Valley Farming—The valley in which Reno is located contains some 30,000 acres of fertile land, and is especially suited to the raising of garden truck, fruits, chickens and grains and grasses. There is a ready market for all the produce that is raised in the valley. A small farm of a few acres can be obtained within a mile of the city for a reasonable figure, and a good living earned in spare hours after work in the city.
PART 2
RENO TRAGEDIES
Mrs. Smith did her little six months in Reno and the world's sympathy was with her, and the recording angel, I dare say, winked solemnly to himself and said: "Another domestic tragedy!"….
It is certainly a tragedy to be told outright by the husband one has borne children for and has been a good wife to, and has loved and cherished for the best part of one's life, to "cash in one's old face and make room in his heart and home for a younger and more fair." This was the case, apparently, with the Smiths.
And yet during my short stay in Reno, I have heard of more tragic cases than that of Mrs. Smith. Mrs. Smith had been left her child and money. We can't buy happiness with money, it's true, but we can at least buy comfort, and that is something after all. I knew of a different case where there was no money to buy comfort: a mother, with a baby in her arms and the one desire in her heart, to make it legitimate before it should grow old enough to understand….. I met this heart broken mother in a hospital in Reno, six years after her arrival there. I had heard about her and went to see the child.
"The divorce colony, all frivolity and gaiety," you say? Pardon me, I know better!
This devoted mother had loved the father of her child. She had left an impossible husband and gone with a man who had shown her sympathy, kindness and love when her life was all unhappiness. She had fought bravely for her freedom, but for some reason had been unable to obtain it. The months had dragged into years, the woman toiling day by day in a shop to support herself and baby, until years of work and worry had claimed their prize at last, and she had fallen ill; and it was then I heard of her and went to see her. I could still see traces of beauty in the now hardened lines about her mouth and sunken eyes. It has been said that "absence makes the heart grow fonder," but alas! there are too many cases where "absence makes the heart grow… yonder." The man whose wife she had hoped to become forgot her in less than a year and passed out of her life….
I shall never forget the day I saw this fatherless child, with her little pale face, rose-bud mouth and big brown eyes, which when she lifted them to mine were filled with unshed tears. I knew that this little lonely child of fate understood…. even at the age of six. I just wanted to take her in my arms and cry….
One beautiful morning a mother arose and called at the door of her daughter's bedroom. What, no answer? She opened the door and looked in. Why, the bed had not been slept in! The mother knew that Marjory had been despondent of late, and she knew why. Can you imagine the icy hand that gripped that mother's heart when she looked upon the empty couch. An hour later Marjory's beautiful young body was found floating in the stream that runs through the University grounds among the green trees, with sunshine filtering through and the birds singing their glad notes of life among the leafy branches. As pure and sweet as a desert lily, and as dainty as an apple blossom was this daughter of Nevada. He who said "Truth is stranger than fiction" well nigh spoke truthfully indeed.
Why wish to leave, Marjory, when you possessed youth, beauty and loving friends; when the month was June and all the world rejoiced? Indeed, why?
If Marjory's stiffened lips could have answered, she would have said:
"Yes, but my lover proved untrue: yesterday he was married to the
Queen of the Divorce Colony; today they are on their honeymoon, and I
am in the great unknown…."
It is between the hours of twilight and night. The last fading light of the setting sun is reflected upon the waters of the Truckee River, in a silvery, rose-tinted hue, indescribable in its delicate beauty. There is a strange lady seated on the veranda of an imposing Colonial home overlooking the river. She is writing; sometimes she stops to gaze upon the glory of the sunset with great dreamy eyes, whose depths seem unfathomable. How the soft twilight glow enshrines her face! But now the sun has disappeared, yet the light seems still to cling about her beautiful form. In a brighter light you might see that her lips are crimson with the glow of youth, though her face is pale. Her hair, parted in the middle and dressed straight back, and her white gown give her the appearance of a Madonna. In her bodice, she wears a white rose which from time to time she caresses in a dreamy fashion…..
Just here Eileen—her name is romantic isn't it?—is attracted by a young man who comes up the street whistling as he walks full of the joy of youth and life. He runs up the steps, two at a time. The lady on the porch lifts her eyes just one moment, but womanlike she sees much in a glance. She sees that his eyes are of a wonderful dark blue; that his hair is thick and wavy; and that he is tall, straight and strong. How lithe and supple he seems, too, as he runs up the steps and disappears into the house. Has he seen the lady Madonna? She does not know. There is indeed something strange about this dark haired man; something out of the ordinary and fascinating….
The Holbrooks had been immensely wealthy at one time but owing to gambling and unsuccessful mining deals their fortune had dwindled, and at the death of Mr. Holbrook his widow had found that her sole possessions consisted of a beautiful home and three lovely children. Eileen Reed had come to Mrs. Holbrook with a letter of introduction from a friend in the East, and had been taken into the home for the period of her exile.
It was young Holbrook who had tripped up the steps and entered the house without apparently seeing her. Having a keen woman's understanding, I wondered if this apparent ignoring of the lady's presence was not what first caused her keen interest in the young man, for Eileen was not accustomed to being ignored. She bore her crown of beauty with added brilliance and grace because of the passing years, and was fully aware of her power to sway the will of those about her, and move the hearts of men with her irresistible charm and perfect splendor, alike persuasive, compelling and all-powerful.
She had never really loved: a poor girl of a respectable family, she had taken up nursing; had married a wealthy doctor, and had been in the position of the penniless but beautiful wife of a rich husband.
At dinner Eileen was presented to young Holbrook. I happened to be a guest at dinner on that particular evening, and noticed a slight effort on the part of the new arrival to interest the young man. However, young Holbrook was cordially polite only. After dinner they sauntered out on the piazza and chatted, for some time. During the conversation, Eileen got the impression that if he had expressed his opinion about divorces, it might not have been altogether complimentary. He had grown up in Reno and for more than fifteen years had seen the divorcees appear and vanish, and oh!—what a tale he could have told.
However, he evidently thought this woman different or at least out of the ordinary, and he was right; she was a most unusual and unusually interesting woman.
They drifted into a rather serious conversation; they spoke of the old-fashioned chivalry; the profound respect men had for women in the old-fashioned bygone days; he spoke of his father with so much reverence, dignity and pride, and this boy-man with all his premature experience, gave Eileen glimpses into a soul, into his soul, which was pure and clean and good.
Eileen was rapidly becoming interested in this young head of the household; she found herself listening most attentively to every one of his words. After hearing nothing but silly wordly chatter for years, it seemed good to listen to this man who seemed to have absorbed all the romance and mystery of the land of his birth. At one time he would speak like a boy of twenty; the next moment like a man of forty; always there seemed to be present two personalities, one the care-free, happy boy, the other the all-wise, far-seeing man, with a keen intellectual understanding of every phase of life.
So much were these two people interested in each other that neither noticed that it had grown quite late and a little chilly. Eileen shivered slightly and rather unconsciously; young Holbrook noticed it.
"Why, you are cold, and it is late; I am sorry I did not realize it," he broke out in astonishment as he glanced at his watch; "really you must forgive me for keeping you up!"
He extended his hand as he bade her good night. Eileen returned his good night in her most charming manner, though rather mechanically; something had come over her; she did not know it, but for the first time in her life she seemed to have fallen in love….
