Atlanta Georgian. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1912-1939, June 04, 1913, Image 10
%
HALL CAINE
Copyright, 1913, by Hearat’fl Magazine—
Copyrighted in Great Britain.
Alone in London.
A f eight o’clock next morn
ing I was in the train leav
ing Liverpool tor London.
I had selected a second-class
compartment labelled: “For
Ladies,” and my only traveling
companion was a tall, fair wo
man. in a seal skin coat and a
very large black hat. She had
filled the carriage with the warm
odor of eau-de-cologne and the
racks on both sides with her lug
gage, which chiefly consisted of
ladies’ hat boxes of various
shapes and sizes.
Hardly had we started when I
realized that she was a very loqua
cious and expensive person.
Was I going ail the way? Yes?
Did 1 live in Liverpool? No? In
London, perhaps? No? Prftbably I
lived in the ountrv? Yes? That was
charming, the country being so lovely.
“Any friends in London?*’
“No.”
“None whatever?”
“None whatever.
"But won’t you be lonely by your
self in London?”
“A little lonely, perhaps.”
Being satisfied with what she had
found out about me, my traveling
companion (probably from the mere
love of talking) told me something
about herself.
She w*as a fashionable milliner and
had a shop in the West End of Lon
don. Occasionally she made personal
visits to the provinces to take orders
from the leading shopkeepers, but
during the season she found it more
profitable to remain in town, where
her connection was large, among peo
ple who could pay the highest prices.
By this time we had reached Crewe,
and as there was some delay in get
ting into the station, my traveling
companion put her head out of the
window to inquire the cause.
“I see what it is.” she said. “The
shooting season is over, and the so
ciety people* are coming down from
the moors. 1 know lots and lots of
them. They are my best customers—
the gentlemen at all events.”
“The gentlemen?”
“Why, yes,’ he said with a little
laugh.
After some ; hunting our Liverpool
carriages were coupled to the Scotch
train and run into the station, where
a number of gentlemen in knicker
bockers and cloth caps were atroll-
''ag about the platform.
My companion seemed to know
them all. and gave them their names,
generally their Christian names, and
often their familiar ones.
She Dodges Her
Husband's Friend.
Suddenly I had a shock A tall
man. whose figure 1 recognized,
passed close by' our carriage, and 1
had only time to conceal myself from
observation behind the curtain of the
window.
“Hello"* cried my companion.
“There’s Teddy East<'1111 He married
Camilla, the Russian dancer. They
first met in my shop, I may tell you.”
1 was feeling hot and cold by turns,
but a thick veil must have hidden
my confusion, for after we left Crewe
my companion, becoming still mor<
confidential, talked for a long time
about her aristocratic customers, and
I caught a glimpse of a life that was
on the verge of a kind of fashionable
Bohemia.
More than once I recognized my
husband’s friends among the num
ber of her clients, and trembling lest
my husband himself should become a
subject of discussion, I made the ex
cuse of a headache to close my eyes
and be silent.
My companion thereupon slept,
very soundly and gather audibly,
from Rugby to Willesden. where,
awakening with a start wh^e the
tickets were being collected, she first
powdered her face by her fashion-
An Extract
Hearst’s
in
from this great story, now running
Magazine, wh.ch is the talk of the coun
try—the most virile and daring novel ever penned
by this famous author. Read the synopsis and in
stallment, and then continue it in Hearst’s Magazine
for June, which has just been issued from the press.
Full Synopsis of Previous Chapters.
