We know not in our poor philosophy what hidden chords are touched by
unseen hands.
More than a hundred years ago there lived in the Sunny South a handsome
cavalier, who was noted for his riches, daring and cruelty. It is
recorded that, whenever a man opposed him, he coolly ran him through
with his broadsword; and whenever a female repulsed him he disgraced
her, if he had an opportunity, or else some one who was near and dear to
her.
The greatest artist of his time painted his portrait, and it hangs
to-day in one of the public institutions of his native State. Tradition
has it that he once killed a gypsy lad who happened to win the love of a
young gypsy girl with whom he imagined himself to be in love, and that a
gypsy woman cursed him for the deed and wrote his horoscope with the
blood of the murdered youth as follows: “That his line would cease with
one girl, who would live long enough to disgrace his name; that many
years of her life would be spent in a vile prison among negroes in a
foreign land for a crime like the one he had then committed.”
This view behind the curtain seems to have had a strong effect upon the
cruel cavalier, for he decided to marry and settle down like the people
around him. His wife was a woman of gentle character, and her influence
wrought a great change in the morals of her husband, for it was said
that he became quite religious, and, when a little girl was born to him,
with many tears and prayers he dedicated the child to God.
Meantime the years rolled on. The cavalier died, and, as daughter after
daughter was born of his line, his name became extinct. Then, too,
poverty, the great leveler, had come upon the family. His portrait, his
signature to a famous document, and the tale of the gypsy’s curse were
all that remained of the cavalier. Those who watched for the fulfillment
of the curse died and were forgotten; and at last a daughter was born,
fifth in line from him. Her mother departed this world at her birth; her
father, some months later, and it devolved upon the neighbors to care
for the orphaned child. As she grew to womanhood people remarked that
she bore a strong resemblance to the portrait of her great-grandfather
on her mother’s side, and by a special act of the Legislature she was
given his name.
At 17, being pretty, gracious, sensible and womanly, with a genius for
music, a great future was predicted for her; but, in the parlance of the
day, “she went wrong.” Her betrayer was the son of one of the most
opulent families in the State, and, at his mother’s request, the girl
was sent to a distant Southern city. Here, after a few months, necessity
compelled her to take up a residence in the underworld, and the friends
of her childhood thenceforth knew her no more. She had been the ward of
every one at home, and was, therefore, the ward of no one; and her
disappearance was only a nine days’ wonder.
In spite of her degraded calling, men admired her, and, because of a
certain haughtiness in her bearing toward them, she was called “Vere de
Vere,” and it was known that she was sought with honest intention by men
who declared that they loved her for her womanliness and the music of
her laugh. The creatures of the world stood in awe of her, because of
her dignity, and they feared her because of her violent temper. So, she
lived her scarlet life, apparently without regret, until one day an old
man from her native State happened in and amused his listeners by
telling weird stories which, he said, had been told him by his
grandmother. He related the story of Vere de Vere’s ancestor, without
knowing that one of his listeners was the only person upon whom the
curse might fall. Nor did he know that when Vere de Vere fainted he had
touched a chord of sensibility rarely found in the nature of women of
her sort.
On the morning of the following day Vere de Vere told her associates
that she desired to go to work and earn an honest living. “This is not
the right life for me,” said she to her incredulous auditors. “I was
born to a higher life. I shall be good; I shall marry, and I shall have
children,” with which announcement she left them, to begin life anew.
How fresh and beautiful the morning seemed to her as she hurried toward
a park! What do you know of fresh, green, delightful mornings? she said
to herself as she sat down and took a deep breath. A bird twittering in
a branch above her head, and a pair of squirrels playing in the grass
beside her, made her smile and forget. A man in passing leered at her
and attempted to speak, but she checked him abruptly with the
information that he had made a mistake. “I shall wear black for a time,”
she thought. Then she began to wonder what she could do. She could sew
beautifully. A light came into her eyes at the thought of the creations
that she had designed for her underworld revels. She could embroider,
paint china and play the violin.
