We must now retrace our steps for some months back to the golden summer time.
In the great eastern metropolis, on the sunny banks of the beautiful Hudson, almost hidden within a grove of wild plum and cherry trees, stands a cosy cottage. Snowy lace curtains drape the windows. Creeping vines almost cover it like a heavy green coverlet. On the shady porches are arranged a profusion and variety of richly blooming plants. The grass plots surrounding the house are dotted with beds of rare flowers which fill the air with fragrance.
But in spite of all the tempting beauty of the place there was an air of desertion about it that one felt rather than saw. The sultry summer day was drawing to its close. Evening was casting its lengthening shadows across the paths. Many of the beautiful blossoms drooped their heads as if weary and sad, while every window and door was closely fastened.
There was not a single sign of life about the place, when suddenly the click of the garden gate was heard, and a man with hasty steps came walking up the path. His face was pale and handsome, his eyes blue, and his drooping, silky mustache a decided red. The hair of the head, however, was of a darker hue, a handsome brown. He was admitted to the house by an old negress, whose face wore an extremely doleful expression.
“Hello! Aunt Betty, what’s wrong? Your young mistress is well, I hope?” But not waiting for answer he pushed by her, and was half way up the stairway when the old woman’s voice arrested his footsteps.
“No use, Massa Hunter. The young Missis is not upstairs.”
“Not upstairs! Then where is she, pray? Tell me at once.”
For answer the old woman covered her face with her snowy apron and burst into tears.
“What is the meaning of this?” the young man demanded. “Has anything happened? Where is Cora? Don’t you see how you are torturing me?”
“I don’t know. Indeed I don’t! She just put on her plainest dress and says to me: ‘I is going away, aunty, you can keep dis as a present from me,’ and she gi’ me a purse all filled with gold. ‘You is to remain here,’ she says, ‘until the massa comes and den you gi’ him dis.’ Then she gi’ me lettah, and dat is all I knows.”
His face was ashy white and his hand shook as with palsy as the negress handed him the missive which he instinctively knew was a farewell from the one woman who was dearer to him than life. A deadly fear crept into his heart as he went into the little parlor and closed the door as if to shut out the glad sunlight while he read the words that had been penned with a broken heart. Here and there a stain, a tell-tale mark had been left by a falling tear.
“You will forget,” she wrote, “that such a one as I have ever crossed your path. It is better thus. It seems my destiny only to bring pain and suffering to those who love me.
“Do not fear I may sink again to the level on which you found me and from which you rescued me. You have taught me a woman’s real worth and no degrading action or word shall ever again soil my life. I was reckless and daring to accept the priceless boon of your love without first inquiring if you were free to love. I did not know, O, I did not know, that law and custom had already bound you to another. I cannot permit you to make a criminal of yourself, and when you return I will be gone. Don’t seek to find me. What would be the use? The world is wide and somewhere I shall be able to live out this life which consists of so much more pain than joy. I am young and strong, and shall find work somewhere. Good bye! Farewell, my Owen, my lover. Reserve in your memory one little spot of green for your own unhappy.
CORA.”
The closely written sheets fluttered from his hand and fell unheeded to the floor. His head sank upon his arm where it fell upon the table. Thus he sat long hours. The day had gone out in the gloaming. The twilight hours passed and ushered in the dark night and still he sat there. Then he arose and dragged his weary footsteps to the pretty bed chamber which was to know her no more. There, where he had spent so many sweet and indescribably happy hours, he threw himself upon the bed and buried his face in the snowy pillows which her head had so often pressed.
At sunrise he left the sacred abode. He told the old negress to remain and take care of the little home just the same as if her mistress were there. Giving her a well filled purse he turned his back upon the place where love had been wont to welcome him and went straight to the mansion where dwelt the haughty Leonie, his wife.
“I will never give in! Never! never! I would scratch the eyes out of her white face first!”
The shrill voice almost shrieked the words and the black eyes of the angry woman flashed fire as the white face twitched with fury which transformed it until it became almost hideous.
