Part 8

I had been given an opportunity to review this international marriage exhaustively, and I decided that neither Hulda nor the “architect” were to blame. It was poverty that forced the girl to seek a husband in a foreign land, and it was an undeveloped sense of the artistic and romantical that lured the Vickingstadt from his proper sphere. Circumstances helped, as you will have perceived. Hulda’s one aim now was to have her husband dismissed from the service, so she wrote letters to Culebra accusing him of having starved her. He sent canceled checks to prove that he gave her more money than the average man gives his wife, and it became necessary for an inspector to investigate the affair for the good of every one. The latter was wise in his day and generation, and he reported to Culebra that Mrs. Brian McVickins did not love her husband. Two clerks had been kept busy attending to the contradictory reports of the pair, and, in order to lighten expenses for the Canal Commission, Brian McVickins was requested to resign.

About this time he came to me and informed me that he was the father of a little girl. “But, shure, ’tis pots and pans they threw at me whin I wint to see the little creature. May the Lord forgive them. The doctor tells me that she’s the dead spit of me, an’ ’tis take her away I would, only poor Hulda won’t have anything else to love after I’m gone.”

He spoke with that assurance with which married men are apt to speak when referring to their wives, and he appeared to think that I thought him much beloved by Hulda. He hated to acknowledge defeat in the game of love, because he possessed the vanity common to his sex. I made no comment, and he rambled on: “The law doesn’t expect me to do anything for her at all, at all, but I’ll always be after sindin’ a little money for the poor child, an’ ’tis glad I am that she looks like me, instead of like the Dutch, bad luck to them. It’s the Lord that will bless you for the kind words you said about the matter, and ’tis never a word you said against the poor, misguided gurl. The poor gurl ain’t been to blame at all, at all; ’twas the vanity of me in middle age wantin’ a young colleen with golden hair and a slim figure for a wife. May the Lord forgive me.”

With that, he thanked me for the counsel I had given him, which, as a matter of fact, he had never taken, and, after wringing my hand until it hurt, went his way with bowed head. Six months before, he was a dapper little man, with a quick, light step, and he did not look a day older than fifty, but now his eyes were sunken, his cheeks were wrinkled, and he had the general air of a man who was terribly tired. I have not heard from him since.

Soon after this, Hulda departed for the United States. Unaccompanied and carrying her baby and a suitcase, she walked up the steamer’s ladder with tired tread and an air that suggested trouble. Friends of her husband who stood upon the pier shook their heads and said sadly, “‘Tis a goldurned shame, for she shure was a good-looker when “Mickey” brought her down.”

Her eyes were now red and tired-looking, her cheeks were hollow and her mouth had the expression of bitterness that comes from disappointment. One might easily picture her looking for a cheap room and having the rooming-house women conjecture that she had never been married. She would look for work, too, and, notwithstanding her accomplishments, she would probably find it in some one’s kitchen. In her shabby maternity dress of cheap gingham she was a sorry contrast to the gay passengers who ran hither and thither, frantically waving farewells to their friends on the dock. She alone sat apart and hugged her child to her breast. “A tragic figure,” observed a man with a pitying smile. As the ship pulled out, a kindly sunbeam fell upon her, and for a moment lighted up the golden tints in her still beautiful hair.

GRAFT.

A few years ago, on one of the dingy streets of Panama, I occupied a room furnished with a canvas cot, a chair, a very shaky little table for the kerosene lamp, and a dry goods box, which I used for a desk. One day a young widowed friend, who was employed by the Canal Commission, called upon me and invited me to visit her. She lived in a beautiful house, with other female employees, some distance from the city. “I have a large room,” she said, “and if you can succeed in keeping the ‘gumshoe’ men from knowing that you are there, you will be able to save a great deal of money by it. Think of it! Fifty dollars in two months! You will be able to get that picture hat which you wanted so badly, and we shall be glad to have you with us.”

