housework, nor was our
strength taxed, for we had but a five-room cottage, and it seemed a shame
that poor father should work so hard, so many long hours of the day and
we have so much time to spend in idleness. It was decided that I should
seek employment and I obtained a situation as maid in the home of one
of the large factory owners. I had a very pleasant place, and when at
the end of two years, the family decided to remove to Chicago, it was
arranged that I go with them. My mother could easily get along without
me, and she had grown so fond of the baby that she would not hear of my
taking her with me.
“I was soon located in my new home on one of the principal North Side
thoroughfares of the city. All went well until one day the lady of the
house announced that she expected some company from California, and
wished me to be in attendance to them during their stay.
“When the visitors arrived I was at my station in the hall on the second
floor; the hostess greeted them, and in her demonstration of hospitality
showed the lady the suite they were to occupy during their stay. She
rang and I went in to assist in putting away the wraps. The lady was a
sweet young matron, and when she said, ‘Now I must have my baby with me a
little while,’ I could have hugged her.
“‘Yes,’ said the hostess; ‘Virginia, run down and bring the baby up; he
is with his papa in the reception room.’
“Then, with a motherly feeling growing in my breast, I descended the
heavily carpeted stairs, three steps at a time, but even in my flight I
had taken time to fall in love with that baby before I ever set eyes on
it.
“I told the gentleman that I would take the baby up to its mother.
I saw the pallor on his face as I spoke, but when I took my baby’s
half-brother into my arms none of the spectators suspected the truth.”
“Then the man was⸺?”
“Yes, it was my Arthur who had brought his wife and child to visit in the
home where I was a servant, quite accidental, of course, and thanks to my
rugged nature, I did not faint nor in any way betray my feelings.
“For two weeks I held my post of duty. Once he tried to speak to me in
the hall, but I ran away from him. I felt that my claim had been settled.
The day they left he pushed an envelope into my hand as I was packing
his wife’s trunks. It contained a fifty-dollar bill and a letter. The
money was an insult; the letter told me of his sympathy for me, and how
he had been engaged to his wife long before he met me, but had loved me
and still did. It all aroused my anger. I brooded over the matter for
three weeks, then concluded to go to his home and expose the whole affair
to his wife. I went to Anderson, got my little girl and departed for the
west. I had no difficulty in finding his home. I was admitted and ushered
into the parlor. His wife soon came to me; the moment she saw my little
girl she began to weep and took her in her arms. My first impression
was that he had told her everything. But no, she explained to me that
her baby boy had contracted a cold in Chicago, from which he had never
recovered, and they had buried him but two days before. She insisted
on knowing whose child I had with me. Her suffering had the effect of
changing my plans. Poor soul, I did not wish to add to her misery. After
wringing a promise from her never to tell anyone, not even her husband,
I told my story. I told her all except who the man was, and I concealed
that fact from her. She insisted on my staying at their home for a few
days until I found work. I was eager to do so, for she said baby and I
would be such a comfort to her.
“I left with a promise to return. I found Arthur’s office and told him
why I had come west, also how my plans were altered. He listened in
silence until I had finished, then tenderly he took the baby into his
arms and kissed her—just think, the first father’s kiss she had ever
known.
“In spite of all my desire to expose him I was now fully convinced that
it would be a great wrong to wreck his life and that of the woman who was
his wife, and whom he had loved before he met me. He joined his wife in
her entreaties for me to make my home with them, at least, he said, until
I could do better.
“All went well for two months. Suffer? Yes, I suffered more than I dared
then admit, but I was doing good, I was making his wife happy instead of
dealing out pain, as I first intended. I am sure he suffered also, but I
think he, too, found a great deal of happiness in the fact that he was
doing all in his power for me and my child, without doing any harm to
anyone. But an end must come, even to good intentions. One evening we
were all sitting in the library of his home; my little girl was playing
with a doll house he had given her. She had been quietly engaged in this
pursuit for some moments, and so still was she we almost forgot that she
was in the room. All at once she left her play and ran to Arthur and
proceeded to climb up in his lap. Then putting her chubby arms around
his neck and kissing his cheek, she said, ‘I wish you was my papa.’ And
before anyone could answer her she turned to me and said, ‘Mamma, ain’t I
dot no papa? Why tant you det me a nice papa like—like—Unca Arter?’
