Little Luckie: Playing For Hearts

By Nellie Bly and David Blixt

From the bestselling pen of the original undercover reporter, available for the first time in 125 years, the lost novels Of Nellie Bly!

Pioneering undercover journalist Nellie Bly is rightly famous for exposing society's ills. From brut

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sordelet Ink
• Release date: Nov 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781944540661

Nellie Bly

Nellie Bly (1864-1922) was an American investigative journalist. Born Elizabeth Jane Cochran in a suburb of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, she was raised in a family of Irish immigrants. In 1879, she attended Indiana Normal School for a year before returning to Pittsburgh, where she began writing anonymously for the Pittsburgh Dispatch. Impressed by her work, the newspaper’s editor offered her a full-time job. Writing under the pseudonym of Nellie Bly, she produced a series of groundbreaking investigative pieces on women factory workers before traveling to Mexico as a foreign correspondent, which led her to report on the arrest of a prominent Mexican journalist and dissident. Returning to America under threat of arrest, she soon left the Pittsburgh Dispatch to undertake a dangerous investigative assignment for Joseph Pulitzer’s New York World on the Women’s Lunatic Asylum on Blackwell’s Island. After feigning a bout of psychosis in order to get admitted, she spent ten days at the asylum witnessing widespread abuse and neglect. Her two-part series in the New York World later became the book Ten Days in a Mad-House (1887), earning Bly her reputation as a pioneering reporter and leading to widespread reform. The following year, Bly took an assignment aimed at recreating the journey described in Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days (1873). Boarding a steamer in Hoboken, she began a seventy-two day trip around the globe, setting off a popular trend that would be emulated by countless adventurers over the next several decades. After publishing her book on the journey, Around the World in Seventy-Two Days (1890), Bly married manufacturer Robert Seaman, whose death in 1904 left Bly in charge of the Iron Clad Manufacturing Co. Despite Bly’s best efforts as a manager and inventor, her tenure ultimately resulted in the company’s bankruptcy. In the final years of her life, she continued working as a reporter covering World War I and the women’s suffrage movement, cementing her legacy as a groundbreaking and ambitious figure in American journalism.

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Little Luckie

or

Playing For Hearts

A FASCINATING STORY OF INTENSE INTEREST, EMBRACING A YOUNG GIRLS LOVE, A YOUNG MAN’S CRIME, AND A GYPSY’S SECRET.

I - Face To Face With Death.

Luckie Thurlow had stolen away to dream.

She was the personification of some woodland sprite as she flew along the mountain path, her loose, black hair flying like a cloud about her head and her velvety cheeks glowing as wetly pink as the heart of a sea-shell.

With her short hair and shabby high boots and ragged skirt that barely reached her knees, the girl did not look a day over twelve years old, while in truth she was seventeen.

Her mind was in tumult, her heart was throbbing joyously.

To-morrow—ah, glorious to-morrow!—she was going to visit her only girl friend, the being she loved most in all the world, and she had stolen away to take farewell of her favorite haunts and to dream of the future—the bright future that this visit promised to open up before her.

In a secluded and wild spot, where the wild-flowers grew in profusion, she flung herself down upon a bed of moss and ferns and gave herself up to the most golden day-dreams, when the crunching sound of footsteps among the dried leaves and branches startled her from her reverie.

What a bother! she exclaimed in disgust. I want to be alone. It’s too provoking—

In turning, her eyes lit upon the fern-lined entrance to a small cavity in the side of the hill, which she had always glorified by the name of cave. It looked more as if it might once have been the mouth of a long disused and caved-in coal bank.

Without an instant’s hesitation she ran to its friendly shelter and sunk down again upon the soft, earthy bed to dream.

The sounds that had startled her she heard no more, and with a sigh of intense relief she began again weaving golden fancies around the to-morrow.

She was lost to all the world. The bright sunlight dancing with the forest shade, the shrill, frightened chatter of the birds in the branches above her head, and the loud rustle of their wings as they hastened away, was all lost to her.

