The Tragedy of the Maternity Home.

A young reporter for a great Chicago newspaper was sent by his city editor into the heart of the "red light" district to investigate a murder at one of the city's brothels.

The trail of the story led the reporter into one of the most notorious dens of the city, the "E—— club." This home of vice is located in a three-story stone mansion. Around it radiates the elite of the district. It is owned by two sisters, immensely wealthy, who have made their fortune through the barter of girls' souls.

A negro butler attired in livery admitted him into the reception room of this gilded den. Velvet carpets that sank beneath the feet covered the floors. Massive paintings by old masters were on the walls. The gilded ceilings radiated the glare of vari-colored lights which studded it.

From the silver dance-room came the sound of soft music, interspersed with the discordant laughter of drunken men and girls.

In a few seconds a woman entered the reception room. She was prettily clad in a flowing silk gown. Her mass of black hair was wreathed about her head.

As she met the gaze of the reporter she started, and fled, as though terrified, from the room. The recognition had been mutual.

In the face of the fallen woman the reporter had seen the features of an innocent girl who had been a playmate of but a few years before.

Her family was wealthy. Her father was one of the most prominent surgeons in Illinois. In the city in which they lived he had served several terms as mayor. She had been the belle of the town. Her many accomplishments and innocence had won her many suitors. But she spurned them all for the love of her father and mother. She was the only child in the family. Her every wish and want had been fulfilled.

But a year before the reporter had heard that she had died. The papers in the town contained articles at the time lamenting her death. According to the stories, she had been drowned in Lake Michigan while sailing in a yacht. A body of a girl supposedly that of her's had been shipped home. There had been a funeral.

Since that time the father and mother had been disconsolate. The memory of the daughter was never from their minds. They spent the greater part of the days at the side of the grave in the cemetery. After dusk had fallen they sat in the pretty boudoir that had been the room of their child. Not a thing had been touched in the room. The beautiful dresses and garments that had once been worn by their daughter still were neatly hung in their places. The little mementoes still lay about the room. And in the dim light that radiated from a fireplace the father and mother could picture the face of their daughter, whom they believed to have been so ruthlessly torn from them by death.

Quickly recovering from the shock, the seeming apparition had given him, the reporter dashed after the girl.

She ran into a room and attempted to lock the reporter out. He forced his way in. As he did so, she fell at his feet screaming and pleading. Her mind seemed to have suddenly become unbalanced.

"Don't tell papa and mamma I'm alive," she shrieked; "they believe me to be dead and it is better so. I'll kill myself if you tell them."

The reporter could scarcely believe that girl could be the same innocent, high-minded child he had known but a few months before.

After much persuasion, she was finally calmed. She would not lift her head or look into her childhood friend's eyes.

"Come and get out of this fearful hole at once," the reporter demanded, grasping her by the arm.

The crying of the girl ceased. Her muscles grew tense and rigid.

"I will stay here," she said quietly; "stay here until I die. No pleadings will change me. My mind has been made up for some time. I'm an animal now. The innocent girl that you once knew is now no part of me. I'm all that is bad now. When I leave this life, it will be in death."

"But your father and mother would receive you back—they needn't know anything of this," pleaded the reporter.

"I'm dead to them and in death I am still pure and innocent in their eyes. They are happy in their belief," slowly said the girl, her eyes filling with tears. She paused for some time, a faraway look in her eyes.

It was as though she were gazing into the past of but a short time before. Her features assumed those of the innocent girl she had been, then as she thought they gradually seemed to grow more hardened and steel-like. Finally, after some moments she broke the silence.

"I will tell you why I am here," she said. "I will tell you why I will not go back.

"You can remember, not a long time ago, when I was all that was good. I hardly knew the meaning of a profane word. I was worshiped and petted.

"I have done some good in my life. It was this good and the hope to do even more that finally led to my ruin. In the convent where I went to school, we had been taught to be charitable. I was happy in helping the poor and sick.

"The fact that my father was a physician gave me an inspiration. When I had reached my twentieth birthday, I decided to learn to be a nurse, so that I might do more for the poor. In the home town I could not do this. So I went to a neighboring city and entered a state hospital. There I worked as a common apprentice nurse for ten months. I did not receive any pay for my services. I had plenty of money anyway.

