A little game with destiny

Front matter

MARIE ST. FELIX j)

Class f_ ".. .

Book J ^ 33 , I

Part I A Little Game With Destiny

Block Island, E. L, July 3, *79.

Ah, the dear world.; it is so beautiful ! I am so glad to be in it, to be a part of it ! I am so happy ! It has been a charming day ; every one has tried to give me pleasure. First, mamma came to my room with a little moonstone pin encircled with pearls, and then papa gave me you, my dainty little journal, with your savory Eussia bindings and tiny gold lock and key ; and I am to write upon your fresh, unsullied pages all that happens in my life day by day. I wonder if much will happen ! I wonder if there will be grand events, or only every-day odds and ends to relate ! A little shiver creeps over me as I try to anticipate the future. Perhaps I will not always be happy ! How odd it would be to he sad ! I cannot figure it to myself. I, gloomy and morose ! Nevertheless, I hope the little heartsinking was not an omen of sorrow.

I feel myself very old — sixteen to-day. I am to wear my new frock with the little train to-night (the very first inch of a train I ever possessed) ; it is pale blue, with sprays of embroidered daisies, and I have gathered a huge hunch of Marguerites in the fields to wear at my belt. We are to dance the Mother Goose quadrilles, and I am to dance with Tim Blake.

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Midnight.

I have had such a good time ! To be sure, there is but little tulle left on my gown, except in shreds ; I am sneezing violently for having gone down to the pier with Mr. Goddard without any wrap, just after a waltz, and I have awfully offended Tommy Miller by not going with him ; but I have, notwithstanding these blemishes , had a very fine time. Mr. Goddard is so distinguished ! He is tall, and has iron gray hair and beard, a nose like Napoleon’s, and his wife treats him brutally. She does not love him, and never speaks to him if she can help it. She has gone to the mountains now, and left him to come here all alone. He says I am such a sweet comfort to him, and that he always feels himself a better man after he has talked with me a little while. Think of that, Madame Journal ! I, Penelope Gray, a stupid little girl sixteen years old, am a true comfort to a man forty-two, who, is one of the most famous lawyers in America ! He asked me to let him give me a little gift for my birthday. I said I did not think mamma would permit me to accept it. He replied he felt confident she could not object, and put in my hands a case, in which I found a prayer-book and hymnal in dark blue Kussia with silver clasps and my name in silver letters. I was so pleased. They are the prettiest I have ever had. How good of him to think of it, when he must be so busy with important matters ! How can his wife treat him so shamefully?

Everything in the house is quiet ana still. It must be very late. The yachts in the harbor look spectral in the white moonlight. The waves roll lazily up the beach with their gentle little swish, swash. I seem alone with it all !

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July 5.

I wonder what will he your ultimate destiny, Madame Journal; if my grandchildren will peruse your yellowed pages, or if the flames will convey you to ashes, and then the four winds of heaven scatter broadcast the poor remains ! Now, if I were to become the wife, or the mother, of some future excellent President of these United States, you would perhaps repose on a velvet cushion in a glasscase at the Corcoran Art Gallery or the Boston Art Museum. At all events, I think I should write my biography! Future historians may require it for data . I am only Penelope Gray now — but this is America !

I was born in Boston in a little house on Charles street, which now is a shop, July 3d, 1863. Mamma is the daughter of a Methodist clergyman, a Virginian, who came north when the war broke out and settled in New England. Papa is the son of a broker, who is a dear old man with a snow-white heard. But he did not like it at all when my father married my mother, who is very beautiful and clever, but with a most truly nasty temper. My father is tall and handsome and always very calm and judicious. He is treasurer of several companies, and adores my mother.

When I was two years old my father desired me to take some medicine. I refused. He put it in my mouth and I spit it out. He whipped me — but I still knocked over the spoon. At last, ashamed to whip me longer — for fear I would be ill — he gave up the contest. I did not take the medicine, and it is said I have had my own way ever since.

