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The San Francisco call. [volume] (San Francisco [Calif.]) 1895-1913, April 09, 1911, Image 9

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The San Francisco Sunday Call
WOMEN'S HOUSEHOLD GIRLS
FICTION - TWOMGES OF WM SAND IDEAS -B.fiE^MBSES
THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
I
SHE sat alone in the large spa
cious room which she called the
studio, her chair drawn up to a
heavy carved Italian table Her
arms, stretched out. rested on the
ancient dark -surface, and her hands
clasped, half supplicatingly, half des
perately, a little locked gray box of
olive wood. The delicacy of the out
line of her face, the sweetness of its
curves— once was. In the flush
of youth, the fair foundation of a
serene girlish beau.y — were marred by
the ravages of disquieted nerves far
more than by the passing of the years.
There quivered in her eyes, which were
•till flne and of a depth of azure, a rest
lessness, a dissatisfaction, and. at the
moment, a naked pain, Instead of th.
tranquillity that would so well have ac
corded with them.
Mrs. Wrexham once bluntly said of
her, "I don't know why on earth it
should be so. but Caroline always ap
pears to me as if something was gnaw
ing at her Inside." The more casual
observer would have noted her as a
worn, tired woman of some 40 years,
slight, charmingly dressed. distin
guished. Today, as she stared fixedly at
the little gray box. all the longing, the
sorry pathos, the regret for lost op
portunities, which the hour of un
guarded reminiscence renders so cruel
ly on the face of the middle aged
woman, lay open to view as Caroline
Laldlaw sat alone before the altar of
her dead gods.
Presently, with a sigh, a half protest
against her weakness, she opened the
box. There was In it nothing except
the crackling faded remnants of what
had once been a handful of yellow
primroses. They were too fragile to
lift; under the touch of her lightest
finger they began to crumble into dust.
At this symbol of the eternal frailty of
romance her eyes filled with tears. She
let them gather and fall unheeded. The
little break in the dike widened. It
had been so long since she had yielded
T-she was not a woman of many tears—
that now the first barrier was down
she gave up all defense and submitted,
With a dreary satisfaction, to the in
rushing tides. Her head bent forward
till her brow rested on the olive wood
box. the while she sobbed wildly, al
most without knowledge of why she
was sobbing.
Hers was not a room to suggest Itself
as a housing for despair. Besides being
of handsome proportions, of subdued
restful decorations, there was In its
furnishing a pleasant mixture of hetero
geneous bits, with no logical order or
fidelity to period—things picked up in
foreign countries for the most part—
which Invested the place with an In
timacy, gave one a sense of Its inhabi
tant. The long late shimmering sun
rays fell with satisfied Angers along
the amber and gold and green of the
damasks and silks hanging on the
railing of the mezzanine gallery,
touched ecstatically the gorgeous Chi
nese embroidery that covered the top
of the grand piano in the center of
the room. The mourner raised her head
dazedly, as one emerges from a
wretched dream, and the shock of find
ing herself still In the old unchanged
surroundings disheartened her afresh.
She looked fretfully at her watch. It
recorded 5. She shook her head.
"It's too late now. I can't get there.
And If I could, I'd be a horrid sight It
doesn't matter. I'm glad."
Dully she got up from her chair and
shut the little box. Then she locked it
away in a Spanish chest: that done, she
went Into another room, bathed her
face, rearranged her hair, and came
back again to the studio, where she
dropped limply into a chaise-longue.
"I'm too old for that sort of thing,"
she sighed. "I don't know why I did It.
It kills me physically and mentally and
spiritually. It must have been the com
ing spring which made me open that
box. Ah. what a fool lam to add that
to the load of things I'm carrying."
Caroline Laldlaw was not at that
moment of the quality of the. room
she dwelt in; her face, pale and
disfigured with weeping, was drawn
Into bitter, angry lines. Her head rest
ed Inertly against the cushions while
her inflamed eyes roved wildly, desper
ately; the thin, gray stuff of her gown
seemed as if it would tear under the
twlstings of her long, slim fingers. *
"Oh. God," she muttered, "can't you
see! Can't you hear! Can't you help!
