Newspaper Page Text
v. i
THE SUNNY SOUTH, ATLANTA, GEORGIA, NOVEMBER 26, 1892
A LIVING EXAMPLE.
A Story that Strikingly Points a
Moral.
[Written specially for Thanksgiving issue.]
“I tell you, NVardlaw, these are the
nicest bachelor apartments in New
York. I have never seen better, have
you ?’’
Clarence Brainard’s youthful face
was aglow with enthusiasm as his eyes
swept through the luxurious rooms,
noting the artistic disorder of sculpture,
pictures, draperies, plants and general
profusion of bric-a-brac. And, with
hands in the pockets of his trousers,
he walked over the Moquette carpet
through the hall, the library and the
drawing-room and then came back to
the lounge on which his friend, in
dressing-gown and slippers, lay smok
ing a tine cigar.
“I told you they were all right,
didn’t I ?” replied Jeffrey Wardlaw.
“Knowles has more money than he
knows what to do with and exquisite
taste. It can’t equal his London nouse,
though.”
The speaker was a middle-aged man,
tall and handsome, with dark pene
trating eyes, in the depth of which Jay
a certain suggestion of unconquerable
weariness, and a sensitive’ artistic face
as dark as a Spaniard’s.
“And you get them dirt cheap. You
nearly took my breath away when you
told me the rent.”
“Knowles didn’t care. He doesn’t
want to make anything out of me. He
only wants them decently looked after.
We have been friends a long time ; he
would have closed the place up if he
hadn’t heard that I was looking for
apartments. He does, you know,
whenever he goes abroad.”
“You have no idea how tickled I was
when you asked me to stay here with
you,” Brainard ran on, sitting down
in a chair astraddle of the back. I was
not expecting such luck. I did not
know where I was going to live, and
then I have heard so much about you.
I know there is not a man in New
York that can put a young fellow on
his legs as you can. But, I say, Ward-
law, how old are you anyway V”
Wardlaw was silent a moment, then
he knocked the ashes off his cigar and
smiled sardonically. “Just about twice
your age, I suppose.”
The younger man flushed sensitively.
“Pshaw,” he cried, “I’m twenty-five—
you can’t be over forty-one or two.”
“Men have lived who, at my age,
have had sons as old as you.”
“ Well, what do you care ? You have
had your share of this life’s good th ngs.
By Jove, if you haven’t nobody has !
Why, when I was in college nearly
every fellow in my set was trying to
imagine himself a Wardlaw. We pat
ronized your tailor, and wore your
neckties and hats, and sported your
canes. You were our model. Town.
Topics kept us posted on your doings.
We bet on your horses ; went to your
dinners, in our own rooms, and aped
you to our young blood’s fullest con
tent. Oh, this is thesortoflifeforme !
What a jolly house to spend the winter
in. You know you have promised to
introduce me to all your coterie.”
The older man turned his face slightly
away to hide the wearied expression
that stole into it. He had his own
boyhood before him. Clarence Brain
ard always made him think regretfully
of the past, and yet he liked his compa
ny. Association with younger people
sometimes aided him to forget that he
was growing old and sometimes, as in
this instance, it was quite the reverse.
“I am glad you like the arrange
ment, my boy,” he said. “I confess I
like fellows younger than myself.”
“And I always fancied men older
than I,” said Brainard, impetuously.
“But 1 am not so inexperienced as you
might imagine,” he added, flushing
slightly, “I guess I am pretty old for
my age. I’ve seen my share of life,
and I am ready to dive in deeper under
your guidance. I want to enjoy all
there is. I have only one life, and I
will make the most of it.”
“When you are as old as I am you
may come to the conclusion that there
is perhaps a right way and a wrong way
of enjoying it,” replied Wardlaw, hesi
tatingly. “You may then wonder if
you did the right thing in going into
this sort of thing at all.”
“Stuff and rubbish ! Don’t begin
that kind of twaddle. You fellows
always do. After getting about all
there is out of life you advise the rising
generation to go it slow. Give us a
chance too. We are just like your
selves.”
Wardlaw rose to a sitting position
and threw his cigar into the cuspidor.
He looked very serious.
“I know,” lie dropped shortly. “I
know what you mean, and you are
right I suppose. At your age I would
have thanked no man for giving me
advice ; but Lord, if I only could have
seen then what I see now I should have
lived differently, I should on honor!”
Brainard rose smiling incredulously.
