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The Romance and Tragedy

W >> William Ingraham Russell >> The Romance and Tragedy




Naturally there was a very active effort made to get away from
me the old trade which Mr. Derham had held well in hand for many
years. This I had expected, but I did not count upon my competitor
waiving commissions whenever we came into a contest for business
of any importance.

This sort of competition I could not meet, not only as a matter
of principle based on the idea that "the laborer is worthy of his
hire," but because I could not afford to do business for nothing.

Despite the handicap of youth and unfair competition, I kept steadily
at work increasing the strength of my position where it was already
established, and striving to the utmost to get a foothold where I
had not yet secured it.

At the end of the year, when the books were balanced, I found that
I had made about twenty-five hundred dollars, as compared with
twelve thousand dollars made by Mr. Derham the year previous.

This was most unsatisfactory to me, for while of course it was
a much larger income than I had ever before earned, it was so far
below my expectations that I could not but feel keen disappointment.

Still, I knew that I now possessed a business, and as the prospects
were good I started the new year with courage and the determination
to make a better showing.

Early in the year two incidents occurred that helped me immensely.

The largest consumers in our line were the oil refiners, all of
whom have since been absorbed by the Standard Oil Company.

These concerns were heavy buyers, and Mr. Thomas Derham had the
preference on their business. From the first I had struggled to get
a share of it, without having made them, after a year of constant
effort, a single sale. Still, I made a daily call on each and
finally secured my first order.

It was given to me by Mr. J. A. Bostwick personally, and the order
was so large I could scarcely believe I had captured it. This was
the entering wedge, and throughout the year, although not getting
more than a very small proportion of the business, I succeeded in
selling occasionally to all of the refiners.

The other incident was even more important in its results, for it
was the commencement of intimate relations with the important firm
which stood at the head of the trade.

This firm had up to that time shown a decided favoritism for my chief
competitor, but this feeling changed in consequence of investments
in a mining stock, both by the firm and by its most active individual
member, which they had been led into through the influence of my
competitor.

The investment proved disastrous, resulting in losses of more than
a hundred thousand dollars, and though this sum was insignificant
to people of such large wealth, the feeling of bitterness aroused
was most acute.

My competitor had for many years as a Boston correspondent the
firm of W. B. Tatnall & Company, and through it a large business
was done with the Boston dealers; but the most important phase of
this connection was the fact that Tatnall controlled the selling
of a certain commodity imported in large quantities by a Boston
firm, and of which the leading firm in New York was the largest
buyer.

Tatnall & Company had severed abruptly its connection with my
competitor, and without my solicitation made me a proposition which
I promptly accepted. The competing firm immediately established
in Boston as its correspondent a brother of the senior partner.

The first battle for supremacy came over the sale of a cargo due
to arrive at Boston by a sailing vessel. This was before the days
of the telephone, and numerous telegrams passed between us before
the transaction was closed.

When the final message confirming the sale reached me, it read
as follows: "Closed, contracts coming, competitors conquered,
congratulations, cocktails, cigars, careful contemplation."

In a feeling of exuberance Tatnall had written this telegram, and
by his closing words meant me to remember that "one swallow does
not make a summer," and that over-confidence on the occasion of a
first success would be unwise.

Mr. W. B. Tatnall came to New York a few days later. It was our
first meeting and I found him a delightful man, a typical Bostonian.
He was highly cultured, well up in art, a book-collector of some
repute.

I recall one little incident of his visit which amused me greatly.
The weather was very stormy and his salutation on greeting me was,
"Good-morning Mr. Stowe; fine day for birds of an aquatic nature."

We called on all the trade, and in every office he made the same
remark. Before the day was over I concluded I was not likely ever
to forget that rain makes "a fine day for ducks."




CHAPTER IV

AND THE ANSWER WAS "YES"



Although when I left Miss Wilson on that evening in July it was not
as an accepted lover, as I had brought myself to believe it would
be, and my disappointment was overwhelming that such was the case,
my heart told me that all was not lost.

She had admitted that she admired and respected me more than any
other man of her acquaintance, while she did not feel the love for
me that a woman should give to the man she marries.

