The Golden Slipper
by
Anna Katharine Green
Part 6 out of 6
room he would surely have heard it--and the flash coming almost
simultaneously with its utterance, I saw what has haunted my
sleep from that day to this, my father pinned against the wall,
sword still in hand, and before him my mother, fiercely
triumphant, her staring eyes fixed on his and--
Nature could bear no more; the band loosened from my throat; the
oppression lifted from my breast long enough for me to give one
wild wail and she turned, saw (heaven sent its flashes quickly at
this moment) and recognizing my childish form, all the horror of
her deed (or so I have fondly hoped) rose within her, and she
gave a start and fell full upon the point upturned to receive
her.
"A groan; then a gasping sigh from him, and silence settled upon
the room and upon my heart, and so far as I knew upon the whole
created world.
"That is my story, friends. Do you wonder that I have never been
or lived like other men?"
After a few moments of sympathetic silence, Mr. Van Broecklyn
went on, to say:
"I don't think I ever had a moment's doubt that my parents both
lay dead on the floor of that great room. When I came to myself--
which may have been soon, and may not have been for a long while--
the lightning had ceased to flash, leaving the darkness
stretching like a blank pall between me and that spot in which
were concentrated all the terrors of which my imagination was
capable. I dared not enter it. I dared not take one step that
way. My instinct was to fly and hide my trembling body again in
my own bed; and associated with this, in fact dominating it and
making me old before my time, was another--never to tell; never
to let any one, least of all my grandfather--know what that
forbidden room now contained. I felt in an irresistible sort of
way that my father's and mother's honour was at stake. Besides,
terror held me back; I felt that I should die if I spoke.
Childhood has such terrors and such heroisms. Silence often
covers in such, abysses of thought and feeling which astonish us
in later years. There is no suffering like a child's, terrified
by a secret which it dare not for some reason disclose.
"Events aided me. When, in desperation to see once more the light
and all the things which linked me to life--my little bed, the
toys on the window-sill, my squirrel in its cage--I forced myself
to retraverse the empty house, expecting at every turn to hear my
father's voice or come upon the image of my mother--yes, such was
the confusion of my mind, though I knew well enough even then
that they were dead and that I should never hear the one or see
the other. I was so benumbed with the cold in my half-dressed
condition, that I woke in a fever next morning after a terrible
dream which forced from my lips the cry of 'Mother! Mother!'--
only that.
"I was cautious even in delirium. This delirium and my flushed
cheeks and shining eyes led them to be very careful of me. I was
told that my mother was away from home; and when after two days
of search they were quite sure that all effort to find either her
or my father were likely to prove fruitless, that she had gone to
Europe where we would follow her as soon as I was well. This
promise, offering as it did, a prospect of immediate release from
the terrors which were consuming me, had an extraordinary effect
upon me. I got up out of my bed saying that I was well now and
ready to start on the instant. The doctor, finding my pulse
equable, and my whole condition wonder fully improved, and
attributing it, as was natural, to my hope of soon joining my
mother, advised my whim to be humoured and this hope kept active
till travel and intercourse with children should give me strength
and prepare me for the bitter truth ultimately awaiting me. They
listened to him and in twenty-four hours our preparations were
made. We saw the house closed--with what emotions surging in one
small breast, I leave you to imagine--and then started on our
long tour. For five years we wandered over the continent of
Europe, my grandfather finding distraction, as well as myself, in
foreign scenes and associations.
"But return was inevitable. What I suffered on reentering this
house, God and my sleepless pillow alone know. Had any discovery
been made in our absence; or would it be made now that renovation
and repairs of all kinds were necessary? Time finally answered
me. My secret was safe and likely to continue so, and this fact
once settled, life became endurable, if not cheerful. Since then
I have spent only two nights out of this house, and they were
unavoidable. When my grandfather died I had the wainscot door
cemented in. It was done from this side and the cement painted to
match the wood. No one opened the door nor have I ever crossed
its threshold. Sometimes I think I have been foolish; and
sometimes I know that I have been very wise. My reason has stood
firm; how do I know that it would have done so if I had subjected
myself to the possible discovery that one of both of them might
have been saved if I had disclosed instead of concealed my
adventure."
A pause during which white horror had shone on every face; then
with a final glance at Violet, he said:
"What sequel do you see to this story, Miss Strange? I can tell
the past, I leave you to picture the future."
