Glad Ray

Front matter

By

CLARA PALMER GOETZINGER

CHICAGO

Chapter I

S HE was five feet four inches and weighed one hundred and ten pounds. Though delicately slender, every movement was graceful and suggested a sensitive, clinging, innocent nature which knew neither coquetry nor the feminine embellishment of powder and rouge. Her eyes were deep violet-blue shaded by long, silken, bronze-brown lashes. The flesh of her fair body was like the velvet petals deep in the heart of a pale, pink, Kilarney rose. Her mouth was allur¬ ingly soft and full, but not in the least sensuous. A wealth of wavy light brown hair with glints of bronze framed her perfectly chiseled features and accentuated the picture of trusting, loving young womanhood rig¬ idly schooled in domestic obedience and puritanical de¬ corum. Slender hands were indicative of a long line of proud Southern ancestors whose touch was both del¬ icate and talented. Her shapely feet tread lightly and becomingly in minuet or graceful bearing. Born of a loving, religious mother and stalwart lawyer-father, Gladys Longworth had been reared under the discip¬ line of unvarying southern traditions and strictest de¬ nominational doctrines.

Following the death of Colonel Marcus Lloyd Longworth, his widow, Mrs. Elizabeth Lee Longworth, and her beautiful daughter, Gladys, continued to live on the edge of town in the old colonial family mansion located in the center of a sixty acre estate, landscaped with rose gardens, hollyhock hedges, peony bushes, ar¬ butus and honeysuckle runners, grape arbors, bushes of lilac, syringa and elderberry.

During her mother’s heroic financial struggle, Gladys had come in closer contact with the opposite sex than either parent ever had permitted during more prosperous days. However, the chaperonage of the widowed mother created an atmosphere of culture at the Longworth mansion, and the few priviliged to live there appreciated the charm and dignity of these two Southern gentlewomen. An old negro gardner, Sam¬ uel, and his wife, Dora, had remained faithful to the memory of their master, the Colonel, keeping up the attractive appearance of the Longworth estate, and serving the household whenever their outside labors permitted. The wages were small, but like many of the colored servants remaining from childhood to old age in the service of the genuine Southern aristocracy, Samuel and Dora knew no other home and loved their mistress and “Mis’ Gladis” with slavish loyalty.

During his matriculation at the Louisville Medical College, Raymond Hallaway made his home with the Longworths, partaking of the delicious meals prepared by Dora, enjoying the use of the late Colonel’s ex¬ tensive library, and sharing the inspiring privileges of the splendid estate. Living so long under the same roof it was but natural, in their quest for companionship, that the physician-to-be should find himself frequently in the presence of Gladys. Both young people were more than congenial,—their dispositions, accomplish¬ ments and ambitions so much in accord that they found themselves gradually but positively drawn into the maelstrom of love.

Early in his senior year, Hallaway made no pretense of hiding his affections for the beautiful Kentucky girl who, unaccustomed to the ardorus attentions of men, at first met his advances with charming timidity. Lat¬ er, his persistency won the girl’s love which she be¬ stowed with a devotion and faith unquestioned in its sincerity. They were not in a position to marry, yet the desire for possession—to be one, was maddeningly irresistible. Reason itself was temporarily dethroned. In their blind, passionate love everything was forgot¬ ten—duty to themselves, to their relatives and to soci¬ ety. Nothing seemed worth while in life unless it was related to the superb emotion as they conceived it. To them, their understanding of love was all-sufficient. In declaring his undying devotion and asking Gladys to become his wife, Raymond frankly explained that for certain family reasons their marriage could not take place for several months, possibly years. Yet he had made his plea so sincere and convincing that her faith had remained unshaken. Evening after evening, following a whispered exchange of hopes and confi¬ dences, and the good night kiss, Gladys would retire to her room and meditate, wondering why it was necessary for mere words from a third person to make them husband and wife. She secretly felt no minister could unite them more sacredly than their own holy love, as she conceived it, already had done. Gladys Longworth quietly laughed at man-made laws, be¬ cause of her inability to discriminate between them and the Divine Laws of Creation. Hers was more of an emotional, impulsive love than an affection based on the even balance of discretion and endless loyalty. So puritanically guarded from the necessary truths and texts which empty sentiment pronounces unfit for the knowledge of young women, a nature like Gladys Longworth’s invariably confuses the varied strata of sex affection, and frequently embraces momentary passion believing it to be the sublime emotion of en¬ during and unselfish love.