I can't bear any more! I've got to get
out of this. Some way—l don't care
how!"
She Jumped to her feet and opened
the windows. The chill wind of early
April swept In tumultously, bearing
with It the smells and dust of the city
without For a brief while she stood
In the boisterous current, her ears full
of the roar of the heartless, heedless
life swirling Just beyond and beneath
her. The listless green in the grim
square below caught her eye and
brought her to a decision. Swiftly
she put on her coat and hat, wrapped
herself in a thick' veil, and went out
She felt better for the movement, for
the effort of fighting the wind, and she
determined to go on to Central park.
Once there, she turned. Into an unfre
quented path, slackened her pace, and
gave herself over utterly to the
thoughts which beat at the bars of her
brain like frantic caged birds.
11.
The web of events in her life had ln
It not many more tragic threads than
one Is likely to find In the warp and
woof of most lives— one judges from
the standpoint of the Just Weaver. In
deed, It appeared that for the harm done
her there had been granted a rather
equitable compensation. It was gen
erally said of her that Caroline Laldlaw
•was a very lucky girl, a lucky woman.
But, after all, It Is as difficult a task
to estimate good fortune as ill. and no
one-, very likely not even the recipient
of it, knows the truth of the matter, so
Inscrutable are the ends of the Unseen
Giver.
Her father, a silent, upright, dignified
man, with a relentless capacity for,
money-making, died when she was 14,
leaving her, the only child, to the care
of her frail, tender-hearted, querulous,
-rather insipid mother. They went
abroad, where the little Caroline was
Installed in an excellent convent'out
side Paris, and where Mrs. Laldlaw di
vided the time between her too gorge
ous hotel in the Faubourg St Germain
and a variety of continental cures, nei
ther of which gave her much satisfac
tion. * At 19 Caroline made her adleux
to the convent and her pretty, modest,
bow to French society. "She was a'
sweet, good-tempered, Impulsive child,
with charming ■ manners; and an excel
lent Parisian accent; beside that, she
spoke Italian and German and seemed
to have a more -than ordinary talent
for music. * Since she was known to be
the heiress to an unusually large for
tune, this, combined with her natural
agreeable gifts, made her, in French
eyes, a most acceptable, adorable young
creature. She blossomed, then, so de
lightfully Into the society of the French
capital that her mother, with, good rea
son, was beguiled Into radiant visions
of Caroline's ultimate epanouissement
as a duchesse in a rehabilitated cha
teau, with a family tree like a ban
yan. - --' f~y
It is quite likely that this would have
happened, for the girl was, as a rule,
an amenable j soul and fond of France,
had they not. she and her mother, made
one spring an excursion to Venice.
Here she met Louis Starr, and having
met him, fell .. ln love with himas
many other women, old and young,
were doing. The situation was fur
ther complicated -by Starr's falling In
love with Caroline. He was a vivid,
handsome. Impassioned. Impecunious
youth of five-and-twenty, born of ex-,
patriated American parents In Italy,
and he believed himself a poet. Envel
oped In the perilous romance of Ven
ice, the two virginal creatures kindled
their Immortal passion, which burned
with so white and consuming a flame
that even Indolent Mrs. Laldlaw roused
In alarm and departed from the city
with all speed. ...
In the desolate year that followed
the lovers, though separated, kept up a
frenzied, clandestine correspondence.
in which they languished and pined and
suffered and triumphantly hoped. The
following April the Laidlaws came to
the lake of Como. and there
Louis Starr • followed . them. Poor
Caroline, bruised and buffeted by
incessant combats with her out
raged mother, still clung with the
persistency of love to her poet, having
refused two dukes and a noble prince.
With Louis, who lodged In a tiny pen
sion safely out of sight of the Laidlaws'
hotel, she would escape and wander the
new-green hills, where the footprints
of spring lay lightly on the tender
fields and the flne frail music of her
pipes sounded divinely in their attuned
hearts. "
There was an old enchanted villa on
a wooded point which dominated su
perbly the lake, and here they planned
to come when Caroline should be of age
and have control of.her fortune. Here
they were to live and love:in a Greek
immortality of Individual souls: . here
Louis was to write and Caroline to
light the torch of his inspiration.