A hiss—a low, blood-curdling warning hiss—a hiss whose very sound conveys to the senses but one meaning—death—fell upon her ear with a greater force than the loudest thunder.

She rose to her feet, pressing against the back of the cave as if she would seek safety in the very bowels of the earth. She trembled in every nerve, her blood ran like ice-water through her veins; her heart was cold and still, and a great horror seemed to be stiffening every single hair on her head, while she stood looking with wide, dilated eyes upon the frightful object before her.

She could not move, she could not breathe. She could only stand and gaze with maddening horror upon—a snake.

It was directly in the entrance of the cave—directly between Luckie Thurlow and life!

From its long coil it reared its head, which was darting back and forth, a hissing sound cutting the air as its forked tongue issued from its flat mouth.

Sparks of fire seemed to fly from its little, bead-like eyes as its head rose higher and higher, each move making it nearer the fatal spring that would end Little Luckie Thurlow’s life.

From the moment that warning hiss brought her back to real life, she had no hope. In a dull, lifeless way she wondered if it would take long to die, and if she would suffer much. With a pang she thought that she was young to die, and had there been rock or club within her reach she would have made a brave battle for life.

But the first move or cry on her part meant a warning for the snake to strike his fatal blow, and she knew that. Though she felt that her end had come, she had not the strength to make the motion that would hasten the snake in its mission of death. She was going to close her eyes and end it all when—

Don’t move, and I will save you! a clear, firm voice said, in the space beyond the snake.

The snake, hearing the sound, uttered a warning hiss, but its imprisoned victim never moved a muscle, and her frightened brown eyes never wavered in their charmed gaze on the bobbing head of the reptile.

A young man, his hands half-filled with wild-flowers, had been stumbling down the hill, when his notice was attracted by the frightened screaming of the birds.

In looking to see what was wrong, his eyes fell upon the snake, and thinking by its peculiar motions that it was charming some bird, he moved forward with a stone in his hand, ready to frighten the snake away, when he saw standing still and motionless before the serpent, with distended eyes and face the hue of death—a slender young girl.

Dropping his flowers and missile, he spoke calmly and encouragingly to her. He knew as well as she that one move on her part was death.

With a hasty cry he pulled a revolver from his pocket, and Luckie Thurlow heard the click as he took aim.

Calmly, surely, desperately, he aimed at that twisting, bobbing head, with the flashing eyes and thrusting tongue.

But he did not fire. With a groan his arm fell limp and useless to his side.

He could not shoot without killing the girl!

For while his unerring bullet might pass through the head of the snake, it would surely and positively embed itself in the heart of the young girl, who stood motionless in the line of his aim.

Luckie heard that groan and quickly divined its cause. But still she did not move nor lift her eyes from the fiery gaze of the snake, through life seemed doubly dear to her now that a human being was within the sound of her voice.

Throwing his worse than useless revolver from him, the young man picked up a branch that, fortunately, had a prong on the end. With desperate haste he sharpened the prongs and then crept cautiously up behind the snake. If he could take a true aim he hoped to pinion the head of the snake between the prongs. It all depended on his skill and quickness, and—a life hung in the balance.

Luckie Thurlow, without moving her eyes, could see the shadow cast by his form. Probably the snake saw the same, for it drew back its head with a low hiss for the final blow.

Like a flash, and as straight as an arrow, the strong young arm shot forth and the prong descended. It caught a little behind the head, and a heavy boot came down instantly next to the prong.

But the snake did not mean to die so easy. In an instant its long body was wrapped around the young man’s leg, and though its head was fastened so that it could not bite, its wonderful body was crushing the young man’s leg until he cried aloud in pain.

My revolver, or a stone—quick! Crush his head! he said to Luckie, and though her limbs seemed turned to stone, she started to do his bidding.

About a yard back you will find my revolver, lying where I cast it upon a ground, he said between his teeth. Confound you, devil, you are making your last squeeze, he added with grim satisfaction.

