Leonie, the Typewriter: A Romance of Actual Life

By Wenona Gilman

This American classical fiction is a real-life love story circling a flawless young typewriter with curly, red-brown hair named Leonie Cuyler and an honorable young man Lynde Pyne. This delightful story Wenona Gilman is filled with charming characters, incredible imagery, and an elevated writing style that entertains the reader throughout.

Excerpt from Leonie, the Typewriter

"From the large, velvety eyes, Italian in color and softness, but Mexican in their occasional gleams of thrilling brilliancy, to the clear complexion with the touch of crimson in the cheeks; from the dainty, curly hair that lay in tiny rings upon the broad, white brow, to the mouth, with its sweeping, silken mustache, the face was absolutely without flaw or blemish. And yet no man ever laughed at Lynde Pyne for his beauty, or would have thought of pronouncing him effeminate."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Good Press
• Release date: Dec 23, 2019
• ISBN: 4064066124311

Book preview

Wenona Gilman

Leonie, the Typewriter

A Romance of Actual Life

Published by Good Press, 2019

[e-mail]

EAN 4064066124311

Table of Contents

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHAPTER XXII.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CHAPTER XXV.

CHAPTER XXVI.

CHAPTER XXVII.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

CHAPTER XXIX.

CHAPTER XXX.

CHAPTER XXXI.

CHAPTER XXXII.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

CHAPTER XXXV.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

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CHAPTER I.

Table of Contents

The day was delicious! A warm, soft breeze, that seemed to suggest sunny Italy, or the luxurious indolence of far-off Japan, tinted the atmosphere with a golden hue.

It rested like a halo upon the head of a young man who sat beside a desk, idly twisting a pen between his fingers. It was a beautiful head! Too beautiful for a man, too strong for a woman.

From the large, velvety eyes, Italian in color and softness, but Mexican in their occasional gleams of thrilling brilliancy, to the clear complexion with the touch of crimson in the cheeks; from the dainty, curly hair that lay in tiny rings upon the broad, white brow, to the mouth, with its sweeping, silken mustache, the face was absolutely without flaw or blemish. And yet no man ever laughed at Lynde Pyne for his beauty, or would have thought of pronouncing him effeminate.

He is one of the best fellows in existence, they told each other at the club; and it is a confounded shame that he was cut out of his uncle's will in the manner in which he was. There was never a more honorable man than Lynde Pyne, and for all he knows by what means Luis Kingsley came in possession of the money that is rightfully his, he never says a word, but works away, early and late, with but poor reward. It is a queer world that robs an honest man to give his birthright to a scoundrel.

But Lynde Pyne was giving little thought to that as he sat dreamily twirling his pen on that golden day in June.

His reflections were interrupted by the entrance of his office boy.

If you please, Mr. Pyne, he said respectfully, though not servilely, there is a young lady here to see you.

Lynde glanced up slowly, evidently not pleased at the interruption.

Her name?

She is a typewriter!

Oh! Show her in.

He returned to his idle dreaming, but was aroused again at the expiration of a moment.

I came to see about the position you advertised, sir, a cool, refined voice said.

He arose and offered her a chair, looking at her in his own irresistible fashion.

And what he saw he never forgot!

The face was as flawless as his own. The short, curling, red-brown hair, that looked as though the sun had become entangled in a shadow, the violet eyes, the graceful sweep of the perfect chin, the exquisitely fitting gown of cheap gray tricot, all appealed to him with irresistible force.

What machine do you operate? and what is your record for speed? he asked, scarcely conscious that he had spoken at all.

I use the Hammond mostly, and can write seventy words to the minute, provided they are not too long.

You can write from dictation?

Yes, sir. I am a stenographer and typewriter. My last position I lost through the death of Mr. Carl Lefevre, my employer.

Then you are Miss Cuyler?

I am.

Your reputation has preceded you! exclaimed Lynde, with one of his most entrancing smiles. I shall be only too glad to engage you. You know the duties without my going into detail. There is only one thing that I shall require that he did not, perhaps, and that is, in addition to a typewriter, I wish you to act rather as a private secretary. You are to open all of my mail that is not marked personal, reporting the contents to me, that I may not be bothered with it. You think you can do that?

Perhaps not just at first, but I am so familiar now with the work of a lawyer's office that I don't think I would have much difficulty in learning.

That will be quite satisfactory. And the salary?

The charming face colored crimson.

I know so little of business, she answered, hesitatingly. Of course beginning with you is quite different from what it would be if you were sure that I could do your work.

But I am sure! I should expect to pay the same that Mr. Lefevre did, with a suitable addition for the extra amount of work. I suppose that would be reasonable?

More than I could expect.

Can you begin to-day?

Yes, sir.

Very well. There is a whole raft of copying in that drawer to be done. You will find a dressing-room on that side.

Leonie Cuyler did not wait to be told a second time. With a bow in Lynde's direction, she withdrew, laying her hat and a soft lace scarf, that had been wrapped about her neck, upon a table.

