If I were of his social grade—if I could have retained the position in which I was born, he would be my ideal. Such thoughts, alas! are not for your poor friend, Marjorie.
If I were of his social grade—if I could have retained the position in which I was born, he would be my ideal. Such thoughts, alas! are not for your poor friend, Marjorie.
"Those words mean something," I said, earnestly.
Tears came into her eyes.
"Mr. Camran, do you think it is fair to press me like this?" she asked, with a sob.
"There is an adage," I replied, "that all is fair in love. To give you up means to shatter my existence. I have been a reckless boy. With you as my wife I would make a worthy man—worthy ofyou, of myself, of the noble line from which I sprung. I fear, and I say it deliberately, that if I lose you I shall sink again into the depths from which I have escaped."
"All that," she said, gently, "you said when your friend Statia gave you the same answer I am compelled to give now."
"It is jealousy!" I exclaimed, excitedly. "You are angry because I asked her, before I had even seen you! Very well. But, understand what you are doing! I cannot go through the agony I suffered a year ago."
She sprang up, as if to ward off an impending danger, and came so near that her face was within six inches of mine.
I looked her squarely in the eyes.
"You cannot fascinate me in that way!" I cried, bitterly. "You have ruined a man who has taken you from poverty and given you for two months, at least, the life of a lady. Don't put your hands on me!" as she attempted to touch my shoulder. "I have finished with you. Take the advance payment you have had and go to your home, if you have one. But, remember, by your own agreement, the clothes in which you stand belong to me. Take them off before you leave this room, give them up, or I will strip them from you by force!"
I do not know that I am quoting my exact words, but I am sure this was the sentiment that, in my rage, I expressed. At the moment I hated the woman more than I had loved her a few minutes before.
"You shall have them, every one," answered Miss May, without the least trace of excitement. "I willgo immediately to the village and buy just enough articles of dress to make me fit to take passage to America. All I had from you shall be packed in the trunks you bought and left behind."
"And the jewelry," I added, still blind with my disappointment, for she had received and was wearing it again. "Take those rings from your hands, those diamonds from your ears. They are mine, remember. That was our agreement. I broke into Wesson's trunk and reclaimed them. They are mine!"
At the mention of Wesson she paled even more than before, but complied with my request, laying the articles on the table before me, one by one.
"Good-by," she said, softly, going toward the door that led to her chamber.
Like an avalanche the horror of what I was doing swept over me. I rose, clutched wildly at the air, and fell, not unconscious, but with a deathly nausea. The next moment a woman's form was kneeling by my side and my head was raised to the support of a woman's arm.
"Forgive me—oh! forgive me!" was murmured convulsively in my ear.
A WEDDING RING.
For the next week I was a very sick man. I remember almost nothing of what happened, except that I was in bed and that Miss May was nursing me with all the care a mother gives an infant. Yes, I remember another thing—that Mr. Wesson came several times to my bedside and conversed in low tones with my companion and with a physician whom somebody had summoned. I was too weak to think much about it, or I should certainly have objected to his presence, but I knew in a dim way that he was there.
Afterwards I began slowly to regain my memory and my strength. My first attempts to engage in conversation were discouraged. Mr. Pomeroy, the proprietor of the house, came in and said sympathetically that if I wanted to get on my feet soon I must be very quiet. "Eddie" Armstrong, the manager, whom I had grown to like immensely, said the same thing. I obeyed their injunctions for several days more; but one morning I awoke so strong in heart that I announced my purpose of rising, though all the doctors in Christendom—or even in Barbados—forbade it.
Miss May hesitatingly brought my bath wrap and assisted me to sit up in bed. One movement uponmy feet, however, had more effect than all her persuasions. I must wait a little longer. She propped me up and gave me a strengthening drink that was waiting upon a table. Then she sat by my side and, at my request, read extracts from some newspapers that she had obtained in the reading room below.
The news was all about a possible war with Spain, on account of the blowing up of the warship "Maine," in Havana Harbor. I grew indignant at the hot-heads in my country who were willing to plunge two nations in the horrors of war without waiting to see if a catastrophe could be honorably averted. When the reading was finished I lay passive for a long time and then my thoughts reverted to the scene that preceded my illness.
"I am very, very sorry!" I murmured, drawing Marjorie toward me by the hand which she allowed to rest in mine.
"Sorry? For what?"
"My cruelty to you."
She bade me think no more of what had passed, declaring that the blame, if any, was her own, and that, at least, I must not talk about it for the present. Her manner soothed me more than words and I lay very still, fondling the hand I held and occasionally murmuring grateful expressions. They came to me gradually—all the hateful things I had said and done; and I contrasted them, to my discredit, with the thoughtful care she was giving me.