This admission I deemed a great point gained.

With a field cleared of rivals, it only remained to transform her
admiration and respect into love. How to do that was for me to
find out. That it could be done I felt reasonably certain.

It was my first love-affair, hence I was an amateur in such matters.
This I knew was a point in my favor, as Miss Wilson was not the
sort of girl to admire a man who had a habit of falling in love
with every pretty face. Life in her eyes had its serious side and
she was well equipped mentally to test the true ring of those with
whom she came in contact.

The following day I wrote Miss Wilson at length, reiterating and
enlarging on all that I had said, telling her I would wait until
she felt she could give me a definite answer, and begging her not
to hasten her decision if it was to be negative.

If I had any fear at all it was on this point--that she might feel
it imperative to decide the matter promptly, while I was prepared
to wait, years if necessary, rather than to take from those lips
which I so eagerly longed to press to mine own in love's first
caress, the relentless, cruel--no.

Miss Wilson's contemplated visit to Connecticut was postponed for
a while and this gave me an opportunity to see her daily.

That I laid vigorous siege to her heart was certain. I was most
assiduous in all those little attentions that please a woman, and
as our tastes were entirely congenial our hours of companionship
were delightful to both.

If I were a few minutes late in making my evening call, very rarely
the case, she would remark it, and I soon realized that the feature
of her day was the hours passed with me. In fact, my presence was
becoming necessary to her happiness.

As soon as this impression became fixed in my mind, I grew impatient
at delay in the culmination of my desires, and felt I must soon urge
Miss Wilson to relieve me of suspense by making me the happiest of
men. Probably I should have done this within a few days had it not
been for the fact that she left Brooklyn on her visit to Middletown,
Connecticut. Then I decided to await her return.

On the morning of the sixth of September I found in my mail at the
office an envelope addressed in a lady's handwriting, postmarked
Middletown, Connecticut.

It contained a brief note from Miss Wilson, stating that on that day
at one o'clock she would be due at New York and was going at once
for a week at West Point, and asked me, if convenient, to meet her
at the railroad station to escort her across the city to the boat.

There were three significant points in that note, the first I had
ever received from her.

First, it commenced with "Dear Walter." Always before I had been
Mr. Stowe. Next, it was signed as "Yours, with love"; and last, but
by no means least, Miss Wilson wrote, as a postscript, "I shall be
alone."

Would it be convenient for me to meet that train? I should say
so.

I was at the station with a carriage at least half an hour ahead
of time and I walked the platform of the old Twenty-seventh Street
station of the New York, New Haven and Hartford Railroad Company,
back and forth, looking at my watch every five minutes and wondering
if the train would ever come.

The train arrived on time, and as Miss Wilson alighted from the car,
I greeted her. How I gazed into those beautiful eyes and tried to
read there the love I hungered for.

We drove to the Hotel Brunswick for luncheon, and if "the proof
of the pudding is in the eating," the luncheon, despite the good
reputation of that old hostelry, then in its palmy days, must have
been a poor one. Either that, or we lacked appetite--more likely
the latter.

After luncheon we again took the carriage, and drove to the pier
where the _Mary Powell_ was awaiting her passengers.

It was during that drive, while passing down Fifth Avenue, that
the word I so longed to hear was spoken. "Yes"--only a single word
and yet it spoke volumes to my heart. It bound together for all
time two beings, neither of whom had known for longer than a few
months even of the existence of the other, and yet a divine power
had brought these two hearts, beating in unison, to their natural
mate. While the lips whispered "yes," the hand found its way to
mine and the loving clasp was the only demonstration the surroundings
permitted; but when the carriage had turned into a comparatively
quiet side street and just before it reached the pier, I could no
longer refrain.

Drawing the curtains at the carriage windows, I clasped to my heart
the lovely girl who was now my very own.

Oh, what an ecstasy of bliss that moment was!

I have owned many handsome carriages, luxurious in their appointments,
drawn by fine horses, but as I look back to that day of days, that
shabby public hack, with its rough-looking driver, holding the reins
over a pair of ill-fed animals, stands in my memory as almost ideal.

