Part 4 — THE STORY OF VERE DE VERE.

E know not in our poor philosophy what hidden chords are touched by unseen hands.

More than a hundred years ago there lived in the Sunny South a handsome cavalier, who was noted for his riches, daring and cruelty. It is recorded that, whenever a man opposed him, he coolly ran him through with his broadsword; and whenever a female repulsed him he disgraced her, if he had an opportunity, or else some one who was near and dear to her.

The greatest artist of his time painted his portrait, and it hangs to-day in one of the public institutions of his native State. Tradition has it that he once killed a gypsy lad who happened to win the love of a young gypsy girl with whom he imagined himself to be in love, and that a gypsy woman cursed him for the deed and wrote his horoscope with the blood of the murdered youth as follows: “That his line would cease with one girl, who would live long enough to disgrace his name; that many years of her life would be spent in a vile prison among negroes in a foreign land for a crime like the one he had then committed.”

This view behind the curtain seems to have had a strong effect upon the cruel cavalier, for he decided to marry and settle down like the people around him. His wife was a woman of gentle character, and her influence wrought a great change in the morals of her husband, for it was said that he became quite religious, and, when a little girl was born to him, with many tears and prayers he dedicated the child to God.

Meantime the years rolled on. The cavalier died, and, as daughter after daughter was born of his line, his name became extinct. Then, too, poverty, the great leveler, had come upon the family. His portrait, his signature to a famous document, and the tale of the gypsy’s curse were all that remained of the cavalier. Those who watched for the fulfillment of the curse died and were forgotten; and at last a daughter was born, fifth in line from him. Her mother departed this world at her birth; her father, some months later, and it devolved upon the neighbors to care for the orphaned child. As she grew to womanhood people remarked that she bore a strong resemblance to the portrait of her great-grandfather on her mother’s side, and by a special act of the Legislature she was given his name.

At 17, being pretty, gracious, sensible and womanly, with a genius for music, a great future was predicted for her; but, in the parlance of the day, “she went wrong.” Her betrayer was the son of one of the most opulent families in the State, and, at his mother’s request, the girl was sent to a distant Southern city. Here, after a few months, necessity compelled her to take up a residence in the underworld, and the friends of her childhood thenceforth knew her no more. She had been the ward of every one at home, and was, therefore, the ward of no one; and her disappearance was only a nine days’ wonder.

In spite of her degraded calling, men admired her, and, because of a certain haughtiness in her bearing toward them, she was called “Vere de Vere,” and it was known that she was sought with honest intention by men who declared that they loved her for her womanliness and the music of her laugh. The creatures of the world stood in awe of her, because of her dignity, and they feared her because of her violent temper. So, she lived her scarlet life, apparently without regret, until one day an old man from her native State happened in and amused his listeners by telling weird stories which, he said, had been told him by his grandmother. He related the story of Vere de Vere’s ancestor, without knowing that one of his listeners was the only person upon whom the curse might fall. Nor did he know that when Vere de Vere fainted he had touched a chord of sensibility rarely found in the nature of women of her sort.

On the morning of the following day Vere de Vere told her associates that she desired to go to work and earn an honest living. “This is not the right life for me,” said she to her incredulous auditors. “I was born to a higher life. I shall be good; I shall marry, and I shall have children,” with which announcement she left them, to begin life anew.

How fresh and beautiful the morning seemed to her as she hurried toward a park! What do you know of fresh, green, delightful mornings? she said to herself as she sat down and took a deep breath. A bird twittering in a branch above her head, and a pair of squirrels playing in the grass beside her, made her smile and forget. A man in passing leered at her and attempted to speak, but she checked him abruptly with the information that he had made a mistake. “I shall wear black for a time,” she thought. Then she began to wonder what she could do. She could sew beautifully. A light came into her eyes at the thought of the creations that she had designed for her underworld revels. She could embroider, paint china and play the violin.

She bought a newspaper and looked through the list of advertisements. The following attracted her attention:

“WANTED—A lady violinist and seven other lady musicians to make up a lady orchestra for a first-class hotel in Panama.”

Her heart leaped for joy. “This is my chance. I shall go to Panama. It is far away, and no one will recognize me there,” said the poor girl as she hastened to answer the advertisement.

At noon on the following day she was standing on the ship’s deck on her way to Colon, and as New Orleans receded from view her lips moved in prayer; she was asking God to give her strength to lead a better life.

The man who had engaged her had complimented her upon her skill at playing. “You may not like Panama,” said he, “for the life down there is rough, and I see you are a lady.”

In a few days she was walking the streets of Colon in glorious freedom. Men eyed her furtively from some safe retreat, but no one ventured to accost her. There was no one to lift an eyebrow or to give a scornful glance. “Safe, thank God!” she said. “I shall not be the victim of that curse.” She was thinking of what she should wear that night. A simple white muslin dress; a white rose in her hair. No paint, no jewelry, no more bright colors. “I shall save my money and buy a little home,” she thought.

“It is time to dress,” said one of her girl friends, breaking in upon her reverie. “We are to go to the hotel at seven.” But it was not an hotel—it was a barroom where employes of the Canal Commission and the riff-raff of God’s great universe assembled nightly to drink to excess and discuss the slanderous gossip of the Isthmus.