Rising, she let her eye travel from face to face till it rested
on the one awaiting it, when she answered dreamily:
"If some morning in the news column there should appear an
account of the ancient and historic home of the Van Broecklyns
having burned to the ground in the night, the whole country would
mourn, and the city feel defrauded of one of its treasures. But
there are five persons who would see in it the sequel which you
ask for."
When this happened, as it did happen, some few weeks later, the
astonishing discovery was made that no insurance had been put
upon this house. Why was it that after such a loss Mr. Van
Broecklyn seemed to renew his youth? It was a constant source of
comment among his friends.
END OF PROBLEM VIII
PROBLEM IX VIOLET'S OWN
"It has been too much for you?"
"I am afraid so."
It was Roger Upjohn who had asked the question; it was Violet who
answered. They had withdrawn from a crowd of dancers to a
balcony, half-shaded, half open to the moon,--a balcony made, it
would seem, for just such stolen interviews between waltzes.
Now, as it happened, Roger's face was in the shadow, but Violet's
in the full light. Very sweet it looked, very ethereal, but also
a little wan. He noticed this and impetuously cried:
"You are pale; and your hand! see, how it trembles!"
Slowly withdrawing it from the rail where it had rested, she sent
one quick glance his way and, in a low voice, said:
"I have not slept since that night."
"Four days!" he murmured. Then, after a moment of silence, "You
bore yourself so bravely at the time, I thought, or rather, I
hoped, that success had made you forget the horror. I could not
have slept myself, if I had known--"
"It is part of the price I pay," she broke in gently. "All good
things have to be paid for. But I see--I realize that you do not
consider what I am doing good. Though it helps other people--has
helped you--you wonder why, with all the advantages I possess, I
should meddle with matters so repugnant to a woman's natural
instincts."
Yes, he wondered. That was evident from his silence. Seeing her
as she stood there, so quaintly pretty, so feminine in look and
manner--in short, such a flower--it was but natural that he
should marvel at the incongruity she had mentioned.
"It has a strange, odd look," she admitted, after a moment of
troubled hesitation. "The most considerate person cannot but
regard it as a display of egotism or of a most mercenary spirit.
The cheque you sent me for what I was enabled to do for you in
Massachusetts (the only one I have ever received which I have
been tempted to refuse) shows to what extent you rated my help
and my--my expectations. Had I been a poor girl struggling for
subsistence, this generosity would have warmed my heart as a
token of your desire to cut that struggle short. But taken with
your knowledge of my home and its luxuries, it has often made me
wonder what you thought."
"Shall I tell you?"
He had stepped forward at this question and his countenance,
hitherto concealed, became visible in the moonlight. She no
longer recognized it. Transformed by feeling, it shone down upon
her, instinct with all that is finest and best in masculine
nature. Was she ready for this revelation of what she had
nevertheless dreamed of for many more nights than four? She did
not know, and instinctively drew herself back till it was she who
now stood in the semi-obscurity made by the drooping vines. From
this retreat, she faltered forth a very tremulous No, which in
another moment was disavowed by a Yes so faint it was little more
than a murmur, followed by a still fainter, Tell me.
But he did not seem in any haste to obey, sweetly as her low-
toned injunction must have sounded in his ears. On the contrary,
he hesitated to speak, growing paler every minute as he sought to
catch a glimpse of her downcast face so tantalizingly hidden from
him. Did she recognize the nature of the feelings which held him
back, or was she simply gathering up sufficient courage to plead
her own cause? Whatever her reason, it was she, not he, who
presently spoke saying as if no time had elapsed:
"But first, I feel obliged to admit that it was money I wanted,
that I had to have. Not for myself. I lack nothing and could have
more if I wished. Father has never limited his generosity in any
matter affecting myself, but--" She drew a deep breath and,
coming out of the shadow, lifted a face to him so changed from
its usual expression as to make him start. "I have a cause at
heart--one which should appeal to my father and does not; and for
that purpose I have sacrificed myself, in many ways, though--
though I have not disliked my work up to this last attempt. Not
really. I want to be honest and so must admit that much. I have
even gloried (quietly and all by myself, of course) over the
solution of a mystery which no one else seemed able to penetrate.
I am made that way. I have known it ever since--but that is a
story all by itself. Some day I may tell it to you, but not now."
