TALE THIRTEEN.NOT GUILTY.
“I have so loved thee, but cannot, cannot hold thee,Fading like a dream, the shadows fold thee;Slowly thy perfect beauty fades away,Good-bye, sweet day; good-bye, sweet day.”
“I have so loved thee, but cannot, cannot hold thee,Fading like a dream, the shadows fold thee;Slowly thy perfect beauty fades away,Good-bye, sweet day; good-bye, sweet day.”
“I have so loved thee, but cannot, cannot hold thee,Fading like a dream, the shadows fold thee;Slowly thy perfect beauty fades away,Good-bye, sweet day; good-bye, sweet day.”
“I have so loved thee, but cannot, cannot hold thee,
Fading like a dream, the shadows fold thee;
Slowly thy perfect beauty fades away,
Good-bye, sweet day; good-bye, sweet day.”
I stood outside and listened. The silvery, sweet tones of the singer rose clear above the soft guitar accompaniment. As the last words died away on the stillness of the evening air, I rang the bell. It seemed almost sacrilege to break in on her quiet enjoyment, although I knew she must soon be expecting me. She responded to the summons at the door herself. Of medium height, with beautiful, sloping shoulders, a tiny waist and perfectly moulded hips, she would have inspired an artist. Her hair was prematurely gray, and dressed low on her neck. Her face was almost perfect in feature and the only traces of sorrow time had left visible were the gray hairs and lines about the slightly drooping mouth. It was the heart which bore the scars of agony, invisible to all but her and her God. She had passed through the fire and had come forth purer, fairer, sweeter, more charitable, more forgiving, better fitted to cope with the world.
This was the woman as I knew her now, and had known her for the past year. She was to be married on the morrow (lucky man), and had promised to tell me her life’s story before she married.
“For I shall want to forget all that sad past after the last day of this life, for tomorrow, I trust, a new era shall have dawned for me,” she said, when she gave me her promise.
When I heard her singing I wondered if she longed, yet feared, the new life, and if she wished to hold the day yet a little longer, which she had evidently given over to reminiscences, for I knew the past held some sweet memories, for every past has them, no matter how bitter it has been. And those sweet memories seem the brighter for their setting of darkness.
“I have been thinking of my past life all day,” she said, after we were seated, “and you know when one indulges in such a review a thousand things recur to one’s mind which are really irrelevant to the real story, yet they all combine to make up one’s life, and may have some bearing on the case after all.”
She was silent a long time, looking out into the twilight with unseeing eyes.
“You know I was accused of murder,” she said, abruptly. “I was tried and acquitted owing to insufficient evidence.”
“Yes, I remember something about it.”
“Five years ago, when I was nineteen, I married a man who was twenty years my senior. I met him out west while I was visiting there. He was a miner then, not actively engaged in digging the gold out of mother earth, nor panning it, but he was on the ground and superintended the work. He was a handsome man, although bronzed by exposure to the sun and wind; a Yale graduate, and every inch a gentleman, although thoroughly a man of the world. Tosentimental nineteen, he had all the qualifications of a god, and although he was not the only one in Colorado Springs who was attentive to me, he was the one altogether lovely in my eyes. To be Mrs. Chauncey M. Dare was the height of my girlish ambition, and I used to write my name ‘Lucile Dare’ just to see how it would look on paper, and all this was before he had asked me to take his name.
“My auntie, who was a wealthy widow, thoroughly approved of him and thought him a most eligible parti. He was reputed wealthy and, as Auntie said, he was old enough to be staid in his ways. I am sure she had my best interests at heart, but it seems strange to me now that she did not realize that he was too many years my senior and also that she did not deem it necessary to look into his antecedents. But if she had, she might not have found out, and I suppose I should not have this story to tell, and perhaps, too, I should have always been a careless child, with no thought for the comfort and welfare of others.
“Well, we were married on the fifteenth of October and took apartments at The Arlington, instead of going to housekeeping, because he said he did not expect to remain there long, and it was an easy matter to pack and leave the hotel.
“It was his desire to go back to New York City and show his ‘girl bride,’ as he called me, to all his friends and have a taste of real life.