Gradually the unreasonable admonitions of Mrs. Longworth, and her tactless, insistent manner of com¬ pelling her daughter’s recognition of the family’s nar¬ row religious beliefs, had antagonized Gladys until the latter determined there was no form of compromise; that the Lees and Longworths held obsolete views which were absolutely inapplicable to modern society. It was not until years later she discovered through bit¬ ter experience that to COMPLY with and thus PROVE RESPECT for necessary civic laws is to EXEMPLIFY regard for Divine Laws.

One quiet moonlight evening, after Raymond had finished his studies for the following day, he and Gladys leisurely strolled about the rose gardens and seated themselves under the protecting cover of the honeysuckle arbor.

“Raymond, do you think it is wicked,” queried Gladys, “as mother insists it is, to believe less in the power of man than in the convictions of your own soul ?”

“No, dear,” Raymond responded, “I don’t. No man can think for us. Yet, every man has the same right to his views as you or I, and we must respect the rights of others.”

“I didn’t mean it that wayshe parried, “I intended to convey that no man-made law can unite us any closer than we are now,—not in Spiritual reality.”

“You are right as far as Spiritual reality is con¬ cerned Raymond argued, “but we must respect the rights and demands of those about us,—at least to a degree.”

“I’m so weary of poor mother’s conception of social laws and a body-guard for every move I make.” Gladys sighed as her lover drew her beautiful form closer.

“She’s a noble little mother, at that, dear,” he whis¬ pered.

“Of course, she is; but—”

“In many ways,” interposed Raymond, “she is nar¬ row, and has kept the needed truths from you, while at the same time she has thumped a perpetual tattoo on religious matters. However, mothers are alike the world over. They always mean well, though only a few of them change their personal views with time. She means to do her religious duty as she sees it.”

“It’s a wonder she doesn’t demand that I wear hoop skirts and bustle because Grandmothers Lee and Longworth wore them.”

The lovers laughed. Raymond kissed the alluring lips as she pursed them for the pretended need of con¬ solation.

“My darling, does any other human count in the Presence of the Sacrament of our Immortal Love?” he pleaded.

“No, Raymond,” she admitted.

“Are the man-made laws of church or state greater than the laws of the Creator?”

“Never, dear,” she trustingly answered.

“Though we respect their views, nothing anyone can say or do will add to or take from this perfect love of ours. Is it forever and ever we promise to love, cher¬ ish and aid each other in sickness and in health, to bear and forbear, to assist or resist as the instance may re¬ quire? Is it to be forever and ever, my darling?”

“Forever and ever, Raymond.”

Like an evil omen, came a sudden crash on the brick terrace beneath the portico not far from the honey¬ suckle arbor. Gladys screamed with terror. Raymond immediately investigated and found plaster fragments of an ear broken from one of the two faun’s heads which served as ornamental guards on either side of the drive near the main entrance.

“Nothing at all, dear,” he assured his sweetheart, “but the crumbling evidence of age. The north faun refused to retain one of its ears any longer. Samuel will discover the pieces in the morning.”

“Is that all; and I so frightened. On the still night air, and from out of the darkness, it sounded like a ghostly warning”

Don’t let it worry you, darling,” he lovingly coun¬ seled. “Let me see,—just what were you promising? Oh, yes, you were saying how long you would love me and promise to be mine. Will you repeat it once more, my own?”

“Forever and ever, Raymond.”

“How wonderful to hear you promise those comfort¬ ing truths. Some day, when I can dwell on sordid things, I’ll tell you a little of the misery I made for my¬ self in my youth; how I broke my poor old mother’s heart; but when those memories weigh me down, know that your reassuring words of love for me, and your faith in my promises, give me the greatest kind of en¬ couragement.”

For a few moments they remained in meditative silence as they crept a little closer and watched the grey fleecy clouds chasing one another before the face of the bright silver moon.

“Will you bear in mind, Gladys,” continued Ray¬ mond analytically, “that before the ALL-Seeing, ALL Understanding God, you are my wife? You are mor¬ ally my wife even before I am able to acknowledge to the world this fact, and pay a minister or Justice to satisfy the law. Even the marriage ceremony is a mere matter of obedience to social laws, and has no connection with the laws of our souls. Will you re¬ member that ?”

