John Langley came to my room tonight, after everyone was at church. He has found out my story, and has offered me the greatest insult that a man can give a woman. He has made me realize how much such a marriage with me would injure you. Disgrace shall never touch you or yours through me.
Forgive me for deceiving you—for loving you; it is all the wrong that I have done you.
O love—my love—how can I give you up? You will never know the bitterness of the step I am taking!
Mrs. Smith shuddered as she listened to the words being read. Could it be possible that this strange, unexpected confession had come from the beautiful girl they knew so well?
Dora was weeping bitterly when she finished; so was her mother. They sat there stunned into silence. Every pulse beat at fever-heat in Will’s body. His nerves were strained almost beyond endurance; they were a thousand needle-points of pain. How could he bear this terrible news that had come to him! Luke Sawyer’s story was written before his eyes in letters of fire. He saw with acute clairvoyant sight the beautiful child—the brutal captor—the horrid surroundings of the vile den to which he had consigned her—her struggles within the brutal grasp—all the sickening details of that horrible violation of chastity were mirrored within his brain. Time could never eradicate them. God of heaven! how could he bear to think that his beautiful Sappho—his pure girl-love, had been subjected to such brutality! And then the child! Agony of agonies! He could not suffer more and live!
There was something awe-inspiring in his great affliction to the women who loved him. Dismal silence had seized upon them all. Then a sob—dreadful to hear—broke from Will. He staggered across the room and fell on his knees by his mother’s side and buried his face in the folds of her dress. It was a way he had in early childhood when anything distressed him. Then his mother comforted him as in childhood days—his head upon her tender breast—her dear wrinkled hands, as if in blessing, resting upon his grief-stricken brow.
At length Dora broke the silence.
“Oh, that poor, miserable girl! think of her sufferings—of the weight of the secret she carried with her. What a crucifixion for a proud spirit like hers! This terrible curse of slavery! shall we never lose the sting of degradation? Think of John, too! How did he find it out? what a heartless scamp he must be! I confess the whole thing is an enigma to me.”
“To think she should believe us capable of feeling anything for her but sympathy! You must find her, Will, and bring her back home,” said Ma Smith.
“Yes, mother; but any girl would act as she has. Think of her humiliation to be obliged to own such a story to her lover! I do not wonder that she turned a coward and fled. But Will will find her, never fear.”
Will had regained something of self-control. But what a change had come to that debonair countenance! Dora’s heart ached as she looked at him. He arose from his knees by his mother’s side and stood a moment as if bewildered.
“I am going to hire the best detective in the city to find her. But first I will settle with John Langley,” he said at last.
“Give him this!” cried Dora, snatching her engagement ring from her finger. “Tell him I hope never to see his face again.”
“Poor little sister. Must you suffer, too?”
“Don’t pity me, Will!” she exclaimed with flashing eyes. “I am well rid of such a man.”
Will kissed them both solemnly and went out.
The two women, left alone, went softly about the pretty room folding away the scattered articles of wearing apparel, which they watered with many bitter tears, and finally closing the blinds and drawing down the curtains. She will return, they told each other, hoping against hope. We will leave things as they are. And then went out and locked the door.
Such incidents as we have pictured above are not uncommon in any community where slavery has cast its baleful shadow. Emancipation has done much, but time and moral training among the white men of the South are the only cures for concubinage.
We may right a wrong, but we cannot restore our victim to his primeval state of happiness. Something is lost that can never be regained. The wages of sin is death. Innocent or guilty, the laws of nature are immutable. So with shoulders bent and misshapen with heavy burdens, the Negro plods along bearing his cross—carrying the sins of others.
Time was no more. I stood there gazing at the approaching forms of matchless beauty advancing toward the judgment seat of God. And I asked a question: “Who are these arrayed in white?” And one of the elders answered: “These are they who come out of great tribulation!”
Fortunately it happened that it was an hour when the inmates of No. 500 D Street were busy attending to their various vocations. No one need know more of Sappho’s disappearance than the family felt to tell. They made one exception to this resolve. It was about ten o’clock when Doctor Lewis called. The mother and daughter were just sitting down to the meal so sadly interrupted. In answer to questions asked in friendly solicitude because of their troubled looks, the whole miserable story came out.
“It is fortunate that I happened in,” he said, when he had heard all they could tell him.
“I will go right down to Langley’s office. It is useless to allow more trouble to grow out of this unhappy affair. Those men must not meet alone.”
Amazed, startled, dumbfounded at this romance in real life, he hurried away toward the business portion of the city. But under his anxiety to serve his friends, who
