CHAPTER V.

LETTER TO AN INTIMATE FRIEND.

Fifth Avenue Hotel, New York,February —, 18—.

My dear Alice,—I ran away from Boston without saying good-by to you. Dr. Wesselhoeft predicted all sorts of horrors—hysterics, St. Vitus’s dance, nervous prostration, and I don’t know what else, if I did not at once get away from the hosts of people who drove me distracted with an incessant ringing of the door-bell from breakfast until bedtime. I was not aware that I had so many friends before. Every pupil I have ever had, every passing acquaintance even, has felt it to be his or her privilege and duty to call and congratulate me and bore me to death with their ecstasies and flatteries.

I rather liked it at first, I must confess. It was all so novel to me, and it showed some of my acquaintances in an entirely new light, which, I found, gave me an admirable opportunity for a study of character on its drollest side. Whenever I entered the reception room and found it lined with callers waiting all on tiptoe for my appearance, I really felt like a president beset by office-seekers during his first month at the White House.

But a few days of all this rather nauseated me,and I thanked my fortune that it had not come at my birth, but had allowed me to make many true and tried friends before bestowing on me what I fear will now always make me suspicious of a lack of disinterestedness in every new-comer.

However, in leaving Boston and coming to New York I fancy that I have only jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire, for letters pursue me everywhere. I devote every forenoon to reading them and dictating replies to my amanuensis. Many of them are applications for money or help of some sort, some of them outrageous, and some very pitiful indeed. I had one some days ago from a poor fellow in Vermont, who fancied himself an inventor. He had just lost his wife and two children, and implored me to “help him make a man” of the only little one left to him. His letter sounded so forlorn that it went to my heart, so I sent telegrams of inquiry about him to the postmaster and the minister in his native town. They answered my questions satisfactorily, and I sent at once for the man to come.

Such a dazed, bewildered-looking creature as he was, to be sure, when he stepped out of the carriage, which I had sent for him, and stumbled clumsily up the steps with his baby, tied up in an old red shawl, in his arms!

He told me the simple story of his life, its little ambitions and narrow outlook; of his conversion and his courtship, and of the horrors of disease and death and poverty, to which his pinched faceand trembling hands bore witness. The boy was a pathetic little morsel of humanity, and his sad little mouth won my heart. I have taken charge of the child, and, please God, I will “make a man of him.” The father is quite unfit for hard work, and what to do with him I did not know, when suddenly I bethought myself of a magazine article which you loaned me some time ago, apropos of “A Universal Tinker.” The man is clever with tools, I hear, and just the one to do odd bits of mending and attending to the thousand and one things which are always getting out of order about a house. So I sent him with a letter to all my Back Bay friends, and eight of them have offered to pay him five dollars a month each, on condition that he keep everything in their establishments in repair. I have given him a chest of tools, and have found a good home for him. A widow in straitened circumstances, whom also I wish to help, but who will not accept charity, is glad to receive him and his child into her family. Really, the man seems already like another creature. He has taken on a new look of self-respect and courage that makes his commonplace, weather-beaten face fairly radiant.

This whole experience has given me intense satisfaction. I had almost made up my mind to pay no heed to these calls, which demand so much of my time and prove, at least half of them, to come from frauds and impostors. In fact, it was merely as an experiment, and chiefly to indulge mycuriosity, that I heeded this case. I am now determined to have every appeal for help that seems at all deserving thoroughly investigated, and I foresee that I shall be obliged to have more than one agent to attend to it all.

I had an extraordinary experience last night, of which I must tell you, though my ears tingle yet at the thought of it. I wonder if this is a foretaste of the penalties which I am doomed to pay for the sin of being a great heiress. I had always wondered how rich women could endure to make such a display of diamonds at parties and balls as to necessitate their being dogged by private detectives everywhere. I always maintained that a woman was an idiot who would thus let herself become such a slave to her wealth. I was sure that any one who lived simply, and did not care for show, could go alone where she pleased, and have no fears; but my theories are getting sadly shaken. However, I am digressing. Now about this affair last night.