“I would murder the brazen hussy ere I would ——”
“Not another word! I will not hear your vile tongue defame her whose shoes you are not worthy to wipe. Yon have driven my poor girl away. If sin there be, it is mine. She never knew I had a wife. She was content to give me her love until you drove her forever out of my life. So on that score you can rest easy, but I repeat that I will not continue this farce any longer. I have crossed the threshold of the dwelling that you call home for the last time. I shall sever now and for all time every tie that binds me to you. You can retain this house if you wish it. I do not want it. I shall deposit a million dollars at my banker’s to your credit. Then you can apply for a divorce just as soon as you may desire.”
To be mistress of this lordly mansion was by no means a small thing. When he made the declaration that she was to retain it together with a princely fortune, an iron band seemed to loosen from about Leonie’s throat but she gave no sign of her intense gratification.
Just then the tinkling of a bell was heard in the distance; a few moments later a servant appeared with a card. Before Leonie could step forward, Owen had already secured the card and as the man again noiselessly withdrew he cast a quick glance at the name inscribed thereon,
“‘Wilson Porter!’ Your name, fair lady, has lately often enough been coupled with this one, and as Wilson Porter is neither a fool nor a knave, to the best of my knowledge, I am sorry for him. He deserves a better fate than to be drawn in by a woman of the Leonie Hunter stamp. The immaculate woman who could hurl such withering scorn on an unfortunate sister really ought not to throw stones as she herself is the inmate of a glass house.”
He turned and left her standing there, and as he opened the door to pass out he lifted his hat to Wilson Porter who had come to conduct Leonie to Mrs. Van Gorden’s reception.
For days and weeks Owen kept up an incessant search for the missing girl but no trace could be found of her whereabouts. His face became haggard, his manner nervous and restless. Sleep fled his eyes, and as summer gave way to autumn, followed by dreary winter, the conviction slowly forced itself upon the mind of the lonely and embittered man that his dream of bliss had ended.
Never in all this time had he seen Leonie. His life with her had been a miserable failure and he never wished to see the dark passionate face again. And in reality Leonie cared very little for the doings of her truant husband. Now as before she queened it in society. As a matter of course it was accepted that Wilson Porter on all occasions should be her escort. The society world had become accustomed to that fact; there was no longer anything new and strange about it.
But if Leonie cared little, Owen cared still less, and as on the clear frosty night of Christmas eve the clanging of the merry bells were calling the orthodox masses both rich and poor to commemorate the birthnight of a world’s redeemer, he stood watching the surging masses with a scornful smile curling the finely chiseled lips, he murmured:
“I wonder how much Christian love and charity has done to make the world better. Bah! nothing but cupidity, sordid lust for gain, fill the hearts of one class, whilst superstition, prejudice and ignorance rule the other. The one class rivets the chains; the other hugs them. O how beautiful the world might be if poor groveling humanity would but be natural. Of all things under the sun possessed of life and motion the human family alone is taught it is wrong to be natural, that it is right to outrage nature’s laws, even though death be the penalty.
“I wonder if, in all New York to night, there is one who is more wretchedly poor and desolate than I am, with my millions? Of what use are they to me? They cannot buy me happiness.”
The heart-sick man paced the streets until they were wholly deserted. A restless spirit kept him on the move until the bells of the Christmas morn proclaimed “Peace upon earth, good will to men.” Again the scornful smile curved his lips as he whispered: “Where is it? O, where is this chanted peace?
As he was beginning to feel tired and was about to return to his hotel his attention was attracted by the movements of a man a short distance in advance of him who was staggering along the street as if intoxicated. Impelled by some strange fascination Owen followed, never for a moment taking his eyes off the figure in advance. The reeling man soon came to Riverside drive, and thence to the Park which he entered and passed through the winding paths down to the river’s edge. His movements became more and more suspicious. Owen quickened his steps almost to a run and just as he was on the verge of taking the fatal leap he reached the side of the stranger, and hastily grasping him by the arm he quickly drew him back. The man reeled and almost fell from the force of the impelling motion. When he regained his equilibrium he turned his white and stern face upon Owen who dared to interfere with his actions.