The love that had vanished during my anger returned ten-fold.
The doctor came and looked wise. I would be able to sit up in a day or two, he said. Good nursingwas what I most required now; as if I didn't know that as well as he! And I had the best nurse in the world—the one I wanted above all others. Could I only be assured I never would lose her!
On the third day I refused to heed longer the advice not to talk. I had too much to say that I wanted Marjorie to hear.
"If you really wish me to be quiet," I said, "you can stop me very easily. Tell me you will be my wife when we return to New York. Only say 'yes' and I will not speak another word."
She leaned over the bed, pushing my hair back gently with her soft white hand.
"Only that one word, Marjorie; only that one! And then we will both be still."
"When—we return—to New York," she answered, slowly, with a pause between the syllables, "I have—something—of great importance to—tell you. If—after that—you persist in your question—I—I—"
"That is enough," was my joyful reply. "You will leave it to me? Dear girl, I ask no more. God bless and keep you!"
I fell asleep early that evening and did not waken once till the sun had risen. Then the medicine she had given me showed its efficacious power. I was quite able to rise and even to take my breakfast at the table in the sitting-room with her. Once started on the road to recovery each hour showed a rapid gain. In another day I was taken for a short drive. The next I remained dressed from morning till night, though I reclined part of the time on a sofa.
And I could think of nothing but returning to theUnited States. The sooner the better now, when the wish of my life was to be granted there.
Marjorie showed herself a woman of wonderful capacity in more ways than one. She arranged with the Colonial Bank officials to have a draft all ready for me to sign when I drove up one day for money, thus saving what must have proved a weary wait. She bought new steamer chairs, the others having been left carelessly on the Pretoria. She paid the hotel bill and made all arrangements for our departure, having taken pains to learn which steamer would take us away the soonest. We were to go on a Royal Mail boat, "the Don," (happy omen!) to Jamaica, being sure of plenty of American steamers from that point.
On the day we were to depart I was nearly as strong as ever. Bidding farewell with some regrets to all the guests I knew, to the proprietor, the manager, Miss Byno and the brown-eyed bicyclist, I entered the carriage with really a light heart.
I was going again on a voyage with Marjorie; going, though the route might be slightly circuitous, to a land where she and I were to be indissolubly united. Is it any wonder I was happy?
The crowd of boatmen that assailed us at the water's edge nearly carried me off my feet. Money is too scarce in Barbados to make the possible gain of a dollar a light matter. One of the men caught me, however, by the name of his craft, which he repeated loudly. "Here yo' is, Massa; de Marjorie, dat's yo' boat, Massa!" I engaged him on the spot and a black patrolman scattered the horde of disappointed applicants. Our baggage and ourselvesfilled the little boat, but we knew we were safe. Off we started for the big black steamer, near which I could discern the American man-of-war "Cincinnati," bringing a leap of patriotic blood to my heart.
Home? We were almost at home now, with the stars and stripes floating so near us!
The "Don" and the "Marjorie." What could be more propitious?
"I hope you won't scold me, Don," said Marjorie, in a low voice, "but I have taken a liberty that perhaps I should have spoken about beforehand."
"Take any liberty you like, sweetheart," I answered. "I am yours now, to do what you please with."
She drew off one of her gloves and advancing a hand asked me to inspect it. After doing so for a minute I told her I saw nothing except the dearest hand in the world; upon which I took it up and kissed it.
"Don't you notice that I am wearing another ring?" she said, flushing.
She certainly was: A gold ring at that and a plain one. It was on her wedding finger, too.
My first thought was that she had summoned a minister and married me during my illness. This was too good to be true and I at once dismissed it.
"You are not yet quite well," she explained, demurely, "and I shall have to be in your cabin frequently. I thought it best to avoid attracting notice, and as I had that ring of my mother's—I just—put it on."
How sweet it was of her; how confiding!
"But our names on the passenger list?" I said.
"That is all arranged. We are Mr. and Mrs. Camwell."
It was bliss enough for one day. Nothing but the purest thoughts regarding her could enter my head now. She was to be my wife!
The next morning she arranged a pleasant way to pass the time. Our cabin was very large and roomy, and she said she could go on with my "novel" quite as well there as on shore. She made me recline on my berth, which had no other above it, and dictation was therefore done entirely at my ease. It was undoubtedly better for me to keep my mind actively employed, and the task to which I set myself was a most agreeable one. My darling recorded the lines I gave her, with rapidity, and made very few audible comments that day, although it was evident from the tell-tale expression of her mobile countenance that she was keenly alive to each situation I detailed. The lines that seemed to affect her most were those wherein I confessed the depth, the sincerity and the purity of the love that had sprung up in my heart.