She glanced carelessly into the small mirror, endeavoring to smooth down the rebellious curls that were one of her chief attractions.

For a single moment she stood gazing idly about her, a dreamy smile upon her lips, then shaking herself together with a little impatient jerk, she walked into the room where Lynde Pyne awaited her.

With almost tender care he showed her the position of his papers, explained to her what would be expected of her, then sat down, watching the graceful movements of her fingers as they flew lightly over the key-board.

He felt dizzy, as though from drinking wine, when the evening came and he saw that he must let her go.

He watched her from the room, then put on his own hat with a weary sigh.

I am afraid I have not done a wise thing to bring Leonie Cuyler here, he muttered, and yet what can it matter?

There was something half bitter, wholly defiant in his mental question, and he walked from the office with anything but a pleasant expression upon his handsome face.

And Leonie?

After her little home had been set to rights, she sat down by the single window the room contained, her arm resting upon the sill dejectedly.

An old man, aristocratic in appearance, notwithstanding the poor clothing that he wore, a man strangely white of hair and beard, bent from age and sorrow, sat near her, playing with a string that he was twining about his fingers.

What is the matter with you to-night, my darling? he asked, breaking a long silence. My little one is not at all like herself! Dad is not going to lose his sunshine at this time of life, is he? I did not know that I should miss the chatter of my little magpie so much. What is the matter, Leonie?

She leaned over and kissed him, but even that was not done in her usual way.

Nothing, dad! she answered dreamily. That is, there is nothing wrong! I was only thinking. That is something unusual, I confess.

Of what were you thinking?

Of a picture that I saw to-day. It was a woman's face—a woman that I think Rembrandt or Guido would have given half their lives to paint. I couldn't describe it to you, because any description would sound commonplace applied to such an original. Her name is Miss Evelyn Chandler.

When she had finished speaking she turned her eyes slowly, and allowed them to rest upon Godfrey Cuyler's face.

She was startled at the change that flashed over it. His chin dropped, his eyes set, his brow was covered suddenly with a moisture that resembled death.

Where did you see it? he asked hoarsely, his voice scarcely more than a whisper.

In the private drawer of Lynde Pyne's desk.

Lynde Pyne! In Heaven's name what do you know of him?

He is my employer.

Lynde Pyne? Impossible! And you stood by his side, looking at Evelyn Chandler's portrait?

No. I saw it in the drawer by accident. Her name was written beneath it. Dad, who is Miss Evelyn Chandler, and why should I not look at her portrait with Lynde Pyne beside me?

I cannot tell you that, he gasped. I am pledged by an oath that I can never break. Child, child, what miserable fate was it that led you to Lynde Pyne's office?

Miserable fate? she cried, rising and standing before him. Is it a miserable fate that gives us bread to eat? Do you forget that we could not have lived more than a week longer from the savings of my little salary? Summer is coming on now, and lawyers do not want typewriters, or the positions are filled. See how often I have tried and failed. Oh, dad——

Hush! he interrupted. If we starve, you must not remain there! There is a reason stronger than either life or death. Leonie, you must listen to me!

Dad, I have no wish not to do so. There is but one thing—I am no longer a child, and you have no right to demand a thing of me without explanation. If there is a reason why I should not remain in Lynde Pyne's office, I am ready to go, though such a course seems to indicate nothing short of starvation to me, but unless you give me the reason, for both our sakes I must decline.

You don't know what you are saying! I know your nature, your overwhelming pride. Leonie, listen! If you refuse to hear me now, some day you will hear a secret the horror of which will kill you! My darling, what am I to say? Tell me that you will give it up?

I cannot! she gasped, bowing her head upon her hands. Oh, dad, if you asked me for the heart out of my body it would be easier for me to give you!

With a cry that resembled that of a wild animal, Godfrey Cuyler seized the girl by the shoulder.

Answer me, quickly! he cried, in a choking voice—you do not love Lynde Pyne?

She lifted her white face and looked at him. It was enough!

The old man fell upon his knees beside her and buried his face in her lap.

My darling—my darling! he moaned; how can I ever ask you to forgive me?

---

CHAPTER II.

Table of Contents

A gentle breeze, like the soft current wafted from a fan in the hands of Heaven, played through the room in which Leonie lay sweetly sleeping.

Silently the door of her room opened, and with noiseless step the old man entered. He looked cautiously around, then thrust forward a candle that he had held outside the door until he found that she was soundly sleeping. With cat-like tread, he advanced and stood beside her, looking down with a countenance that was convulsed with anguish.

Oh, my darling! what have I done? he gasped. If I had not been so blind I might have spared you all this. You love Lynde Pyne! Great God! what a hideous thing life is after all. I might have known that she would meet them all sooner or later. It is the law of the living. But what was I to do? My poor little one! where is the justice or the mercy in the curse that rests upon your life? To know the truth, with your sensitive nature, would kill you; yet how am I to keep you from finding out? Oh, God! the peace that time had brought is ended, and the bitter agony of her life has begun! If I could but bear it for her!