Much to my surprise and strangely enough after that evening these two people seldom met and were never alone together; it seemed to me as though young Holbrook avoided Eileen without seeming to do so. I could not understand his attitude unless he felt himself slipping and was trying to avoid temptation. I felt that his apparent indifference only served to fan the flames in Eileen's heart. She struggled with her wounded pride though there never was any outward sign of her feelings until she became ill.
The first day's illness brought a gorgeous bouquet of red roses. "Oh, why did he do that, and why did he send red roses, the emblem of love and passion?" and why did Eileen clasp them madly to her heart and drink in their sensual sweetness? For three long weeks Eileen lay ill with burning fever, and always there were fresh red roses, but he himself did not come until Eileen began to convalesce. And one day he came and stood by her couch, and looked down, at her. He saw that she was paler, but the lips were still as scarlet as the petals of the American Beauties on the table by her side. The rose-colored light cast a glow over the prettiest breast and shoulders God had ever moulded! They said very little; it would be interesting to know what their thoughts were…..
Shortly after Eileen came out of the hospital she sent a little token of appreciation to Mr. Holbrook, in recognition of his unfailing kindness during her illness. That same evening they met, by chance, and as he clasped her hand and thanked her for the little gift, the pressure of his hand sent a strange thrill to her heart; she stammered something in a tremulous voice and rushed away. Later in the evening they met, shall we say again "by chance", at dinner. They danced together, and the pressure of his strong arms nearly maddened Eileen…. Oh, why do we play with fire and why is forbidden fruit so sweet!
A strange woman this, with her dual personality: a Madonna and a lover of all things good and beautiful, but a Cleopatra when the passionate fires of her soul were stirred; and this night, a passionate love that lacked all reason, dominated everything else in her being. When they had parted and she was alone in her room, sleep refused her offices: twelve: one: two…. and her eyes still were staring into the darkness…. Not a sound; all was quiet. She rose from her couch, her hair streaming, her body all aglow. She donned a flimsy, rose-colored dressing gown, opened her door, crept silently down the hall and went bodily into young Holbrook's room. In a dressing gown and slippers he sat, reading a magazine; he must have been restless, too. "Why Mrs. Reed—Eileen—what is the matter?"
"The matter is, Boy, that I love you with all my heart and soul." And as he held her in his arms he whispered: "And I love you."
For the first time since he had held her in his arms early that evening her reason asserted itself for a moment, and she pressed her hand over his lips to stifle the words. She had thought of poor little Marjory and her white face in the stream, and of a thousand other reasons why they should part. There were sacred promises on both sides to be kept. "But be mine," she pleaded, "just for tonight."
He held her in his arms; she was his very own, and she counted his heart-throbs as they beat against her breast. He scented the perfume of her breath against his cheek, and drank deep of the wine of her red lips, as she whispered again her sweet confession through a mist of tears…. "The Woman Thou Gavest Me!"
No one could better grace love's throne, nor rule more royally. Voice so low and tender and heart so warm, all herself she gave, and gladly, thoughtlessly, recklessly. Is it true that all humanity means to do right though often wrong: that the heart at times must obey the mandates of circumstances and environment: that even the purest and best succumb to temptation? Another day, and reason rules!
He was engaged to a girl who had been his little sweetheart as far back as he could remember. He had carried her books and pulled her sled and fought her battles, and now he surely would never break her heart. There is duty; an invention of the Devil, but it must be met, though hearts break and burn; though we wander through a desert of hallowed love and damning desire. This dream was to end. For months those two beings faced their little world with only a nod as they passed by; not even as much as a hand-clasp. Who can tell what the man thought, or if he cared? But the woman wept out her sorrow in my arms. Confession is good for the soul, so it is said; there is joy in a heartache sometimes, and sweet content in tears. She told me how she lay awake and listened for his footsteps. If he came into the room her heart would almost cease beating. She almost fainted once when she met him coming in with his fiancee… but in silence she suffered; pride and duty ruled.
"How exquisitely he tortures me," she said. "He uses roses as his weapons…. But what think you of this my friend? I shall bear his image into life! What matter laws and customs, and sins forbidden…. I shall be happy again when I hold my baby in my arms"….
So terribly shocked was I that I could only gasp in amazement, but when I looked into the face of the woman, behold…. the Madonna!
There seemed to be a spiritual light illuminating her face and she was far away in the land of dreams, looking into the face of her blue-eyed baby; born of a great, great Love, sacrificed to Duty. Life…. What a tragedy! Fate, did you say? Thank God for Time, the healer of all wounds. As someone has said: "Never a lip was curved in pain that could not be kissed into smiles again!"
Just half an hour before she was leaving Reno, as we were dropping the last of the little silver toilet articles into her small traveling bag, and gathering up the odds and ends here and there, the telephone rang. At Eileen's request I answered. A manly voice said: "Mr. Holbrook speaking; I would like to come and pay my respects to Mrs. Reed if she has a few minutes to spare, and will permit me!" Of course she would, poor girl; she looked as though heaven had suddenly opened and beckoned her enter. I left them alone.
Whatever was said must have taken the bitterness out of the parting, because it was a sweet-souled, courageous girl that joined me ten minutes later, to take her departure for life's everlasting battle fields; to begin anew. Perhaps she knew his love would crown the awaiting beyond with divine fulfillment……
When I saw her off on the Eastbound train, she answered my questioning look by taking a small photo from her bodice—"No, I have not forgotten," she said with a smile that was more tragic than all the tears the world has ever shed. "Here, next my heart, I shall carry my love always, but there is his duty and mine, and so much do I love him, that I want to bear all the pain myself…."
Being a trained nurse, Eileen when she got her divorce went to France with several other Red Cross nurses, "where," she said, "I shall try to mend my broken heart while I help to patch up some of our mutilated soldier boys. My only hope is that I may be of some use, and I feel sure that my own miserable little wail of bereavement will get lost in the shuffle, when I am face to face with the tragedies of the battle fields…"
Shall we forgive her? Yes, if we follow the teachings of the Nazarene….. I sometimes hear from Eileen; she is somewhere in France, and so is young Holbrook, I am told! I may yet continue their story some day. Methinks it is a promise; a whisper across the miles of unrest; a pledge of the fulfillment of a prayer; a surety for tomorrow's sunshine! Already I can see a smile in the East: may I hope, and hoping believe?….
"To Helen, my full blown rose, spirit of perfect womanhood, my inspiration and guide; to her whose love exceeds all others, to her memory I bow my head in everlasting devotion and admiration…."
Thus spoke a man who had watched the train disappear eastward with the body of his sweetheart, four years prior to the writing of this book. When I think of all the tragic stories of the divorce colony, Helen's was perhaps the most pathetic. She was the daughter of a wealthy family in New York State. She ran away when only sixteen, and married a man whom she thought she loved, and for years she struggled to find happiness, ignored by her people because of her choice of a husband. She found herself poverty stricken and unloved, paying the price of her folly. What a pity that we must be young and know too little, and then grow old and sometimes know too much! Ideals are simply mental will-o'-the-wisps, of which we are always in pursuit, but which we see realized but seldom.