"I grew to love one of the physicians. He apparently loved me as much. My life seemed to be tied up in his. He asked me to marry him. I was overjoyed at the thought. We were constantly together and I was radiantly happy.

"One night, he made suggestions to me. He said we would soon be married and that in view of that, it would not be wrong. I trusted explicitly in him and believed what he said. Then I fell.

"It is useless for me to try to tell you of the lies, the protestations of love, the excuses and suggestions he made that caused me to fall. No one could understand that but me. No one could excuse it but me.

"A short time later I found that I was to become a mother. I was happy then. I should bear him a child. I told him of this. He suddenly grew cold in his actions. Then he avoided me. Disheartened I pleaded for him to marry me. He laughed in my face and told me he had never intended to do such a thing. I fainted under this torrent of abuse.

"The thought that I had been cast aside nearly cost me my reason. I knew I could not go home in such a condition. I had heard that in Chicago maternity hospitals were easy to enter, so one night I packed some of my clothing and slipping away from the hospital, boarded a train.

"I was frightened nearly out of my senses at the enormity of my act. Across the aisle from me in the railroad coach, sat an elderly woman. Her face seemed kindly. After a few minutes' ride, she smiled at me. Then when I vainly attempted to smile back, she came over and sat down beside me.

"She talked very motherly to me. Soon I had told her my whole story. She was very sympathetic. She said she pitied me in my trouble and would help me. I clung to her as though she were a mother. After we had talked some time, she told me that she had a maiden aunt in Chicago at whose home I could live and that she would see that I received proper medical attention. I accepted her offer gratefully.

"When we reached Chicago she assisted me with my baggage and into a waiting cab. For some time we drove about the city.

"At last we arrived at a big stone mansion. It was lighted almost from top to bottom.

"'Auntie must be entertaining tonight,' laughed the woman. 'We'll go right in and to our rooms. No one will see us.'

"A negro, attired in livery, came out and carried our baggage in. We went at once to rooms on the upper floor. I did not know where I was. I believed what the elderly woman had told me, that I was at the home of the aunt. It was not until two weeks later that I found out I was in this den of vice, where I now am.

"For those two weeks I was treated as well as could be wished. Two elderly women came often to see me and talked pleasantly. A doctor came and attended me through my illness.

"I can't make you understand the shock that came to me when they told me that I would have no baby. The man and the two women had attended to that. My baby was dead. There seemed nothing else to live for.

"One morning when I had nearly recovered, I got out of bed and went to the door. To my dismay I found that it was locked from the outside. The windows were also locked. When the women came a short time later I asked them about it. They merely laughed and gave me no answer.

"It was only a few nights later when I was awakened by the sound of a man's voice. In the darkness I could see him standing beside my bed. I screamed and screamed but no one came. I jumped out of bed and ran to the door. It was securely locked. The man laughed at my efforts to evade him.

"Finally he pressed a button on the wall. Two women, dressed in short costumes that barely reached to the knees, came into the room. The man threw me on a bed and the two women held me.

"After that I was given something to eat. Instantly I seemed bereft of my senses. It was not until a week later that I became normal again. It was during that week that my ruin was forever accomplished. Of what occurred I have but a vague recollection.

"I realized then that I could never return home again. I grew morose and sullen as I thought. Often I tried to force myself to take my own life, but the thoughts of my evil deeds kept me from doing so.

"The days that passed were like the fancies of a disordered mind. Gradually the atmosphere, the viciousness of it seeped through me and took the place of the innocence, the wifely feeling, the mother love of which I had been robbed. The process of degradation, of evolution into accepting life in this prison came about swiftly. I found myself accepting this home, this place where I might exist.

"You know the verse:

"That describes my case. The owners of the place gradually extended my liberties. I remember the first day that came when they said I might go out alone. They would trust me to come back.

"I had formulated a plan that morning. In the Chicago papers I had seen a story telling of the finding of a girl of about my age in the waters of Lake Michigan, near Lincoln Park. She did not have a coat or hat on and a portion of her other clothing was missing.

"I went to a spot along the shore, near where the body had been found. I took off my coat and hat and soaked it in the water. I left a small pocketbook with my name and a small amount of money inside the coat pocket. Then I hurried back to this place.