“Let go my arm,” came in a husky gasp from his lips. “By what right do you compel me to remain where there is nothing but pain and sorrow, where all is cruel deceit, blackness and lies, while down there in the clear depths peace and rest await me?”
Owen retained his grasp while he looked the other full in the face. He saw it clearly now. The man was not intoxicated; he was sick. The eyes glowed feverishly from their hollow sockets, his cheeks were sunken, what were to be seen of them, for the lower part of his face was covered with a handsome flowing beard.
“You are sick,” said Owen, “and are raving.”
“Sick? Yes! Raving? Ha! ha! ha!” The wild weird laughter made Owen think he was confronting a madman. “So would you rave were the bloodhounds of the law hunting, dogging your every step.” Another chill crept over Owen. Was it a desperate criminal he had encountered? Had he made a mistake in attempting to interfere with the action of this stranger? Then again, when he looked closer, he did not believe it. By the bright light of the full moon the face before him showed not a single trace of what he would expect to find in the face of a criminal. Sick and delirious he might be, but nothing else. Speaking in an authoritative manner he said:
“Come with me. This is no place for you. I will see that you are taken home and cared for.”
“Home! Ha! ha! What a mockery the word is. I wonder if any one ever has known by experience what the word implies?”
Owen was beginning to feel the effects of the cold. Here by the water’s edge it was doubly keen and the standing still added still more to it. Once more he spoke. “Come, you can not stand here all night, and surely you have thought better of the rash action you contemplated. At any rate I shall not move from your side until you come with me.”
A bitter smile for a moment rested upon the bearded face of the stranger, then he said:
“Very well, some other time will do as well. Lead. I will follow, and then explain why on this night of all others, when the world is rejoicing over the birth of a redeemer I came so near seeking and finding a watery grave.”
Owen accompanied the staggering stranger to Seventh avenue where they had the good fortune to find a cab. Both men got in and were driven rapidly to the hotel where Owen was staying, arriving there just as the gray dawn was breaking. Having reached Owen’s rooms the stranger sank exhausted into a cushioned chair. Owen assisted him to disrobe and placed him on the couch where he was soon sleeping soundly, then stretched his tired limbs upon a lounge and in a little while he also was in the land of dreams.
It was almost noon when Owen awoke. He arose and walked over to the bed whereon the stranger was still sleeping. While debating the advisability of awakening the man before him the stranger opened his eyes. A bewildered look for a moment filled them, then returning memory brought with it recognition of the face before him and the circumstances which brought him into the present surroundings. A bitter smile moved the bearded lips as he half rose. Leaning his head upon his hand he let his gaze wander about the luxurious apartment; biting scorn was in his words as he spoke:
“It is not likely that you, who can afford surroundings like these, would ever attempt so desperate a deed as you prevented me from doing a few hours ago.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Why did I do it? You cannot realize to what utter despair and darkness you have called me back. I will have all these battles to fight over again, and the struggle is not an easy one, I can assure you.”
The bitterness that rang through every word betokened a despair that was deep seated, and Owen’s heart was touched deeply.
“Tell me, and let me judge. But first, however, I think it would be advisable to take care of the inner man. So while you arrange your toilet, I will order some breakfast. It is somewhat late in the day for that meal and all the more necessary that it should be partaken of.”
Accordingly a generous repast was ordered which was served in an adjoining apartment. After they had finished their meal they drew their chairs before the fire. The stranger leaned his head with its heavy clustering hair upon one hand and sat staring into the glowing coals. Owen did not disturb his train of thought but patiently awaited his pleasure, and by and by he was rewarded. The hand dropped and the head was raised.
