TALE ONE. THE DIARY OF A CHICAGO GIRL.

This story is a copy of the diary kept by a wealthy Chicago girl, who was found dead in her room.

January 1.

I, Louise Montgomery, twenty-five years of age, and in full possession of all my faculties, do hereby affirm that I will herein chronicle all the noteworthy happenings of my life for the period of one year.

Little diary, I am surprised that I, having reached the mature age of twenty-five, should become so sentimental as to wish to keep a diary. What has prompted me I cannot say. Time may reveal it.

The old year has just passed into eternity and the New Year has but commenced his reign as I write. Yes, a new year with all its possibilities. I hope at the end of this year I may look back upon it as the one bright year of my life. I have not made a thousand good resolutions, as I have done hitherto, but mean to meet the trials and temptations of each day as bravely as possible.

I am not in love yet, little diary, and I want you to bear witness to this fact. There is a man whom you do not know, and to whom I shall introduce you now, for if I can convert him to my way of thinking by the end of this year, I shall not have lived in vain, and I shall have much to tell you about him as the days go by.

He is married, this man of whom I speak. That in itself would preclude the possibility of my loving him now, or falling in love with him in the future.

He has a lovely wife and one child. He speaks of her often and dwells on her excellent qualities, until I too love her.

He loves her? Maybe he does, but I fear he does not, not to the fullest extent. It must be my work of this year to teach him the error of his way. He has never by word or action intimated that he cares for me, but I am sensible, not conceited, and know he is—well, he likes to tell how happy he is, too well. People who are thoroughly happy give no thought to the opinion of the world, but live only in the sunshine of their beloved’s presence. I think my task will be a delightful one. He is awfully good looking, very tall and well developed, polished and withal so interesting. It was strange how we became interested in one another the very first night of our meeting. That Thanksgiving ball will be a memorable one. How striking he looked in his full dress suit and how perfectly he dances! I wonder what New Year resolutions he has made. I mean to ask him, if he is at the dance tonight. No, I guess I won’t either; men are conceited and he might think I had been giving him rather more thought than mere casual acquaintance would warrant. Perhaps he doesn’t realize his danger. Well, I must retire now to pleasant dreams.

January 2.

Oh, what a grand time I had last night. I was the belle of the ball and Mr. Forsythe said he never saw me so radiant. I felt a little as if I ought not to allow him to say it, but I couldn’t really find a reason for criticising him for what many others said, and then, too, if I assume that he is doing wrong, when he may never have thought of it, I shall spoil all my chances for doing good. I know I did look my best, for that clinging black crepe gown is most becoming. I wonder how Nell is progressing with her affair. Somehow she doesn’t seem to me to be looking very happy.

January 6.

I didn’t intend to neglect you so soon, my father confessor, but I have been so busy and so tired at night that I couldn’t keep my eyes open, and I want you to be as much of a credit to me in appearances as my own deeds are to be.

There has been nothing of vital importance to set down here this time. I had a long talk with Nell Sears today and I conjectured correctly about her being unhappy. She is engaged to Professor Kurtz, but he says it is impossible for him to marry her publicly, as long as he teaches in the University, for they would discharge him. That seems queer to me. I think I shall investigate the matter for my own satisfaction, for who knows, a Professor might propose to me sometime. He wants her to marry him quietly, and she doesn’t want to do it I wouldn’t if I were she. A society girl in her position would run a great risk, I think.

January 10.

I had a long talk with Mr. Forsythe today. When I told him I was going away tomorrow he looked sad, and said he should miss me very much. You see it was this way. We met by sheer accident at the silk counter at Field’s. He was matching some silk for his wife, and I was searching for something suitable for a new evening gown. He helped me select an exquisite thing, all pink and silver. I think I overstepped my limit as to price, but I didn’t like to “haggle” when he was standing there. He said I would be the center of attraction wherever I wore that, and some other complimentary trifles, not worth mentioning. By the time we had concluded our purchases it was luncheon hour and he insisted on my going up to the tea-room with him.

He asked me if I would write to him while I was away; that it would be such a pleasure to hear how I was enjoying myself. I gave a reluctant consent after he said, “If you knew how much good it would do me, you would not refuse.”

I wish I knew whether I did right or not.

January 25.

Detroit is such a lovely city and I am having such a royal, good time, that I have neglected thee, my little white-faced friend.