After giving the matter some serious thought I decided to accept the invitation of my kind-hearted friend, the young widow. The inmates of the house consisted of five young girls, my friend, the young widow; a still younger widow, and a widow by courtesy. I was assigned to a small bed in a corner of the widow’s room, and warned by all to ’ware the “gumshoes.” The local sleuth was described to me circumstantially, and I was enjoined to explain my presence--should such a person come prowling around--by pretending that I was a seamstress.

Except for the fear of the above-mentioned gentleman, my life at this time was very peaceful. The atmosphere of the house was almost heavenly, the ladies appearing to live in the utmost amity--until the arrival of the man--not the “gumshoe,” but one from Rockland, Maine, named Luther M. Pettingill, called “Pet” for short. He came to court the fairest of the younger girls, Adelaide, who could cook fish-cakes a la Bangor, and other Down East delicacies in a way calculated to touch the toughest Yankee heart. Though “Pet” was not handsome, Adelaide grew to be very fond of him, and in time she announced that they were engaged. This announcement took, the household rather by surprise, naturally, and one night while the lovers were out riding the matter was discussed at length in the widow’s room. It then first became apparent to me that “Pet’s” visits--who came morning, noon and night--were not greatly relished by the other girls. It appeared that he came around early, not only to eat breakfast, but to help prepare it. Before his advent, Sunday morning was a time of delightful relaxation, when the ladies would sit around in their kimonos and “just talk.” Every one helped in the preparation of the breakfast and indulged in pleasantries while they worked, which greatly lightened the labor. Now, all this was changed. The table in the dining-room (fixed up with the widow’s things) would be spread for Adelaide and her lover, and they sat long over the fish-cakes and beans, while we waited on the veranda like “hired help.” They would talk at great length of the folks “down our way”; of “Pet’s” Uncle Henry; of old Cap’n Eli; of the “Grange,” and many other thrilling topics, to say nothing of Aunt Patience, who, it seemed, had taken Mr. Pettingill when he was a cute little darling and had raised him to man’s estate. It appeared as though the lovers were absolutely unconscious of the fact that eight half-starved females were waiting to break their fast.

I tried my best to smooth things over; for, on account of my own peculiar position in the household, I had a fellow-feeling for “Pet.” Some of the younger girls proposed going to the Quartermaster and demanding that Mr. P. be requested, through his chief, to discontinue his visits to the house. But the others did not approve of this course, because there were other beaux who came and went at reasonable hours, and who might cease their visits altogether on account of the utter tactlessness of Mr. Pettingill. So, it was decided to suffer in silence. This pleased me immensely, as my graft from the taxpayers of the U. S. A. would most likely end if an investigation was made into the affairs of that household. Then, too, there were casual escorts to Saturday-night dances, who also might be affected if an inquiry was called for.

Meanwhile Adelaide continued to produce her culinary masterpieces, with the able assistance of “Pet,” who waxed fatter and merrier, happily unconscious of the storm that was brewing. Adelaide had now engaged the services of a young female from Jamaica who, in appropriate livery, held sway in the kitchen, almost to the exclusion of all others. Gwendoline (for that was her name) waited upon the lovers in the most approved fashion, while we--when we were given the chance--waited upon ourselves in a way that was truly Bohemian. In procession, we conveyed the various dishes to the table, and between courses we laid the plates on the crex-covered floor. Gradually my fear of detection wore away, as the time approached when I was to realize my dream of a picture hat.

On the last Monday of my stay with the young ladies my hat was brought home. This day also marked a radical change in the affairs of the household, “graft,” and in Mr. Pettingill, who was obliged to seek a new course of diet among his less favored bachelor acquaintances. On this morning the girls went about their business as usual. “Pet” had breakfasted, as was his wont, and had departed whistling, as his digestion was good and his heart light in consequence. I spent some time “trying on” the hat, and, naturally, failed to observe the doings of Gwendoline, until at almost eleven o’clock I noticed that the clothes-lines were filled to overflowing with snow-white garments. I noted some dainty lingerie dresses, but I was too busy with my own thoughts to take particular interest in a mere clothes-line. Soon, however, I was startled by my friend, the young widow, who burst into the room like a cyclone. She threw herself upon the couch and burst into tears.