When Vere de Vere arrived at the entrance she faltered and refused to go in. “It is a low barroom,” said she to her companions, “and there are drunkards inside who will say vile things to us.”

“But we must play there, or else we won’t be able to live,” said one of the girls.

So they walked in, single file, through the rows of leering men, leaving the frightened girl on the sidewalk.

“Aw, come on in, kid,” said the manager, whose name was “Blinkey.” “This is an all-right place; the best in town. There ain’t no first-class hotels in this God-forsaken place. What ’ud support ’em? Not the I. C. C. roughnecks an’ P. R. R. pen-pushers. Not on your life, kid. Why did I say that the place was a first-class hotel? Because I’m a liar, of course. Come on in.”

“I want to live a good life,” replied the girl, with the calmness of despair in her voice.

“Well, that’s up to you, my girl. I ain’t askin’ you not to lead a good life. You can be as good as Saint Cecelia an’ play here every night. The better you are, the greater attraction you’ll be for this joint, for good ladies are doggoned scarce on the Isthmus. I’ll tell the boys all about you, an’ when I get through I bet you they’ll respect you. You must play that ‘Good Night’ solo when you see that they’re about half-shot. Come on in; I’ll lead you. My! you are shiverin’ an’ your hand is as cold as ice. You bet the boys’ll know when they see a real lady. You look like a little girl in that simple white dress.”

So she allowed “Blinkey” to lead her by the hand into the reeking barroom, and onto the balcony, where her girl companions awaited her. Then the manager announced, in the unmistakable voice of the professional barker: “Gen-tle-men: I wish to introduce to your favorable notice Miss Merriam Leigh, the famous violinist. She has medals which were presented to her by the Emperors of Germany, Austria and Japan; medals that are worth a fortune, and the little lady is too modest to wear ’em. This is the lady who entranced with her violin solos the late King Edward the Seventh, and made him exclaim, a few moments before he died, ‘To endow with such genius a poor human being, there must be a God!’ I presume you have all read of the rope of pearls that he gave to this little lady before he died; an account of ’em was in all the papers. I presume you all read about when Queen Alexandra wanted to keep her in her household to play for her in her widowhood. This is the modest little lady who comes here to-night to let the P. R. R.’s and the I. C. C.’s hear her play. You can see that she’s a lady. Treat her as such.”

“Come forward, now,” said “Blinkey,” in an aside that only the girl could hear, “and bow to the blokes while there’s a sentimental fit on ’em, an’ you’ll be a darned sight safer here than you’d have been in old King Eddie’s quarters.”

The harangue was news to the poor girl, and the humor of it made her smile as she stepped forward to bow to the waiting throng. Each man raised his glass to toast the celebrity, when a harsh voice somewhere among the drinkers said: “Well, I’ll be gorldurned if it ain’t Vere de Vere, from Mixed Ale Lizzie’s place in N’Yawlins.”

Vere de Vere heard the ominous words, and felt a faintness overpower her, but, with that spirit for which men had admired, she seized her violin and played, while her cheeks flamed and her eyes sparkled, “Lead, Kindly Light, Lead Thou Me On.”

“She’s mad, all right,” said a maudlin voice in the crowd.

“That makes a feller think of things that Gawd has to do with,” spoke up another.

A hush fell upon the assembly, and the black waiters stood still and bowed their heads. The bartender, an old tropical tramp, used his towel to wipe his teardrops from the marble. The last time he had heard that hymn it was being sung at the funeral of his wife away back on the farm in Missouri. There were many wet eyes as the girl frantically played to the finish. Then, with one wild bound, she rushed through the reeking saloon, out into the street to a nearby park, where she sat down and cried it out.

No one spoke after she had left the barroom, but one by one the men tiptoed out, leaving unfinished glasses on the tables behind them. At nine o’clock the place was deserted and the doors were closed. Habitues, who came too late, said to one another, “I wonder what’s the matter with ‘Blinkey’s’ place. He advertised a lady orchestra and a big night to-night.”

“Say, ain’t he the liar, though?”

“Well, he ain’t doin’ business, that’s a cinch. Wonder what’s up.”

One man remained in “Blinkey’s” place; it was the informer. He told the manager all he knew of the violinist; it was, that he had seen her in a disreputable house in New Orleans.

“You’re a pretty rotten specimen of manhood to go giving her away like that,” said “Blinkey.” “If you had any sense you might have known that she was trying to do right, the poor little devil. ’Twas a rotten deal to hand out to me; spoiled a good night’s business, an’ made a liar of me.”

“But half of ’em didn’t hear what I said,” protested the offender.

“No,” said “Blinkey,” “they didn’t hear you, but she did, an’ she played that to get ’em to thinkin’ of their pasts as she was made to remember hers. I bet every man of ’em left off livin’ right soon after the last time they heard that played; I know I did. ’Twas when poor Maggie died, Gawd rest her soul! There’s ginger in that girl; there’s soul an’ feelin’ in her, an’ pride. I had to coax her to come in, an’ she said somethin’ about wantin’ to lead a good life.”