For ten long years this woman faced neglect, humiliation and days and nights of anguish in her efforts to fulfill her duty, until she could stand it no longer, and crept back to her father's door to ask forgiveness. The millionaire father sent her to Reno, with ten dollars a week to live on, and a promise of forgiveness if in future she would promise to live according to his wishes. Poor little Helen! For years her heart had been starving for love, and now Reno meant to her the call of honor and duty, the sworn obligation of her family. But, alas, Helen was beautiful: a girl who had only just become a woman; whose sufferings had only served to develop a strong personality with an intangible charm; whose whole being suggested unnumbered possibilities of mind and character. Her face was like a lily, so fair, and almost classic, yet showing unmistakably the warm heart and emotional nature of the woman. A wealth of golden hair that crowned her regal grace, and eyes that had stolen the tenderest blue from a turquoise sky beneath the shade of modest lashes. Appealing lotus-like lips, rosy- ripe and moist with the dew of promised bliss; sensuous curves and graceful feminine lines….. such a woman was Helen. And he! Six feet of Western manhood; a graduate of Yale, and still an athlete at 35. A man with the highest ideals of fine, clean, strong manhood. He had gone West shortly after leaving college and had made his fortune, but he liked the West and its people, and there he made his home. The rough mining life he had led had worn off a little of the drawing room polish of his younger years, which made him even more fascinating, and something had turned his raven-black hair just a little bit gray at the temples.
This man sat in a lawyer's office one afternoon, his wide brimmed Stetson pulled low over his eyes, and a cigar between his teeth, when a rather timid little blonde lady entered. He removed both cigar and hat and stood up. Jack Worthington was the man, and he was presented to Helen by his old friend, Dick Sheldon, who was also Helen's lawyer.
Were you ever alone in a strange land, sitting between the four walls of a barren, stuffy room with the blue devils swarming thick around you? That had been the case with poor little Helen for two long weeks before her meeting with Jack Worthington.
Two whole weeks!….it had seemed an eternity to this beautiful woman, with the wreckage of her youth staring her in the face: a youth which should have been all sunshine and flowers. She had risked all for the price of love and lost….
"Gee! Some woman!" said Worthington to Sheldon when the door closed upon Helen, after a private consultation with the lawyer.
"What's the matter, old boy; captured at last, after all these years? Well, they say: 'the longer you wait, the harder the blow!' But I'll have to hand it to you, you're a good picker. That little woman is an angel if there ever was one in Reno, and you will be a lucky boy if you can win her!"
Two days later there was a little dinner given at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Sheldon, and strange to say, Helen and Worthington were among those present. From that time on it was Jack who chased away the shadows and kept Helen amused. There was something wonderfully sweet and soothing about this strong, self-reliant man of the West. Life cannot exist without sunshine, and this man was slowly becoming the sunshine of Helen's life, with each walk in the moonlight along the banks of the Truckee, and with each ride through the wonderful, silent places, while they enjoyed Nevada's matchless sunsets, and glorious freedom of open country.
[Illustration with caption: GLENBROOK]
In spite of all Jack could do in the way of chasing away the shadows, Helen continued to grow more like the lily and less like the rose. It was terribly hot in Reno as the summer months came on, and there were reasons why Helen could not have all the comforts. Worthington, with his thousands, was hopeless. She should be up to the lake where the cool, fresh breezes could fan the roses back into her cheeks, but how could he manage it?
"I know, I shall have the Sheldons go up to their camp at Glenbrook, and invite us up for the week."….
The very next morning a very sweet feminine voice called Helen over the 'phone. "Good morning, Helen dear, aren't you nearly cooked? Yes, I know it's a hundred and ten in the shade. I say, dear, Mr. Sheldon and I have a cozy nook up at Glenbrook, on Lake Tahoe. Won't you come up and spend the week with us there?…. Oh, yes, we will call for you at 8 A.M. tomorrow …. Oh, no, don't thank us, you will be so welcome…. All right, good-bye."
When Helen tripped lightly down to the big touring car the next morning, she showed no surprise when Jack jumped from the back seat and assisted her to a place by his side. It was a gay party that landed at the camp a few hours later. Did these two people know that they had grown to love each other? There had been no word of love spoken between them but that night they went for a row on the lake of many colors, just as the sun dropped over the hills and the moon shone out in all its glory. Mr. and Mrs. Sheldon stood on the shore and watched them with a knowing smile. Jack was the salt of the earth, and he meant so well…. He did not mean to speak to Helen until she was free, but alas! for the infinite cry of infinite hearts that yearn. For weeks and weeks, when the days were the darkest, it had been Jack who happened along just at the right moment with a book or some flowers, accompanied by a funny story or a joke, some little kindness that would brighten the path a bit. What a mixture he was, of tenderness and brusqueness; of common sense and poetry; of fun and seriousness, this adopted son of the sagebrush. These were Helen's thoughts as she watched his strong body bend gracefully over the oars, which sent them flying through the sapphire water of Lake Tahoe.
Already the color was beginning to appear in Helen's cheeks and she looked happier and more bewitching than ever before. "An angel pointing the way to Paradise," thought Jack. They discussed the moon- kissed glades and leafy woods of shadowland. Did they know that in each leafy bough Cupid awaited with love's weapon poised? Jack drew in the oars and allowed the little boat to drift; it is sometimes wonderfully sweet to drift; sometimes we drift into the harbor of happiness; sometimes we smash against the rocks, and are left shipwrecked. Little did Helen dream that soon this new found happiness was to vanish; that her lips burning for kisses yet unborn, might soon unbend and voice deepest anguish and piteous appeal; that those eyes which betokened unsolved depths of fondest affection, of laughter, love and life, might soon lose their lustre and dreamy languor, in an ocean of tears….. There two people drifted silently along, conscious only of the fact that they were supremely happy in each other's company …. But lo! out of the quiet a storm is born: why had they not noticed that the moon had hidden her silvery face behind a black cloud? The spray and rain beating upon their happy faces was the first incident which made them aware that a terrific storm was upon them, and that they were many miles from home. The wind was whipping the waves into a perfect fury, thus rendering unmanageable the little boat. The thunder rolled and roared, and finally the wind drove the frail craft against the stony wall of Cave Rock. Jack managed to grasp a part of the jagged surface and drag Helen with him; the boat hit against the rocks several times and finally broke up.
[Illustration with caption: CAVE ROCK] All through the struggle Helen had sat motionless and fascinated at the strength and skill this man displayed in his efforts to pull for the shore, but when at last they were there, and she felt his strong arms about her, all her courage and strength failed her, and she fainted. He clasped her closer to his heart and looked into her colorless face. Her clothes were dripping, and her golden hair was streaming about her face. Jack stopped for a moment and pressed his burning lips to hers—they were icy.
"My sweet burden of glorious womanhood," he whispered. "Thank God you are safe!" And he climbed up the rocky mountainside to the only available shelter…. Cave Rock. There he took his dripping burden and laid it on the damp, cold stones. There was no sign of life. He took off his coat, rang the water out as best he could, and spread it on the rocks and laid Helen upon it. He rubbed her hands and arms, and bathed her head, but she remained chilled.