It was decided when I was nine years old that I was a very rebellious, ill-behaved young person, and that it might be well to leave me to my grandparents, the Virginians, for a short time, who had given my mother much advice upon my government. I had then two little sisters who would be at home — Mildred and Marjorie — so my parents would not very keenly miss me. I remember so well th« day I

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was taken into the country to my grandmother’s, with my little trunk of gingham pinafores, some school-books, and my dolly “ Emmeline ” and her wardrobe. It was a cold, bleak day in November. My grandmother sat one side of the stove and my grandfather the other, one reading the Zion’s Herald , the other the Bible. My grandmother brought forward a little rocking-chair and took olf my wraps. Then she called the maid, who soon after brought me two gingef-snaps on a small blue plate. My father had to return at once, so I was soon left alone with my grandparents. My grandfather handed me a little black book from the book-case, a story called “ Poor Matt,” by Jean Ingelow. They asked me a few questions about my journey, then resumed their reading. Everything seemed to me very quiet and oppressive, even the old gray cat was asleep in a cushioned arm-chair. I finally said I would like to go to my room. I went upstairs and locked the door and then threw myself on the little bed and had a long, long cry. It must have been a very effectual weeping, for I did not cry again until the day I left the house, six months later.

A widowed aunt soon after came to live with us, and heard my lessons each day. I read the History of Methodism by Stevens, Sargent’s Temperance Tales, and the books of the Sunday-school Library. One day my aunt, who had been too much wrapped in her grief to give me very serious attention, chanced to notice me pouring over a frightful temperance story. “Horrors!” she exclaimed, “is the library so badly off that you have to take such nightmare tales as these for amusement ? Go upstairs to my room, dear, and you will find f Pink and White Tyranny 9 on the book-shelf. I reckon that will be pleasanter reading, even if not quite suited to your years!” I was soon absorbed in Lillie's airy graces and the woes of the prim John. When my aunt next went to town she subscribed for the Youth’s

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Companion and brought home Maria Edgeworth's Tales.

When the spring came I was permitted to play with a little hoy next door, who could concoct, I remember, a very fine mud-cake. We would bake them in the sun, and labored seriously to excel in assortment of shapes.

But my day was not all passed in mud-cake baking. Eirst came my lessons, then an hour of play, then an hour of work on my sampler, and so on.

And finally came the day when I went home. I was making a little bag. Now I disliked very much putting the draw-string in. I was somehow quite clumsy at it. I had asked grandmother if I might go out when I had finished the bag, and she had consented. When the bag was done all tut the draiv-string I ran out to play. It was about half an hour later, as I completed the scalloped edges of the first mud-pfe, that I saw my grandmother, with a yery unamiable expression, coming toward me. She reached her hand to me. I did not argue or hesitate, — oh no! — I arose and gave mine at once ! She led me over the field homeward.

“ Penelope," she said, (i I am going to whip you."

“ Yes, grandma."

cc I shall whip you with a little huckleberry bush, for I have no whalebones in the house. You were told not to go out until the bag was finished." We walked on hand in hand until we reached the house, when she led me to her bedroom, and then I began to cry.

“ Lie down, Penelope." I lay down — on my hack.

“ Turn on to your face, Penelope." With a shudder I obeyed. The little huckleberry bush came tingling down upon my shrinking skin.

“ Oh, grandma, I will never do it again," I sobbed.

“ I don't intend you shall," came in even tones with the well-regulated strokes.

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“ Oh, grandma, I will be good/'’ I pleaded.

“ Yes, my dear,” — stroke, stroke — “I hope you will.”

That evening a carriage drove up to a house in Charles street, from which stepped a little girl in a mud-bespattered pinafore and tear-stained face, who rushed into the house, past the startled maid at the door, calling out,

“ Fve come home, papa, — and I'm never going back ! She whipped me !”

July 6.

I was interrupted by a note from Mr. Goddard, asking me to join a sailing party, so I deserted you, ma confidante, yesterday. There was a delicious breeze, and I could have kept right on to Newport, but that the others cared more to come back.

Let me see — where was I in my narrative ? Oh yes, it was after grandma whipped me and I ran away. I put on my little sun-bonnet and climbed out of the low window jf her bedroom, where she had left me to repent, and trudged away to the station. I knew better than to attempt to buy a ticket of the station-master, who knew me, and would instantly corral me, but played about until the train came in and then hastened into the last car. When the conductor came I pulled out my little red purse and gravely offered him a ten-cent piece and a penny. He laughed. “ Haven't you any ticket ?”

“ No, sir ; I came in a hurry.”

“ I should say so,” he said, looking at me more gravely. “ Where are you going?”

