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diff --git a/5229-0.txt b/5229-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8529f52 --- /dev/null +++ b/5229-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10537 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Felix O'Day, by F. Hopkinson Smith + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Felix O'Day + +Author: F. Hopkinson Smith + +Release Date: March, 2004 [EBook #5229] +Posting Date: March 28, 2009 +Last Updated: March 8, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FELIX O'DAY *** + + + + +Produced by Duncan Harrod + + + + + + + +FELIX O'DAY + +By F. Hopkinson Smith + + + + +Chapter I + + + +Broadway on dry nights, or rather that part known as the Great White +Way, is a crowded thoroughfare, dominated by lofty buildings, the +sky-line studded with constellations of colored signs pencilled in fire. +Broadway on wet, rain-drenched nights is the fairy concourse of the +Wonder City of the World, its asphalt splashed with liquid jewels afloat +in molten gold. + +Across this flood of frenzied brilliance surge hurrying mobs, dodging +the ceaseless traffic, trampling underfoot the wealth of the Indies, +striding through pools of quicksilver, leaping gutters filled to the +brim with melted rubies--horse, car, and man so many black silhouettes +against a tremulous sea of light. + +Along this blinding whirl blaze the playhouses, their wide +portals aflame with crackling globes, toward which swarm bevies of +pleasure-seeking moths, their eyes dazzled by the glare. Some with heads +and throats bare dart from costly broughams, the mountings of their +sleek, rain-varnished horses glittering in the flash of the electric +lamps. Others spring from out street cabs. Many come by twos and threes, +their skirts held high. Still others form a line, its head lost in +a small side door. These are in drab and brown, with worsted shawls +tightly drawn across thin shoulders. Here, too, wedged in between shabby +men, the collars of their coats muffling their chins, their backs to the +grim policeman, stand keen-eyed newsboys and ragged street urchins, the +price of a gallery seat in their tightly closed fists. + +Soon the swash and flow of light flooding the street and sidewalks +shines the clearer. Fewer dots and lumps of man, cab, and cart now cross +its surface. The crowd has begun to thin out. The doors of the theatres +are deserted; some flaunt signs of “Standing Room Only.” The cars still +follow their routes, lunging and pausing like huge beetles; but much of +the wheel traffic has melted, with only here and there a cab or truck +between which gold-splashed umbrellas pick a hazardous way. + +With the breaking of the silent dawn, shadowed in a lonely archway or +on an abandoned doorstep the wet, bedraggled body of a hapless moth is +sometimes found, her iridescent wings flattened in the mud. Then for a +brief moment a cry of protest, or scorn, or pity goes up. The passers-by +raise their hands in anger, draw their skirts aside in horror, or kneel +in tenderness. It is the same the world over, and New York is no better +and, for that matter, no worse. + + +On one of these rain-drenched nights, some ten years or more ago, when +the streets were flooded with jewels, and the sky-line aflame, a man in +a slouch hat, a wet mackintosh clinging to his broad shoulders, stood +close to the entrance of one of the principal playhouses along this +Great White Way. He had kept his place since the doors were opened, his +hat-brim, pulled over his brow, his keen eye searching every face that +passed. To all appearances he was but an idle looker-on, attracted by +the beauty of the women, and yet during all that time he had not moved, +nor had he been in the way, nor had he been observed even by the door +man, the flap of the awning casting its shadow about him. Only once had +he strained forward, gazing intently, then again relaxed, settling into +his old position. + +Not until the last couple had hurried by, breathless at being late, did +he refasten the top button of his mackintosh, move clear of the nook +which had sheltered him, and step out into the open. + +For an instant he glanced about him, seemed to hesitate, as does a bit +of driftwood blocked in the current; then, with a sudden straightening +of his shoulders, he wheeled and threaded his way down-town. + +At Herald Square, he mounted with an aimless air a flight of low steps, +peered though the windows, and listened to the crunch of the presses +chewing the cud of the day's news. When others crowded close he stepped +back to the sidewalk, raising his hat once in apology to an elderly dame +who, with head down, had brushed him with her umbrella. + +By the time he reached 30th Street his steps had become slower. Again +he hesitated, and again with an aimless air turned to the left, the rain +still pelting his broad shoulders, his hat pulled closer to protect his +face. No lights or color pursued him here. The fronts of the houses were +shrouded in gloom; only a hall lantern now and then and the flare of +the lamps at the crossings, he alone and buffeting the storm--all others +behind closed doors. When Fourth Avenue was reached he lifted his head +for the first time. A lighted window had attracted his attention--a +wide, corner window filled with battered furniture, ill-assorted china, +and dented brass--one of those popular morgues that house the remains of +decayed respectability. + +Pausing automatically, he glanced carelessly at the contents, and was +about to resume his way when he caught sight of a small card propped +against a broken pitcher. “Choice Articles Bought and Sold--Advances +Made.” + +Suddenly he stopped. Something seemed to interest him. To make sure that +he had read the card aright, he bent closer. Evidently satisfied by his +scrutiny, he drew himself erect and moved toward the shop door as if +to enter. Through the glass he saw a man in shirt-sleeves, packing. The +sight of the man brought another change of mind, for he stepped back +and raised his head to a big sign over the front. His face now came into +view, with its well-modelled nose and square chin--the features of a +gentleman of both refinement and intelligence. A man of forty--perhaps +of forty-five--clean-shaven, a touch of gray about his temples, his eyes +shadowed by heavy brows from beneath which now and then came a flash +as brief and brilliant as an electric spark. He might have been a civil +engineer, or some scientist, or yet an officer on half pay. + +“Otto Kling, 445 Fourth Avenue,” he repeated to himself, to make sure of +the name and location. Then, with the quick movement of a man suddenly +imbued with new purpose, he wheeled, leaped the overflowed gutter, and +walked rapidly until he reached 13th Street. Half-way down the block +he entered the shabby doorway of an old-fashioned house, mounted to the +third floor, stepped into a small, poorly furnished bedroom lighted by a +single gas-jet, and closed the door behind him. Lifting his wet hat +from his well-rounded head, with its smoothly brushed, closely trimmed +hair--a head that would have looked well in bronze--he raised the edge +of the bedclothes and from underneath the narrow cot dragged out a flat, +sole-leather trunk of English make. This he unlocked with a key fastened +to a steel chain, took out the tray, felt about among the contents, and +drew out a morocco-covered dressing-case, of good size and of evident +value, bearing on its top a silver plate inscribed with a monogram and +crest. The trunk was then relocked and shoved under the bed. + +At this moment a knock startled him. + +“Come in,” he called, covering the case with a corner of the cotton +quilt. + +A bareheaded, coarse-featured woman with a black shawl about her +shoulders stood in the doorway. “I've come for my money,” she burst out, +too angry for preliminaries. “I'm gittin' tired of bein' put off. You're +two weeks behind.” + +“Only two weeks? I was afraid it was worse, my dear madame,” he answered +calmly, a faint smile curling his thin lips. “You have a better head +for figures than I. But do not concern yourself. I will pay you in the +morning.” + +“I've heard that before, and I'm gittin' sick of it. You'd 'a' been out +of here last week if my husband hadn't been laid up with a lame foot.” + +“I am sorry to hear about the foot. That must be even worse than my +being behind with your rent.” + +“Well, it's bad enough with all I got to put up with. Of course I don't +want to be ugly,” she went on, her fierceness dying out as she noticed +his unruffled calm, “but these rooms is about all we've got, and we +can't afford to take no chances.” + +“Did you suppose I would let you?” + +“Let me what?” + +“Let you take chances. When I become convinced that I cannot pay you +what I owe you, I will give you notice in advance. I should be much more +unhappy over owing you such a debt than you could possibly be in not +getting your money.” + +The answer, so unlike those to which she had been accustomed from other +delinquents, suddenly rekindled her anger. “Will some of them friends of +yours that never show up bring you the money?” she snapped back. + +“Have you met any of them on the stairs?” he inquired blandly. + +“No, nor nowhere else. You been here now goin' on three months, and +there ain't come a letter, nor nothin' by express, and no man, woman, or +child has asked for you. Kinder queer, don't you think?” + +“Yes, I do think so; and I can hardly blame you. It IS suspicious--VERY +suspicious--alarmingly so,” he rejoined with an indulgent smile. Then +growing grave again: “That will do, madame. I will send for you when I +am ready. Do not lose any sleep and do not let your husband lose any. I +will shut the door myself.” + +When the clatter of her rough shoes had ceased to echo on the stairs +he drew the dressing-case from its hiding-place, tucked it inside +his mackintosh, turned down the gas-jet, locked the door of the room, +retracing his steps until he stood once more in front of Kling's sign. +This time he went in. + +“I am glad you are still open,” he began, shaking the wet from his coat. +“I hoped you would be. You are Mr. Kling, are you not?” + +“Yes, dot is my name. Vot can I do for you?” + +“I passed by your window a short time ago, and saw your card, stating +that advances were made on choice articles. Would this be of any use +to you?” He took the dressing-case from under his coat and handed it to +Kling. “I am not ready to sell it--not to sell it outright; you might, +perhaps, make me a small loan which would answer my purpose. Its value +is about sixty pounds--some three hundred dollars of your money. At +least, it cost that. It is one of Vickery's, of London, and it is almost +new.” + +Kling glanced sharply at the intruder. “I don't keep open often so late +like dis. You must come in de morning.” + +“Cannot you look at it now?” + +Something in the stranger's manner appealed to the dealer. He lowered +his chin, adjusted his spectacles, and peered over their round silver +rims--a way with him when he was making up his mind. + +“Vell, I don't mind. Let me see,” and opening the case he took out the +silver-topped bottles, placing them in a row on the counter behind +which he stood. “Yes, dot's a good vun,” he continued with a grunt +of approval. “Yes--dot's London, sure enough. Yes, I see Vickery's +name--whose initials is on dese bottles? And de arms--de lion and de +vings on him--dot come from somebody high up, ain't it? Vhere did you +get 'em?” + +“That is of no moment. What I want to know is, will you either pay me a +fair price for it or loan me a fair sum on it?” + +“Is it yours to sell?” + +“It is.” There was no trace of resentment in his voice, nor did he show +the slightest irritation at being asked so pointed a question. + +“Vell, I don't keep a pawn-shop. I got no license, and if I had I +vouldn't do it--too much trouble all de time. Poor vomans, dead-beats, +suckers, sneak-thieves--all kind of peoples you don't vant, to come in +the door vhen you have a pawn-shop.” + +“Your sign said advances made.” + +“Vich vun?” + +“The one in the window, or I would not have troubled you.” + +“Vell, dot means anyting you please. Sometimes I get olt granfadder +vatches dot vay, and olt Sheffield plate and tings vich olt families +sell vhen everybody is gone dead. Vy do you vant to give dis away? I +vouldn't, if I vas you. You don't look like a man vot is broke. I vill +put back de bottles. You take it home agin.” + +“I would if I had any home to take it to. I am a stranger here and am +two weeks behind in the rent of my room.” + +“Is dot so? Vell, dot is too bad. Two weeks behint and no home but a +room! I vouldn't think dot to look at you.” + +“I would not either if I had the courage to look at myself in the glass. +Then you cannot help me?” + +“I don't say dot I can't. Somebody may come in. I have lots of tings +belong to peoples, and ven other peoples come in, sometimes dey buy, +and sometimes dey don't. Sometimes only one day goes by, and sometimes a +whole year. You leave it vid me. I take care of it. Den I get my little +Masie--dat little girl of mine vot I call Beesvings--to polish up all de +bottles and make everyting look like new.” + +“Then I will come in the morning?” + +“Yes, but give me your name--someting might happen yet, and your +address. Here, write it on dis card.” + +“No, that is unnecessary. I will take your word for it.” + +“But vere can I find you?” + +“I will find myself, thank you,” and he strode out into the rain. + + + + +Chapter II + + + +In the days when Otto Kling's shop-windows attracted collectors in +search of curios and battered furniture, “The Avenue,” as its denizens +always called Fourth Avenue between Madison Square Garden and the +tunnel, was a little city in itself. + +Almost all the needs of a greater one could be supplied by the stores +fronting its sidewalks. If tea, coffee, sugar, and similar stimulating +and soothing groceries were wanted, old Bundleton, on the corner above +Kling's, in a white apron and paper cuffs, weighed them out. If it were +butter or eggs, milk, cream, or curds, the Long Island Dairy--which was +really old man Heffern, his daughter Mary, and his boy Tom--had them +in a paper bag, or on your plate, or into your pitcher before you could +count your change. If it were a sirloin, or lamb-chops, or Philadelphia +chickens, or a Cincinnati ham, fat Porterfield, watched over from her +desk by fat Mrs. Porterfield, dumped them on a pair of glittering brass +scales and sent them home to your kitchen invitingly laid out in a flat +wicker basket. If it were fish--fresh, salt, smoked, or otherwise--to +say nothing of crabs, oysters, clams, and the exclusive and expensive +lobster--it was Codman, a few doors above Porterfield's, who had them on +ice, or in barrels, the varnished claws of the lobsters thrust out like +the hands of a drowning man. + +Were it a question of drugs, there was Pestler, the apothecary, with his +four big green globes illuminated by four big gas-jets, the joy of the +children. A small fellow this Pestler, with a round head and up-brushed +hair set on a long, thin stem of a neck, the whole growing out of a pair +of narrow shoulders, quite like a tulip from a glass jar. + +And then there were Jarvis, the spectacle man, and that canny Scotchman +Sanderson, the florist, who knew the difference between roses a week +old and roses a day old, and who had the rare gift of so mixing the +two vintages that hardly enough dead stock was left over for funerals +including those presided over by his fellow conspirator Digwell, the +undertaker, who lived over his mausoleum of a back room. + +And, of course, there were the bakeshop emitting enticing smells, mostly +of currants and burnt sugar, and the hardware store, full of nails and +pocket-knives, and old Mr. Jacobs, the tailor, who sat cross-legged on +a wide table in a room down four stone steps from the sidewalk, and the +grog-shops--more's the pity--one on every corner save Kling's. + +Hardly a trace is now left of any one of them, so sudden and +overwhelming has been the march of modern progress. Even the little +Peter Cooper House, picked up bodily by that worthy philanthropist and +set down here nearly a hundred years ago, is gone, and so are the row +of musty, red-bricked houses at the lower end of this Little City in +Itself. And so are the tenants of this musty old row, shady locksmiths +with a tendency toward skeleton keys; ingenious upholsterers who +indulged in paper-hanging on the sly; shoemakers who did half-soling and +heeling, their day's work set to dry on the window-sill, not to mention +those addicted to the use of the piano, banjo, or harp, as well as the +wig and dress makers who lightened the general gloom. + +And with the disappearance of these old landmarks--and it all took place +within less than ten years--there disappeared, also, the old family life +of “The Avenue,” in which each home shared in the good-fellowship of the +whole, all of them contributing to that sane and sustaining stratum, +if we did but know it, of our civic structure--facts that but few New +Yorkers either recognize or value. + + +On the block below Kling's in those other days was the quaint Book +Shop owned by Tim Kelsey, the hunchback, a walking encyclopaedia of +knowledge, much of it as musty and out of date as most of his books; +while overtopping all else in importance, so far as this story is +concerned, was the shabby, old-fashioned two-story house known the town +over as the Express Office of John and Kitty Cleary, sporting