He waltzed away through the hall
into the drawing-room, and sat down
at the piano and began to thrum at
random. Wardlaw followed him and
leaned against the instrument and
pulled nervously at his iron-gray mous
tache. A stramre conflict was going
on in his dark face. “I know I am a
pretty object to deliver a sermon,” he
said awkwardly when Clarence stopped
playing. “I’m no preacher, God knows;
but it seems to me that there are no
ministers that could, from actual expe
rience, you know, give a young chap
the advice that I can. I have been
through it all.”
“What’s the matter with you, any
way? ’* 7 hat has taken possession of
you?” And Brainard laughed affected
ly as he held to the music-rack and
leaned back at arm’s length.
“I don’t know.” Wardlaw’s eyes did
not meet his friend’s squarely. “I was
I lying there in your room before luneh-
| eon, and you were mussing about,
j fixing up your traps and running on
about what we were going to do—cards,
j dances, champagne dinners, midnight
revels and what not, and, by George,
I felt as if I were not in it at all—from
your point of view, you know. You
are galloping along as hot-blooded
as I did twenty years ago; but the
race-track has grown monotonous to
me. I have run under the wire so
often that I can’t get up a particle of
enthusiasm—I am tired out. Nothing
is like it used to be”
“What on earth could you want ?
“That is exactly what I should have
asked such a man as I am at your age.
And I never could have understood
him if he had tried to tell me as I am
you. You see, it is this way; now don’t
laugh. Wait till I have had a show. I
have never talked this way before and
it is because I like you. I can’t stand
to see you starting out exactly as I did
and not say a beastly word when I am
satisfied that I was all wrong, and that
if you could see you would t?ke a dif
ferent course. Why, I’m not only
standing still and letting you go ahead,
but I am throwing the gates open, by
Jove, and clearing the track and yell
ing ‘Go!’ at the top of my lungs.”
“Bah ! if you are sorry you asked me
here, I can get out. I am no child. I
know my own mind. By Jove, you
are insulting, absolutely insulting!”
“I beg pardon, old boy; I can’t get
things straight. I am only trying to.”
Clarence Brainard’s face was alter
nately white and red and he broke into
Wardlaw’s remark with a loud and
rapid run on the piano. Wardlaw
went to a table and nervously turned
the pages of a book of drawings and
then, followed by Brainard’s eyes, went
back into the smoking-room and threw
himself on the lounge again. Brain
ard plunged again into his waltz, glided
from that into snatches from a late
opera, and finally gave up the whole
thing with a gigantic bang and an im
patient whirl about on the piano-stool.
“Stuff and nonsense!” he said to
himself, frowning. “Just as I was get
ting ready to have a good time and
thinking l had struck a social gold mine
he turns out to be—” But Wardlaw had
got up and was coming back. Brainard
turned to the piano again, but he
refrained from touching the keys.
Wardlaw was steadily pointing with
his cigar to a shelf on which a few pho
tographs were artistically grouped.
“The other day,” he said, “the other
day when you were unpacking your
traps you took out that photograph of
that pretty girl there along with some
others. I was watching you. Ihavn’t
lived so long for nothing.”
Brainard stared. The blood ran into
his cheeks, but he said nothing.
“You made comments on all the
others as you unpacked them, telling
me who they were and all about them;
but this girl you passed over. You re
member I asked ydu who she was,
because she interested me more than
the whole lot; she is so deuced pretty,
and has so much firmness and character
in her eyes.
The color was fleeing from Brainard’s
face. He let his hands fall irresolutely
on the keys, and a few notes jarred
upon the sudden stillness. Wardlaw
leaned on the corner of the piano. “No,
let me get through,” he stammered, “I
don’t want to be personal. I am com
ing to myself too—I am going to
include myself in it.”
“Go on.” A half friendly, half
angry light was burning in Brainard’s
eyes as he spoke.
“It is none of my affair,” went on
Wardlaw apologetically, “but I was
interested the very moment I saw her
face. Then you went on later, you
kuow 7 , and let out the whole business.
You did not suspect that I was much
interested, but for several reasons, my
old heart was in my mouth all the time
you were talking. You told me how
you two had been sweethearts since
you were iu Sunday-school together in
your town. And how you became en
gaged later, and how both families
were pleased with your plans. And
then your trip to Europe, and the
taste you got of fast life in London and
Paris, where the swells made a lot of
you, as they always do, you know, and
how—when you got back to your
town—she seemed a little out of it—a
little prosy, you know, teaching her
Chinese class iu Sunday-school, and
going about among poor people more
than you thought quite the thing in a
lady of her position. Then you went
on—and Heaven knows I saw it plain
enough—to tell how she did not ap
prove of your life exactly and said so
with tears in her eyes, and how, finally,
you concluded that perhaps you were
not well suited to‘each other. The
engagement is practically oft and you
are here to spend the season and forget,
and you calculate that at the end of it
she will be—as far as you are concerned
—a back number.”
