PRELUDE.THREE PICTURES.
Picture number one shows us a young man of about twenty-eight years standing on the veranda of a fine country residence that rises out of the midst of spacious and well-kept grounds, while stretching out and around on every hand are many broad acres of carefully tilled fields of grain, luxuriant waving grass, and, in the distance, a belt of woodland.
Behind the mansion are roomy and substantial barns and outhouses for various purposes, all in perfect repair and telling of comfortable quarters for horses, cows, and other kinds of stock. It is, in fact, a thrifty and ideal New England farm, and a home of which any man might reasonably feel proud.
But the young man standing upon the broad veranda has at this moment no thought of his prospective inheritance. His form is as rigid as that of a statue; his face is set and colorless; his eyes wide and staring and full of hopeless wretchedness, as they scan the letter which he is holding in his hand. The missive had been brought to him a few moments previous bythe hired man who had just returned from the village post-office, and who had shot a sly glance and smile up at his young master, to indicate that he had not been unmindful of the delicate and flowing handwriting in which it had been addressed, that had caused such a glad light to leap into the eyes of the recipient and made him blush like a girl as he tore it eagerly open.
Let us read the lines which occasioned such a sudden transformation, blotting out the love-light from his eyes, burning to ashes all the tenderness in his nature and writing hard and cruel lines upon his face:
“Alfred: I know that you can never forgive me the wrong I am doing you, but, too late, I have learned that I love another and not you. When you receive this I shall be the wife of that other—you well know who. I wish I could have saved you this blow, so near the day that was set for our wedding; but I should have doubly wronged you had I remained and fulfilled my pledge to you with my heart irrevocably given elsewhere. Forget and forgive if you can.“T. A.”
“Alfred: I know that you can never forgive me the wrong I am doing you, but, too late, I have learned that I love another and not you. When you receive this I shall be the wife of that other—you well know who. I wish I could have saved you this blow, so near the day that was set for our wedding; but I should have doubly wronged you had I remained and fulfilled my pledge to you with my heart irrevocably given elsewhere. Forget and forgive if you can.
“T. A.”
“My God! and she was to have been my wife one month from to-day!” bursts from the white lips of the reader as he finishes perusing the above for the second time.
He sways dizzily, then staggers toward one of the massive pillars that support the roof of the piazza, and leans against it, too weak from the terrible shock he has received to stand alone; and there he remains, staring sightlessly before him, oblivious to everything save hisown misery, until an elderly gentle-faced woman comes to the door and says:
“Alfred, supper is ready.”
The man starts, stands erect, his brows contracted, his lips set in a white line of determination. He deliberately folds the letter, returns it to its envelope, and slips it into an inner pocket. As he crushes it down out of sight a look of hate sweeps over his face and blazes in his eyes.
Then he turns and follows the woman into the house.
Picture number two was sketched more than two years later, and shows a small, meagerly furnished room, in an humble tenement, located in a narrow street of a great Western city. It has only one occupant—a young and attractive woman, who is sitting before a fire in an open grate, for it is a chill November night.
Her face is stained with weeping; her eyes are red and swollen; great heart-rending sobs burst from her every now and then, and she is trembling from head to foot.
As in the first picture, there is a letter. She holds it in her hands, upon her lap, and she has crumpled it with her fingers, which are twitching nervously, causing the paper to rattle in her grasp.
“Merciful Heaven! can it be true?” she breathes, between her quivering lips. “I cannot, will not believe a human being could be so heartless, so lost to all honor and manliness.”
She raises the missive, spreads it out before her, andreads it through again, although every word was already seared, as with a hot iron, upon her brain. It was brief, cold, and fiendishly cruel. It was addressed to no one, and was also without signature.
“I’m off,” it began. “There is no use in longer trying to conceal the fact that I am tired of the continual grind of the last two years. It was a great mistake that we ever married, and I may as well confess what you have already surmised—that I never really loved you. Why did I marry you, then? Well, you know that I never could endure to be balked in anything, and as I had made up my mind to cut a certain person out, I was bound to carry my point. You know whom I mean, and that he and I were always at cross-purposes. The best thing you can do will be to go back to your own people—tell whatever story you choose about me. I shall never take the trouble to refute it, neither will I ever annoy you in any way. Get a divorce if you want one. I will not oppose it; as I said before, I am tired of the infernal grind and bound to get out of it. I’ll go my way, and you may go yours; but don’t attempt to find or follow me, for I won’t be hampered by any responsibilities in the future.”