“It was too much for him. Tears sprang into his eyes and, putting her
gently from him, he left the room. His wife thought his grief was caused
by the sad recollection of their baby, but I knew. Such scenes were
exceedingly straining, so I avowed my intention to return to Chicago,
whereupon they begged me to leave my little Harriet with them. We talked
it over while Arthur held her on his knee. I finally consented, for I
knew she would be better cared for there with them than she would with
me. I felt the greatest pain, though, when, after it was settled, Arthur
lovingly folded her in his arms and said, ‘Now, darling, I am going to be
your papa.’ Freeing herself from him, and not quite understanding it all,
she ran to me and said, ‘Who’s doin’ to be my mamma now, you, mamma, or
Auntie Arter?’ I could only take her in my arms and weep.
“Good-byes were said and I came here and found work in a restaurant.
Letters came and went with the regularity of the rising sun. Always a
little sheet of scribbles from my baby. They never allowed her to forget
me. To my surprise one day I received a telegram from Arthur saying that
his wife, the baby and himself would arrive in Chicago in three days.
I did not understand at the time, but learned upon their arrival that
Arthur’s wife had become afflicted with some malady which required a
difficult surgical operation, and she was coming here for that purpose.
“The operation was performed and everything done to save her precious
life, but it became the painful duty of the nurse to tell Arthur that
all efforts had resulted in failure. The slender thread of life seemed
about to be severed. They sent for me to come to the hospital and bring
my baby. I went and was shown to the room where white sheets seemed
to predominate, the monotony of which was only broken by the vases of
beautiful flowers which filled the room with sweet perfume.
“Arthur and the nurse were with her. She feebly requested the nurse to
leave us alone, then she kissed me and the baby, and reached out her
feverish hands to Arthur.
“‘Arthur,’ she said, in trembling tones, ‘Arthur, say once more that you
love me and for the sake of that love will do something for me.’
“The scene was pitiful. Arthur knelt beside the bed and took the death
marked face between his strong hands and said, ‘Nannie, dear, I do love
you, and will do anything you ask.’
“Poor soul, how she struggled for breath while Arthur with his face
buried in the white linen sobbed his heart out.
“Then she said, ‘Now the baby.’
“He took the baby and placed her on the bed as she requested, where she
could pat and caress her.
“‘And now you come, too, Virginia.’
“And there, with death stealing in on the bright rays of sunlight, we
knelt one on either side of the baby.
“With a look of love which I shall always cherish, she began by
addressing me:
“‘Virginia, I know all; he, Arthur, my Arthur and your Arthur, dear, has
been good and truthful, and baby, God bless you, you have a real papa now
and one of your choice. Listen—Arthur—Virginia⸺,’ her breath now came
in gasps,—‘I’m—going to our little Arthur—see—see—he is watching us—and
he’s waiting—for—me. Promise—Arthur—promise—Vir-gin—ia, that when I am
gone—you will marry—for the baby’s—sake—and—my—sake—promise.’
“The sun crept through the blinds and lighted the smile that flitted over
her face as I closed the bloodless eyelids.
“As soon as Arthur could arrange his business affairs in California, he
went to New York, where baby and I were to join him.
“We were married quietly there a month after Nannie died. Quietly,
because the world would have censured us for lack of respect had it known
just that much of the affair.
“We sailed for Liverpool, and traveled abroad a year, and on our return
we married again, and this time publicly. We are very happy, although
there was much pain behind it all. We both know now what true happiness
is.”
TALE THIRTEEN.
NOT GUILTY.
“I have so loved thee, but cannot, cannot hold thee,
Fading like a dream, the shadows fold thee;
Slowly thy perfect beauty fades away,
Good-bye, sweet day; good-bye, sweet day.”
I stood outside and listened. The silvery, sweet tones of the singer rose
clear above the soft guitar accompaniment. As the last words died away
on the stillness of the evening air, I rang the bell. It seemed almost
sacrilege to break in on her quiet enjoyment, although I knew she must
soon be expecting me. She responded to the summons at the door herself.