Wardlaw paused to relight his cigar.
Brainard said nothing; his face had
grown whiter and his lips were quiver
ing helplessly.
“I would not talk this way if I had
not been through just such an expe
rience,” Wardlaw said behind a cloud
of smoke. “I have no idea you will
pay the least attention to what I say;
1 would not at your age, not a bit of
it; but hang me if I believe, now that
I come to think of it, that any fellow 7 ,
any man of the world, could have given
it to me as straight from the shoulder
i as I can give it to you.”
“What is all this leading to? What
are you driving at?” asked the
j younger man petulantly.
For answer, Wardlaw went to a
; table and picked up an album. He
opened it at an old-fashioned photo
graph of a beautiful young girl and
i placed the open book on the music
j rack before Brainard’s eyes.
“It’s leading to my own story.”
i Wardlaw’s voice had changed. “I
I haven’t alw 7 ays been like this. When
I left college that girl there was my
idol. It is strange, but in all the years
since, I have never met anybody that
wr s as much to me as she was. It was
a case of mutual love. I suppose there
is no doubt of that. Well, I had
money, but not quite enough to m°rry
on, I thought, so I came here to live.
I intended to go back at first. I never
dreamed of anything else. But I loved
excitement. The attentions of society
women flattered me, and the fast set I
drifted into seemed my proper ele
ment. I thought I could throw the
whole thing up when I had had
enough, but I never got enough. We
stopped writing to each other. It was
my fault. I did not answ r er all her
letters. It rocked on till it was too
late.”
“ She got married ?”
“No, not that; she is single. Y'ou
see it w 7 ent on till this excitement—
this everlasting search for novelty ac
tually killed my appreciation for her.
It will do it every time. By Jove,
that’s what a young fellow ought to
guard against! He is apt to knock the
wind out of his better self, and there is
nothing under high heaven that can
resurrect him.”
Wardlaw flicked the ashes from his
cigar on to the piano cover and then
dusted it onto the carpet with his hand
kerchief.
“That. w r as twenty years ago. I
thought I was all right for awhile.
There was always something to do, or
somewhere to go; but in time I got
deuced tired of the whole thing. I
did not care for anything. Young fel
lows were coming on and plunging
head-long into it and I was running
breakneck alongjwith them and not
getting half as ixJfcch out of it. Then I
got to thinking oirthe future, and wou-
dering what I should do toward the
end. I came to the conclusion that
marriage was the only chance for me,
but I could not love ambody. There
was the rub. I trusted no one.
Everybody was full of motives. Wo
men near my own age were either too
old maidish or too matronly. I ad
mired only the young and the most
beautiful and they did not want me.
I got desperate. I envied every young
newly married man I saw if he didn’t
have a dollar to his name. But, as I
said, I could not love anybody. The
old, boyish, romantic feeling was dead
—dead and buried. None of them
could set my heart to beating.
“One night I got out that photograph
there and tried to think of her as I
used to. It all came back like waking
from a dream, don’t you know. She
was on my mind every day for a
month—always as she looked when I
last saw her. Then I decided that
perhaps it was not too late. She had
not married. She had once loved me.
I would go back and throw myself at
her feet, and tell her that she could
save me. I went. I felt young again
as my train rushed through the green
fields and woods that bright spring
day. I did not write or telegraph. I
wanted to come upon her unawares.
“The station is a mile from her house
in the edge of the village. I walked
out to prepare myself on the way for
the meeting. There were the same
country roads and paths along which
we had strolled. There was the spring
with the stones around its edge among
the willows where w 7 e used to sit in the
summer afternoons, and the creek,
where she and I used to go fishing, and
the woods in which we gathered wild
flowers, even the house was unchang
ed. As I drew near the gate all my
courage left me. I remembered then
that I was altered, that my hair was
gray and my face wrinkled.
“A servant invited me into the little
parlor, the room where I first told her
that I loved her, where she had first let
me kiss her. The same furniture was
there, the sofas, the chairs, the piano
with the old-fashioned legs and yellow
keys, the china vases on the mantel,
and the tall clock, with the maker’s
name on the glass door, where I used
to hide notes for her when she was
out.
