lived together. You ask me to tell you all that has happened to me. Well,
nothing has occurred to change the humdrum existence of my life since I
came here to live. I have worked every working day but five during my
residence here. You well remember when I went to California to spend
the winter. It was the winter I was twenty, and I think you know that
when we parted, with the vow that we would write each other all our joys
and sorrows, that I left heart whole. I have not kept my word in full,
but will now endeavor to cover all important points. I arrived in San
Francisco on schedule time, and was so delighted with the climate, the
fragrant flowers and singing birds that I do not wonder that I was ready
to admire the first man whose conduct and appearance was on par with the
beauties of nature that abounded everywhere.
Still I knew better than to fall in love, for I was given to understand
by mamma that I was to marry Harry Caruthers. I fairly hated him,
and besides he was papa’s nephew, and I always had a horror of blood
relations intermarrying. Mamma said that did not matter, and Harry would
be a very wealthy man some day. And you remember mamma, too. She was one
of those sweet, dignified, haughty women who needed nothing but her own
opinion to conclude an argument, and this with all due respect.
Well, I fully understood that to apprise them of the fact that I had
become greatly interested in any one man, save that red faced Caruthers,
meant that my visit would suddenly terminate and that I would return to
cold, cold Wisconsin, to face the storms for the rest of the winter.
It was only the girlish ingenuity then which prompted me to omit the name
of Capt. Elerding from all my letters for more than three months after I
had met him. Oh, he was so good and kind, so considerate of my welfare,
and I think the most refined gentleman I ever met. I would not blame any
woman for falling in love with him. I fell desperately in love with him
and, strange to say, without any solicitation on his part. He never once
told me that he loved me, but I knew it by his every glance and his every
act. The feeling became so strong within me that I decided that sooner or
later he would propose to me, and as I did not care to run any chance of
losing him by asking him to wait, I thought I should at least get some
expression from my parents in regard to the attachment which had sprung
up.
I wrote to mamma. My letter brought a hasty reply refusing to tolerate
the attentions of any one, and a request for a full and complete
description of the handsome captain. I took the command as a matter of
course, for mamma wanted to have Harry Caruthers for a son-in-law.
Out of courtesy to my parents, I drew a pen picture of Captain Elerding.
I told how gallant, how handsome, how brave, how popular, how genteel,
and even how old he was. I elaborated upon his good qualities with the
zeal of a loving girl. I left the age till the last, for I knew that when
my parents learned that he was forty-five and quite gray that it would
have the effect of a bomb bursting in camp; but of course the gray hair
was caused by the many years of service for his country. Think of it! He
was so devoted to his country that he had never been married, so there
was no danger of my having to assume the responsibility of mother to a
lot of grown up sons and daughters.
This description of the charming captain brought a telegram to me saying:
“Inez Manford, come home on first train.”
It was signed by both my mother and father. I did not quite understand
it, but wired back: “Delayed, see letter.”
Then I wrote my parents a letter, explaining that Captain Elerding was
expecting a party of friends soon and very much wished me to extend my
visit another month, and with their consent I should be delighted to
do so. The reply to that letter was mamma herself. She came post haste
and superintended the packing of my trunks with such dispatch that we
were east bound seven hours after her arrival in ’Frisco. I asked to
be allowed to introduce the captain, believing his winning ways would
capture mamma’s heart. She was obdurate and refused to see him or allow
me to see him.
It was two days after we arrived home before I could steal away alone
long enough to write him. I think the letter only increased the desire to
talk with him, and I resolved to run away and return to him. I felt sure
he would lose no time in making me his wife if he had but a chance, and
I would be the gainer, for he was very wealthy, in fact, more so by far
than Harry Caruthers ever would be, and, more than all, I knew we would
be happy.
I stole out into the darkness of the night after everybody had retired.
I knew that the Limited stopped to take water just at the edge of town,
about a mile from our house.
Through the biting cold I forged my way, dodging from one alley to
another, until the railroad tracks were reached, then a long line of
green and red lights guided me to where I caught the train as it was
pulling out, and I was soon speeding to my dear captain.