“What is the matter?” I asked in bewilderment.

“Why, we’re the laughing stock of the whole town,” she replied. “Those men over there in the bachelor quarters are laughing to kill themselves, and making all kinds of jokes at our expense. Adelaide is an awful girl to bring this ridicule upon us.”

Just then the young widow and two of the girls burst in. “Isn’t that a disgraceful exhibition?” questioned one of them. “Why, one of those awful men asked me who owned them, and then all the others laughed. I’m ashamed to pass by them on the way to the office this afternoon.”

Having now a hint at the cause of the tempest, I took a good look through the window at the clothes-line--and, lo! there burst upon my view an array of faded khaki trousers, gingham shirts and balbriggan undergarments--all in an advanced state of patches--merrily dancing to the light tropical zephyrs which filled them and caused them to act in quite a human manner.

“Did you ever see anything so disgusting?” asked the young widow. Of course, I tried to make light, and suggested to the ladies a picture of Aunt Patience patiently patching the offensive garments, but they shook their heads in disgust and chided me for my levity. Adelaide was called in and requested to take the horrid things from the line. She listened to what the ladies had to say, and then, without replying, turned to leave the room.

“If the clothing was not so terribly patched it would not seem so vulgar,” said one of the girls.

“I cannot imagine anyone of refinement caring for a man who could wear such rags,” said the younger widow. “My husband never wore anything but silk.”

Adelaide heard the comments in silence and quietly left the room.

“I am going to complain about this,” said the young widow.

“You had better use the telephone,” said some one. “You can say more that way.”

She dashed down to the telephone and the following dialogue took place, afterward repeated to me by a friend:

Widow--“Hello! Is this the Quartermaster?”

Q. M.--“Yes. What can I do for you?”

Widow--“Please send a man over to take the clothes in.”

Q. M. (stuttering)--“Wha-at?--what’s the matter with the clothes?”

Widow?--“Just take a look at the line--LOOK at it.”

Q. M. (after a pause)--“I don’t see anything wrong with it--it looks good to me.”

Widow--“Heavens! But look at those awful clothes on the line, will you?”

Q. M.--“There DOES seem to be a discordant note in that line, but I can do nothing for you. If I were seen monkeying around that finery I might be deported.”

Widow--“Well, you needn’t make fun of me.”

Q. M.--“I would like to oblige you, but I cannot meddle with such matters.”

Widow--“Well, perhaps you can tell me this: Have such clothes any right on our line?”

Q. M.--“Certainly not. They look terribly out of place, as the house is a home for young lady employees and charming widows like yourself.”

Now, this was more than the widow could stand, and, hanging up the receiver, she rushed back to us with many complaints of the Q. M.’s discourtesy.

“We’ll take it up with Culebra,” chorused the girls, whereupon I proceeded to pack my suitcase, thinking the time propitious for my departure. But, too late. The news of the flutter in the dovecote had already reached the ears of a certain vigilant person, whose business it was to report on and to adjust all matters of such weighty importance. This gentleman now appeared before us and gravely proceeded to question each one in turn. His manner was solemn and ponderous, as to almost make us fancy ourselves on the witness stand in a murder trial. Adelaide, the offending one, was questioned last, and, strange to say, culprit though she was, bore the inquisition with less embarrassment than any of the others, fortified, perhaps, by the knowledge of the steadfast affection of the husky Mr. Pettingill. At any rate, she came through the ordeal with much credit to herself, without adding any laurels to the brow of her inquisitor.

“Pending the verdict of Culebra,” he said pompously, as he finished his notes, “I would suggest that the gentleman cease his visits for a while.” He also suggested that the clothes be removed from the line. This was done immediately by Gwendoline, amidst the jeers of the bachelors next door. After these directions were given he stalked out with measured, judicial tread, and a sigh of relief went up as the door closed behind him.