If he only had a dry match to start a fire with, or some brandy, but alas! they were storm-tossed souls, with no means of warmth, except that of the man's palpitating body….. He was aglow with warmth from the exertion of rowing and climbing up the mountainside. He would bring back life and pulsation to this woman whom he loved with all his heart and soul, by the warmth of his own glowing body. As he drew off his waistcoat and threw it aside, something fell to the ground. He felt about in the dark until he found the object; it was a tiny silver match case, some silly Christmas present which he never used and had forgotten all about, but it was surely a welcome friend at this particular moment. Were there any matches in it?…. He held his breath for a moment while he opened it …. His sigh of relief told the story. The rest now was only the work of a minute: some bits of driftwood and the remains of some previous camp fire quickly started a blaze.
Carefully he laid Helen upon his coat near the fire, and continued to rub her body until her eyelids quivered and she opened her big blue eyes and looked about.
She saw the camp fire, the strange looking cave and the big handsome figure bending over her…. First she looked startled, then when she slowly realized their predicament she became hysterical, threw herself into her rescuer's arms and wept.
And each knew, as the one man and the one woman will always know by intuition, that fiction has no miracles such as are found in the book of life. Lips may dissemble, but there is no need of speech when heart meets its mate. Jack gathered her to his breast and soothed her as best he could. It was so good to look in her face and to hear her voice; her heart was so pure and her soul so lily white: her eyes like violets wet with the morning dew….
When she was quieter, Jack whispered in his fine manly voice quivering with earnestness: "Helen, my own, will you be my wife, my own sweet little wife until death do us part?"
"Until death do us part, I will!" she whispered, and surely the angels must have recorded that sacred promise. Her voice was suffused with a world of tenderness as she breathed the words. From his coat pocket Jack produced a plain gold band. "My mother's wedding ring," he said, "it has never left me since I said good-bye to her and laid her to rest. I have been looking for a woman who would be as worthy of wearing it"…. and he slipped it on her finger and kissed the hand it graced. And then and there they pledged their troth…..
"I love you with all my heart and soul, my own sweet woman, and before God we can do no harm: with love such as ours there can be no such thing as sin. Society is a tissue of pretense: convention a fleeting fantom. My sweet bride of tonight."
Splendidly conscious of her sweet sacrifice, she smiled at tomorrows…. "There is this hour and we live; if sin it is, it is yet divine; the happiest hour of my life, because I am loved and I love so much."….
Adieu to duty and creeds, love's altar has vestments of rosebud lips and starry eyes with whispered words of love divine: "Sin," it's said; but if with the one all holy love, what care we for the reckoning hour…..
"Oh! Helen dear, you are missing the most gorgeous sunrise of creation!"
[Illustration with caption: LAKE TAHOE]
Why, it is Jack's voice…. Helen opens her eyes and looks around. "What did you say about the sunrise, Jack dear?" She looks out of the cave in the direction whence the voice came, and sees the silver dusk turning rose.
"Oh! the sunrise! Yes, dear, I'll be there in just a minute." Helen quickly brought back her gaze from the rosy-tinted silver light to the cave and its surroundings. There was a camp fire lighted, and her clothing was stretched on a line near it, and she herself was wrapped warmly in a dry woollen cloak. In a very short time, she appeared at the opening of the cave, fully dressed, as fresh and sweet as a rose and radiantly happy.
"Good morning, my wonderful bride, my own sweet woman," he whispered as he kissed her almost reverently. "Together we will enjoy this glorious sunrise!"
"Isn't it wonderful?" she sighed, "not a sign of last night's terrible storm: just see how beautiful the lake is; all emerald, sapphire and gold! How the sun reflects its golden glory on the smooth water! How wonderful, Jack dear, to watch the birth of a new day, coming forth from the hands of its Maker. Oh, it is so good to be alive, my lover!"
And Jack again held her in his arms, pressed her to his heart and almost smothered her with kisses. "And I want to say to you, dear, that no fame, no glory, no wealth, nothing on earth can bring the happiness, the real heart's content into one's life, that just one hour's true, unselfish love can give. I know this after ten long years of grief, suffering and despair, when all the time my heart cried out for its own, for what was its birthright and its heritage! I want to give you my whole heart, dear, a heart full of gladness and rejoicing."
"My own sweet woman, it shall be my one and only thought to make your life one beautiful day of gladness and joy! And now, dear, I am afraid there is nothing to do but to walk back to the next camp which is about four miles distant, and then telephone the Sheldons to come for us. I am sure they must be worried; they are probably searching the lake for us. The road is good, that is one thing in our favor. Do you feel equal to the walk, or do you prefer to be left here while I go for help?"
"Indeed I shall not be left here all alone. I could walk twice that distance!" They started off, hand in hand……
And for three wonderful months hand in hand they wandered. Only two people lived in this wonderful world for this man and this woman. All its wealth and beauty: its unutterable joys: its pleasures and stores of infinite happiness: all their very own! Together they wandered down life's leafy lanes, treading its quiet paths: together they drank deep of nature and enjoyed every moment without a thought of tomorrow. The flowers shed their sweetest perfumes, the birds sang their sweetest songs, and each leaf and bough nodded as though they knew. Of all men, he was the one God made, and she,—the woman…. Their souls responded to spiritual intuitions: their minds entwined as do the ivy and the oak…
So beautiful was the love and devotion of this man and this woman, that every one who knew them was in sympathy with them; they were envied by those who had never known such blissful peace and delirious delight. These two people were planning a beautiful home on the banks of the Truckee. There had been a sweet confession from Helen: her case would soon be up for hearing and all would be well…. But alas! suddenly Helen was taken seriously ill. Three days later she died in the hospital. What was the matter? No one knows! With her last breath: "It has all been worth while, Jack dear," she whispered.
And the man, heart-broken, bought a solid silver casket, with a glass inner casket, padded with delicate rose satin, and therein he laid the woman he had loved, honored and respected above all others. A friend who saw her said:
"Never have I seen anyone look so beautiful, as she lay there in her soft chiffon gown, with a cluster of rosebuds in her hand; a full blown rose herself. Is it possible that a creation so fair and beautiful can, in a few short hours, return to dust again?"
The next day Helen's body, in the silver casket, covered with flowers —the last tribute of a great love—was homeward bound. Is she to be envied, or pitied? I wonder….
The man who ever carried in his heart the greatest respect and reverence for this one woman, whispered gently as he placed a wreath of roses on her casket:
"And I had hoped that you would be with me always! Oh, love of mine, what a wealth of beauty, charm and winning grace were yours in full flower"….
I hope, if it be true, that there yet remains another life in some dim land of mystery; that they may again walk together, and sing, as in the long ago; hand in hand; for love such as theirs will live through eternity, and ever after….
PART 3
RENO ROMANCE
Reno and Romance go hand in hand I should say. If you asked half a dozen of your friends what the word Romance means, I dare say each one would give a different answer. I think one of the most beautiful plays I have ever seen was a play called "Romance"; yet to me the play seemed rather a tragic story…. I have looked up the word in an English dictionary and it gives the definition, "An imaginative story, fiction." How prosaic! To me Romance has always been something poetical and very real indeed.
At any rate, it is real in Reno; everywhere there is evidence of it; and it is easy to lay one's finger on the romantic cases. Just peep into the room of this new arrival; there is a bower of beautiful flowers, and there is a telegram on the dressing table. The lady's lawyer had been telegraphed to and has given instructions that a garden of flowers be arranged as a welcome to the fair exile; the telegram contains words of encouragement and consolation.