She could not complain that I was misrepresenting her own part in these affairs, for I thought no alteration could improve a straightforward statement of the real facts as they appeared to me. She winced a little—I thought more about that afterwards—when I referred to seeing Wesson in my stateroom on the Pretoria and again when I spoke of meeting him in close converse with Edgerly in Barbados.
The nearest she came to a full stop was when I related the reasons I had for believing Wesson stole the book from Eggert and was more than likely thethief who had taken the jewels, but after a second her fingers flew over the keys as usual.
The waters through which we were passing were smooth as any millpond. I have never seen so calm a sea, and my tranquil mind sorted with it perfectly. There was nothing that could add to my happiness. I believed each revolution of the steamer's screw brought me nearer the goal of my ambition, the possession of my lovely companion as my true and lawful bride. In the meantime I was producing what I had no doubt would give me a successful embarkation on the sea of literary fame, a voyage I had long aspired to take.
During the three days the "Don" occupied in going from Greytown to Kingston we accomplished much. Marjorie gasped several times when I came to the chapter that detailed my entrance into Wesson's room and my success in finding the packet containing the missing diamonds. As I told of my interview with the rascal she grew as pale as chalk, but she did not entirely stop her writing. At last we came to the time when the "novel" itself was begun and she brightened enough to say that we were walking now in our own tracks. But, at the bald revelation of the things I had said to her when I lost my temper, and demanded back the very clothes she wore, she protested.
"You are unjust to yourself to put that literally in your story," she said, pleadingly. "Your readers will never feel the extent of your provocation. It makes you appear a very detestable character."
"It must go in—exactly as it happened," I answered. "I had no valid excuse for the contemptible things I did. The public will consider it all a piece of fiction. I think it necessary to show the extent to which I lost my reason when I believed I had lost you. It is much safer in a novel to abuse the 'hero' than the 'heroine.'"
Seeing that nothing would move me she went on as I dictated and when the boat was due to arrive at Jamaica the next day we had reached the very words you are now reading. I had apparently recovered my strength entirely. That night I slept as soundly as if I had never known illness or mental trouble. In the morning we went early upon deck to see the entrance to the Harbor and had a pleasant talk with Captain Tindall, one of those affable and handsome men that England produces in such numbers and assigns to this duty all over the world.
Inquiry had convinced me that there was but one suitable place to stay at in Kingston—the Myrtle Bank Hotel—and the result proved the wisdom of my choice. While open to some slight criticism—as what hotel is not?—it was on the whole a delightful home to us during our brief stay. There being no more work to do at present I occupied the hours in talks, walks and drives with Marjorie, happy as the butterflies among the roses in the pretty park which separates the hotel from the shore.
We went one day to visit a camp of soldiers in the suburbs, on another to the Constant Spring Hotel, situated six miles from town in a mountain nook, to Castleton Gardens and Hope Gardens, beautiful for situation and high culture, with lovely roads leading to each. Again, we took the train to Spanish Town and drove to Bog Walk, as pretty a bit of scenery asone could desire. And later we passed several days at Mandeville, some fifty miles or so away, a village perched among the hills 2100 feet above the sea, where the scent of coffee flowers and orange blossoms fairly filled the delicious air and the thermometer recorded a degree of heat more grateful than that to be found in the lowlands. I noted the mercury at 70 when I went to bed, at 60 when I rose, and at 75 when the sun was in the zenith. I really do not know another spot more charming in any land, in March or April.
Besides this we visited Montpelier, Montego Bay and Port Antonio, seeing at the latter place a steamer of the Boston Fruit Company setting sail for the Hub with an immense cargo of bananas and oranges. The country thereabout is one field of those fruits, combined with the stately cocoanut palms, while a short distance away tobacco is grown that rivals the famed product of unhappy Cuba. On the 28th we bade farewell to the island, with genuine regret on my part at least, and took the little "Beta" of the Halifax line for Bermuda.
Before we left Kingston a batch of letters was received, some for each of us, and I did not attempt to annoy Marjorie this time by prying into her correspondence. My confidence in her was now at its highest point. She did not write any answers, nor did I, as we were so soon to reach home. After three days in Bermuda we started for America. I saw that, for some reason, she wanted to return, and with the hope that filled my breast I had no wish to prolong our absence.
It was agreed that we would have to separate whenwe touched land, she to go to her old lodgings and I to mine, but I stipulated that we were to meet again within a very few days and that she was to write me when to expect her. As I saw her enter her carriage, with her baggage strapped behind, I held myself well in hand, though the wish to embrace her at parting nearly overpowered me.