D ANIEL O'NEILL, a powerful, self-made man. forces hte only daugh
ter, Mary, into a loveless marriage with the impecunious and profli
gate Lord Baa. go that his ambition to have his descendants the rightful
heirs of the one earldom in Kllam may be realized. Mary’, a convent-raised
young woman, whose happiness Is supposed to follow her father’s dictates,
dares to hope that her loveless union with this ungodly man may be purged
of all Its sordidness by the sacred sacrament through which she and her hus
band have lust passed. That ihis hope is unfounded the events of their first
evening together soon prove to her. Shocked to discover his lordship to he
a man of sordid, sensual passions. Lady Baa refuses utterly to have anything
to do with her husband until such time as he ran prove himself worthy of her
love During the honeymoon abroad Alma Ller, a divorcee who had been
expelled from the convent Mary attended in Rome, attaches herself to the
party, and mekes the “honeymoon trip" a long series of slights and insults for
Lady Raa.
At last Lady Raa becomes certain of the infidelity of her husband and of
bis misconduct with Alma Ller On her return to London Mary encounters
her old play-fellow, Martin Conrad, who has returned from his triumphant
expedition to the Antarctic. Drawn Into ever-closer relations with the only
man for whose friendship Rhe had ever cared. Mary finally awakes to the fact
that she is hopelessly in love with Martin. Terrified by this knowledge, and
finding herself more and more in love with Martin, she determine* to run away
from the cause of her distress, and go home
Mary’s home-coming to Castle Raa is a sad affair Her husband fills the
tumble-dqwn old inansioh with his fast friends from London, Including Alma
Ller. who a*surneR control of the household l ltlmately the illness of her
father offers Mary excuse for escape from the intolerable environment. But
before visiting old home Mary appeals In turn to her Bishop and to he
father’s lawyer, only to be told that neither Church nor State can offer any
relief from her false position Eventually she consults Father Dan. telling
him that she can no longer live with her unfaithful husband, but his counsel
is that she cleave to the Church ami give up Martin Conrad. She return:; next
day to Cattle Raa to find that Martin is arriving for a farewell visit, and that
by Alma Ller'l deceitful scheming the whole hot
few days’ cruise.
muse party has gone off for a
During he* three days alone with her lover Mary fights a grim battle with
temptation, only to find on the last night that her faith in renunciation and the
laws of th** Church is a fragile thing ••mpared with her overwhelming love for
this olire-hearted man. YVlih Martin’s passionate words, “You are my real
life, I am your real husband." ringing in her brain she forgets everything else,
and with strong steps walks across the corridor to Martin’s bedroom. This
Is the action which Martin has advised as being the only course open to th* m
which is sure to bring the one result they ar-j fleiermined to attain Mary's
divorce from Lord Rau.
Mary determines, after the departure of Martin Conrad, to sink her iden
tity* in the whirlpool of London She is driven by fear of Ix>rd Runs discovery
of her unfaithfulness to him. she is equally afraid of the venomous tongue of
Alma Ller. Mary hooks passage for Liverpool on the midnight steamer, trav
eling in the steering to further guard her flight.
glass, and then interested herself
afresh in my own affairs.
“Did you say, my dear, that you
have no friends in London?”
I repeated that I had none.
“Then you will go to a hotel, I
suppose?”
I answered that I should have to
look for something less expensive.
“In that case,” she said. “I think
I know' something that will suit you
exactly."
Tt was a quiet boarding establish
ment in Bloomsbury—comfortable
house, reasonable terms, and, above
all. perfectly respectable. Tn fact,
it wits kept by her own sister, and
If I liked she would take me along
In her cab and drop me at the door.
Should she?
Looking back at that moment I
ennnot but wonder that after whit
I had heal'd I did not fear discovery.
But during the silence of the last
hour I had been feeling more than
ever weak and helpless, so that when
rny companion offered me a shelter
in that great, noisy, bewildering city
in which I had intended to hide my
self, but now feared 1 might be sub
merged and lost, with a willing, if
not a cheerful heart, I accepted.
She Arrives at
Her New Home.
Half an hour afterward our cab
drew up in a street off Russell Square
at a rather grimy looking house
which stood at the corner of another
and smaller square that was shut off
by an iron railing.
The door was opened by a young
waiter of 16 or 17 years, who whs
wearing a greasy dress suit and a
solid shirt front.