I heard of many romances that were beautiful and interesting; that pictured to my mind youthful mistakes righted, dreams realized and ideal future homes, with love reigning supreme and peace and harmony keeping the charm ever radiant. I can't tell you about all of them, therefore I shall select the one I thought most beautiful. The heroine of my selected romance is Mrs. Beuland, of Virginia.
Never have I found it so difficult to describe a woman as I find it to describe Mrs. Beuland; I wish I could picture to you this most unusual woman as I knew her in the southland, a mere girl of sixteen; as I think of her now she brings to my mind a poem of William Wordsworth:
"I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too:
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food—
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles."
Yes, she was like a poem, with much of the untamed grace of a panther, and the gentleness of a dove…..
In Balzac's unique story, "A Passion in the Desert," a question is asked: "How did their friendship end?" The answer is, "Like all great passions—in a misunderstanding. One suspects the other. One is too proud to ask for an explanation and the other too stubborn to offer it." And so it was with Mrs. Beuland, else I should not be recording her romance here.
I am glad the story of Balzac did not read: "Like all great loves," because I believe that a great love always brings with it harmony and understanding. The misunderstanding in this case was due to the fact, that the girl did not know that under this great passion lay slumbering a wonderful love of everlasting endurance.
Surely the heroine of this romance was deserving of a great love. She was like a sunbeam when she entered a room, she always brought gladness; she radiated the joy of living.
She rode like a princess, danced like a fairy, was a child of nature and at the same time a woman of the world. I have seen her romp in a daisy field and gather flowers with the children, as much a child as any of them, and a few hours later I have met her in a drawing room, an entirely different person, all dignity and self possession.
Mrs. Beuland was a daughter of one of the first families of Virginia; tall and stately, with a splendid, graceful physique, blue eyes, black hair and olive skin. Her physical charm and mental attraction were always struggling for supremacy.
She was a girl of many moods; sometimes the joy of living would just radiate from her and her care-free laughter and musical voice would be that of a happy child; another time her eyes would lose the sparkling, captivating expression and become dreamy and thoughtful, as though they were peering into the great beyond; her voice would tremble with earnestness as she would discuss some serious subject. And then again there would be a note of sadness, though never of bitterness.
I knew Mrs. Beuland as Nell Wilbur in Virginia, before her marriage to Mr. Beuland. Her family were among the victims of the Civil War who were left paupers after the wreckage of the South.
Nell Wilbur had always been proud, willful and highly strung. Her mother had died young. Her father after futile attempts to guide her steps in the right direction, finally concluded that it was better to let her have her head; she would run away with the bit anyway. She might break her neck, but she surely would have to learn life's lessons in her own way, and she did.
Her family tried to make a match for her but she refused, saying, "I want to be the captain of my own soul; I will make my own mistakes": and she kept her word. Just seventeen, she went to visit an aunt in New York, glowing with youth and health, with a mind full of romance and ideals; an enthusiast, and a dreamer of dreams. She at once found herself surrounded by devoted admirers, all rivaling with each other in their efforts to please her. One young millionaire, finding that she was fond of equestrian sports, offered her the pick of his stables, whereupon the young Virginian lifted her eyes in surprise as she said: "But where would I ride? Your little old park isn't big enough to ride in, and the people all look as though they dropped out of a Fifth Avenue shop window. If you would come with me for a cross country gallop in Virginia, you would understand that I could not possibly be interested in doing living pictures in Central Park!"
Among the hosts of Miss Wilbur's admirers there were two who interested the young lady; one a splendid young English lawyer, rich and handsome: the other, a young New York artist, poor but interesting, very sincere, very intellectual and with strong personality.
Both men had many faults, though they had their full share of fine qualities as well. The faults that were most annoying to Miss Wilbur in the young lawyer (whose name by the way was Glen Royce) were his profound conceit and his sensual nature. There was some excuse for him because the Gods had endowed him with all their charms; he was an Adonis, Apollo and all the other Greek Gods in one. I don't think I have ever seen two people so near physical perfection as Nell Wilbur and Glen Royce. They seemed to be made for each other; every one had decided that they would surely be married. Young Royce was madly in love, and though Miss Wilbur lavished her smiles on the young artist, Will Beuland, no one thought that he had the slightest chance.
Miss Wilbur's aunt invited a party of the young people to Atlantic City for the Easter holidays, and I was lucky enough to be asked, my principal pleasure being in watching the ideal young lovers. They were always perfectly groomed; always stunning; in morning dress, bathing suits and evening clothes, alike charming. The last evening before our return I was in the reception room when Nell appeared dressed for dinner. I watched young Royce when, with all the grace of a prince, he rose to receive her. She was in rose satin and chiffon, with a cluster of pink blossoms in her hand, like the herald of spring; so soft and delicately tinted were her beautifully moulded shoulders that one could scarcely perceive where the soft clinging chiffon left off. She was startlingly beautiful, and as I watched the man as he touched her hand, I could have sworn that all the blood in his veins had turned to liquid fire.
I made some excuse and left them alone. The balcony was dark and deserted, and I betook myself to its seclusion. I think the lovers must have forgotten about the balcony; I am quite sure he had forgotten everything but the vision before him. He was living in the world that never was; the sound of flutes was wafted on the breeze from fairyland. Pulsing bosom and sheen of sun-kissed shoulders…. Ah! maddening modesty and virtue, how inconsistent are thy ways! No wonder so many forget about the cursed serpent….
Through the windows I saw the man lead the woman to a cluster of palms in a far corner of the big room, seat her on a divan in the shadow of the palms and drop on his knees before her. The next moment she was in his arms. He had meant to propose the same as we read in books, but his lips were too near the woman's delicately tinted breast… He kissed her lips, her eyes, her bosom and shoulders; he was like the rush of a bursting river whose waters cry out in ecstasy of liberation as they leap in the sunshine.
That evening at dinner the engagement was informally announced. There was, however, something in Miss Wilbur's manner that I could not quite fathom; that something which completes the happiness of two people who love each other was lacking. It was not until ten years later when I met Mrs. Beuland in Reno, that I understood the shadow.
I knew that the young lawyer had failed to induce Miss Wilbur to consent to an early wedding, and after much persuasion Mr. Royce returned to England alone. Later it was rumored that the engagement had been broken off; then we heard that Mr. Royce had committed suicide; again that he had married; another time that he was returning to America to press his suit.
Miss Wilbur was very reticent about the subject and continued to receive the attentions of the young artist, Will Beuland, and some six months after Mr. Royce returned to England she was married to the New York artist. No one seemed surprised, though it caused much gossip.
Fancy my astonishment when ten years later I met the stately Mrs. Beuland in the lobby of my hotel in Reno. I had not seen her since her marriage; the only difference the years had made, apparently, was that now she was a woman instead of a girl, and yes, there was just a wisp of snowy white hair among the black locks about her forehead, which made her look even more aristocratic, if that was possible.
When one is lonely and alone in a strange place, it is most agreeable to find an unexpected friend; and when one has a heavy heart, it is good to confide in a sympathetic friend; so Mrs. Beuland and I became close companions. I was fortunately able to lend a helping hand and cheer the lonely way of this charming and much loved woman. One day as we were chatting on the banks of the Truckee, she said to me: "Do you know, it does seem such a pity that one of the most beautiful things on earth really causes the most trouble!" "What is that?" I replied. "Youthful ideals," she replied.
