THE BRUTAL TRUTH.
Three days passed--three awfully slow days, though I visited Harvey Hume
and Tom Barton, spent every evening at the theatre, and loafed away many
hours at the club, where the boys made me tell them of the islands I had
visited and asked my opinion over and over, (as if it amounted to
anything) in relation to the probability of a war between the United
States and Spain. I refused to enlighten Harvey at the time in reference
to his question whether I had not been quite as happy "without my
secretary" as if I had taken one. I said I would have something to tell
him one of these days and that he must be content until that time came.
Tom was the same dear fellow as of yore, but Statia, who came in to
welcome me, was as sphynx-like as on the eve of my departure.
I also had to run in a moment on my Uncle Dugald, who gave me his hand
in his old, impassive manner, and expressed the opinion that I looked
better, on the whole, than when I went away. A brief call on Dr.
Chambers completed my list. I thought that excellent gentleman looked a
trifle disappointed when I called his attention to my improved physique
and said I was as well as I had ever been in my life. I have no wish to
do him an injustice, for it was certainly a feather in his cap when he
raised me out of the Slough of Despond and made me fit to travel at
all; but it is only natural if professional men are not filled with
special delight at announcements that their services are no longer
required.
On the third evening there came a packet from Miss May--at last! an
awfully big packet, which set me to wondering what it could possibly
contain. I thought as I received it from the messenger that it would
have answered for a presidential message to Congress on the Cuban
situation, with all the correspondence that had passed between the
United States and Spain since the blowing up of the warship. It may be
believed I lost no time in tearing open the paper that encircled the
missives. Inside I found a small envelope marked "Open first," and a
larger one inscribed, "Read this only after you have read the other
carefully." All this was so deliberate and so much like a deep plan that
I was far from my ease when I complied with the request and cut the
smaller envelope. And the reader may well believe that my sensations
were not of a very enviable nature when I read these lines:
My Dear Mr. Camran: I know no easy way to break the truth I am
obliged to send. If you have any doubt of being able to bear a shock
without medical attendance do not read what I have placed in the
other envelope until you have summoned your physician. I fear it
will not be pleasant reading, but you must have the truth. At least,
I must keep my promise now of lying only to others and not to you.
With this warning, I subscribe myself, for the last time,
Yours,
M.M.
April 8th, 1898.
I was surprised at the calmness with which I saw all my hopes blown to
the winds in a single paragraph. Curiosity was the most pronounced
feeling in my mind at the moment. I took a long breath, steadied my
nerves for an instant, and then opened the larger envelope. There were
typewriter sheets, twelve in number, done, apparently, on a Remington
machine. And this is what I read:
* * * * *
Prepare yourself to hear the worst about me, my dear friend, for your
imagination could hardly make me out a greater scamp than I am. Know
then, to begin with, your companion in the Caribbean was a well-known
criminal, whose entire trip with you was planned for the purpose of
fraud. If she failed to accomplish that end you must ascribe it to a
weak yielding to sentimental considerations, of which she should--from a
professional standpoint--be heartily ashamed.
If you have survived this statement, read on, and I will be more
explicit. I am what is known to the police as a "confidence woman." My
usual game is to beguile persons of the opposite sex into "falling in
love" with me and then fleece them out of as large a sum as I can do
with safety to myself. I may add, without egotism, that I have been
fairly successful in this, my chosen field. If you care to get another
copy of that book I stopped you from reading at St. Thomas, "Our Rival,
the Rascal," you will find on one of its pages a fairly accurate
portrait of your humble servant, though the name affixed is not by any
means the one I thought it wise to give you.
One of my favorite methods of making the acquaintance of probable
victims is through the advertising columns of newspapers. I have found
no better medium for the purpose than the "Personals" in the New York
Herald; it is generally to be supposed that a masculine individual who
will use that column or reply to anything contained therein is good game
for my purpose.
Naturally my attention was attracted to your announcement that you
wanted a typewritist to accompany you to the West Indies for the winter.
I wrote as modest and taking an answer as I knew how and the fact that
it proved most attractive to you out of a hundred you received justified
my judgment. The next thing was to hold you fast, when you came to see
me, and here again I flatter myself that I evinced the right sort of
talent. I sized you up at the start for what you were--a good-natured,
easily-led gentleman of means, who would answer very well for my
purpose.