"You will write as soon as possible?" I said, interrogatively.
"Yes," she answered. "I will write; and then, if you still insist, I will come to you."
If I still insisted! I did not believe as I saw her wheels disappear in the street that anything could change the resolutions I held so dear!
THE BRUTAL TRUTH.
Three days passed—three awfully slow days, though I visited Harvey Hume and Tom Barton, spent every evening at the theatre, and loafed away many hours at the club, where the boys made me tell them of the islands I had visited and asked my opinion over and over, (as if it amounted to anything) in relation to the probability of a war between the United States and Spain. I refused to enlighten Harvey at the time in reference to his question whether I had not been quite as happy "without my secretary" as if I had taken one. I said I would have something to tell him one of these days and that he must be content until that time came. Tom was the same dear fellow as of yore, but Statia, who came in to welcome me, was as sphynx-like as on the eve of my departure.
I also had to run in a moment on my Uncle Dugald, who gave me his hand in his old, impassive manner, and expressed the opinion that I looked better, on the whole, than when I went away. A brief call on Dr. Chambers completed my list. I thought that excellent gentleman looked a trifle disappointed when I called his attention to my improved physique and said I was as well as I had ever been in my life. I have no wish to do him an injustice, for it was certainly a feather in his cap when he raised me out ofthe Slough of Despond and made me fit to travel at all; but it is only natural if professional men are not filled with special delight at announcements that their services are no longer required.
On the third evening there came a packet from Miss May—at last! an awfully big packet, which set me to wondering what it could possibly contain. I thought as I received it from the messenger that it would have answered for a presidential message to Congress on the Cuban situation, with all the correspondence that had passed between the United States and Spain since the blowing up of the warship. It may be believed I lost no time in tearing open the paper that encircled the missives. Inside I found a small envelope marked "Open first," and a larger one inscribed, "Read this only after you have read the other carefully." All this was so deliberate and so much like a deep plan that I was far from my ease when I complied with the request and cut the smaller envelope. And the reader may well believe that my sensations were not of a very enviable nature when I read these lines:
My Dear Mr. Camran: I know no easy way to break the truth I am obliged to send. If you have any doubt of being able to bear a shock without medical attendance do not read what I have placed in the other envelope until you have summoned your physician. I fear it will not be pleasant reading, but you must have the truth. At least, I must keep my promise now of lying only to others and not to you.With this warning, I subscribe myself, for the last time,Yours,M.M.April 8th, 1898.
My Dear Mr. Camran: I know no easy way to break the truth I am obliged to send. If you have any doubt of being able to bear a shock without medical attendance do not read what I have placed in the other envelope until you have summoned your physician. I fear it will not be pleasant reading, but you must have the truth. At least, I must keep my promise now of lying only to others and not to you.
With this warning, I subscribe myself, for the last time,
Yours,
M.M.
April 8th, 1898.
I was surprised at the calmness with which I saw all my hopes blown to the winds in a single paragraph. Curiosity was the most pronounced feeling in my mind at the moment. I took a long breath, steadied my nerves for an instant, and then opened the larger envelope. There were typewriter sheets, twelve in number, done, apparently, on a Remington machine. And this is what I read:
Prepare yourself to hear the worst about me, my dear friend, for your imagination could hardly make me out a greater scamp than I am. Know then, to begin with, your companion in the Caribbean was a well-known criminal, whose entire trip with you was planned for the purpose of fraud. If she failed to accomplish that end you must ascribe it to a weak yielding to sentimental considerations, of which she should—from a professional standpoint—be heartily ashamed.
If you have survived this statement, read on, and I will be more explicit. I am what is known to the police as a "confidence woman." My usual game is to beguile persons of the opposite sex into "falling in love" with me and then fleece them out of as large a sum as I can do with safety to myself. I may add, without egotism, that I have been fairly successful in this, my chosen field. If you care to get another copy of that book I stopped you from reading at St. Thomas, "Our Rival, the Rascal," you will find on one of its pages a fairly accurate portrait of your humble servant, though the name affixed is not by any means the one I thought it wise to give you.
One of my favorite methods of making the acquaintance of probable victims is through the advertising columns of newspapers. I have found no better medium for the purpose than the "Personals" in the New York Herald; it is generally to be supposed that a masculine individual who will use that column or reply to anything contained therein is good game for my purpose.
Naturally my attention was attracted to your announcement that you wanted a typewritist to accompany you to the West Indies for the winter. I wrote as modest and taking an answer as I knew how and the fact that it proved most attractive to you out of a hundred you received justified my judgment. The next thing was to hold you fast, when you came to see me, and here again I flatter myself that I evinced the right sort of talent. I sized you up at the start for what you were—a good-natured, easily-led gentleman of means, who would answer very well for my purpose.