"For a youthful ideal I have paid long years of misery, and have spent that time as an apprentice in the workshop of wisdom. Tardy wisdom, the mother of all real enduring happiness. Because of a youthful ideal I did not marry the man I really loved; instead I married the man I thought I loved. I wanted to be the companion and friend and ideal mate and intellectual partner through life to the man I married; those were my ideals.
"The moment I promised myself to the man I loved I found myself clasped tightly in passion's mad embrace; a mad passion by youth's fierce fires fed; his kisses hotly pressed on my lips burned into my very soul and made my heart sick. Was that love? It was certainly not my ideal, to be the toy of mad passion!
"Ah! where was wisdom's tardy voice that it did not whisper: 'God made men thus: there are no perfect men!'….
"How true it is that ideals are simply mental will-o'-the-wisps!….
"I married for ideals, not for love. I was in love with the ideal, and the man I married led me to believe he was that ideal; picture my heart-aching disappointment when I found that his art was his real bride, and that I was a sort of understudy; hardly that, after the first few months. I awoke to the fact that I had exchanged my youth and freedom for a domestic mill that sank all my ideals into commonplace. I said I would make my own mistakes and I did. Then came the long battle with my pride, and I suffered in silence. For seven long years I faced neglect and humiliation; and then one day after a visit to my old home, I returned to find my husband and one of his models occupying my very home…. my very bed. I turned and left the place without a word.
"For the first time in my life I grew bitter; I wondered if it were true, that realization kills all the joys we anticipate; if all our rosy dreams turn gray in the face of cold reality.
"I was sick at heart and alone, too proud to go to anyone with my troubles; it seemed to me that day by day the color was fading out of my life. I had for years given all my love gifts only to answer duty's call and one by one the leaves of my romance began to fall, until jealousy, like a cancer, had eaten into my aching heart, and left me stripped of everything, even hope….
"My thoughts were muddled; I could not think clearly: it was a day in early June: I did not know where to go, and I did not want to meet anyone I knew. I never knew quite how or why, but a few hours later I found myself in Atlantic City. I arrived there in the evening and after refreshing myself, I walked out on the board walk and almost to the end of it, until there was no one in sight: and then I went down on the sand and there I seated myself. I thought, with the big silver moon overhead and the waves breaking on the shore, I should be able to think out some plan for the future. I don't know how long I sat there, but I know the only thoughts that came to me were that in my case I was forever through with romance, sentiments and ideals. There was a storm raging in my soul, and bitter resentment in my heart; I had meant so well and it had all come to this. I looked at my watch: it was nearly eleven; I suddenly realized that I had forgotten to dine, that my head ached and that I was tired. I got up and started back to the hotel. Then a miracle happened; it sounds like fiction but I swear it is the truth…..
"I heard my name called; it sounded as though it were an echo out of the past. I looked up…. a tall gentleman was standing by me looking down into my face; 'Good evening, Mrs. Beuland, this is indeed a pleasant surprise." Glen Royce….You know our story, and as I had not heard from him in years you can imagine my surprise.
"Mr. Royce had been in America just one week; he had come over on business and just thought it would be interesting to run down and have a peep at the sea. I think both our thoughts traveled back over the years to the Easter time we spent together there….
"'How long are you remaining?' he asked after a little pause. 'About a week,' I replied. 'May I call tomorrow then?' 'Yes,' I said, 'but I have just arrived and am rather tired; if you will excuse me I will leave you now.' He saw me to my hotel and said good night. I never knew quite what was said or what really happened, however. I slept soundly from sheer exhaustion, and awakened the next morning refreshed, but unable to realize that everything was not a dream.
"Then the 'phone rang. 'Good morning, Mrs. Beuland; this is Glen Royce speaking; hope I haven't called you too early? Will you come for a walk? It is a beautiful day.' I did and before the day was over, I had made a confidant of this old sweetheart of mine, and extracted a promise from him, a very foolish, silly promise.
"'I want so much to be your friend,' he said, 'there must be something I can do to make your burden lighter.' I told him that I would accept his friendship under one condition, that he would promise not to make love to me, and so the courtship was started all over again on a friendship basis, though I did not realize it at the time. Later he made me tell him why I broke our engagement, and when I explained he understood, and blamed it on a misunderstanding.
"I thought him a much finer man than he was ten years ago, but of course that is only the wisdom that comes with the years. It has been three years since I met him that evening, when I was blind with utter despair. That's the story so far! My case will be called tomorrow; if I am lucky I will be free, and then he is coming out and we will be married here and spend our honeymoon in California. I want you to be my only attendant. Things have turned out so that he is to remain in America; we have a beautiful little home near New York, down by the sea. When you go back East you must come and see us."
And so the happy day arrived, just as the sun was sinking down behind Mount Rose; we stood in the silent church; I held the flowers, a huge bouquet of simple spring blossoms, while the groom slipped the little gold band on the bride's finger and the organ pealed out the benediction….
A few months later I arrived in New York and telephoned, "Hello, Nell, is that you? Here I am, may I come out, or are you two still honeymooning?" The answer came back: "We are still honeymooning, but you may come out; in fact, I am just crazy to see you. You will never find the way alone; meet Glen at his office and come out with him tonight!" And I did. The bride was at the station to meet us, radiantly happy. We motored over a beautiful bit of country and in about ten minutes came to a beautiful villa, with beautiful gardens and a glimpse of the sea in the distance; it did my soul good to watch this picture of domestic bliss. They were like a boy and girl again, up to their eyes in love and gloriously happy.
"A love and happiness with wisdom as its basis and made up of understanding and friendship, with a dash of romance, and enough passion to lend warmth and charm, and a good portion of common sense that doesn't expect perfection": this is Nell's recipe for domestic happiness.
Three years later. My husband and I have just returned from a week-end visit to Mr. and Mrs. Royce: the recipe seems to be working fine; I am trying it myself. We sat on the porch and watched them stroll out to the beach, in the fading light of the setting sun, and then the shadows of twilight hid them from sight. They disappeared, hand in hand; lovers, living in perfect companionship, planning and building as they go. May their matrimonial ship continue to sail on sunny seas, where soft winds blow, and rest in the harbor of happiness at last. Another triumph for Reno…..
On the occasion of our visit she showed me a package of letters tied with white satin ribbon; "Glen's letters," she said; "he wrote me one every day I was in Reno and they are the most beautiful letters ever written." I read some of them and I agreed with her; I wish she would allow me to publish them: it would make a good world better for having read them. "Nor has earth, nor Heaven nor Hell any bars through which love cannot burst its way toward reunion and completeness"….
And yet this queen of matrimonial bliss said to me, "I wish that all mothers would warn their girls against ideals which are not practical. I blame my ideals for years of utter misery; my ideal was a perfect man."
"Someone has said: 'God does not make imperfect things,' and yet can anyone say that he has ever seen a perfect man or a woman? I held on to the shreds of my ideal until there was not a shred left to hang on to; until my heart lay bruised and bleeding on the altar of dead and gone ideals. And then wisdom came and whispered: 'You have been looking for perfection, but there is no such thing on this earth: we must be forbearing and forgiving: 'forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.'