Of medium height, with beautiful, sloping shoulders, a tiny waist and
perfectly moulded hips, she would have inspired an artist. Her hair
was prematurely gray, and dressed low on her neck. Her face was almost
perfect in feature and the only traces of sorrow time had left visible
were the gray hairs and lines about the slightly drooping mouth. It was
the heart which bore the scars of agony, invisible to all but her and her
God. She had passed through the fire and had come forth purer, fairer,
sweeter, more charitable, more forgiving, better fitted to cope with the
world.
This was the woman as I knew her now, and had known her for the past
year. She was to be married on the morrow (lucky man), and had promised
to tell me her life’s story before she married.
“For I shall want to forget all that sad past after the last day of this
life, for tomorrow, I trust, a new era shall have dawned for me,” she
said, when she gave me her promise.
When I heard her singing I wondered if she longed, yet feared, the new
life, and if she wished to hold the day yet a little longer, which she
had evidently given over to reminiscences, for I knew the past held some
sweet memories, for every past has them, no matter how bitter it has
been. And those sweet memories seem the brighter for their setting of
darkness.
“I have been thinking of my past life all day,” she said, after we were
seated, “and you know when one indulges in such a review a thousand
things recur to one’s mind which are really irrelevant to the real story,
yet they all combine to make up one’s life, and may have some bearing on
the case after all.”
She was silent a long time, looking out into the twilight with unseeing
eyes.
“You know I was accused of murder,” she said, abruptly. “I was tried and
acquitted owing to insufficient evidence.”
“Yes, I remember something about it.”
“Five years ago, when I was nineteen, I married a man who was twenty
years my senior. I met him out west while I was visiting there. He was a
miner then, not actively engaged in digging the gold out of mother earth,
nor panning it, but he was on the ground and superintended the work. He
was a handsome man, although bronzed by exposure to the sun and wind; a
Yale graduate, and every inch a gentleman, although thoroughly a man of
the world. To sentimental nineteen, he had all the qualifications of a
god, and although he was not the only one in Colorado Springs who was
attentive to me, he was the one altogether lovely in my eyes. To be Mrs.
Chauncey M. Dare was the height of my girlish ambition, and I used to
write my name ‘Lucile Dare’ just to see how it would look on paper, and
all this was before he had asked me to take his name.
“My auntie, who was a wealthy widow, thoroughly approved of him and
thought him a most eligible parti. He was reputed wealthy and, as Auntie
said, he was old enough to be staid in his ways. I am sure she had my
best interests at heart, but it seems strange to me now that she did not
realize that he was too many years my senior and also that she did not
deem it necessary to look into his antecedents. But if she had, she might
not have found out, and I suppose I should not have this story to tell,
and perhaps, too, I should have always been a careless child, with no
thought for the comfort and welfare of others.
“Well, we were married on the fifteenth of October and took apartments at
The Arlington, instead of going to housekeeping, because he said he did
not expect to remain there long, and it was an easy matter to pack and
leave the hotel.
“It was his desire to go back to New York City and show his ‘girl bride,’
as he called me, to all his friends and have a taste of real life.
“He met the highest ideal of all my girlish fancies, and was as tender a
husband as he was a lover.
“After we had been married six months he came home one night and said,
‘Hurrah, babe, we are going east in a fortnight, thank God, so get your
duds packed and be ready.’
“I was glad to make the change, too, for youth loves a change, and I was
delighted at the prospect of going to New York, for I had never been
further east than Chicago.
“We went at the end of the two weeks. I was received with open arms by
all his friends in the east and I thought myself the happiest girl in
the world, for he seemed so proud of me. I know now it was not the right
kind of pride. He was not proud of me for my goodness and purity, it was
rather the pride in the possession of some coveted article, for I was
conceded to be beautiful then, and I suppose my figure was good. His was
not a nature capable of appreciating nobility of character.
“He took a house there, and we entertained a great deal and on a large
scale. I think I might say I was a favorite in his set, but what does
all that amount to? His was a fickle nature and when he thought he had
fathomed mine, when he thought he knew me in the perfection of every
art I possessed, he began to weary. I did not know it at the time, I
knew something had caused a change, but always attributed it to business
cares. He began by neglecting me occasionally; from that it grew to
continuous neglect, even to the point of ignoring my existence altogether.