“He met the highest ideal of all my girlish fancies, and was as tender a husband as he was a lover.
“After we had been married six months he came home one night and said, ‘Hurrah, babe, we are goingeast in a fortnight, thank God, so get your duds packed and be ready.’
“I was glad to make the change, too, for youth loves a change, and I was delighted at the prospect of going to New York, for I had never been further east than Chicago.
“We went at the end of the two weeks. I was received with open arms by all his friends in the east and I thought myself the happiest girl in the world, for he seemed so proud of me. I know now it was not the right kind of pride. He was not proud of me for my goodness and purity, it was rather the pride in the possession of some coveted article, for I was conceded to be beautiful then, and I suppose my figure was good. His was not a nature capable of appreciating nobility of character.
“He took a house there, and we entertained a great deal and on a large scale. I think I might say I was a favorite in his set, but what does all that amount to? His was a fickle nature and when he thought he had fathomed mine, when he thought he knew me in the perfection of every art I possessed, he began to weary. I did not know it at the time, I knew something had caused a change, but always attributed it to business cares. He began by neglecting me occasionally; from that it grew to continuous neglect, even to the point of ignoring my existence altogether.
“Endowed by nature with a cheerful disposition, my volatile spirits were continually on the rebound and even his gross neglect I did not feel deeply until it was brought home to me very forcibly after a year’s time.
“It was by one of his best friends, although many years his junior. He had long treated me with a great deal of consideration, but I never felt it was more than the ordinary courtesy that one friend would show to the wife of another until that night.
“We had been dancing together and he took me to the conservatory to rest and sat down beside me to talk. Perhaps I was unusually tired that night, or perhaps, owing to the round of gayety, I looked worn. At any rate Mr. Mansfield leaned over me with an air of anxiety and said, ‘Lucile, are you sure you are quite well tonight?’
“‘Why, yes, of course I am,’ I responded, laughingly. ‘Why?’
“‘You look thoroughly disconsolate tonight. Are you worrying about something? About—about Chauncey and his doings?’
“‘About Chauncey and his doings? Why, what do you mean? Why should I? He is perfectly well, isn’t he?’
“‘Yes, his physical health is good, but you surely know that he is drinking hard, and his neglect of you is occasioning a great deal of comment. It isn’t right, and we all feel it.’
“‘Why, I hadn’t thought about it,’ I said, ‘only that he was very busy.’
“‘Do you mean to say you don’t know the way he has been doing. Why, I could take you to him this very minute.’
“My face burned, my heart began to throb violently. Tears of anger slowly welled up and overflowed my eyes. And yet I really could not comprehend it all.
“‘You must be mistaken, Horace. Surely Chauncey loves me still. We have never had any cross words or misunderstandings.’
“It may have been pique at my incredulity that made him say suddenly, ‘Lucile, come with me. Get your wraps and come, and put on a heavy veil. I will show you.’
“Mechanically I obeyed him. We entered his carriage together and drove, miles and miles, it seemed to me. I was very nervous and trembled violently. Horace tried to reassure me and stroked my hand tenderly.
“‘Brace up, little girl,’ he said; ‘you need all your strength for the ordeal before you. Perhaps I have done wrong to tell you this or to take you where you can see it, but you are too young, too good to be treated in this manner and you ought to see for yourself the depth of his depravity.’
“‘Do you think I will be any happier for being disillusioned?’ I asked. ‘Would it not have been better for me to have gone on blindly trusting? Oh, why did you tell me, why did I come, anyway?’
“‘If you wish to, we will return at once.’
“‘No, I must see it through to the bitter end. I could never be happy again now, knowing even as much as I do.’
“We drew up in front of a large house ablaze with light. We alighted, rang the bell, and were ushered into a sumptuously furnished parlor. Everything that was picturesque met the eye. Beautiful pictures and statues, elegant furniture and beautiful women, elaborately attired, and behind the palms in the cornerwas an orchestra. Everything combined to make the scene enchanting. I clung bewildered to Horace’s arm.