“I’m off,” it began. “There is no use in longer trying to conceal the fact that I am tired of the continual grind of the last two years. It was a great mistake that we ever married, and I may as well confess what you have already surmised—that I never really loved you. Why did I marry you, then? Well, you know that I never could endure to be balked in anything, and as I had made up my mind to cut a certain person out, I was bound to carry my point. You know whom I mean, and that he and I were always at cross-purposes. The best thing you can do will be to go back to your own people—tell whatever story you choose about me. I shall never take the trouble to refute it, neither will I ever annoy you in any way. Get a divorce if you want one. I will not oppose it; as I said before, I am tired of the infernal grind and bound to get out of it. I’ll go my way, and you may go yours; but don’t attempt to find or follow me, for I won’t be hampered by any responsibilities in the future.”
The woman fell into deep thought after this last perusal of the letter, and she sat more than an hour gazing into the fire, scarcely moving during that time.
The cheap little clock on the mantel striking eight finally aroused her, and, with a long-drawn sigh, she arose, walked deliberately to the grate, laid the epistle on the coals and watched it while the flames devouredit, reducing it to ashes, which were finally whirled in tiny particles up the chimney by the draft.
“So that dream has vanished,” she murmured; “now I will come down to the practical realities of life. But, oh! what has the future for me?”
Picture number three is not unveiled until fourteen years later.
In a palatial residence on Nob Hill, in San Francisco, a distinguished-looking gentleman may be seen sitting in his luxurious library. Its walls are hung with an exquisite shade of old rose, the broad frieze representing garlands of flowers in old rose, gold, and white. The furniture is of solid mahogany, richly carved, upholstered in blue velvet and satins; costly draperies are at the windows; Turkish rugs of almost priceless value are strewn about the inlaid and highly polished floor, and statues, bric-a-brac, and fine pictures, gathered from many countries, are artistically arranged about the room.
The gentleman, who is in evening dress, excepting that he has on a smoking-jacket of rich black velvet, is lazily reclining in an adjustable chair, and engaged in cutting the leaves of one of the late magazines, while he smokes a cigar.
Presently the portieres of a doorway are swept aside, and a beautiful woman enters. She is in full evening dress, and clad like a princess in satin, of a deep shade of pink, brocaded with white. Diamonds encircle her white neck, gleam in her ears, and amid her nut-brown hair.
The gentleman turns to her, his face glowing with mingled pride and pleasure.
“Nell! what a vision of loveliness!” he exclaims, with an eager thrill in his tones.
She comes to him with a fond smile upon her lips, lays her fair arms around his neck, and kisses him.
“So much for your flattery,” she playfully responds.
“Ah, I am tempted to try for the same reward again,” he returns, in the same vein, as he captures one jeweled hand and lays it against his lips.
“But, dear, do you know how late it is getting to be?” questions the lady, as she glances at the gilded clock on the mantel.
“Well, I am all ready, except getting into my coat. Run away for your opera-cloak, and I will not be a minute behind you, though really, Nell, I am too comfortable to move,” concludes the man, in a regretful tone.
“Oh, you lazy, unappreciative fellow,” gaily retorts his companion. “Here one of the leaders in society is about to tender a brilliant reception to the distinguished mayor of the city, and he is so indifferent to the honor that he prefers to sit and smoke at home to receive the homage awaiting him. Come, sir; your wife is ambitious if you are not.”
She administers a playful box on his ear as she ceases, then trips away, while the gentleman watches her with a smile on his lips and his heart in his eyes.
He arises the instant she disappears, and is on the point of following her when his glance falls upon a paper which, until that moment, has lain unnoticedupon the table. He picks it up, and runs his eyes up and down its columns.
Suddenly a shock seems to go quivering through him, and every particle of color fades out of his face. He stands up as if transfixed for a full minute. Then the paper drops from his grasp.
“At last!” he mutters; “at last!”
He draws a long, deep breath, like one who, having been long oppressed, suddenly feels a weight removed. Then he throws back his shoulders and walks with a proudly uplifted head and elastic step from the room.