LETTER TO AN INTIMATE FRIEND.
FIFTH AVENUE HOTEL, NEW YORK, _February —, 18—._
MY DEAR ALICE,—I ran away from Boston without saying good-by to you. Dr.
Wesselhoeft predicted all sorts of horrors—hysterics, St. Vitus’s dance,
nervous prostration, and I don’t know what else, if I did not at once
get away from the hosts of people who drove me distracted with an
incessant ringing of the door-bell from breakfast until bedtime. I was
not aware that I had so many friends before. Every pupil I have ever
had, every passing acquaintance even, has felt it to be his or her
privilege and duty to call and congratulate me and bore me to death with
their ecstasies and flatteries.
I rather liked it at first, I must confess. It was all so novel to me,
and it showed some of my acquaintances in an entirely new light, which,
I found, gave me an admirable opportunity for a study of character on
its drollest side. Whenever I entered the reception room and found it
lined with callers waiting all on tiptoe for my appearance, I really
felt like a president beset by office-seekers during his first month at
the White House.
But a few days of all this rather nauseated me, and I thanked my fortune
that it had not come at my birth, but had allowed me to make many true
and tried friends before bestowing on me what I fear will now always
make me suspicious of a lack of disinterestedness in every new-comer.
However, in leaving Boston and coming to New York I fancy that I have
only jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire, for letters pursue me
everywhere. I devote every forenoon to reading them and dictating
replies to my amanuensis. Many of them are applications for money or
help of some sort, some of them outrageous, and some very pitiful
indeed. I had one some days ago from a poor fellow in Vermont, who
fancied himself an inventor. He had just lost his wife and two children,
and implored me to “help him make a man” of the only little one left to
him. His letter sounded so forlorn that it went to my heart, so I sent
telegrams of inquiry about him to the postmaster and the minister in his
native town. They answered my questions satisfactorily, and I sent at
once for the man to come.
Such a dazed, bewildered-looking creature as he was, to be sure, when he
stepped out of the carriage, which I had sent for him, and stumbled
clumsily up the steps with his baby, tied up in an old red shawl, in his
arms!
He told me the simple story of his life, its little ambitions and narrow
outlook; of his conversion and his courtship, and of the horrors of
disease and death and poverty, to which his pinched face and trembling
hands bore witness. The boy was a pathetic little morsel of humanity,
and his sad little mouth won my heart. I have taken charge of the child,
and, please God, I will “make a man of him.” The father is quite unfit
for hard work, and what to do with him I did not know, when suddenly I
bethought myself of a magazine article which you loaned me some time
ago, apropos of “A Universal Tinker.” The man is clever with tools, I
hear, and just the one to do odd bits of mending and attending to the
thousand and one things which are always getting out of order about a
house. So I sent him with a letter to all my Back Bay friends, and eight
of them have offered to pay him five dollars a month each, on condition
that he keep everything in their establishments in repair. I have given
him a chest of tools, and have found a good home for him. A widow in
straitened circumstances, whom also I wish to help, but who will not
accept charity, is glad to receive him and his child into her family.
Really, the man seems already like another creature. He has taken on a
new look of self-respect and courage that makes his commonplace,
weather-beaten face fairly radiant.
This whole experience has given me intense satisfaction. I had almost
made up my mind to pay no heed to these calls, which demand so much of
my time and prove, at least half of them, to come from frauds and
impostors. In fact, it was merely as an experiment, and chiefly to
indulge my curiosity, that I heeded this case. I am now determined to
have every appeal for help that seems at all deserving thoroughly
investigated, and I foresee that I shall be obliged to have more than
one agent to attend to it all.
I had an extraordinary experience last night, of which I must tell you,
though my ears tingle yet at the thought of it. I wonder if this is a
foretaste of the penalties which I am doomed to pay for the sin of being
a great heiress. I had always wondered how rich women could endure to
make such a display of diamonds at parties and balls as to necessitate
their being dogged by private detectives everywhere. I always maintained
that a woman was an idiot who would thus let herself become such a slave
to her wealth. I was sure that any one who lived simply, and did not
care for show, could go alone where she pleased, and have no fears; but
my theories are getting sadly shaken. However, I am digressing. Now
about this affair last night.