Of course I did not leave my promised wife at the boat. There
was no reason I should not take that delightful sail up the river
with her, and there was every reason why I should. I sought out a
secluded spot on deck and there, comparatively free from observation,
we let our thoughts revel in our new-found happiness.

It was possible, unseen, to occasionally clasp each other's hand,
and in this way a sort of lover's wireless telegraph kept us in
communication that emphasized to me the fact that my happiness was
real and not a dream.

Our conversation was not very animated; we were too happy to talk,
and the beautiful scenery of the Hudson was lost to us on that
occasion.

To look into each other's eyes and read there all that was in our
hearts was the supreme pleasure and happiness of the moment.

When the boat arrived at West Point, Lieutenant Harper, then
Professor of Spanish at the Academy, afterwards major, and since
promoted to colonel for gallantry in the Philippines, met Miss
Wilson at the landing.

I had planned to at once take the ferry across the river--there
was no West Shore Railroad at that time--and return to New York by
train, but Lieutenant Harper insisted that I should dine with them
and take a later train, which I did.

Of course the, to us, great incident of the day was unknown to
Miss Wilson's friends, and she did not enlighten them until after
I had gone.

The two or three hours spent with Lieutenant Harper's family,
while I was supposed to be simply a friend of Miss Wilson, passed
quickly. I had hoped to be able on leaving to see her alone for
at least a few moments, but in this I was disappointed, and while
the clasp of her hand and the expression of her eyes conveyed a
great deal to me, our parting that evening was in its details most
unsatisfactory from a lover's point of view.

During that first week of our engagement, while separated, we
corresponded daily, and the rejoicing was mutual when, her visit
ended, Miss Wilson returned to Brooklyn.

Then for two short weeks I enjoyed to the full the privileges and
delights of an accepted lover. What visions of future happiness
those two weeks of close companionship opened to my eyes! The
refinement and natural dignity of the woman made her caresses of
exquisite daintiness and tenderness. Spontaneously and absolutely
without a suggestion of affectation her love was poured out generously
to the man who had won her heart, and each evening it seemed as if
my affection had increased a thousand fold.

Oh, what a wonderful thing is pure love! What would the world be
without it?

The day of our parting was drawing nigh.

At the end of September Miss Wilson was to return to her home in
Chicago. A month later I was to visit her there, but the thought
of that month of separation so soon after we had become engaged
saddened us and our hearts dreaded the ordeal. Still, come it
did, and as I watched the train pull out of the station, carrying
with it all that I loved best in the world, I felt a wrench at my
heartstrings and a loneliness that was inexpressible.

For a month I consoled myself as best I could with the letters
which reached me almost daily and always brought me happiness.

Then I turned my face westward.

Miss Wilson's father had been dead for many years. She, with her
mother, resided with her married sister, the wife of a general in
the army during the war, and at the time of which I write, judge
of the Probate Court. Until his death, a few years ago, he was one
of Chicago's best known and most highly respected citizens.

As the relatives approved of our engagement, my reception by the
family was all that could be desired. As to my reception by Miss
Wilson, I think it safe to leave it to the imagination of my readers.
It was entirely satisfactory to me.

My visit was of necessity a short one. For though I was not again
to see Miss Wilson until the time of our marriage, a full year
away, I had to return to New York after a few days and look after
my business interests, which required constant personal attention.

The days of my visit flew speedily, and back in New York I settled
down to business with increased ambition and the greatest possible
incentive to achieve success.




CHAPTER V

WEDDING BELLS



The year in which the days had been as weeks, the weeks as months,
had finally come to an end, and at six o'clock on the evening of
Saturday, October 19th, 1872, I started on my thirty-six hours'
journey to Chicago.

There was no "Twentieth Century Limited," making the trip in twenty
hours, in those days, and my two nights and a day on the road gave
me ample time for contemplation, which I was in a mood to avail
myself of. I felt all the eagerness of youth, the power of a love
that stirred my whole being, and was impressed with the solemnity
of the obligation I was about to incur.

The life of a lovely woman was to be intrusted to me, to make or
to mar according as I did my duty.