The time seemed to drag so slowly, each day seeming longer than the
one before, until I reached my destination. I took a carriage and went
directly to the captain’s hotel. I asked for him, but no one seemed to be
able to talk to me; everyone was excited beyond reason. I finally got the
attention of the clerk long enough to learn that the chambermaid had just
discovered Captain Elerding in his room, _dead_.
In his strong, right hand was still clenched the deadly pistol. The ugly
hole in his temple and the powder burns around it told the story. In
front of him were two papers, one a letter from my mother in which she
upbraided him unmercifully for having cultivated my acquaintance. The
other was his last will and testament, stating that he was in possession
of all his faculties. It said: “I hereby bequeath, demise, convey and
assign all of my money, property, goods and chattels whatsoever, that I
now own, to my beloved illegitimate child, Inez Manford.”
I left on the next train and have been a resident of Chicago ever since.
Please write me at once, Stella, and tell me all that has happened to you
since last we met.
Yours as of old,
INEZ.
TALE FIFTEEN.
AS TOLD TO A CLERGYMAN.
“The night has a thousand eyes,
The day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying sun.
“The wind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies,
When love is done.”
“You sent for me?” he said, gently, as he looked down at the emaciated
form before him. Her eyes were unnaturally brilliant, her brow, with the
thick, clustering curls brushed back from it, was as white as marble;
the nose was sharp and had that pinched expression which is so sure a
forerunner of dissolution. On each cheek was a small, red spot which
indicated the fever which was consuming her. The chest heaved rapidly and
as the clergyman leaned over her and looked into the hazel depths, he
laid his hand almost caressingly upon her head.
At that touch she caught his hand in both her own frail palms, and
sobbed, “Yes, I asked to have a clergyman sent to me.”
“I am James Townsend, the rector of St. Anne’s,” he said.
But before he had disclosed his identity she had fainted. He hastily
summoned assistance and in a few moments she was restored to
consciousness, although very weak.
He sat down near her couch and quietly stroked the masses of hair, the
only charm left her by the ravages of disease. Her face seemed to him
to be strangely familiar, and as she laid with closed eyes he had ample
opportunity to study it as intently as he wished.
Where had he seen that face before? He bent more closely and, as if
attracted by the scrutinizing gaze, she slowly lifted the deep fringed
lids until her eyes met his.
“What is it?” she asked, faintly.
“Nothing but a little fainting fit, and you are all right now.”
“Yes, I’ll soon be out of all my trouble. I am so tired—so tired! I shall
be so glad to rest at last,” she said.
He administered another stimulant and gradually she became stronger,
until at length she was able to talk.
“I think, that is the last I remember, I was going to tell you why I
sent for you. It was not to have you pray for me or to have you quote
scripture. I sent for you because you are a clergyman and ought to be a
good man. I know I am dying, although they tell me I will be better when
the warm days come; but I know that when that time comes the grass will
be growing over my grave, and that is why I want to tell you my life’s
story. I do not feel that I ought to be absolved because I confess my
story to you, but it will be a relief to tell some one all and the plain
truth of every detail. I shall die easier, I know.”
“Aren’t you in danger of overtaxing your strength?” he asked.
“No, I feel quite strong again, and if you will give me some more wine I
feel quite confident that I can tell you the whole story without a break.
It is a long one, though, and may weary you.”
“Do not fear, I shall be an attentive and interested listener,” he said.
“Well, to begin at the very beginning, I must tell you that I was left
an orphan very early in life. I was the youngest of three children,
and after the small estate was divided my brother and sister held a
consultation and decided to educate me for a kindergarten teacher, as
there was less expense connected with the fitting for this work. I
finished my course in due time and went to Peoria to organize a private
class. Among the names of those given me who had children likely to join
my class was a Mrs. Ames. I called at her home early in the week and
secured her two children very easily. She seemed to take quite a fancy to
me, I thought, a theory which afterward proved to be correct.
“One day I received a very urgent invitation from Mrs. Ames to lunch with
them. I gladly accepted. We did not wait for Mr. Ames, as he was often
detained beyond luncheon hour at his office. As we sat at the table idly
chatting he entered. Up to this time I had never seen Mr. Ames and, in
fact, had scarcely given his existence a thought. I gave him a casual
glance as Mrs. Ames presented him to me, and noticed what a strong,
finely developed man he was.