I received a beautifully written note the other day, delicately perfumed, and bearing a seal stamped with a coat of arms, and signed Manuel Altiova. The writer intimated that he had been a friend of Mr. Dunreath, and had matters of importance to tell me. He begged the favor of an interview. I surmised that he was a scamp, but, on the other hand, thought it possible that he might be some titled wealthy Spaniard who had met Mr. Dunreath in South America, and who could give mesome information about the locality of my possessions. So I had my amanuensis send him a formal note in reply asking him to call on me last evening.

I told my maid Hélène to remain in the next room with the door ajar, and when his card was sent up, followed almost immediately by himself, I arose to receive him with some curiosity.

Tableau. Enter, with many bows, a tall, black-eyed man of perhaps thirty-five, clad in faultless dress; in short, to all outward appearance, an elegant Adonis.

I let him tell his story, and said nothing for awhile. He professed to have been most intimately acquainted with Mr. Dunreath, and produced a photograph of him. Subsequently, he showed me some letters in Mr. Dunreath’s handwriting referring to some dishonorable business transactions by which Mr. D. had greatly augmented his fortunes, and for which he would have suffered the full penalty of the law except for the timely and most self-sacrificing intervention of his “noble and devoted friend,” Manuel Altiova.

I was thunderstruck. The hot blood mounted to my temples, and for a moment everything seemed to reel before me. Was all my happiness a dream? Was I then enjoying the ill-gotten gains of a swindler? I looked at the letters. There could be no mistake about the handwriting. That very forenoon, with my lawyer, I had been carefully examining a dozen documents in that same queer crabbed hand, which I had known so well in the days when I was a girl and had a lover.

Five years ago it was, but it seemed fifty, as I sat there staring dizzily at those letters and trying to realize that this man whom I had loved almost enough to marry, this man whom I would have sworn was honor itself, was false, basely false. Oh, it seemed a thing incredible; yet, as I thought of how in these last few years for month after month society has been shocked by the fall of those who have stood most high in our esteem, yet who have been tempted to sell their souls for gold, I believed it all.

I remember thinking vaguely of how I must try to find out the men whom Mr. Dunreath had defrauded, and return to them this money, which was theirs, not mine. Then I roused myself and questioned him, trying to appear as indifferent and non-committal as possible, though I could feel my temples throbbing, and I knew my cheeks were hot. He answered my questions without the slightest hesitation, giving names, dates, and localities with startling readiness and apparent sincerity. He mentioned various little peculiarities of Mr. Dunreath’s,—his never eating butter, his being left-handed, and so on.

At last I could ask no more. I felt as though I should suffocate. The man went on talking, however, telling his own family history. His father was a learned professor, his mother a lady of noble birth. He was born at Barcelona, had been destined from childhood to take orders in the Romish Church, and was finally disinherited by his sternfather for his avowed Protestant and Republican doctrines, to say nothing of his refusal to wed the woman of his father’s choice when all hope of his entering the church had been abandoned. With his own little private fortune of twenty thousand dollars he had sailed for Brazil, and had entered the service of Mr. Dunreath. Soon he became the devoted friend of that gentleman, was intrusted with his confidence, and became cognizant of all his affairs. Mr. Dunreath had fully expected to return to him the thousands which he had so generously made over to the officials in the nick of time, thus preventing the pursuit which would have ended in his arrest and conviction, with the subsequent surrender to the state of many of his millions.

Mr. Altiova, or rather Señor as he called himself, presently let me understand the chief purpose of his visit. As you will readily guess, he desired me to pay him the sum which he had spent, namely, twenty thousand dollars, all his little fortune. In another letter which he produced, Mr. Dunreath had promised to return this sum doubled, and this promise was in the act of fulfillment on the very day of the fatal sunstroke.