Now, see how I proceeded: To have accepted your offer at once would have been to awaken your suspicions. I knew better than that, and I played what is technically known as a waiting game. As I look back on our primary interviews and correspondence I do not see a wrong step on my part. I wrote you that I could be seen "only between the hours of two and four," to give you the impression that I was no ordinary girl who would go anywhere, or with any one, and whom you could lead with a thread.
You were to come at my hours; I knew you would like that. You came, but it was I who saw and conquered. You told me at once that you had engagedberths for two on the Madiana. This showed that you were not likely to back out, but I did not take your word alone. I had a friend verifying your statement at Cook's office within an hour after you left my room.
Had I told you that I would go, that afternoon, you would have had a chance to think it over and perhaps to change your mind. It is the fleeing bird that attracts the attention of the hunter. You gave me the name of "David Camwell, Lambs Club," which before I slept that night I had turned into Donald Camran, from a list of members which I was easily able to procure. I learned that Donald Camran was rich; that he was considered erratic; that he answered your description in personal appearance; and that he had been, as you said, recently ill.
The next time you adopt a false name do not use your own initials. Nine-tenths of the people who do this slip up on that banana peel.
When you left my room, that first afternoon, I was as certain you would return as that the sun would rise on the following day. The chapters of the "novel" you afterwards dictated to me prove how entirely accurate I was in my estimates. I take much pride, also, in the second letter I sent you, for I covered my "fly" with attractive colors to dazzle your eye and meet every point likely to arise in your mind. My card was to convince you that I was the very proper young lady I professed to be. To do this without acting the silly prude was a task fit only for such thoroughly trained hands as mine. Next I spoke of the matter of compensation, to convince you that I was really a working girl and not a mere adventurer. You had plenty of means and the price of my weekly stipend was not likely to alarm you.
As it would really be necessary for me to have considerable money to make a suitable appearance I gently hinted something in relation to that matter, leaving it, however, to your own judgment what should be done. I believe I may claim that in the composition of that letter I showed decided talent. At any rate it accomplished its purpose.
When your answer came I knew that I was going. I would not have paid five dollars to be assured of that. But when you returned to me I still had to pretend a little doubt—not too much, that would have spoiled everything. I left it to you to say whether, after all, you really wanted me to take the journey, doing it in a way that alarmed your fears lest you were going to lose me. I had to keep "the scent warm," as the saying is. The rushing way in which you bought my trunks and sent me the first installment of cash would have removed my doubts, had any remained.
I then thought I might as well get clothed while I was about it and sent the third letter, which we may call "Exhibit C." In that I appealed to the chivalrous part of your nature, arousing your sympathies, and yet without putting myself for one instant in the rôle of a mendicant.
"If I am to go I am unwilling to disgrace you"—that was all there was to it.
Again I was justified by the result. You came as soon as I would let you—I had "gone out of town over New Years," you remember, and you showered another lot of bankbills on my head.
Now here is just where a less experienced person would have made her mistake. Seeing how easily you could be induced to disgorge, she would have hinted at expenditures that would have caused a revolt even in your generous brain. I came late on purpose that Tuesday morning (I had only been a couple of blocks away) in order to work up the fever that I knew was latent in you. I suggested that you go to the shops, knowing that you would grasp at the chance to occupy so close a position to me as the cab would afford. At Altman's I pretended to be shocked at some of the prices, so that you would pronounce them the extremity of cheapness. (How could you do anything else?) And I hinted bashfully at the question of jewelry, knowing that you would send me all I could reasonably expect, as you did the next day.
Then I went to dine with you in a private room, primarily because I was nearly starved to death, secondarily because I knew it would fasten you to me the closer. I put on that awful blue veil to give you the impression that I had never done such a thing before, when as a matter of fact the waiter who served us knows my face as well as he does his mother's, if he has one. He knew enough to conceal that fact, however, as I am certain, from previous experience, every waiter in that house would have done.
Now we come to one of the fine points. You did not forget to mention in your description of that evening how I refused to have the door of ourcabinet particulairelocked, which you were kind enough to ascribe to maidenly modesty on my part. The factis, ever since I was imprisoned three years ago for two months, awaiting trial for one of my schemes that went awry, the thought of a turned key on any room I occupy drives me into fits. In that at least I was honest. The scare you gave me in proposing to lock that door took away my appetite to such an extent that I ate, as you have recorded, very sparingly of the excellent dinner.