I passed many hours, as the train rolled on, mile after mile,
mentally reviewing the past, looking at the present, and planning
for the future.

My year of correspondence with my wife-to-be had increased the
strength of my affection, and to its growth there seemed no end. In
a worldly way I had prospered, accumulating five thousand dollars,
while my income from my business was, so far as I could see, making
a steady and gratifying increase. My health was perfect, I had not
a care in the world, and when I arrived in Chicago Monday morning
my happiness was complete. No, not quite; but it was a few minutes
later when I arrived at the home of my bride on Michigan avenue.

I remained a guest there until Tuesday, and then visited my married
sister, who resided in a suburb of Chicago.

Wednesday was one of those glorious October days when, with a clear
sky, the temperature is low enough to make the air bracing without
being too cold. I was at the Michigan avenue home early, and after
a few minutes with Miss Wilson, walking through the rooms, admiring
the floral decorations, I was deserted, and felt myself for the
time being as rather "a fifth wheel to a coach."

The bride was in the hands of her girl friends, everybody was busy
with the final preparations, and I wandered around, wishing that
the agony was over and I had my wife to myself.

At last the hour arrived.

Preceded by Miss Wilson's little nieces as flower-girls we entered
the crowded rooms, and in a few minutes the clergyman had pronounced
us man and wife.

As I am not writing for a society paper or fashion journal, I will
not attempt to describe the gown worn by the bride. It was very
handsome, no doubt.

But the woman who wore it! Ah, there was a subject for the pen of
a poet, the brush of an artist. Certainly I have never seen any
creature half so lovely; and as I looked into those eyes, beaming
with love, trust, confidence,--everything, that a noble woman could
give to the man she loved,--I thanked my God for the inestimable
blessing He had bestowed upon me.

I have made many mistakes in my life, most men have, and I have
done many things the wisdom of which was afterwards proven; but as
I write these lines, looking back over more than thirty-two years
of married life, I know that my marriage is the one act of my whole
career that stands pre-eminent as the wisest and best thing that
I have ever done.

In all these years my wife and I have been as one. In days of
prosperity she rejoiced with me, in times of adversity and bitter
trials she has stood nobly by me, always with absolute faith in
and unswerving loyalty to the man to whom she gave her heart.

Her love, courage, and cheerfulness have been the mainstays which
supported me when I would have fallen by the wayside, and her sweet
companionship and keen appreciation of refined pleasures have added
immeasurably to my enjoyment and happiness.

After a two-hour reception we donned our traveling garb and made
a race for the carriage, submitting good-naturedly to the usual
shower of rice and slippers.

We were to take the five o'clock train going East, and the Judge
rode with us to the station. When the last farewell had been said
while standing on the platform of the car as the train pulled out
from the station, we sought our drawing-room in the Pullman, and
closing the door I clasped my wife to my heart.

It was the first moment we had been alone since the ceremony.

Our wedding-trip was necessarily brief, as I had to get back to
my business; so after a day or two each at Toledo and Albany, the
early part of the following week found us in New York.

Like all young people on their wedding-trip, we tried to fool the
public into believing that we were not bride and groom; but I have
no doubt that if we fooled anybody, that individual must have been
very nearsighted and minus eye-glasses.

My wife possibly maintained her dignity, but I fear I was too happy
to be suppressed.

I remember well the peculiar way in which the clerk at the Boody
House, Toledo, looked at me when I registered. As I was not yet
twenty-two years of age I could hardly have expected him to take
us for "old married folks."

Before leaving for Chicago I had engaged an apartment and board with
a very pleasant and refined family in Fort Greene Place, Brooklyn,
and it was there we commenced our married life.

It was my custom to walk to Wall Street Ferry each morning on my
way to the office, and whenever the weather was suitable my wife
accompanied me to within a block or two of the ferry.

In the afternoon I was always home at the earliest possible moment.

I begrudged every hour that we were parted.

Each day I discovered something new to admire, some trait of
character, some mental attribute, or a dainty mannerism that was
simply captivating.

Thus were our lives developing day after day.

In the evenings we had frequent callers, and while I was always
the gracious host to my friends, I was selfish enough to wish, at
times, that we could live on an island by ourselves, where we could
remain undisturbed.