She bought a newspaper and looked through the list of advertisements.
The following attracted her attention:
“WANTED--A lady violinist and seven other lady musicians to make up
a lady orchestra for a first-class hotel in Panama.”
Her heart leaped for joy. “This is my chance. I shall go to Panama. It
is far away, and no one will recognize me there,” said the poor girl as
she hastened to answer the advertisement.
At noon on the following day she was standing on the ship’s deck on her
way to Colon, and as New Orleans receded from view her lips moved in
prayer; she was asking God to give her strength to lead a better life.
The man who had engaged her had complimented her upon her skill at
playing. “You may not like Panama,” said he, “for the life down there is
rough, and I see you are a lady.”
In a few days she was walking the streets of Colon in glorious freedom.
Men eyed her furtively from some safe retreat, but no one ventured to
accost her. There was no one to lift an eyebrow or to give a scornful
glance. “Safe, thank God!” she said. “I shall not be the victim of that
curse.” She was thinking of what she should wear that night. A simple
white muslin dress; a white rose in her hair. No paint, no jewelry, no
more bright colors. “I shall save my money and buy a little home,” she
thought.
“It is time to dress,” said one of her girl friends, breaking in upon
her reverie. “We are to go to the hotel at seven.” But it was not an
hotel--it was a barroom where employes of the Canal Commission and the
riff-raff of God’s great universe assembled nightly to drink to excess
and discuss the slanderous gossip of the Isthmus.
When Vere de Vere arrived at the entrance she faltered and refused to go
in. “It is a low barroom,” said she to her companions, “and there are
drunkards inside who will say vile things to us.”
“But we must play there, or else we won’t be able to live,” said one of
the girls.
So they walked in, single file, through the rows of leering men, leaving
the frightened girl on the sidewalk.
“Aw, come on in, kid,” said the manager, whose name was “Blinkey.” “This
is an all-right place; the best in town. There ain’t no first-class
hotels in this God-forsaken place. What ’ud support ’em? Not the I. C.
C. roughnecks an’ P. R. R. pen-pushers. Not on your life, kid. Why did I
say that the place was a first-class hotel? Because I’m a liar, of
course. Come on in.”
“I want to live a good life,” replied the girl, with the calmness of
despair in her voice.
“Well, that’s up to you, my girl. I ain’t askin’ you not to lead a good
life. You can be as good as Saint Cecelia an’ play here every night. The
better you are, the greater attraction you’ll be for this joint, for
good ladies are doggoned scarce on the Isthmus. I’ll tell the boys all
about you, an’ when I get through I bet you they’ll respect you. You
must play that ‘Good Night’ solo when you see that they’re about
half-shot. Come on in; I’ll lead you. My! you are shiverin’ an’ your
hand is as cold as ice. You bet the boys’ll know when they see a real
lady. You look like a little girl in that simple white dress.”
So she allowed “Blinkey” to lead her by the hand into the reeking
barroom, and onto the balcony, where her girl companions awaited her.
Then the manager announced, in the unmistakable voice of the
professional barker: “Gen-tle-men: I wish to introduce to your favorable
notice Miss Merriam Leigh, the famous violinist. She has medals which
were presented to her by the Emperors of Germany, Austria and Japan;
medals that are worth a fortune, and the little lady is too modest to
wear ’em. This is the lady who entranced with her violin solos the late
King Edward the Seventh, and made him exclaim, a few moments before he
died, ‘To endow with such genius a poor human being, there must be a
God!’ I presume you have all read of the rope of pearls that he gave to
this little lady before he died; an account of ’em was in all the
papers. I presume you all read about when Queen Alexandra wanted to keep
her in her household to play for her in her widowhood. This is the
modest little lady who comes here to-night to let the P. R. R.’s and the
I. C. C.’s hear her play. You can see that she’s a lady. Treat her as
such.”
“Come forward, now,” said “Blinkey,” in an aside that only the girl
could hear, “and bow to the blokes while there’s a sentimental fit on
’em, an’ you’ll be a darned sight safer here than you’d have been in old
King Eddie’s quarters.”