It seems as If it would have been
so easy, so Just, of the gods to* have
granted to these guileless, ardent lov
ers the fulfillment of their desire. Yet
'it,was here, at the very gate of their
deep, tranquil garden, that therfrapri
cious gods drove them away with be
wildered, wounded, despoiled hearts.
'Something, neither Caroline nor her
mother was ever sure what, happened
to their fortune, It was swept away
to the last penny. The news smote
them while they lingered on at Como.
When everything was over and done
with, the hotel ln Paris sold, the jewels
and plate and furniture sold and the
heavy debts paid, there remained a few
thousand francs for the two -women.
Then Mrs. Laldlaw raised herself fee
bly from her. couch and Insisted on re
turning to Paris. She had spent her
happiest years there, she lnconse
quently said, and she wished to die
there, In what dire poverty . she cared
not at all. ..'■ .
So Caroline walked in the spring
hills . above Tremezzo' for . the »last time
with Louis Starr. „ They were too dis
mayed and beaten down to realize any
thing except their imminent parting.
They wept and vowed-and protested
passionately; then she stumbled blindly
back to her hotel alone with a bleeding
heart and a" handful of yellow prim
roses which Louis had glv.en her. All
she realized was, that life Is a horrid
giant ln the blossoming path, with a
bludgeon in his hand, and that she and
Louis were to be faithful to each other
forever."HB___QB»HHnMH^RB_HMMH
Two sordid-years followed for Caro
line Laldlaw, sln which she lodged with
her 111 mother in a wretched little Paris
pension. Their money dwindled alarm
ingly, they saw almost nothing of their
old friends, and.-. Louis \ Starr's letters
grew more and: more Infrequent.
At last one day Mrs. Laldlaw merci
fully died. It happened at a time when
Mrs. Wrexham was in Paris. ; She was
a girlhood friend of,poor Mary Laldlaw
and out of : the ' goodness of :, her : heart
she generously made the arrangement*
for the funeral and the sorry burial In
Pere la Chaise. After which .she
mothered this haggard,f hopeless girl
In cheap, black clothes and ended by
taking her back to New Tor*.
The last-vicious blow fell on Caro
line's defenseless head ■ the very week
of her: mother's death. . And it .was, In
a sense, as good a time \as any time to
strike, for she was ln such ' a state "■ of
dumb. indifferent suffering that any ad
ditional anguish did not seem greatly
to matter. She had a wild, incoherent,
distorted letter from Louis, which, when
one arrived at the gist of It,', conveyed
the news of his impending .marriage to
an Italian" woman with fortune—a mar
riage Into which he was forced," he mis
erably, confessed, by his bitter need of
money. aHßßHMl
' Caroline Impassively, leadenly ; burned
the letter" and packed her trunk " for
America, with the dull hope that the
ship would be lost in its crossing.: But
• from that day began, so the people who
knew her said, her good luck. Mrs.
Wrexham and her friends, many of
whom were old trends of the Laidlaws,
came charitably to the support of the
forlorn girl, and presently she was
established as a music teacher to the
little children of the rich. So the years
began to run on, and she patiently,
.played the piano, accepted the crumbs
from the rich man's table, and through
it ail. despite certain opportunities for
change, remained: single.
. Yet gradually, almost Imperceptibly,
as she assisted reluctant little hands to
run the torturing scales, as she sweetly *
accepted the offerings of her patrons,',
there generated in Caroline Laldlaw a
slow spirit of rebellion.' In its begin
nings she regarded it fearfully—
rather she refused to regard It. She
accused herself of gross unthankful
ness and underwent, as it were, pen
ances of gratitude. Later, against her
-will, she found herself cherishing this
wayward spirit, and still later she
opened to It recklessly her heart and
her mind. As she had defied her
mother and clung obstinately to Louis
Starr, so now she defied; her so * called -
good ■ luck. It was this spark of re
bellion, so long smoldering In her
breast, I that had, on the day when \ she
sobbed over Starr's wasted primroses,
flashed up into -open war. '" :.-.**■;-•>-•'
, ';' ■ f . TlI-:^";Y.-.'. -'' V' - T
,' The park gave her the sense'Vof an
ejnpty, desolate ' house, clean swept
awaiting the arrival of Its " sprint
tenants. and this '}' sens. accorded
well- enough with her , own mood.
