Reno — a Book of Short Stories and Information

by Lilyan Stratton

Nell Wilbur had always been proud, willful and highly strung. Her mother had died young. Her father after futile attempts to guide her steps in the right direction, finally concluded that it was better to let her have her head; she would run away with the bit anyway. She might break her neck, but she surely would have to learn life's lessons in her own way, and she did.

Her family tried to make a match for her but she refused, saying, "I want to be the captain of my own soul; I will make my own mistakes": and she kept her word. Just seventeen, she went to visit an aunt in New York, glowing with youth and health, with a mind full of romance and ideals; an enthusiast, and a dreamer of dreams. She at once found herself surrounded by devoted admirers, all rivaling with each other in their efforts to please her. One young millionaire, finding that she was fond of equestrian sports, offered her the pick of his stables, whereupon the young Virginian lifted her eyes in surprise as she said: "But where would I ride? Your little old park isn't big enough to ride in, and the people all look as though they dropped out of a Fifth Avenue shop window. If you would come with me for a cross country gallop in Virginia, you would understand that I could not possibly be interested in doing living pictures in Central Park!"

Among the hosts of Miss Wilbur's admirers there were two who interested the young lady; one a splendid young English lawyer, rich and handsome: the other, a young New York artist, poor but interesting, very sincere, very intellectual and with strong personality.

Both men had many faults, though they had their full share of fine qualities as well. The faults that were most annoying to Miss Wilbur in the young lawyer (whose name by the way was Glen Royce) were his profound conceit and his sensual nature. There was some excuse for him because the Gods had endowed him with all their charms; he was an Adonis, Apollo and all the other Greek Gods in one. I don't think I have ever seen two people so near physical perfection as Nell Wilbur and Glen Royce. They seemed to be made for each other; every one had decided that they would surely be married. Young Royce was madly in love, and though Miss Wilbur lavished her smiles on the young artist, Will Beuland, no one thought that he had the slightest chance.

Miss Wilbur's aunt invited a party of the young people to Atlantic City for the Easter holidays, and I was lucky enough to be asked, my principal pleasure being in watching the ideal young lovers. They were always perfectly groomed; always stunning; in morning dress, bathing suits and evening clothes, alike charming. The last evening before our return I was in the reception room when Nell appeared dressed for dinner. I watched young Royce when, with all the grace of a prince, he rose to receive her. She was in rose satin and chiffon, with a cluster of pink blossoms in her hand, like the herald of spring; so soft and delicately tinted were her beautifully moulded shoulders that one could scarcely perceive where the soft clinging chiffon left off. She was startlingly beautiful, and as I watched the man as he touched her hand, I could have sworn that all the blood in his veins had turned to liquid fire.

I made some excuse and left them alone. The balcony was dark and deserted, and I betook myself to its seclusion. I think the lovers must have forgotten about the balcony; I am quite sure he had forgotten everything but the vision before him. He was living in the world that never was; the sound of flutes was wafted on the breeze from fairyland. Pulsing bosom and sheen of sun-kissed shoulders…. Ah! maddening modesty and virtue, how inconsistent are thy ways! No wonder so many forget about the cursed serpent….

Through the windows I saw the man lead the woman to a cluster of palms in a far corner of the big room, seat her on a divan in the shadow of the palms and drop on his knees before her. The next moment she was in his arms. He had meant to propose the same as we read in books, but his lips were too near the woman's delicately tinted breast… He kissed her lips, her eyes, her bosom and shoulders; he was like the rush of a bursting river whose waters cry out in ecstasy of liberation as they leap in the sunshine.

That evening at dinner the engagement was informally announced. There was, however, something in Miss Wilbur's manner that I could not quite fathom; that something which completes the happiness of two people who love each other was lacking. It was not until ten years later when I met Mrs. Beuland in Reno, that I understood the shadow.

I knew that the young lawyer had failed to induce Miss Wilbur to consent to an early wedding, and after much persuasion Mr. Royce returned to England alone. Later it was rumored that the engagement had been broken off; then we heard that Mr. Royce had committed suicide; again that he had married; another time that he was returning to America to press his suit.

Miss Wilbur was very reticent about the subject and continued to receive the attentions of the young artist, Will Beuland, and some six months after Mr. Royce returned to England she was married to the New York artist. No one seemed surprised, though it caused much gossip.