above its +narrow street-door a swinging sign informing inquirers that trunks were +carried for twenty-five cents. + +And not only trunks, but all of the movable furniture up and down the +avenue, and most of that from the adjacent regions, found their way +in and out of the Cleary wagons. Indeed Otto Kling's confidence in +Kitty--and Kitty was really the head of the concern--was so great that +he always refused to allow any of her rivals to carry his purchases +and sales, even at a reduced price, a temptation seldom resisted by the +economical Dutchman. + +Nor did the friendly relations end here. Not only did Kitty's man Mike +hammer up at night the rusty iron shutters protecting Kling's side +window, clean away the snow before his store, and lend a hand in the +moving of extra-heavy pieces, but he was even known to wash the windows +and kindle a fire. + +That Mike had delayed or entirely forgotten to hammer up these same iron +shutters when the stranger brought in the dressing-case accounted for +the fact of Otto Kling's shop having been kept open until so late. It +also accounted for the fact that when the same stranger appeared early +the next morning (Mike was tending the store) and made his way to where +the Irishman sat he found him conning the head-lines of the morning +paper. That worthy man-of-all-work, never having laid eyes on him +before, at once made a mental note of the intruder's well-cut English +clothes, heavy walking-shoes, and short brier-wood pipe, and, concluding +therefrom that he was a person of importance, stretched out his hand +toward the bell-rope in connection with the breakfast-room above, at the +same time saying with great urbanity: “Take a chair, or, if yer cold, +come up near the stove. Mr. Kling will be down in a minute. He's +up-stairs eatin' his breakfast with his little girl. I'm not his man or +I'd wait on ye meself. A little fresh, ain't it, after the wet night we +had?” + +“I left a dressing-case here last night,” ventured the intruder. + +Mike's chin went out with a quick movement, his face expressive of +supreme disgust at his mistake. “Oh, is it that? Somethin' ye had to +sell? Well, then, maybe you'd better call durin' the day.” + +“No, I will wait--you need not ring. I have nothing else to do, and +Mr. Kling may have a great deal. I take it you are from the north of +Ireland, either Londonderry or near there. Am I right?” + +“I'm from Lifford, within reach of it. How the divil did ye know?” + +“I can tell from your brogue. How long have you been in this country?” + +“About five years--going on six now. How long have you been here?” + +“How long? Well--” Here he bent over the table against which he had been +leaning, selected a cup from a group of china, turned it upside down +in search of the mark, and then, as if he had momentarily forgotten +himself, answered slowly: “Oh, not long--a few months or so. You do not +object to my looking these over?” he asked, this time reversing a plate +and subjecting it to the same scrutiny. + +“No, so ye don't let go of 'em. Fellow come in here last week and broke +a teapot foolin' wid it.” + +The visitor, without replying, continued his cool examination of the +collection, consisting of articles of different makes and colors. +Presently, gathering up a pair of cups and saucers, he said: “These +should be in a glass case or in the safe. They are old Spode and very +rare. Ah, here is Mr. Kling! I have amused myself, sir, in looking over +part of your stock. You seem to have undervalued these cups and saucers. +They are very rare, and if you had a full set of them they would be +almost priceless. This is old Spode,” he continued, pointing to the +cipher on the bottom of each cup. + +“Vell, I didn't tink dot ven I bought it.” + +There was no greeting, no reference to their having met before. One +might have supposed that their last talk had been uninterrupted. + +“It vas all in a lump, and der vas a soup tureen in de lot--I don't know +vot I did vid it. I tink dat's up-stairs. Mike, you go up and ask my +little girl Masie if she can find dot big tureen vich I bought from old +Mrs. Blobbs who keeps dot old-clothes place on Second Avenue. And you +vas sure about dis china?” + +“Very sure.” + +“How do you know?” + +“From the mark.” + +“Vot's it vorth?” + +“The cups and saucers would bring about two pounds apiece in London. If +there were a full dozen they would bring a matter of fifteen or twenty +pounds--some hundred dollars of your money.” + +Kling stepped nearer and peered intently at the stranger. “You give dot +for dem?” + +The man's eyebrows narrowed. “I am not buying cups at present,” he +answered, with quiet dignity, “but they are worth what I tell you. + +“And now tell me vot dis tureen is vorth?” he asked as Mike reappeared +and set it on the table, backing away with the remark that he'd go +now, Mrs. Cleary would be wantin' him. Kling moved the relic toward the +expert for closer examination. + +“Don't trouble yourself, Mr. Kling; I can see it. All I can say is that +the old lady must have known better days and must have been terribly +poor to have parted with it. What, if I may ask, did you pay her for +this?” + +“Two dollars. Vas it too much?” The stranger had suddenly become an +important personage. + +“No--too little. It is old Lowestoft, and”--here he took the lid +from the dealer's hand--“yes, without a crack or blemish--yes, old +Lowestoft--worth, I should say, ten or more pounds. They are giving +large sums for these things in London. Perhaps you have not made a +specialty of china.” + +Otto had now forgotten the tureen and was scrutinizing the speaker, +wondering what kind of a man he really was--this fellow who looked and +spoke like a person of position, knew the value of curios at sight, and +yet who had confessed the night before to being behind with his rent and +anxious to sell his belongings to keep off the street. Then the doubt, +universal in the minds of second-hand dealers, arose. “Come along vid +me and tell me some more. Vot is dot chair?” and he drew out a freshly +varnished relic of better days. + +The man seized the chair by the back, canted it to see all sides of it, +and was about to give his decision when the laughter of a child and the +sharp, quick bark of a dog caused him to pause and raise his head. A +white fox-terrier with a clothes-pin tail, two scissored ears, and two +restless, shoe-button eyes, peering through button-hole lids, followed +by a little girl ten or twelve years of age, was regarding him +suspiciously. + +“He won't hurt you,” cried the child. “Come back, you naughty Fudge!” + +“I do not intend he shall,” said the man, reaching down and picking +the dog up bodily by the scruff of his neck. “What is the matter, old +fellow?” he continued, twisting the dog's head so that he could look +into his eyes. “Wanted to make a meal of me?--too bad. Your little +daughter, of course, Mr. Kling? A very good breed of dog, my dear young +lady--just a little nervous, and that is in his favor. Now, sir, make +your excuses to your mistress,” and he placed the terrier in her arms. + +The child lifted her face toward his in delight. Most of the men whom +Fudge attacked either shrunk out of his way or replied to his attentions +with a kick. + +“You love dogs, don't you, sir?” she asked. Fudge was now routing his +sharp nose under her chin as if in apology for his antics. + +“I am afraid I do, and I am glad you do--they are sometimes the best +friends one has.” + +“Yes,” broke in Kling, “and so am I glad. Dot dog is more as a brudder +to my Masie, ain't he, Beesvings? And now you run avay, dear, and play, +and take Fudge vid you and say 'Good morning' to Mrs. Cleary, and maybe +dot fool dog of Bobby's be home.” He stooped and kissed her, caressing +her cheek with his thumb and forefinger, as he pushed her toward the +door, and again turned to the stranger. “And now, vot about dot chair +you got in your hand?” + +“Oh, the chair! I had forgotten that you had asked. Your little daughter +drove everything else out of my head. Let me have a closer look.” He +swung it round to get a nearer view. + +“The legs--that is, three of them--are Chippendale. The back is a +nondescript of something--I cannot tell. Perhaps from some colonial +remnant.” + +“Vot's it vorth?” + +“Nothing, except to sit upon.” + +Otto laughed--a gurgling, chuckling laugh, his pudgy nose wrinkling like +a rabbit's. + +“Ain't dot funny!” and he rubbed his fat hands. “Dot's true. Yes, I +make it myselluf--and five oders, vich vas sold out of a lot of olt +furniture. I got two German men down-stairs puttin' in new legs and new +backs; dey can do anyting. Nobody but you find dot out. I guess you know +'bout dot china--I must look into dot. Maybe some mens on Fifth Avenue +buy dot china--dey never come in here because dey tink dey find only olt +furniture. And now about dot dressing-case. Don't you sell it. I find +somebody pay more as I can give, and you pay me for my trouble. I lend +you tventy--yes, I lend tventy-five dollars on it. Vill dot be enough?” + +“That will be enough for a week, after I pay what I owe.” + +“Vell, den, ven dot is gone ve tink out someting else, don't ve? I look +it all over last night. It is all right--no breaks anyvere. And dot +tventy-five only last you a veek! Vy is dot? Vot board do you pay?” His +interest in the visitor was increasing. + +“Eight dollars with my meals, whenever my landlady is on time.” + +“Eight dollars! Dot voman's robbin' you. Eight dollars! She is a skin!” + +“It was the best I could do,” he replied simply. + +“Vot does she give you?” + +“A small bedroom, my coffee in the morning, and my dinner--both served +in my room on a tray.” + +“Yes, I see; dot's it. She charge about tree dollars for de tray. I +find you someting better as dot. Kitty Cleary has a room--you don't know +Kitty? Vell, you ought to begin right avay. Dot's vun voman you don't +ever see again. She vas in here last night, after you left, looking for +her man Mike. She take you for five dollars a veek, maybe, and you get +good tings to eat and you get Kitty besides, and dot is vorth more +as ten dollars. She lives across de street--you can see one of her +vagons--dot big vite horse is hers, and she love dot horse as much as +she love her husband John and her boy Bobby, all but dot fool dog of +Bobby's, she don't love him. You go over dere and tell her I sent you.” + +The stranger had relighted his pipe, and was watching the dealer +clutching nervously at his spectacles, pushing them far up on his +forehead, only to readjust them again on his nose. He had begun to +detect behind the fat, round face of the thrifty shopkeeper a certain +kindly quality. “And who may this remarkable lady be, this Mrs. Cleary?” + he inquired. + +“She ain't no lady. She is better as a hundert ladies--she is joost a +plain vomans who keeps a express office over dere--Cleary's Express. You +don't know it? Vell, dot's your fault. Dot's her boy Bobby outside +de door. He has been up vid his fadder to de Grand Central for some +sideboards and sofas I been buyin'. You vant to look at 'em ven dey +git unloaded. They joost ready to fall to pieces, and if I patch 'em up +nobody don't buy 'em. Vot I do is to leave 'em out on de sidewalk for a +veek or two and let de dirt and rain get on 'em, den somebody come along +and say: 'Dot is genuine. You can see right avay how olt dot is. Dot +is because de bottom is out of de sofas, and de back of de behind of de +sideboard is busted. So den I get fifty dollars more for repairin' my +own furniture. Ain't dot funny? And ven I send it home dey say: 'Oh, +ain't dot beautiful! You ought to have seen dot ven I bought it of old +Kling! You vouldn't give two dollars for it. All he did vas to scrape +it down and revarnish it--and now it is joost as good as new.' Ain't +dot funny? Vy, sometimes I have to holt on to my sides for fear dey vill +split vid my laughter, and my two German mens dey stuff dere fingers +in dere mouths so de customers can't hear. And all de backs new, and de +legs made outer udder legs, and de handles I get across at de hardvare +store! Oh, I tell you, it's funny! But you know all about it. Maybe you +vunce keep a place yourself?” + +“No, never.” + +“VOT!” + +“No, I have never been in your line of trade.” + +“Vell, how do you know so much?” + +“I know very little, but I have always enjoyed such things.” + +“Vell, dot's more funny yet. You vould make a lot of money if you did. +Ven you get someting for nudding you know it--I don't. You see dem--vot +you call 'em--Spodes--and dot tureen, dot--” + +“Lowestoft?” suggested the stranger, adjusting the mouthpiece of his +pipe. + +“Yes, dot Lowestoft. If you come in yesterday and say, 'Have you any olt +cups and saucers and olt soup tureens?' I say: 'Yes--help yourselluf. +Take your pick for tventy-five cents each for de cups and saucers.' You +see, I pay nudding and I get nudding. Dot give me an idea! How vould you +like to go round de store vid me and pick out de good vuns? Dot von't +take you long--vait a minute--I give you dat money.” + +“I should not be of the slightest value, and if you are loaning me +the twenty-five dollars on any other basis than the worth of the +dressing-case, I would rather not take it.” + +“Oh, I have finished vid de loan. Vot I say I say.” He thrust his hand +into a side pocket, from which he drew a flat wallet. “And dere is de +money. I give you a receipt for de case.” + +“No, I do not want any receipt. I am quite willing you should keep it +until I can either pay this back or you can loan me some more on it.” + +“Vell, den, I don't vant no receipt for de money. Here comes a customer. +Don't you go yet. I know her. She comes most every day. She only vants +to look around. Such a lot of peoples only vants to look around. +Dey don't know vat dey vant and you never have it. No, it ain't no +customer--it's Bobby.” + +The door was burst open, and a boy in a blue jumper, his cap thrust so +far back on his head that it was a wonder it didn't fall off, cried out: + +“Say! One of the sideboards is stuck on the iron railing and we can't +get it furrards or back. Them two weiss-beers ye got down-stairs can't +lift nothin' but full mugs. Send somebody to help.” And the door went to +with a bang. + +Kling was about to call for assistance when Hans--one of the +maligned--shuffled in from the rear of the store, carrying a wooden +image very much in want of repair. + +“Oh, dots awful good you brought dot! Set it here on dis chair--now you +go avay and help vid dem sideboards. See here vunce, mister. You see, +dey vas makin' de altar over new, and one of de mens come to me last +week and he says: 'Mister Kling, come vid me and buy vot ve don't vant. +De school is too small, and some of de children got no place to sit down +in. Ve got to sell sometings, and maybe now ve don't vant dem images.' +And so I buy dem two and some olt vestments dat my Masie make so good as +new, vid patches. Now, vot can I do vid dis--?” + +Again the door was burst open, shutting off all possibility for +conversation. Bobby's voice had now reached the volume of a fog-horn. +“What do ye take us fur out here--lobsters? Dad and I can't wait all +day. He's got to go down to Lafayette Place for a trunk.” + +Kling looked at his companion, as if to see what effect the talk had had +upon him, and broke out into a suffocating chuckle. “Dot's vot it is all +day long--don't you yonder I go crazy? First it is sideboards and den it +is vooden saints. Here you, Bobby! Come inside vunce! I vant to ask you +sometings.” + +“Say the rest, Skeesicks,” returned the boy, eying the stranger. + +“Has your mudder got empty dot room yet?” + +“Yep--the shyster got to swearin', and the mother wouldn't stand for it +and she fired him. We ain't keepin' no house o' refuge nor no station +parlor fer bums. Holy Moses! look at the guy that's been robbin' a +church! And see the nose on him all busted! Have ye started them mugs?” + +Kling cleared the air with his fat hands as the boy made for the door, +and turned to his visitor once more. “Dot boy make me deaf vid his noise +like a fire-engine! Now, vunce more. Vat shall I do vid dis image?” + +“I give it up,” observed the stranger, passing his hand over the head +and down its side. “I am not very much on saints--wooden ones, I mean. +He seems a good deal out of place here. Why buy such things at all, and +why sell them? But that, of course, is not your point of view. I would +send it back to the good father, if I were you, and have him put it +behind the altar if he is ashamed to put it in front. Holy things belong +to holy places. But I am already taking up too much of your time. Thank +you very much for the money. It comes at an opportune moment. I shall +come in once in a while to see you and, if you are willing, to talk to +you.” + +“But you don't say nudding about Kitty's room. Vait till--oh, dere you +are, you darlin' girl! You mind de store, Masie. Now you come vid me and +I show you de finest vomans you never see in your whole life!” + + + + +Chapter III + + + +Kitty Cleary's wide sidewalk, littered with trunks, and her narrow, +choked-up office, its window hung with theatre bills and chowder-party +posters, all of which were in full view of Kling's doorway, was the +half-way house of any one who had five minutes to spare; it was inside +its walls that closer greetings awaited those who, even with the +thinnest of excuses, made bold to avail themselves of her hospitality. +Drivers from the livery-stable next door, where Kitty kept her own two +horses; the policeman on the beat; the night-watchman