"No, not now." The emphasis sent the colour into her cheek but
did not relieve his pallor. "Miss Strange, I have always felt,
even in my worst days, that the man who for selfish ends brought
a woman under the shadow of his own unhappy reputation was a man
to be despised. And I think so still, and yet--and yet--nothing
in the world but your own word or look can hold me back now from
telling you that I love you--love you notwithstanding my unworthy
past, my scarring memories, my all but blasted hopes. I do not
expect any response; you are young; you are beautiful; you are
gifted with every grace; but to speak,--to say over and over
again, 'I love you, I love you!' eases my heart and makes my
future more endurable. Oh, do not look at me like that unless--
unless--"
But the bright head did not fall, nor the tender gaze falter; and
driven out of himself, Roger Upjohn was about to step
passionately forward, when, seized by fresh compunction, he
hoarsely cried:
"It is not right. The balance dips too much my way. You bring me
everything. I can give you nothing but what you already possess
abundance--love, and money. Besides, your father--"
She interrupted him with a glance at once arch and earnest.
"I had a talk with father this morning. He came to my room, and--
and it was very near being serious. Someone had told him I was
doing things on the sly which he had better look into; and of
course he asked questions and--and I answered them. He wasn't
pleased--in fact he was very displeased,--I don't think we can
blame him for that--but we had no open break for I love him
dearly, for all my opposing ways, and he saw that, and it helped,
though he did say after I had given my promise to stop where I
was and never to take up such work again, that--" here she stole
a shy look at the face bent so eagerly towards her--"that I had
lost my social status and need never hope now for the attentions
of--of--well, of such men as he admires and puts faith in. So you
see," her dimples all showing, "that I am not such a very good
match for an Upjohn of Massachusetts, even if he has a reputation
to recover and an honourable name to achieve. The scale hangs
more evenly than you think."
"Violet!"
A mutual look, a moment of perfect silence, then a low whisper,
airy as the breath of flowers rising from the garden below: "I
have never known what happiness was till this moment. If you will
take me with my story untold--"
"Take you! take you!" The man's whole yearning heart, the loss
and bitterness of years, the hope and promise of the future, all
spoke in that low, half-smothered exclamation. Violet's blushes
faded under its fervency, and only her spirit spoke, as leaning
towards him, she laid her two hands in his, and said with all a
woman's earnestness:
"I do not forget little Roger, or the father who I hope may have
many more days before him in which to bid good-night to the sea.
Such union as ours must be hallowed, because we have so many
persons to make happy besides ourselves."
The evening before their marriage, Violet put a dozen folded
sheets of closely written paper in his hand. They contained her
story; let us read it with him.
DEAR ROGER,--
I could not have been more than seven years old, when one night I
woke up shivering, at the sound of angry voices. A conversation
which no child should ever have heard, was going on in the room
where I lay. My father was talking to my sister-- perhaps, you do
not know that I have a sister; few of my personal friends do,--
and the terror she evinced I could well understand but not his
words nor the real cause of his displeasure.
There are times even yet when the picture, forced upon my
infantile consciousness at that moment of first awakening, comes
back to me with all its original vividness. There was no light in
the room save such as the moon made; but that was enough to
reveal the passion burningly alive in either face, as, bending
towards each other, she in supplication and he in a tempest of
wrath which knew no bounds, he uttered and she listened to what I
now know to have been a terrible arraignment.
I may have an interesting countenance; you have told me so
sometimes; but she--she was beautiful. My elder by ten years, she
had stood in my mother's stead to me for almost as long as I
could remember, and as I saw her lovely features contorted with
pain and her hands extended in a desperate plea to one who had
never shown me anything but love, my throat closed sharply and I
could not cry out though I wanted to, nor move head or foot
though I longed with all my heart to bury myself in the pillows.
For the words I heard were terrifying, little as I comprehended
their full purport. He had surprised her talking from her window
to someone down below, and after saying cruel things about that,
he shouted out: "You have disgraced me, you have disgraced
yourself, you have disgraced your brother and your little sister.
Was it not enough that you should refuse to marry the good man I
had picked out for you, that you should stoop to this low-down
scoundrel--this--" I did not hear what else he called him, I was
wondering so to whom she had been stooping; I had never seen her
stoop except to tie my little shoes.
But when she cried out as she did after an interval, "I love him!