“Yes, dearest,” she responded, fairly radiant with the joy that his views harmonized with her own, and brought her above the pale of ordinary mortals in his estimation, at the same time augmenting her faith in his every word.

“Will you believe me, little wife-of-my-soul, that we are given to each other without resistance or false standards? I know what I want in this world,—it is you, dear. You are necessary to my success in life. I not only know you to be my wife, but I have pictured you the perfect and beautiful mother of the dream-child cherished in my secret heart as long as I have had ideals.”

Gladys lowered her fringed lashes over her large blue eyes, and marveled at the courage of her lover to portray frankly his ultimate wishes in life.

“Raymond,—dearest,—I never knew men thought about the woman they chose for their life-mate in the light of motherhood too,” Gladys confided.

“Many men don’t,” he answered, “but a few realize at some period or other that a noble woman is never so wonderful as when she becomes a mother. Gladys, darling, it is only natural that I, at the age other men generally begin their domestic lives, should at least hope and dream of a home, wife and children. I can scarcely wait until it is possible to make that home and support you,—the dearest little girl in all this uni¬ verse.”

“I am so proud you feel me worthy.” Gladys cud¬ dled closer to her lover. “But, personally, I feel a humble reticence about being a perfect or beautiful mother. Yet, I am happy you feel as you do. I never dared speak to you about being your wife, in the sight of God, for fear you would think me presuming.”

“Wonderful little girl! Hereafter, will you keep any of the great truths from me? Especially, will you promise always to confide in me concerning your hopes and ambitions?” His voice vibrated like soft, deep, melodious music.

“I will confide it all to you, providing I can find the words to express myself.”

“If the ideal is a part of the perfect love of your soul, dearest, the words to express and the strength to live the ideal will be quite synonymous.”

“Will you always look upon me as your wife?” she timidly asked him.

“Always, from now through all Eternity. Will you always look upon me as your husband? Tell me, Gladys.”

“From this hour you are my husband ”

“For how long?” he urged.

“For Eternity ” she promised, sincerely meaning not to fail in her word of honor.

Leaving the garden in the tender embrace of night, the lovers parted with a fervent kiss.

Week after week, and month after month harmoni¬ ously passed in the Longworth household until one memorable, warm evening in May previous to Ray¬ mond Hallaway’s graduation. He and Gladys were seated in the large double steamer chair on the wide veranda overlooking the gardens. The beauty of the first half of a Southern moon, thousands of twinkling stars and picturesque surroundings caused the lovers to linger in peaceful silence. At last Gladys interrupted the symphony of blissful romance:—

“Raymond, dear, after dinner to-night, I promised mother not to remain up late. Entrancing as all this is, I must go to my room.”

“The night is ideal, and you are more so. It is al¬ most desecration to leave this perfect retreat / 5 Ray¬ mond held her soft, warm hands within his as he gazed into the depths of her responsive eyes.

“You are so good to me, dear, and feed me so lav¬ ishly with love, that I, too, am reluctant to leave, but Raymond — 55

“Stay just a little longer, darling. We never have had a more wonderful love-feast than this one to-night, —at least not since our perfect understanding / 5

“How sweet it sounds to hear you speak that way,” she whispered.

“Does it, little girl? Are you happy we shall live together always? Just you and I,—husband and wife ? 55

“Sublimely happy, my wonderful doctor-man / 5

“Come then, my darling, grant me just one more kiss, and I will carry you to your room .’ 5

Softly, lovingly and tenderly, moved by a strange expectancy, Gladys offered her lips. Their good-night kiss became a rapturous tribute of sublime passion.

“Carry me now, before all this exquisite joy vanishes. Please carry me . 55

“My wonderful,—my precious love ! 55

“Yes, dear,—please carry me ? 55

“And place you like a baby in your little bed for the night?” His voice, low and vibrant, thrilled her en¬ raptured soul.

“Yes, Raymond, my—my—”

“Say it, precious; call me just once the name you know.”

“My husband; soul of my soul!”

“Such ecstasy,—oh, baby-wife!”

“You promised,” coaxingly, “so take me in your great strong arms, and carry me to my little white bed.”