I received a beautifully written note the other day, delicately
perfumed, and bearing a seal stamped with a coat of arms, and signed
Manuel Altiova. The writer intimated that he had been a friend of Mr.
Dunreath, and had matters of importance to tell me. He begged the favor
of an interview. I surmised that he was a scamp, but, on the other hand,
thought it possible that he might be some titled wealthy Spaniard who
had met Mr. Dunreath in South America, and who could give me some
information about the locality of my possessions. So I had my amanuensis
send him a formal note in reply asking him to call on me last evening.
I told my maid Hélène to remain in the next room with the door ajar, and
when his card was sent up, followed almost immediately by himself, I
arose to receive him with some curiosity.
Tableau. Enter, with many bows, a tall, black-eyed man of perhaps
thirty-five, clad in faultless dress; in short, to all outward
appearance, an elegant Adonis.
I let him tell his story, and said nothing for awhile. He professed to
have been most intimately acquainted with Mr. Dunreath, and produced a
photograph of him. Subsequently, he showed me some letters in Mr.
Dunreath’s handwriting referring to some dishonorable business
transactions by which Mr. D. had greatly augmented his fortunes, and for
which he would have suffered the full penalty of the law except for the
timely and most self-sacrificing intervention of his “noble and devoted
friend,” Manuel Altiova.
I was thunderstruck. The hot blood mounted to my temples, and for a
moment everything seemed to reel before me. Was all my happiness a
dream? Was I then enjoying the ill-gotten gains of a swindler? I looked
at the letters. There could be no mistake about the handwriting. That
very forenoon, with my lawyer, I had been carefully examining a dozen
documents in that same queer crabbed hand, which I had known so well in
the days when I was a girl and had a lover.
Five years ago it was, but it seemed fifty, as I sat there staring
dizzily at those letters and trying to realize that this man whom I had
loved almost enough to marry, this man whom I would have sworn was honor
itself, was false, basely false. Oh, it seemed a thing incredible; yet,
as I thought of how in these last few years for month after month
society has been shocked by the fall of those who have stood most high
in our esteem, yet who have been tempted to sell their souls for gold, I
believed it all.
I remember thinking vaguely of how I must try to find out the men whom
Mr. Dunreath had defrauded, and return to them this money, which was
theirs, not mine. Then I roused myself and questioned him, trying to
appear as indifferent and non-committal as possible, though I could feel
my temples throbbing, and I knew my cheeks were hot. He answered my
questions without the slightest hesitation, giving names, dates, and
localities with startling readiness and apparent sincerity. He mentioned
various little peculiarities of Mr. Dunreath’s,—his never eating butter,
his being left-handed, and so on.
At last I could ask no more. I felt as though I should suffocate. The
man went on talking, however, telling his own family history. His father
was a learned professor, his mother a lady of noble birth. He was born
at Barcelona, had been destined from childhood to take orders in the
Romish Church, and was finally disinherited by his stern father for his
avowed Protestant and Republican doctrines, to say nothing of his
refusal to wed the woman of his father’s choice when all hope of his
entering the church had been abandoned. With his own little private
fortune of twenty thousand dollars he had sailed for Brazil, and had
entered the service of Mr. Dunreath. Soon he became the devoted friend
of that gentleman, was intrusted with his confidence, and became
cognizant of all his affairs. Mr. Dunreath had fully expected to return
to him the thousands which he had so generously made over to the
officials in the nick of time, thus preventing the pursuit which would
have ended in his arrest and conviction, with the subsequent surrender
to the state of many of his millions.
Mr. Altiova, or rather Señor as he called himself, presently let me
understand the chief purpose of his visit. As you will readily guess, he
desired me to pay him the sum which he had spent, namely, twenty
thousand dollars, all his little fortune. In another letter which he
produced, Mr. Dunreath had promised to return this sum doubled, and this
promise was in the act of fulfillment on the very day of the fatal
sunstroke.
