Democratic Sentinel, Volume 5, Number 41, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 18 November 1881 — NELLIE'S STORY. [ARTICLE]

NELLIE'S STORY.

“Is the bona fide New Yorker evei tired, or sick, or sorry ? Does he evei stop ? ” So I used to ask my sister Alice, day after day, as we took our drive to the park, or sat at our window in the hotel, where, in truth, I spent the greater pari of my time, idly watching that busy, restless, ever-increasing, ever-changing crowd, that surges throagh the greai city like a mightv wave, seeming to engulf and hurry all before it. “They tire me so, these people. Where do they come from, and where can they all be going ? And don’t you suppose that among them all there must be a few we should like to know ?”

“ Very probably,” replied Alice, laughing, ‘‘but how are we to impress those few with a wish to know us ? Are •we to send an advertisement to the daily papers stating that ‘ Two ladies, possessing many agreeable qualities, but very few acquaintances, would like to enlarge their circle, and will receive applicants (who must bring undoubted references as to character and position) at such and such a time ?’ No, Nellie, that would hardly do. How shall we accomplish it? I am quite ready; tc tell the truth, this hermit life begins tc worry me just a little. I have yielded to your wish to be in perfect seclusion ; but I can see that the inspiriting atmosShere of New York has done you good, [ellie, dear, in spite of yourself, and now the sooner we come out of our shell the better. Lot us look around the hotel, though we should never have the courage to make any advances to strangers, even if attracted by their appearance, and, on the whole, I think the matter will regulate itself. We have been ‘alone in crowd’ long enough, now, and I want to see my Nellie in her proper sphere once more. ** And then we wandered off into a discussion, or rather a long rambling chat, about tho kind of people we should really like to have. The daylight died away, and we looked out at the beautiful city “under the gaslight,” and speculated afresh on the probable destinies of the crowd still tramping under our windows, and with the evening papers and our many beloved books we ended the day. Ours was a strange position. We were both comparatively young. Alice was now 25, and I two years younger. Without being by any means regular beauties, we were sufficiently good looking to have been known in our native town, away”down among the Hampshire hills, as “Ihe pretty Langdon girls.” We were thoroughly well educated. Had more money than we knew what to do with, and were absolutely alone in the world—our parents and only brother had died some years before the time of which lam writing, and Alice was a widow. Poor child I Her story is brief and sad enough. The man she loved and married at 18, 1 proved in every way unworthy, and for three miserable years her young life was a burden to herself and a cause of ceaseless sorrow to me who watched her lovingly, but who was powerless to help or comfort in such a i grief as this. At the end of three years she was released. A fall from his horse, while riding home in a state of intoxication, caused the almost instant death of her husband. After this Alice was anxious to leave the oldTiouse, where there were so many sad associations; where we had been happy children, and desolate orphans, ana where my darling Alice had tasted a bitterness worse than orphanage. But where should we go? It was at the close of Our short New England summer, that we held many a consultation as to where we should pitch our tent Tome it was a matter of utter indifference, for, at that time, all places were alike to me. We knew something of Boston, and my chief pleasure during the memorable winter I spent there, was the recollection of that first day in the Music Hall. .It was, in more senses than one, a marked day, for from it dated my intimate friendship with Henry West. We had met at several parties; each had recognized in the other a kindred spirit; and, as he was an habitue of the house in which I was visiting, it became a matter of course that he should escort pe to the various places of amusement

and show me “the lions.” I loved music, but had enjoyed few opportunities of hearing it; no stars ever wandered so far out of their accustomed orbit as our little country town ; and there was very little native talent there. When, therefore, Mr. West invited me, soon after my arrival in Boston, to attend one of the Wednesday organ concerts, I consented, little knowing what awaited me. When the first piece was over (I remember it was the Tannhauser overture), I sat quite still, the tears rained down my face, but no words would come. Then it was I knew in an instant how perfectly sympathetic were my companion and myself; if he had at that moment uttered one of the commonplace or conventional criticisms one hears so often, I should have hated him forever. But he did not; he only said very quietly after I had recovered myself a little, “lam so thankful you heard it first with me,”.and I replied, “If only it might last forever.” From that day our friendship ripened fast, and during the remaihder of that memorable winter, the world was very bright to me. Every week we went to the Music Hall, and then I studied out with his advice and assistance the music we had heard together. When the spring came, and Alice began to beg for my return to her, it was hard for me to think of all from which going home must separate me. And, to all appearances, he text it too. I could not doubt that he had a very great interest in me, he had given so many proofs of it Would he, I wondered, speak some decisive word before I left? Would not he ask permission to visit me in my country home ? So I dreamed on until the last evening came. For hours the drawing-rooms had been crowded with guests, assembled to bid me adieu. Many a kindly greeting was spoken—many a wish expressed that we might soon all meet again. But not until very late, when almost every one had gone, did Mr. West appear. I knew at a glance that something was wrong, and my heart sank within me. I talked on, however, as merrily as before, giving to each a bright word, a good-by, wishing, oh I how earnestly, that it was all over. At last we were alone. My hostess, wearied by the evening’s exertions, begged to be excused, adding, jestingly; “If one of the single gentlemen had loitered so long, Nelly, after all the rest, 1 should be rather suspicious on this last night, but there is no danger of anything coming to pass now—so I will say good night. Pray, Mr. West, do not be taken with one of your musical fevers and pursuade Miss Langdon to open the piano, for she is very tired and must set out on her journey at a most unearthly hour in the morning.”