Luckie returned with the revolver. Hold steady! she said, and leaning down she, herself, sent a bullet straight through the snake’s head.

With her little, trembling hands she helped to unwrap the wriggling body, and once more the young man stood free.

Pretty close shave for you, little girl, he said lightly. Are you hurt?

No! Thanks to you, she replied, in a voice that trembled despite her.

Then you had better run home, and take my advice, don’t stray so far alone in the woods again. This is an ugly customer for a man or beast to meet.

Are you hurt? she asked faintly.

Not a bit, he exclaimed, although his leg still pained him. He’s a beauty, isn’t he?—pointing to the snake—Must be ten feet, if he’s an inch. I intend to take him home. It isn’t often one gets such a splendid specimen.

Little Luckie Thurlow felt that she was dismissed, but she could not go. She had only then looked at her rescuer, and she felt as if in all her life she had never seen as handsome a man before.

He looked like Greek god as he stood before her—a tall young man with great broad shoulders and a noble head covered with beautiful yellow hair that would have curled had he allowed it to grow long enough.

His eyes were as blue as pansies, his lashes and brows were black, and his face was so handsome and bright and smiling that more worldly-wise hearts than Little Luckie Thurlow’s could be pardoned for growing tender at the sight of it.

Will you please tell me your name? I should like to know the name of the one who saved my life, she said, feelingly.

He laughed at her good-naturedly. You don’t want to know my name, child. You must forget all about the unpleasant morning, he answered lightly.

I shall never forget it, she said earnestly.

Then you are a foolish little girl, and I refuse to have my name remembered in connection with such an event. And lifting his hat he walked away, carrying across his broad shoulder the still-twitching body of the dead snake.

And something else he carried away that he knew not of and cared naught for—the loving heart of an innocent girl.

She stood watching him with a wistful longing in her eyes until he was lost to sight, and then she sunk sobbing down on the grass, while he had forgotten all about her by the time he reached the brow of the hill.

What an age you were gone! cried a young woman pettishly, rising up as he approached.

I lost your flowers, but I got this big fellow instead, he said lazily. Isn’t he a beauty!

II - The Daughter Of A Queen.

Who is Luckie Thurlow?

The sweetest girl in the world.

Ah! But to whom does this paragon, this being of sweetness, belong? Whose daughter is she, and where does she live?

She is the only daughter of a queen.

This earnest statement was received with loud shouts of amused laughter.

The group of young Americans gathered in the drawing-room of one of the finest homes overlooking the picturesque Hudson had little awe of queens. Free-born children of a free country, they felt themselves the equals of any queen; and, as for a queen’s daughter! Well, they had little fear of her if she lived under the delightfully funny name of Luckie.

Don’t tease, Elsie, dear, but tell us where this paragon of yours lives, said Janie Lalande, a little blonde with a dimpled chin and baby-blue eyes, and the tiniest hands and feet, which she never lost an opportunity to display.

She lives in a tent in the woods, Elsie Kendall replied soberly.

In a tent! In the woods? The daughter of a queen! they laughed on all sides of her.

Hush! Elsie said warningly, a sensitive flush coloring her pale cheeks. What I have said is strictly true. Luckie Thurlow is the daughter of a queen, and at home she lives with her mother in a tent in the woods. When her mother dies, Luckie will be queen. That is all there is to it. I only thought it was better to tell you in advance, for if anything should be said while Luckie is here to hurt her, I could never forgive it—never.

Elsie is devoted to the queen’s daughter, Mrs. Forester, Elsie’s married sister, said quietly, and it was by my advice that she has told you who Luckie Thurlow is. I thought it might prevent complications afterward.

But, Mrs. Forester, surely there is something else to tell us about her. What queen? What country? demanded Janie Lalande.

I suppose she is queen of the fairies, suggested Dory Lee.

No, she is queen of the gypsies, Elsie said gravely.

A gypsy’s daughter! Great heavens! exclaimed Lloyd Stockton with a half a sneer.