Señor Altiova modestly disclaimed any desire that this generous offer should be fulfilled by Mr. Dunreath’s heirs, and declared that he would be quite content to receive only the sum which he had spent. He paused for my reply. Meanwhile I had been gradually collecting my wits, and was able to control my voice enough to say that I must first consult with my lawyer.

“But, Miss Brewster,” he urged, “that, you see, is impossible. Will you disclose Mr. Dunreath’s felony? Will you create a needless scandal and lose your fortune? No; if you will but settle this little business with me (the sum, of course, is but a mere bagatelle to a rich lady like you), the secret will remain forever buried in my bosom, and no mortal shall know what has passed between us. The moment you hand me your check for twenty thousand dollars, payable to the bearer, that moment you shall with your own hand burn these incriminating letters.”

I reiterated that in spite of the danger of bringing ignominy upon the name of my old friend, I should consult my lawyer before taking any steps in the matter.

“But I can’t wait,” he retorted almost fiercely, and there was a look in his eyes which made me start. My heart rose. Could it be that those terrible letters were only clever forgeries? He instantly recollected himself, however, and his tone assumed a touch of pathos.

“Miss Brewster,” he said, and there was a tremor in his voice as he looked at me beseechingly; “my mother, whom I have not seen for years, is dying. The physician gives her at most only a month to live. Unknown to my father she has cabled me to return instantly. Ah, my sweet mother,” he murmured, as if speaking to himself, while his eyes were wet with unshed tears, “the moments are years until I see her. Oh, if I shouldbe too late! And then—who knows? perhaps,—yes,—perhaps, if I may stand beside my mother’s deathbed, my stern old father may be reconciled to me—may bid me stay, and I may have the unspeakable comfort of sustaining his declining years.”

I watched him keenly. If this were acting, it had been very good acting until now. But these last few words had a false ring in them, which even my unpracticed ear detected. With a mournful sigh he showed me two miniatures painted on ivory, one the face of a handsome, dark-eyed woman, the other that of a scholarly-looking man of middle age. These, he said, were the portraits of his father and mother, and as he returned the latter to its velvet case he pressed it tenderly to his lips.

It was very touching, and I was half convinced, especially when my eye fell again on that curious handwriting whose peculiarities I knew so well. The man evidently saw that I was agitated and afraid that his story might, after all, be true. He continued:—

“But, Miss Brewster, I have no money. I arrived here last week from Rio Janeiro. My father has disinherited me, as I have told you. My little private fortune, my mother’s gift, which I could have doubled in a year’s time by my investments, was all given to save my friend. Madame!” he cried, “where is your sense of justice—simple justice—if you refuse me the paltry sum which saved the reputation and wealth of the man whose heiressyou now are? You have his own confession here before you, signed with his name. The evidence is unimpeachable. If I bring it into court, it may cost you half your millions. Madame, the Urania sails to-morrow, I must go. I must have money, the money you owe me. If you refuse”—

I rose to bring this extraordinary interview to an immediate close. I was shaking from head to foot and thankful beyond measure that Hélène, who had doubtless heard the whole conversation, understood too little English to realize its import. I was convinced that I had to deal with a very shrewd, clever villain, who had worked up his facts most adroitly, and was trying a desperate confidence game. But he was not to be gotten rid of so easily. Suddenly falling upon one knee, he grasped my hand as I stood before him and poured out a torrent of words, of which I remember nothing, for I was too indignant and astounded even to think of calling upon Hélène. We must have looked for all the world like the tragic pictures in the “Police Gazette,” which my naughty youngsters used to display behind my back at the Mission School.