“Endowed by nature with a cheerful disposition, my volatile spirits were
continually on the rebound and even his gross neglect I did not feel
deeply until it was brought home to me very forcibly after a year’s time.
“It was by one of his best friends, although many years his junior. He
had long treated me with a great deal of consideration, but I never felt
it was more than the ordinary courtesy that one friend would show to the
wife of another until that night.
“We had been dancing together and he took me to the conservatory to rest
and sat down beside me to talk. Perhaps I was unusually tired that night,
or perhaps, owing to the round of gayety, I looked worn. At any rate Mr.
Mansfield leaned over me with an air of anxiety and said, ‘Lucile, are
you sure you are quite well tonight?’
“‘Why, yes, of course I am,’ I responded, laughingly. ‘Why?’
“‘You look thoroughly disconsolate tonight. Are you worrying about
something? About—about Chauncey and his doings?’
“‘About Chauncey and his doings? Why, what do you mean? Why should I? He
is perfectly well, isn’t he?’
“‘Yes, his physical health is good, but you surely know that he is
drinking hard, and his neglect of you is occasioning a great deal of
comment. It isn’t right, and we all feel it.’
“‘Why, I hadn’t thought about it,’ I said, ‘only that he was very busy.’
“‘Do you mean to say you don’t know the way he has been doing. Why, I
could take you to him this very minute.’
“My face burned, my heart began to throb violently. Tears of anger slowly
welled up and overflowed my eyes. And yet I really could not comprehend
it all.
“‘You must be mistaken, Horace. Surely Chauncey loves me still. We have
never had any cross words or misunderstandings.’
“It may have been pique at my incredulity that made him say suddenly,
‘Lucile, come with me. Get your wraps and come, and put on a heavy veil.
I will show you.’
“Mechanically I obeyed him. We entered his carriage together and drove,
miles and miles, it seemed to me. I was very nervous and trembled
violently. Horace tried to reassure me and stroked my hand tenderly.
“‘Brace up, little girl,’ he said; ‘you need all your strength for the
ordeal before you. Perhaps I have done wrong to tell you this or to
take you where you can see it, but you are too young, too good to be
treated in this manner and you ought to see for yourself the depth of his
depravity.’
“‘Do you think I will be any happier for being disillusioned?’ I asked.
‘Would it not have been better for me to have gone on blindly trusting?
Oh, why did you tell me, why did I come, anyway?’
“‘If you wish to, we will return at once.’
“‘No, I must see it through to the bitter end. I could never be happy
again now, knowing even as much as I do.’
“We drew up in front of a large house ablaze with light. We alighted,
rang the bell, and were ushered into a sumptuously furnished parlor.
Everything that was picturesque met the eye. Beautiful pictures and
statues, elegant furniture and beautiful women, elaborately attired, and
behind the palms in the corner was an orchestra. Everything combined to
make the scene enchanting. I clung bewildered to Horace’s arm.
“He led me to a small room off a large salon, where there were many
tables. It was a scene of wild revelry, wine flowed freely and the air
was heavy with the odor of many flowers. Horace pointed out a table near
the center of the room. Seated at this table were two women and a man.
The women were horribly made up and gowned in extreme decollete gowns,
only fit for the most formal affair, and were laughing boisterously at
something.
“When the man turned his head I recognized my husband, and as I gazed he
placed his hand on the exposed chest of one of his blasé companions, and
patted it just as he had mine a thousand times when we first married.
The spectacle was too revolting for words. I gave a slight scream. But
Horace had anticipated some such occurrence and pressed my face against
his broad shoulder. When I had partially recovered my normal condition we
left. Back home—yes, now a home no longer! Back to the place where I had
known so many happy days. Horace bade me good-night in the reception hall.
“‘Lucile,’ said he, ‘you don’t know how sorry I am to have been the one
to change the whole tenor of your life, but it was more honorable in me,
was it not, than to maintain silence?’
“‘Yes,’ I said, calmly.
“I went into the library and took a new magazine from the table, sat
down and waited. Two o’clock, three o’clock, four o’clock and still no
Chauncey. My eyes were glued to the clock; 4:15 and I heard a step.