Florence has kept me going every minute. I met a Mr. Ford last night and of all the men I have met since coming here I like him the best. He loves music, poetry and flowers, and we are very congenial.

I have been here two weeks and have not kept my promise to Mr. Forsythe to write. I must do so tonight, so farewell, my friend, for tonight.

February 1.

I received such a delightful letter from Mr. Forsythe this afternoon. Such poetical sentiments, such pen pictures! It was certainly the most beautiful letter I ever received. I wonder what he could have thought of my poor, little missive. Still it is worth something to have inspired such a beautiful reply. I wonder how soon I ought to answer. I should like to get another from him soon, but I wouldn’t have him know it for the world.

February 15.

I had another letter from Mr. Forsythe today. It was just a note inquiring for Mrs. Madden’s address. It makes me smile. Men aren’t so very sharp after all. As if I couldn’t see that the inquiry was only an excuse to write to me and a gentle reminder of the fact that I owe him a letter.

February 23.

Well, whom do you suppose was at the ball tonight? I was never so surprised in my life. It was a club dance and Mr. Forsythe was there. I did not know he was in the city. Oh, what a grand waltz we had! He said business had called him East and he thought he would stop at Detroit for a day before going on to New York.

Of course we know it was some one who wore a pink gown and has brown eyes, don’t we?

He is dear, he looked down into my eyes and said, “What beautiful unfathomed depths your soul has, though I can get but a peep at it through those eyes.”

I can’t help it, I like to hear him say those things, although I ought not to allow it and I know it. He is coming to call this afternoon.

February 25.

Well, he was here and Florence thought he was lovely. She came in for a few moments and then excused herself, so we had the time all to ourselves. I don’t know how I dared to do it, but it seemed as if something impelled me to, and I said, “Mr. Forsythe, I don’t believe you are as happy as you say you are. If you were you would not encourage yourself so much.”

He was silent what seemed to me an interminable length of time and I thought, “Now, my lady, you have spoiled your chances to do a good work, by a word inopportunely spoken.” But I was wrong. He came over to me and sat down beside me on the couch. He took my hand in his and said, “Miss Montgomery, you are right, but you are the only one who has discerned it, or at least the only one who has said so.”

Then I told him I was sorry I had been so abrupt, but he assured me that it was all right and that he was glad I had spoken because now he would feel free to talk the whole matter over with me.

He said his wife was good and kind, in fact, I don’t know that he said anything but nice things, now that I stop to think of it.

But, little diary, I think I have discovered the trouble. I don’t believe she understands him. She doesn’t appreciate the depth of his nature. It may be no fault of hers; she associates with him daily and feels herself so much a part of him that she has ceased to analyze him. It is not that he has ceased to be interesting to her, for she loves him devotedly, but it is the nature of a man to desire commendation and encouragement. He doesn’t wish it to be taken for granted that he is doing well, but wishes to hear words, words.

A deep bond of sympathy exists between us. I understand and he feels that I understand. Oh, I am sure now that I can do good!

March 1.

Well, little diary, you and I are going to return to Chicago Wednesday, back to our home and our work. I am not going to send Mr. Forsythe any word, but will surprise him by appearing in person at Mrs. Carter’s party Friday night I wonder how he will look and what he will say.

March 7.

The last words I wrote the other night were, “I wonder how he will look, what he will say.” His face was a study, pleasure and surprise the dominant emotions. He said only three words as he clasped my hand in his. “Welcome home, Louise.” Louise! How he drew out the syllables. I never before realized that my name was musical. I asked him how all the family were and he said well and happy. Then he said Mrs. Forsythe was there and he wanted us to meet. She is lovely, and as they came up to me she was looking at him so fondly and proudly, I could see the devotion in her eyes. I couldn’t help feeling a sharp twinge of my conscience as I stood chatting to her, but I should not, for my intentions are the best, and if she knew all the circumstances she would commend me, I know.

March 16.

Sister and I were among several guests at Mr. and Mrs. Forsythe’s box party last night and Robert managed to have the chair next mine, and when “the lights were dim and low” he found my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze and said, “I want to have a long talk with you soon, without fear of interruption, and I know of no way this can be had unless you meet me down town and take dinner with me.”

I asked him if he thought it was right, and he said, “You know I would not ask you to do anything I thought was wrong.”

So I have promised to go. I wonder what in the world he is going to tell me.

March 27.