“I thought she might keep me wait
ing awhile, but she did not. She was
sewing in the sitting-room across the
hall when my card was handed to her.
She got up at once, for I heard her
drop her scissors, and utter an exclama
tion of surprise and make some laugh
ing remark to the serv ant. She hur
ried iu to me, bringing her work in
her apron. I was paralyzed ; I had not
dreamed that she would be so altered.
You see I had been thinking of her
as she used to look—the same bright
young face and sparkling eyes. You
know we will do that. You will, at
my age. ifyou remain single; that is a
part of tlie eternal, unchangeable
scheme of retribution. The laws of
human nature are beautiful when
they are obeyed, when they are not
they seem as crooked as the track of
lightning. Cultivate an abnormal taste
for young, physical beauty and in old
age it remains with you till you are
the laughing stock of the world in
your servile pursuit of it.
“She was glad to see me, though not
as surprised as I thought she might be,
and she smiled and held out her hand
as frankly as of old. Then she emp
tied the contents of her apron on a
table and looked me over again.
“How very much you have chang
ed,” she said, “I had no idea it would
be so, and yet I might have expected
it though it seems such a short time
since you left.”
“Then she sat down on the sofa by
me and began to talk of old times, of
the people in the town who had died,
and those that had moved away. She
had taken her niece and nephew to
live with her to attend school in town,
and she was full of them, their experi
ences, their good qualities, loving dis
positions and their marvelous progress
in their studies. Her eyes filled when
she referred to the death of her parents
and how lonely she had been without
them.
“We walked out into the yard and
she showed me her flowers, her cow,
and her chickens, and all the time her
face was glowing with pleasure and
goodness, w 7 hile my heart felt like
stone. We walked on down through
the meadow to the old rock spring,
and along the creek bank. 1 did not
love her, I know I did not in the
bounteous, romantic way of my young
er days, but it gave me such a restful
feeling to be with her—to have her
give back the past to me as nothing
else could have done—that it made my
heart bound to think that she might,
atter all, be my wife. Later, when we
were about to return to the house, I
told her what I had come for—to ask
her to be my wife.
“She stared at me in astonishment,
turned white and reeled toward* me.
I held out my arms, but she recovered
herself and shrank back and pushed
my hands away.
“ ‘Why,’ she gasped, ‘you cannot be
serious. You can not now, after all
these years!”
“‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I am; and I know
that you-are the only woman on earth
for me. You can make a better man
of .me. I want you.’
“We had reached a little nook among
the dense willows, and here she stopped
and bowed her head for a moment. I
saw her lips moving mutely. I knew
she was praying. She was a good
woman, my boy, if ever one lived on
this earth Presently she raised her
head and put herthin hand on my arm.
“ ‘Your proposal is awful!’ she said,
a strange shadow in her deep eyes. “I
am so sorry, for your coming now
shows me that you are unhappy. I
was always afraid you would be so—I
did not see how it could be otherwise;
but I prayed for you and hoped that
all would go well. Oh, I am so sorry
you came in this way. I can never
have peace of mind about you again;
I know you must be unhappy. You
do not love me. You only come to me,
and think you could care for me be
cause I am the only available .vestige
of the irretrievable past; but you are
mistaken. I could not make you con
tented, because—because I do not love
you now, and your past would come
between us. When you went away I
was a young girl. I made an idol of
you. I thought there was no other
man so good on earth. My whole soul
was bound up in you, but you went
away. I heard how you were living;
I understood your feeling in your brief
letters. I knew then that I had made
a mistake, and that God did not intend
us for each other, so after years and
years of effort I learned to forget you
in—in the old way. I never could
think of marrying, because I had no
heart left for anyone else, but I became
accustomed tc my lot and am happy
here with those I love. I believe that
I should have made your life different
if we had been married, but it is too
late now. We must be satisfied as it is. ’
“There was nothing I could say. My
tongue clung to the roof of my mouth.
She was sobbing softly as we walked
on. I knew she was right, and that I
had lost my last chance for happiness.”
“ ‘I am sorry for you, very sorry,’
she went on; ‘but I cannot help you.
You do not love me as you once did
any more than I still idolize you. I
think of you as a dear friend, but not
the other way; I never could.’
“We got back to the house just as
little Ed and Elsie were returning from
school. I found them the most inter
esting children I ever saw, I stayed
to tea and afterward sat in the glow of
the fire-light and listened to the chil
dren talk about their studies, and
w 7 atched the divine motherly glow of
satisfaction and pride that suffused her
calm, beautiful face. Then I told them
stories of my adventures in Africa and
they crept up and leaned on my knee.