"With wisdom came new ideals that were practical and a new kind of love, indulgent and forgiving, yet self-respecting; a love as strong as the Rock of Ages. Love—a little thing—a sentiment perhaps—and yet without it what would be left of that which we call life….
"There are emotions which make for ambition, for right living, for honor and position, but how pitifully small and inconsequential besides the mighty tomes which, circling the globe, comprise the lexicon of love. Love—the symbol and sequel of birth, the solace of death—the essence of divinity! Frozen indeed is the heart which has never felt its glow; gross and sordid the soul which has never been illumined by its sunshine.
"To live is to love, my friend, and to love is to suffer a little and to be happy much."
PART 4
RENO COMEDIES
According to some of the comic postcards which are sent out, Reno was known in the time of Adam and Eve.
Someone sent me a card while there, which depicted Adam and Eve under the famous apple-tree. (Telephone: 281 Apple.) Eve was beautiful in flowing hair and fig leaf. Adam had one on too, a rather faded affair. Adam was plucking a nice, fat, green fig leaf out of his salad. Under the picture were written the words: "Eve, the next time you put my dress suit in the salad, Reno for me."
One sees and hears funny things in Reno. For instance, no one will abide there long before being asked: "Are you here for the cure?" At first you may look astonished and say: "No, I am perfectly well, thank you," but the smile that lightens the questioner's face makes the meaning slowly dawn upon one. One can hear a porter say to a conductor of the train from the East: "Any victims today?"; and the hotels frequented by the divorcees are known as "hospitals for the first aid to the matrimonially injured." The reporter of the local paper will ask: "Any new headlines ready?" The Court House is known as "the divorce mill." Sometimes as "the separator"!
Then Renoites are fond of nicknaming the members of the divorce colony, as well as the buildings.
One fair divorcee was dubbed the "Weeping Beauty" by her lawyer, because she wept whenever she visited him. And she looked pretty too when she wept: "like a dew-kissed rose," he said. A gentleman of mature age was known as the "Silver King" because of his princely bearing, silvery white hair and Greek god figure. "The Venus of Reno" was another one, a statuesque brunette, because of her perfect figure and Grecian gowns. A very stout lady bore the graceful name of "Reno- ceros," whereas an old reprobate could do no better than "Renogade." However, "Reno-vated" they all got!
An interesting fact is that your chambermaid, bellboy, hotel clerk, taxi driver, dressmaker, saleslady, cook and laundress, hairdresser, waiter and bootblack may all and each be a so-called divorcee. (For convenience sake, I speak of them all as "divorcees," although Webster defines a "divorcee" as a man or woman who has already obtained a divorce.) What is more, a great many of these people who are working are well fixed financially, and are just working to keep sane. I remember tipping my waitress one evening. The next day I received a bunch of American Beauties from that lady, which simply bowled me over at a glance. She got her divorce, and is now married to a wealthy New York real estate man. So you see it is difficult to discriminate.
I received shock after shock until I felt like a shock absorber. I was dining with a friend one evening in a restaurant we often patronized. The gentleman with me desired a cigarette, and found his case was empty. A waitress, noticing his disappointment, extracted a silver cigarette case from her rather attractive bosom, opened it, and offered my friend one of her monogrammed cigarettes. Another victim!
One evening after writing all day without any recreation, I went down to dinner, feeling a bit tired but rather satisfied with my day's work. I said to my waitress while looking over the bill of fare: "Tilly, I have worked hard today; I feel that I deserve a halo!" Tilly looked at me for a moment, and disappeared. She was a devoted soul and had always taken great pains to please me. In a few minutes she returned with a disappointed expression on her face, and said: "I am sorry, Mam, I can't get you the halo. Cook says it's something Mary wore around her head."
Some of the witnesses in divorce cases are very humorous. I was present at a few hearings, when a tall and thin man stated in a rather shaky voice that his wife was a "beastly vampire," and that after living with him for two whole weeks she struck him over the head with a crutch and told him that she had a graveyard full of better men than he was. The present victim was the fourth husband of the defendant.
"Judgment for the plaintiff"….
Another pretty young lady said that one of her husband's favorite pastimes was spitting in her face, while yet another lady accused her actor husband of "too much artistic temperament, and whiskey temper."
"Judgment for the plaintiff"….
The funniest case I ever witnessed was that of an old washwoman. I don't know where she hailed from, but the judge said:
"Why do you wish to get a divorce from your husband?"
"Well, yer honor, he don't support me."
"But," said the judge, "is that all the complaint you have? You must have more than that to get a divorce."
"Well, yer honor, I don't love my husband any more."
"That won't do either," said the judge impatiently. "Is that all?"
"Well, to tell the truth, yer honor, I don't think he is the father of my last child."
"Judgment for the defendant." ….
What matter law and customs to even the most staid and stone-hearted Wall Street banker if he happens to be on top of the world with a woman who is a masterpiece of creation? There are many in Reno,— masterpieces: not millionaire bankers—, and lonely too, sometimes! Anyway it came to pass not so very long ago, that a New York banker of great wealth and international reputation went out to Reno to secure a divorce. After two months' stay the gentleman lost his heart to a very attractive lady, who also was whiling away six months of her sweet young life in order to shake off the matrimonial shackles. The banker was about fifty, the lady twenty-seven and the wife of a well-known New York actor. So lavish were the banker's attentions to this charming lady that he gave a most extraordinary banquet in her honor at the Riverside Hotel to which were invited about one hundred guests. The dinner was under the management of one of the best of San Francisco's caterers, and all the table decorations were brought from San Francisco. The banquet, I am told, cost about $5,000—Hoover in those days was not popular as yet…. But alas! poor little Cupid was obliged to succumb to failure. Before the six months had passed, the banker's wife "got wise" to his whereabouts and his doings, and he disappeared from Reno very abruptly. About the same time the beautiful lady's actor husband learned of the affair, and sued the banker for fifty thousand dollars "heart balm" …. And so we find a fool face to face with his folly….
"Altitude," did you say? I don't know …. Funny how a few fleeting hours can change the face of the world! How the mind when free and refreshed can see and admit mistakes, and how our fairy castles and wondrous dreams vanish at the touch of reason and stern reality. It's wonderful to have known paradise: to have walked in its flower-strewn paths and to have tasted its delirious delights. But the awakening! "How could I?"—"How could She?"—"What was the end of it all?" "Who knows?"
It is not well for man to be alone, nor woman either, otherwise why was Eve bestowed upon Adam? That is probably what a young man from one of the first families of Boston thought while exiled to the Reno Divorce Colony for the purpose of ridding himself of a wife: the result of one of youth's romantic mistakes. The affair of some years ago shocked his family and Eastern society generally. Was it a shop girl from Boston, or a chorus girl from New York? I have forgotten. Anyway, his companion in Reno was a fascinating little dancer of the Sagebrush Cafe. So infatuated was the young man with this little charmer that he spent his entire income entertaining her, and when the income had vanished he pawned his jewelry, including his watch. But then, boys will be boys, and after all, what could the poor youth do? All alone in a strange place! It is so uninteresting to sit and twirl one's thumbs: "Twiddle-dee Twiddle-dum."….