“He was rather quiet during the hour and had little to say, but when
he was leaving he came over to me and said, ‘I am glad to have had the
pleasure of meeting you at last, for I have heard your praises sung by
many and was quite anxious to know this little paragon of virtues.’”
She shuddered as she said this and perhaps the quiver which shook the
clergyman’s frame in his effort at self-control at this mention of the
name Ames had communicated itself to her, and she remained silent for
awhile.
Again the clergyman’s sympathetic hand sought to soothe and encourage her
by stroking her hair.
Reassured, she continued:
“Not long after this I was quite ill, and much to my surprise,
considering my limited acquaintance in the city, received a large box of
American Beauties. The card accompanying them was that of Mr. Ames. On
the back was written, ‘Because you are so like one I used to know.’
“I wondered whom he could mean and resolved to ask him the first time I
saw him, yet I felt rather timid because he was quite a stranger to me.
I need have felt no timidity, however, because he embraced the first
opportunity to tell me when we were quite alone that I was so like his
first wife, Laura, the mother of his children. He told me what a good,
true woman the present Mrs. Ames was, and what a good mother she had
made his children, but explained to me that it had been a matter of
convenience on both sides—not a love affair. She had passed the age when
women are most sought and was glad to accept the luxurious home he
offered her, and he was glad to have such a sensible woman for the mother
of his children.
“It was but a short time after that that Mrs. Ames asked me to come
to her house and make my home with them as one of the family. No one
but myself knew what a God-send that was. My class had been greatly
decreased by a diphtheria scare and my finances were low, and now that
I had no board to pay I could manage very nicely. Everyone at the house
was so kind to me except Mrs. Ames’ mother, who lived with them, and
she seemed to look upon me as an intruder, but I was thoroughly happy
notwithstanding.
“I was at that time as innocent as a child, with absolutely no knowledge
of the world except what I had seen in my own little sphere.
“One night Mr. Ames whispered to me that he was coming up to my room at
Mrs. Ames’ request as soon as I retired. I had been in my room but a few
minutes when he tapped on the door. I opened it and let him in. Be drew
me to the window seat and put his arms around me and said:
“‘Little girlie, I have come to tell you a few things which you or any
other innocent girl ought to know. It is for your own protection that I
tell you. I would that I could spare you the revelation, but I cannot,
for you are unsafe, there are so many unscrupulous men in the world who
would take advantage of innocence.’
“I did not understand the drift of his remarks and was half vexed. He
kissed me then for the first time. Then he told me about myself and
about men and women and their relations to each other.
“It was a great shock to me and I hid my face on his broad shoulder and
cried as if my heart would break. After he had quieted me, we talked a
long time and I could see what a good thing it was that he had told me as
much as he had.
“It was one night some weeks after this had occurred that Mr. Ames and I
were left alone in the parlor. We had waited a long time for grandma to
retire, and when she finally went he turned out the electric light for a
moment, so that he could take me in his arms and kiss me good-night. It
was a mistake, for grandma stood on the landing above and saw it.
“Nothing was ever said about it, but I could feel the change in the
atmosphere and luckily, as my school term was out that week, I was
able to leave without occasioning comment. I returned to Chicago with
little money and secured a pleasant room with a private family on Drexel
boulevard. I had not been there a week, when Mr. Ames, to whom I had
promised to send my address, came to see me. I was so discouraged and
blue that his presence was a panacea for all my ills. He laid down on the
couch and asked me to come and sit down beside him, and took me in his
arms.
“I was just in the state of mind to receive caresses and to return them;
his were balm to my aching heart. He caressed me until—well, I don’t know
how it all happened—if anyone had asked me the next morning if I had done
wrong, I should have said no, with a clear conscience, for I did not
know then that that which a good woman prizes higher than life had been
taken from me.
“After this he came as often as his business cares would permit, always
the same, tender and true. One day he came as usual and said, ‘I have
planned your vacation trip for the summer, dear, and although it will
deprive me of the pleasure of your company for a long time and I hardly
know how I am going to get along without the sunshine of your presence;
but you are not well and I think the change will do you good.’