“And now, since you have shown an interest in my case, I shall tell you my story briefly. For years I have been the only support of a widowed mother, an only sister and a delicate younger brother. My father has been dead quite a number of years and sad as is the fact, it was rather a relief to be rid of him. The more pitiful because of the fact that he was a very intellectual man once, but hard luck during the early years of his married life, when it seemed that there was no work for him to do even though he offered his service for a mere pittance, had embittered him. He had loved the girl he married and bright were his visions of the future. But his misfortune made him desperate and he took to drink, which transformed the gentle-tempered, loving man into a veritable demon. Forgetting that unkind fate had already placed a much too heavy burden upon the slender shoulders of the delicate woman the demon of jealousy took possession of him. Discord dwelt where love and tenderness once held supreme sway.
“Only when at great intervals he let drink alone long enough to clear his befuddled brain, would the intelligent mind assert itself. But the realization of his wretched condition and surroundings would then drive him almost distracted and he would return to his cups with a wilder abandon than ever. When in a drunken brawl he was struck down and they brought the livid corpse to the wretched abode he had called home, the unhappy family were conscious of a feeling of relief rather than that of sorrow.
“I was then but fourteen years old, but tall for my age and on me fell the task of supporting my mother and younger brother and sister. It was little, indeed, that a lad of my age could earn; but we fared better than hitherto. And as I grew older and was able to earn more our condition improved.
“As my education had been sadly neglected in my childhood and I began to realize it, I determined yet to master it, so my evenings were now devoted to study. My sister, a very pretty and charming girl, when she became old enough also added her mite by becoming a factory girl. Her beauty made her position a difficult one, and her warm love nature, which had been starved into a craving hunger, caused her to fall an easy prey to the handsome, wealthy young scoundrel who was the son of the factory owner.
“Her condition soon became apparent and when I questioned her she broke down and confessed the whole pitiful story. She had not even the tender words and caresses of her lover, now, to support her. He had tired of his plaything and cast her aside. I understood what arts are employed to lure to her destruction a poor loving creature and could only pity her from the bottom of my heart. Not so, however, my mother. She had been reared within the narrow confines of the church. Her standard of virtue was, ‘touch me not,’ regardless of what the circumstances might have been. So the mother who should have been her stay and comfort only cast reproaches upon the head of the despairing girl, driving her almost insane. My brother, too, would not forgive her for the disgrace she had brought upon him. He would not speak to her. I have often seen him draw back at her approach that her clothing might not brush against him.
“Of course he was very young then, only a boy, not yet fifteen, but it would cut me to the heart to see the blood mount to her face. When it became unbearable she would fly to me and I would try all in my power to pacify her; drawing upon myself the condemnation of the others, who could not understand how I could countenance such shamelessness.
“But even my sympathy could not sustain the breaking heart, and when the trying hour came her strength failed, and with a little stillborn girl-baby folded in her arms my beautiful sister was laid out of sight.
“Although my mother wept bitter tears, I fear she felt much relieved that the matter ended as it did, for now grass would grow over the grave of Millie’s shame. Robert, my brother, also seemed deeply affected. But her name was never mentioned now. I knew best what the poor girl had suffered, and it was a long time ere I could forgive either my mother or my brother. Robert was not very sweet-tempered at best. From his birth he had been delicate. A puny, fretful infant, he came at a time when the nightly debauches of my father set my mother almost wild, souring an otherwise gentle and loving nature.
“Notwithstanding his ailings, however, he was his mother’s favorite. Though his advent had been dreaded, upon his arrival her heart went out to him with a spasmodic passion. She never refused him anything it was in her power to give, thereby showing a decided weakness of character.
“This was the worst thing she could have done, as it had the tendency to develop all the bad traits of Robert’s weak character. As he was physically unfit for work the support of the family rested entirely upon my shoulders. But as the years sped by there came a change. A saucy black-eyed maiden crossed my path and my fate was sealed. I loved her with all the strength of my passionate nature. To me she seemed perfect and I had no greater desire than to make her my wife. First, however, I felt it my duty to tell her of the sad history of my early life. She gave the black curls a saucy toss and said she could not see how all this should possibly effect us any. I caught her in my arms and strained her to my breast, my heart filled with admiration of the grand nobility of character, which I thought was exhibited in those words; never once dreaming that it was her very lack of character which prompted that declaration.”