He was a tall, pale man, with black hair and eyes, and wide whiskers, the blackness of which helped to increase his noticeable pallor. His clean-shaven lips always wore a smile; but some people had been heard to declare that perpetual smile was a cruel, cunning one.

This statement was hooted at by the majority. Lloyd Stockton was the nephew and heir of Cornelius Gail, the millionaire Wall Street broker, whose palatial home was twenty miles further up the Hudson from the Kendall’s. Consequently, Lloyd Stockton was a great favorite with the women. They never relinquished the hope of catching the prospective heir, who had, so far, paid attention to all and loved none.

So that now, when he sneered about the gypsy queen’s daughter, other faces in the party reflected his disdain.

I hope none of you intend to be disagreeable to my friend, Elsie said hastily, detecting the chill of disapproval, slight as it was. "I assure you she is all that is lovely and good. I met her at Miss Brown’s boarding-school, and you all know how select it is. Only members of the best families are admitted there; and although Luckie is a gypsy, she was there. And she was not only the cleverest girl in our class, but the wildest romp in school.

"Everybody loved her, and I—I can’t begin to tell you what Luckie is to me. You know, last spring, just after Jack and Lily had married and set sail for Europe, I took the small-pox. How I got it we never knew, and in an hour afterward the school was deserted. Everybody fled except Luckie! She remained and nursed me through it all. How gentle and sweet she was! I prayed for her to leave me; I told her she would take the frightful disease from me, and her beauty would be ruined, but she would not heed one word.

The doctors would not allow papa to come near me; and when I thought I was going into the valley of death, it was Luckie’s hand that clasped mine, her sweet, loving voice that whispered words of courage in my dull ear.

Elsie Kendall gave a deep sigh and a sympathetic silence held the little group. Mrs. Forester patted her sister’s hand lovingly.

But I lived, Elsie resumed, and when all danger to me and to others was over, little Luckie crept away. She had caught the disease from me. But she did not wait to be a burden to any one. She left a note saying the doctors had told her she was taking the same horrible sickness, and that she had gone to her mother’s home in the woods. I could not rest until papa had found the gypsy queen, and brought me news of little Luckie. He managed it so that I heard how she was progressing every few days, and papa grew as fond of Luckie as I am. No one could help but love her, and if I thought that any one in this company was contemptible enough to slight Luckie in any way, I would never forgive myself for bringing her here.

Was she—disfigured? Janie Lalande asked, with a shudder.

No; no more than I. Her skin is as beautiful and smooth to-day as it was before our illness. We were both very fortunate in that respect.

Miss Elsie, you have made me like your friend before seeing her, Dory Lee said impulsively, a swift flush mantling his boyish brow.

Lloyd Stockton smiled in a careless, cynical way. It was well enough for the gypsy queen’s daughter to save the life of the high-born, high-bred Elsie Kendall, but, to his way of thinking, it would have been more fitting for Cyrus Kendall to pay the girl for her services than to have brought her to his home as an equal.

A girl from the woods! A girl whose only home had teen a tent, whose associates has been low tramping ruffians; a girl whose parents were gypsies. Bah! It was disgusting!

I am dying to see her, Janie Lalande declared. Does she dress like a savage, Elsie, with short skirts and moccasins, and the rest of it?

Don’t breathe it, Janie, Dory Lee said in a mock whisper, audible to them all, but she wears feathers in her hair and whoops!

Janie Lalande fell back with such a startled look upon her dimpled face that even Elsie had to join rounds of laughter evoked by Dory’s description.

They were still laughing merrily, when the door was flung open, and a slender, willowy girl stood upon the threshold.

Her big eyes, brown and soft as velvet, as sparkling as the stars, surveyed the group with a frightened, timid look that stirred the warm blood in Dory Lee’s honest heart.

Those scrutinizing eyes, turned so curiously upon her, took in every detail.

And as she stood for an instant within that door, like a little bird perched on the side of its nest, Luckie Thurlow was well worth looking at.

