Story of an Untold Love

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• Publisher: The Floating Press
• Year: 2016
• eBook ISBN: 9781776670611

The Story of an Untold Love from Brooklyn-born writer Paul Leicester Ford is an epistolary novel with a twist -- the letters outlining the protagonist's tortuous unrequited love were never actually intended to be sent; instead, they function more like a diary. The end result is a vivid and heartrending portrait of emotional turmoil.

XXVI

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A man does not willingly spread on paper the sweetest and tenderest moments of his life. When half crazed with grief and illness I might express my suffering, much as, in physical pain, some groan aloud; but the deepest happiness is silent, for it is too great to be told. And lest, my dears, you think me even less manly than I am, I choose to add here the reason for my writing the last few pages of this story of my love, that if you ever read it you may know the motive which made me tell what till to-night I have kept locked in my heart.

This evening the dearest woman in the world came to me, as I sat at my desk in the old library, and asked, "Are you busy, Donald?"

"I am reading the one hundred and forty-seventh complimentary review of my History of the Moors, and I am so sick of sweets that your interruption comes as an unalloyed pleasure."

"Am I bitter or acid?" she asked, leaning over my shoulder and arranging my hair, which is one of her ways of pleasing me.

"You are my exact opposite," I said gravely.

"How uncomplimentary you are!" she cried, with a pretense of anger in her voice.

"An historian must tell the truth now and then, for variety's sake."

"Then tell me if you are too engaged to spare me a minute. Any other time will do."

"You are seriously mistaken, because no other time will do. And nothing about me is ever engaged, as regards you, except my affections, and they are permanently so."

"I've come to ask a great favor of you."

"Out of the question; but you may tell me what it is."

"Ah, Donald, say you will grant it before I tell you?"

"Concealment bespeaks a guilty conscience."

"But sometimes you are so funny and obstinate about things!"

"That is what Mr. Whitely used to say."

"Don't mention that wretch's name to me! To think of that miserable little Western college making him an LL. D. because of your book!"

"Never mind, Maizie; here's a letter I received an hour ago from Jastrow, which tells me the University of Leipzig is going to give me a degree."

"That he should steal your fame!"

"My Moor is five times the chap my Turk was."

"But you might have had both!"

"And gone without you? Don't fret over it, my darling."

"I can't help"—

She always ends this vein by abusing herself, which I wouldn't allow another human being to do, and which I don't like to hear, so I interrupted: "Jastrow says he'll come over in March to visit us, and threatens to bring the manuscript of his whole seventeen volumes, for me to take a final look at it before he sends it to press."

"The dear old thing!" she said tenderly. "I love him so for what he was to you that I believe I shall welcome him with a kiss."

"Why make the rest of his life unhappy?"

"Is that the way it affects you?"

"Woman is born illogical, and even the cleverest of her sex cannot entirely overcome the taint. After you give me a kiss I bear in mind that I am to have another, and that makes me very happy. But if you kiss Jastrow, the poor fellow will go back to Germany and pine away into his grave. Even his fifty-two dialects will not satisfy him after your labial."

"Oh, you silly!" she exclaimed; but, my dears, I think she is really, in her secret heart, fond of silliness, for she leaned over and—There, I'll stop being what she called me.

"We'll give him a great reception," she continued, "and have every one worth knowing to meet him."

"He is the shyest of beings."

"How books and learning do refine men!" she said.

"I am afraid they do make weaklings of us."

"Will you never get over the idea that you are weak?" she cried; for it is one of her pet superstitions that I am not.

"You'll frighten me out of it if you speak like that."

"You are—well—that is really what I came to ask for. Just to please your own wife, you will, Donald, won't you?"

"The distinction between 'will' and 'won't' is clearly set forth in a somewhat well-known song concerning a spider and a fly."

"Oh, you bad boy!"

"Adsum."

"I'm really serious."

"I never was less so."

"I should not have become your wife if I had dreamed you would be such a brute!"

"You'll please remember that I never asked you to marry me."

She laughed deliciously over the insult, and after that I could not resist her.

"You have," I said, "a bundle in your left hand, wrapped in tissue paper and tied with a blue ribbon, which you sedulously keep from my sight, but of which I caught a glimpse as you entered."

"And you've known it all this time! Perhaps you know too what I want?"

"Last spring," I answered, "I knocked at the door of your morning-room twice, and receiving no response, I went in, to find you reading something that you instantly hid from sight. There were on the lounge, I remember, a sheet of tissue paper and a blue ribbon. I suspect a connection."