As she turned to go Mr. West said, in a low, strange voice: “ I must say goodbye. too, Mrs. Gordon. Tfris evening’s mail has brought me letters which conkpel me to leave for Cuba.” “What! No bad news from Mrs. West, I hope ?” she asked, anxiously. “My wife is very ill, and wishes me to join her at once.” “lam so sorry; but I sincerely hope you will find her better on your arrival Give her my kind regards and good wishes. How we shall miss you I Pray write and keep us informed of Mrs. West’s health, and let us see you immediately on your return;” and, with a few more friendly words, she left the room. His wife ! These two words burned into my brain like coals of fire. I could not think nor wonder nor ask a question. My one idea was to escape without betraying iny suffering; to insure his leaving me without discovering what those two little words, spoken so calmly and unconsciously, “ Your wife!” had wrought for me I In that supreme moment, in that single flash of time, while he crossed from the door he had gone to open for Mrs. Gordon back to the sofa, where I sat, my woman’s pride triumphed over every other feeling, and I spoke as calmly and deliberately as if no tempest raged within.” “You must let me, too, express my regret that you are summoned away on so painful an errand,” I said; “ and allow me, though a stranger to Mrs. West, to send a message of good wishes for hei recovery.” He looked at me keenly and long, but my impassive face and measured tones baffled even that sharp scrutiny.

“You know, then, that I had the good fortune to lie a married man !” he said. “ From a remark you made yesterday 1 imagined for a moment that you were not aware of it; and, strange as it may appear, I rather think Mrs. Gordon’s mention of my wife, just now, is the first that has chanced to be made before you. I wanted you to know it before we parted. 1 came here to-night partly te define my position, as the politicians say.” “Very kind of you, I’m sure; but you see it is quite an old story to me. Don’t you know, Mr. West, that ‘ Benedict, the married man,’ always shows his color in spite of himself ? I hope, certainly, to have the pleasure of making Mrs. West’s acquaintance, and ol telling how much I am indebted to you for many acts of kindness and courtesy. And now, if you will not think me rude, I must ask you to let me say good-by, for I have still more packing to attend to.” “Good-by,” said he. Not anothei word escaped him, but that piercing eye was fixed upon me, seeming to ask, “Is tliis all true ?”

How I reached my house I cannot tell, even now. My journey was accomplished, however, and on the evening of the following day I threw myself into Alice’s arms; and when shocked, I suppose, at the changed face that met hers, she exclaimed : “What is the matter, Nellie dear?” 1 entreated: “Do not ask me any questions ; only love me always.” After a few days I opened my heart and told her #ll, but begged that the subject might never again be mentioned between us.

And now my life was indeed a blank. I was not ill in body, so I said ; and when it was remarked that I became thinner and paler, I attributed all to my dissipation and late hours in Boston. There was no longer anything that pleased or displeased, interested or wearied, amused or annoyed me. I dared look neither backward nor forward. I read without receiving the slightest impression from the pages I turned over, and listened to Alice’s sweet voice and to the kindly conversation of friends and neighbors without understanding or caring for their words. Thus it was with me when at last the time came that Alice decided on a change of residence, and for a beginning, resolved on trying how we should like New York. I said : “ New York will do us as good as any other place, if you will let me stay quietly at home.” And so we went, Alice and I, and a faithful old woman, who had been with us from childhood, and loved and watched over us as if we were her very own. We established ourselves at the Everett, and had been there for several months.

In all this time I had heard nothing of Henry West, but that his wife had recovered from her illness at Cuba and returned with him to Boston in the following spring. In the semi-occasional correspondence between Mrs. Gordon and myself his name had only once occurred, when she wrote : “Mr. West inquired - for you yesterday, and was grieved to learn that you had not been well. He looks himself very badly, and has lost all his spirits. Perhaps madam’s society has a depressing effect; and no wonder, for, as you know, his boyish marriage was the great mistake of his life. They are utterly uncongenial, and for years have lived apart, at least nine months out of the twelve, though they are nominally on good terms. Now, however, her health is failing very rap-

