Democratic Sentinel, Volume 10, Number 4, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 26 February 1886 — THE MOROCCO PURSE. [ARTICLE]

THE MOROCCO PURSE.

BY C. LEON MEREDITH.

Twice a year, from beyond the Mississippi, I visit the metropolis of the West for the purchase of goods. Knowing Chicago to be a great, wicked city, I have always been on my guard for Charpers, especially when carrying much money, but my watchfulness failed at one time to save me from a very unpleasant adventure, the experience, however, terminating most favorably. The event took place two years ago. Late one afternoon, while on my return from the wholesale house of Marshall Field & Co. to my hotel, I was detained for e minute at the comer of Clark and Madison streets by a clog of cars and vehicles. As I stood watching for an opportunity to cross over, I noticed a tall, gaunt man gazing upon me intently. A fearful scowl was upon his face, and the bony fingers were clenched firmly into the palms of his white hands. I was wondering what it could mean, when suddenly a change came. The strange-looking man came quietly to my side, the hard look left his features, and a soft smile took its place. A well-filled morocco purse was suddenly slipped into my hand and the man said hurriedly: “That’s yours, Thompson. I forgive you; keep it.” Before I had time to open my lips in protest, before I could tell him that my name was not Thompson, the fellow had darted away, mingled with the crowd, and was lost to view. I was perplexed. My first thought was that a followed pickpocket had forced the purse into my hand to shield himself, and that I would soon be arrested as a confederate. Glancing flbout me I discovered no one watching. All seemed to have individual affairs to attend to, and not a policeman was in sight. Still holding the fat, soft purse exposed in my hand, the hotel was reached. An hour spent in my room studying over the affair did no sort of good. The simple facts existed, that was all, and reflection in any direction brought no plausible, at least flatisfactory, solution to the problem. That the purse had been stolen there was no doubt. And why it had been given to me, or why the thief should wish to forgive Thompson and give the article to him, of course I could not determine. After half an hour’s deliberation, a resolution was formed to find the owner of the Socket-book. I would giveitinto the care of le hotel-keeper and advertise. As I reached the staircase at the end of the long hall, a new idea came to me, and I hastened back to my room. I decided to examine the contents of the purse before letting it go out of my possession, make a memorandum of what it contained, then I could tell if accurately described by any applicant, or if tampered with while out of my hands. The purse contained only a few dollars in money, but, mercy! what a multitude of other articles!

There were bits of sample silks, a glovehook, recipes for frosted cake, a little plain ring, a few small pearls, bits of ribbon, and several calling-cards. The purse certainly belonged to a woman. The cards were all alike, and bore in fine •script the name of Lena Suthern. The plan of finding the owner was changed again. I would write to Lena Suthern, general delivery, Chicago, and await the result. A letter was accordingly placed in the postoffice that evening. It was brief, a simple statement that I was in possession of a purse which contained cards bearing her name. The day following when I came in for dinner the hotel clerk told me that a lady had been waiting for some time to see me in the parlor. Entering the room but one person was to be seen. A lady sat upon a sofa near the window—a young lady of remarkable beauty. As the light of midday streamed through the half-curtained casement, it fell upon my ideal of a supremely lovely face. So sweet and so bright was it that I stood and gazed upon her rudely before speaking. She evidently noticed my staring and hesitancy, for she turned away for a moment and then arose. “Are you the gentleman who wrote this line to me?” she asked, extending the letter of the evening before. I bowed my answer. “I will describe the purse,” she said, quietly, and proceeded to do so very minutely. I handed her the fat little morocco purse, and opening it with nimble fingers she said, aweetly: “I shall be very glad to reward you, kind •air, and ” “Nothing of the kind,” I returned. “I have sufficient m’eans for all of my wants, •and it gives me great pleasure to place in your hands the article that came into my possession in a very strange manner.” She started a little, then composed herself, and without a question moved toward the door! “You will accept my thanks?” she said, •so softly and musically that I could hardly frame words for reply. During the very brief minutes that she ihad been before me I had feasted upon her •supreme loveliness, and I did not wish the ■spell broken so suddenly. “Will you tell me one thing before you igo?” I asked, holding up my hand as if to her. “Will you let ma know in what 1 .manner the little purse left your possession? It was forced into my hand by a very strange personage, a middle-aged, wan-looking fellow, who called me Thompson, and say-

