“TO RICHARD TREADWELL, PERSONAL.”
It was ten o’clock when Richard Treadwell in gown and slippers, sat
down in a high-backed chair to partake of a light breakfast.
The dainty table was spread with its burden of light rolls and yellow
butter, with a bit of ice on it, and crisp, red berries. The odor of
the coffee was very appetizing, but Richard ate and read the morning
paper at the same time.
The awnings lowered over the windows shut out the glare of the morning
sun. A light breeze moved the curtains lazily, and a green palm on
the window-sill waved its long arms energetically, as if to hurry
the indolent young man who was missing the beauty of Summer’s early
morning.
Richard Treadwell’s rooms were as unlike the elegant apartments of
Tolman Bike, as a violet is unlike a rose. One, like a laughing,
romping child, denoted health and cheerfulness; the other, unhealthy in
tone and coloring, spoke of dreams and selfish gratification.
Here were copies of Rosa Bonheur’s master-pieces of animal life,
pictures of racing horses, photographs of serious-faced dogs in comical
positions, a stuffed fish’s head, with wide open mouth, mounted on
a plaque; boxing gloves, clubs and dumb-bells, lying where they had
fallen after this young man had taken a turn at each of them. There
was an unsorted jumble of walking-sticks, whips, fishing tackle and
firearms. The furniture was light, the curtains were thin and airy, the
carpet was bright and soft.
Richard ate and read unmindful of the wrestling match between a
bow-legged pug and a saucy black-and-tan, whose little sharp ears
stood stiffly erect, expressive of cool amusement at the fat pug’s
futile attempts to throw him.
As Richard pushed his chair back and lighted a cigarette, a man-servant
entered quietly and put a large envelope and a smaller one on the
table before him. Richard took the larger envelope and read the
superscription.
..................................
. TO .
. RICHARD TREADWELL, ESQ^{RE.} .
. FROM _PERSONAL._ .
. TOLMAN BIKE. .
..................................
He hastily tore it open with his thumb. The letter began without any
preliminaries:
In writing this I place my life at your disposal. I neither expect
mercy nor ask it.
I have been so wretched for days that life is a burden I little care
to bear.
Do what you please with this, but if you possess an unheard-of
generosity I would ask you, after clearing yourself, to spare me as
much as possible.
“My wild, improbable suspicions were correct!” Dick exclaimed, in
surprise. The black-and-tan, hearing his voice, came and jumped
inquiringly against his knee, but receiving no attention returned to
finish the English Kilrain on the rug.
I first met Lucille Williams when she came to my office in answer
to my advertisement for a typewriter and stenographer. Of the many
who applied I selected her. Not because she was the most proficient
worker, but for a man’s reason.
She had a pretty face.
Wonderfully pretty, I have had men tell me. She had large, clear blue
eyes and an abundance of wavy black hair, and a faultless pink and
white complexion that often accompanies the combination. Her hands
were small and slender. She was particular in the care of them, and
her remarkably small feet were always well shod.
Life is dull at best during business hours, so I amused myself with
my pretty typewriter. It started first by my playfully putting my
arm around her chair when dictating. Harmless enough. Yes, but it
brought me so close to her that I began to wonder what she would do
if I kissed her. When I stopped in my dictation she raised her great,
blue, alluring eyes to me in such a way, that I wouldn’t have been a
man had I not felt a little thrill of temptation.
I did kiss her at last.
She was not much offended. She cried a little and wanted to know
what she had done that encouraged me to insult her. Her chief fault
was vanity, so I pleased myself and comforted her by taking her in
my arms and vowing that the sight of her red lips so close, and her
great eyes, so alluring and entrancing, was more than I could resist.
It comforted her and pleased me.
Yes, I said something of love.
It somehow seemed the only thing to say under the circumstances. I
think I called her “My Love,” and similar names. I am positive I did
not say that I loved her, although I recall coaxing her to say she
loved me.
She said she loved me and I believed her.
It was all very pretty and interesting while it had the charm
of newness. We soon spent our evenings together. I took her to
restaurants patronized by Bohemia, where, if one happens across an
acquaintance, he, on a similar errand, is just as anxious to keep it
a secret as you are. In the summer, when there was less chance of
embarrassing meetings, I took her to better places and occasionally
to the theatre.
I found it interesting.
Meanwhile, I learned that Lucille’s sister was employed in the
factory, and I threatened Lucille with an eternal parting if, by any
chance, her family learned of our intimacy. When the pretence of
seeing friends and persons about business would no longer serve as a
blind, I instructed Lucille to say she was engaged on extra work. She
very sensibly said she could not do this without money to show for
it, so I promptly made it possible. Thereafter that was her blind.
Thus she deceived her family.
Meanwhile I thought I would feel more comfortable if Lucille were
better dressed. You know how men feel on this subject. Most of them
would rather be seen in company with the lowest woman in New York if
she wore a Paris gown, than with a woman in rags, even if she were
as pure as a saint. A man is always afraid of being chaffed for being
with a badly dressed woman.
For the world, looking on, judges only by the dress.