“To Boston; and — and — perhaps my father will meet me.” I believe I hoped this was not an utter falsehood, for I had always prided myself on being a very truthful little girl, and felt quite terrified as I heard myself stumblingly make this false assertion, but I hoped the perhaps would somehow mitigate the offense.

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“Well,” said he, “this isn’t enough money to pay your fare. Your father can give it to me in Boston.”

I sat very still in my little corner, watching the flitting figures in the deepening dusk, and beginning to get very frightened as the darkness increased. What if the conductor should put me in jail when we reached the city and my father did not come and my fare was not paid ? And how was I to get home anyway when I did not know the way? The train pulled into the long, smoky station-house at last, with its dim, smoking lamps, and mob of screeching cabmen, porters and expressmen. I watched the people leave the car, with a sense of despair. I wished with all my quavering heart I was tucked up in my little bed at grandmother’s. Slowly I crept down from my seat and passed out with them, then stood forlornly on the platform.

“Ah, here is the little girl,” said a cheery voice, and the big, Burly conductor came and took my hand. “ No papa to meet you? Well, now what’s to be done ? Do you know your street and number?”

I told him where my home was, eagerly, and then, my conscience gripping me, I added, vehemently, “ And papa wasn’t to meet me, I told you a story. Grandma whipped me and I ran away. I’m sorry I haven’t enough money — won’t you please take this ?” and I handed him the little red purse. He put it back into my hands.

“ That’s all right,” he said; “that’s all right. You’re a plucky one! Hi, there, Charlie,” to a vanishing hackman, “I want you to take this little girl to Charles street.” And that is how I reached home safely, just as my father and mother were going out to a reception and my little sisters were being tucked into bed for the night.

I next remember a very severe whipping my mother gave me. Poor mamma has such a beastly temper, and, when angry, quite loses control of herself. I was twelve years

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old at the time I speak of; and my father's mother was visiting ns, my grandfather having moved to New York at thajt time to be near an invalid sister (who soon died, and then they returned to Boston). My grandmother was a dear little old lady, very gentle in her manner, and a great deal like my father in temperament. She was greatly exercised upon coming into the nursery one morning to see my mother cease whipping me and knock me furiously against the wall several times, holding me by the shoulders.

I did not utter a sound; and when she released me, walked calmly out of the room to my chamber and sat down with my algebra. Grandma followed me, curious at my behavior.

“Well; Penelope,” she said, “you stood that very well.”

"1—37 — ” I muttered, then looked up. Grandma,” I said, in a very still little voice, “ I am praying God to kill her!”

That evening at dinner my father remarked, “Well, Penelope, how would you like to go adrift again? Your grandmother wants to take you home with her for several weeks; and there are no huckleberry bushes growing in Gotham.” I was too excited to eat anything more, and got up at daylight the next morning to pack Emmeline's wardrobe, who was still my cherished companion.

July 7.

The next three months I passed in a big red brick house in Washington Square, New York. My visit to my grandmother Gray was quite a contrast to the one at my grandmother Eeatherstonehaugh's. I had a number of little playmates, a library full of books, and two young relatives took me often to the Park for a ride in a goatcart, and cream at a little restaurant under the bridge. I

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learned to play whist, and I read Jane Eyre — finishing it, I remember, at four o'clock in the morning — and I nearly fell asleep at the breakfast- table a few hours later, to the great alarm of my grandmother, who thought me surely ill. Each morning I accompanied my grandfather to a neighboring candy-shop where he daily invested four cents in red gum-drops for me — four cents just purchasing an ounce, and considered an uninjurious quantity. And shortly after my arrival I fell in love ! My Adonis was a fair-haired, very red-cheeked boy, and was carrier for the florist. We commenced a correspondence — our post-office being a box concealed in a ledge by the back gate — and he told me in vivid red ink upon blue ruled stationery that he “ luved me so mutch " he would “ dye for me," and he made a little “ i 99 when referring to himself, which surely proves his deep humility. I placed these precious billetsdoux in the envelopes which brought to me my mother's letters, destroying hers, and tying packets of these together with pale blue ribbon, as I had read in Godey’s Lady’s Booh a loving maiden should do. But, alas! my grandmother, when packing my little trunk previous to my home-coming again, became suspicious of these bedecked missives, and peering into one and finding her suspicions most emphatically correct, took them to her sister, and together they had a very merry time over my love notes, and I have never yet heard the last of them.