She walked „: rapidly, : aimlessly, on
and; on. avoiding*, "-as-' far ;as
-possible,. ths few intruders on her soli
tariness, and , giving scant heed to the
pale, characterless - approach .of the
April twilight Her mind was rioting
£th\\Th"* : Cry i °f' u:c,ass)
within her.
"If they only knew the misery of It'"
■he. muttered. , "The .' loss. of- self-re
spect!"
Well,.* that was it, she.. told .herself
ruthlessly; she had lost her ( self-re
spect. She had taken and taken ■ and
" taken, paying; helplessly in the coinage
of, gratitude; and when that coinage
had begun -to. run short, she "had re
sorted to \ counterfeiting, giving in 're
turn larger denominations with the
Ideas ,of concealing her fault. After
fall, she was ; not to blame. She was a
victim. Her. destiny had made her In
capable and then had-Jeered at her for
her incapacity. There had been no one
to tell her the mistake she was making "
•to advise her. The ' thing had "WW
hlddenly, without her perception '"■• •
,: ; In the beginning It. had. seemed 'so
.wonderful," miraculous 'even, her good
luck. She recalled that.first year when
Mrs.. Wrexham had installed ■ her in
the studio. * -It had,been furnished -by
charity and the, year's rent "had'been
paid by charity— buteo kind a charity
Her friends had .really - vied' with each
' other ln "making Caroline comforta
ble." "And she had entered upon*'the
new life ".happily, * with a happiness '- to
be sure always modulated to 'minor 1
I chords by her sorrow, her broken heart"
• Insthe.shelter of "her pretty' rooms she
t_ had..;. believed v that, she - was *' at!*'the'
: threshold *of peace, such peace at "least
as she could now hops for. * -■: '.'." -.
And what a disillusion!
How she had struggled and fought
for her living! There was not a soul
who 'knew of the wretchedness of it,
all. " The very charity of her friends
had. tied her. tongue. She* went mute
and suffering. ..". ; -.
' How could they guess of ,her dire
need of money!-. They saw her in their
cast off .finery,* always suave' smiling,
and they drank her tea In the rooms
they i had furnished. But they did not
know .how often" she was at her * wits'
end to t pay" tor.. that tea, nor of her
sleepless nights of fear over a thou
sand ghastly, bills. * They did -not guess
the■ privations -she;endured: to raise the
rent for her apartment, the many days
when - she had ; made a meal; on a dry
roll, a biscuit or two. because; she had
not enough in her purse to spare for
food' in the restaurant below. -
• They sent her their children- to teach,
and they' paidl handsomely enough far
their: lessons. But they did not reckon
on the ruin At' wrought to ' Caroline's
resources when j they' took them off for
a winter in |the south, or a| journey
to Europe," nor did they often reflect
on what she did in* the summer months
when someone failed to ask'her,for a
.visit to the country.'-- .-• ,".'"-• ..
They:had bound her hand and foot!
she declared bitterly,: and, awful to say,
she was beginning to hate,them, to hate
her friends! Fate, had made' her a
gentlewoman, .with * every taste, every
incapacity of a gentlewoman, and then
had refused her the means to live up
to! It. v The only way of < earning
livelihood that she had was a way
which to pursue was an offense to her
dignity,- an' outrage Ito her , pride, a'
subtle' sapping of all ] the > decency and
honor In* her. v- .'..-..-'-■ '■- ' - "';'■"- -a
And If she ceased to pursue It? - She
groaned at the hideous maze before
her. What on earth could she do?
What . could ' she - do? A Well, If ' she ] gave
It all' up? Where was .„ she then?