"That love laughs at locksmiths" and "All is fair in love and war" seems to be the moral of the following, if moral there be in it:
Mrs. Jones, a very beautiful and statuesque blonde, went out to Reno for a divorce. On her arrival there she wrote her husband that she had repented: "I am sorry I ran away from you," she is said to have written, "and if you will come out here for me we will make up and live happily ever after." He came out and was arrested and thrown in jail, charged with extreme cruelty. The lady got her divorce within three weeks instead of six months, as she was able to serve the summons upon her husband in the State of Nevada. After that her sweetheart came out and they were married. I am told that some three years later the husband brought suit against them for collusion, but I never heard how it terminated. One of the noted cases of the Reno Divorce Colony is the divorce of a famous New York beauty and heiress. While she was riding in Central Park one afternoon her horse bolted and she was saved by a handsome policeman named Dow. When the young lady looked into the eyes of her rescuer, it was a case of "love at first sight." This god of the police force informed his wife of the affair: she immediately packed her box and started for Reno. A few days after her arrival, her husband was located in Carson City, by the merest accident of course, and as it was possible to serve the summons upon him in the State of Nevada, the case was put through in two weeks. As soon as it was ended, Mr. Dow presented his ex-wife with five one thousand dollar bills. When the cashier of the Reno National Bank handed her the envelope containing the bills, she extracted them and deposited them in her stocking. She was advised not to go about with so much money on her, whereupon she replied that the "First National was good enough for her." That same evening a champagne banquet was given by the ex-policeman at the Colony Restaurant at which most of the divorce colony were present, and among them, his ex- wife. Both of them were extremely demonstrative; in fact the entire party was decidedly affectionate, and the affair was the talk of the town for months afterwards. After Mr. Dow married the famous beauty, he found out it was riot all heaven to be the poor husband of a rich wife, and so he decided to return to the police force. Of course, that would never do at all, and therefore the fair lady promised to pay him ten thousand a year, in quarterly installments of $2,500, if he would consent to be her idle rich husband. This he did until Mrs. Dow II. found out that hubby was indulging in clandestine meetings with Mrs. Dow I., and presto, change! the allowance suddenly ceased. After a few months of separation from his bank roll, having become accustomed to an easily earned income, Mr. Dow sued his bank, Mrs. Dow II., for the blue envelope of two quarters of the allowance, and the New York newspapers just hummed with a fresh scandal. Finally Mrs. Dow II. tried to get a divorce on the plea that the Nevada divorce was illegal. Failing in this, there were ways and means found in the East, and at last they were divorced. It has been rumored that Mr. Dow thought the old love best after all, and that Mrs. Dow I. has been re- installed to the place of honor by his side. "True love never did run smoothly": not even in the police force….
A rather amusing story is told of Elinor Glyn's visit to Reno, not for a divorce, dear reader, but apparently for atmosphere, as she spent several months in the most rugged states in the West. One of the handsome sons of the sagebrush, known as the Beau Brummel of Reno, became very attentive to the distinguished lady visitor, and when she expressed a desire to see a real Western shooting scrap, the gentleman said: "All right; the lady must have anything her heart desires, doggonit!" and so he staged a regular shooting scrap. And they do say out there that it was so realistically done that Elinor fainted and was unconscious for an hour. The "fight" occurred on the train from Tonopah to Mina. Mr. Beau Brummel had been showing the lady Nevada's great mining camps: a couple of seats in front of Elinor Glyn and her escort two men began to quarrel, presumably over a game of cards. The fight grew until each pulled a six-shooter. There was a shot and a flash, and one man fell: dead, apparently, while the other stood over him, wild eyed, his smoking gun in his hand.
I can truly believe this story as I saw the dead gentleman auction off four times the same basket of roses at a Red Cross benefit, and each time he got a hundred dollars for the basket… However dead he may have been, he certainly was not dead on the vine!
Speaking of Beau Brummels, I never found out the name of the gentleman who came back from Lawton's one evening—or was it morning?—minus his silk shirt. A lady of the party had taken a fancy to it and suggested that they auction it off for the benefit of the Red Cross: at that time America had just declared war on Germany, and the interest in the Red Cross was at its height. The lady's suggestion was carried out with enthusiasm. The lucky lady was Mrs. Hall, called "the forty million dollar divorcee"; she bid seventy-five dollars for the shirt and wore it to a golf tournament the next day. Let us hope that the gentleman's linen was as attractive as his shirt, for the shirt was removed then and there and bestowed upon the fair purchaser.
I met a very charming young couple in Reno whose story rather interested me. I was not shocked at this case, as I had been in Reno some time before I was introduced to them, and had heard about it. When I first met Mr. Lake he was with a very beautiful young lady to whom he seemed very attentive, and I thought surely they were sweethearts. We all went out motoring with Mr. Lake's lawyer, and in the course of conversation the lawyer informed me that Mr. Lake had received his decree about two weeks before, and as he had obtained a splendid position in Reno he had decided to remain there. His fiancee was expected next week from Alabama, and they were to be married at once upon her arrival. The lady with Mr. Lake at the time, the lawyer went on to say, was just eighteen years of age, and had received her decree about a week before. She had a fine little boy about two years old with her.
One day the young lady called, and informed me that she had just been up to the future home of Mr. and Mrs. Lake unpacking his fiancee's trousseau which had been sent on ahead, with the request that it be unpacked and hung up in order that the wrinkles all be out by the time the bride arrived.
"Look," continued the girl from South Carolina, and she held out her hand displaying a beautiful Roman gold ring of artistic design. "Isn't it beautiful?"
Was I mistaken? did her voice choke at the next words? were there tears in her eyes?
"This is her wedding ring, isn't it beautiful? I am wearing it until she arrives…."
The naughty fiancee arrived two days before she was expected, and came near upsetting everything. Hubby-to-be saw her first, dodged, jumped into his car and raced up to the other girl's home to get the wedding ring and break the dinner engagement for that evening. Then he rushed downtown and greeted his bride-to-be in his lawyer's office. They are living in Reno, happily married. Mr. Lake received a telegram of congratulation from his first wife. Mrs. Lake II. is a charming woman. I think she has heard all about the episode, but she is a diplomat and probably thinks that one way to matrimonial bliss is skilled ignorance.
Happiness and contentment and…. love…. or what we think it is! And yet, what would the world be without that inheritance.
The Six Months' Residence Law of Nevada, was not made primarily to accommodate matrimonial misfits, but to secure settlers by offering them early citizenship and votes, the State being only sparingly populated. Prior to Reno, Sioux Falls, Dakota, used to be the haven for those seeking relief from the "tie that binds." When Dakota placed the ban on the divorce colony, someone discovered the Nevada divorce law, and those who found that Cupid was no longer at the helm of their matrimonial ship, turned Reno-ward. However, be it known that the citizens of Nevada knew all about this easy relief law from the undesirable bond way back in 1851, as the following quotation from a very amusing chapter of Nevada's history will illustrate. The book I speak of is called "Reminiscences of William M. Stewart" and was written by a Senator. Of course he was a Senator! Judges and Senators are as thick in Nevada as Colonels in Kentucky. Most every man worth while has been, is, or is going to be a Senator or a Judge. However, that book is a good one and I found the following most interesting and amusing. Says William M. Stewart:
"If you want to preserve good health, keep your head cool and your feet warm!"