from the big store +on 28th Street, just off duty, or just going on; the newsman in the +early morning, who would use her benches on which to rearrange his +deliveries--all were welcome as long as they behaved themselves. When +they did not--and once or twice such a thing had occurred--she would +throw wide the door and, with a quick movement of her right thumb, order +them out, a look in her eye convincing the culprits at once that they +might better obey. + +Never a day passed but there was a pot of coffee simmering away at the +back of the kitchen stove. Indeed, hot coffee was Kitty's standby. Many +a night when she was up late poring over her delivery book, getting +ready for the next day's work, a carriage or cab would drive into the +livery-stable next door, and she would send her husband out to bring in +the coachman. + +“Half froze, he is, waitin' outside Sherry's or Delmonico's, and nobody +thinkin' of what he suffers. Go, git him, John, dear, and I'll stir up +the fire. They ought to be ashamed of themselves, dancin' till God knows +when--and here it is two o'clock and a string of cabs out in the cold. +Thank ye, John. In with ye, my lad, and get something to warm ye up,” + and then the rosy-cheeked, deep-breasted, cheery little woman--she was +under forty--her eyes the brighter for her thought, would begin pulling +down cups and saucers from her dresser, making ready not only for the +“lad,” but for John and herself--and anybody else who happened to be +within call. + +The hospitalities of her family sitting-room, opening out of the +kitchen, were reserved for her intimates. These she welcomed at any hour +of the day or night, from sunrise to sunset, and even as late as two in +the morning, if either business or pleasure necessitated such hours. + +Tim Kelsey, the hunchback, often dropped in. Otto Kling, after Masie was +abed; Digwell, the undertaker, quite a jolly fellow during off hours; +Codman and Porterfield, with their respective wives; and, most welcome +of all, Father Cruse, of St. Barnabas's Church around the corner, the +trusted shepherd of “The Avenue”--a clear-skinned, well-built man, +barely forty, whose muscular body just filled his black cassock so that +it neither fell in folds nor wrinkled crosswise, and whose fresh, ruddy +face was an index of the humane, kindly, helpful life that he led. For +him Kitty could never do enough. + +The office, sitting-room, and kitchen, however, were not all that +the expressman and his wife possessed in the way of accommodations. +Up-stairs were two front bedrooms, one occupied by John and Kitty, +and the other by their boy Bobby, while in the extreme rear, over the +kitchen, was a single room which was let to any respectable man who +could pay for it. These rooms were all reached by a staircase ascending +from a narrow hall entered by a separate street-door adjoining that +of the office. The door and staircase were convenient for the lodger +wishing to stumble up to bed without disturbing his hosts--an event, +however, that seldom happened, as Kitty was generally the last person +awake in her house. + +The horses, as has been said, were kept in the livery-stable next +door--the brown mare, a recent purchase, and the old white horse, Jim, +the pride of Kitty's heart, in a special stall. The wagons were either +backed in the shed in the rear or left overnight close to the curb, with +chains on the hind wheels. This was contrary to regulations, and +would have been so considered but for the fact that the captain of +the precinct often got his coffee in Kitty's back kitchen, as did Tom +McGinniss, the big policeman, whose beat reached nearly to the tunnel, +both men soothing their consciences with the argument that Kitty's job +lasted so late and began so early, sometimes a couple of hours or so +before daylight, that it was not worth while to bother about her wagons, +when everybody else was in bed, or ought to be. + +She was smoothing old Jim's neck, crooning over him, talking to him in +her motherly way, telling him what a ruffian he was and how ashamed +she was of him for getting the hair worn off under his collar, and he a +horse old enough to know better, Bobby's “Toodles,” an animated doormat +of a dog, sniffing at her skirt, when Otto and his friend hove in sight. + +“The top of the mornin' to ye, Otto Kling, and ye never see a better +and a finer. And what can I do for ye?--for ye wouldn't be lavin' them +gimcracks of yours this time O'day unless there was somethin' up.” + +“No, I don't got nudding you can do for me, Kitty. It's dis gentlemans +wants someting--and so I bring him over.” + +“That's mighty kind of ye, Otto--wait till I get me book. Careful, +Mike.” The Irishman had just dumped a trunk on the sidewalk, ready to +be loaded on Jim's wagon. “And now,” continued his mistress, “go to the +office and bring me my order-book--where'll I go for your baggage, sir?” + +“That is a matter I will talk about later.” He had taken her all in +with a rapid glance--her rosy, laughing face, her head covered by a +close-fitting hood, the warm shawl crossed over her full bosom and +knotted in the back, short skirt, stout shoes, and gray yarn stockings. + +“I don't care where it is--Hoboken, Brooklyn--I'll get it. Why, we got a +trunk last week clear from Yonkers!” + +“I haven't a doubt of it, my good woman”--he was still absorbed in the +contemplation of her perfect health and the air of breezy competency +flowing out from her, making even the morning air seem more +exhilarating--“but you may not want to go for my two trunks.” + +“Why not?” She was serious now, her brows knitting, trying to solve his +meaning. + +Kling shuffled up alongside. “It's de room he vants, Kitty. I been +tellin' him about it. Bobby says dot odder man skipped an' you don't got +nobody now. + +“Skipped! I threw him out, me and John, for swearin' every time +he stubbed his toe on the stairs,” and up went her strong arms in +illustration. “And it isn't yer trunks, but me room. Who might ye be +wantin' it for?” She had begun to weigh him carefully in return. Up to +this moment he had been to her merely the mouthpiece of an order, to be +exchanged later for a card, or slip of paper, or a brass check. Now he +became a personality. She swept him from head to foot with one of her +“sizing-up” examinations, noticing the refinement and thoughtfulness of +his clean-shaven face, the white teeth, and the careful trimming of his +hair, and the way it grew down on his temples, forming a small quarter +whisker. + +She noted, too, how the muscles of his face had been tightened as if +some effort at self-control had set them into a mask, the real man lying +behind his kindly eyes, despite the quick flash that escaped from them +now and then. The inspection over--and it had occupied some seconds of +time--she renewed the inquiry in a more searching tone, as if she had +not heard him aright at first. “And who did ye say wanted me room?” + +“I wanted it.” + +“Yes, but who for?” + +“For myself.” + +“What! To live in?” + +“I hope so--I certainly do not want it to die in.” A quiet smile +trembled for an instant on his lips, momentarily lightening an +expression of extreme reserve. + +“You won't do no dyin' if I can help it--but ye don't know what kind a +room it is. It's not mor'n twice as big as that wagon. And ye want it +for yourself? Well, ye don't look it!” + +“I am sorry.” + +“And it's only five dollars a week, and all ye want to eat--all we can +give ye.” + +“I am glad it is not more. I may not be able to pay that for very long, +but I will pay the first week in advance, and I will pay the next one in +the same way and leave when my money is gone. Can I see the room?” + +Again she studied him. This time it was the gray waistcoat, the +well-ironed shirt and collar, English scarf, and the blackthorn stick +which he carried balanced in the hollow of his arm. If he had been in +overalls she would not have hesitated an instant, but she saw that this +man was not of her class, nor of any other class about her. “I don't +know whether ye can or not,” came the frank reply. “I'm thinkin' about +it. You don't look as if ye were flat broke. If you're goin' to take me +room, I don't want to be watchin' ye, and I won't! Once we know ye're +clean and decent, ye can have the run of the place and welcome to it. We +had one dead-beat here last month, and that's enough. Out with it now! +How is it that a”--she hesitated an instant--“yes, a gentleman like you +wants to live over an express office and eat what we can give ye?” + +He made a slight movement with his right hand in acknowledgment of the +class distinction and answered in a calm, straightforward way: “You +have put it quite correctly. I am, as you are pleased to state it, flat +broke--quite flat.” + +“Well, then, how will ye pay me?” Her question, a certain curiosity +tinged by a growing interest in for all its directness, implied no +suspicion--but rather the man. + +“I have just borrowed twenty-five dollars from Mr. Kling on something +which, for the present, I can do without.” + +“Pawned it?” + +“No, not exactly. Mr. Kling will explain.” + +“It vas dot dressin'-case, Kitty, vat I showed you last night--de vun +vid dem bottles vid de silver tops--and dey are real--I found dot out +after you vent avay.” + +Kitty's glance softened, and her voice fell to a sympathetic tone. “Oh, +that was yours, was it? I might have known I was right about ye when +I first see ye. Ye are a gentleman, unless ye are a thief, and I don't +belave that--nor nobody can make me belave it.” + +Once more his hand was raised, and a smile flashed from his eyes and as +quickly died out. + +“That is very good of you, Mrs. Cleary. No, I am not a thief. And now +about the room. Can I see it? But, before you answer, let me tell you +that I have only these twenty-five dollars on which I can lay my hands. +Some of this I owe to my landlady. The balance I am quite willing to +turn over to you, and when it is all gone I will move somewhere else.” + He drew a silver watch from his pocket. “You must decide at once; it is +getting late and I must be moving on.” + +Kitty squared herself, her hands on her hips--a favorite gesture when +her mind was fully made up--looked straight at the speaker as if to +reply, then suddenly catching sight of a strapping-looking fellow in +blue overalls, a trunk on one shoulder, a carpetbag in his hand, called +out: “John, dear, come here! I want ye. Here, Mike! You and Bobby get +that steamer baggage out on the sidewalk, and don't be slack about it, +for it goes to Hoboken, and there may be a block in the river and the +ferry-boats behind time. Wait, I'll lend ye a hand.” + +“You'll lend nothing, Kitty Cleary! Get out of my way,” came her +husband's hearty answer. “Ye hurt yer back last week. There's men enough +round here to--stop it, I tell ye!” and he loosened her fingers from the +lifting-strap. + +“I can hist the two of ye, John! Go along wid ye!” + +“No, Kitty, darlin'--let go of it,” and with a twist of his hand and +lurch of his shoulder John shot the trunk over the edge of the wagon, +tossed the bag after it, and joined the group, the stranger absorbed in +watching the husband and wife. + +“And now the trunk's in, what's it you want, Kitty?” asked John +squeezing her plump arm, as if in compensation for having had his way. + +“John, dear, here's a gentleman who--what's your name?--ye haven't told +me, or if ye did I've forgot it.” + +“Felix O'Day.” + +“Then you're Irish?” + +“I am afraid I am--at least, my ancestors were.” + +“Afraid! Ye ought to be glad. I'm Irish, and so is my John here, and +Bobby, and Father Cruse, and Tom McGinniss, the policeman, and the +captain up at the station-house--we're all Irish, except Otto, who is +as Dutch as sauerkraut! But where was I? Oh, yes! Now, John, dear, this +gentleman is on his uppers, he says, and wants to hire our room and eat +what we can give him.” + +The expressman, who stood six feet in his stockings, looked first at +his wife, then at Kling, and then at the applicant, and broke out into +a loud guffaw. “It's a joke, Kitty. Don't let 'em fool ye. Go on, Otto; +try it somewhere else! It's my busy day. Here, Mike!” + +“You drop Mike and listen, John! It's no joke--not for Mr. O'Day. You +take him up-stairs and show him what we got, and down into the kitchen +and the sitting-room and out into the yard. Come, now; hurry! Go 'long +with him, Mr. O'Day, and come back to me when ye are through and tell me +what you think of it all. And, John, take Toodles with you and lock him +up. First thing I know I'll be tramplin' on him. Get out, you varmint!” + +John grabbed the wad of matted hair midway between his floppy tail and +perpetually moist nose, controlled his own features into a semblance of +seriousness, and turned to O'Day. “This way, sir--I thought it was one +of Otto's jokes. The room is only about as big as half a box car, but +it's got runnin' water in the hall, and Kitty keeps it mighty clean. As +to the grub, it ain't what you are accustomed to, maybe, but it's what +we have ourselves, and neither of us is starvin', as ye can see,” and +he thumped his chest. “No, not the big door, sir; the little one. And +there's a key, too, for ye, when ye're out late--and ye will be out +late, or I miss my guess,” and out rolled another laugh. + +Kitty looked after the two until they disappeared through the smaller +door, then turned and faced Kling. “I know just what's happened, Otto--a +baby a month old could see it all. That man is up against it for the +first time. He'd rather die than beg, and he'll keep on sellin' his +traps until there's nothin' left but the clothes he stands in. He may be +a duke, for all ye know, or maybe only a plain Irish gentleman come to +grief. Them bottles ye showed me last night had arms engraved on 'em, +and his initials. I noticed partic'lar, for I've seen them things +before. My father, when he was young, was second groom for a lord and +used to tell me about the silver in the house and the arms on the sides +of the carriages. What he's left home for the dear God only knows; but +it will come out, and when it does it won't be what anybody thinks. And +he's got a fine way wid him, and a clear look out of his eye, and I'll +bet ye he's tellin' the truth and all of it. Here they come now, and +I'm glad they've got rid of that rag baby of Bobby's.” She turned to her +husband. “And, John, dear, don't forget that sewing-machine--oh, yes, I +see, you've got it in the wagon--go on wid ye, then!--Well, Mr. O'Day, +how is it? Purty small and cramped, ain't it? And there's a chair +missin' that I took downstairs, which I'll put back. And there's a +cotton cover belongs to the table. Won't suit, will it?” and a shade of +disappointment crossed her face. + +“The room will answer very well, Mrs. Cleary. I can see the work of your +deft hands in every corner. I have been living in one much larger, but +this is more like a home. And do I get my breakfast and dinner and the +room for the pound--I mean for the five dollars?” + +“You do, and welcome, and somethin' in the middle of the day if ye +happen to be around and hungry.” + +“And can I move in to-day?” + +“Ye can.” + +“Then I will go down and pay what I owe and see about getting my boxes. +And now, here is your money,” and he held out two five-dollar bills. + +Kitty stretched her two hands far behind her back, her brown holland +over-apron curving inward with the movement. “I won't touch it; ye can +have the room and ye can keep your money. When I want it I'll ask fer +it. Now tell me where I can get your trunks. Mike will go fer 'em and +bring 'em back.” + +A new, strange look shone out from the keen, searching eyes of O'Day. +His interest in the woman had deepened. “And you have no misgivings and +are sure you will get your rent?” + +“Just as sure as I am that me name is Kitty Cleary, and that is not +altogether because you're an Irishman but because ye are a gentleman.” + +This time O'Day made her a little bow, the lines of his face softening, +his eyes sparkling with sudden humor at her speech. He stepped forward, +called to the man who was still handling the luggage, and, in the tone +of one ordering his groom, said: “Here, Mike!--Did you say his name was +Mike?