The people on whom she -depended
would 1, not send -her- their children 'to
be taught ln a "back bedroom on Sev
enth avenue.-; And so she would starve
'■ to death.;,. Nor - could she ' * prepare : a
sort *of •; manifesto ■ to,- be Issued broad
cast '-to. the effect that Caroline Lald
law politely -informed, her -friends .that
i she-would refuse any further kindness
on their part-, f:
;It: was, not poverty which frightened
her. she assured herself eagerly
erty that was . honest; independent
poverty. ."It -was charity. .'-. If ..at this
very; moment someone '. came *to , her to
say * that she t was henceforth to live
on the meagerest ,; sum, but a sum
which' she * should y honorably earn ,by
her own 'efforts;* that she was"; to dwell
among workers ln a straitened work
er's way/how . Joyfully." she would ac
cept. She ran over In', her mind 5 the
courses^open to ■"'. her. Flight—where
and how? " Impossible. ,-. tA ' change of'
occupation—a change -to what? .*-- ■•• She
could if not i typewrite, , nor nurse **'- the
sick,* nor writ* books or plays, nor be
come an ' actress; she. could f not make
candy,; or , Jig-saw V pussies; she * could:
nor cook, nor go "* out to .service,' she
could not — " ' .' "
Ah, :-. the ,'- futility .of ; enumeration!
There was nothing she could do .which
would ■■ free fj fyeri from V that damne-i
charity. Marriage there "was; no
one". now. who; wanted j to marry * her; iin
any case, a marriage; for money.' would
only 'plunge v- her '."more; deeply ■' in ""the
hateful' mire of **? dependence. Then
there. was death.- She had often of late
prayed to die. yet she lacked the
courage to kill herself— not.
ff-om religious scruples but from the In
stinctive physical fear of some kind of
after punishment for the deed. Oh.
God. .was there no help?.' Had she to
go on and on in the way in which life
had,. set j her? Her head swam with
the madness of her brain; she dug her
fingers Into- her palms to keep from
shrieking., .—- , - ..
And" Louis? . The . thought • sprang
vividly ; into , her mind. How 'had he
fared In his marriage for money? "She
had never "heard nor tried to hear.
With a sudden vindictlveness she hoped
that-his* chains fhad, galled him to the
raw, that he had suffered even as she
had; suffered, and worse, for his fault
had been deliberate. The Idea gave her
a brief savage ecstacy.» .
.She lifted .her" head ." and ■"■ gazed
angrily about her. , A sheen like thin
gold , over sliver was ■In the west, the
wind was' dying with the day,:the Im
memorial quietness lof ' coming night
stilled even the great city park, .**• -.<;
As she gazed, her unavailing fury
abated in the Involuntary twilight'>.
appeal. A sick sadness dwelled In her.
"No, no," she whispered, "I • hope It
has been- well ' with Loul.s What
has come to us, has come.'.,No one can
change It a hair's breadth. ..The gods x
of youth die young and the old gods
are blind.".... : . ' •?**""
. She,'stood - a f moment, .uncertain
whether, to j proceed^ or ,to i turn back.
She, decided to go on-a little farther
and' leave by an upper* gate, : but she
had -not * taken twenty-* steps - before
she came face to.face with a man hand
in-hand with a • little girl. -f: As *- she
raised her eyes to him in passing,' every
nerve In her . body Jumped - hot and her
blood, ". on ■ the - instant,* seemed"-- to
stop, to surge through her. _:.;," *-.. ':';':■
Her voice issued without her volition.
"Louis!" j '/; ;'-*' v.r- '-:-•■':;. iTV'i *-;;;;-:■-.'.'
• The man -halted and * eyed her stead
ily, striving to penetrate the veil over
her face. " :-,. ';
: : "Is ft thou, Lina?" he said in Italian,
his voice grave and gentle.
She nodded silently, .for she .could
not control her words.. He had spoken
in the language of \ their love-making,
he had' called . her , thou .and Lina.
Scarcely * knowing what they. did, the
three v walked on in i strange - silence,
the great brown eyes of the little girl
fastened curiously on,the other two..