I love him!" then I listened again, for she spoke as though she
were in dreadful pain, and I did not know that loving made one
ill and unhappy. "And I am going to marry him," I heard her add,
standing up, as she said it, very straight and tall.
Marry! I knew what that meant. A long aisle in a church; women in
white and big music in the air behind. I had been flower-girl at
a wedding once and had not forgotten. We had had ice cream and
cake and--
But my childish thoughts stopped short at the answer she received
and all the words which followed--words which burned their way
into my infantile brain and left scorched places in my memory
which will never be eradicated. He spoke them--spoke them all;
she never answered again after that once, and when he was gone
did not move for a long time and when she did it was to lie down,
stiff and straight, just as she had stood, on her bed alongside
mine.
I was frightened; so frightened, my little brass bed rattled
under me. I wonder she did not hear it. But she heard nothing;
and after awhile she was so still I fell asleep. But I woke
again. Something hot had fallen on my cheek. I put up my hand to
brush it away and did not know even when I felt my fingers wet
that it was a tear from my sister-mother's eye.
For she was kneeling then; kneeling close beside me and her arm
was over my small body; and the bed was shaking again but not
this time with my tremors only. And I was sorry and cried too
until I dropped off to sleep again with her arm still
passionately embracing me.
In the morning, she was gone.
It must have been that very afternoon that Father came in where
Arthur and I were trying to play,--trying, but not quite
succeeding, for I had been telling Arthur, for whom I had a great
respect in those days, what had happened the night before, and we
had been wondering in our childish way if there would be a
wedding after all, and a church full of people, and flowers, and
kissing, and lots of good things to eat, and Arthur had said No,
it was too expensive; that that was why Father was so angry; and
comforted by the assertion, I was taking up my doll again, when
the door opened and Father stepped in.
It was a great event--any visit from him to the nursery--and we
both dropped our toys and stood staring, not knowing whether he
was going to be nice and kind as he sometimes was, or scold us as
I had heard him scold our beautiful sister.
Arthur showed at once what he thought, for without the least
hesitation he took the one step which placed him in front of me,
where he stood waiting with his two little fists hanging straight
at his sides but manfully clenched in full readiness for attack.
That this display of pigmy chivalry was not quite without its
warrant is evident to me now, for Father did not look like
himself or act like himself any more than he had the night
before.
However, we had no cause for fear. Having no suspicion of my
having been awake during his terrible interview with Theresa, he
saw only two lonely and forsaken children, interrupted in their
play.
Can I remember what he said to us? Not exactly, though Arthur and
I often went over it choked whispers in some secret nook of the
dreary old house; but his meaning--that we took in well enough.
Theresa had left us. She would never come back. We were not to
look out of the window for her, or run to the door when the bell
rang. Our mother had left us too, a long time ago, and she lay in
the cemetery where we sometimes carried flowers. Theresa was not
in the cemetery, but we must think of her as there; though not as
if she had any need of flowers. Having said this, he looked at
us quietly for a minute. Arthur was trying very hard not to cry,
but I was sobbing like the lost child I was, with my cheek
against the floor where I had thrown myself when he said that
awful thing about the cemetery. She there! my sister-mother
there! I think he felt a little sorry for me; for he half stooped
as if to lift me up. But he straightened again and said very
sternly:
"Now, children, listen to me. When God takes people to heaven and
leaves us only their cold, dead bodies we carry flowers to their
graves and talk about them some if not very much. But when people
die because they love dark ways better than light, then we do not
remember them with gifts and we do not talk about them. Your
sister's name has been spoken for the last time in this house.
You, Arthur, are old enough to know what I mean when I say that I
will never listen to another word about her from either you or
Violet as long as you and I live. She is gone and nothing that is
mine shall she ever touch again.
You hear me, Arthur; you hear me, Violet. Heed me, or you go
too."
His aspect was terrible, so was his purpose; much more terrible
than we realized at the time with our limited understanding and
experience. Later, we came to know the full meaning of this black
drop which had been infused into our lives. When we saw every
picture of her destroyed which had been in the house; her name
cut out from the leaves of books; the little tokens she had given
us surreptitiously taken away, till not a vestige of her once
beloved presence remained, we began to realize that we had indeed
lost her.