"Well?"

"My theory is that you have some really improper book wrapped in the paper, and that is why you so guiltily hide it from me."

"Oh, Donald, it gives me such happiness to read it!"

"That was the reason I asked you why you had tears in your eyes, when I surprised you that day. Your happiness was most enviable!"

"Men never understand women!"

"Deo gratias."

"But I love it."

"I don't like to hear you express such sentiments for so erotic a book."

"Oh, don't apply such a word to it!" she cried, in a pained voice.

"A word," I explained, "taken from the Greek erotikos, which is derived from erao, meaning 'I love passionately.' It is singularly descriptive, Maizie."

"If it means that, I like it, but I thought you were insulting my book."

"Almost five years ago," I remarked, "a volume was stolen from my room, which I have never since been able to recover. Now a woman of excessive honesty calmly calls it hers."

"You know you don't want it."

"I want it very much."

"Really?"

"To put it in the fire."

"Don!"

"Once upon a time a most bewitching woman wrote a story, and in a vain moment her husband asked her to give it to him. She"—

"But, my darling, it was so foolish that I had to burn it up. Think of my making the heroine marry that creature!"

"Since you married the poor chap to the other girl, there was no other ending possible. If the book were only in existence, I think Agnes and her husband would enjoy reading it almost as much as I should."

"How silly I was! But at least the book made you write the ending which prevented me from accepting him that winter. What a lot of trouble I gave my poor dear!"

"I met the 'poor dear' yesterday, looking very old and unhappy despite his LL. D."

"Oh, you idiot!" she laughed. And she must like imbeciles, too, for—well, I'm not going to tell even you how I know that she's fond of idiots.

"Why do you suppose he's unhappy?" she asked.

"My theory is that he's miserable because he lost—lost me."

"I'm so glad he is!" joyously asserted the tenderest of women.

"Nevertheless," I resumed, "it was a book I should have valued as much as you do that one in tissue paper, and you ought not to have burned it."

"I am very sorry I did, Donald, since you would really have liked it," she said, wistfully and sorrowfully. "I should have thought of your feelings, and not of mine."

This is a mood I cannot withstand. "Dear heart," I responded, "I have you, and all the books in the world are not worth a breath in comparison. What favor do you want me to do?"

"To write a sort of last chapter—an ending, you know—telling about—about the rest."

"Have you forgotten it?"

"I? Never! I couldn't. But I want to have it all in the book, so that when Foster and Mai are older they can read it."

"I have no intention of sharing, even with our children, my under-the-rose idyl with the loveliest of girls. And when the children are older, they'll be far more interested in their own heart secrets than they are in ours."

"Still, dear," she pleaded, "they may hear from others some unkind and perverted allusions to our story; for you know what foolish things were said at the time of our marriage."

"If I remember rightly, some one—was it my mother or Mr. Whitely?"—

"Both," she answered.

"—spread it abroad that I had trapped an heiress into marriage by means of an alias."

"Wasn't it a delicious version!" she laughed merrily. "But no matter what's ever tattled in the future, if Foster and Mai have your journal, they will always understand it."

"Maizie," I urged, "if you let those imps of mischief read of our childish doings in this old library, they'll either finish painting the plates in Kingsborough, or burn the house down in trying to realize an Inca of Peru at the stake."

"But I won't read them those parts," she promised; "especially if you write a nice ending, which they'll like."

"Won't it do to add just a paragraph, saying that our fairy godmamma found and gave you the journal, and that then we 'lived happily ever after'?"

"No, Donald," she begged. "I want the whole story, to match the rest."

"Five years ago I knew the saddest and most dejected of fellows, whose misery was so great that he wailed it out on paper. But now I know only the happiest of mortals, and he cannot write in the lugubrious tone of yore—unless a lady of his acquaintance will banish him from her presence or do something else equally joy-destroying."

"Are you trying to bribe me into giving you a rest from my presence for a time?"

"Undoubtedly," I assented. "It's a fearful strain to live up to you, and it is beginning to tell on me."

"If I didn't know you were teasing, I should really be hurt. But I should like ...

Table of contents

• THE STORY OF AN UNTOLD LOVE
• Contents
• I
• II
• III
• IV
• V
• VI
• VII
• VIII
• IX
• X
• XI
• XII
• XIII
• XIV
• XV
• XVI
• XVII
• XVIII
• XIX
• XX
• XXI
• XXII
• XXIII
• XXIV
• XXV
• XXVI
• Endnotes