My companion pushed into the hall,
1 followed her, and almost at the
same moment a still larger and per
haps grosser woman than my friend,
with the same features and complex
ion. came out of a room to the left
with a serviette In her hand.
“Sophie!**
“Jane." cried my companion, and
pointing to me she said. ‘Tve brought
you a new boarder.”
Then followed a rapid account of
where she had met me, who and what
1 was, and why 1 had come up to
London.
“I’ve promised you’ll take her in
and not charge her too much, you
know.**
"Why, no, certainly not,” said the
sister.
At the next moment the boy waiter
was bringing my trunk into the
hous#r on his shoulder, and my trav- ,
eling companion was bidding me
goodbye and saying she would look
me -up later.
When the door was closed I found
the house full of the smell of hot
food, chiefly roast beef and green
vegetables, and I could hear the clink
of knives and forks and the clatter
of dishes in the room the landlady
had come from.
The Grotesque Set
of Fellow Boarders.
“You’d like to go to Vour bedroom
at once, wouldn’t you?” she said.
We went up two flights of stair*,
covered with rather dirty druggeting.
along a corridor that had a thin strip
of linoleum, and Anally up a third
| night that was bare to the boards,
until w e came to a room which seemed
to be at the top of the house and sit
uated in its remotest corner.
“I dare say this will do for the
present.” said the landlady, and
though my heart wan in my mouth
1 compelled myself to agree.
“My terms, including meals and all
extras, will be a pound a week.” she
added, and to that also, with a lump
in my throat, I assented, w-hereupon
my landlady left me, saying lunch
was just on, and I could come down
stairs when I was ready.
A talkative, cockney chambermaid
with a good little face brought me a
fat, blue jug of hot water, and after
1 had washed and combed I found
my way down to the dining room.
The company, who were of both
sexes and chiefly elderly, seemed to
me at that first sight to be dressed
in every variety of out-of-date
clothes, many of them rather shabby
and some almost grotesque.
Raising their faces from their
plates they looked at me as I en
tered, and I was so confused that 1
stood hesitating near the door until
the landlady called to me.
“Come up here,” she said, and when
I had done so, and taken the seat by
her side, which had evidently been
leserved for me. she whispered. “I
don’t think my sister mentioned your
name, my dear. What is it?”
I had no time to deliberate.
“O’Neill,” I whispered back, and
thereupon my landlady, raising her
voice, and addressing the company
as if they had been members of her
family, said, "Mrs. O’Neill, my dears.’
Then the ladies at the table in
clined their heads at me and smiled,
while the men x (especially those who
were the moat strangely dressed)
rose from their seats and bowed
deeply.
The Missing Peeress.
O F all houses in London this, 1
thought, was the least suitable
to me.
Looking down the table 1 told my
self that it must be the very home
of idle gossip and the hotbed of tittle-
tattle.
I was wrong. Hardly had I been
in the house when 1 realized that
my fellow-guests were the most re
served and self-centered of all pos
sible people.
One old gentleman who wore a
heavy mustache, and had been a
colonel in the Indian army, was un
derstood to be a student of Biblical
prophecy, having collected some thou
sands of texts which established the
Identity of the British nation with
the lost tribe of Israel.
Another old gentleman, who wore
a patriarchal beard and had taken
“orders” without securing « living,
was believed to be writing a history
of the world, and (after forty years
of continuous labor) -o have reached !
the century before Christ.
An elderly lady with a benign ex
pression was said to be a tragic
actress who was studying in secret
for a season at the National Theater.
Such, and of such kind, were my
housemates, and 1 have since been
told that every great city has manv
>uch groups of people, the great
prophets, the great historians, the
j great nut hoi's, the great actors—those
i the world does not know, the odds and
ends of humanity—thrown aside by
the rushing river of life into the gul-
] ley ways that line its banks, the odd
brothers, the odd sisters, the odd un-
j eles, the odd aunts, for whom there
| is no place in the family, in society,
I or in the business bf the world.