idly, and it may be that a happy release for both is at hand.” On the very day after I had talked with AJioe of the possible material that wight be found in the crowded streets of New York, we made cur first acquaintance there. A lady whom we had frequently met in the halls and diningroom, and- admired for her refined and dignified appearance, and who occupied, with a stately old gentlemap, evidently her father, the suite of rooms adjoining her own, knocked hurriedly at our door one night, after we had retired. Our old Margaret answered the summons, and the lady begged that we would come to her assistance, her father having become suddenly and dangerously ill. Alice hastened to do all in her power, and for several days, during which the invalid slowly recovered, she made frequent visits to our neighbors’ apartments, bringing back eloquent descriptions of both father and daughter. The latter, who introduced herself as Mrs. Gray, of Boston, now came frequently into our parlors, and the acquaintance bid fair to become a real friendship. The ice was broken, and I no longer wished to continue our isolated life. On Saturday Alice came in from a walk with our friend, and said: “Nellie, Mrs. Gray wants you to go with her to-morrow to vespers, at St. Stephen’s, to hear the ‘Stabat Mater. ’ May I tell her you will accept the invitation ? ” I was quite ready to avail myself of Mrs. Gray’s invitation, and welcomed her more cordially than usual when she came a few hours later to repeat it in person. As she sat and talked I found myself wondering who it was she resembled so strongly. The shape of her head, the expression of her eye, the tone of her voice, all seemed strangely familiar, yet we had never met until a few weeks previous. The conversation turned casually on Boston. I was lost in a sad dream when Mrs. Gray said, in answer to some remark of Alice’s : “Yes, we have fine pictures, sometimes in Boston; but we have our magnificent organ always. Of course you heard it, Miss Nellie, when you were there? Your sister tells me you are passionately fond of music, and of organ music especially.” “Yes, I have often heard it,” I replied. “I always thought I appreciated our organ entirely ; but when my brother Henr’y came home from Europe, the year after it was opened, his intense enjoyment surpassed even mine. And all this reminds me to ask if you will allow me to present this same brother of mine to you to-morrow ? He will arrive here late to-night, and will be most happy to escort us to St. Stephen’s where he is a regular attendant whenever he visits New York. ”

I suppose Alice answered for me that I should be happy to make acquaintance with our friend’s brother. I was too bewildered to speak. The strange likeness that made her face so familiar to me at first sight, the name of this unknown brother, Henry, his intense love for organ music—what could it all mean? Was I now to meet him again, to endur# afresh all the misery that the kindly hand of time was just beginning to hide amid the flowers of resignation and contentment ? I passed the rest of the day and night in feverish excitement. I was asked no questions. If it were indeed he I was about to see, I should meet him as bravely as I had parted|from him. He was and could be nothing to me after this one day; our path might never cross again—l could bear it. At the appointed time Mrs. Gray called for me, but came alone ! Then I realized how weak I was; how I had been hoping to see him, though I told myself we should meet as the veriest strangers. “My brother will join us at the church,” said Mrs. Gray. “He was obliged to go first to visit a sick friend, but he will not be detained long.” We reached the church just as the service was beginning, and the first strains of the magnificent “ Stabat Mater” of Pergholese already issued from the grand organ. The aisles were crowded, but, as we approached Mrs. Gray’s pew, she whispered, in a tone of relief, * ‘ How fortunate 1 I see that my brother hjs arrived before me and kept our seats; but I must defer an introduction till after the services.”

The gentleman stepped from the pew to allow us to pass in, evidently listening intently all the while, that a note of the music might not be lost. He cast a careless glance on his sister’s companion —our eyes met. All I saw was a look of joy, of thankfulness, of content. In my face I believe he could read absolutely nothing. Ah, what hours those were to me 1 But for the music I could never have sat there—so near to him, yet so infinitely far away. The music, now wailing, now beseeching, now triumphant, rolled through the church like a voice from heaven, banishing for the time all thoughts of earthly trials and temptations. But it ended at last—the vesper service was over.

As the crowd slowly dispersed we sat listening to the really-beautiful march of Beethoven. Then Mrs. Gray begged us to wait one moment, as she wished to speak to some poor women who were assisted and employed by her, and were now waiting for her. She simply named us to each other and left us. The “ one moment" lengthened into an half hour ; the last notes of the organ died away; only a solitary worshiper knelt here and there in the lonely aisles. And I was listening to the “ old, old story;” how, from the first day we met, he had cared for me, and me only ; but, fettered by that uncongenial marriage, into which he had entered thoughtlessly when a mere boy, it was impossible for him to say one word. Yes, he had loved me from the first; and now he was free, and had come to seek me out, to ask whether I remembered him. And this time I had no need to tell a falsehood. When Mrs. Gray rejoined us, she looked from one to another with a bright, loving smile, and whispered to me : “I never knew until just as I was coming for you this afternoon, that you and Henry were old friends. May I be your friend also, Nellie, for his sake ? ” Then we walked slowly home in the twilight to Alice, who looked up inquiringly as we entered the parlor together. She must have seen at a glance that my sorrow was suddenly lifted from my heart, and when I presented Mr. West as “ an old friend from Boston,” the truth flashed upon her in a moment. When he left me the other evening he said: “I cannot wait long for you, Nelly. Say all that’s good of me to your dear sister, and persuade her to give you to me very soon. ” Alice was neither obdurate nor selfish, and the next summer she joined my husband and myself in a happy wandering over Switzerland.