Now, see how I proceeded: To have accepted your offer at once would have
been to awaken your suspicions. I knew better than that, and I played
what is technically known as a waiting game. As I look back on our
primary interviews and correspondence I do not see a wrong step on my
part. I wrote you that I could be seen "only between the hours of two
and four," to give you the impression that I was no ordinary girl who
would go anywhere, or with any one, and whom you could lead with a
thread.
You were to come at my hours; I knew you would like that. You came, but
it was I who saw and conquered. You told me at once that you had
engaged berths for two on the Madiana. This showed that you were not
likely to back out, but I did not take your word alone. I had a friend
verifying your statement at Cook's office within an hour after you left
my room.
Had I told you that I would go, that afternoon, you would have had a
chance to think it over and perhaps to change your mind. It is the
fleeing bird that attracts the attention of the hunter. You gave me the
name of "David Camwell, Lambs Club," which before I slept that night I
had turned into Donald Camran, from a list of members which I was easily
able to procure. I learned that Donald Camran was rich; that he was
considered erratic; that he answered your description in personal
appearance; and that he had been, as you said, recently ill.
The next time you adopt a false name do not use your own initials.
Nine-tenths of the people who do this slip up on that banana peel.
When you left my room, that first afternoon, I was as certain you would
return as that the sun would rise on the following day. The chapters of
the "novel" you afterwards dictated to me prove how entirely accurate I
was in my estimates. I take much pride, also, in the second letter I
sent you, for I covered my "fly" with attractive colors to dazzle your
eye and meet every point likely to arise in your mind. My card was to
convince you that I was the very proper young lady I professed to be. To
do this without acting the silly prude was a task fit only for such
thoroughly trained hands as mine. Next I spoke of the matter of
compensation, to convince you that I was really a working girl and not a
mere adventurer. You had plenty of means and the price of my weekly
stipend was not likely to alarm you.
As it would really be necessary for me to have considerable money to
make a suitable appearance I gently hinted something in relation to that
matter, leaving it, however, to your own judgment what should be done. I
believe I may claim that in the composition of that letter I showed
decided talent. At any rate it accomplished its purpose.
When your answer came I knew that I was going. I would not have paid
five dollars to be assured of that. But when you returned to me I still
had to pretend a little doubt--not too much, that would have spoiled
everything. I left it to you to say whether, after all, you really
wanted me to take the journey, doing it in a way that alarmed your fears
lest you were going to lose me. I had to keep "the scent warm," as the
saying is. The rushing way in which you bought my trunks and sent me the
first installment of cash would have removed my doubts, had any
remained.
I then thought I might as well get clothed while I was about it and sent
the third letter, which we may call "Exhibit C." In that I appealed to
the chivalrous part of your nature, arousing your sympathies, and yet
without putting myself for one instant in the rôle of a mendicant.
"If I am to go I am unwilling to disgrace you"--that was all there was
to it.
Again I was justified by the result. You came as soon as I would let
you--I had "gone out of town over New Years," you remember, and you
showered another lot of bankbills on my head.
Now here is just where a less experienced person would have made her
mistake. Seeing how easily you could be induced to disgorge, she would
have hinted at expenditures that would have caused a revolt even in your
generous brain. I came late on purpose that Tuesday morning (I had only
been a couple of blocks away) in order to work up the fever that I knew
was latent in you. I suggested that you go to the shops, knowing that
you would grasp at the chance to occupy so close a position to me as the
cab would afford. At Altman's I pretended to be shocked at some of the
prices, so that you would pronounce them the extremity of cheapness.
(How could you do anything else?) And I hinted bashfully at the question
of jewelry, knowing that you would send me all I could reasonably
expect, as you did the next day.
Then I went to dine with you in a private room, primarily because I was
nearly starved to death, secondarily because I knew it would fasten you
to me the closer. I put on that awful blue veil to give you the
impression that I had never done such a thing before, when as a matter
of fact the waiter who served us knows my face as well as he does his
mother's, if he has one. He knew enough to conceal that fact, however,
as I am certain, from previous experience, every waiter in that house
would have done.