“I will, my beloved.”

Raymond joyously complied, nestling his lips for an instant against her warm white throat. Lightly and easily, he carried her into the house, up the main stair¬ way, entering his sweetheart’s room, tenderly placing his precious burden on the snow-white bed. She pre¬ tended to be asleep, but a happy smile lingered about the corners of her soft, red lips. Raymond knelt be¬ side her, kissing the closed eyelids and warm, slightly parted mouth. She roguishly peeped through quiver¬ ing lashes, and they both laughed at her innocent sub¬ terfuge.

“One more kiss, my precious, and I will leave you for the night.”

After Gladys granted the lingering caress, her im¬ petuous lover started abruptly toward the door.

“Give back the kiss I gave you,” she coaxed.

“I must go, blessed baby-wife-of-my-heart. I dare not remain a moment longer.”

Gladys half raised herself on her elbow, astounded at the glorious happiness she experienced.

“Raymond, please don’t go,—not yet.”

“Good-night, darling.” His words belied his desires, as he returned for one more caress.

“Husband! Mine! Stay here, and love me just a little more.”

“I yearn to, but dare not. Great God, but I love you!”

“Then kiss me again, Raymond,” she pleaded.

“Sweetheart! Can’t you understand it is almost im¬ possible to restrain my adoration for you? Please don’t coax me again. This is all-sublime in its per¬ fectness.”

“Come! Come!” she repeated, her voice alluringly modulated.

“Gladys,—why shouldn’t I ? It is the call and union of our souls. YOU ARE MINE! MY BELOVED! MY WIFE!”

“Raymond! MY LOVE! MINE!”

Again bending over the fascinating vision before him, he whispered with rapture and passion:

“I WORSHIP YOU! I WORSHIP YOU!”

Chapter II

F OR a long time the dream of Gladys Longworth and Raymond Hallaway remained serene and un¬ disturbed ; but folly’s inevitable spectre forced its pres¬ ence upon these two as it does on all who toy with the ethics of moral law. Their romance was abruptly shattered, the cost appalling, the future mercilessly bleak with its social ostracism and physical and mental anguish.

Gladys kept their secret not only from her associates but particularly her mother. Through fear and des¬ pair this had been her lover’s command. At last, driven into a mingled state of despondency and shame over the continued postponement of their marriage, Gladys reluctantly consented to rent secluded quarters in a nearby town until after the birth of their child. Hallaway was devotion itself to the expectant mother; but every time she pleaded with him to marry, he would upbraid her for lack of trust. He even humiliated the heartbroken girl by informing her it was not becoming for a gentlewoman to beg the hand of her lover in marriage,—all this to silence Gladys and pacify his own conscience.

Mrs. Longworth trustingly believed her daughter, while away from home, was visiting former Art School chums . Gladys wrote interesting weekly letters. She described brilliant, but imaginary functions she had attended, and delayed her return because of delightful fetes which, she wrote, “would be a social misfortune to miss.”

Mrs. Longworth, full of unselfishness and pride in \vhat she believed to be her daughter's social success, encouraged the visit by sending small checks, denying herself many necessities. Not the least of the mother’s sacrifices was doing much of her own housework with the assistance of Dora. Her home consisted of eigh¬ teen rooms, most of them rented to students, and the absence of Gladys for several months laid a heavy bur¬ den on the aged woman.

As the months preceding the birth of the babe less¬ ened to weeks, and the weeks to days, Gladys became more and more determined to have a final understand¬ ing and see if there could be any logical reason why the father of her unborn child should not be forced to share the disgrace which he had so impulsively cast over her life. She was willing to bear the cross, but the burden alone seemed too heavy for single punish¬ ment. Hallaway’s promises seemed forgotten.

Visions of her child’s future; the horror of being without a legal protector in the face of public scorn; the stigma of social shame forced upon the babe; the natural curiosity of the young mind as maturer years approached,—such dreams became more and more in¬ tolerable. The thought that her son or daughter might forever miss the powerful influence of a legal father’s guiding hand, was just one of a thousand horrors which confronted the expectant mother. Again and again the most unmentionable pictures presented them¬ selves while she endured the last ten days of waiting.

