“Oh, my, no, he wasn’t married!” exclaimed Mrs. Wharton. “I’m quite sure he wasn’t, because he had a sweetheart—such a pretty girl, too. That’s her picture on the mantel.”
I picked up the photograph and found that the landlady had spoken “by the card”—the dead man’s sweetheart was indeed “such a pretty girl,” of the dark Spanish type—with a face full of life and passion.
“Ah,” I exclaimed to myself, “I’ll wager that we have found ‘the woman.’ Those great dark eyes, that massive head of ebon hair and those full, sensuous lips seem to me to fit into this mystery very accurately.”
“Where does the young woman live?” I asked.
“Laws, sir, I don’t know where she lives, but I understand that she works somewhere down town. Mr. Peyton used to call for her, so one of the other boarders who used to be here said, nearly every evening at closing time, at one of them big department stores. I don’t know which one, for sure, but I think it was the Emporium—or, maybe, it was Wurtzinger’s.”
I had no doubt as to my ability to recognize the original of the photograph. After making a mental note of the somewhat faded inscription upon the back, I replaced the picture upon the mantel.
“To Hartley, from Julie.” Julie was the name that the dead man had spoken, almost in his last agony. Most assuredly I must find Julie.
As may be imagined, after my arrival home I wasted none of the remaining precious moments of the night in sleeping. I fairly dashed into my study, turned on the lights, closed and locked the door instinctively, without rhyme or reason, and proceeded to read that portentous letter:
“Hartley:—
“Why did you follow me to N—? Why can you not understand? Why do you persist in harrowing my very soul in the attempt to bring back by force and arms what no longer exists? I have told you, over and over again, that I no longer love you, and that I love another with all the strength of my being. Of what good could it be to compel me, as you are trying to do, to continue a liaison which I have come to detest, and which, had I been more worldly wise would never have been formed? And you threaten to expose me—you, who have nothing to lose, while I—oh, man, man! Why can you not see? And you say you love me, and you reproach me because I have said in the past—that past over which I fain would draw a veil of oblivion—that I loved you. Yes, I did love you—to my shame be it said, the more shame that I now know that the burning sentiment, the ardent affection you have expressed for me is not love, but the passion of the brute whose life revolves around his own selfish gratification. You will say this is not true, that you do love me, that your love is of the exalted type. For God’s sake then, do what you can to show me that I am wrong! By that love, I implore you to do nothing until I see you. Do not bring the girl you have so often called your Julie, to open shame! Oh, Hartley, be not harsh to me! I am the most miserable wretch, the unhappiest being on the face of the earth. Do not drive me to desperation and death. Do not ruin my future. Be merciful, I implore you. In your last letter you threaten to denounce me to my father, that you will send him my letters. Oh, why did I ever write them? Hartley, if my poor old father should ever read those letters, inspired though they were by the truest love, he would put me away from him. He would hate me, now that I am engaged to marry a man of whom he is very fond. I wrote to you in all the ardor of my first love; it was as pure and as true as it was deep, but the world could not, would not understand. I believed you when you said you loved me, and it was for the love that you expressed that I adored you. I put on paper what I should not. Had my love been one of head and not of heart—had I not believed you the noblest of men, I should not now be pleading for mercy. If my father or Mr. X—— should see those fond letters to you, what could I expect but a revulsion of feeling? If any other eyes should see them, what would not be said of me? Oh, on my bended knees I implore you to spare me,—to spare those who love me and whom I love with my whole soul. As you hope for mercy on the Judgment Day, do not inform on me—do not make my name a scandal and a reproach! Oh, will you not keep my secret from the world? For the sake of my mother, for the love you bear your own, spare me! Oh, Hartley, in God’s name hear my prayer! I have prayed God to forgive your cruel threats—to inspire you to spare me from shame. For the love of Heaven, hear me! I grow mad! I have been ill, very ill, ever since I received your last awful, threatening letter. I have had to resort to drugs—something I should not have taken, and my brain is on fire. I feel as if death itself would be sweet. Hartley, oh, Hartley; abuse me, villify me, kill me if you will, but do not denounce me! For my life I am pleading—oh, listen, listen, for—must I say it?—for your own safety hear me. I cannot stand everything. Do not drive me to madness and death—or worse! Have pity on her whom you once called—your Julie.”