Starr, with his gaze'tranquilly on the
dying sun, seemed to have no .wish to
speak, and Caroline, in" her ; bewildered,
nameless - emotions,," repressed as >'; un
worthy '„ the.;: trivial ,|things j; aha.- could
have, uttered, .',, '„ , 1,,.": , v t ' "-..ivy *;..**,-:
■ At last Starr spoke again, this time
in English. ' "This*- is my . little girl,
Elena."-■■■ <■;•••* ■*-■;- ... ' ••.:-.-.-
Caroline nodded once more. She
could not open her lips. The longer she
was ; silent' the \ more - impossible dt* be
came •;. to say ■' anything. ; All I that •'„ she
could think of belonged to experiences
which she might not voice. She won
dered what he; thought of her greeting
and '■ gave \ him „' a * furtive i glance. . Hia
face was serene. '^'Gradually; she, began
to partake of that serenity and her agi
tation*, subsided. They had so often
walked "thus, she recalled.,ln* Italy at
sunset in a ;beautiful; silence of . their
own.' : i'W "V""-''.- '../■'., '.' ■ ..' ""'Cy- :
Presently they, reached an exit and
paused at the pavement -Darkness,was
gathering, the deeper ' for ' the I tiers of
twinkling lights in the/vast house bulks
beyond them; | tramcars. yellow glow
ing with electricity," twanged past; men
and women* hurried by, the raw night
air quickening their, homeward'- steps.
It was the hour to go home.
"Will you and Elena come home with
me to dinef Caroline asked. - She
added In a low voice. "I am alone."
Starr* smiled. ,' *. .* '...
"Yes, gladly. We, too. are alone here.
I seemed to know I should find you to
day." - * ■ * '
:.. ; ■ ■■ • -:. IV ,;': ■] ]: t -■
When ■ they had gone, she plied fresh
wood on the open fire, turned out .the
electricity,, and lighted ; an ; array of
candles. She got into' her dressing
gown and pulled the chaise-longue close
up to . the blaze, where she huddled,
glad. for the. warmth. . The expense of
the wood and lights she j disregarded.
* It had been ,a; reckless ' evening for
her. "-' She": had sent' out for; bunches *of I
violets and daffodils—Louis' flowers—*
and she had ordered the subtlest,". the
most delicate .dinner the chef ,In the
house restaurant,could accomplish, with
the'garnish of champagne, for "she re
membered Louis' young: whimsicalities
about "a party not being a party .with
out I champagne.',''^Tet. she ,had. as she:
did it ally a vague unreasonable sense
of .something-not"qulte*'in- good taste.
To pay for that dinner meant the most
blighting economies, endless meals at a
Child's eating place; but tonight- she
put all this aside for the greater con
sideration. -.-..* . - C •;'<. •;.- ' , ;
. He had sat there in that chair, smok
ing his- endless cigarettes. Louis.. Her
eyes still held him—thin, pale.' slightly
stooped, shabbily cla_»in foreign black
clothes that seemed f the remains 'of his
former mourning. He was handsome
still in his -fine regularity of feature,
though its - appeal was no more than
that: of an old .faded portrait; and yet
when he smiled his youth danced like a
ghost over his face. But the flame of
his spirit was clean gone and the ashes
of suffering were on his head. Looking
at him he "gave her such a feeling as
she had when she first saw , Sheily's
grave in Rome. Louis, too. had suffered
a: sea "change into something strange,
even rich perhaps. It was a new Louis.
She could not believe that in. him had
once' dwelt| the Louis'she had. loved.
Every prop'was. knocked from under
her and she ; had dangled helplessly in
his' presence. V ..' - :- - •yy'
She went over slowly In her" mind all
that he had said of himself—lt was easy
to recall, for there was so little of It*
This ( little he had let fall scatterlngly
during -the; evening, In his .hesitating
speech Interlarded with Italian words;
he'said he had spoken almost no English
for 20 years. But of him, the Inner
him of these bygone years, she knew
nothing; ' She, realized "that he'must
know, as little of her. ; What an absurd
encounter! ' They r had scarcely ' talked
at .all together. Instead, they had
amused 'the sweet' and solemn little
Elena, using French and Italian which
were the only tongues she knew. '
There had been a sense of content and
quiet | pleasure In " the evening j which
gratefully lingered withg her. It oc
curred to her startllngly that It v was
such an evening "as she; might have
passed Louis if she had heen his
wife for these-past 20 years. His wife!