--Go, if you please, to this address, just below Union Square-I +will write it on a card--any time to-day after six o'clock. I will +meet you there and show you the trunks--there are two of them.” Then he +turned to Otto, still standing by, a silent and absorbed spectator. + +“I have also to thank you, Mr. Kling. It was very kind of you, and I am +sure I shall be very happy here. After I am settled I shall come over +and see whether I can be of some service to you in going through your +stock. There may be some other things that are valuable which you have +mislaid. And then, again, I should like to see something more of your +little daughter--she is very lovable, and so is her dog.” + +“Vell, vy don't you come now? Masie don't go to school to-day, and +I keep her in de shop. I been tinkin' since you and Kitty been +talkin'--Kitty don't make no mistakes: vot Kitty says goes. Look here, +Kitty, vun minute--come close vunce--I vant to speak to you.” + +O'Day, who had been about to give a reason why he could not “come now,” + and who had halted in his reply in order to hunt his pockets for a card +on which to write his address, hearing Kling's last words, withdrew to +the office in search of both paper and pencil. + +“Now, see here, Kitty! Dot mans is a vunderful man--de most VUNDERFUL +man I have seen since I been in 445. You know dem cups and saucers vat +I bought off dot olt vomans who came up from Baltimore? Do you know dot +two of 'em is vorth more as ten dollars? He find dot out joost as soon +as he pick 'em up, and he find out about my chairs, and vich vas fakes +and vich vas goot. Vot you tink of my givin' him a job takin' my old +cups and my soup tureens and stuff and go sell 'em someveres? I don't +got nobody since dot tam fool of a Svede go avay. Vat you tink?” + +“He can have my room--that's what I think! You heard what I said to him! +That's all the answer you'll get out of me, Otto Kling.” + +“An' you don't tink dot he'd git avay vid de stuff und ve haf to hunt up +or down Second Avenue in the pawn-shops to git 'em back?” + +“No, I don't!” + +“Den, by golly, I take him on, und I gif him every veek vat he pay you +in board.” + +Kitty broke into one of her derisive laughs. “YOU WILL! Ain't that good +of ye? Ye'll give him enough to starve on, that's what it is. Ye ought +to be ashamed of yourself, Otto Kling!” + +“Vell, but I don't know vat he is vurth yet.” + +“Well, then, tell him so, but don't cheat him out of everything but +his bare board; and that's what ye'd be doin'. Ye know he's pawnin' +his stuff; ye know ye got five times the worth of your money in the +dressing-case he give up to ye! See here, Otto! Before ye offer him that +five dollars a week ye better get on the other side of big John there, +where ye'll be safe, and holler it at him over them trunks, or ye'll +find yourself flat on your back.” + +“All right, Kitty, all right! Don't git oxcited. I didn't mean nudding. +I do just vat you say. I gif him more. Oh! Here you are! Mr. O'Day, vud +you let me speak to you vun minute? Suppose dot I ask you to come into +my shop as a clerk, like, and pay you vat I can--of course, you are new +und it vill take some time, but I can pay sometings--vud you come?” + +O'Day gave an involuntary start and from under his heavy brows there +shot a keen, questioning glance. “What would you want me to do?” he +asked evenly. + +“Vell--vait on de customers, and look over de stock, and buy tings ven +dey come in.” + +“You certainly cannot be serious, Mr. Kling. You know nothing about me. +I am an entire stranger and must continue to be. With the exception of +my landlady, who, if she knows my name, forgets it every time she comes +up for her rent, there is not a human being in New York to whom I could +apply for a reference. Are you accustomed to pick up strangers out of +the street and take them into your shops--and your homes?” he added, +smiling at Kitty, who had been following the conversation closely. + +“But you is a different kind of a mans.” + +No answer came. The man was lost in thought. + +“Ye'd better think it over, sir,” said Kitty, laying a strong, +persuasive hand on his wrist. “It's near by, and ye can have your meals +early or late as ye plaze, and the work ain't hard. My Mike does the +liftin' and two big fat Dutchies helps.” + +“But I know nothing about the business, Mrs. Cleary--nothing about any +business, for that matter. I should only be a disappointment to Mr. +Kling. I would rather keep his friendship and look elsewhere.” + +Kitty relaxed her hold of his wrist. “Then ye have been lookin' for +work?” she asked. The inquiry sprang hot from her heart. + +“I have not, so far, but I shall have to very soon.” + +She threw back her head and faced the two men. “Ye'll look no further, +Mr. O'Day. You go over to Otto's and go to work; and it will be to-night +after you gets your things stowed away. And ye'll pay him ten dollars +a week, Otto, for the first month, and more the second if he earns it, +which he will. Now are ye all satisfied, or shall I say it over?” + +“One moment, please, Mrs. Cleary. If I may interrupt,” he laughed, his +reserve broken through at last by the friendly interest shown by the +strangers about him, “and what will be the hours of my service?” Then, +turning to Otto: “Perhaps you, Mr. Kling, can best tell me.” + +“Vot you mean?” + +“How early must I come in the morning, and until how late must I stay at +night?” + +The dealer hesitated, then answered slowly, “In de morning at eight +o'clock, and”--but, seeing a cloud cross O'Day's face, added: “Or maybe +haf past eight vill do.” + +“And at night?” + +“Vell--you can't tell. Sometimes it is more late as udder times--about +nine o'clock ven I have packing to do.” + +O'Day shook his head. + +“Vell, den, say eight o'clock.” + +Again O'Day shook his head slowly and thoughtfully as if some +insurmountable obstacle had suddenly arisen before him. Then he said +firmly: “I am afraid I must decline your kind offer, Mr. Kling. The +latest I could stay on any evening is seven o'clock--some days I might +have to leave at six--certainly no later than half past. I suppose you +have dinner at seven, Mrs. Cleary?” + +Kitty nodded. She was too interested in this new phase of the situation +to speak. + +“Yes, seven would have to be the hour, Mr. Kling” said O'Day. + +“Vell, make it seven o'clock, den.” + +“And if,” he continued in a still more serious voice, “I should on +certain days--absent myself entirely, would that matter?” + +Otto was being slowly driven into a corner, but he determined not to +flinch with Kitty standing by. “No, I tink I git along vid my little +Beesvings.” + +O'Day studied the pavement for an instant, then looked into space as +if seeking to clear his mind of every conflicting thought, and said at +last, slowly and deliberately: “Very well. Then I will be with you in +the morning at nine o'clock. Now, good day, Mrs. Cleary. I know we will +get on very well together, and you, too, Mr. Kling. Thank you for your +confidence.” Then, turning to the Irishman: “Don't forget, Mike, that +the street-door is open and that I'm up two flights. You will find the +number on this card.” + + + + +Chapter IV + + + +The customary scene took place when Felix, late that afternoon, handed +his landlady the overdue rent. Now that the two crisp bills which O'Day +owed her lay in her hand, she was ready to pass them back to him if the +full payment at all embarrassed him. Indeed, she had never had a more +quiet and decent lodger, and she hoped it didn't mean he was “goin' +away,” and, if she was rather sharp with him the night before, it was +because she had been “that nervous of late.” + +But Felix, ignoring her overtures, only shook his head in a good-natured +way. He would begin packing at once, and the express wagon would be here +at six. She would know it by the white horse which the man was driving. +When his trunks were finished he would put them outside his bedroom +door, and please not to forget his mackintosh and leather hat-case which +he would leave inside the room. + +So the packing began. First the sole-leather trunk, from which he had +taken the hapless dressing-case the night before, was pulled out and the +heavy black tin box hauled into position and unlocked. With the raising +of the scarred and dented top a mass of letters and papers came into +view, filling the box to the brim--some tied with red tape, others in +big envelopes. In a corner lay some photographs--one in a gilt frame, +the edge showing clear of the tissue-paper in which it was wrapped. This +he took out and studied long and earnestly, his lips tightly pressed +together. Retying the paper, he tucked them all back into place, turned +the key, shook the box to see that the lock held tight, picked it up +with one hand by its side handle, and, throwing open the door, deposited +it on the landing outside. Its leather companion was then placed beside +it, the hat-case crowning the whole. + +Mike's voice was now heard in the narrow front hall. “How fur is it up, +mum? Oh, another flight! Begorra, it's as dark as a coal-hole and about +as dirty!” This was followed by: “Oh, is that you, sor? How many pieces +have you?” + +“Only two, Mike; and the mackintosh and hat-case,” answered Felix, who +had watched him stumbling up the stairs until his red face was level +with the landing. “By the way, mind you don't lose the rubber coat, for, +although I never wear an overcoat, this comes in well when it rains.” + +“I'll never take me eyes off it. I bet ye niver bought that down on the +Bowery from a Johnny-hand-me-down!” + +“And, Mike!” + +“Yes, sor?” + +“Will you please say to Mrs. Cleary that I may not be in to-night before +eleven o'clock?” + +“Eleven! Why that's the shank o' the evenin' for her, sor. If it was +twelve, or after, she'd be up.” Then he bent forward and whispered: “I +should think ye would be glad, sor, to get out of this rookery.” + +Felix nodded in assent, waited until the leather trunk had been dumped +into the wagon, watched Mike remount the stairs until he had reached his +landing, helped him to load up the balance of his luggage--the tin +box on one shoulder, the coat over the other, the hat-case in the free +hand--and then walked back to his empty room. Here he made a thoughtful +survey of the dismal place in which he had spent so many months, picked +up his blackthorn stick, and, leaving the door ajar, walked slowly +down-stairs, his hand on the rail as a guide in the dark. + +“And you aren't comin' back, sir?” remarked the landlady, who had +listened for his steps. + +“That, madame, one never can tell.” + +“Well, you are always welcome.” + +“Thank you--good-by.” + +“Good-by, sir; my husband's out or he would like to shake your hand.” + +O'Day bowed slightly and stepped into the street, his stick under his +arm, his hands hooked behind his back. That he had no immediate purpose +in view was evident from the way he loitered along, stopping to look at +the store windows or to scrutinize the passing crowd, each person intent +on his or her special business. By the time he had reached Broadway the +upper floors of the business buildings were dark, but the windows of +the restaurants, cigar shops, and saloons had begun to blaze out and a +throng of pleasure seekers to replace that of the shoppers and workers. +This aspect of New York appealed to him most. There were fewer people +moving about the streets and in less of a hurry, and he could study them +the closer. + +In a cheap restaurant off Union Square he ate a spare and inexpensive +meal, whiled away an hour over the free afternoon papers, went out to +watch an audience thronging into one of the smaller theatres, and then +boarded a down-town car. When he reached Trinity Church the clock was +striking, and, as he often did when here at this hour, he entered the +open gate and, making his way among the shadows sat down, on a flat +tomb. The gradual transition from the glare and rush of the up-town +streets to the sombre stillness of this ancient graveyard always seemed +to him like the shifting of films upon a screen, a replacement of the +city of the living by the city of the dead. High up in the gloom soared +the spire of the old church, its cross lost in shadows. Still +higher, their roofs melting into the dusky blue vault, rose the great +office-buildings, crowding close as if ready to pounce upon the small +space protected only by the sacred ashes of the dead. + +For some time he sat motionless, listening to the muffled peals of the +organ. Then the humiliating events of the last twenty-four hours began +crowding in upon his memory: the insolent demands of his landlady; the +guarded questions of Kling when he inspected the dressing-case; the look +of doubt on both their faces and the changes wrought in their manner and +speech when they found he was able to pay his way. Suddenly something +which up to that moment he had held at bay gripped him. + +“It was money, then, which counted,” he said to himself, forgetting for +the moment Kitty's refusal to take it. And if money were so necessary, +how long could he earn it? Kling would soon discover how useless he +was, and then the tin box, emptied of its contents and the last keepsake +pawned or sold, the end would come. + +None of these anxieties had ever assailed him before. He had been like +a man walking in a dream, his gaze fixed on but one exit, regardless of +the dangers besetting his steps. Now the truth confronted him. He had +reached the limit of his resources. To hope for much from Kling was +idle. Such a situation could not last, nor could he count for long +either on the friendship or the sympathy of the big-hearted expressman's +wife. She had been absolutely sincere, and so had her husband, but that +made it all the more incumbent upon him to preserve his own independence +while still pursuing the one object of his life with undiminished +effort. + +A flood of light from the suddenly opened church-door, followed by a +burst of pent-up melody, recalled him to himself. He waited until all +was dark again, rose to his feet, passed through the gate and, with a +brace of his shoulders and quickened step, walked on into Wall Street. + +As he made his way along the deserted thoroughfare, where but a few +hours since the very air had been charged with a nervous energy whose +slightest vibration was felt the world over, the sombre stillness of +the ancient graveyard seemed to have followed him. Save for a private +watchman slowly tramping his round and an isolated foot-passenger +hurrying to the ferry, no soul but himself was stirring or awake except, +perhaps, behind some electric light in a lofty building where a janitor +was retiring or, lower down, some belated bookkeeper in search of an +error. + +Leaving the grim row of tall columns guarding the front of the old +custom-house, he turned his steps in the direction of the docks, wheeled +sharply to the left, and continued up South Street until he stopped in +front of a ship-chandler's store. + +Some one was at work inside, for the rays of a lantern shed their light +over piles of old cordage and heaps of rusty chains flanking the low +entrance. + +Picking his way around some barrels of oil, he edged along a line of +boxes filled with ship's stuff until he reached an inside office, where, +beside a kerosene lamp placed on a small desk littered with papers, sat +a man in shirt-sleeves. At the sound of O'Day's step the occupant lifted +his head and peered out. The visitor passed through the doorway. + +“Good evening, Carlin; I hoped you would still be up. I stopped on the +way down or I should have been here earlier.” + +A man of sixty, with a ruddy, weather-beaten face set in a half-moon of +gray whiskers, the ends tied under his chin, sprang to his feet. “Ah! +Is that you, Mr. Felix? I been a-wonderin' where you been a-keepin' +yourself. Take this chair; it's more comfortable. I was thinkin' somehow +you might come in to-night, and so I took a shy at my bills to have +somethin' to do. I suppose”--he stopped, and in a whisper added: “I +suppose you haven't heard anything, have you?” + +“No; have you?” + +“Not a word,” answered the ship-chandler gravely. + +“I thought perhaps you might have had a letter,” urged Felix. + +“Not a line of any kind,” came the answer, followed by a sidewise +movement of the gray head, as if its owner had long since abandoned hope +from that quarter. + +“Do you think anything is the matter?” + +“Nothin', or I should 'a' 'eard. My notion is that Martha kep' on to +Toronto with that sick man she nursed on the steamer. Maybe she's got +work stiddy and isn't a-goin' to come back.” + +“But she would have let you KNOW?” There was a ring of anxiety now, +tinged with a certain impatience. + +“Perhaps she would, Mr. Felix, and perhaps she wouldn't. Since our +mother died Martha gets rather cocky sometimes. Likes to be her own boss +and earn her own living. I've often 'eard her say it before I left 'ome, +and she HAS earned it, I must say--and she's got to, same as all of us. +I suppose you been keepin' it up same as usual--trampin' and lookin'?” + +“Yes.” This came as the mere stating of a fact. + +“And I suppose there ain't nothin' new--no clew--nothin' you can +work on?” The speaker felt assured there was not, but it might be an +encouragement to suggest its possibility. + +“No, not the slightest clew.” + +“Better give it up, Mr. Felix, you're only wastin' your time. Be worse +maybe when you do come up agin it.” The ship-chandler was in earnest; +every intonation proved it. + +O'Day arose from his seat and looked down at his companion. “That is +not my way, Carlin, nor is it yours; and I have known you since I was a +boy.” + +“And you are goin' to keep it up, Mr. Felix?” + +“Yes, until I know the end or reach my own.” + +“Well, then, God's help go with ye!” + +Into the shadows again--past long rows of silent warehouses, with here +and there a flickering gas-lamp--until he reached Dover Street. He had +still some work to do up-town, and Dover Street would furnish a short +cut along the abutment of the great bridge, and so on to the Elevated at +Franklin Square. + +He was evidently familiar with its narrow, uneven sidewalk, for he swung +without hesitation into the gloom and, with hands hooked behind his +back, his stick held, as was his custom, close to his armpit, made his +way past its shambling hovels and warehouses. Now and then he would +pause, following with his eyes the curve of the great steel highway, +carried on the stone shoulders of successive arches, the sweep of its +lines marked by a procession of lights, its outstretched, interlocked +palms gripped close. The memory of certain streets in London came to +him--those near its own great bridges, especially the city dump at +Black-friars and the begrimed buildings hugging the stone knees of +London Bridge, choking up the snakelike alleys and byways leading to the +Embankment. + +Crossing under the Elevated, he continued along the side of the giant +piers and wheeled into a dirt-choked, ill-smelling street, its distant +outlet a blaze of electric lights. It was now the dead hour of the +twenty-four--the hour before the despatch of the millions of journals, +damp from the presses. He was the only human being in sight. + +Suddenly, when within a hundred feet of the end of the street, a figure +detached itself from a deserted doorway. Felix caught his stick from +under his armpit as the man held out a hand. + +“Say, I want you to give me the price of a meal.” + +Felix tightened his hold on the stick. The words had conveyed a threat. + +“This is no place for you to beg. Step out where people can see you.” + +“I'm hungry, mister.” He had now taken in the width of O'Day's shoulders +and the length of his forearm. He had also seen the stick. + +Felix stepped back one pace and slipped his hand down the blackthorn. +“Move on, I tell you, where I can look you over--quick!