ing he forgave me, dashed away. I thought Mm a pickpocket; were my suspicions correct?” “No! no!” she answered, a painful smile crossing her angelic face; “there was no crime in it, and the exercise of no reason. The Thompson is an imaginary man. and the one who would bestow the gift not in his right mind. Good-day.” She bowed as she passed out, and turned her bewitchingly beautiful eyes full upon my face. I watched the tall, graceful figure as it swept through the hall, and then turned reflectively to my room. “You are a gone case,” I said to myself, while pacing up and down my apartment, “Thirty years of age and never but once before saw a face that touched the heart.” That other face was seen in my boyhood, and stole a boy’s heart. More than a decade of years before this event I had met at St. Paul a bright, cheery girl of sixteen, and we both lost our young hearts. For two blissful months we walked, talked, fished, and gathered flowers together. I wove garlands of the sweetest prairie beauties and placed them as a crown upon the queenly head of the brown-haired and blue-eyed Allie Floyd, and she told me so tenderly of her new-born love that I believed my bliss was to last forever. But the dream was soon to be broken and a life shadow follow. Suddenly I was called down the river to attend to a matter of business. Promising Allie a quick return, I left the girl at the landing as the steamer swept out into the current and away. My absence from St. Paul was prolonged into weeks. As I was on the wing nearly all of the time I did not hear from my little friend, and when I did go up the river again the Floyd family had left for their New England home. The cause of the sudden departure was the illness of Allie. After a mouth’s loneliness I wrote a letter to the place which was remembered as the girl’s home. To this no reply came. Four more weeks passed, and I wrote the postmaster of Silverhold and received the prompt intelligence that, owing to the death of their daughter and the ill-health of the mother, Mr. and Mrs. Floyd had gone to Europe. This intelligence struck me like a thunderbolt; it crashed my spirits, and nearly broke my young heart. From that day until the one that I met Lena Suthern a female face had never been' 1 seen that attracted particular interest. This woman I had just met brought back the bright, sweet face of my Allie, and revived my young, pure I loved this Lena Suthern with all the earnestness of my yearning soul. During the whole afternoon and night that followed I thought of nothing, dreamed of nothing, but the sweet one who had come to me with the bright angelic face of my boyish idol. One thing I deeply regretted. I had neglected to ask the lady for her residence, street and number. I would have made some excuse for calling upon her had I obtained the information.; Writing could not be resisted. The letter was addressed as before, but no answer came.

I had simply asked for an interview, claiming that certain suspicions I entertained respecting the man who gave me the purse needed verification or refutation, and I begged that I might see her but for a brief interview. Thinking that, perhaps, for some reason the letter had not reached her, a Second one was sent, but elicited no answer, and so, heavy-hearted I started westward. Absence and business cares did not cure my yearnings, but, if possible, made my heart grow fonder. I stood it as long as I could, and then wrote Lena Suthern, making a full confession of my love, and, that she might understand how such devotion could come at first meeting, the story of my ideal, Allie Floyd, was given her without reserve. My pleadings for an interview were so earnest and pitiful that 1 believed an answer would come. A week passed, and my heart was thrilled. A letter came with a Chicago postmark, a letter as bulky as the one I had sent, and it was addressed in a lady’s hand of superior touch and finish. I could not trust myself to open it upon the street, or even at the store, and so hastened to my room and broke the seal with trembling hand, and doubtless a livid face. I never shall forget that moment. Had a dagger entered my breast I could not have been more painfully stricken. From the white and delicately perfumed envelope I drew forth the long epistle I had written to Lena Suthern—nothing more. My chagrin and mortification were beyond \#>rds for expression. The margins of the different sheets were examined for a single word, but it had not been written there. There were marks upon some of the pages that looked as if teardrops had fallen. Had I known that they were such I could have blessed her for returning it even thus. The summer passed away, and the season came again for visiting Chicago. Back into my old empty-hearted condition I had settled, feeling myself a victim of circumstances. There was a desperate struggle going on in my whole nature to live and forget the face and form that had rekindled the light of my soul. The bright, liquid eyes of my dead Allie seemed to shine out to me through those of Lena Suthern. It was re all? the first love awakened, for had I not known the first I should not have loved the last. Fully determined was I to master my heart. No further effort would be made to meet Miss Suthern, and yet my stay in Chicago was prolonged beyond the usual period of a visit. I invented delays, and was slow in making purchases. jSTot a female face passed me unobserved. Really I was hoping, praying to meet by accident the lady, even if I could but once more get a glance at the inspiring face. The meeting came, but at a moment least expected. Late one evening, upon turning a corner abrubtly, I found myself face to face with the woman I worshiped. Our coming together was so sudden that both were startled, for the lady recognized me as quickly as I did her. A brief hesitation, and she attempted to pass. My hand was lifted. “I must speak to you, just one word,” I faltered. “You must not. I cannot be detained,”