Now we come to one of the fine points. You did not forget to mention in
your description of that evening how I refused to have the door of our
_cabinet particulaire_ locked, which you were kind enough to ascribe to
maidenly modesty on my part. The fact is, ever since I was imprisoned
three years ago for two months, awaiting trial for one of my schemes
that went awry, the thought of a turned key on any room I occupy drives
me into fits. In that at least I was honest. The scare you gave me in
proposing to lock that door took away my appetite to such an extent that
I ate, as you have recorded, very sparingly of the excellent dinner.
You may remember that I showed similar trepidation at St. Thomas, when
you suggested that Mr. Eggert might lock the door of my bedroom. It was
enough like a jail with the high fence around the grounds, and I never
felt quite easy till we had left the place. I really did not take one
good breath there, so vivid is my recollection of the horrible days when
high walls and locked doors meant imprisonment.
I don't suppose I shall explain everything you will wish to know, but I
shall do my best. The next thing that occurs to me is that I refused to
allow you to register my name on the Madiana's passenger list as "Miss
May." As this was merely a _nom de guerre_ you will wonder why I
objected to its going into print. The fact is that my husband--yes, I am
married, and by a minister of the church, too--did not like to have me
take that journey without going with me on the boat, while I was sure it
was much better for him to remain away. He has no jealousy, as you will
immediately imagine--he knows me too well to be guilty of such a
senseless thing. I love him with all my soul; and I can take care of
myself, if it comes to that, against the persuasions or the force of any
living man.
He merely wanted to be with me, just as you would want to be with your
wife, if you had one and loved her. I knew he was not always a safe
companion in a game of this kind, that he had a quick temper and was
lacking in judgment in any case where I was concerned; and I told him
plainly that this was my affair, that I should manage it alone, if at
all, and I should not tell him where you and I were going.
As he knew your name, having made the inquiries at your club, he would
have a double chance to discover us if he saw mine anywhere in print,
and "Miss May" was a title he knew I had once before assumed. So I got
you to change it to "Carney" in hopes to throw him off the track. He
proved too shrewd for me, however, as you will agree when I mention that
he travelled on the steamer with us under the name of "Edgerly."
I may as well tell you at this point that the "cruel employer" to whom I
alluded so often was a creature of my imagination, and that all the
typewriting I have ever done has been for my own profit and amusement in
schemes like the present one.
If you had recorded me as "Miss Camwell" I meant to work another racket
on you. I expected to institute a suit for breach of promise on my
return, not one to be taken to court, but only to use as a lever to pry
a few thousands out of your pocket; I would have done this if you had
not, contrary to all precedent, made me an honorable offer of your hand,
which spoiled my plan in an unforeseen manner. It was with this in view
that I went to your rooms several times before we sailed. It is always
handy to have evidence ready in a case of this kind and hallboys are
excellent witnesses if wanted.
Don't you think I am a lovely girl, now? And aren't you sorry I am not
free to wed. What a charming wife I would make for a man like you!
Well, to resume, I played what I thought a good card by saying that I
should only accept the things you paid for as "the costuming of my part"
and return them to you when the show was over. It didn't cost anything
to say that and I knew you never would accept them. The little screed
that I left on the typewriter at your room was not a bad stroke, either.
I flatter myself it was a fair piece of English composition, and
although it contained not a word of truth, it answered just as well. It
made you think of me with more respect than if you had supposed me a
mere waif of the streets.
You wondered--didn't you?--why I went to my cabin on the steamer and
remained there for part of two days after it started. Perhaps you can
guess the reason now. I had seen my husband on deck and not being
anxious to meet him any sooner than could be helped I kept out of his
way. Before I did come up I received a note from him, by one of the
stewards, detailing the course he intended to adopt, which was simply to
act as if he had never seen or heard of me in his life. I could not help
a slight uneasiness, though, at his presence, for he is not always as
shrewd as a husband of mine should be. I was rather displeased that he
had come in spite of my advice; and I felt afraid that he would hamper
my movements even if he did not destroy my plans.
What made me suspect that man Wesson I do not know, unless it was
instinct. The moment I set my eyes upon him I put him down for an enemy.
I wrote a few lines to my husband, telling him to watch, but he answered
that my suspicions were groundless, another proof how much clearer are
my intuitions than his. Wesson was always prying around. I had some
conversations on deck with him when you left me alone, but could come to
no positive conclusion except that I wished he was somewhere on shore.
I didn't really guess what he was up to until we had landed at St.
Thomas.