A New Sensation Part 14

As to dining with you, I must deny myself that pleasure. I do not believe you would "bite" me, nor am I afraid your levity would turn my head. I can merely say that dining with a stranger is not in accord with my habits and that I see no sufficient reason to make your case an exception. I would be glad to see your "Marjorie,"

though, were that feasible, but this also I must forego.

Now, as a last word--for my correspondence may weary you--remember that true happiness in this life does not consist in the mere gratification of every pa.s.sing whim, and that the path you have before you may contain thorns as well as roses. If you return to America with your conscience void of offence toward G.o.d and your companion you will have accomplished something of which you may well be proud.

Won't you write me just a line when you are again at home, to say that my pet.i.tion has been answered.

Your True Friend,

A.B.

Jan. 2, 1898.

Sobered more than I could account for by reading this letter, I sat for a long time in silence. Then, after writing a brief note to Tom, excusing my neglect, I sought my pillow, or in plain English, went to bed.

My first act in the morning after coffee was to go to Cook's and alter the name of May to that of Carney, as well as change my own to "David Camwell," for which I gave a satisfactory reason to the clerk. He told me that he could omit both names from the list sent to the newspapers, if I desired, and I decided that this was, on the whole, the better way.

On leaving I had an idea that pleased me, no less than to visit Tiffany's and purchase a little jewelry for Marjorie. It would be pleasant to see her eyes light up as I put it into her hand.

Taking a Broadway car, I soon reached the shop I sought, and emerged a few minutes later with a pair of diamond eardrops, a ring of turquoise and small diamonds, and another of chased gold without a stone. Each was enclosed in a tasty case. I was much pleased that the selection had been made so easily.

Miss May arrived at my room nearly on time, with a fine color in her cheeks, due to the fact that she had walked some distance. She was undeniably good-looking and my heart warmed as I thought of the long companions.h.i.+p we were to have together. She was a little tired, she said, from standing for the dressmaker's measurer, and dropped into my largest chair with a very fetching air of fatigue. As soon as I could without seeming in haste I produced the case containing the turquoise ring and presented it for her inspection.

"I took the liberty," I remarked, "of buying this, to fill the vacant place on one of your fingers. If it does not fit, you can take it back for alteration; or if it does not please you Tiffany will exchange it."

She took it out languidly and found that it fitted very well. She was not as delighted as I had supposed she would be, but her tired feeling probably accounted for that.

"It is very pretty," she said, "and you are very kind."

Then I opened the case containing the plain ring and she found a suitable position for that also. When I showed her the eardrops she grew more interested and on trying them on declared them "perfectly sweet."

"I used to have some very like them," she said, with a sigh, "but that was long ago. How very good you are. Are you not tired of the expense I cause you?"

I a.s.sured her that I was not, in the least.

"I do not own a piece of jewelry in the world," she added, "except a wedding ring, that belonged to my mother."

"And these," I corrected her by saying.

"No. These are not mine. They are merely part of the make-up for the role I am to play. You shall have them all back again when the curtain is rung down."

She took out her purse, and drew forth the ring of which she had spoken.

Placing it on her wedding finger she held it out to me.

"Don't I look quite like a married woman?" she asked, smilingly.

"Quite," I a.s.sented, "and a very sweet bride you make, too."

"Have you the typewriting machine here?" she asked, ignoring my compliment. "I wish to see what it is like."

I put the machine on a table, arranging it for her inspection. It was an original Hammond, which I prefer to the universal keyboard. She drew up a chair and listened intently while I explained its workings, showing how the capitals and figures are produced with the same set of keys as the lower case letters. I showed the working of the ribbon, the arrangement of the alarm bell and all the other points needed by one who had never operated that style. When I had finished and inserted a sheet of paper she began carefully to write a sentence, encouraged occasionally by my guidance when the unfamiliar location of the keys caused her to pause.

"I shall be able to use it as rapidly as the Remington, in a week," she said, when she finished the sheet. "It is not nearly as hard as I imagined."

She left the table and resumed her seat in the chair, where we fell into a conversation that lasted several hours. She counted with me the days that remained and was glad they were so few. She said she could think of nothing more that she needed before starting: yes, the jewelry was quite sufficient. She put back each piece in the case it had come in, asking me to keep them till we were ready to go.

"You are sure you will not be sorry for what you are doing?" she asked, after a time.

"How can I, if you enjoy the journey?" was my reply.

She shrugged her shoulders prettily and said it was time to leave. She declined with many thanks an invitation to dine with me again, making a light excuse, and with a friendly grasp of the hand took her departure.

It had been agreed that she would call for a short time each afternoon that remained.

When I had become chilled at the vacancy her absence made in the room I went over to the table and looked at what she had written on the machine. It was a pleasure even to see the lines her fair hands had made, and I withdrew the sheet she had covered as if it were something sacred. Glancing over it I noted to my surprise, that the lines had not been written with accidental meaning--that it contained a message for my eyes and heart. There were naturally slight errors caused by the writer's unfamiliarity with the instrument, but no ambiguity of any kind. And this is what the message said to me:

Once there was a child, who had been reared in comfort, almost in luxury, in the fairest part of the fair State of Maryland. At the age of sixteen a cruel fate deprived her of both parents. The guardian to whom her small means were intrusted proved false and in another year she was left to face poverty alone.

Almost stunned by her misfortunes, this child found it necessary to provide herself with some means of subsistence, for even sorrow must have bread. She learned the art of stenography and typewriting; and after attaining sufficient speed in these branches went to a large city and sought a situation. Luckily she found one, though for a long time the pay was very small and she could no more than support life in the poorest manner.

Later a place was offered her with a largely increased stipend, and the cloud seemed about to lift a little. But her new employer soon unmasked his soul and disclosed himself a wretch. The girl could hardly breathe in his presence, but she resolved to endure his attentions as long as they were bearable, hoping for relief from some unknown source.

When the purpose of her employer became all too plain, and she was on the point of despair; when advertis.e.m.e.nt after advertis.e.m.e.nt had been answered and nothing secured; when she had advertised, herself, and found by the replies received that the majority of the situations promised nothing better than the one she was unable to endure--there came a ray of light.

A gentleman, or what seemed to be one, sought an interview in reference to a most novel proposition. He wanted her to accompany him, alone, on a long journey; announced his willingness to provide her with an outfit suitable for a member of his family, which she was to profess to be; and a.s.sured her that behind this offer there was lurking no sinister design such as she at first suspected.

Her situation had grown desperate. Slowly she came to the decision to trust this man. She grew to believe that there might be one who could give these things with an honest mind and a pure purpose.

She accepted the situation, if such it might be called; purchased the necessary clothing; donned the jewelry he provided; gave her trust into his hands, and sailed with him on the s.h.i.+p he selected.

He was only twenty-four years of age, she but twenty-two. She had not concealed from him that she was poor and nearly friendless. He was rich and what is called a man of the world.

What will happen to the girl on that journey?

There can be but two possibilities. Either the man will prove the kind friend he has represented and they will return able to look the world in the face without a blush--that is one of them. Or somewhere beneath the blue waters of the Caribbean Sea the fishes will gnaw the flesh of a woman who is drowned--that is the other. Let neither delude themselves, when the hour of temptation comes. There is no possibility outside these two.

I rose and paced the floor in remorse for my ill-spent life, in sympathy for the unhappy creature whose fears clouded the pleasure I meant to share with her.

If there had been, away down in the lowest depths of my wild nature, the slightest thought of wrong to Marjorie May, it was crushed out of sight by that pathetic appeal.

Crushed out of sight, yes! But there are seeds that put forth life with the dust of years piled above them.