And now I am sixteen — and here we all are at Block Island for the summer. Mamma, Mildred, little Marjorie and I, and Papa comes for Sundays.

It is a large airy hotels filled with people from all over the nation. Editors, judges, famous actresses, men of note in many professions are here, charming society women and pretty girls — but oh, so very few young men! The thermometer is never above seventy-six degrees, and a sea breeze is always blowing, since, being an island, a land

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breeze is always overswept by the wind from the sea. Ah, it is delicious — this Block Island air ! It is like being on a ship far out in the ocean, only one escapes the rocking and plunging of a vessel.

I see little of Mamma. In the morning I go with little Marjorie and Celeste to the bathing beach; in the afternoon Mamma drives, usually without me, and after chaperoning me for a while in the parlor at night she leaves for the whist table, which receives her rapt attention till midnight. I realized last night how lucky it is she does not stop at my room as she passes on her way to bed — fancying me soundly sleeping — for last night I was out in a little yacht with Mr. Goddard and some others till many minutes after twelve.

July 10.

I admire Mr. Goddard more each day. He is so considerate, so unselfish, so generous! He looks after my being wrapped up if chilly, even to taking off his own overcoat; he sends to Newport for such exquisite roses for me; and is in every way so gallant and attentive. I almost wish he were not married. What a loathsome woman she must be! He sighs whenever I speak of her!

July 11.

We had a very jolly time in the parlor last evening, and a number of us formed ourselves into an association — The Fire Brigade. An English actress. Miss Hoyle, Mrs. Ames, a famous Chicago beauty, and a New York fellow, Mr. Blake, who has just come into a fortune, are the officers and promoters of the club. We are to wear broadbrimmed hats trimmed with flaming red cambric, and in many ways appear as scarlet as possible. Mr. Blake and Mrs. Ames are to give us a champagne supper some night this week. Papa would never allow me but one glass of champagne a year, and that at Christmas dinner I Perhaps I may take two at this feast — just perhaps !

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July 12.

While writing yesterday a note came from Mr. Goddard asking me to walk on Pebbly Beach. We found a sheltered little nook and ensconced ourselves. He read me “ Guinivere.” Oh, it is so sad! When he had finished the tears were in my eyes — and he stooped and kissed me. I suppose he felt sad and lonesome. Still, I must not let him kiss me again; it is not at all right. I did not see him after supper. W e had a meeting of the Fire Brigade, and I went to my room early and sat a long time in the moonlight, watching the ships at sea.

July 15.

I am so tired ! The much anticipated champagne supper is over. I was going to write about it, but I guess Fm too sleepy. The book seems so far away, and my head feels like something tiresome to hold up ! Bonne nuit, madame.

July 16.

How devoted I have been to you, Madame Journal! Entries nearly every day. I shall soon have never a blank page left if I continue at this garrulous rate. The supper was a great success. I had a glorious time. I think some of them drank too much wine. I took only a few glasses, but it made me so sleepy! I scarcely recollect getting to bed, and I slept till very late in the morning.

Sunday, July 20.

Pm afraid Fve been imprudent. (I no longer desire this diary to go down to my descendants! I foresee there may be pages I would blush to have read— and this will be one!) It was such a temptation! And somewhere I have read, “ What is the use of temptation if you don't yield to it?" It happened last night. We had been sitting down on the rocks, Mr. Goddard and I, and everything was so beautiful in the moonlight — the shadows on the rocks, the

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slow movement of the anchored yachts, the still, soft air with the smell of the sea — it seemed to intoxicate me! We were sitting very near together. I liked the touch of his arm against mine; as he moved nearer to me it made my heart beat faster, and then he took my face in his hand very gently and looked into my eyes with his own great brown ones, and almost whispered to me, “ Little one, I love you l” Ah, I can hear it, feel it, yet ! I did not resist. He kissed me again and again. Then we walked slowly home — and to-day I am wretched !

I wonder will he get divorced and ask me to marry him? I love him, I am sure I do, and I would be miserable away from him, and he is so unhappy with his wife. Yes, I think he will tell me to-day that he will get a divorce ; and of course we must not see each other often until after that is over. I wonder if Mamma would be angry. It is against the church to marry a divorced man, and there is the special dispensation to get and all that!

* * * * * * *

I do not know if I most want to see him, or most dread to see him ! At any rate, here I sit in my room and at every footstep hope that it is a message from him, yet do not venture onto the piazza, where he is very probably sitting at the shady corner with a cigar and the Providence Journal , and perhaps — wishing for me!

