by Jerry
“I had not noticed that,” said Mary. “Is there not some reflection that gives it that color? I am quite sure the flower was as white as snow when I began the drawing yesterday.”
“It was white, Mary!” said Kasper Craig. “But see for yourself. The young man is not mistaken.”
There was a ring of joyous exultation in his chilly voice, at the sound of which the cripple cowered in his chair. Mary Heather came slowly to the old man’s side, and moved the flower into a better light. The rose tint was now unmistakable. Leonard noticed how white and worn the girl looked, and determined for her sake to break up the interview.
“It grows late, sir,” he said. “Let us not longer intrude upon Miss. Heather, who seems in need of repose. We have not yet spoken of the matter that brought me here to-night.”
At this reminder Kasper Craig led the way down-stairs; at the doorway Leonard was detained by the child, who had darted from his chair the moment the old man left the room.
“Remember that you are to take us away, soon,” he murmured, “very soon, or it will be too late. Mary will die.”
Leonard lifted the misshapen little creature in his arms and soothed him tenderly, whispering in his ear:
“I will come again, soon. Tell her—tell your sister—that I am her friend, and would give my life to help her if she were in trouble.”
“Are you coming, young man?” called Kasper Craig from the stairs; and with a last, lingering look at Mary, her lover left the room.
The two men sat together until midnight; and when they parted, it had been agreed between them that Leonard Ebury should start for Bogota, in search of a rare specimen of the South American orchid, as soon as his outfit could be arranged. He received the most careful instructions from his employer, who was familiar with the ground he was to go over, and who proved himself a practical business-man in everything that concerned the proposed journey.
Leonard came to the house the next day in the vain hope of seeing Mary Heather or her brother; but he was admitted by Kasper Craig, who accompanied him to the door at the end of his visit. He found some pretence each day to make a pilgrimage to Hammersmith, but the fair girl and the little cripple were never to be seen. Leonard sometimes asked himself if the two children had any existence outside of his dreams. That wonderful morning among the flowers, when the maiden for whom he had waited all his life suddenly appeared before him, to be lost a moment after in the crowd—was she real, or a vision betwixt sleeping and waking? There remained, however, the reality of Kasper Craig, who seemed to have forgotten his odd theories, and talked of his flowers as any other enthusiastic collector of rare and choice plants might have done.
One day Leonard plucked up courage to ask to see the young girl, but he was told shortly that she was too busy to receive visits from young men. Leonard resorted to every device to postpone his departure; but the morning of his last day came and he had not caught another glimpse of Mary Heather.
“I will not leave London without seeing her,” he said to himself. “I will tell the old man so, plainly; and if he will not give me the opportunity, he may send some one else in my berth, to-morrow.”
He arrived at the cottage earlier than was his wont, and ere he had time to knock, the door was noiselessly opened by Edward Heather, who beckoned him to enter quietly. The child carefully closed the door, and then seizing Leonard by the hand, dragged him up the stairs with an incredible force. The door of Mary’s room stood slightly ajar, and without giving any warning, the child drew the visitor in and closed the door. Mary was seated at her easel, her back towards them. She did not look up from her work, and Leonard saw that she was unconscious of his presence.
“Look at her!” whispered the child. “She is dying, dying! The flower is killing her!”
Leonard followed the direction of the child’s eyes. They were fixed upon the orchid. The flower was strangely altered. Instead of drooping gracefully against the branch, it was now a robust and vigorous plant, standing boldly forth from the bark on which it had bloomed. The faint, rosy tinge had deepened and spread over the whole flower. The mouth was scarlet, and the throat with its cruel spikes was spotted here and there with flecks of dark red.
It was a sinister-looking plant, indeed, and one that might easily terrify a nervous, imaginative invalid like Edward Heather.
“What made it grow like that?” murmured the child. “Does it get all that blood from that dead branch?”
Here Mary Heather looked up from her work, and for the first time Leonard saw her face. It was white as marble. As she rose to greet him, the young man saw that she was wasted to a shadow of her former self.
“What ails you, Mary Heather? Are you ill?” he asked, taking her thin hand in his.