And he, what did he think of her? "He
had | given her " no? clew. Was she "old
and ugly-ana fretful In his eyes? -Just
an agreeable f memory? A' friend of
chance meeting? "'An echo? The - "em
bers '. of an. - offering on the altars' -of
youth? * - She shivered : and drew ' closer
to the-fflre." 5. What: was she? -• ■'. * ; •
-He ■ had. nromised .to come again to
morrow. .Why?" The bewilderment of
It!. She had" forgiven Mm all his un
faithfulness to her..* Why? : *'" ,' "
To whom, to what. In all these years
had she been.faithful? \ What* had she
loved? She had no answer. She wanted
to cry, butrshe could not give herself
a- reason • or tears. j She stared Into the
until the flames died out and noth
ing- was left' save gashes'* and 'charred
bits; -Until the. candles guttered dis
mally in their sockets." Then she'crept
off to bed and -sobbed there for-hours
in ■ cold, convulsive nervousness ".be
cause she was "morel lonely than she
had ever 'been in her' lonely/ life.' • '::'
* 'The: next day was a day of "endless,
icy rain. * ■ Caroline! Laldlaw;. cowering
about her rooms, was in the abasement
of every, physical .and', spiritual force.
The morning post brought hera mock
ing array *of bills * and a*--letter.-from
Mrs. Wrexham. Inviting her. for ' July
and August, to Bar Harbor. y The Idea
of acceptance nauseated her. * She: fore
saw the dreadful hours with her Im
perious benefactress, the obligatory
smirking, gratitudes, every carefully
thought out- speech and act. the mis
erable daily periods of "Double fD.m
my"—she ■, hated. cards "and i played .'ac
cordingly;:-end all this In the fattest
luxury. She.did"not dress, nor eat, nor
light a fir© .until I tea time,: when she
expected; Louis. -. But tea time passed
and night came, leaving her still alone.
y "Tou might | have « known," she
sneered. "Tou fool! What -Is":, it •to
him? j To } anybody?..; r*m nothing . but
one of his hundred worn out, old.faded,
pathetic *.sweethearts! Something to
pity—-and to leave. It's useless to flght
against things. • I give up, I give up.
: I'll : take It all." . .
She : took a.quantity of asplrine, put
on* the moat elaborate; of her charity
evening gowns and dined at the house
of the woman who had given It to her,
and who -had invited her at "the last
moment, to. fill a vacant chair. She'was
so gay;and. sympathetic and diverting
- to tl»e old French: savant who took her:
'. in that he summed her up ; for, an heir
ess - and meditated .on the possibilities"
■ of' marrying her, until |he heard * later,
her story from •, his '^thoughtful;, hostess,
v Morning brpught Caroline- a'-letter
-half -ln -Italian,', half In English)": from
Louis Starr: „' "..... r,' *-•>-'
-,*•■' Lina: I did not come to you yes- i
. • terday because it , seemed - better,
much better, that I should go away
without seeing you again. So.when
, you are reading this the little \
Lina and I will .'be on the ship '
which will 'take*; us -back to our ;
.Italy. '•"■■_.> am '.very weary 'for my
*paese and my • head ia ■*the ?head
of a drunken one with the noise; >
and -* the * hurry * and; the confusion.
;• I i have no • place In America, :• and
- my«heart • cries' for the peace * and
••<-. calm of my ■ lake. - - :-*<■ vy- ■ v -.-..;•■-•■'.:
. ' But before I go I must speak to
' you, .dear:friend,*: with rthe; heart
.open..-j I must try to tell you In my
„.l etter what- I had hoped to tell you -
. by your » side. * - Tou will - not have
i a guessed. ;I think, why I;made the"
Journey to New York with my little
one— was ror nothing save to see
„ypu again, to know-how" It' had been;,
with you In all ■ these » silent years.*
and if you were still free.i .:' ;
-"-'-_ Ah. dear Lina. I knew »in mv
heart of hearts—who can why "
*•' TTw-^T^'-S.o^*" be"»t«li free, still
faithful! i. Thy --heart * was--; ever la * . •
heart of gold.
.'■_-. . . "■■.-*■-' ■ -.■** , •- ■ . »
EMERY
POTTLE
COPYRIGHT BY TO RED'BOOX CUffORUm
Lina, Llna, how great was my
fault to you! Now It is useless to
demand forgiveness. I think I saw
forgiveness -ln , your eyes, heard .it
in * our first long silence, as you
heard me silently asking for It.