“He led me to a small room off a large salon, where there were many tables. It was a scene of wild revelry, wine flowed freely and the air was heavy with the odor of many flowers. Horace pointed out a table near the center of the room. Seated at this table were two women and a man. The women were horribly made up and gowned in extreme decollete gowns, only fit for the most formal affair, and were laughing boisterously at something.
“When the man turned his head I recognized my husband, and as I gazed he placed his hand on the exposed chest of one of his blasé companions, and patted it just as he had mine a thousand times when we first married. The spectacle was too revolting for words. I gave a slight scream. But Horace had anticipated some such occurrence and pressed my face against his broad shoulder. When I had partially recovered my normal condition we left. Back home—yes, now a home no longer! Back to the place where I had known so many happy days. Horace bade me good-night in the reception hall.
“‘Lucile,’ said he, ‘you don’t know how sorry I am to have been the one to change the whole tenor of your life, but it was more honorable in me, was it not, than to maintain silence?’
“‘Yes,’ I said, calmly.
“I went into the library and took a new magazine from the table, sat down and waited. Two o’clock, three o’clock, four o’clock and still no Chauncey. Myeyes were glued to the clock; 4:15 and I heard a step. I half rose in my nervous expectancy and was appalled to see an arm uplifted over me as to strike. I threw up my right hand, which held the paper knife, to ward off the blow which seemed imminent.
“When I returned to consciousness I was lying on a couch by the window, my head was dizzy and the room was filled with imaginary voices. I wondered where I could be; then the occurrences of the previous night passed before me in rapid succession. I jumped up and the sight which met my eyes froze the blood in my veins.
“There weltering in his own life blood, with the steel paper knife buried in his throat, lay Horace.
“Words cannot express the agony of the hours that followed. I managed to arouse the servants and they called the police. They asked me to explain, but they could not get a satisfactory explanation from me. I did not know how it all happened and I was mentally incapable of doing myself justice in telling what I knew. My account was so confused that I was remanded to jail without bail, pending my trial. Oh, those awful days! Not a friend came to see me. While I was living in affluence I had scores of friends, but now that I was in trouble and disgrace there was not one of all the number that would take me by the hand.”
“But where was your husband all this time?”
“Yes, you may well ask.
“When they questioned him as to his whereaboutson that night, he proved an alibi. He gave a detailed account of his doings every hour of that night and, while it did not redound to his credit, it saved him from the penitentiary, and nearly sent me there.
“There were three reasons why I was cleared. Firstly, they could prove no motive for the act; secondly, it seemed impossible for a woman to strike such a powerful blow; and last, but not least, the efficiency of my counsel.
“He was an entire stranger to me. He had read the newspaper accounts of the affair, which stated, among other things, that I had no counsel, and his sympathies were aroused. He took up my case with no prospect of compensation.”
“But, tell me, what became of your husband and who killed Horace?”
“That mystery was not solved until six months ago. I had come to Chicago after the trial was over to get away from all the old environments and the old scenes, in the most miserable health. I found employment here and as soon as my mind became occupied with other things I began to recover. One day I received a telegram which had been forwarded from place to place in search of me. It came from my husband’s physician, and told me to come at once, as Chauncey was dying, and it was his last request that they find me and bring me there at any cost. I went and he confessed before witnesses that he was guilty of the crime for which I had been arrested.
“It seems that Horace never left the house that night, fearing, I suppose, that I might do myself some injury. He saw Chauncey come in intoxicated, andfearing he might do me bodily harm he ran in to warn me. It must have been his raised arm, silently motioning me to fly, which I, in my dazed condition, mistook for Chauncey, and in fear threw up my arm for protection, then fainted. Chauncey staggered in and the sight of Horace there with me so angered him that he picked up the first thing he could lay his hands on, which chanced to be the paper knife, and in his drunken rage he killed him.
“The sight of his crime sobered him and self-protection was his first thought. He placed me on the couch, never stopping to revive me, and fled, leaving me to my fate.
“Ah, well,” she shuddered, “it is all over now. He died repentant in my arms, begging me to forgive him with his last breath.
“Tomorrow I marry Mr. Graves, the attorney who defended me, and God grant that I may be happy. I shall try to deserve it.”
“Amen,” said I.