TALE TEN. SOLD AT A FIXED PRICE.

“Dearest Arthur: Sounds strange, does it not, or, perhaps, no sound escapes your lips as your eyes scan this letter. I write you; you are surprised, I know, but you should not be, for stranger things than this have happened. My reasons for writing, I say reasons because they are numerous, will be divulged either by statements from my pen or by a critical reading between the lines.

“You asked me to write, though why you should have done so is more than I am able to determine. I am sure it was not all love which prompted you to make the request. I feel that you did at one time love me. No, a man of your force of character cannot love truly and allow that love to die while the object of his devotion lives. If you ever loved, you still love. The only question that remains unanswered is, ‘Am I the only one to whom your whole heart has gone out?’ Be that as it may, I have concluded that, wise or unwise, right or wrong, the same untiring love which has inspired me to worship you, day by day and the long night through, since first we met, must live on until the words, ‘Dust to dust’ have echoed through the tall pines and rolling mounds of our Southern city of the dead, while the clods fall heavily on the rough box that contains my casket. I feel I could court even death while reveling in the sunshine of your beauteous love, and smilingly challenge the chords of life to snap and precipitate me into that unknown beyond, with the memory of your dear kisses on my cold, blue lips.

“I feel that way now, when so many leagues separate us, but I presume that should I be blessed with one smile from you, I should want to live always. I think one slight token of recognition, one little sign of memory of the old days, spreading over your features would be food and drink to me ever. But such joys do not spread themselves on my table of anticipation. I know not love. I only know what it is to love. I have hesitated about writing you as I shall before I close.

“I have wondered if by holding open the bleeding wounds of my breast, the breast you have made love to, the breast that gave life and strength to your child, while the thrills of motherhood overcame me even to tears of joy, would pain you. I have summed it all up and have concluded that nothing will pain you, so will not hesitate to show to you the every heart-beat as it forces the blood through the veins which your heartless acts have drained. Forgive me, darling, if I inflict any injury upon your feelings by any reference to the past, but then you know your short note said, ‘Do not conceal a single thought nor withhold one particle of the emotion with which your voluptuous body abounds.’ I will pour out the soul that you have penned up. I will account to you for the acts which you refer to as unladylike. I will bring to your mind new fancies, born of reflection. I will accuse you of no wrong, for you in your exalted goodness and influential position must know right from wrong. If I am wrong, God is just. If He allowed you to misjudge me, I beseech Him to prevent you from branding another woman with the same iron. While I have been writing one day has died and another been born. With the passing of the hour I have passed another milepost. I am now one year older. My birthday and my baby are the only things I can claim without dispute as to title.

“I have been to his bed, the baby’s bed, and shall I tell you—his father—how sweetly he sleeps, how my burning kisses did not startle him? You will know whether or not these lips of mine will arouse a man to his greatest efforts. You, and you alone, have tasted the sweets that I longed to lavish upon you until satiety was a far away and unknown thing.

“You said: ‘Write. I am interested in your welfare.’

“I believe you, for you fear me as the bleating lamb fears the ravenous wolf; but fear not, oh, god of mine; you are my child’s father, and for the gracious act of begetting me an image of thine own self I shall always be devoted to you.

“Oh, that I could live on and on into the ages that are only obscured by oblivion. But no. Face to face with a world, I must accept death as a charm to enduring existence. You must know, dearest, that I love you, have always loved you and shall always love you. As I sit and look into the fire which from great red flames has sunk to an ember glow, I liken it to your love; for in the manliness of your youthfulness you loved me with a passion that was all consuming. I bathed your soul in the divine worship and devotion such as only a pure woman can pour out on a man whom she extols above all others. In your letter there appears not one allusion to love. Is it possible that you do not love me? You who have held me so close while spasms of delight have shaken your stalwart frame, and the flame of passion has reddened your otherwise placid brow, while exclamations of joy poured forth from your lips between the spasmodic kisses which held my lips as in a vice. You, a man of equal parts, do not mention love; you may remain silent on that subject, but if you tell yourself that you do not love you lie, and your heart bears witness to it.

“You can love; I know you can, for I can love with a wild desire to die in your arms, and I am a student of no school but your own.

“Do you imagine that the cold indifference which your letter displays will have a tendency to lessen my love for you? Do not be misled, I beg of you, for you once descended from your proud station to make love to me, and I have treasured that love and it has grown into such a mountain that no chasm of indifference can ever engulf it, and remember you are his father—my child’s father. He would love you, too, for having loved me, if for no other reason, for, God bless him, he is in love with your old sweetheart. Where I go he will go. I do not love you still with the hope that as in our case at first, love begets love.

“I have long since learned to live to love, and expect nothing but dreams in return. You did love me. No, you did not, or else all the world could not have torn you from me; but you cannot love another. I wish you might, for the goodness which lies within you would shine out and light a world of laggards.

“You ask me if I am comfortable. Yes. I have everything that my physical needs require. I have a good home and plenty to eat and wear. You say you often wonder how I manage to get along in such an expensive city. Now, if you mean that, you love me and you feel that every dollar I have comes without the soil of dishonor. I will tell you how I—we—live. You have raved over my figure; you have worshipped my body as though the presence of my heart were an unheard of thing. Other men have evidently been schooled in the same house of learning as you, for they, too, admire my flesh and bone. Not a day passes but that I form some new acquaintance, and, as I take it, all on account of my shapely limbs, my slender waist and swelling bosoms. Those very possessions which were once yours, all yours for your own aggrandizement and worshipful indulgence; those charms which held you to me—the wealth of red-gold hair, the pink-tipped ears, the pearly white teeth, the tapering hands, the high-arched foot, the delicately moulded ankles, the laughing eyes and supple grace that you so admired, even before I gave to you a son, are as much admired by other men as they once were admired by you.

“It is different, though, with them and you. You held all of the then priceless pearls with nothing but love; the same possessions which were then yours because I loved you, are now dispensed at intervals to suit the convenience of other men and for financial consideration.

“We—you and I—can remember the time when no man but you could lay claim to any of my charms except my ready smile and kindly word.

“Now, and for two years past, my charms have been the property of a public who, while not so demonstrative as you once were, seem wild to have me disport myself for the edification of mankind.

“I often ask if I wrong a nature-loving public by allowing the use of my body to fulfill their desires.

“My natural answer is no. I feel, in fact, that I may be the means of saving some timid girl the embarrassment of assuming my place in the world. I am sure I can do more to satisfy the whims of humanity than can a novice, for I am a student of your school and your ideas are instilled within me until I feel that my efforts will avail more than the efforts of an inexperienced girl. Again, I am feeding and clothing myself and our baby, and I love you. The world will, in part, frown upon me for the part I am playing; others silently applaud me, and I congratulate myself and feel, in a certain degree, I am a guardian angel and the precepts inculcated by my conduct will be fittingly heralded to ears which will transmit them to the heart with a good effect. I am doing what you might not object to your divorced wife doing, but that which no man of high honor would consent to his daughter doing.

“I am a model at the Art Institute. I pose in the nude, and I thank God I am an honorable woman, and, in spite of all the years of suffering, I am still devoted to the man who taught me to love. With thanks for your inquiry, I beg to sign for this once,

“Your wife,

“Nora.”