But children as young as we were then do not long retain the
poignancy of their first griefs. Gradually my memories of that
awful night ceased to disturb my dreams and I was sixteen before
they were again recalled to me with any vividness, and then it
was by accident. I had been strolling through a picture gallery
and had stopped short to study more particularly one which had
especially taken my fancy. There were two ladies sitting on a
bench behind me and one of them was evidently very deaf, for
their talk was loud, though I am sure they did not mean for me to
hear, for they were discussing my family. That is, one of them
had said:
"That's Violet Strange. She will never be the beauty her sister
was; but perhaps that's not to be deplored. Theresa made a great
mess of it."
"That's true. I hear that she and the Signor have been seen
lately here in town. In poverty, of course. He hadn't even as
much go in him as the ordinary singing-master."
I suppose I should have hurried away, and left this barbed arrow
to rankle where it fell. But I could not. I had never learned a
word of Theresa's fate and that word poverty, proving that she
was alive and suffering, held me to my, place to hear what more
they might say of her who for years had been for me an indistinct
figure bathed in cruel moonlight.
"I have never approved of Peter Strange's conduct at that time,"
one of the voices now went on. "He didn't handle her right. She
had a lovely disposition and would have listened to him had he
been more gentle with her. But it isn't in him. I hope this one--
"
I didn't hear the end of that. I had no interest in anything they
might say about myself. It was of her I wanted to hear, of her.
Weren't they going to say anything more about my poor sister?
Yes; it was a topic which interested both and presently I heard:
"He'll never do anything for her, no matter what happens; I've
heard him say so. And Laura has vowed the same." (Laura is our
aunt.) "Besides, Theresa has a pride of her own quite equal to
her father's. She wouldn't take anything from him now. She'd
rather struggle on. I'm told--I don't know how true it is--that
she's working in a department store; one of the Sixth Avenue
ones. Oh, there's Mrs. Vandegraff! Don't you want to speak to
her?"
They moved off, leaving me still gazing with unseeing eyes at
the picture before which I stood planted, and saying over and
over in monotonous iteration, "One of the department stores in
Sixth Avenue! One of the department stores in Sixth Avenue!"
Which department store?
I meant to find out.
I do not know whether up till then I had had the least
consciousness of possessing what is called the detective
instinct. But, at the prospect of this quest, so much like that
of the proverbial needle in a haystack, as I did not even know my
sister's married name and something within me forbade my asking
it, I experienced an odd sense of elation followed by a certainty
of success which in five minutes changed me from an irresponsible
girl to a woman with a deliberate purpose in life.
I am not going to write down here all the details of that search.
Some day I may relate them to you, but not now. I looked first
for a beautiful woman, for the straight, slim, and exquisite
creature I remembered. I did not find her. Then I tried another
course. Her figure might have changed in the ten years which had
elapsed; so might her expression. I would look for a woman with
beautiful dark eyes; time could not have altered them. I had
forgotten the effect of constant weeping. And I saw many eyes,
but not hers; not the ones I had seen smiling upon me as I lay in
my crib before the days I was lifted to the dignity of the little
brass bed. So I gave that up too and listened to the inner voice
which said, "You must wait for her to recognize you. You can
never hope to recognize her." And it was by following this plan
that I found her. I had arranged to have my name spoken aloud at
every counter where I bargained; and oh, the bargains I sought,
and the garments I had tried on! But I made little progress until
one day, after my name had been uttered a little louder than
usual I saw a woman turn from rearranging gowns on a hanger, and
give me one look.
I uttered a low cry and sprang impetuously, forward. Instantly
she turned her back and went on hanging, or trying to hang up,
gowns on the rack before her. Had I been mistaken? She was not
the sister of my dreams, but there was something fine in her
outline; something distinguished in the way she carried her head
which--
Next minute my last doubt fled! She had fallen her length on the
floor and lay with her face buried in her hands in a dead faint.
Oh, Roger, Roger, Roger! I had that dear head on my breast in a
moment. I talked to her, I whispered prayers in her unconscious
ear. I did everything I should not have done till they all
thought me demented. When she came to, as she did under other
ministrations than mine, I was for carrying her off in my
limousine. But she shook her head with a gesture of such
disapproval, that I realized I could not do that. The limousine
was my father's, and nothing of his was ever to be used for her
again. I would call a cab; but she told me that she had not the
money to pay for it and she would not take mine. Carfare she had;
five cents would take her home. I need not worry.