You may remember that I showed similar trepidation at St. Thomas, when you suggested that Mr. Eggert might lock the door of my bedroom. It was enough like a jail with the high fence around the grounds, and I never felt quite easy till we had left the place. I really did not take one good breath there, so vivid is my recollection of the horrible days when high walls and locked doors meant imprisonment.
I don't suppose I shall explain everything you will wish to know, but I shall do my best. The next thing that occurs to me is that I refused to allow you to register my name on the Madiana's passenger list as "Miss May." As this was merely anom de guerreyou will wonder why I objected to its going into print. The fact is that my husband—yes, I am married, and by a minister of the church, too—did not like to have me take that journey without going with me on the boat, while I was sure it was much better for him to remain away. He has no jealousy, as you will immediately imagine—he knows me too well to be guilty of such a senseless thing. I love him with all my soul; and I can take care of myself, if it comes to that, against the persuasions or the force of any living man.
He merely wanted to be with me, just as you would want to be with your wife, if you had one and loved her. I knew he was not always a safe companion in a game of this kind, that he had a quick temper and was lacking in judgment in any case where I was concerned; and I told him plainly that this was my affair, that I should manage it alone, if at all, and I should not tell him where you and I were going.
As he knew your name, having made the inquiries at your club, he would have a double chance to discover us if he saw mine anywhere in print, and "Miss May" was a title he knew I had once before assumed. So I got you to change it to "Carney" in hopes to throw him off the track. He proved too shrewd for me, however, as you will agree when I mention that he travelled on the steamer with us under the name of "Edgerly."
I may as well tell you at this point that the "cruel employer" to whom I alluded so often was a creature of my imagination, and that all the typewriting I have ever done has been for my own profit and amusement in schemes like the present one.
If you had recorded me as "Miss Camwell" I meant to work another racket on you. I expected to institute a suit for breach of promise on my return, not one to be taken to court, but only to use as a lever to pry a few thousands out of your pocket; I would have done this if you had not, contrary to all precedent, made me an honorable offer of your hand, which spoiled my plan in an unforeseen manner. It was with this in view that I went to your rooms several times before we sailed. It is always handyto have evidence ready in a case of this kind and hallboys are excellent witnesses if wanted.
Don't you think I am a lovely girl, now? And aren't you sorry I am not free to wed. What a charming wife I would make for a man like you!
Well, to resume, I played what I thought a good card by saying that I should only accept the things you paid for as "the costuming of my part" and return them to you when the show was over. It didn't cost anything to say that and I knew you never would accept them. The little screed that I left on the typewriter at your room was not a bad stroke, either. I flatter myself it was a fair piece of English composition, and although it contained not a word of truth, it answered just as well. It made you think of me with more respect than if you had supposed me a mere waif of the streets.
You wondered—didn't you?—why I went to my cabin on the steamer and remained there for part of two days after it started. Perhaps you can guess the reason now. I had seen my husband on deck and not being anxious to meet him any sooner than could be helped I kept out of his way. Before I did come up I received a note from him, by one of the stewards, detailing the course he intended to adopt, which was simply to act as if he had never seen or heard of me in his life. I could not help a slight uneasiness, though, at his presence, for he is not always as shrewd as a husband of mine should be. I was rather displeased that he had come in spite of my advice; and I felt afraid that he would hamper my movements even if he did not destroy my plans.
What made me suspect that man Wesson I do notknow, unless it was instinct. The moment I set my eyes upon him I put him down for an enemy. I wrote a few lines to my husband, telling him to watch, but he answered that my suspicions were groundless, another proof how much clearer are my intuitions than his. Wesson was always prying around. I had some conversations on deck with him when you left me alone, but could come to no positive conclusion except that I wished he was somewhere on shore.
I didn't really guess what he was up to until we had landed at St. Thomas.
"WITH HIS WIFE, OF COURSE."
I leave the reader to imagine my feelings, [it is Camran writing now] as I read these lines, if he can. To describe them is more than I am able to do. Suffice it to say that I read on and on, like one fascinated, and there was no sign of the collapse I might have expected from the dreadful revelations. The catastrophe was too immense to be met in any ordinary way.
You will now need no confession of mine [continued this strange MS.] to inform you who purloined Miss Howes' bracelet and your shirtstud. Who stole my own jewelry might be a harder riddle, so I will make haste to say that I did that also. It was the easiest way to prevent suspicion falling on my head, though it can hardly be said to have been entirely successful, as Mr. Howes never had the least doubt of my guilt. I knew that from the first, by the freezing manner he immediately adopted toward me and the chilling way in which his "niece," or friend, as she afterwards proved, used me until I left the boat. I ought to say here that common thefts are not in my line, and that I regret having been drawn into the commission of these acts. Myhusband urged the deed upon me, and rather than let him run the risk of doing it himself—which he threatened—I yielded to his importunities. He had embarked with very little ready money, on account of recent ill luck at the faro table, and dreaded being stranded in some foreign port without enough to complete his voyage. I was, as you know, powerless to aid him much in any other way.