We had dinner at Rector’s at four o’clock today. Robert told me that he loved me. I was dumbfounded and must have shown it plainly. I asked him if he was in the habit of making love to young women. His lips quivered and he said, “I don’t blame you for being offended, but I swear to you that this is the first time I ever told a woman I loved her when I had not the right to do so. I am sorry, so sorry, I have told you, for I might have gone on suffering alone, and you would have never been the wiser, while now I have made you unhappy, too. Can you forgive me?”

He leaned over toward me and looked into my eyes so eagerly for an affirmative answer that—well, how could I refuse forgiveness, and then, you know, my work must be considered.

April 2.

Nell had an “All Fool’s” party last night, and such pranks as we played! Of course Robert was not there, because only the young people were there, and it seemed rather strange; in fact, I know I missed him, but this is only for you to know, my faithful. Mr. Ford was there and he is awfully nice, knows just what to do to make a girl comfortable. I am going to the opera with him tonight. I shall enjoy it immensely with him, I know.

April 14.

O dear! Robert is jealous of Mr. Ford. He happened to be at the opera that night and saw us. He says he did not mean to be too observing, but that he loved me so well that he couldn’t keep his eyes off me, and that Mr. Ford must be in love with me, too, from the attention he bestowed upon me.

April 26.

Florence has been here since the 15th on a shopping expedition and we have had no end of fun. She insists on my returning with her and so I think we will go, you and I.

May 15.

Have been here two weeks and had a wire today from Robert. He will be here the 17th, to remain a few days. I am just wondering what I can do with Mr. Ford while he is here, for I shall have to devote every minute to Robert, and that won’t please Mr. Ford very well. Oh, dear! I’m always getting my wires crossed.

May 17.

I met Robert at the train today and before I could say a word he had put his arm around me and kissed me, right on the lips. His first kiss, May 17th.

May 20.

Robert was here tonight and Florence had gone to the theater, we were left alone. He took me in his arms and kissed me again and again and every kiss thrilled me like an electric shock. I felt the blood tingling to the ends of my fingers. I never felt so strange in my life. I pulled away from him as soon as I could, but, oh, those kisses. They seemed to intoxicate me. I felt as if I had been transported to Elysian fields, and could die happy right there with my lips pressed to his. We had such a nice visit. He says I am his guiding star, and that everything has gone better since he knew me. I told him that he must never forget his wife and he assured me that he would not, could not when he had such a sweet reminder, even if she were not always so good and kind. He said, too, that she could not satisfy the longings in his soul which had been there for years, until he met me. That a man must have love, sympathy and encouragement to fill his life and make it complete.

June 4.

I had a telegram from New York this morning. It was from Robert asking me to meet him there. I—shall I go or shall I not?

June 6.

I have decided to go. I had some shopping to do anyway, and I can do better there than here or in Chicago.

June 10.

When I arrived here, Robert had a beautiful suite of rooms engaged for me at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. He told me more about his life at home, and its deficiencies, and that his health was failing him. I am dreadfully worried about him, he looks badly. I wonder what I ought to do? If she only knew how he felt and that she was the cause of it, she might do differently, but it is such a delicate matter, I am afraid to interfere. I pity him so much. He is coming to see me tonight. He has said no word, but the hungry look in his eyes speaks to my heart more forcibly than words. He will take me in his arms again tonight, and once more I shall feel the thrill when our lips meet in one long kiss, and maybe I shall say, “Robert, take me for your own, if it will restore you to health.”

June 12.

Robert came. We talked over the whole matter. I asked him if there was anyone else in his life. He said no! That he had never loved anyone but me. Then—then, I put myself in his arms and said, “Robert, take me!” He said, “Little girl, are you sure you want to make the sacrifice?” I said, “Yes.” I gave myself willingly for pity’s sake, not for love, because I do not love him. Then our compact was sealed with a kiss. Our lips met, and soon I was all his.

How can I entrust this to you, my silent friend? How can I sully your white pages with a relation of my conduct. The world would call me bad if it knew. I should not be the highly respected Louise Montgomery, that I have always been, and all because I have chosen to bring happiness to one who was dying for love.

I wonder if I can go back to the old scenes and feel the same; feel that I am worthy to mingle with the old friends. Yet why should I feel thus? If anyone is wronged it is I. It must be the imaginings of a super-sensitive conscience, or the result of early training which makes me feel unworthy. I wonder what our Rector would say if he could look down into my heart and see; can it be possible that there are others in our set who are as guilty—I must not think it, much less write it. But after all, I do not regret. I have made a sacrifice for a worthy cause.