--I mean it.” + +“I ain't much to look at.” The threat was out of his voice now. “I +ain't eaten nothin' since yisterday, mister, and I got that out of a +ash-barrel. I'm up agin it hard. Can't you see I ain't lyin'? You +ain't never starved or you'd know. You ain't--” He wavered, his eyes +glittering, edged a step nearer, and with a quick lunge made a grab for +O'Day's watch. + +Felix sidestepped with the agility of a cat, struck straight out +from the shoulder, and, with a twist of his fingers in the tramp's +neck-cloth, slammed him flat against the wall, where he crouched, +gasping for breath. “Oh, that's it, is it?” he said calmly, loosening +his hold. + +The man raised both hands in supplication. “Don't kill me! Listen to +me--I ain't no thief--I'm desperate. When you didn't give me nothin' +and I got on to the watch--I got crazy. I'm glad I didn't git it. I been +a-walkin' the streets for two weeks lookin' for work. Last night I slep' +in a coal-bunker down by the docks, under the bridge, and I was goin' +there agin when you come along. I never tried to rob nobody before. +Don't run me in--let me go this time. Look into my face; you can see +for yourself I'm hungry! I'll never do it agin. Try me, won't you?” His +tears were choking him, the elbow of his ragged sleeve pressed to his +eyes. + +Felix had listened without moving, trying to make up his mind, noting +the drawn, haggard face, the staring eyes and dry, fevered lips--all +evidences of either hunger or vice, he was uncertain which. + +Then gradually, as the man's sobs continued, there stole over him +that strange sense of kinship in pain which comes to us at times when +confronted with another's agony. The differences between them--the rags +of the one and the well-brushed garments of the other, the fact that one +skulked with his misery in dark alleys while the other bore his on +the open highways--counted as nothing. He and this outcast were bound +together by the common need of those who find the struggle overwhelming. +Until that moment his own sufferings had absorbed him. Now the throb of +the world's pain came to him and sympathies long dormant began to stir. + +“Straighten up and let me see your face,” he said at last, intent on +the tramp's abject misery. “Out here where the full light can fall on +it--that's right! Now tell me about yourself. How long have you been +like this?” + +The man dragged himself to his feet. + +“Ever since I lost my job.” The question had calmed him. There was a +note of hope in it. + +“What work did you do?” + +“I'm a plumber's helper.” + +“Work stopped?” + +“No, a strike--I wouldn't quit, and they fired me.” + +“What happened then?” + +“She went away.” + +“Who went away?” + +“My wife.” + +“When?” + +“About a month back.” + +“Did you beat her?” + +“No, there was another man.” + +“Younger than you?” + +“Yes.” + +“How old was she?” + +“Eighteen.” + +“A girl, then.” + +“Yes, if you put it that way. She was all I had.” + +“Have you seen her since?” + +“No, and I don't want to.” + +These questions and answers had followed in rapid succession, Felix +searching for the truth and the man trying to give it as best he could. + +With the last answer the man drew a step nearer and, in a voice which +was fast getting beyond his control, said: “You know now, don't you? You +can see it plain as day how long it takes to make a bum of a man when +he's up agin things like that. You--” He paused, listened intently, and +sprang back, hugging the wall. “What's that? Somebody comin'! My God! +It's a cop! Don't tell him--say you won't tell him--say it! SAY IT!” + +Felix gripped his wrist. “Pull yourself together and keep still.” + +The officer, who was idly swinging a club as if for companionship along +his lonely beat, stopped short. “Any trouble, sir?” he said as soon as +he had Felix's outline and bearing clear. + +“No, thank you, officer. Only a friend of mine who needs a little +looking after. I'll take care of him.” + +“All right, sir,” and he passed on down the narrow street. + +The man gave a long breath and staggered against the wall. Felix caught +him by his trembling shoulders. “Now, brace up. The first thing you need +is something to eat. There is a restaurant at the corner. Come with me.” + +“They won't let me in.” + +“I'll take care of that.” + +Felix entered first. “What is there hot this time of night, barkeeper?” + +“Frankfurters and beans, boss.” + +“Any coffee?” + +“Sure.” + +“Send a double portion of each to this table,” and he pulled out a +chair. “Here's a man who has missed his dinner. Is that enough?” and he +laid down a dollar bill--one Kling had given him. + +“Forty cents change, boss.” + +“Keep it, and see he gets all he wants. And now here,” he said to the +tramp, “is another dollar to keep you going,” and with a shift of his +stick to his left arm Felix turned on his heel, swung back the door, and +was lost in the throng. + + +Kitty was up and waiting for him when he lifted the hinged wooden flap +which provided an entrance for the privileged and, guided by the glow of +the kerosene lamp, turned the knob of her kitchen door. She was close to +the light, reading, the coffee-pot singing away on the stove, the aroma +of its contents filling the room. + +“I hope I have not kept you up, Mrs. Cleary. You had my message by Mike, +did you not?” he asked in an apologetic tone. + +“Yes, I got the message, and I got the trunks; they're up-stairs, and if +you had given Mike the keys I'd have 'em unpacked by this time and all +ready for you. As to my bein' up--I'm always up, and I got to be. John +and Mike is over to Weehawken, and Bobby's been to the circus and just +gone to bed, and I've been readin' the mornin' paper--about the only +time I get to read it. Will ye sit down and wait till John comes in? +Hold on 'til I get ye a cup of hot coffee and--” + +“No, Mrs. Cleary. I will go to bed, if you do not mind.” + +“Oh, but the coffee will put new life into ye, and--” + +“Thanks, but it would be more likely to put it OUT of me if it kept me +awake. Can I reach my room this way or must I go outside?” + +“Ye can go through this door--wait, I'll go wid ye and show ye about the +light and where ye'll find the water. It's dark on the stairs and ye may +stumble. I'll go on ahead and turn up the gas in the hall,” she called +back, as she mounted the steps and threw wide his room door. “Not much +of a place, is it? But ye can get plenty of fresh air, and the bed's not +bad. Ye can see for yourself,” and her stout fist sunk into its middle. +“And there's your trunks and tin chest, and the hat-box is beside the +wash-stand, and the waterproof coat's in the closet. We have breakfast +at seven o'clock, and ye'll eat down-stairs wid me and John. And now +good night to ye.” + +Felix thanked her for her attention in his simple, straightforward way, +and, closing the door upon her, dropped into a chair. + +The night's experience had been like a sudden awakening. His anxiety +over his dwindling finances and his disappointment over Carlin's news +had been put to flight by the suffering of the man who had tried to rob +him. There were depths, then, to which human suffering might drive a +man, depths he himself had never imagined or reached--horrible, deadly +depths, without light or hope, benumbing the best in a man, destroying +his purposes by slow, insidious stages. + +He arose from his chair and began walking up and down the small room, +stopping now and then to inspect a bureau drawer or to readjust one of +the curtains shading the panes of glass. In the same absent-minded way +he drew out one of the trunks, unlocked it, paused now and then with +some garment in his hand only to awake again to consciousness and resume +his task, pushing the trunk back at last under the bed and continuing +his walk about the narrow room, always haunted by the tramp's haggard, +hopeless look. + +Again he felt the mysterious sense of kinship in pain that wipes away +all distinctions. With it, too, there came suddenly another sense--that +of an overwhelming compassion out of which new purposes are born to +human souls. + +The encounter, then, had been both a blessing and a warning. He would +now stand guard against the onslaught of his own sorrows while keeping +up the fight, and this with renewed vigor. He would earn money, too, +since this was so necessary, laboring with his hands, if need be; and he +would do it all with a wide-open heart. + + + + +Chapter V + + + +If O'Day's presence was a welcome addition to Kitty's household, it +was nothing compared to the effect produced at Kling's. Long before the +month was out he had not only earned his entire wages five times over by +the changes he had wrought in the arrangement and classification of the +stock, but he had won the entire confidence of his employer. Otto had +surrendered when an old customer who had been in the habit of picking up +rare bits of china, Japanese curios, and carvings at his own value had +been confronted with the necessity of either paying Felix's price or +going away without it, O'Day having promptly quadrupled the price on a +piece of old Dresden, not only because the purchaser was compelled to +have it to complete his set but because the interview had shown that the +buyer was well aware he had obtained the former specimens at one-fourth +of their value. + +And the same discernment was shown when he was purchasing old furniture, +brass, and so-called Sheffield plate to increase Otto's stock. If the +articles offered could still boast of either handle, leg, or back of +their original state and the price was fair, they were almost always +bought, but the line was drawn at the fraudulent and “plugged-up” + sideboards and chairs with their legs shot full of genuine worm-holes; +ancient Oriental stuffs of the time of the early Persians (one year +out of a German loom), rare old English plate, or undoubted George +III silver, decorated with coats of arms or initials and showing those +precious little dents only produced by long service--the whole fresh +from a Connecticut factory. These never got past his scrutiny. While it +was true, as he had told Kling, that he knew very little in the way of +trade and commerce--nothing which would be of use to any one--he was +a never-failing expert when it came to what is generally known as +“antiques” and “bric-a-brac.” + +Masie--Kling's only child--a slender, graceful little creature with a +wealth of gold-yellow hair flying about her pretty shoulders and a pair +of blue eyes in which were mirrored the skies of ten joyous springs, +had given her heart to him at once. She had never forgotten his gentle +treatment of her dog Fudge, whose attack that first morning Felix had +understood so well, lifting and putting the refractory animal back in +her arms instead of driving him off with a kick. Fudge, whose manners +were improving, had not forgotten either and was always under O'Day's +feet except when being fondled by the child. + +Until Felix came she had had no other companions, some innate reserve +keeping her from romping with the children on the street, her sole +diversion, except when playing at home among her father's possessions or +making a visit to Kitty, being found in the books of fairy-tales which +the old hunchback, Tim Kelsey, had lent her. At first this natural +shyness had held her aloof even from O'Day, content only to watch his +face as he answered her childish appeals. But before the first week had +passed she had slipped her hand into his, and before the month was over +her arms were around his neck, her fresh, soft cheek against his own, +cuddling close as she poured out her heart in a continuous flow of +prattle and laughter, her father looking on in blank amazement. + +For, while Kling loved her as most fathers love their motherless +daughters, Felix had seen at a glance that he was either too engrossed +in his business or too dense and unimaginative to understand so winning +a child. She was Masie, “dot little girl of mine dot don't got no +mudder,” or “Beesvings, who don't never be still,” but that was about as +far as his notice of her went, except sending her to school, seeing that +she was fed and clothed, and on such state occasions as Christmas, New +Year's, or birthdays, giving her meaningless little presents, which, in +most instances, were shut up in her bureau drawers, never to be looked +at again. + +Kitty, who remembered the child's mother as a girl with a far-away look +in her eyes and a voice of surprising sweetness, always maintained that +it was a shame for Kling, who was many years her senior, to have married +the girl at all. + +“Not, John, dear, that Otto isn't a decent man, as far as he goes,” + she had once said to him, when the day's work was over and they were +discussing their neighbors, “and that honest, too, that he wouldn't get +away with a sample trunk weighing a ton if it was nailed fast to the +sidewalk, and a good friend of ours who wouldn't go back on us, and +never did. But that wife of his, John! If she wasn't as fine as the best +of em, then I miss my guess. She got it from that father of hers--the +clock-maker that never went out in the daytime, and hid himself in his +back shop. There was something I never understood about the two of 'em +and his killing himself when he did. Why, look at that little Masie! +Can't ye see she is no more Kling's daughter than she is mine? Ye can't +hatch out hummin'-birds by sittin' on ducks' eggs, and that's what's the +matter over at Otto's.” + +“Well, whose eggs were they?” John had inquired, half asleep by the +stove, his tired legs outstretched, the evening paper dropping from his +hand. + +“Oh, I don't say that they are not Kling's right enough, John. Masie is +his child, I know. But what I say is that the mother is stamped all over +the darling, and that Otto can't put a finger on any part and call it +his own.” + +Whether Kitty were right or wrong regarding the mystery is no part of +our story, but certain it was that the soul of the unhappy young mother +looked through the daughter's eyes, that the sweetness of the child's +voice was hers, and the grace of every movement a direct inheritance +from one whose frail spirit had taken so early a flight. + +To Felix this companionship, with the glimpses it gave him of a child's +heart, refreshed his own as a summer rain does a thirsty plant. Had she +been his daughter, or his little sister, or his niece, or grandchild, a +certain sense of responsibility on his part and of filial duty on hers +would have clouded their perfect union. He would have had matters of +education to insist upon--perhaps of clothing and hygiene. She would +have had her secrets--hidden paths on which she wandered alone--things +she could never tell to one in authority. As it was, bound together as +they were by only a mutual recognition, their joy in each other knew no +bounds. To Masie he was a refuge, some one who understood every thought +before she had uttered it; to O'Day she was a never-ending and warming +delight. + +And so this man of forty-five folded his arms about this child of ten, +and held her close, the opening chalice of her budding girlhood widening +hourly at his touch--a sight to be reverenced by every man and never to +be forgotten by one privileged to behold it. + +And with the intimacy which almost against his will held him to the +little shop, there stole into his life a certain content. Springs long +dried in his own nature bubbled again. He felt the sudden, refreshing +sense of those who, after pent-up suffering, find the quickening of new +life within. + +Mike noticed the change in the cheery greetings and in the passages of +Irish wit with which the new clerk welcomed him whenever he appeared in +the store, and so did Kling, and even the two Dutchies when Felix would +drop into the cellar searching for what was still good enough to be made +over new. And so did Kitty and John and all at their home. + +Masie alone noticed nothing. To her, “Uncle Felix,” as she now called +him, was always the same adorable and comprehending companion, forever +opening up to her new vistas of interest, never too busy to answer her +questions, never too preoccupied to explain the different objects he was +handling. If she were ever in the way, she was never made to feel it. +Instead, so gentle and considerate was he, that she grew to believe +herself his most valuable assistant, daily helping him to arrange the +various new acquisitions. + +One morning in June when they were busy over a lot of small curios, +arranging bits of jade, odd silver watches, seals, and pinchbeck rings, +in a glass case that had been cleaned and