The Curse of Pocahontas

by Wenona Gilman

Of course she had Olney's letters, letters filled with loving promises and words of hope for the future; but letters are a poor substitute for the presence of one we love. Still, they are infinitely better than nothing. They came every day at first, filled with all those messages so dear to a girlish heart; then when he had gotten further down into Mexico, where the mail service is so deplorably bad, of course they became fewer. She had understood that that must be so before he went.

He told her in many of them of the utterly uncivilized state of the country, almost as uncivilized as if millions of miles existed between it and our own United States, of the long-cloaked, dark-browed, sombrero-crowned men who either walked or slunk through the streets when there were any, or roads when there were not, of the strange, wild, brilliant, many-hued country, that still had its inthralling fascination for all its repulsiveness.

"I almost wish that I had persuaded you to come with me, to give me your sweet companionship, for I am sure that in spite of all the hardships, you would enjoy it all," he wrote in one of his many letters. "Even granting its barbaric state, there is an unconscious poetry in it all that I am sure would delight you, a tropical, luxurious, brilliant beauty that gets into one's veins like wine, or the seductive bewilderment of opium. I am not quite sure but that you would never leave, but live on and on, content, like these people, with only the joy of living, the mere halcyon pleasure of existence—a lotus-eater. And yet there are parts of it so wild, so superbly barbaric almost that the very danger enchants one. I am growing well and strong under the excitement of it all and the desire to get back to you—the craving to feel the touch of your dear lips, to feel the warmth of your beautiful presence. Let us come here on our honeymoon, will you? To the home of your own people. Ah, there is romance enough in the very atmosphere, in the gorgeous color, the song of the birds, the picturesque buildings and customs and country, to make one die from excess of loving."

But after that, as has been said, the letters became less frequent, and there was nothing to do but sit beside the window and watch for the postman—the postman who went to others with his messages of happiness or pain, as it might be, but passed her by. She continued to write, though, every day, just as if she had received her daily effusion.

But never once had Leith Pierrepont's name been mentioned in it all.

It was very lonely. There were times when it seemed almost as if Mrs. Chalmers and Jessica had forgotten her very existence.

They rarely breakfasted before one o'clock in the afternoon, and then Carlita had had her luncheon and had gone out for a walk in the park or downtown to amuse herself by looking in the shop windows—not a very profitable pastime; but what was the poor child to do? By the time she returned they had gone for their drive, an excursion upon which she was never asked, although it was her money that paid for the new luxury of a victoria and pair, not to speak of the sumptuous coachman and footman; but she did not know it and therefore thought nothing of the omission. Unless there was a dinner party, which she never thought of attending, Mrs. Chalmers and Jessica sometimes condescended to dine with her; but that was not often; and if there was no opera in the evening there might be a theater party, with a dinner afterward—a really superb little dinner served by their new French chef, which was practically the greatest attraction the house offered since its reputation for "extraordinary" poker had been established.

For every night, whether there had been an opera or no opera, there was a poker game in progress, and always enough people willing to lose their money to make it profitable as well as interesting.

A few women had joined their ranks, women who rouged their faces and blackened their eyebrows and wore peroxide of hydrogen hair strangely like Mrs. Chalmers' own.

Carlita had seen the party once when the noise was so great that she could not sleep. She crept downstairs, concealed herself from sight, of course, and watched them for a little while, but her disgust was so great that she never did it again, but often covered up her head with the bedclothes in order to keep the sound out.