As the days sped by she naturally shrank from the oft repeated humiliation of asking her lover to do his duty, only to hear the same torturing argument:—

“As soon, my dear, as I am graduated and estab¬ lished in some new town where neither of us has been known, and one other obstacle has been removed, I will marry you. We can take our child and return to my practice without any one being the wiser.”

“But, why the delay?” she entreated. As your wife I could be with you and share the uncertainties and hardships.”

“Gladys, for my sake be more reasonable,” he count¬ ered. “Your condition is such that you are utterly de¬ void of reason and when this is over you are going to feel the absurdity of your present desires. You do not understand the utter impossibility of your demands.”

A depressing expression spread over the features of the expectant mother as she dubiously lifted and low¬ ered her shoulders.

“But, Raymond, dear,—”

“Have you forgotten,” he interrupted, “our former promises, and especially that you would not question my silence nor doubt my honor?”

“No, I’ve not forgotten, but that was before—before

“Then in heaven’s name let well enough alone!” he exclaimed. “Know that I am a man of my word. It will be my privilege, and not my duty, to marry you as soon as conditions are favorable. Trust me, dear,”

he continued, changing his exasperated tone to one of tenderness.

Gladys realized there must be a dreadfully serious reason why Raymond refused to marry her. She in¬ wardly cringed at the thought of being considered un¬ reasonable. She had heard mature ladies discourse concerning the peculiarities of delicate women, but the very thought of being considered eccentric was a re¬ flection on the pride the prospective mother felt in her efforts to develop the future talents and shape the moral tendencies of her unborn child. Exhausted and fairly heartbroken, Gladys spent the last two days of waiting in the hospital registered as Mrs. R. G. Hall/’ Hallaway was referred to as ‘Dr. Hall/ and posed as a decidedly devoted husband. The night of the birth he tried to assist the attending physician and nurse, but the pathetic agony of his loved one proved too much for Hallaway’s nerve. Kneeling by her couch of pain, he assured Gladys again and again that some day he would convince her what such devotion and courage meant. He kissed her eyes, hair and feverish lips, leaving tears, of which he was not ashamed, upon the pale cheek as he whispered: “Bravest of little mothers/’ Gladys was too weak to doubt his expressions of lov¬ ing sympathy. They gave comfort to her aching heart. She smiled with maternal pride as she watched her lover hold the baby girl protectingly against his breast, and heard him say: “Our baby, dear—just ours.”

Two weeks passed and at last came the hour when Raymond Hallaway v^as to take his baby and Gladys back to the latter’s modest room. His selfishness and dual life had not forced their weight upon him. The only thing which appeared to torture Hallaway was the living proof of his lack of foresight and moral stamina. If Gladys so chose, the gossip-loving world would soon gloat over his misfortunes, and sneer with mocking contempt at his personal reasons for keeping secret the realization of his most sacred dream. Hallaway had desired the child with all his heart and was proud of her, but he did not wish the world to know of her until he was able to provide proper protection. She was the child of his ideals. She was conceived at the height of his reclaimed health, ambition, and vital en¬ ergy. Not until Hallaway drove slowly along, with Gladys beside him holding the baby, was there pro¬ found regret concerning the little one’s birth. It was the weakening attitude of the young mother which caused the forebodings. During most of the drive there was comparative silence, both realizing too late their appalling responsibility.

No one is so free of short-comings that at one time or another he or she is not secretly gratified when some family tradition or condition offers excuse for mistakes. So it was with Hallaway, who took refuge in the asurance that the Longworths always had been a proud family of Revolutionary fame. Indeed, they were so very proud that nothing ever was revealed concerning their domestic life—‘the military events comprising the most important epochs, periods con¬ spicuous with straps, spurs, bayonets and heroes. Each generation learned of its predecessor’s worthy achieve - merits, and diplomatically refrained from revealing domestic difficulties, as the bravery of their men and the nobility of their women, during the great battles, gave the “House of Longworth” just reason to feel proud of its share in Southern glory. If domestic con¬ flicts crossed swords with the military forces, they were silenced by the Longworth pride, and eventually crushed under the laurels of patriotic honors.

Raymond Hallaway believed if Mrs. Longworth ever heard of her daughter’s misfortune, she would use every effort to silence the report. In this he failed to consider the proud spirit of indignation and sense of justice which permeates those crushed by sudden mis¬ fortune. Only death can prevent a normal Southern man or woman from fighting for family honor,—and even then posterity clings to the right of protecting its dead, and eagerly takes up the unfinished labors of keeping the good old name free from public ridicule.