revarnished, the door +opened and an old fellow strolled in--an odd-looking old fellow, with +snow-white hair and beard, wearing a black sombrero and a shirt cut very +low in the neck. But for a pair of kindly eyes, which looked out at you +from beneath the brim of the hat, he might have been mistaken for one +of the dwarfs in “Rip Van Winkle.” Fudge, having now been disciplined by +Felix, only sniffed at his trousers. + +“I see an old gold frame in your window,” began the new customer. “Might +I measure it?” + +“Which one, sir?” replied Felix. “There are half a dozen of them, I +believe.” + +“Well; will you please come outside? And I will point it out. It is the +Florentine, there in the corner--perhaps a reproduction, but it looks to +me like the real thing.” + +“It is a Florentine,” answered Felix. “There are two or three pictures +in the Uffizi with similar frames, if I recall them aright. Would you +like a look at it?” + +“I don't want to trouble you to take it out,” said the old man +apologetically. “It might not do, and I can't afford to pay much for +it anyway. But I would like to measure it; I've got an Academy picture +which I think will just fit it, but you can't always tell. No, I +guess I'll let it go. It's all covered up, and you would have to move +everything to reach it.” + +“No, I won't have to move a thing. Here, you bunch of sunshine! Squeeze +in there, Masie, dear, and let me know how wide and high that frame +is--the one next the glass. Take this rule.” + +The child caught up the rule and, followed by Fudge, who liked nothing +so well as rummaging, crept among the jars, mirrors, and candelabra +crowding the window, her steps as true as those of a kitten. “Twenty +inches by thirty-one--no, thirty,” she laughed back, tucking her little +skirts closer to her shapely limbs so as to clear a tiny table set out +with cups and saucers. + +“You're sure it's thirty?” repeated the painter. + +“Yes, sir, thirty,” and she crept back and laid the rule in O'Day's +hand. + +“Thank you, my dear young lady,” bowed the old gnome. “It is a pleasure +to be served by one so obliging and bright. And I am glad to tell you,” + he added, turning to O'Day, “that it's a fit--an exact fit. I thought +I was about right. I carry things in my eye. I bought a head once in +Venice, about a foot square, and in Spain three months afterward, on my +way down the hill leading from the Alhambra to the town, there on a wall +outside a bric-a-brac shop hung a frame which I bought for ten francs, +and when I got to Paris and put them together, I'll be hanged if they +didn't fit as if they had been made for each other.” + +“And I know the shop!” broke out Felix, to Masie's astonishment. “It's +just before you get to the small chapel on the left.” + +“By cracky, you're right! How long since you were there?” + +“Oh, some five years now.” + +“Picking up things to sell here, I suppose. Spain used to be a great +place for furniture and stuffs; I've got a lot of them still--bought a +whole chest of embroideries once in Seville, or rather, at that hospital +where the big Murillo hangs. You must know that picture--Moses striking +water from the rock--best thing Murillo ever did.” + +Felix remembered it, and he also remembered many of the important +pictures in the Prado, especially the great Velasquez and the two Goyas, +and that head of Ribera which hung on the line in the second gallery on +the right as you entered. And before the two enthusiasts were aware of +what was going on around them, Masie and Fudge had slipped off to dine +upstairs with her father, Felix and the garrulous old painter still +talking--renewing their memories with a gusto and delight unknown to the +old artist for years. + +“And now about that frame!” the gnome at last found time to say. “I've +got so little money that I'd rather swap something for it, if you don't +mind. Come down and see my stuff! It's only in 10th Street--not twenty +minutes' walk. Maybe you can sell some of my things for me. And bring +that blessed little girl--she's the dearest, sweetest thing I've seen +for an age. Your daughter?” + +Felix laughed gently. “No, I wish she were. She is Mr. Kling's child.” + +“And your name?” + +“O'Day.” + +“Irish, of course--well, all the same, come down any morning this week. +My name is Ganger; I'm on the fourth floor--been there twenty-two years. +You'll have to walk up--we all do. Yes, I'll expect you.” + +Kling, whom Felix consulted, began at once to demur. He knew all about +the building on 10th Street. More than one of his old frames--part of +the clearing-out sale of some Southern homestead, the portraits being +reserved because unsalable--had resumed their careers on the walls of +the Academy as guardians and protectors of masterpieces painted by the +denizens of this same old rattletrap, the Studio Building. Some of its +tenants, too, had had accounts with him--which had been running for +more than a year. Bridley, the marine painter; Manners, who took pupils; +Springlake, the landscapist; and half a dozen others had been in the +habit of dropping into his shop on the lookout for something good in +Dutch cabinets at half-price, or no price at all, until Felix, without +knowing where they had come from, had put an end to the practice. + +“Got a fellow up to Kling's who looks as if he had been a college +athlete, and knows it all. Can't fool him for a cent,” was the talk now, +instead of “Keep at the old Dutchman and you may get it. He don't know +the difference between a Chippendale sideboard and a shelf rack from +Harlem. Wait for a rainy day and go in. He'll be feeling blue, and +you'll be sure to get it.” + +Kling, therefore, when he heard some days later, of Felix's proposed +visit, began turning over his books, looking up several past-due +accounts. But Felix would have none of it. + +“I'm going on a collecting tour, Mr. Kling, this lovely June morning,” + he laughed, “but not for money. We will look after that later on. And +I will take Masie. Come, child, get your hat. Mr. Ganger wanted you to +come, and so do I. Call Hans, Mr. Kling, if the shop gets full. We will +be back in an hour.” + +“Vell, you know best,” answered Kling in final surrender. “Ven it comes +to money, I know. You go 'long, little Beesvings. I mind de shop.” + +“And I'll take Fudge,” the child cried, “and we'll stop at Gramercy +Park.” + +Fudge was out first, scampering down the street and back again before +they had well closed the door, and Masie was as restless. “Oh, I'm just +as happy as I can be, Uncle Felix. You are always so good. I never had +any one to walk with until you came, except old Aunty Gossberger, and +she never let me look at anything.” + +Days in June--joyous days with all nature brimful with laughter--days +when the air is a caress, the sky a film of pearl and silver, and the +eager mob of bud, blossom, and leaf, having burst their bonds, are +flaunting their glories, days like these are always to be remembered the +world over. But June days about Gramercy Park are to be marked in big +Red Letters upon the calendar of the year. For in Gramercy Park the +almanac goes to pieces. + +Everything is ahead of time. When little counter-panes of snow are still +covering the baby crocuses away off in Central Park, down in Gramercy +their pink and yellow heads are popping up all over the enclosure. When +the big trees in Union Square are stretching their bare arms, making +ready to throw off the winter's sleep, every tiny branch in Gramercy +is wide awake and tingling with new life. When countless dry roots +in Madison Square are still slumbering under their blankets of straw, +dreading the hour when they must get up and go to work, hundreds of +tender green fingers in Gramercy are thrust out to the kindly sun, +pleading for a chance to be up and doing. + +And the race keeps up, Gramercy still ahead, until the goal of summer +is won, and every blessed thing that could have burst into bloom has +settled down to enjoy the siesta of the hot season. + +Masie was never tired of watching these changes, her wonder and delight +increasing as the season progressed. + +In the earlier weeks there had been nothing but flower-beds covered with +unsightly clods, muffled shrubs, and bandaged vines. Then had come a +blaze of tulips, exhausting the palette. And then, but a short time +before--it seemed only yesterday--every stretch of brown grass had lost +its dull tints in a coat of fresh paint, on which the benches, newly +scrubbed, were set, and each foot of gravelled walks had been raked and +made ready for the little tots in new straw hats who were then trundling +their hoops and would soon be chasing their first butterflies. + +And now, on this lovely June morning, summer had come--REAL SUMMER--for +a mob of merry roses were swarming up a trellis in a mad climb to reach +its top, the highest blossom waving its petals in triumph. + +Felix waited until she had taken it all in, her face pressed between the +bars (only the privileged possessing a key are admitted to the gardens +within), Fudge scampering up and down, wild to get at the two gray +squirrels, which some vandal has since stolen, and then, remembering his +promise to Ganger, he called her to him and continued his walk. + +But her morning outing was not over. He must take her to the +marble-cutter's yard, filled with all sorts of statues, urns, benches, +and columns, and show her again the ruts and grooves cut in the big +stone well-head, and tell her once more the story of how it had stood in +an old palace in Venice, where the streets were all water and everybody +went visiting in boats. And then she must stop at the florist's to see +whether he had any new ferns in his window, and have Felix again explain +the difference between the big and little ferns and why the palms had +such long leaves. + +She was ready now for her visit to the two old painters, but this time +Felix lingered. He had caught sight of a garden wall in the rear of an +old house, and with his hand in hers had crossed the street to study +it the closer. The wall was surmounted by a solid, wrought-iron railing +into which some fifty years or more ago a gardener had twisted the +tendrils of a wistaria. The iron had cut deep, and so inseparable +was the embrace that human skill could not pull them apart without +destroying them both. + +As he reached the sidewalk and got a clearer view of the vine, tracing +the weave of its interlaced branches and tendrils, Masie noticed that he +stopped suddenly and for a moment looked away, lost in deep thought. She +caught, too, the shadow that sometimes settled on his face, one she had +seen before and wondered over. But although her hand was still in his, +she kept silent until he spoke. + +“Look, dear Masie,” he said at last, drawing her to him, “see what +happens to those who are forced into traps! It was the big knot that +held it back! And yet it grew on!” + +Masie looked up into his thoughtful face. “Do you think the iron hurts +it, Uncle Felix?” she asked with a sigh. + +“I shouldn't wonder; it would me,” he faltered. + +“But it wasn't the vine's fault, was it?” + +“Perhaps not. Maybe when it was planted nobody looked after it, nor +cared what might happen when it grew up. Poor wistaria! Come along, +darling!” + + +At last they turned into 10th Street, Fudge scurrying ahead to the very +door of the grim building, where a final dash brought him to Ganger's, +his nose having sniffed at every threshold they passed and into every +crack and corner of the three flights of stairs. + +Felix's own nostrils were now dilating with pleasure. The odor of +varnish and turpentine had brought back some old memories--as perfumes +do for us all. A crumpled glove, a bunch of withered roses, the salt +breath of an outlying marsh, are often but so many fairy wands reviving +comedies and tragedies on which the curtains of forgetfulness have been +rung down these many years. + +Something in the aroma of the place was recalling kindred spirits across +the sea, when the door was swung wide and Ganger in a big, hearty voice, +cried: + +“Mr. O'Day, is it? Oh, I am glad! And that dear child, and--Hello! who +invited you, you restless little devil of a dog? Come in, all of you! +I've a model, but she doesn't care and neither do I. And this, Mr. +O'Day, is my old friend, Sam Dogger--and he's no relation of yours, +you imp!”--with a bob of his grizzled head at Fudge--“He's a +landscape-painter and a good one--one of those Hudson River fellows--and +would be a fine one if he would stick to it. Give me that hat and coat, +my chick-a-biddy, and I'll hang them up. And now here's a chair for you, +Mr. O'Day, and please get into it--and there's a jar full of tobacco, +and if you haven't got a pipe of your own you'll find a whole lot of +corncobs on the mantelpiece and you can help yourself.” + +O'Day had stood smiling at the painter, Masie's hand fast in his, Fudge +tiptoeing softly about, divided between a sense of the strangeness of +the place and a certainty of mice behind the canvases. Felix knew the +old fellow's kind, and recognized the note of attempted gayety in the +voice--the bravado of the poor putting their best, sometimes their only, +foot foremost. + +“No, I won't sit down--not yet,” he answered pleasantly; “I will look +around, if you will let me, and I will try one of your pipes before I +begin. What a jolly place you have here! Don't move”--this to the model, +a slip of a girl, her eyes muffled in a lace veil, one of Ganger's +Oriental costumes about her shoulders--“I am quite at home, my dear, and +if you have been a model any length of time you will know exactly what +that means.” + +“Oh, she's my Fatima,” exclaimed Ganger. “Her real name is Jane Hoggson, +and her mother does my washing, but I call her Fatima for short. She can +stop work for the day. Get down off the platform, Jane Hoggson, and talk +to this dear little girl. You see, Mr. O'Day, now that the art of the +country has gone to the devil and nobody wants my masterpieces, I have +become an Eastern painter, fresh from Cairo, where I have lived for half +a century--principally on Turkish paste and pressed figs. My specialty +at present--they are all over my walls, as you can see--is dancing-girls +in silk tights or without them, just as the tobacco shops prefer. I +also do sheiks, muffled to their eyebrows in bath towels, and with +scimitars--like that one above the mantel. And very profitable, too; +MOST profitable, my dear sir. I get twenty doldars for a real odalisk +and fifteen for a bashi-bazouk. I can do one about every other day, and +I sell one about every other month. As for Sam Dogger here--Sam, what is +your specialty? I said landscapes, Sam, when Mr. O'Day came in, but you +may have changed since we have been talking.” + +The wizened old gentleman thus addressed sidled nearer. He was ten years +younger than Ganger, but his thin, bloodless hands, watery eyes, their +lids edged with red, and bald head covered by a black velvet skull-cap +made him look that much older. + +“Nat talks too much, Mr. O'Day,” he piped in a high-keyed voice. “I +often tell Nat that he's got a loose hinge in his mouth, and he ought to +screw it tight or it will choke him some day when he isn't watching. He! +He!” And a wheezy laugh filled the room. + +“Shut up, you old sardine! You don't talk enough. If you did you'd +get along better. I'll tell you, Mr. O'Day, what Sam does. Sam's a +patcher-up--a 'puttier.' That's what he is. Sam can get more quality out +of a piece of sandpaper, a pot of varnish, and a little glue than any +man in the business. If you don't believe it, just bring in a fake +Romney, or a Gainsborough, or some old Spanish or Italian daub with the +corners knocked off where the signature once was, or a scrape down half +a cheek, or some smear of a head, with half the canvas bare, and put Sam +to work on it, and in a week or less out it comes just as it left the +master's easel--'Found by his widow after his death' or 'The property +of an English nobleman on whose walls it has hung for two centuries.' +By thunder! isn't it beautiful?” He chuckled. “Wonderful how these +bullfrogs of connoisseurs swallow the dealers' flies! And here am I, +who can paint any blamed thing from a hen-coop to a battle scene, +doing signs for tobacco shops; and there is Sam, who can do Corots and +Rousseaus and Daubignys by the yard, obliged to stick to a varnish pot +and a scraper! Damnable, isn't it? But we don't growl, do we, Sammy? +When Sammy has anything left over, he brings half of it down to me--he +lives on the floor above--and when I get a little ahead and Sammy is +behind, I send it up to him. We are the Siamese twins, Sammy and I, +aren't we, Sam? Where are you, anyway? Oh, he's after the dog, I see, +moving the canvases so the little beggar won't run a thumb-tack in his +paw. Sam can no more resist a dog, my dear Mr. O'Day, than a drunkard +can a rum-mill, can you, Sam?” + +“At it again, are you, Nat?” wheezed the wizened old gentleman, dusting +his fingers as he reappeared from behind the canvases, his watery eyes +edged with a deeper red, due to his exertions. “Don't pay any attention +to him, Mr. O'Day. What he says isn't half true, and the half that +is true isn't worth listening to. Now tell me about that frame he's +ordered. He don't want it, and I've told him so. If you are willing to +lend it to him, he'll pay you for it when the picture is sold, which +will never be, and by that time he'll--” + +“Dry up, you old varnish pot!” shouted Ganger, “how do you know I won't +pay for it?” + +“Because your picture will never be