The harangue was news to the poor girl, and the humor of it made her
smile as she stepped forward to bow to the waiting throng. Each man
raised his glass to toast the celebrity, when a harsh voice somewhere
among the drinkers said: “Well, I’ll be gorldurned if it ain’t Vere de
Vere, from Mixed Ale Lizzie’s place in N’Yawlins.”
Vere de Vere heard the ominous words, and felt a faintness overpower
her, but, with that spirit for which men had admired, she seized her
violin and played, while her cheeks flamed and her eyes sparkled,
“Lead, Kindly Light, Lead Thou Me On.”
“She’s mad, all right,” said a maudlin voice in the crowd.
“That makes a feller think of things that Gawd has to do with,” spoke up
another.
A hush fell upon the assembly, and the black waiters stood still and
bowed their heads. The bartender, an old tropical tramp, used his towel
to wipe his teardrops from the marble. The last time he had heard that
hymn it was being sung at the funeral of his wife away back on the farm
in Missouri. There were many wet eyes as the girl frantically played to
the finish. Then, with one wild bound, she rushed through the reeking
saloon, out into the street to a nearby park, where she sat down and
cried it out.
No one spoke after she had left the barroom, but one by one the men
tiptoed out, leaving unfinished glasses on the tables behind them. At
nine o’clock the place was deserted and the doors were closed. Habitues,
who came too late, said to one another, “I wonder what’s the matter with
‘Blinkey’s’ place. He advertised a lady orchestra and a big night
to-night.”
“Say, ain’t he the liar, though?”
“Well, he ain’t doin’ business, that’s a cinch. Wonder what’s up.”
One man remained in “Blinkey’s” place; it was the informer. He told the
manager all he knew of the violinist; it was, that he had seen her in a
disreputable house in New Orleans.
“You’re a pretty rotten specimen of manhood to go giving her away like
that,” said “Blinkey.” “If you had any sense you might have known that
she was trying to do right, the poor little devil. ’Twas a rotten deal
to hand out to me; spoiled a good night’s business, an’ made a liar of
me.”
“But half of ’em didn’t hear what I said,” protested the offender.
“No,” said “Blinkey,” “they didn’t hear you, but she did, an’ she played
that to get ’em to thinkin’ of their pasts as she was made to remember
hers. I bet every man of ’em left off livin’ right soon after the last
time they heard that played; I know I did. ’Twas when poor Maggie died,
Gawd rest her soul! There’s ginger in that girl; there’s soul an’
feelin’ in her, an’ pride. I had to coax her to come in, an’ she said
somethin’ about wantin’ to lead a good life.”
“That’s the way in this darned old world,” put in the bartender. “Step a
little bit askew, an’ down you go; but, when you try to buck up, some
gink comes along that hain’t got sense enough to get in when it rains,
an’ he blows on you an’ every one’ll believe him, an’ you either get in
jail or into a crooked poker game. I know; I been there. That girl’ll
either commit suicide or go back to the life that she’s been tryin’ to
git away from now.”
“Yes,” said “Blinkey,” shaking his head. “An’ I’ll have it all on my
soul, and Gawd knows I have enough to answer for now. I’ll get out of
this business, by heck; I will.”
“Well, I guess I’ll be goin’,” said the informer. “I’m fed up on
moralizin’. I’m sorry I squealed on the merry widow. Good-night, boys. I
guess you’re troublin’ more about it than she is.”
“Say! you didn’t tell any of ’em on the q. t., did you?” asked
“Blinkey,” anxiously.
“A couple of ’em, but they were too darned drunk to remember,” the
informer replied.
“Well, say! you’d better tell them fellers to-morrow night that you made
a mistake; that she ain’t the one you thought she was,” said “Blinkey,”
in a persuasive tone.
“If I think of it,” said the informer, as he walked leisurely through
the doorway with the air and manner of one with nothing to regret.