She was about medium height, but so slender and graceful that she gave the impression of being smaller than she really was. She wore a pure white dress of some gauzy material that fitted the long, round waist to perfection, and fell in straight lines to the white-slippered wee feet that were tiny and as perfect as a baby’s.

It was hard to picture her beautiful face. Those gazing spell-bound at it could only draw a deep breath of admiration. It was a perfect oval, of a rich, dusky color that one could see by the bare arms and shoulders—as white and smooth as marble—was the result of exposure to the wind and sun. Her curly-brown hair hung square across her brow and lay in little curls around her neck covering her tiny, pink ears like a child’s.

Her lips were as red as cherries, and slightly pouted. Deep dimples dented her velvety cheeks. Her nose had an inclination to tilt, and her eyes were so brown and dreamy and deep and filled with little lights, just as if a star sparkled behind them, that one never wearied gazing into them.

Even Lloyd Stockton, cynical man of the world that he was, drew a long breath as he gazed at Luckie Thurlow’s witching, sparkling, entrancing face.

To Luckie, nothing was clear. She had a vision of a confused mass of gay dresses and pretty faces and black dress-suits. Then Elsie sprung forward, and taking her by the hand, led her proudly forward to present to her friends.

Almost instantly dinner was announced, and before she had time to take a breath Luckie found herself led in to dinner by Mr. Kendall, and seated between him and Lloyd Stockton. The sight of the fine solid silver and brilliant cut-glass and flowers and bright lights confused her.

Mr. Kendall devoted himself quite attentively to his dinner, but Lloyd Stockton ventured a few remarks to Luckie which met with such vague responses and he presently gave up the attempt.

Luckie was glad of it, for it left her free to become accustomed to the grandeur around her. She had always eaten off a tin plate, set on the grass or on her lap, before she had gone to school, and at school, though they were drilled in all things pertaining to good manners and etiquette, everything had been simple and plain.

After Luckie had partaken of three courses she could eat no more, and she silently wondered at the rest. Did they eat like this every day?

At home, when she had stewed a chicken and potatoes and a glass of milk, she had thought it a feast, and at school her fare was meager. But now, she thought in silent wonder, if a feast had been prepared for a king it could not have been finer.

Little Luckie Thurlow, the gypsy queen’s daughter, had much to learn yet.

She was glad when dinner was over and they were all in the drawing-room again.

Janie Lalande sat down at the piano to sing, and Elsie Kendall drew Luckie Thurlow down on the sofa beside her.

Tell me about these people, dear, I can’t get them placed in my head, Luckie said.

Elsie laughed. All right, dearest. The girl singing is Janie Lalande. Her father and mother are wealthy New Yorkers—members of the best society. I don’t mind telling you that Janie is a bitter disappointment to her proud mamma. This is her second year out, and she has not made a match; and everybody acknowledges that she is pretty, too. If Lloyd Stockton had not promised to spend the autumn with us, Mrs. Lalande would never have let Janie bury herself here.

And who is Lloyd Stockton?

There. That is he leaning over the piano. He never smokes, so he gets here before the other men; and Elsie concluded by giving a concise history of the gentleman."

Then you know my sister Lily. Her husband, Jack Forester, will be here to-night from the city. He is the dearest boy in the world, Lily is perfectly happy. Ah, me! It’s awfully nice, Luckie, to love and be loved.

And Elsie is sighing as if she had been smitten. Who is he, dearie, the smiling Mr. Stockton or the other young man—what’s his name? Luckie laughed lightly.

A crimson blush mantled Elsie’s sensitive face, but she only shook her head. Don’t say absurd things or you will not hear about the rest, she said, a little tremulously. There is Dory Lee, a second cousin of mine. He is very rich, and is all alone in the world. He is like a brother to me, I am very fond of him. That is all except papa and me. Oh yes—as if she had forgotten—Harry Portland is coming to-morrow.

And is he another rich one? Luckie asked, half bitterly. She began to feel so different from them all! They all had so much, and she was only—the gypsy’s daughter!