“Ill? No! Only a little tired.” Her voice was like an echo of herself, her wan smile a piteous thing to see.
It seemed to Leonard Ebury that his reason deserted him at that moment, and for the life of him he could not have told why he did the thing—but before Mary Heather’s pale lips breathed another breath of the heavy air of that chamber, he had torn the flower from the wall and trampled it into a bleeding mass beneath his feet.
“Are you mad?” cried a voice beside him. Kasper Craig had gripped him by the arm, and stood glaring down upon him with a look of rage upon his face which Leonard Ebury never forgot.
“I don’t know; we are all mad here, I think,” he said, shaking the old man from him. Kasper Craig dropped on his knees and gathered up the mangled flower; the oozing juice stained his hands a dull red; a peculiar, sickly odor pervaded the room. Leonard Ebury threw open the window and let the light summer breeze blow through the chamber. This action seemed to remind the old man of his presence, which in his despair over his shattered treasure he had ignored.
“Ruined!” he cried, staggering to his feet. “Ruined—and by the man I have befriended. Ingrate, fool! Is it thus you requite my confidence, my generosity? You shall pay dearly for this!”
Leonard was speechless and confused. Now that all was over, he was half-ashamed of having yielded to that strange impulse of destruction. He stood with crossed arms leaning against the wall, his eyes fixed upon the floor, trying to regain his self-possession. Kasper Craig came slowly toward him, his hands hidden under his long cloak.
“Have a care, Leonard,” cried Mary Heather. The girl’s warning came none too soon, for at that moment the old man sprang at Leonard’s throat, the long, sharp pruning-knife which he always wore at his belt clutched in his hand.
“A life for a life!” he cried furiously. But before he had time to deal the blow which he had aimed, the younger man closed with him and, after a short struggle, wrested the knife from him and tossed it out of the open window into the garden below. Disarmed and exhausted, the old man sank panting and trembling into a seat. There was a long silence, broken at length by Ebury:
“I don’t know what this all means. You have bewitched us all, it seems. You must find another to do your bidding in South America, Kasper Craig. I have other work to do. Mary Heather, I do not know what power this dark old man has over you and your brother, but it is one from which I would fain free you both. Will you come with me out into the world? I have nothing to offer you but my love, my honest name, and the service of my life. Will you come with me?”
Mary had revived a little in the last few moments, and the voice in which she answered the young man’s appeal was like her own again.
“Yes, Leonard Ebury, we will go with you.”
The child was running about the room, collecting their few possessions.
“Leave all behind, Edward. There is nothing that is ours, here,” she said.
Kasper Craig had listened, speechless and ireful, to what was said.
“What nonsense is this, girl?” he at length exclaimed. “You to leave your home and the only friend you have in the world, at the bidding of this penniless adventurer!”
“He gives us love, which suffices for all things. You have never loved
us, Kasper Craig, and we owe you nothing. We have worked for you all the years that we have eaten your bread, and we leave you as poor as we came to you.”
“Come, Mary, come,” said the child, impatiently pulling his sister’s skirts. “Come out into the sunshine.”
“Remember that you can never come back, Mary; the door will be closed against you forever. My fortune, which would have been yours”—he stopped and hesitated.
“Your fortune!” laughed Edward. “When you were killing her, what good would that do her? Come away, Mary. We must go now, or stay forever.”
“Farewell, Kasper Craig,” said the girl. “I am going out of the gray world in which you have kept me, out into the warm sunlight. Farewell!”
Leonard Ebury drew her white hand through his arm, and with the child upon his shoulder, they left the house. When they were out in the street the girl drew a long breath.
“How good it is to be away from that sombre house,” she said. “You were sent by Heaven to deliver us from our joyless life with that strange old man.”
“Murderer, murderer!” cried the child, shaking his tiny fist at the dingy house.
“Do not mind him,” murmured Mary Heather. “He is often strange, like this. Kasper Craig meant no harm to us, I am sure. I never saw him in anger until this afternoon.” She touched her lover’s arm with a shudder at the danger in which he had been from the old man’s knife. “But let us forget him,” she continued. “Edward, Leonard, let us agree never to mention his name again.”