Señor Altiova modestly disclaimed any desire that this generous offer
should be fulfilled by Mr. Dunreath’s heirs, and declared that he would
be quite content to receive only the sum which he had spent. He paused
for my reply. Meanwhile I had been gradually collecting my wits, and was
able to control my voice enough to say that I must first consult with my
lawyer.
“But, Miss Brewster,” he urged, “that, you see, is impossible. Will you
disclose Mr. Dunreath’s felony? Will you create a needless scandal and
lose your fortune? No; if you will but settle this little business with
me (the sum, of course, is but a mere bagatelle to a rich lady like
you), the secret will remain forever buried in my bosom, and no mortal
shall know what has passed between us. The moment you hand me your check
for twenty thousand dollars, payable to the bearer, that moment you
shall with your own hand burn these incriminating letters.”
I reiterated that in spite of the danger of bringing ignominy upon the
name of my old friend, I should consult my lawyer before taking any
steps in the matter.
“But I can’t wait,” he retorted almost fiercely, and there was a look in
his eyes which made me start. My heart rose. Could it be that those
terrible letters were only clever forgeries? He instantly recollected
himself, however, and his tone assumed a touch of pathos.
“Miss Brewster,” he said, and there was a tremor in his voice as he
looked at me beseechingly; “my mother, whom I have not seen for years,
is dying. The physician gives her at most only a month to live. Unknown
to my father she has cabled me to return instantly. Ah, my sweet
mother,” he murmured, as if speaking to himself, while his eyes were wet
with unshed tears, “the moments are years until I see her. Oh, if I
should be too late! And then—who knows? perhaps,—yes,—perhaps, if I may
stand beside my mother’s deathbed, my stern old father may be reconciled
to me—may bid me stay, and I may have the unspeakable comfort of
sustaining his declining years.”
I watched him keenly. If this were acting, it had been very good acting
until now. But these last few words had a false ring in them, which even
my unpracticed ear detected. With a mournful sigh he showed me two
miniatures painted on ivory, one the face of a handsome, dark-eyed
woman, the other that of a scholarly-looking man of middle age. These,
he said, were the portraits of his father and mother, and as he returned
the latter to its velvet case he pressed it tenderly to his lips.
It was very touching, and I was half convinced, especially when my eye
fell again on that curious handwriting whose peculiarities I knew so
well. The man evidently saw that I was agitated and afraid that his
story might, after all, be true. He continued:—
“But, Miss Brewster, I have no money. I arrived here last week from Rio
Janeiro. My father has disinherited me, as I have told you. My little
private fortune, my mother’s gift, which I could have doubled in a
year’s time by my investments, was all given to save my friend. Madame!”
he cried, “where is your sense of justice—simple justice—if you refuse
me the paltry sum which saved the reputation and wealth of the man whose
heiress you now are? You have his own confession here before you, signed
with his name. The evidence is unimpeachable. If I bring it into court,
it may cost you half your millions. Madame, the Urania sails to-morrow,
I must go. I must have money, the money you owe me. If you refuse”—
I rose to bring this extraordinary interview to an immediate close. I
was shaking from head to foot and thankful beyond measure that Hélène,
who had doubtless heard the whole conversation, understood too little
English to realize its import. I was convinced that I had to deal with a
very shrewd, clever villain, who had worked up his facts most adroitly,
and was trying a desperate confidence game. But he was not to be gotten
rid of so easily. Suddenly falling upon one knee, he grasped my hand as
I stood before him and poured out a torrent of words, of which I
remember nothing, for I was too indignant and astounded even to think of
calling upon Hélène. We must have looked for all the world like the
tragic pictures in the “Police Gazette,” which my naughty youngsters
used to display behind my back at the Mission School.