It was all very curious and pa- j
i thetic, yet I should have been safe, |
for a time at all events, in this little
corner of London into which chance,
had so strangely thrown me but for
one unfortunate happening.
That whs the arrival of the daily
newspaper.
There was never more than a single
copy. It came at 8 in the morning
and was laid on the dining room
mantel pit re, from which (by an un
written law of the home) it was the
duty as well as the honor of the
person who had first finished break
fast to take it u;> and read the most
tart ling part of the news to the rest
of the company.
She Hears the Story
of Her Disappearance.
Thus ii occurred that on the third
morning after my arrival I was star
tled by the voice of the old colonel
who. standing back to the fire, with
the newspaper in his hand, cried:
“Mysterious disappearance of a peer
ess.”
“Read it,” said the old clergyman.
The teacup which I was raising to
my mouth trembled in my hand, and
when I set it down ft rattled against
the saucer. I knew what was corn
ing, and It came.
The old (’olone! read:
“A telegram from Blackwater an
nounces the mysterious disappear
ance of the young wife of Lord Raa,
which appears to have taken place
late on Thursday night or in the
early hours of Friday morning.
“It will be remembered that the
missing lady was married a little
more than a year ago, and her dis
appearance is the more unaccountable
from the fact that during the past
month she has been actively occupied
in preparing for a fete in honor of
her return home after a long and
happy honeymoon.
“The pavilion in which the fete
was to have been held had been
erected on a headland between Castle
Raa and a precipitous declivity to
the sea, and the only reasonable con
jecture is that the unhappy lady, go
ing out on Thursday night to super-
intend the last preparations, lost her
way in the darkness, and fell over
the cliffs.
“The fact that the hostess was
missing was not generally known in
Elian until the guests had begun to
arrive for the reoeption on Friday
evening, when the large assembly
broke up in great confusion.
“Naturally much sympathy is felt
for the grief stricken husband.”
After the colonel had finished read
ing I had an almost irresistible im
pulse to scream, feeling sure that the
moment my housemates looked into
my face they must see that I was the
person indicated.
They did not look, and after a
chorus of exclamations (“Most mys
terious!” “What can have become of
her?” “On the eve of her fete, too!”)
they begun to discuss the disappear
ance in general, each illustrating his*
By Hall Caine
Author of 44 The Christian 44 The
Prodigal SonEtc., Etc.
Illustrated by Frank Craig
point by reference to the subject of
his own study.
It would take long to tell of the
feverish days that followed—how
newspaper correspondents were sent
from London to Elian to inquire into
the circumstances of my disappear
ance: how the theory of accident
gave place to the theory of suicide,
and the theory of suicide to the the
ory of flight; how a porter on the
pier at Blackwater said he had car
ried my trunk to the steamer that
sailed on Thursday midnight, think
ing I was a maid from the great
house until I had given him half a
crown (his prdper fee being three
pence); how two female passengers
had declared that a person answer
ing to my description had sailed
with them to Liverpool; how these
clews had been followed up and had
led to nothing, and now, finally, the
correspondents had concluded the
whole incident of my disappearance
could not be more mysterious if I
had dropped from midair into ths
middle of the Irish Sea.
Reward of 500 Pounds
Offered for Information.
But then came another develop
ment.
My father, who was reported to
have received the news of my de
parture in a way that suggested that
he had lost control of his senses
(raging and storming at my husband
ike a man demented), having come
to the sudden conclusion that I, being
in a peculiarly sensitive condition, had
received a serious shock resulting in
a loss of memory, offered five hun
dred pounds reward for information
that would lead to my discovery,
which was not only desirable to allay
the distress of my heart broken fam
ily but urgently necessary to settle
important questions of title and in
heritance.
With this offer of a reward came a
description of my personal appear
ance.
“Age twenty; a little under the me
dium height; slight; very black hair;
lustrous dark eyes; regular features;
paleface; grave expression; unusual
ly sunny smile.”