I half rose in my nervous expectancy and was appalled to see an arm
uplifted over me as to strike. I threw up my right hand, which held the
paper knife, to ward off the blow which seemed imminent.
* * * * *
“When I returned to consciousness I was lying on a couch by the window,
my head was dizzy and the room was filled with imaginary voices. I
wondered where I could be; then the occurrences of the previous night
passed before me in rapid succession. I jumped up and the sight which met
my eyes froze the blood in my veins.
“There weltering in his own life blood, with the steel paper knife buried
in his throat, lay Horace.
“Words cannot express the agony of the hours that followed. I managed to
arouse the servants and they called the police. They asked me to explain,
but they could not get a satisfactory explanation from me. I did not know
how it all happened and I was mentally incapable of doing myself justice
in telling what I knew. My account was so confused that I was remanded to
jail without bail, pending my trial. Oh, those awful days! Not a friend
came to see me. While I was living in affluence I had scores of friends,
but now that I was in trouble and disgrace there was not one of all the
number that would take me by the hand.”
“But where was your husband all this time?”
“Yes, you may well ask.
“When they questioned him as to his whereabouts on that night, he proved
an alibi. He gave a detailed account of his doings every hour of that
night and, while it did not redound to his credit, it saved him from the
penitentiary, and nearly sent me there.
“There were three reasons why I was cleared. Firstly, they could prove no
motive for the act; secondly, it seemed impossible for a woman to strike
such a powerful blow; and last, but not least, the efficiency of my
counsel.
“He was an entire stranger to me. He had read the newspaper accounts of
the affair, which stated, among other things, that I had no counsel,
and his sympathies were aroused. He took up my case with no prospect of
compensation.”
“But, tell me, what became of your husband and who killed Horace?”
“That mystery was not solved until six months ago. I had come to Chicago
after the trial was over to get away from all the old environments and
the old scenes, in the most miserable health. I found employment here and
as soon as my mind became occupied with other things I began to recover.
One day I received a telegram which had been forwarded from place to
place in search of me. It came from my husband’s physician, and told me
to come at once, as Chauncey was dying, and it was his last request that
they find me and bring me there at any cost. I went and he confessed
before witnesses that he was guilty of the crime for which I had been
arrested.
“It seems that Horace never left the house that night, fearing, I
suppose, that I might do myself some injury. He saw Chauncey come in
intoxicated, and fearing he might do me bodily harm he ran in to warn
me. It must have been his raised arm, silently motioning me to fly, which
I, in my dazed condition, mistook for Chauncey, and in fear threw up my
arm for protection, then fainted. Chauncey staggered in and the sight of
Horace there with me so angered him that he picked up the first thing he
could lay his hands on, which chanced to be the paper knife, and in his
drunken rage he killed him.
“The sight of his crime sobered him and self-protection was his first
thought. He placed me on the couch, never stopping to revive me, and
fled, leaving me to my fate.
“Ah, well,” she shuddered, “it is all over now. He died repentant in my
arms, begging me to forgive him with his last breath.
“Tomorrow I marry Mr. Graves, the attorney who defended me, and God grant
that I may be happy. I shall try to deserve it.”
“Amen,” said I.
TALE FOURTEEN.
MY LOVER’S DAUGHTER.
“He
That kills himself to avoid misery, fears it;
And at the best shows but a bastard valor.”
Dear Stella:—How strange that you should write me; do you know, girlie,
that it has been almost five years since we have had any correspondence?
It was only yesterday that I got out all of your old letters and re-read
them, then put them away with the forlorn hope that I might sometime
hear from you again. The last letter that I had from you told me of your
engagement to Alfred, and cruel, heartless creature that I was, I did
not even answer. I wrote you once since then, that was after my trouble.
I did not tell you what it was, but told you that I would if you felt
interested. You did not answer my letter and I, of course, took it for
granted that you did not wish to be burdened with the knowledge of my
misfortune, so never wrote you again. And now, bless your dear heart, you
have written after so long, and in just the same sweet way as of old,
even though you have so recently undergone such a great bereavement. You
are a widow. How strange! And I am still unmarried, and have taken a vow
to remain so always.