At six o’clock that night I came away with a deep feeling of regret. As I was riding to the station I observed the disconsolate form of “Pet” seated upon the steps of his quarters, with his face buried in his hands, the setting sun forming a lustrous halo about his bowed head, while faintly on the evening air was wafted o’er him, unnoticed, the distant rattle of the knives and plates of the I. C. C. Hotel.

THE STORY OF VERE DE VERE.

We know not in our poor philosophy what hidden chords are touched by unseen hands.

More than a hundred years ago there lived in the Sunny South a handsome cavalier, who was noted for his riches, daring and cruelty. It is recorded that, whenever a man opposed him, he coolly ran him through with his broadsword; and whenever a female repulsed him he disgraced her, if he had an opportunity, or else some one who was near and dear to her.

The greatest artist of his time painted his portrait, and it hangs to-day in one of the public institutions of his native State. Tradition has it that he once killed a gypsy lad who happened to win the love of a young gypsy girl with whom he imagined himself to be in love, and that a gypsy woman cursed him for the deed and wrote his horoscope with the blood of the murdered youth as follows: “That his line would cease with one girl, who would live long enough to disgrace his name; that many years of her life would be spent in a vile prison among negroes in a foreign land for a crime like the one he had then committed.”

This view behind the curtain seems to have had a strong effect upon the cruel cavalier, for he decided to marry and settle down like the people around him. His wife was a woman of gentle character, and her influence wrought a great change in the morals of her husband, for it was said that he became quite religious, and, when a little girl was born to him, with many tears and prayers he dedicated the child to God.

Meantime the years rolled on. The cavalier died, and, as daughter after daughter was born of his line, his name became extinct. Then, too, poverty, the great leveler, had come upon the family. His portrait, his signature to a famous document, and the tale of the gypsy’s curse were all that remained of the cavalier. Those who watched for the fulfillment of the curse died and were forgotten; and at last a daughter was born, fifth in line from him. Her mother departed this world at her birth; her father, some months later, and it devolved upon the neighbors to care for the orphaned child. As she grew to womanhood people remarked that she bore a strong resemblance to the portrait of her great-grandfather on her mother’s side, and by a special act of the Legislature she was given his name.

At 17, being pretty, gracious, sensible and womanly, with a genius for music, a great future was predicted for her; but, in the parlance of the day, “she went wrong.” Her betrayer was the son of one of the most opulent families in the State, and, at his mother’s request, the girl was sent to a distant Southern city. Here, after a few months, necessity compelled her to take up a residence in the underworld, and the friends of her childhood thenceforth knew her no more. She had been the ward of every one at home, and was, therefore, the ward of no one; and her disappearance was only a nine days’ wonder.

In spite of her degraded calling, men admired her, and, because of a certain haughtiness in her bearing toward them, she was called “Vere de Vere,” and it was known that she was sought with honest intention by men who declared that they loved her for her womanliness and the music of her laugh. The creatures of the world stood in awe of her, because of her dignity, and they feared her because of her violent temper. So, she lived her scarlet life, apparently without regret, until one day an old man from her native State happened in and amused his listeners by telling weird stories which, he said, had been told him by his grandmother. He related the story of Vere de Vere’s ancestor, without knowing that one of his listeners was the only person upon whom the curse might fall. Nor did he know that when Vere de Vere fainted he had touched a chord of sensibility rarely found in the nature of women of her sort.

On the morning of the following day Vere de Vere told her associates that she desired to go to work and earn an honest living. “This is not the right life for me,” said she to her incredulous auditors. “I was born to a higher life. I shall be good; I shall marry, and I shall have children,” with which announcement she left them, to begin life anew.

How fresh and beautiful the morning seemed to her as she hurried toward a park! What do you know of fresh, green, delightful mornings? she said to herself as she sat down and took a deep breath. A bird twittering in a branch above her head, and a pair of squirrels playing in the grass beside her, made her smile and forget. A man in passing leered at her and attempted to speak, but she checked him abruptly with the information that he had made a mistake. “I shall wear black for a time,” she thought. Then she began to wonder what she could do. She could sew beautifully. A light came into her eyes at the thought of the creations that she had designed for her underworld revels. She could embroider, paint china and play the violin.