It is said "there is nothing half so sweet in life, as love's young
dream." I have found something far sweeter, as this narrative in
its natural progression will develop; but those were my days of
"love's young dream."

I was proud of my wife, proud of the admiration she commanded from
our friends, but I wanted her all to myself.

Our Sundays were looked forward to with eagerness. We attended
church service in the morning, and the afternoons were passed in
our apartment in delightful intercourse.

There was never a dull moment.

Sunday evening supper, which to me has always been a most attractive
meal, was usually taken either with my family or at Mr. Sherman's.
Occasionally we would attend an evening service, but as a rule we
would get home early and have a few hours to ourselves.

Our year of separation while engaged had to be atoned for.

We were lovers the first year of our wedded life, and after all
these years we are, no less ardently, lovers still.




CHAPTER VI

THE FIRST REVERSE OF FORTUNE.



The Christmas holidays of 1872 were at hand and I was in full spirit
with the festivities of the season.

My home life was a constant revelation of delight and happiness.

The income from my business had increased to double that of the
previous year, and the future looked bright indeed.

Just at this time came to me in an evil hour a temptation to which
I yielded, and I have always wondered how, under all the conditions
then existing, I could have been so weak.

My accumulations had not been invested, and as I had in my business
no use for capital, the money remained idle in bank.

Crossing the ferry one morning I was joined by a friend in the employ
of a Stock Exchange firm, then well known, but since retired from
business.

I had been thinking of an investment and spoke to him on the subject,
telling him the amount of money I had to invest. I had in mind the
buying of some good bonds.

My friend, who was a most plausible talker, had, I understood, made
considerable money in Wall Street, and when he told me of a movement
in certain stocks then being manipulated for a rise, through his
office, I was at first interested and then carried away with the
desire to enter what seemed such an easy road to wealth.

He told me of several instances where the investment of a few
thousands had resulted in enormous profits. These stories usually
get to public knowledge one way or another, but the other side, the
vastly greater number of cases where ruin and often worse follows,
one does not hear so much of.

Before I went home that day I had bought five hundred shares of stock
and had deposited as a margin five thousand dollars. I was told
that the margin would surely be ample to carry the stock through
any possible fluctuations, that I was not to feel alarmed if I saw
the price go off a point or two, and that I was certain to see a
twenty-point rise within a few weeks.

On my way home that afternoon I, for the first time in my life, read
in the paper closing prices at the Stock Exchange, before reading
anything else.

My stock was up half a point above the price I paid and I experienced
a feeling of jubilation that was very pleasant. I saw in my mind
my five thousand dollars transformed into fifteen thousand.

It was great!

At first I thought I would tell my wife about it, then decided not
to do so, but to wait and surprise her with the good news when the
money was made.

Fatal mistake.

Had I told my wife, as I should have done, she would surely have
advised me to sell out the first thing the following morning and
to let speculation entirely alone.

The following day the price receded a full point Then, for a week,
without any reaction, I watched it decline daily, by fractions,
until my margin was more than half exhausted.

My wife readily discovered there was something worrying me, though
I tried to conceal it, and in her sweet, loving way urged me to
tell her of my trouble. I put her off from day to day, hoping for
a change for the better.

Finally, when the price of the stock had reached a point where there
was hardly anything left of my five thousand dollars, the brokers
notified me I must make a further deposit or they would have to
sell me out. I could have borrowed the money, but I would not do
it, so the transaction was closed and my money lost.

As a matter of fact, which only goes to show what seems to the
small speculator the infernal ingenuity of the stock market, the
stock reacted almost immediately after I sold, and had I held on for
another two or three weeks, not only would I have saved my money,
but would have made in addition a very handsome profit.

Well, the money was gone--and now came the hardest part of it. I
had to tell my wife. I felt that I had wronged her confidence in
not telling her from the first, and this feeling hurt me far more
than the loss of the money.

After dinner that evening, fortunately we were spared from callers,
sitting on the lounge with my arm around her, I told her all. How
practically all I had in the world was gone, through an act of
foolishness I should never have committed.

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