I w 7 as never as happy and miserable
at the same time in my life.
“When I held her hand for a mo
ment in parting, I was as weak as a
child. I w 7 as about to implore her to
reconsider her refusal, but she drew her
hand away, and-^and I went back
through the darkness to my hotel.”
“Have you seen hersince?” Brainard
was leaning forward and looking eager
ly into his Iriend’s face.
“Not once.”
“Where is she?”
“Still there and happy—happy as
God intended she should be, as heaven
knows she deserves to be. She loves
her little charges and they adore her.’
The piano stool creaked as Brainard
whirled around. He had been so
much absorbed that he had not thought
of the moral Wardlaw was conveying,
the personal hint, nay appeal. Brain
ard’s fingers ran tremblingly over the
keys, producing a jumble of harmony
and discord. Then, seeing that Ward-
law had moved away to a bust of
Shakespeare across the room, he rose,
with an affected yawn, and started out.
“Hold on !” Wardlaw did not look
up, but his tone w 7 as almost that of
command.
“I have never spoken this way to a
soul before. I would not, but by Jove
I can’t stand by without a word and
see you going right over the same road
I traveled. It is all a delusion and a
snare. Every blamed bit of this sort
of life that a man gets is knocked off
his happiness account in the end.
That’s it—that expresses it. I would,
if I were you—I would go back to that
girl. She is a noble woman. Tell her my
story if you want to. Use me in any
way, I don’t care, but go back and let
this over rated business alone. It is
not in it along with the other thing.
Write to her—go to her.”
As he concluded, Wardlaw ap
proached his young friend and essayed
to put his arm around him, but Brain
ard eluded him.
“You are out of sorts,” Brainard
stammered, blushing. “You need a
brandy and soda. I shall ring for it as
I go out. By Jove, you have had a
pretty tough time of it; I can see that.
I’m going into my room to lie down
and take a nap. I got tired out with
that long stroll through the Art Mu
seum. Well, I shall send in the brandy
and soda.”
Wardlaw sat down and looked stead
ily at the carpet. As Brainard opened
the door, the roar of the streets came
in. Carriages and wagons and cars
were rattling to and fro. The street
lamps were being lighted all along
Fifth Avenue. James came in with
soft tread and turned on the electric
lights in the rose-tinted globes.
“Your box of things came just now,
sir; shall I have them unpacked and
brought up?”
“Did you light Mr. Brainard’s
room?” asked Wardlaw abruptly.
“No, sir; he had a light. He was
writing in a great hurry, and—”
“Aud what?”
“He is not looking well, sir; he
seemed feverish and restless. When I
came in he had his head on the table.
It looks like something’s gone wrong,
sir.”
“Did he say anything?”
“ He asked if I could get his letter in
the seven o’clock mail.”
“Which direction?”
“East, sir.”
Wardlaw rose, stretched himself, and
turned his face away from the servant’s
inquiring eyes.
“Oh, about the box, James, I forgot;
no don’t unpack it. Wait, I may not
stay here this winter after all. I will see
about it to-morrow. But—” Ward-
law took a roll of bills from his vest
pocket and tossed a wad of greenbacks
toward the wondering man. “There
is something for you, James. I wish
you would see to the mailing of Mr.
Brainard’s letter yourself—it’s impor
tant.”
Don’ts For Typewriters.
Fron the New Orleans Times-Demoerat.
The following rules were adopted at
a meeting of young and pretty steno
graphers and typewriters, and are now
published for the benefit of that neces
sary and ornamental order of office di
rectors, and for the enlightenment of
their employers:
Don’t bleach your hair until you
have secured a position.
Don’t state your speed when apply
ing as more than 200 words per minute
unless you can write fifty.
Don’t take more than two hours for
lunch.
Don’t get to the office later than 11
o’clock if the proper time is 9.
Don’t worry if you can’t read your
notes—stenographers seldom can.
Don’t ask for a day off more than
five times per week.
Don’t use the telephone more than
six hours a day—give the firm a show 7 .
Don’t forget to write all your per
sonal letters during office hours.
Don’t buy any postage stamps—the
office owes them to you.
Don’t clean the typewriter—let the
office boy or the boss do that.
Don’t invite yourself to lunch w 7 ith.
the boss—let him ask you.
Don’t bother with the junior partner.
Don’t fail to own the boss.