She smiled as she said this and for an instant I saw my dream-
sister again in this weary half-disheartened woman. But the smile
was a fleeting one, for this was to be her last day in the store;
she had no talent as a saleswoman and was merely working out her
week.
I felt my heart sink heavily at this, for the evidences of
poverty were plainly to be seen in her clothes and the thinness
of her face and figure. How could I help? What could I do? I took
her to a restaurant for food and talk, and before she would
order, she looked into her purse, with the result that we had
only a little toast and tea. It was all she could afford and I,
with a hundred dollars in bills at that moment in my bag, could
not offer her anything more though she was needing nourishment
and dishes piled with savoury meats were going by us every
moment.
I think, if she had let me, I would have dared my father's
displeasure and been disobedient to his wishes by giving her one
wholesome meal. But she was as resolute of mind as he, and, as
she said afterwards, had chosen her course in life and must abide
by it. My love she would accept. It took nothing from father and
gave her what her heart was pining for--had pined for for years.
But nothing more--not another thing more. She would not even let
me go home with her; and I knew why when her eyes fell at the
searching look I gave her. Something would turn up, and when her
husband's health was better and she had found another position
she would send me her address and then I could come and see her.
As we walked out of the restaurant we ran against a gentleman I
knew. He stopped me for a passing word and in that minute she
disappeared. I did not try to follow her. I could get her street
and number from the store where she had worked.
But when I had done this and embraced the first opportunity which
offered to visit her, I found that she had moved away in the
interim, leaving everything behind in payment of her rent, except
such small things as she and her husband could carry. This was
discouraging as it left me without any clue by which to follow
them. But I was determined not to yield to her desire for
concealment in the difficult and disheartening task I now saw
before me.
Seeking advice from the man who has since become my employer, I
entered upon this second search with a quiet resolution which
admitted of no defeat. It took me six months, but I finally found
her, and satisfied with knowing where she was, desisted from
rushing in upon her, till I had caught one glimpse of her husband
whom, in the last six months, I had heard described but had never
seen. To understand her, it was perhaps necessary to understand
him, and if I could not hope to do this offhand, I could not fail
to get some idea of the man from even the most casual look.
He was, as I soon learned, the fetcher and carrier of the small
menage; and the day came when I met him face to face in the
street where they lived. Did he disappoint me; or did I see
something in his appearance to justify her desertion of her
father's home and her present life of poverty? If I say Yes to
the first question, I must also say it to the last. If handsome
once, he was not handsome now; but with a personality such as
his, this did not matter. He had that better thing--that greatest
gift of the gods--charm. It was in his bearing, his movement, the
regard of his weary eye; more than that it was in his very nature
or it would have vanished long ago under disappointment and
privation.
But that was all there was to the man,--a golden net in which my
sister's youthful fancy had been caught and no doubt held meshed
to this very day. I felt less like blaming her for her folly,
after that instant's view of him as we passed each other in the
street. But, as I took time to think, I found myself growing
sorrier and sorrier for her and yet, in a way, gladder and
gladder, for the man was a physical wreck and would soon pass out
of her life leaving her to my love and possibly to our father's
forgiveness.
But I did not know Theresa. After her husband's death, which
occurred very soon, she let me come to her and we had a long talk-
-Shall I ever forget it or the sight of her beauty in that sordid
room? For, account for it as you will, the loveliness which had
fled under her sense of complete isolation had slowly regained
its own with the recognition that she still had a place in the
heart of her little sister. Not even the sorrow she felt for the
loss of her suffering husband--and she did mourn him; this I am
glad to say--could more than temporarily stay this. Six months of
ease and wholesome food would make her--I hardly dared to think
what. For I knew, without asking her, or she telling me, that she
would accept neither; that she was as determined now, as ever
that nothing which came directly or indirectly from Father should
go to the rebuilding of her life. That she intended to start anew
and work her way up to a place where I should be glad to see her
she did say. But nothing more. She was still the sister-mother,
loving, but sufficient to herself, though she had but ten dollars
left in the world, as she showed me with a smile that made her
beautiful as an angel.
I can see that shabby little purse yet with its one poor greasy
bill;--a sum to her but to me the price of a luncheon or a gift
of flowers. How I longed, as I looked at it to tear every jewel
from my poor, bedecked body and fling them one and all into her
lap. I had worn them in profusion, though carefully hidden under
my coat, in the hope that she would accept one of them at least,
But she refused all, even such as had been gifts of friends and
schoolmates, only humouring me this far, that she let me hang
them for a few minutes about her neck and in her hair and then
pull them all off again. But this one vision of her in the
splendour she was born to comforted me. Henceforth in wearing
them it would be of her and not of myself I should think.