“With all my heart,” cried Leonard; “for I cannot even think of him without doubting my own sanity.”
“She does not know,” whispered the child in Leonard’s ear, “she never did know; but you and I know that the flower was a”—
“Hush, boy,” interrupted Leonard Ebury, sternly. “Let Kasper Craig be forgotten, as Mary wills.”
“Yes,” laughed the child. “We will never see him, we will never think of him again. He cannot hurt us now, for the flower is dead!”
A WIFE MANUFACTURED TO ORDER
Amanda Fuller
AS I WAS going down G Street in the city of W——a strange sign attracted my attention. I stopped, looked, fairly rubbed my eyes to see if they were rightly focused; yes, there it was plainly lettered in gilt: ‘Wives made to order! Satisfaction guaranteed or money refunded.’
Well! well! Does some lunatic live here, I wonder? By Jove! I will investigate. I had inherited (I suppose from my mother) a bit of curiosity, and the truth of the matter was this: now nearing the age of forty, I thought it might be advisable to settle down in a home of my own; but, alas,! to settle down to a life of strife and turmoil, that would not be pleasant; and that I should have to do, I knew very well, if I should marry any of my numerous lady acquaintances—especially Florence Ward, the one I most admired. She unfortunately had strong-minded ways, and inclinations to be investigating women’s rights, politics, theosophy, and all that sort of thing. Bah! I could never endure it. I should be miserable, and the outcome would be a separation; I knew it. To be dictated to, perhaps found fault with—no, no, it would never do; better be a bachelor and at least live in peace. But—what does this sign mean? I’ll find out for myself.
A ring of the bell brought a little white-haired, wiry sort of a man to the door. ‘Walk in, walk in, sir,’ he said.
I asked for an explanation of the strange sign over the door.
Just step right in here and be seated, sir. My master is engaged at present, sir, with a great politician who had to separate from his wife; was so fractious, sir, got so many strange notions in her head; in fact, she wanted to hold the reins herself. You may have seen it—the papers have been full of it. Why, law bless you, sir, the poor man couldn’t say his soul was his own, and he is here now making arrangements with master to make him a quieter sort of wife, someone to do the honours of the home without feelin’ neglected if he happens to be a little courteous to some of his young lady friends. You see, master makes ’em to order, makes ’em to think just as you do, just as you want ’em to; then you’ve got a happy home, something to live for. Beautiful—golly! I’ve seen some of the beautifulest women turned out, ’most make your mouth water to look at.’ And so the old man rattled on until I was quite bewildered.
I interrupted him by asking if I could see his master.
‘Oh, certainly, sir; you just make yourself comfortable and I will let you know when he is through.’
I sat for some time like one in a dream, wondering if this could be so, and with many wonderful modern inventions in mind I began to think it possible. And then there was a vision of a happy home, a wife beautiful as a dream, gentle and loving, without a thought for anyone but me; one who would never reproach me if I didn’t happen to get home just at what she thought was the proper time; one who would not ask me to go to church when she knew it was against my wishes; one who would never find fault with me if I wished to go to a base-ball game on Sunday, or bother me to take her to the theatre or opera. A man, you know, can’t give much time to such things without interfering greatly with his comfort. Oh! could all this be realized? But just then my reverie was broken by the old man, who was saying: ‘Just step this way. Master, let me introduce you to Mr Charles Fitzsimmons.’
Short, thick-set, florid complexion, pale blue eyes with a sinister twinkle, was the description of Mr Sharper, whom I confronted. Reaching out his hand, which was cold and clammy and reminded me very much of a piece of cold boiled pork, he said:
‘Now, young man, what can I do for you? Want a life-companion, a pleasant one? Man of means, no doubt, and can enjoy yourself; a little fun now and then with the boys and no harm at all—none in the least. When a man comes home tired, doesn’t like to be dictated to; want someone always to meet you with a smile, some one that doesn’t expect you to be fondlin’ and pettin’ ’em all the time. I understand it—I know just how it is. Law bless my soul, I’ve made more’n one man happy, and I’ve only been in the business a short time, too. Now, sir, I can get you up any style you want—wax, but can’t be detected.’