“Then he unfolded his plan to me. I was to go to Mackinac for the summer.
He gave me $200 when I left. I staid three months and was really very
lonely at times without Fred, but not as lonely as he was without me, for
I had many friends among the young people, while he was obliged to come
to the city regularly and stay for a day or two every week as usual, to
keep up appearance at home.
“He sent me many pretty little gowns and waists, and showed rare good
taste in their selection, and was so thoughtful in every way that it
was little wonder that I leaned on him more than I realized. And, then,
too, his letters were so beautiful, every one of them breathing of his
devotion to me. When fall came, with it came the thought of what I was
to do to support myself. I came back to Chicago and Fred met me. We had
a long talk and he asked me if I thought I could manage to live on $10
a week. I felt very rich at the prospect of having an income assured me
every week, and think I enjoyed it, small though it was, more than I did
the days of prosperity that followed.
“I boarded all winter with a friend who had moved to Chicago during my
absence. The next spring he invested $200 for me and in a year it had
made $5,000. He felt he was better able to provide me with a good home of
my own now, and so he found a beautiful little flat, which he furnished
very cozily.
“He came to Chicago every week, ostensibly on business, and remained two
days. Of course my living this kind of a life necessitated my giving up
all my former friends; they would wonder and ask questions and rather
than lie, I ostracised myself.
“I had learned to love him devotedly by this time, for he was so good
to me, my slightest wish was anticipated, and he loved me with such
tenderness as only a strong man can bestow.”
“Tell me again that he was good to you,” said the clergyman.
“Why,” she said, wonderingly, her eyes meeting his for the first time
since she began her narrative.
“I—I only wanted to be reassured of the fact that while Fre—this man, I
mean, had done you the greatest wrong that a man can do a woman, he tried
to make reparation.”
“Yes, he was good, until—until,” and again her face was drawn in agony
and her frail form quivered, “well, until the time came when he could not
come every week. Business was such that it was impossible, he said. I
grew so lonely that I thought I should die.
“During this period of loneliness, I met an old school mate on the
street one day. She seemed very glad to see me and insisted on my going
to Rector’s with her, where she had an appointment to dine with her
friend. I went and it was the same old story. Her friend was a strikingly
handsome fellow and I was a pretty girl then,” she said with a wan smile,
“and we became enamored of each other.
“He asked to call and I allowed him to come. He came often and finally in
a moment of weakness I yielded to his importunities. This was my fatal
mistake. Fred came unexpectedly the next day and I was so remorseful and
conscious stricken that I could not appear natural. He took me gently in
his arms and begged me to tell him what the matter was. I sobbed it all
out to him, yes, every word of the truth, and instead of forgiving me as
he should have done, he tore my arms from about his neck, and threw me
from him.
“I think I must have fainted, for when I became conscious of my
surroundings, he had gone.”
The clergyman groaned aloud, but so absorbed was she in her contemplation
of that past, that she did not heed it.
“I laid on the floor all night, just where he had thrown me. Morning came
and brought with it more misery. A special delivery letter was brought to
me; it contained a draft for $5,000 to be deposited to my credit in the
bank, and a short note saying that he did not wish to see me again. That
my sin had found me out.
“I was crushed and heartbroken. My illness began with that day. The
doctors say it is pulmonary trouble, but it is not that. It is a
consumption of the heart and brain, and the desire to live vanished when
I knew he had gone out of my life forever.”
The last words were scarcely audible. The clergyman leaned over her and
took her in his arms and wiped the death sweat from her brow.
She looked at him and whispered, “Why are you so good to me?”
He thought a moment, fearing to tell her the truth lest the shock prove
too much for her rapidly ebbing strength, but the pleading eyes were
fixed on his and he could not withhold the truth.
“Because,” he said, gently, “the man who ruined you is my half brother.