hung--that's why!” + +“Mr. Ganger did not want to buy it,” broke in Felix, between puffs from +one of his host's corn-cob pipes. “He wanted to exchange something for +it--'swap' he called it.” + +“Oh, well,” wheezed Sam, “that's another thing. What were you going to +give him in return, Nat? Careful, now--there's not much left.” + +“Oh, maybe some old stuff, Sammy. Move along, you blessed little +child--and you, too, Jane Hoggson! You're sitting on my Venetian +wedding-chest--real, too! I bought it forty years ago in Padua. There +are some old embroideries down in the bottom, or were, unless Sam has +been in here while I--Oh, no, here they are! Beg pardon, Sammy, for +suspecting you. There--what do you think of these?” + +Felix bent over the pile of stuffs, which, under Ganger's continued +dumpings, was growing larger every minute--the last to see the light +being part of a priest's Cope and two chasubles. + +“There--that is enough!” said Felix. “This chasuble alone is worth more +than the frame. We will put the Florentine frame at ten dollars and the +vestment at fifteen. What others have you, Mr. Ganger? There's a great +demand for these things when they are good, and these are good. Where +did you get them?” + +“Worth more than the frame? Holy Moses!” whistled Ganger. “Why, I +thought you'd want all there was in the chest! And you say there are +people out of a lunatic asylum looking for rags like this?” And he held +up one end of the cope. + +“Yes, many of them. To me, I must say, they are worth nothing, as I +don't like the idea of mixing up church and state. But Mr. Kling's +customers do, and if they choose to say their prayers before a chasuble +on a priest's back on Sunday and make a sofa cushion of it the next day, +that is their affair, not mine. And now, what else? You spoke of some +costumes this morning.” + +“Yes, I did speak of my costumes, but I'm afraid they are too modern +for you--I make 'em up myself. Get up, Jane, and let Mr. O'Day see what +you've got on!” + +Jane jumped to her feet, looking less Oriental than ever, her spangled +veil having dropped about her shoulders, her red hair and freckled face +now in full view. + +“I think her dress is beautiful, Uncle Felix,” whispered Masie. + +“Do you, sweetheart? Well, then, maybe I might better look again. What +else have you in the way of Costumes, Mr. Ganger?” + +Dogger stepped up. “He hasn't got a single thing worth a cent; he buys +these pieces down in Elizabeth Street, out of push-carts, and Jane +Hoggson's mother sews them together. But, my deary”--here he laid +his hand on Masie's head--“would you like to see some REAL ONES, +all-gold-and-silver lace--and satin shoes--and big, high bonnets with +feathers?” + +Masie clapped her hands in answer and began whirling about the room, her +way of telling everybody that she was too happy to keep still. + +“Well, wait here; I won't be a minute.” + +“Sam's fallen in love with her, too,” muttered Ganger, “and I don't +blame him. Come here, you darling, and let me talk to you. Do you know +you are the first little girl that's ever been inside this place for +ever--and ever and EVER--so long? Think of that, will you? Not one +single little girl since--Oh, well, I just can't remember--it's such +an awful long time. Dreadful, isn't it? Hear that old Sam stumbling +down-stairs! Now let's see what he brings you.” + +Dogger's arms were full. “I've a silk dress,” he puffed, “and a ruffled +petticoat, and a great leghorn hat--and just look at these feathers, and +you never saw such a pair of slippers and silk stockings! And now let's +try 'em on!” + +The child uttered a little scream of delight. “Oh, Uncle Felix! Isn't it +lovely? Can't I have them? Please, Uncle Felix!” she cried, both hands +around his shirt collar in supplication. + +“Take 'em all, missy,” shouted Sam. Then, turning to Felix: “They +belonged to an actor who hired half of my studio and left them to pay +for his rent, which they didn't do, not by a long chalk, and--Oh, +here's another hat--and, oh, such a lovely old cloak! Yes, take 'em all, +missy--I'm glad to get rid of 'em--before Nat claps them on Jane and +goes in for Puritan maidens and Lady Gay Spankers. Oh, I know you, Nat! +I wouldn't trust you out of my sight! Take 'em along, I say.” He stopped +and turned toward Felix again. + +“Couldn't you bring her down here once in a while, Mr. O'Day?” he +continued, a strange, pathetic note in his wheezing voice. “Just for +ten minutes, you know, when she's out with the dog, or walking with you. +Nobody ever comes up these stairs but tramps and book agents--even the +models steer clear. It would help a lot if you'd bring her. Wouldn't +you like to come, missy? What did you say her name was? Oh, +yes--Masie--well, my child, that's not what I'd call you; I'd call +you--well, I guess I wouldn't call you anything but just a dear, darling +little girl! Yes, that's just what I'd call you. And you are going to +let me give them to her, aren't you, Mr. O'Day?” + +Felix grasped the old fellow's thin, dry hand in his own strong fingers. +For an instant a strange lump in his throat clogged his speech. “Of +course, I'll take the costumes, and many thanks for your wish to make +the child happy,” he answered at last. “I am rather foolish about Masie +myself; and may I tell you, Mr. Dogger, that you are a very fine old +gentleman, and that I am delighted to have made your acquaintance, and +that, if you will permit me I shall certainly come again?” + +Dogger was about to reply when Masie, Looking up into the wizened face, +cried: “And may I put them on when I like, if I'm very, very--oh, so +VERY careful?” + +“Yes, you buttercup, and you can wear them full of holes and do anything +else you please to them, and I won't care a mite.” + +And then, with Jane Hoggson's help, he put on Masie's own hat and coat, +which Ganger had hung on an easel, and Masie called Fudge from his +mouse-hole, and Felix shook hands first with Nat and then with Sam, and +last of all with Jane, who looked at him askance out of one eye as she +bobbed him half a courtesy. And then everybody went out into the hall +and said good-by once more over the banisters, Felix with the bundle +under his arm, Masie throwing kisses to the two old gnomes craning their +necks over the banisters, Fudge barking every step of the way down the +stairs. + + + + +Chapter VI + + + +The glimpse which Felix had caught of these two poor, unappreciated old +men, living contentedly from hand to mouth, gayly propping each other +up when one or the other weakened, had strangely affected him. If, as +he reasoned, such battered hulks, stranded these many years on the dry +sands of incompetency, with no outlook for themselves across the wide +sea over which their contemporaries were scudding with all sails set +before the wind of success--if these castaways, their past always with +them and their hoped-for future forever out of their reach, could laugh +and be merry, why should not he carry some of their spirit into his +relations with the people among whom his lot was now thrown? + +That these people had all been more than good to him, and that he owed +them in return something more than common politeness now took possession +of his mind. Few such helping hands had ever been held out to him. +When they had been, the proffered palm had generally concealed a hidden +motive. Hereafter he would try to add what he could of his own to the +general fund of good-fellowship and good deeds. + +He would continue his nightly search--and he had not missed a single +evening--but he would return earlier, so as to be able to spend an hour +reading to Masie before she went to bed, or with his other friends and +acquaintances of “The Avenue”--especially with Kitty and John. He had +been too unmindful of them, getting back to his lodgings at any hour of +the night, either to let himself in by his pass-key--all the lights out +and everybody asleep--or to find only Kitty or John, or both, at work +over their accounts or waiting up for Mike or Bobby or for one of their +wagons detained on some dock. And since Kling had raised his salary, +enabling him not only to recover his dressing-case, which then rested +on his mantel, but to take his meals wherever he happened to be at the +moment--he had seldom dined at home--a great relief in many ways to a +man of his tastes. + +Kitty, though he did not know it, had demurred and had talked the matter +over with John, wondering whether she had neglected his comfort. When +she had questioned him, he had settled it with a pat on her shoulders. +“Just let me have my way this time, my dear Mrs. Cleary,” he had said +gently but firmly. “I am a bad boarder and cause you no end of trouble, +for I am never on time. And please keep the price as it is, for I don't +pay you half enough for all your goodness to me.” + +Now under the impulse of his new resolution, and rather ashamed of his +former attitude in view of all her unremitting attentions, he resumed +his place at her table. Nor did he stop here. He taught her to broil a +chop over her coal fire by removing the stove lid--until then they had +been fried--and a new way with a rasher of bacon, using the carving-fork +instead of a pan. The clearing of the famous coffee-pot with an +egg--making the steaming mixture anew whenever wanted instead of letting +the dented old pot simmer away all day on the back of the stove--was +another innovation, making the evening meal just that much more +enjoyable, greatly to the delight of the hostess, who was prouder of her +boarder than of any other human being who had come into her life, except +John and Bobby. + +These renewed intimacies opened his eyes to another phase of the life +about him, and he soon found himself growing daily more interested in +the sweet family relations of the small household. + +“What do I care for what we haven't got,” Kitty said to him one night +when some economies in the small household were being discussed. “I'm +better off than half the women who stop at my door in their carriages. +I got two arms, and I can sleep eight hours when I get the chance, and +John loves me and so does Bobby and so does my big white horse Jim. +There ain't one of them women as knows what it is to work for her man +and him to work for her.” All the other married couples he had seen had +pulled apart, or lived apart--mentally, at least. These two seemed bound +together heart and soul. + +More than once he contrived to stop at the Studio Building, where both +of the old fellows were almost always to be found sitting side by side, +and, picking them up bodily, he had set them down on hard chairs in a +rathskeller on Sixth Avenue, where they had all dined together, the old +fellows warmed up with two beers apiece. This done, he had escorted them +back, seen them safely up-stairs, and returned to his lodgings. + +It was after one of these mild diversions that, before going to his +room, he pushed open the door of the Clearys' sitting-room with a cheery +“May I come in, Mistress Kitty?” + +“Oh, but I'm glad to see ye!” was the joyous answer. “I was sayin' to +myself: 'Maybe ye'd come in before he went.' Here's Father Cruse I been +tellin' ye about--and, Father, here's Mr. O'Day that's livin' wid us.” + +A full-chested man of forty, in a long black cassock, standing six feet +in his stockings, his face alight with the glow of a freshly kindled +pleasure, rose from his chair and held out his hand. “The introduction +should be quite unnecessary, Mr. O'Day,” he exclaimed in the full, +sonorous voice of a man accustomed to public speaking. “You seem to have +greatly attached these dear people to you, which in itself is enough, +for there are none better in my parish.” + +Felix, who had been looking the speaker over, taking in his thoughtful +face, deep black eyes, and more especially the heavy black eyebrows that +lay straight above them, felt himself warmed by the hearty greeting and +touched by its sincerity. “I agree with you, Father, in your praise +of them,” he said as he grasped the priest's hand. “They have been +everything to me since my sojourn among them. And, if I am not mistaken, +you and I have something else in common. My people are from Limerick.” + +“And mine from Cork,” laughed the priest as he waved his hand toward his +empty chair, adding: “Let me move it nearer the table.” + +“No, I will take my old seat, if you do not mind. Please do not move, +Mr. Cleary; I am near enough.” + +“And are you an importation, Father, like myself?” continued Felix, +shifting the rocker for a better view of the priest. + +“No. I am only an Irishman by inheritance. I was brought up on the soil, +born down in Greenwich village--and a very queer old part of the town it +is. Strange to say, there are very few changes along its streets since +my boyhood. I found the other day the very slanting cellar door I used +to slide on when I was so high! Do you know Greenwich?” + +He was sitting upright as he spoke, his hands hidden in the folds of his +black cassock, wondering meanwhile what was causing the deep lines on +the brow of this high-bred, courteous man, and the anxious look in the +deep-set eyes. As priest he had looked into many others, framed in the +side window of the confessional--the most wonderful of all schools for +studying human nature--but few like those of the man before him; eyes so +clear and sincere, yet shadowed by what the priest vaguely felt was some +overwhelming sorrow. + +“Oh, yes, I know it as I know most of New York,” Felix was saying; “it +is close to Jefferson Market and full of small houses, where I should +think people could live very cheaply”; adding, with a sigh, “I have +walked a great deal about your city,” and as suddenly checked himself, +as if the mere statement might lead to discussion. + +Kitty, who had been darning one of John's gray yarn stockings--the +needle was still between her thumb and forefinger--leaned forward. +“That's the matter with him, Father, and he'll never be happy until he +stops it,” she cried. “He don't do nothin' but tramp the streets until I +think he'd get that tired he'd go to sleep standin' up.” + +Felix turned toward her. “And why not, Mrs. Cleary?” he asked with a +smile. “How can I learn anything about this great metropolis unless I +see it for myself?” + +“But it's all Sunday and every night! I get that worried about ye +sometimes, I'm ready to cry. And ye won't listen to a thing I say! I +been waitin' for Father Cruse to get hold of ye, and I'm goin' to say +what's in my mind.” Here she looked appealingly to the priest. “Now, ye +just talk to him, Father, won't ye, please?” + +The priest, laughing heartily, raised his protesting hands toward her. +“If he fails to heed you, Mrs. Cleary, he certainly won't listen to me. +What do you say for yourself, Mr. O'Day?” + +Felix twisted his head until he could address his words more directly to +his hostess. “Please keep on scolding me, my dear Mrs. Cleary. I love +to hear you. But there is Father Cruse, why not sympathize with him? +He tramps to some purpose. I am only the Wandering Jew, who does it for +exercise.” + +Kitty held the point of the darning-needle straight out toward Felix. +“But why must you do it Sundays, Mr. O'Day? That's what I want to know.” + +“But Sunday is my holiday.” + +“Yes, and there's early mass. Ye'd think he'd come, wouldn't ye, +Father?” + +One of O'Day's low, murmuring laughs, that always sounded as if he had +grown unaccustomed to letting the whole of it pass his lips, filtered +through the room. + +“You see what a heathen I am, Father,” he exclaimed. “But I am going to +turn over a new leaf. I shall honor myself by visiting St. Barnabas's +some day very soon, and shall sit in the front pew--or, perhaps, in +yours, Mrs. Cleary, if you will let me--now that I know who officiates,” + and he inclined his head graciously toward the priest. “I hope the +service is not always in the morning!” + +“Oh, no, we have a service very often at night, sometimes at eight +o'clock.” + +“And how long does that last?” + +“Perhaps an hour.” + +“And so if I should come at eight and wait until you are free, you could +give me, perhaps, another hour of yourself?” + +“Yes, and with the greatest pleasure. But why at those hours?” asked the +priest with some curiosity. + +“Because I am very busy at other times. But I want to be quite frank. If +I come, it will not be because I need your service, but because I shall +want to see YOU. Your church is not my church, and never has been, but +your people--especially your priests--have always had my admiration +and respect. I have known many of your brethren in my time. One in +particular, who is now very old--a dear abbe, living in Paris. Heaven is +made up of just such saints.” + +The priest clasped his hands together. “We have many such, sir,” he +replied solemnly. The acknowledgment came reverently, with a gleam that +shone from under the heavy brows. + +Felix caught its brilliance, and the sense of a certain bigness in the +man passed through him. He had been prepared for his quiet, well-bred +dignity. All the priests he had known were thoroughbreds in their manner +and bearing; their self-imposed restraint, self-effacement, absence of +all unnecessary gesture, and modulated voices had made them so; but +the warmth of this one's underlying nature was as unexpected as it was +pleasurable. + +“Yes, you have many such,” O'Day repeated simply after a slight pause +during which his thoughts seemed to have wandered afar. “And now tell +me,” he asked, rousing himself to renewed interest, “where your work +lies--your real work, I