‘Do you mean to say you manufacture a woman out of wax, who will talk?’
‘That’s just what I do; you give me the subjects you most enjoy talking upon, and tell me what kind of a looking wife you want, and leave the rest to me, and you will never regret it. I will furnish as many “phones” as you wish; most men don’t care for such a variety for a wife—too much talk, you know’; and he chuckled and laughed like a big baby.
‘What are your prices, may I ask?’
‘Well, it’s owing a good deal to how they are got up from five hundred to a thousand dollars.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I think that rather high.’
‘Dear man alive, a pleasant companion for life for a few hundred dollars! Most men don’t grumble at all for the sake of having their own way and a pleasant home, and you see she ain’t always asking for money.’ (Sure enough, I hadn’t thought of that.)
‘Very well, I will decide upon the matter and let you know.’
‘All right, young man; you’ll come back. They all do, them as knows about it.’
I went to my room at the hotel and thought it all out, thought of the pleasant evenings I could have with someone whose thoughts were like my own, someone who would not vex me by differing in opinion. I wandered what Florence would say. I really believed she cared for me, but she knew how I disliked so many of the topics she persisted in talking upon. What mattered it to me what Emerson said, or Edward Bellamy wrote, or Henry George, or Pentecost? What did I care about Hume or Huxley or Stuart Mill, any of those sciences, Christian Science or Divine Science or mind cure?—bah! it was all nonsense. The topics of the day were enough, and if I attended closely to my business I needed recreation, not such things as she would prescribe. Still Florence was interesting to talk to, and I rather liked her at times when she talked every-day talk; but I could not marry her, and it was her own fault. She knew my sentiments, and if she would per
sist in going on as she did I couldn’t help it.
Yes, I decided I would have a home of my own, and a wife made to order at once. Before leaving the city I made all necessary arrangements, hurried home, rented a house, and went to see old Susan Tyler, whom I engaged as housekeeper; she was deaf and had an impediment in her speech, but she was a fine housekeeper. All my preparations made, the ideal home! Oh! how my heart beat as I looked around! what happiness to do as I liked, a beautiful, uncomplaining wife ready to grant every wish and meet me with a smile! What would the boys say when, out a little late at night, I should be so perfectly at ease? I could just see jealousy on their faces, and I laughed outright for joy. Tomorrow I was going for my bride. Side-looks and innuendos were thrust at me from all quarters, but I was too happy to demur or explain. When I reached the city I could scarcely wait for the appointed time.
Alighting from the carriage the door was opened, and I was ushered into the presence of the most beautiful creature I had ever beheld. The hands extended towards mine, the lips opened, and a low, sweet voice said, ‘Dear Charles, how glad I am you have come!’ I stood spellbound, and only a chuckle from Mr Sharper brought me to my senses.
‘Kiss your affianced, why don’t you?’ he said, and chuckled again.
I felt as though I wanted to knock him down for speaking so in that beautiful creature’s presence. And then a little soft rippling laugh, and she moved towards me. Oh, could I get that beast to leave the room! Why did he stand there chuckling in that manner?
‘Sir,’ I said, ‘you will oblige me by leaving the room for a few moments.’
With that he chuckled still louder and muttered, ‘Bless me, I really believe he thinks her alive.’ Then to me: ‘To be sure, to be sure, but you only have a short time before going to the minister’s, and I must show you how to adjust her. When you get home’—and he chuckled again—‘you can be just as sentimental as you please, but just now we will attend to business. Here is a box of tubes made to talk as you wished them. They are adjusted so. Place the one you wish in your sleeve. You can carelessly touch her right here if there is any one around. Here is a spring in each hand and the tips of her fingers. I will give you a book of instructions, and you will soon learn to arrange her with very little effort, just to suit yourself, and I am sure you will be very happy. Now, sir, the time is up; you can go to the minister’s.’