Suddenly I came to my senses. I don’t suppose the whole scene lasted half a minute at most. Tearing my hand away, I was rushing for Hélène,—who, as I learned afterward, was sound asleep, with the door blown to,—when, as a last bit of desperation, what did this man do, but snatch a dainty little pistol from his hip pocket, and before I could scream or even gasp an articulate word heaimed it at his temples and seemed about to fire. I can hardly tell what I did then. I believe I screamed, and I must have rushed upon the madman, for the next instant I found myself with the pistol in my hand trying to fire it up the chimney, while the Señor lay prostrate apparently in a swoon. But the pistol would not fire; evidently it was not loaded. I dropped it into the smouldering ashes, and staggered into the next room, where my stupid maid lay soundly sleeping on the sofa. Faint and trembling I dropped into the nearest chair. I could not have walked six inches further, and was too weak to attempt to arouse Hélène. On the whole, I was glad not to do so, for she would have been too frightened to be of the least use. Moreover, she would have raised the neighborhood with her shrieks, while I should have been ready to die with mortification and disgust.

In imagination I saw the lurid head lines of the next day’s columns of society gossip and scandal. “Dunreath’s Defalcation!” “How it Horrifies His Heiress!!” I saw myself posing as the heroine of a sixth-rate dime novel; on whose pages alone, as I had always supposed, such experiences as this ever took place. It did not take three seconds for all this to flash through my brain and make the cold sweat stand out in drops upon my forehead.

Just then I heard a faint click, and summoning courage to look into the drawing-room, what was my unutterable relief to find the room empty. Thewretch had vanished. To tell the truth, at that juncture I came about as near verifying the doctor’s prediction in regard to hysterics as I ever did in my life.

Now for the sequel. This afternoon I received the following note, which I inclose for your benefit.

Miss Brewster.

Madam,—John I. Carrigain, alias Court Peperino, alias Dr. Kametski, alias Manuel Altiova, aged thirty-four years and seven months, was born in Manchester, England, of an English father and Portuguese mother, received a good education, was arrested for forgery at the age of nineteen, served out a sentence of five years, and on release was sent to New York by a charitable agency. He was suspected of being accessory to one of the largest swindling operations ever undertaken in New York city, but as nothing could be proved, he was released from custody and began operations in Chicago, obtaining money under various false pretences. At first he met with great success, but was finally convicted and sentenced to six years in the state prison. He was released from Joliet six months ago, but, until your communication last night, had not been known to be in New York. A person answering his description was seen to take the northern express last evening with a ticket for some point in Canada. The man is a clever forger, and it would require an expert to detect his work. It has been ascertained that Carrigain was assistantclerk for Mr. Dunreath for a few months seven years ago, which accounts for some of his information regarding the habits of that gentleman; and as for the handwriting and the South American details, he is quite clever enough to have worked those carefully up in the last few weeks.

It is needless to say that his career will henceforth be closely watched.

Yours respectfully,J. Allison,Pinkerton Detective.

Yours respectfully,

J. Allison,

Pinkerton Detective.

By the way, Alice, I am having my portrait painted, full-length, in a blue velvet tea gown. I give a sitting every other afternoon, and on alternate days visit tenement houses, industrial schools, and Castle Garden. I saw two thousand filthy Italians of the lowest kind land yesterday.

I have just come home from a tour through the Mulberry Bend where these creatures herd together. I felt as if I were in Naples again. I thought some parts of Boston were bad enough, but I never saw anything on this side of the water equal to the horrible squalor and loathsomeness of these places.

I mean to take all your good advice about being calm, and trying not to feel that it devolves upon me to settle all our social problems this month. I know even better than you the complexity of the difficulties in our congested city life. I have little hope of doing much for this generation of pauperism and vice, but I am determined to do whatevermy money and good will can do for laying the foundation of better things in the generation to come.

I am going to begin with tenement houses, for there, I believe, lies the root of half of the trouble. I suppose my friends will think that I am getting to be a dreadful doctrinaire. Well, it can’t be helped. I was predestined for that, I believe. My consolation is that you at least will not be bored by all my plans and theories, and will warn me if I get too rabid....

Back to Index Next