June 30.

Back home again and getting ready to go away for the summer. Have seen Robert three times since I returned, and we seem to grow nearer and dearer to each other.

July 10.

Petoskey never seemed one-half so beautiful to me as it does this season. Even the people are nicer. The men are kind and attentive but towering over and above them all, I can see the face of the one man I love. Yes, little diary, I love him now, he has woven himself into my very nature even in this short time. “I could not forget you, dear Robert, if all these men were kings and princes, for you are my prince and my king. Your dear letters are such a comfort to me, and I am so happy in your love, even though I know there is no future.”

How I miss him! It is always he who thinks of the little things that go to make up a woman’s life.

July 31.

My sweetheart is coming today. I am counting the hours. Just three hours and twenty minutes and I shall be with him once more. What a perfect day this. Nature seems to reflect my joy.

August 1.

We are going for a long drive today, through the fragrant pine woods. We will be alone for the first time since he came. I can feel those dear arms about me, those full, soft lips on mine, even now.

August 14.

Robert is going today, and with him goes the brightness. We have had such a glorious two weeks of constant companionship. We will be reunited soon, though, for he is going up into Canada to find a quiet, country home where we can spend the best month of the whole year—beautiful, hazy October. I am supposed to be going to New York.

“Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.”

September 3.

Florence is here and I have taken her into my confidence, not from choice, but because it seemed necessary. I am sure she loves me just as well as before, but she says it is wrong, all wrong. That I am making the greatest mistake of my life; that no man is worthy of the sacrifice, and that in time, even though he is true now, he will weary of me. Ugh! “She made me to shudder and grow sick at heart.” But I do not believe it. Is he not my “Roumald,” I his “Clarimonde”? How many times he has said, “To know you is to know all women.” And that satiety itself I set on fire.

September 30.

At last, at last! I leave on the North-West today for the “Soo,” where Robert joins me, and together we go to Collinwood, on Georgian Bay.

He found a beautiful country home near there, which is ideally quiet and overlooks the Bay.

October 2.

We are on our way. Oh, the joy of this trip, the perfect contentment. Robert’s face has been radiant with happiness all day. When I see him in his strength, and manly beauty, enjoying God’s choicest gift, good health, and know that I am the cause, should I not rejoice?

October 16.

What an ideal spot! It beggars description. We are so happy. Sometimes we stroll together through the woods, where the warm tinted Autumn leaves make a soft carpet for our feet. When we tire, we sit down and he reads to me by the hour. What a beautiful world! I never dreamed of such tender solicitude as he shows me in every action. At night if I stir or murmur in my sleep, he awakens me by drawing me closer to his heart and saying, “What is it, pet, are you in pain?” I laugh at him and tell him he must not be so foolish. He says in reply that he loves me every minute of the day and night, that his thoughts are filled with me, whether waking or sleeping, and that he loves to waken me for he is sure of two soft arms stealing around his neck in a warm embrace, and two red lips seeking his.

November 1.

Oh, dear! It is all ever, this, the very happiest month of my life. As we were about to leave the room where we have been so happy for the last time, he clasped me to his breast and sobbed like a baby and I wept with him. Oh, dear! how can I ever give him up again to those to whom he belongs?

November 6.

At home once more. I am so lonely and desolate. Little diary, I wonder if this is punishment. Yet, if I have done no wrong, why should I think this is punishment?

November 23.

Dear God! If I might have been spared this great agony! Anything but this! My idol shattered and my heart broken. He was not true, and I trusted him so implicitly! How could he deceive me so? There was another woman who entered his life before he ever met me. She either heard or imagined that he had transferred his affections to me and came to me with all, asking me to give him up, because he is all she has in the world. She has no home, no one to care for her and supply her wants as I have. How could he do it? How could he do it? Not quite a year. Oh, the agony of it!

I went to him with her statement and he said it was true, but that he never loved her. I cannot believe him. I cannot believe anyone or anything now. I have no one I can tell. I must suffer all alone. Florence is the only one and I would die before I would tell her. My pride won’t allow me to admit his perfidy to anyone. I cannot bear to have the world think ill of him, even now. How can I live and bear it? I will not. I cannot. I will end it all. Goodbye, little diary, my only faithful friend. You, too, might have proved false had you the power. Goodbye.