You will naturally inquire why, if this is true, my husband returned to you the money he won at cards, taking your check instead. He did so because I insisted upon it. I told him, at the rate he was going, we should be high and dry on the reefs before we got back to America. There was little sense in killing a goose (I meant you, my dear Donald) that was likely to lay golden eggs for a long time if properly tended.
Wesson worried you at Eggert's, didn't he? Well, he worried me a great deal more. I had an instinctive fear of him and was at my wits' end to give a reason. I knew also that my husband was waiting for me at St. Croix and wished to consult him in regard to several matters. I wished to get away from Eggert, the two or three fainting fits I had there were simulated for the purpose of inducing you to cut your stay as short as possible.
I wanted you to make the proposal to leave and at last succeeded. I let you kiss the ends of my fingers; and sometimes I pretended to reciprocate your affection, though I could hardly keep from laughing in my sleeve. Do you remember the time you bathed my forehead with cologne? I could hardly control my risibles at the pathetic figure you made. Oh!It was really too amusing. I took the sea bath every morning, not because I cared for it, but in order to awake your fancies and bind you tighter to my triumphal car. The lovely, silly things you said to me!
Now, about that book: I saw it long before you did and tried to think of some plan to keep it out of your way. You might notice the similarity in features Between Miss —— and myself, if you were allowed to pore over its pages. I had another fear, too, even stronger, for I believe I could have convinced you that the resemblance was merely accidental: I dreaded Wesson's sharp eyes if once they got hold of that volume. So it was I—not he, of course—that put the book out of the way, and it was only by my carelessness that he afterwards got his hands on it.
I had ceased to have the slightest fear of you; of course, I never had any for myself—I mean, there was nothing about you to endanger the wifely duty I owed to my dear, unhappy husband. You could be handled as easily as a kitten, by touching your sentimental side. Do you recall looking in at my screen door and seeing me in the attitude of prayer? Why, I had posed in that position, night after night, waiting for you to come! When I asked you to enter, a little later, I knew as well as that I breathed what your answer would be. There never was another man so easy to control.
Then there was the letter I received from my dear friend Helen. All arranged for, copied from one I had left with her—before I sailed—just on purpose for you. I forced that card on you as nicely as any conjurer could have done it, didn't I? And my answer—which you entered my room and read—(excuse me while I go behind the door and smile) that was cooked up for your eyes in the same way. I didn't know that you would go into the room, although I hoped so, but if you hadn't you would have been given the letter to mail, with the unsealed envelope turned so as to attract your attention, and you never would have been able to resist a peep, never. How did you like my description of your beauty? The blonde mustache, the "hazel eyes," the "engaging countenance?" If I had been as silly as that letter indicated, it would not have taken a very gay Lothario to accomplish his designs on me.
Your reiterated offers of marriage convinced me that I could pull that string whenever I was ready. That I have not pulled it is due to the "weak yielding" of which I spoke at the beginning of this letter. Professionally, I repeat, it was an error. I could have got a nice little pot out of you if I had kept along that line.
But I am not the only member of my "firm" who has weak moments. My husband could not keep himself quiet in that hotel at St. Croix, when everything depended on his remaining out of sight. He had to stand in the sitting room and listen to your protestations of affection, until I was frightened out of my wits, for I know what an excitable fellow he is.
It is one thing to have your wife let another man make love to her—for a legitimate purpose—and quite another to overhear the burning declarations. I had to play the fainting gag again, in order to send you after water, and—do the best I could—my husband would not run when he heardyour returning step. I was in mortal fear that he would kill you and only by the best diplomacy of which I was mistress did I send him away.
Even then he had not finished. I went into your room at midnight, do you recollect? to keep him from entering there. Not altogether to save you from injury—though I would have done that, too—but for fear of the legal entanglements into which his rashness might bring him.
And in the morning you sent me that sweet letter of apology! Whenever I get the blues I shall only have to take that out and read it. It was so funny!
I am afraid you are getting tired of this story, but you might as well have it all. It will cure your complaint called "love," that you have had so severely, if anything will, and that ought to be one comfort.