Well, I had to leave her and go home to my French and Italian
lessons, my music-masters and all the luxuries of our father's
house. Should I ever see her again? I did not know; she had not
promised. I could not go often into the quarter where she lived,
without rousing suspicion; and she had bidden me not to come
again for a month. So I waited, half fearing she would flit again
before the month was up. But she did not. She was still there
when--
But I am going too fast. The meeting I was about to mention was a
very memorable one to me, and I must describe it from the
beginning. I had ridden in my own car as near as I dared to the
street where she lived; the rest of the way I went on foot with
one of the servants--a new one--following close behind me. I was
not exactly afraid, but the actions of some of the people I had
encountered at my former visit warned me to be a little careful
for my father's sake if not for my own. Her room--she had but one-
-was high up in a triangular court it was no pleasure to enter.
But love and loyalty heed nothing but the object sought, and I
was hunting about for the dark doorway which opened upon the
staircase leading to her room when--and this was the great moment
of my life--a sudden stream of melody floated down into that
noisome court, which from its clearness, its accuracy, its
richness, and its feeling startled me as I had never before been
startled even by the first notes of the world's greatest singers.
What a voice for a place like this! What a voice for any place!
Whose could it be? With a start, I stopped short, in the middle
of that court, heedless of the crowd of pushing, shouting
children who at once gathered about me. I had been struck by an
old recollection. My sister used to sing. I remembered where her
piano had stood in the great drawing-room. It had been carted
away during those dreadful weeks and her music all burned; but
the vision of her graceful figure bending over the keyboard was
one not to be forgotten even by a thoughtless child. Could it be--
oh, heaven! if this voice were hers! Her future was certain; she
had but to sing.
In a transport of hope I rushed for the dim entrance the children
had pointed out and flew up to her room. As I reached it, I heard
a trill as perfect as Tetrazzini's. The singer was Theresa; there
could be no more doubt. Theresa! exercising a grand voice as only
a great artist would or could.
The joy of it made me almost faint. I leaned against her door and
sobbed. Then when I thought I could speak quite calmly, I went
in.
Roger, you must understand me now,--my desire for money and the
means I have taken to obtain it. My sister had the makings of a
prima-donna. Her husband, of whose ability I had formed so low an
estimate, had trained her with consummate skill and judgment. All
she needed was a year with some great maestro in the foreign
atmosphere of art. But this meant money--not hundreds but
thousands, and the one sure source to which we might rightfully
look for any such amount was effectually closed to us. It is true
we had relatives--an aunt on our mother's side, and I mentioned
her to Theresa. But she would not listen to the suggestion. She
would take nothing from any one whom she would find it hard to
face in case of failure. Love must go with an advance involving
so much risk; love deep enough and strong enough to feel no loss
save that of a defeated hope. In short, to be acceptable, the
money must come from me, and as this was manifestly impossible,
she considered the matter closed and began to talk of a position
she had been offered in some choir. I let her talk, listening and
not listening; for the idea had come to me that if in some way I
could earn money, she might be induced to take it. Finally, I
asked her. She laughed, letting her kisses answer me. But I did
not laugh. If she had capabilities in one way, I had them in
another.
I went home to think.
Two weeks later, I began, in a very quiet way to do certain work
for the man who had helped me in my second search for Theresa.
The money I have earned has been immense; since it was troubles
of the rich I was given to settle, and I was almost always
successful. Every cent has gone to her. She has been in Europe
for a year and last week she made her debut. You read about it in
the papers, but neither you nor any one else in this country but
myself knew that under the name she chosen to assume, Theresa
Strange, the long forgotten beauty, has recovered that place in
the world, to which her love and genius entitle her.
This is my story and hers. From now on, you are the third in the
secret. Some day, my father will be the fourth. I think then, a
new dawn of love will arise for us all, which will stay the
whitening of his dear head--for I believe in him after all.
Yesterday when he passed the wall where her picture once hung--
no other has ever hung there--I saw him stop and look up, and,
Roger, when he passed me a minute later, there was a tear in his
hard eye.
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