It would be impossible for me to
say with what perturbation I heard
these reports read out by the old
colonel and the old clergyman. Even
the nervous stirring of my spoon and
fork made me wonder that my house
mates did not realize the truth, which
must, 1 thought, be plainly evident tQ
all eyes.
They never did. being so utterly im
mersed in their own theories, but all
the same I sometimes felt as if my
fellow* guests in that dingy house in
Bloomsbury were my judges and jury,
and more than once, in my great
agitation, when the reports came near
to the truth. I wanted to say. “Stop,
stop, don’t you see it is I?”
That I never did so was due to the
fact that not knowing what legal
powers my father would have had to
compel my return to Elian, the ter
ror that sat on me like a nightmare
w*as that of being made the subject of
a public quarrel between my father
and my husband, concerning the le
gitimacy of my unborn child, with
the shame and disgrace which that
w*ould bring not only upon me but
upon Martin.
I had some reason for this fear
After my father s offer of a reward
there came various spiteful para
graphs (inspired, as I thought, by
Alma, and written by the clumsier
hand of my husband) saying it was
reported in Elian that if my disap
pearance was to be accounted for on
the basis of flight, the only “shock”
I could have experienced must be a
shock of conscience, rumor having
for some time associated my name
with that of a person who was not
unknown in connection with Antarctic
exploration.
It was terrible.
After awhile I realized that not
only my housemates, but all London,
was discussing my diR&ppe&rance.
It was a rule of our boarding house
that during certain hours of every
day everybody should go out as if he
had business to go to. and having
nothing else to do, I used to walk up
and down the streets. In doing so I
was compelled to pass certain news
venders’ stalls, and I saw for sev
eral days that nearly every placard
had something about “the missing
peeress."
When this occurred I would walk
quickly along the thoroughfaVe with
a sense of being pursued and the feel
ing w hich a nervous woman has when
she is going down a dark corridor at
night—that noiseless footsteps are
coming behind, and a hand may at
any moment be laid on her shoulder.
But nobody troubled me in the
streets, and the only person in our
boarding house w*ho seemed to sus
pect me was our landlady. She said
nothing, but when my lip was quiv
ering to the old colonel read that
cruel word about Martin, I caught
her little gray eyes looking aslant at
me.
One afternoon, her sister, the milli
ner, came to see me according to her
promise, and thought she, too. said
nothing, I saw that while the old
colonel and the old clergyman were
disputing on the hearth rug about
some disappearance which occurred
thousands of years ago, she w*as look
ing fixedly at the fingers with which,
In my nervousness, 1 was ruckling up
the discolored chintz in my chair.
Th£n in a moment—I don’t know
why—it flashed upon me that my
traveling companion was in corre
spondence with my father.
That idea became so insistent
toward dinner time that I made pre
tense of being ill (which was not very
difficult) to retire to my room, where
the cockney chambermaid wrung
handkerchiefs out of vinegar and laid
them on my forehead to relieve my
headache—though she increased it,
poor thing, by talking perpetually.
Next morning my landlady came up
to say that if, as she assumed from
my name, I was Irish and a Cath
olic, I might like to receive a visit
from a Sister of Mercy w r ho called to
the house at intervals to attend to
the sick.
I thought I saw in a moment that
this was a subterfuge, but feeling that
my identity was suspected, I dare not
give cause for further suspicion, so
I compelled myself to agree.
A few minutes later, having got up
and dressed, I was standing with my
back to the window, feeling like one
who would soon have to face an at
tack. when a soft footstep came up
my corridor and a gentle hand
knocked at my door.
“Come in,” I cried, trembling like
the last leaf at the end of a swinging
bough.
And then an astonishing thing hap
pened.
A young woman stepped quietly in
to the room and closed the door be
hind her. She was wearing the blue
and white habit of the Little Sisters
of the Poor, but I knew her long, pale,
pain-featured face in an instant.
A flood of shame and at the same
time a flood of joy swept over me at
the sight of her.