she said in a soft, musical voice. “What you would say I cannot listen to.” “Cannot you hear me fora single moment? You have refused to reply to written words of love, and certainly you can answer one little question, then I will detain you no longer. Is there no hope, not one ray?” “Do not speak to me thus. You must not! I am a married woman.” I started as if a sword point had pierced me. The thought that Lena Suthern belonged to any one else had never entered my selfish, worshiping head. As the lady had spoken she turned and now, for the first time. I saw a man partly hidden by the pillar of the corner building. It was the same tall, gaunt form with the white face and staring eyes that had rushed up to me six months before and forced the purse into my hand. “That man, Mrs. Suthern?” I asked in a hoarse whisper. “My husband,” she answered kindly, and taking the monomaniac gently by the arm she led him away. It would be useless to attempt to describe my feelings as I stood watching the two figures as they passed on through the glimmer of the nearest gaslight. I felt .something of a relief at knowing the truth. Lena Suthern had remained silent and resisted my love pleadings as a true woman should, and my stupidity in not thinking such a thing as her being married possible, became more and more apparent as I reflected. She had acted wisely; I blindly driven on bv the hunger of my heart for my angel Allie. It was all over now, and I returned home a more retiring, stupid, and stolid “old bachelor,” as they called me, than I had ever been before. I was more contented and happy, tvcause the motive of silence was understood. She had not remained passive through any disregard for my feelings, but because it was her duty to do so. Whether her heart had been touched by my simple, earnest appeal, I knew not, but as matters had turned, it was to be hoped not. “Never again will I seek her, never again write,” was my resolve and my fixed purpose. The winter passed, and one day a Chicago daily came to me from an unknown source. In looking it over, a marked item was found, which read as follows: “Drowned.—A middle-aged man, supposed to be insane, leaped from the Clark street bridge last evening and lost his life by the act. The body has been identified as that of Edward Suthern. ” . The paper was thrown to the floor, and I paced up and down the room, making all sorts of resolves, none of which were kept. “I would go to Chicago at once,” a thing that was not done. “I would write immediately,” a thing I did not do. If it was the husband of Lena Suthern who had died—and who else but the lady could have sent the marked paper—perhaps she would write me. I could not say more to her than I had.

Picking up the paper again I noticed that it was an old one, bearing date of six months before. Then I felt certain it had come from the widow. Only a few weeks passed before my season of alternate hope and fear came to a close. A letter, came, bearing the same delicate address as the returned one of my own, and it read: “Lena Suthern will see you now. Call at No. Wabash avenue. AFbiend.” The next morning found me in Chicago, and after the very slow hours of the forenoon wore away, I was ushered into a handsome parlor at the number on Wabash avenue designated in the note. Lena was there, her beautiful face raidant with smiles, and she extended her hand to me as to an old friend. “I can not express my gratitude to you for the privilege you have granted, a privilege that is the greatest on earth to me,” I said, feelingly. “You have an ideal, as it is the right of any person to have,” she returned, thoughtfully. “My life has been wrapped up in one ideal.” “You told me in your letter of your early love, and that that love had been constant —indeed, a part of your very life—and it was because you had never - forgotten Allie Floyd, and because Allie Floyd has never forgotten you, that I wrote you to come to me.” “My Allie Floyd!” I echoed. “Changed in name only.” I gazed upon the love-lighted face, and sprang to my feet. With a heart overflowing with rapture, I caught the soft hand extended to me and pressed it to my lips again and again; then I sought the crimson cheek, but sne playfully warded me off, and led me to a seat. Seating herself beside me, Lena t<pld me the story of her life, which I give briefly: Soon after reaching her New England home, her sister—one who had not accompanied the family in their - We stern trip—died, and, her mother being in pc or health, they went to Europe, where they remained several years. Many letters had been written by the girl to her lover, but no replies came back to her. In later years she left her father’s house as he did not fancy the “border boy,” as he called him. Her given name being Lena Albertine, the second one by preference was dubbed to Allie, but later the first name was used. At the age of twenty-five, her parents being dead, Lena, empty-hearted, married a musical professor who was well-to-do and devoted to her. Two years after the union insanity had been brought on by a fall which fractured the skull, and from that time until the fatal leap from the bridge he had been her constant care. “My emotion at our first meeting cannot be described,” she continued. “Your searching, earnest glances told that my face had impressed you again.” “Then you knew me when we met at the hotel?” “Your letter gave the name.” “And why did you not let me know then that you were AlUe Floyd?” “I knew my own heart too well; and besides that, I knew your own impulsive nature. I dared not do it.” “Bless you!” “The long letter of affection you sent, {deading for recognition and telling of your ove for the lost Allie touched my heart to its depths, and I wept over it as it was read time and again, and the hardest task of my life was to return it without one hopeful, consoling word; but the cloud has passed, and I can confess my feelings now.” A year has passed since the sunlight came

back into my soul, and now my little Allie Floyd is coming to me forever. — Chicago Ledger.