"The clothing was found and turned over to the police. The name and address were also noted. My parents were notified. They came at once to Chicago. The body of the girl had been in the water for some time. They could not identify it but easily identified the clothing.

"The body was taken home. I read of the terrible grief of my parents with tearful eyes. I read of my own burial. Often I knelt and prayed for my sorrowing parents.

"Then I knew it was all over. To the world I was dead. To myself my pure and innocent life was a thing of the past. I had forever cut off family ties. But to them I would forever be known as the pure child that they knew and loved.

"I have not associated with the women here any more than I had to. I have never drank nor smoked cigarettes, despite their attempts to force me to do so.

"I have tried to imagine myself leading a different life. I have gone to church and fancied myself clothed with the purity and innocence of the other days. Perhaps I turned my head to look about me. Perhaps I heard a smothered exclamation not meant for my ears. Mocking me, driving me back to a realization of my degradation, would be a face—the face of a man who had come to the 'E—— Club' in search of a vent for his beastly desires. He could do what I could not and yet be respected. When I sought out a place of worship, even he was ready to point a mocking finger, to leer at me with an insulting smile.

"In the theatres, in the parks, in the shopping districts and on the streets of the city I have tried, for just a little while, to imagine myself the girl of the olden days. Always, everywhere, omnipresent has been the reminder that drove me back to the 'E——' with a sigh of relief and a sense of refuge. Can you understand?

"I have steeled myself to live this life because there is no other left to me.

"I have hoped and prayed that I would not live long, that I would grow ugly in features and a person whom men would shun, but in vain. But I know that sooner or later my hope will be realized."

"But I can help to save you. I can put you in a position where you can earn a respectable living and where you will be happy," pleaded the reporter.

For a time the girl was in deep thought. When she raised her head again her eyes were wet with tears.

"I couldn't do it. I can never be anything else now," she said. "Were I to take a position, it would be but a question of time until some man who had seen me in this place would recognize me. I would be discharged and driven into even a deeper life of shame.

"It is impossible to even contemplate such a thing.

"When a woman falls, she falls never to rise again. The thoughts of her evil life are forever a menace to her. They pursue her constantly. She never can resume her former sphere in life."

"Isn't there anything that I can do to cause you to come with me and do right?" asked the reporter.

"There is nothing that anyone can do. What I am now I will always be," she replied.

"Won't you at least meet me away from this awful place and try to spend at least part of your evenings in the respectable way to which you were accustomed?" was asked.

"I will meet you where no one would recognize either you or I," was the reply. "I would not disgrace you by having anyone know me.

"You will not meet the little girl you knew, though. Henceforth you must meet a fallen woman, a woman who sells her flesh, pound by pound, to human vultures. You had best change your mind. For myself, I would be delighted to be with you, but the old memories are painful. I will see you but you must never come here for me."

When the reporter left the sin-cursed place, there were tears in his eyes. To him it was as though he were deserting his own sister to the ravages of a pack of wolves.

Half a block away from the place he paused in deep thought. Should he go at once to her parents and tell them of the finding of their daughter, that she was alive?

He knew they would gladly receive her back, that any and all of her wrongs would be overlooked. He thought of their great love for her, of their deep grief in her death.

But as he thought, he could see a fireside in a city but a few hundred miles distant. Side by side sat a couple. The man was a personage slightly bent, as though bowed down with some grief in the middle of life. The woman's hair was tinged with gray. Her motherly face was lit by a radiant smile, as though she were dreaming of something heavenly.

He could see them clasp hands and sit for hours dreaming of the happiness of but a few months before. Then the father would rise, and, walking across the room, caress some tiny trinket, such as gladdens the heart of a girl. He would pick up a picture, that of a beautiful, laughing girl, radiant in the innocence of the unknowing girl. Long he would gaze at it. Then imprinting a kiss on the face of the picture, he would lay it carefully back in its place. They were happy in the thought that their child was in a better world—of that fact they had no doubt.

The reporter's mind was quickly made up.

"It is better so," he half muttered. "It is better so."

Slowly he retraced his steps past the den where he had found her. An automobile had just come to a stop at the curb. Several well dressed men, in the last stages of intoxication, staggered from the car. Swearing and cursing, they mounted the steps of the house. The door was opened to admit them. From the house came the wild scream of a drunken woman mingled with the coarser yells of drunken men.

Then the door closed.