It wAs Mildred Bankes.
Identified.
“M'
“I passed through tne streets stunned, stupefied, feeling
as if I were running away from some malignant curse, the
newsmen pursuing me, darting out from every street crying
‘ Paper—third e’shen—loss of the Schosha!”
\RY," said Mildred, "speak
low and tell me everything."
She sat in my chair, I
knelt by her {■ide. took one of her
hands in both of mine, and told her.
I told her that 1 had fled from my
husband's house because I could not.
bear to remain there any longer.
I told her that my father had mar
ried me against my will, In spite of
my protests, when 1 was a child, and
did not know that I had any right
to resist him.
I told her that my father—God for
give me if I did him a wrong—did
Mary O’Neill, the heroine
of this great story. In ‘ ‘ The
Woman Thou Gavest Me” is
contained the true story of Mary
O'Neill, told by herself and written
from her memoranda. Forced into
a loveless marriage with the profli
gate Lord Raa, Mary is despondent
and later terrified to find that she has
fallen desperately in love with an old
play-fellow. Read how she fights against
temptation, only to be overcome with her
overwhelming love for this man. This is the
story you have been hearing about and the
one that has created such a sensation through
out the country. Mr. Caine has not minced
words in discussing the true-to-life situations that
continually occur in his novel, but paints word-pic
tures of living truths that drive their lessons home.
not love me, that be had sacrificed
my happiness to his lust of power,
and that if he were searching fof me
now it was* only because my absence
disturbed his plans and hurt hi? pride.
I told her that my husband did not
love me either, and that he had mar
ried me from the basest motive?,
merely to pay his debts and secure
an income.
I told her, too. that not only did
my husband not love me, but he loved
somebody else, that he had been erue
and brutal to me, and therefore (for
these and other reasons) I could not
return to him under any circum
stances*.
While I was speaking I felt Mil
dred’s hand twitching betwen mine,
and when I had finished she said.
“But, my dear child,, they told me
your friends were broken-hearted
about you; that you had lost your
memory and perhaps your reason, and
therefore it would be a good act to
help them to send you home.”
“It’s not true, it’s not true,” I said.
She Told Me How
She Came To Be There.
And then in a low voice, as if
afraid of being overheard, she told
me how »iie came to be there—that
the woman who had traveled with
me in the train from Liverpool, see
ing my father’s offer of a reward,
had written to him to say that she
knew* where I was and only needed
somebody to establish my identity;
that my father wished to come to
London for this purpose, but had
been forbidden by his doctor; that
our parish priest, Father Donovan,
had volunteered to come instead but
had been prohibited by his bishop,
and finally that my father had writ
ten to his lawyers in London, and
Father Dan to her, knowing that she
and I had been together at the Sac
red Heart in Rome, and that It wait
her w*ork now to look after lost ones
and send them safely back to their
people.
“And now* the lawyer and the doc
tors are downstairs,” she said in a
w'hisper. “and they are only waiting
for me to say who you are that they
may apply for an order to send you
home.”
This terrified me so much that 1
made a fervent appeal to Mildred to
save me.
“Oh, Mildred, save me, save me,”
I cried.
“But how can I? How can I?” she
asked.
I saw what she meant, and think
ing to touch her still more deeply 1
told her the rest of my story.
I told her that if I had fled from
my husband’s house it was not mere
ly because he had been cruel and
brutal to me, but because, I too, loved
somebody else—somebody who was
tar away but was coming back, and
theie was nothing I could not bear
for him in the meantime, no pain or.
suffering - or loneliness, and when he
returned he would protect me from
every danger, and we should love
each other eternally.
Continued in Hearst’s Magazine
for June.
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to $85.00. Itse that fast Ansco film; fits any camera or
kodak: costs no more, hut also gives true color values.
Mail Order Department.
E. H. CONE, Inc., 2 Stores, Atlanta, Ga.
THE
■^OMAN *J*HOU (}AVEST fy|E