Gladys yearned to return home to her mother, but Raymond pleaded with her to postpone the ordeal, or place the infant in some institution until such time as they could be married. Either of these suggestions drove the lonely girl almost frantic as it had always been her real nature to live above reproach and to be especially loyal to Mrs. Longworth. Continuing such deception was most revolting.

Every week Raymond’s father, who lived in a small town in Ohio where he was engaged in the drug busi¬ ness, sent his son a small allowance. When this sum was divided between Gladys and Hallaway, it proved little more than a starvation income and extras for the child were obtained only through extreme sacrifice on the new mother’s part. It was not long before both parents realized the wants of their babe were impera¬ tive. The little one needed warmer clothing and more nourishing food. When taken for its daily airing and other roomers stopped to admire the infant’s soulful, brown eyes, they shivered at the sight of its fragile body. Gladys fully understood that it was her own mode of living which was having a detrimental effect on the baby. If permitted to return to her mother and unburden her mind, she knew her former appetite would return. She realized worry had made the infant peevish during the day and sleepless at night and knew drugs given to babes simply to induce sleep occasion¬ ally result in idiocy and murder.

The new mother hesitated in permitting her student-lover to continue treating the little one, though it was evident that Hallaway was sincere in his desire to give the best of his limited knowledge. Every change in treatment or suggestion caused the mother-heart si¬ lently to yearn for the consultation of a more experi¬ enced physician. However, Hallaway removed all doubts of his love for the baby by his frank devotion. So far as his fear of publicity permitted, and his lim¬ ited means allowed, he gradually manifested the joys and responsibilities of fatherhood, displaying far greater concern over the infant’s welfare than that of Gladys.

Hallaway spent Saturday and Sunday of every week with Gladys and their baby, but from Monday morning until Friday evening he remained in Louisville attending College during the day and at night occupying his room at the home of Mrs. Longworth, facing that proud woman with well-concealed fear and smoothlyspoken untruths. One Wednesday night, while he was studying, Mrs. Longworth became exceedingly ill of what later proved to be plural pneumonia. For sev¬ eral days previous she had suffered from a severe cold, but this particular night she experienced unusual pain and high fever. She sent a servant to Hallaway with instructions to come to her immediately.

The moment he entered the sick woman’s chamber, gazed upon her haggard face, and felt her faint pulse, Hallaway knew she had only the slightest chance of recovery. Mrs. Longworth could hardly speak as she feebly dictated a telegram to Gladys, urging her to re¬ turn. Hallaway’s hour of deepest humiliation had at last arrived. He would not only be forced to make his life an open book to Gladys, but face the contempt and scorn of her mother. Only too well he realized if her daughter were not home within four hours—that Mrs. Longworth would order the colored servant, Dora, to send a second message, and then the entire affair would surely become public. Under the latter condi¬ tions, Gladys would bring the baby home with her without consulting him.

The only solution Raymond could possibly conceive was to personally go to his sweetheart instead of wir¬ ing, and tell her about her mother’s serious illness. He would say news of the child might kill the patient. He intended to plead once more with Gladys to leave the baby in the care of the landlady. Hallaway left Louisville on the 2:10 A. M. train, a short time after Mrs. Longworth had given him the message to wire. Gladys would neither listen to his pleading, nor voice her future intention. She was determined not to per¬ mit the child to be absent from her sight one minute, and absolutely refused to consider further deceiving Mrs. Longworth.

Before the birth the young mother had been too deli¬ cate for strong decision. She had made but a half¬ hearted effort to believe in the arguments her lover advanced. Little by little she came to the conclusion that most of his excuses were based on fear. Since her present existence was such a pathetic reality, and the future a dark cheerless uncertainty, Gladys intended, as health returned, either to force a marriage or com¬ pel him to divulge the reason why he continually dodged the issue. All her life she had believed in the raw coldness of unadulterated truth, indifferent to whether or not it injured her nearest and dearest. This was Longworth logic, and a tradition instilled in Gladys from infancy. If moved to speak, she must utter the truth without relation to consideration, kind¬ liness, protection, diplomacy or silence;—truth regard¬ less of consequences.