Stories by American Authors VOLUME I

   Who was she.  By Bayard Taylor

   The documents in the case.  By Brander Matthews and H.C.  Bunner

   One of the thirty pieces.  By William Henry Bishop

   Balacchi brothers.  By Rebecca Harding Davis

   An operation in money.  By Albert Webster

1903

[Illustration:  Brander Matthews]

Stories by American Authors volume I

WHO WAS SHE?

By Bayard Taylor.

Come, now, there may as well be an end of this!  Every time I meet your eyes squarely I detect the question just slipping out of them.  If you had spoken it, or even boldly looked it; if you had shown in your motions the least sign of a fussy or fidgety concern on my account; if this were not the evening of my birthday, and you the only friend who remembered it; if confession were not good for the soul, though harder than sin to some people, of whom I am one,—­well, if all reasons were not at this instant converged into a focus, and burning me rather violently in that region where the seat of emotion is supposed to lie, I should keep my trouble to myself.

Yes, I have fifty times had it on my mind to tell you the whole story.  But who can be certain that his best friend will not smile—­or, what is worse, cherish a kind of charitable pity ever afterwards—­when the external forms of a very serious kind of passion seem trivial, fantastic, foolish?  And the worst of all is that the heroic part which I imagined I was playing proves to have been almost the reverse.  The only comfort which I can find in my humiliation is that I am capable of feeling it.  There isn’t a bit of a paradox in this, as you will see; but I only mention it, now, to prepare you for, maybe, a little morbid sensitiveness of my moral nerves.

The documents are all in this portfolio, under my elbow.  I had just read them again completely through, when you were announced.  You may examine them as you like, afterwards:  for the present, fill your glass, take another Cabana, and keep silent until my “ghastly tale” has reached its most lamentable conclusion.

The beginning of it was at Wampsocket Springs three years ago last summer.  I suppose most unmarried men who have reached, or passed, the age of thirty—­and I was then thirty-three—­experience a milder return of their adolescent warmth, a kind of fainter second spring, since the first has not fulfilled its promise.  Of course, I wasn’t clearly conscious of this at the time:  who is?  But I had had my youthful passion and my tragic disappointment, as you know:  I had looked far enough into what Thackeray used to call the cryptic mysteries, to save me from the Scylla of dissipation, and yet preserved enough of natural nature to keep me out of the Pharisaic Charybdis.  My devotion to my legal studies had already brought me a mild distinction; the paternal legacy was a good nest-egg for the incubation of wealth,—­in short, I was a fair, respectable “party,” desirable to the humbler mammas, and not to be despised by the haughty exclusives.