She bought a newspaper and looked through the list of advertisements. The following attracted her attention:

“WANTED--A lady violinist and seven other lady musicians to make up a lady orchestra for a first-class hotel in Panama.”

Her heart leaped for joy. “This is my chance. I shall go to Panama. It is far away, and no one will recognize me there,” said the poor girl as she hastened to answer the advertisement.

At noon on the following day she was standing on the ship’s deck on her way to Colon, and as New Orleans receded from view her lips moved in prayer; she was asking God to give her strength to lead a better life.

The man who had engaged her had complimented her upon her skill at playing. “You may not like Panama,” said he, “for the life down there is rough, and I see you are a lady.”

In a few days she was walking the streets of Colon in glorious freedom. Men eyed her furtively from some safe retreat, but no one ventured to accost her. There was no one to lift an eyebrow or to give a scornful glance. “Safe, thank God!” she said. “I shall not be the victim of that curse.” She was thinking of what she should wear that night. A simple white muslin dress; a white rose in her hair. No paint, no jewelry, no more bright colors. “I shall save my money and buy a little home,” she thought.

“It is time to dress,” said one of her girl friends, breaking in upon her reverie. “We are to go to the hotel at seven.” But it was not an hotel--it was a barroom where employes of the Canal Commission and the riff-raff of God’s great universe assembled nightly to drink to excess and discuss the slanderous gossip of the Isthmus.

When Vere de Vere arrived at the entrance she faltered and refused to go in. “It is a low barroom,” said she to her companions, “and there are drunkards inside who will say vile things to us.”

“But we must play there, or else we won’t be able to live,” said one of the girls.

So they walked in, single file, through the rows of leering men, leaving the frightened girl on the sidewalk.

“Aw, come on in, kid,” said the manager, whose name was “Blinkey.” “This is an all-right place; the best in town. There ain’t no first-class hotels in this God-forsaken place. What ’ud support ’em? Not the I. C. C. roughnecks an’ P. R. R. pen-pushers. Not on your life, kid. Why did I say that the place was a first-class hotel? Because I’m a liar, of course. Come on in.”

“I want to live a good life,” replied the girl, with the calmness of despair in her voice.

“Well, that’s up to you, my girl. I ain’t askin’ you not to lead a good life. You can be as good as Saint Cecelia an’ play here every night. The better you are, the greater attraction you’ll be for this joint, for good ladies are doggoned scarce on the Isthmus. I’ll tell the boys all about you, an’ when I get through I bet you they’ll respect you. You must play that ‘Good Night’ solo when you see that they’re about half-shot. Come on in; I’ll lead you. My! you are shiverin’ an’ your hand is as cold as ice. You bet the boys’ll know when they see a real lady. You look like a little girl in that simple white dress.”

So she allowed “Blinkey” to lead her by the hand into the reeking barroom, and onto the balcony, where her girl companions awaited her. Then the manager announced, in the unmistakable voice of the professional barker: “Gen-tle-men: I wish to introduce to your favorable notice Miss Merriam Leigh, the famous violinist. She has medals which were presented to her by the Emperors of Germany, Austria and Japan; medals that are worth a fortune, and the little lady is too modest to wear ’em. This is the lady who entranced with her violin solos the late King Edward the Seventh, and made him exclaim, a few moments before he died, ‘To endow with such genius a poor human being, there must be a God!’ I presume you have all read of the rope of pearls that he gave to this little lady before he died; an account of ’em was in all the papers. I presume you all read about when Queen Alexandra wanted to keep her in her household to play for her in her widowhood. This is the modest little lady who comes here to-night to let the P. R. R.’s and the I. C. C.’s hear her play. You can see that she’s a lady. Treat her as such.”

“Come forward, now,” said “Blinkey,” in an aside that only the girl could hear, “and bow to the blokes while there’s a sentimental fit on ’em, an’ you’ll be a darned sight safer here than you’d have been in old King Eddie’s quarters.”