Did you think I had forgotten you, chere madame? There has been nothing to write but thoughts, and it is said one should never commit those to paper.

Each day is much the same. The morning bath, the after-dinner siesta, the occasional drive with Mamma, perhaps later a walk with Mr. Goddard to our little nook on Pebbly Beach, where he reads to me exquisite poems and beautiful romances; but always our little hour together in the evening if we cannot find time for each other in the

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afternoon. Oh, I am so happy! What a delightful place Block Island is ! I would like to stay here forever !

Saturday, August 9, *79.

Such a storm as it is to-day! No one stirs from the house. The surf is grand, and comes roaring in, mammoth breakers thundering up the beach in quick succession !

Mamma is about with a smelling-bottle and brandy flask, vowing that we shall be swept away and lamenting that no steamer can come over to-day with the mails.

I have been learning to play poker, with Mr. Goddard for tutor and chocolate drops for antes . It is usually played with pennies, but we use chocolates, for, of course, I would not play for money.

Last night Mr. Goddard asked me to come to his room, he had a surprise there for me. I know it's very improper to go to a man 's room, but we are such old friends now, and then sometimes one has a desire to do just what one should not — don't you know, Madame Confidante ? And I went!

Awaiting my coming was a pitcher of something called champagne cock-tail, a most delicious stuff. I could drink it forever! We did not have a light — it makes the room so warm — but sat by the window, looking out upon the water, sipping the wine now and then. It was very beautiful out at sea, the light-house afar casting a golden reflection upon the dark waters; the swaying lanterns on the nearer yachts, and the twinkling lights in the great dark sky above.

He told me how he had tried to resist loving me, buteach day I grew dearer to him; that his life had been 0 very unhappy one; some day he would tell me all about it; that if I would care for him a little it would bring such joy into his life!

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But he said not a word about a divorce, and surely he does not want me to love him when it will he such a sin and such misery to us both, to love one another in secret and be always kept apart by such a barrier.

It is one week, one week of seven long days — and nights — since I have talked with you, madame. It seems to me many years! Years of struggle — desperate, heart-tearing struggle !

I opened my birthday prayer-book this morning and turned to the Psalter. It was the eighty-eighth psalm, and the first six verses I read over and over again. I put a little mark at the second and third verses, they seemed so apt and appropriate!

Oh, God! I know not which pathway to turn to! All are filled with briers and seem impassable as the way continues. The waves heating on the rocks below whisper a grim solution. Would I dare? Oooo! how cold it would he to-night, and it is so black and shadowy toward the shore! But it is only a little way — it would all be over quickly — soon I would he miles away upon the ocean — a hit of driftwood on the crest of a wave, a white, staring, helpless thing. Ah no, no ! I cannot do that ! Why will it haunt me? Why cannot I forget the horrible, merciless sea? And yet — to reach an end of it all — of everything ! to get away from thought — thought that maddens me, crazes me! I could make a trip-hammer of my head and beat it against the wall till all sense were dead forever !

I cannot bear it ! I cannot bear it! That I, Penelope Gray , should he an outcast from society, not fit to touch the hem of my mother’s garment, not fit to touch the pure little faces of Mildred and Marjorie!

I hate him !

And yet, I do not hate him!

We had both had too much champagne. He has told

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me he never meant it to happen — that the wine overpowered him — he did not know what he did !

Surely he could not have lenown!

Papa, how will I ever look in youi; face again? Yonr little Penelope is as black as pitch! Not soot, daddy, dear — that brushes off — hut pitch, which sticks to one and will not be lightly ridden of.

For a week I have stayed in my room. I have said I was ill — surely it is true ! Ill in every fibre of my being.

Mildred came to me last night and climbed into my lap to be kissed, and I told her I hated kisses and never wanted her to kiss me again.

She went away so grieved. But surely I never must kiss her all my life now. I must teach myself the difference between us — the great bank of guilt that keeps my soul (where I pray God hers may never be) pinioned beneath an overpowering weight.

Once he has written me.

“ Little One:

“ I am suffering the tortures of the eternally lost. I was overpowered with wine. I swear I knew not what I did. I only know I worship you. I want to see you. Surely you will see me one moment, dear. God knows I am wretched until you come to me.”