“That’s the way in this darned old world,” put in the bartender. “Step a little bit askew, an’ down you go; but, when you try to buck up, some gink comes along that hain’t got sense enough to get in when it rains, an’ he blows on you an’ every one’ll believe him, an’ you either get in jail or into a crooked poker game. I know; I been there. That girl’ll either commit suicide or go back to the life that she’s been tryin’ to git away from now.”

“Yes,” said “Blinkey,” shaking his head. “An’ I’ll have it all on my soul, and Gawd knows I have enough to answer for now. I’ll get out of this business, by heck; I will.”

“Well, I guess I’ll be goin’,” said the informer. “I’m fed up on moralizin’. I’m sorry I squealed on the merry widow. Good-night, boys. I guess you’re troublin’ more about it than she is.”

“Say! you didn’t tell any of ’em on the q. t., did you?” asked “Blinkey,” anxiously.

“A couple of ’em, but they were too darned drunk to remember,” the informer replied.

“Well, say! you’d better tell them fellers to-morrow night that you made a mistake; that she ain’t the one you thought she was,” said “Blinkey,” in a persuasive tone.

“If I think of it,” said the informer, as he walked leisurely through the doorway with the air and manner of one with nothing to regret.

“All the fire in purgatory wouldn’t clean up that feller’s soul,” said the bartender, as the door closed behind the man.

“That mut ain’t got no soul. ‘Lead, Kindly Light,’ wasn’t wrote for such spawn as him. I guess I’ll take a ride out into the savannahs to get a breath of Gawd’s pure air, for, I’ll tell you what, the stink of this booze joint is gittin’ on my nerves,” said “Blinkey,” in disgust.

On the following day Vere de Vere looked for work, but failed to find it, and at night she went back to the barroom and played, without looking at the drinkers. When her violin solo was finished she sought a remote corner of the balcony and hid herself behind the other players.

“That girl is afraid of us fellers,” said a man, laughing.

“It takes some nerve for a young lady like her to play in a place like this for a bunch of roughnecks like us,” said another man, in a kindly tone.

“Better lookout, girl, you’ll lose your virtue here among us fellers,” said the informer of the night before, in a high-pitched voice. This coarse jest was greeted with roars of laughter.

“Put that mut out!” shouted “Blinkey” to the negro attendants, “an’ if he puts up a kick, call in the ‘spiggotty’ police and tell ’em that he’s a crook, and let ’em put the guy in jail.”

The informer was led to the street, but it was too late. The habitues of “Blinkey’s” place knew that the pretty violinist had led a disreputable life in a low resort in New Orleans. Several of the less hardened didn’t believe the story, and one young business man of Colon was very much in love with her and said that he would marry her; so now it was rumored that there was going to be a wedding, and that free drinks were to be served gratis on that night at “Blinkey’s” place.

The story of Vere de Vere became generally known and was freely discussed, even in that quarter of the city known as “the district.” The rumor reached the ears of a woman of ill-repute who had designs upon Vere de Vere’s lover. Jealousy is a destructive element, when it takes root, in the most respectable bosom, and surely, when in force in the disordered mind of an outcast woman, it must be doubly dangerous. This one, it seems, had known Vere de Vere in New Orleans, and there was an old score that she was anxious to settle, so she circulated a horrible story of the girl’s past, which not only shocked Vere de Vere’s lover, but the hardest characters at “Blinkey’s” place.

All this greatly distressed poor Vere de Vere, for it seems there are depths of degradation to which some women of the underworld refuse to sink, and there are crimes so abhorrent as to shock even their paralyzed sense of morality.

“I shall see that girl,” said poor Vere de Vere. “I used to know her, and she was not a bad-hearted person.” So, while her companions went to “Blinkey’s” place as usual, she made her way to the house of her slanderer. When she entered, the wretched woman came toward her, staggering and hiccoughing; she was followed by a negro porter.

“Beat her up,” she shouted, “she’s trying to take my man from me.”

The negro advanced threateningly, and the defenceless girl, seeing a be-ribboned dagger hanging on the wall above her head, seized it. The negro, in a sudden frenzy, threw the drunken woman upon the weapon, and in a moment she fell to the floor fatally injured.

“It is the curse,” said Vere de Vere, as she rushed from the house. Her white dress was spattered with blood, and, unconsciously, she held the dagger clutched tightly in one hand while she ran through the streets of Colon to “Blinkey’s” place.

“What in the name of God have you been doin’, kid?” asked “Blinkey,” as he took the blood-stained dagger from her hand.

“It is the curse,” she moaned; and “Blinkey” afterward said that the hurt look in the girl’s eyes made him feel ill. To the bewilderment of the awe-struck drinkers, Vere de Vere took her violin in her blood-stained hands and played “Dixie.” Amid a tumult of applause the police came in and tore her from her violin.

“And the sins of the parents shall be visited upon the children,” said the girl, as she was led to the street, where a hooting mob stood ready to offer her indignities.

So the last descendant of a great cavalier leads the life of a malefactor among negroes in the penitentiary at Panama, and the curse written in the life-blood of the poor gypsy boy has had its fulfillment.