The heavy hands of life smooth out
many roughnesses, don't they? At
least, it is so with me. I have suf
fered much. I have paid to the last
little coin the price for the hour of
folly. It is Just that I should con
fess it to you. all of it.
The years with Maria were for
me years of pain, of humiliation, of
accusation, regret, shame. I was
her pensioner, her paid attendant.
God knows IV did my best. The
Louis that you knew died, slowly,
wretchedly, to be sure, but he died.
And the years dragged on.
I will not speak more of that slds
of if. Then Maria went. Tou will
understand when I tell you that hei*
death was a deep relief. She left
me her fortune and the big villa at
Cadenabbla. That was two years
ago. : Since ; then I. have, never
touched a centeslmo of that money,
nor shall I ever. The villa Is let
for 10 years. The Income is set
aside for Elena's dowry— ls
right, for Maria was her mother.
When my parents died, they left me
a tiny legacy of $600 a year, and on
that we live, Elena and I. In an old
broken down cottage,, in the hills
above. Tremezzo, there where you
and I walked together and gathered
the spring primroses. We are little
better than the peasants; we make
the direst economies. But out of
It, In these two years, alone with
my blessed little girl, has coma
such a peace as I never dreamed of.
There V has been only one thins
lacking—thou. How often at twi
light in the spring I have seen you.
still a girl, walking among the
fields, your hands filled with flow
ers, until I almost called aloud to
you to come home..
By one way and another I saved
the money for our passage, second
class, on the steamer, andl came
to find you. I knew you would have
changed, I think, outwardly, but I
knew, too. that your heart. Lina
cara, could not change. I forgot
the ways of America, Its prosperity,
its luxury. Its riches. Even when I
saw you, that first half hour, I did
not realize. It was not until you
took us to your apartment that I
saw the truth. Tou were so beauti
fully • dressed. Tour gown, your
furs, your hundred . pretty woman
things. And the handsome rooms—
so fitted to you, so to your taste.
The marvelous dinner, the wine,
the flowers, the warmth— the
accessories of a tender, delicate
body, a body needful of every com
fort. AndT—l—don't laugh. Lina—
1_ have been fool enough to cross
the ocean to ask you to come back
with me to my tumble down, un
heated. uncomfortable house in the
hills. Tes. I was such a fool. Tou
understand. Lina? To come back to
poverty, to coarse Italian meals,
to— know the life; to ask you
to share my peace, my.lake, and
me, such as Is left of me; to walk
again in the twilight, hand hand,
and to hear that in spite of my un
. worthiness, my shame, I have kept
true to youln that old inner
heart of hearts, which once glowed
white hot and young on the altars
we built." .-■•■':.
..Now, I see how deluded, how con
ceited, I was. It was another les
son to learn.. I must accept It
humbly. It Is part of my punish
ment Those young altars now are
ancient, deserted; those young gods
are dead. Our sacrifices today must
be to sterner deities.
.•cannot say more—though my
heart is* full., This letter must go
to you as It is. confused. inadequate,
sad. perhaps.even ridiculous. But
because you have suffered— is In
your eyes, your face, your words—
you-will be kind. The gods give
thee many peaceful twilights, Lina
cara, where for -an hour perhaps
thou wilt sometimes come to walk
in the hills with i the Louis thou
once. loved. Addlo.
P. S.—As I read this over, its fat
uousness appals me. I have no right
to imagine -that after all these
years I could be anything on earth
to you, rich or poor—and rightly—
other than an unpleasant, unhappy
memory. Forgive me.
When -Caroline Laldlaw flnished
Starr's letter,* she | broke out In laugh
ter, hysterical, dry laughter, distressing
to f hear. - Then * with a sudden, gusty
passion., she dropped to her knees and
began to kiss the scattered sheets.
"Free—-free-r-free," she murmured,
"free at.last.".,
Her tears fell thick and staining on
the paper, fell on her parched heart like
healing rain.
"Louis. Louis, I am coming to you, to
the little house ln the hills, to the twi
lights, to the lake, to peace!" '
Good Health for
•wlcwt ■
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