“All the fire in purgatory wouldn’t clean up that feller’s soul,” said
the bartender, as the door closed behind the man.
“That mut ain’t got no soul. ‘Lead, Kindly Light,’ wasn’t wrote for
such spawn as him. I guess I’ll take a ride out into the savannahs to
get a breath of Gawd’s pure air, for, I’ll tell you what, the stink of
this booze joint is gittin’ on my nerves,” said “Blinkey,” in disgust.
On the following day Vere de Vere looked for work, but failed to find
it, and at night she went back to the barroom and played, without
looking at the drinkers. When her violin solo was finished she sought a
remote corner of the balcony and hid herself behind the other players.
“That girl is afraid of us fellers,” said a man, laughing.
“It takes some nerve for a young lady like her to play in a place like
this for a bunch of roughnecks like us,” said another man, in a kindly
tone.
“Better lookout, girl, you’ll lose your virtue here among us fellers,”
said the informer of the night before, in a high-pitched voice. This
coarse jest was greeted with roars of laughter.
“Put that mut out!” shouted “Blinkey” to the negro attendants, “an’ if
he puts up a kick, call in the ‘spiggotty’ police and tell ’em that he’s
a crook, and let ’em put the guy in jail.”
The informer was led to the street, but it was too late. The habitues of
“Blinkey’s” place knew that the pretty violinist had led a disreputable
life in a low resort in New Orleans. Several of the less hardened
didn’t believe the story, and one young business man of Colon was very
much in love with her and said that he would marry her; so now it was
rumored that there was going to be a wedding, and that free drinks were
to be served gratis on that night at “Blinkey’s” place.
The story of Vere de Vere became generally known and was freely
discussed, even in that quarter of the city known as “the district.” The
rumor reached the ears of a woman of ill-repute who had designs upon
Vere de Vere’s lover. Jealousy is a destructive element, when it takes
root, in the most respectable bosom, and surely, when in force in the
disordered mind of an outcast woman, it must be doubly dangerous. This
one, it seems, had known Vere de Vere in New Orleans, and there was an
old score that she was anxious to settle, so she circulated a horrible
story of the girl’s past, which not only shocked Vere de Vere’s lover,
but the hardest characters at “Blinkey’s” place.
All this greatly distressed poor Vere de Vere, for it seems there are
depths of degradation to which some women of the underworld refuse to
sink, and there are crimes so abhorrent as to shock even their paralyzed
sense of morality.
“I shall see that girl,” said poor Vere de Vere. “I used to know her,
and she was not a bad-hearted person.” So, while her companions went to
“Blinkey’s” place as usual, she made her way to the house of her
slanderer. When she entered, the wretched woman came toward her,
staggering and hiccoughing; she was followed by a negro porter.
“Beat her up,” she shouted, “she’s trying to take my man from me.”
The negro advanced threateningly, and the defenceless girl, seeing a
be-ribboned dagger hanging on the wall above her head, seized it. The
negro, in a sudden frenzy, threw the drunken woman upon the weapon, and
in a moment she fell to the floor fatally injured.
“It is the curse,” said Vere de Vere, as she rushed from the house. Her
white dress was spattered with blood, and, unconsciously, she held the
dagger clutched tightly in one hand while she ran through the streets of
Colon to “Blinkey’s” place.
“What in the name of God have you been doin’, kid?” asked “Blinkey,” as
he took the blood-stained dagger from her hand.
“It is the curse,” she moaned; and “Blinkey” afterward said that the
hurt look in the girl’s eyes made him feel ill. To the bewilderment of
the awe-struck drinkers, Vere de Vere took her violin in her
blood-stained hands and played “Dixie.” Amid a tumult of applause the
police came in and tore her from her violin.
“And the sins of the parents shall be visited upon the children,” said
the girl, as she was led to the street, where a hooting mob stood ready
to offer her indignities.
So the last descendant of a great cavalier leads the life of a
malefactor among negroes in the penitentiary at Panama, and the curse
written in the life-blood of the poor gypsy boy has had its
fulfillment.