He left her side after one more long look, and taking a key that he had brought with him he unlocked an old desk that the room contained. Inside the drawer that opened he pressed a spring, and took from the inner drawer a small portrait.

He looked at the pictured face, then bowed his head upon it, and the bitterest tears of his life fell from his eyes.

Oh, Lena, Lena! he sobbed. Can you look down upon us now and see what your sin is to cost her? I don't want to blame you, my girl, now that you are dead, but what am I to say to her? I wonder if you can see what terrible danger threatens her, and I wonder if you know that it would kill her to know the sin that you committed, and that forever ruins and blasts her life? God forgive me! You are dead now, and perhaps in heaven, but—Lena, Lena, Lena!

He sat for some time so, then was aroused by feeling a hand laid upon his shoulder. He glanced up, and to his dismay, saw Leonie standing there, her face white as death.

Who is that woman? she asked in a voice utterly unlike her own.

Godfrey Cuyler hesitated, his hands shaking until it was almost impossible for him to hold the portrait. He thrust it into the drawer, and locked it before she knew what he was about.

It is no one that you know! he cried, brokenly. If you love me, you will not ask.

She laid her hands upon his shoulders, and held him firmly.

Dad, she said, slowly, you are keeping something from me that you have no right to keep. What is it? What has Miss Chandler to do with me? And who is that woman whose picture you have, who looks so much like the portrait in Lynde Pyne's drawer?

The old man fell into a chair, his limbs refusing to support him.

She fell upon her knees beside him, clasping his hands with both her own.

Dad, she whispered hoarsely, there is some secret that connects my life with that of Miss Chandler and Lynde Pyne. Tell me what it is. If you do not, I shall find out for myself, and it would be so much better for me to hear it from you than from a stranger, if it is the dreadful thing that your manner leads me to fear. Dad, tell me.

I cannot, he gasped. You must believe me when I tell you that there is nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Oh, Leonie, Leonie, my darling, put this nonsense out of your head. If you must know the story, that is an aunt of Miss Chandler's whom I once loved.

He was pointing toward the drawer where the picture was concealed, but the girl knew as well that he was lying to her as though the full knowledge of the humiliating story had been laid bare to her.

Dad, she exclaimed, oh, dad, it must be worse even than I thought, when you will descend to a lie! Think again, dad. What is this hidden misery that the mere mention of Miss Chandler's name causes you such bitter suffering?

It is not Miss Chandler. You must not think it! he cried, his voice indistinct from the chattering of his teeth. I once swore an oath that concerned her—that is all. I cannot tell you, because my word is pledged. Little one, little one, you must believe me. You must trust dad always—always!

He was trembling as though with a terrible chill, and feeling as though her heart had suddenly turned to ice, Leonie arose from her knees.

You are exciting yourself, dad, she said gently, and will be ill to-morrow. Go to bed, will you not?

Not until you have promised me that you will not go again to Lynde Pyne's office! I could never rest until you had promised that. Tell me that you will not!

I can't do that! she cried, her voice sounding hollow in the stillness of the night.

We can't starve, and there is no other prospect—none!

Is that the only reason?

She turned away wearily to avoid his penetrating gaze.

No, she answered huskily, perhaps it is not, but even if it were, I should still say the same. Oh, dad, what is it? There can be nothing so bad as this torturing suspense! Surely you can trust me?

Leonie, he said, in a choking voice, the secret I know concerns Evelyn Chandler, not yourself. You must believe me, for I speak the truth!

Will you pledge me your honor to that, dad?

He had never told a deliberate lie in his life before, and the effort cost him a greater struggle than almost any one would believe, but he controlled his countenance, and answered slowly:

I do!

She allowed her hand to fall from his shoulder, where it had rested, and sighed wearily. He had not deceived her!

Will you promise now? he asked, almost unable to control his eagerness.

No, she replied, with a dejected shake of the head. If the secret does not concern me, it would be a foolish thing for me to resign a position that I so sorely need. Don't ask it, dad, for there is nothing that you can say that would induce me to do it!

Leonie——

You are keeping me up, dad, and I need rest. Won't you say good-night?

The voice was quiet, but the expression on the lovely face belied it.

He saw what he had done, but was powerless to alter it.

Oh, child—— he began, but she interrupted him again.

To-morrow, dad! I am tired now and—— Go, dear, won't you? And, dad, don't worry your dear old head about me! If there is trouble to be borne, we can bear it together, as we always have, but we will leave it until it comes. You know how foolish it is to endeavor to cross a bridge before you come to it! Dad, dear old dad! good-night and God bless you. Whatever may come in the future, you have been the most faithful— There you are making a baby of me.

She placed her arms about his neck, and hid her face upon his shoulder in a vain endeavor to conceal her tears. She kissed him again, then gently pushed him into his own room, and closed the door.

For hours after he had gone she sat there by the window trying to solve the mystery that