I spoke to Lucille. I found she was as sensitive about her cheap
garments as I was, so I told her if she would buy an entire outfit
suitable for our wanderings I would pay for it. I made suggestions,
and the garments she bought were as lady-like and appropriate as if
it had been an every-day affair with her.
Then came the question, Where to send the clothes?
She could not send them home, for her mother and sister, though poor,
had Puritan ideas concerning morals and propriety.
There is a way out of every difficulty.
I had her send all her new articles to my bachelor apartment. Then I
gave her a key, so she could enter my rooms at any time to change
her cheap clothing for her new and vice versa.
So I got her to my rooms.
I don’t deny that it was my intention at first to finally take her
there, but I wanted to preserve the sentiment of the affair as long
as possible. She was very perfect to the sight, very lovable, and I
was eager for our evenings--anxious to drip out as slowly as possible
the intoxication of the affair, still breathlessly eager to drain the
cup.
There is no need of going into detail.
You know what bachelor apartments are; you know what opportunities
they afford. Lucille was timid at first; afraid to come in or go out,
but she soon grew bolder. She even grew to like the danger of it.
I was very fond of her then.
There is no use to be hypocritical and cry it was love of her that
led me on. Why men adopt such weak pleas, I never could understand.
It was not love of her.
A man never injures a woman through love of her, but through love of
self. I realized this all the time, but I was passionately happy, and
happiness is not so plentiful that I should slight it, result as it
might.
I promised to marry her.
It happened in a moment when I loved her best. I knew at the time,
I was doing a reckless thing. The next day I warned her to keep our
love secret, because there were reasons why, if it were known, it
would be injurious to me. She, appreciating the difference between
us, was as silent as I could be.
By and by things began to pall.
I was too well acquainted with her. I grew tired of her pretty face.
Her little vulgarities exasperated me. She was a woman of such little
variety, and she so weakly bowed to every demand I made that it
became unbearable.
I have known homely women whose charms were more lasting.
Her weakness maddened me. I grew to hate her. If she had only had
enough spirit to quarrel with me, but that was the secret of it; she
had no spirit until it was too late.
Just before this I met Miss Chamberlain. I found that I had pleased
her fancy and I concluded to marry.
It mattered little that I was not in love; I had long since learned
that love was merely the effect of some pleasing sensation, which
some persons, like some music, produce on us, that shortly wears
itself out.
I thought it better to marry where there was no feeling than where
there was. For the sensation of love is sure to die, leaving an
unsupportable weariness caused by its own emotion. Where there is no
such feeling, there is no such result to fear.
I never expected any trouble from Lucille.
But I reckoned without my host. Although I endeavored to keep my
engagement secret, yet a line to the effect that I was to marry Miss
Chamberlain, reached print. Lucille, though hardly in society, always
read society notes. She read that one.
She became a tigress--a devil. Isn’t it queer that a weak woman
always has an ungovernable temper? Expecting nothing more than a few
tears from her, I answered carelessly, and she grew infuriated. Of
course, I was astonished. She accused me of falseness and demanded
that I deny the report over my own name and marry her immediately, or
she would seek Miss Chamberlain and lay before her what she pleased
to call my baseness.
I was determined to marry.
It meant wealth, a better social position, power, and a wife that at
least I would be proud of. I had cherished such an idea of marriage
since I was a boy, and I was resolved that nothing should balk me now
that it was in my grasp.
I was determined to take fate into my own hands.
Finding I could not quiet Lucille, I concluded to rid myself of all
responsibility in her case.
Call me base if you will!
Was I doing more than hundreds of men are doing in New York to-day!
Had I done more than hundreds--aye, thousands--of men have done in
New York?
You are a man of education and means; denounce me if you have never
sinned likewise.
Let any New York man of education, leisure and money denounce me, if
any there are who have not likewise blundered.
It was only a matter of a few days’ amusement, harmless if it ended
quietly.
But I slipped up on it--therein lies the sin. Not in what I did, but
in blundering over it.
People may say what they will. I was not wrong. It is the system that
is wrong, the system that prevents people who care for each other
from being happy in that affection while it lasts. Had the system
been different Lucille would have been home to-day, happier and in
more comfortable circumstances than previous to our meeting, and I--I
would not now be writing to you.
But there was nothing to save us.
Tired and disgusted with Lucille, she further exasperated me with her
jealousy and unreasonable demands for a speedy marriage. Fearful of
losing the marriage which meant so much to me, I carefully planned
what seemed the only course to pursue.
Yes, it was deliberate.
Calming her anger for the day, I persuaded her to come to my
apartment--these very rooms where I sit and quietly write this
confession of my crime.
Unsuspecting, aye, even gladly she came--came to meet her fate, which
waited for her like a spider in his entangling web for a fly.
“If you please, sir, Miss Howard’s compliments, and would you come up
as soon as possible,” said a voice at the door.
The little black-and-tan paused for a moment, with the pug’s ear still
between his little sharp teeth, to see where the voice came from, and
Richard responded, impatiently: “Very well, say I’ll be there,” and
returned to Tolman Bike’s letter.