My husband was on the steamer with us when we left St. Croix, and—where, do you suppose? In the stateroom with his wife, where a true man should be, of course. I smuggled him in there and kept him hid till we reached Barbados, if you please. But the night you and I stayed at Martinique, I had a terrible fear that he would come ashore and do something silly. He kept insisting that he had an account which he must settle, sooner or later, with you. So, if you remember, I went into your bedroom and stayed all night, for I knew he would trust me, and that he would not try to touch you in my presence. In the morning you took me back to the steamer, as I had intended you should; and that night and the next I slept again in the arms I love. It was he who was prowling around the Hotel des Bains, whoplayed the part of mice and ghosts. Disguised so that no one on the Pretoria recognized him he made his way to land and back again. It wasn't a bad trick, considering.
At Barbados I made him go to the Sea View Hotel instead of the Marine, though with the greatest difficulty. He is so hard to manage when he sets his mind on anything. It was distinctly foolish for him to be seen walking the street with Wesson, for you need never have known he had gone further down the islands than St. Croix. Then why should he come to the Marine in broad daylight, and get into that row, that nearly spilled all the milk? I love the man, I tell you, but I must criticise such conduct.
Where did Wesson get the jewelry? will be the next question in your mind. All I know is that our mutual friend "Edgerly" pawned the lot at Martinique for four hundred francs and afterwards sold the ticket for 125 more, like a dunce! to the proprietor of the Hotel des Bains. That is an indication of where Wesson got hold of the swag. But why did he let you take it from him without making the least resistance? This is another riddle which you must discover for yourself. I can't fathom it.
If you are trying to find anything in my favor because I forgave your insulting language at the time you bade me give up the clothing you had bought, strike it out of your mind. I was merely doing the prudent thing in keeping you quiet until you paid my expenses back to the United States. As to the clothing I knew very well you would never ask for it, in your senses, nor get it, if you did. I finished thework you asked me to do, with the typewriter, to understand exactly how each item in this account seemed to you at the time.
Now, once more, my dear Donald, where does this leave you and me? I might remain in New York without the slightest fear you would molest me, either in person or through the law. No man would like to have this story printed, with his real name, in the daily newspapers; now, would he? Neither is it likely that your fondness for your Marjorie (ha, ha!) will long outlive the confessions she has so freely made. But I am not going to remain in this city. The haunts that have known me will know me no more. I am going far away, with my husband—my darling husband—and I can promise that your eyes have gazed upon both of us for the very last time.
Why, now, did I give up attacking your bank account when such a good opportunity still remained? I will tell you, candidly. There are sportsmen, many of them, I trust, who would not shoot a fawn that stood still at their approach. I never supposed there was a man with whom a woman could travel as I travelled with you, who would not give cause to bleed him with a good conscience by the outrageousness of his conduct. I thought, of course, you would be like the rest. In that case the fountains of mercy would have dried up in my bosom and I would have taken the last dollar I could wrench from you without the slightest compunction. It was a game I believed infallible. I had found it, more than once, to work like a charm.
There are usually only three moves: 1st, to convince the male animal that I am pure and wish toremain so; 2d, to put myself where he believes he can insult me with impunity; 3d, the insult.
I only wanted one move toward the third play on your part to pick you financially to pieces. You did not make it, and I could go no farther.
If this leniency of mine is a deadly sin I can only pray that the temptation to commit another like it will not come to me soon.
And now, my very dear friend, I must say good-by. Take it altogether, my two months with you have not been unhappy ones. On your part, if you have learned your lesson well, the investment you have made ought to yield a fair dividend. Forget me, if you can, forgive me at any rate. I have already given up my lodgings, so you need not seek me there. My address is for the present a secret.
Yours Sincerely,
"MARJORIE."
Donald Camran, Esq., The Lambs.
I had finished the entire story and yet I sat upright, with my senses all about me. I was going to bear it very well, after all.
A knock was heard upon the door of my apartment. The hallboy entered when I bade him do so and handed me a card, with the statement that the gentleman wished to see me on very important business. The name on the card was unknown to me, but I bade the boy send the owner up. It might prove a diversion and anything was welcome that would take my mind from Marjorie.
I rose and was about to greet the new comer in the usual terms when a sight of his face stopped me.
"Mr. Wesson, what does this mean?" I asked, angrily.
"It means," said the person, with all his old coolness, "that Mr. Wesson has disappeared from the scene, and that I am plain Martin Daly, of the Blinkerdon Police, at your service."
Staggered to the last degree I scanned his card again. It read, "M. Daly, Boston."
"What do you want of me?" I asked, still standing and allowing him to do the same.
"In the first place," he answered, "perhaps you will permit me to take a chair. In the second, you may be kind enough to read a letter which I have brought."
He took the chair, without waiting for my permission and I received the letter, which I saw at once was addressed in the handwriting of my Uncle Dugald.