Suddenly I came to my senses. I don’t suppose the whole scene lasted
half a minute at most. Tearing my hand away, I was rushing for
Hélène,—who, as I learned afterward, was sound asleep, with the door
blown to,—when, as a last bit of desperation, what did this man do, but
snatch a dainty little pistol from his hip pocket, and before I could
scream or even gasp an articulate word he aimed it at his temples and
seemed about to fire. I can hardly tell what I did then. I believe I
screamed, and I must have rushed upon the madman, for the next instant I
found myself with the pistol in my hand trying to fire it up the
chimney, while the Señor lay prostrate apparently in a swoon. But the
pistol would not fire; evidently it was not loaded. I dropped it into
the smouldering ashes, and staggered into the next room, where my stupid
maid lay soundly sleeping on the sofa. Faint and trembling I dropped
into the nearest chair. I could not have walked six inches further, and
was too weak to attempt to arouse Hélène. On the whole, I was glad not
to do so, for she would have been too frightened to be of the least use.
Moreover, she would have raised the neighborhood with her shrieks, while
I should have been ready to die with mortification and disgust.
In imagination I saw the lurid head lines of the next day’s columns of
society gossip and scandal. “Dunreath’s Defalcation!” “How it Horrifies
His Heiress!!” I saw myself posing as the heroine of a sixth-rate dime
novel; on whose pages alone, as I had always supposed, such experiences
as this ever took place. It did not take three seconds for all this to
flash through my brain and make the cold sweat stand out in drops upon
my forehead.
Just then I heard a faint click, and summoning courage to look into the
drawing-room, what was my unutterable relief to find the room empty. The
wretch had vanished. To tell the truth, at that juncture I came about as
near verifying the doctor’s prediction in regard to hysterics as I ever
did in my life.
Now for the sequel. This afternoon I received the following note, which
I inclose for your benefit.
MISS BREWSTER.
MADAM,—John I. Carrigain, alias Court Peperino, alias Dr. Kametski,
alias Manuel Altiova, aged thirty-four years and seven months, was
born in Manchester, England, of an English father and Portuguese
mother, received a good education, was arrested for forgery at the age
of nineteen, served out a sentence of five years, and on release was
sent to New York by a charitable agency. He was suspected of being
accessory to one of the largest swindling operations ever undertaken
in New York city, but as nothing could be proved, he was released from
custody and began operations in Chicago, obtaining money under various
false pretences. At first he met with great success, but was finally
convicted and sentenced to six years in the state prison. He was
released from Joliet six months ago, but, until your communication
last night, had not been known to be in New York. A person answering
his description was seen to take the northern express last evening
with a ticket for some point in Canada. The man is a clever forger,
and it would require an expert to detect his work. It has been
ascertained that Carrigain was assistant clerk for Mr. Dunreath for a
few months seven years ago, which accounts for some of his information
regarding the habits of that gentleman; and as for the handwriting and
the South American details, he is quite clever enough to have worked
those carefully up in the last few weeks.
It is needless to say that his career will henceforth be closely
watched.
Yours respectfully,
J. ALLISON,
_Pinkerton Detective_.
By the way, Alice, I am having my portrait painted, full-length, in a
blue velvet tea gown. I give a sitting every other afternoon, and on
alternate days visit tenement houses, industrial schools, and Castle
Garden. I saw two thousand filthy Italians of the lowest kind land
yesterday.
I have just come home from a tour through the Mulberry Bend where these
creatures herd together. I felt as if I were in Naples again. I thought
some parts of Boston were bad enough, but I never saw anything on this
side of the water equal to the horrible squalor and loathsomeness of
these places.
I mean to take all your good advice about being calm, and trying not to
feel that it devolves upon me to settle all our social problems this
month. I know even better than you the complexity of the difficulties in
our congested city life. I have little hope of doing much for this
generation of pauperism and vice, but I am determined to do whatever my
money and good will can do for laying the foundation of better things in
the generation to come.
I am going to begin with tenement houses, for there, I believe, lies the
root of half of the trouble. I suppose my friends will think that I am
getting to be a dreadful doctrinaire. Well, it can’t be helped. I was
predestined for that, I believe. My consolation is that you at least
will not be bored by all my plans and theories, and will warn me if I
get too rabid....