He was younger than I by ten years, and I loved him better than my life
and cared for him after our mother died. I could not believe he would
have done such a thing, had not you yourself told me. I have seen your
picture in their home, and that is why your face seemed so strangely
familiar to me when I first came in. There is but one thing I can do that
will in the least atone for what he has done, and it is this: Marry me
within an hour, that you may at least have a name. I will take you away
with me to a warmer climate and change of scene and you may yet recover
and learn to be happy. I think God must have sent me to you at just the
right time. Will you marry me?”
He bent over her almost eagerly, longing to hear her say yes, now that he
had made up his mind to make the sacrifice.
But she had gone where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage.
TALE SIXTEEN.
A STORY OF STAGE LIFE.
SOUL.
“But whither went his soul, let such relate
Who search the secrets of the future state;
Divines can say but what themselves believe;
Strong proofs they have, but not demonstrative;
For, were all plain, then all sides must agree,
And faith itself be lost in certainty;
To live uprightly, then, is sure the best,
To save ourselves, and not damn the rest.”
“Tired of the stage? Yes, I am tired, but what am I to do?”
“Don’t you know anything but to sing and dance and act?”
“Yes and no.”
“Why not seek other employment?”
“Simply because I am too energetic; life on the stage is hard work; some
day I suppose I shall break down entirely, then—and then,” she repeated
dreamily, “I don’t know where it will all end.”
“I am interested,” said the man, as he toyed with the wine glass, which
he had just drained in company with the girl.
They were seated in what is known as the “cafe” of one of the theaters
of the city wherein humanity is represented in the audience by bald men
and ribald youths; and on the stage by feminine apararies, whose make up
consisted principally of blonde wigs and carmine; some were women of good
figures; some whose figures were in evidence on account of the assistance
the arts of man had rendered nature; some had charms which even the faded
eyes, paint and powder could not hide.
Each performer had a part to play, which was outlined on the program;
if some were playing a role which was not on the regular line of her
profession, no one seemed to care.
A large placard, which hung behind the scenes warning the members of the
company from receiving any attentions from any spectator, did not have
the effect which its strict wording would imply. The writer is of the
opinion that the police inspector is the only person who is sure the sign
existed; it being there for his benefit, one cannot think strange if he
did see it and report to the chief that the laws of the state and city
were being complied with.
The cafe was always well filled between acts, especially during the
thirty minutes intermission which was allowed the performers about midway
of the evening’s entertainment. If I say this time was alloted to give
the performers a breathing spell, I fear that the sympathy that was felt
in each heart for the poor overworked chorus girls, would be felt more in
behalf of the much wanted bar boy, as the numerous parties wrapped on the
tables in their haste to be served first with the liquid refreshments,
which were dealt out to the men and women with the same free hand.
The girl who did the speaking in the opening of this story, was one of
the first to appear through the stage entrance to the large room, where
classes met in a motley crew. She had caught the gleam of the small brown
eyes of the man in the front box, and as she passed off the stage, she
plainly heard him say, “Go down to the wine room.”
“Go on and tell me,” he nodded, as the girl said, “Manhattan,” to the
inquiring look of the waiter, who had rushed to the table at a signal
from the man.
“No,” she said doggedly, “I don’t want to talk; bring me a package of
cigarettes, Otto,” she said, as the waiter moved away.
“It’s no use; what do you want to know for?” Then the lines around her
mouth became hard, while she tapped the heel of her dancing slippers on
the floor. She may have been pretty; she may have been good and pure at
some time, but the deep laid wrinkles, the flaring nostrils and bleared
eyes told of the long days of hardships and nights of dissipation.
“Oh, no matter,” said the man, with a shrug of his shoulders. “I just
thought you might have known better days; I have, and thought we might
talk of other times, besides,” said the man leisurely, “I used to be in
the profession.”
“What line, specialty or legit.?” asked the girl, with a show of interest.
“Oh, most anything, heavies principally, though.”
“Why did you leave it?”
“Went to the bad,” said the man, nonchalantly.
The man’s remarks had the desired effect; a feeling of closer fellowship
began to develop and that, coupled with the warming up process which the
second cocktail afforded, caused the woman’s tongue to run glibly.
“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said, between inhalations of cigarette smoke,
“but you see a girl don’t like to break open and tell some stranger all
she knows about herself.”