No, Harry is not rich, Elsie was saying. In fact he is quite poor, and they do say, head over heels in debt. He has a small income—papa says it can’t be over twenty-five hundred dollars a year; and as he is too indolent to work, the only hope before him is a wealthy marriage. He is awfully good-looking, you know, and all the women are in love with him.

I don’t fancy that I will like him, Luckie said energetically. She hated anything weak or effeminate in a man.

Never fear, you’ll love him like all the rest. No one can help it, Elsie remarked simply. It’s Harry’s way. But you can’t afford to indulge in love without money, dearest, so you had better try to cut Janie Lalande out and get Harry’s step-brother.

His step-brother?—wonderingly.

Yes. Lloyd Stockton’s mother married Harry Portland’s father, but Harry’s father is dead now, and if it was not that Mr. Gail is fond of Harry, the two young men would not see much of each other. They have never had any liking for each other.

Miss Thurlow, I am sure you sing, Dory Lee said, breaking in on them. Won’t you please favor us?

Luckie’s face flushed scarlet. She was so frightened at the mere thought of trying to sing before those strangers that she would have been tempted to tell a story had not Elsie blurted out:

Do sing, dear! Luckie has a lovely voice, Dory, and she plays the guitar beautifully. If you bring mine from over there beside the piano she shall sing for you.

Oh, Elsie, how could you? cried Luckie, in deep confusion. I never can sing in front of all these people!

Yes, you can, dear, and you might as well get used to it all at once, Elsie replied calmly.

With shaking hands Luckie took the guitar from Dory Lee, and in a rather tremulous voice sung some little thing. There were tears of mortification in her eyes when she stopped.

I knew you could sing, Dory Lee said earnestly. You have the sweetest voice I ever heard. Please do not stop yet. Sing some little ballad for me, I am awfully fond of them.

Are you? So am I, Luckie replied, and without another word she began again.

This time she forgot herself and the people listening to her, and her whole soul was poured forth in the love-song she was singing.

When she finished Lloyd Stockton was leaning over her. She looked up and her brown eyes fell beneath the strange fire in his black ones.

Do you know, Miss Thurlow, that you could sing a man’s heart of his breast? he said passionately.

Although she shrugged her round shoulders, she shivered slightly.

But what if I should not wish to? she said willfully.

He might teach you to wish so, he whispered in a low tone.

III - You Are My Love—The Love Of My Life.

Come, dear, if you are ready to go down, Elsie called to Luckie, who was just completing her toilet.

I am ready, came the quick response, and giving one final glance at her reflection in the long mirror, Luckie Thurlow joined her friend.

The rippling brooks, or a tin pan, was the only mirror Luckie ever gazed in until she had been sent off to school, and even their mirrors were small and limited. Now she had two panel mirrors in which she could view her entire pretty self, and the satisfaction she gained from gazing into them was unbounded.

Not that Luckie was vain or foolish. The girl she saw and studied in the glass really seemed as much a stranger to her as did the people who were filling the Kendall house. She was unacquainted with the sight of her own face and she found a strange pleasure in watching it.

Luckie had gone through her first evening very well, but the following day brought crowds of visitors, for there was to be a ball that night, and many of their friends would remain until the following day.

Luckie was in a fever of delight. She had never been to a ball in her life, and all she knew about them she had learned from books and her girl friends.

She pictured a ball to be a dream of bliss and beauty, and while she dreaded having to meet so many strangers, she was perfectly wild with anticipated happiness.

Arm and arm the two girls went down to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Forester, who presided as hostess over her widowed father’s house, sat with a number of gayly-dressed visitors, awaiting the announcement of dinner.

While laughing and talking with her guests, Mrs. Forester’s eyes rested proudly on a handsome man by her side, that Luckie guessed, rightly, to be Jack Forester.

He was dark and tall, with a jolly, handsome face, though he must have been forty, and a good many years the senior of his little blonde wife, who could have stood under his outstretched arm without touching