mean. The mass is your rest.” + +The priest turned quickly. He wondered if there were a purpose behind +the question. “Oh, among my people,” he answered, the slow, even, +non-committal tones belying the eagerness of his gesture. + +“Yes, I know; but go on. This is a great city--greater than I had ever +supposed--greater, in many ways, than London. The luxury and waste are +appalling; the misery is more appalling still. What sort of men and +women do you put your hands on?” + +“Here are some of them,” answered the priest, his forefinger pointing to +Kitty and John. + +“We could all of us do without churches and priests,” ventured Felix, +his eyes kindling, “if your parishioners were as good as these dear +people.” + +“Well, there's Bobby,” laughed the priest, his face turned toward the +boy, who was sound asleep in his chair, Toodles, the door-mat of a dog, +sprawled at his feet. + +“And are there no others, Father Cruse?” + +The priest, now convinced of a hidden meaning in the insistent tones, +grew suddenly grave, and laid his hand on O'Day's knee. “Come and see +me some time, and I will tell you. My district runs from Fifth Avenue +to the East River, from the homes of the rich to the haunts of the poor, +and there is no form of vice and no depth of suffering the world over +that does not knock daily at my study door. Do not let us talk about it +here. Perhaps some day we may work together, if you are willing.” + +Kitty, who had been listening, her heart throbbing with pride over +Felix, who had held his own with her beloved priest, and still +fearing that the talk would lead away from what was uppermost in her +mind--O'Day's welfare--now sprang from her chair before Felix could +reply. “Of course he'll come, Father, once he's seen ye.” + +“Yes, I will,” answered Felix cordially. “And it will not be very +long either, Father. And now I must say good night. It has been a real +pleasure to meet you. You have been a most kindly grindstone to a very +dull and useless knife, and I am greatly sharpened up. After all, I +think we both agree that it is rather difficult to keep anything bright +very long unless you rub it against something still brighter and keener. +Thank you again, Father,” and with a pat of his fingers on Kitty's +shoulder as he passed, and a good night to John, he left the room on his +way to his chamber above. + +Kitty waited until the sound of O'Day's footsteps told her that he had +reached the top of the stairs and then turned to the priest. “Well, what +do ye think of him? Have I told ye too much? Did ye ever know the beat +of a man like that, livin' in a place like this and eatin' at my table, +and never a word of complaint out o' him, and everybody lovin' him the +moment they clap their two eyes on him?” + +The priest made no immediate answer. For some seconds he gazed into +the fire, then looked at John as if about to seek some further +enlightenment, but changing his mind faced Kitty. “Is his mail sent +here?” + +“What? His letters?” + +“Yes.” + +“He don't have any--not one since he's been wid us.” + +“Anybody come to see him?” + +“Niver a soul.” + +The priest ruminated for a moment more, and then said slowly, as if his +mind were made up: “It does not matter; somebody or something has hurt +him, and he has gone off to die by himself. In the old days such men +sought the monasteries; to-day they try to lose themselves in the +crowd.” + +Again he ruminated, the delicate antennae of his hands meeting each +other at the tips. + +“A most extraordinary case,” he said at last. “No malice, no +bitterness--yet eating his heart out. Pitiful, really; and the worst +thing about it is that you can't help him, for his secret will die with +him. Bring him to me sometime, and let me know before you come so I may +be at home.” + +“You don't think there's anything crooked about him, Father, do you?” + said John, who had sat tilted back against the wall and now brought the +front legs of his chair to the floor with a bang. + +“What do you mean by crooked. John?” asked the priest. + +“Well, he blew in here from nowheres, bringin' a couple of trunks and +a hat-box, and not much in 'em, from what Kitty says. And he might blow +out again some fine night, leavin' his own full of bricks, carting +off instead some I keep on storage for my customers, full of God knows +what!--but somethin' that's worth money, or they wouldn't have me take +care of 'em. There ain't nothin' to prevent him, for he's got the run +of the place day and night. And Kitty's that dead stuck on him she'll +believe anything he says.” + +Kitty wheeled around in her seat, her big strong fist tightly clinched. +“Hold your tongue, John Cleary!” she cried indignantly. “I'd knock any +man down--I don't care how big he was--that would be a-sayin' that of ye +without somethin' to back it up, and that's what'll happen to ye if ye +don't mend your manners. Can't ye see, Father, that Mr. Felix O'Day is +the real thing, and no sham about him? I do, and Kling does, and so does +that darlin' Masie, and every man, woman, and child around here that can +get their hands on him or a word wid him. Shame on ye, John! Tell him +so, Father Cruse!” + +The priest kept silent, waiting until the slight family squall--never +very long nor serious between John and Kitty--had spent itself. + +“Well, I'm not sayin' anything against Mr. O'Day, Kitty,” broke in John. +“I'm only askin' for information. What do you think of him, Father? +What's he up to, anyhow? There ain't any of 'em can fool ye. I don't +want to watch him--I ain't got no time--and I won't if he's all right.” + +The priest rose from his chair and stood looking down at Kitty, his +hands clasped behind his back. “You believe in him, do you not?” + +“I do--up to the handle-and I don't care who knows it!” + +“Then I would not worry, John Cleary, if I were you.” + +“Well, what does she know about it, Father?” + +“What every good woman always knows about every good man. And now I must +go.” + + + + +Chapter VII + + + +As was to be expected, Kitty's first words to O'Day on the following +morning related to his meeting with Father Cruse. “Ye'll not find a +better man anywhere,” she had said to him, “and there ain't a trouble he +can't cure.” + +Felix had smiled at her enthusiasm for her idol and comforted her by +saying that it had given him distinct pleasure to meet him, adding: “A +big man with a big soul, that priest of yours, Mistress Kitty. I begin +to see now why you and your husband lead such human lives. Yes--a fine +man.” + +But no closer intimacy ensued, nor did he pursue the acquaintance--not +even on the following Sunday, when Kitty urged him, almost to +importunity, to go and hear the Father say mass. He was not ready +as yet, he said to himself, for friendships among men of his own +intellectual caliber. In the future he might decide otherwise. For the +present, at least, he meant to find whatever peace and comfort he could +among the simple people immediately around him--meagrely educated, +often strangely narrow-minded, but possessing qualities which every day +aroused in him a profounder admiration. + +With the quick discernment of the man of the world--one to whom many +climes and many people were familiar--he had begun to discover for +himself that this great middle class was really the backbone of the +whole civil structure about him, its self-restraint, sanity, and +cleanliness marking the normal in the tide-gauge of the city's +activities; the hysteria of the rich and the despair of the poor being +the two extremes. + +Here, as he repeatedly observed, were men absorbed in their several +humble occupations, proud of their successes, helpful of those who fell +by the wayside, good citizens and good friends, honest in their business +relations, each one going about his appointed task and leaving the other +fellow unmolested in his. Here, too, were women, good mothers to their +children and good wives to their husbands, untiring helpmates, regarding +their responsibilities as mutual, and untroubled as yet by thoughts of +their own individual identities or what their respective husbands owed +to them. + +This was why, instead of renewing his acquaintance with Father Cruse, +he preferred to halt for a few minutes' talk with some one of Kitty's +neighbors--it might be the liveryman next door who had been forty years +on the Avenue, or one of the shopkeepers near by, most of whom were +welcome to Kitty's sitting-room and kitchen, and all of whom had shared +her coffee. Or it might be that he would call at Digwell's, whose +undertaker's shop was across the way and whose door was always open, the +gas burning as befitted one liable to be called upon at any hour of the +day or night; or perhaps he would pass the time of day with Pestler, +the druggist; or give ten minutes to Porterfield, listening to his talk +about the growing prices of meat. + +Had you asked his former associates why a man of O'Day's intelligence +should have cultivated the acquaintance of an undertaker like Digwell, +for instance, whose face was a tombstone, his movements when on duty +those of a crow stepping across wet places in a cornfield, they would +have shaken their heads in disparaging wonder. Had you asked Felix he +would have answered with a smile: “Why to hear Digwell laugh!” And then, +warming to his subject, he would have told you what a very jolly person +Digwell really was, if you were fortunate enough to find him unoccupied +in his private den, way back in the rear of his shop. How he had +entertained him by the hour with anecdotes of his early life when he was +captain of a baseball team, and what fun he had gotten out of it, and +did still, when he could sneak away to help pack the benches. + +Had you inquired about Pestler, the druggist, there would have followed +some such reply as: “Pestler? Did you say? Because Pestler is one of the +most surprising men I know. He has kept that same shop, he tells me, +for twenty-two years. Of course, he knows only a very little about +drugs--just enough to keep him out of the hands of the police--but then +none of you are aware, perhaps, that Pestler is also a student? You +might think, when you saw only the top of his fuzzy, half-bald head +sticking up above the wooden partition, that he was putting up a +prescription, but you would be wrong. What he is really doing, with the +aid of his microscope, is dissecting bugs, and pasting them on glass +slides for use in the public schools. And he plays the violin--and very +well, too! He often entertains me with his music.” + +Sanderson, the florist, was another denizen who interested him. To look +at Sanderson tying ribbons on funeral wreaths, no one would ever have +supposed that there was rarely a first night at the opera at which +he was not present, paying for his ticket, too, and rather despising +Pestler, who got his theatre tickets free because he allowed the +managers the use of his windows for advertisements. Felix forgave even +his frozen roses whenever the Scotchman, having found a sympathetic +listener, launched out upon his earlier experiences among opera stars, +especially his acquaintance with Patti, whom he had known before +she became great and whom he always spoke of as devotees do of the +Madonna--with bated breath and a sigh of despair that he would never +hear her again. + +Then, too, there was Codman. O'Day was always enthusiastic over Codman. +“I have taken a great fancy to that fishmonger, and a fine fellow he +is,” he said one night to Kitty and John. “His shop was shut when I +first called on him, but he was good enough to open it at my knock, +and I have just spent half an hour, and a very delightful half-hour, +watching him handle the sea food, as he calls it, in his big +refrigerator. I got a look, too, at his chest and his arms, and at +his pretty wife and children. She is really the best type of the two. +American, you say, both of them, and a fine pair they are, and he +tells me he pulled a surf-boat in your coast-guard when he was a lad of +twenty, then took up fishing, and then went into Fulton Market, helping +at a stall, and now he is up here with two delivery wagons and four +assistants and is a member of a fish union, whatever that is. +It's astonishing! And yet I have met him many a time pushing his +baby-carriage around the block.” + +“Yes,” Kitty answered, putting on a shovel of coal, “and I'll lay ye a +wager, Mr. O'Day, that Polly Codman will be drivin' through Central Park +in her carriage before five years is out; and she deserves it, for there +ain't a finer woman from here to the Battery.” + +“I am quite sure of it, Mistress Kitty. That is where the American comes +in--or, perhaps it is the New Yorker. I have not been here long enough +to find out.” + +Of all these neighbors, however, it was Timothy Kelsey, the hunchback, +largely because of his misfortunes and especially because of his vivid +contrast to all the others, who appealed to him most. Tim, as has been +said, kept the second-hand book-shop, half-way down the block on the +opposite side of the street. He was but a year or two older than O'Day, +but you would never have supposed it had Tim not told you--and not then +unless you had looked close and followed the lines of care deep cut in +his face and the wrinkles that crowded close to his deep, hollowed-out +eyes. When he was a boy of two, his sister, a girl of six, had let him +drop to the sidewalk, and he had never since straightened his back. The +customary outlets by which fully equipped men earn their living having +been denied Tim, he had passed his boyhood days in one of the +small, down-town libraries cataloguing the books. With this came the +opportunity to attend the auction sales when some rare volume was to be +bid for, he representing the library. A small shop of his own followed +in the lower part of the town, and then the one a little below Kling's, +where he lived alone with only a caretaker to look after his wants. + +Kelsey had arrived one morning shortly after Felix had entered Kling's +service, carrying a heavily bound book which he laid on a glass case +under Otto's nose. “Take a look at it, Otto,” he said, after pausing a +moment to get his breath, the volume being heavy. “There is more brass +than leather on the outside, and more paint than text on the inside. I +have two others from the same collection. It is in your line rather than +in mine, I take it. What do you think of it? Could you sell it?” + +Kling dropped his glasses from his forehead to the bridge of his flat +nose. “Vell! Dot is a funny-looking book, Tim. Dot is awful old, you +know.” + +“Yes, seventeenth century, I think,” replied Tim. + +“Vot you tink, Mr. O'Day? Ain't dot a k'veer book? Oh, you don't have +met my new clerk, have you, Tim? Vell dot's funny, for he lives over at +Kitty's. Vell, dis is him--Mr. Felix O'Day. Tim Kelsey is an olt friend +of mine, Mr. O'Day. You must have seen dot k'veer shop vich falls down +into de cellar from de sidevalk--vell, dat's Tim's.” + +Felix smiled good-naturedly, bowed to Kelsey, and taking the huge, +brass-bound volume in his hands, passed his fingers gently across the +leather and then over the heavy clamps, turning the book to the light +of the window so as to examine the chasing the closer. Tim, who had been +watching him, remarked the ease with which he handled the volume and the +care with which he ran his eye along the edges of the inside of the back +before paying the slightest attention to the quality of the vellum or +to the title-page. + +“Did you say you thought it was seventeenth century, Mr. Kelsey?” Felix +asked thoughtfully. + +“Yes, I should say so.” + +“I would put it somewhat earlier. The binding is wholly tool-work, much +older than the brasses, which, I think, have been renewed--at least the +clamps--certainly one of them is of a later period. The vellum and +the illuminated text”--again he scrutinized the title-page, this +time turning a few of the inside leaves--“is before Gutenberg's +time. Handwork, of course, by some old monk. Very curious and very +interesting. And you say there are two others like this one?” + +The hunchback, whose big, shaggy head reached but a very little above +the case over which the colloquy was taking place, stretched himself +upon his toes as if to see Felix the better. “You seem to know something +of books, sir,” he remarked in a surprised tone. “May I ask where you +picked it up?” + +Again Felix smiled, a curious expression lurking around his thin lips--a +way with him when he intended to be non-committal. He was now more +interested in the speaker than in the object before him, especially in +the big dome head and sunken eyes, shaded by bushy eyebrows, the only +feature of the man which seemed to have had a chance to grow to its +normal size. He had caught, too, a certain high-pitched note, one of +suffering running through the hunchback's speech--often discernible +in those who have been robbed of their full physical strength and +completeness. + +“Oh, I don't know, Mr. Kelsey. There are, as you know, but few old clamp +books like this in existence. There are some in the Bibliotheque in +Paris, and a good many in Spain. I remember handling one some years ago +in Cordova. When you have seen a fine example you are not apt to forget +it. Why do you sell it?” + +Kelsey settled down upon his heels--the upper half of his misshapen body +telescoping the lower--and shoved both hands into his pockets. “I did +not come here to sell it”--there was a touch of irony in his voice--“I +came to find out whether Kling could sell it. Do you think YOU could?” + +“I might, or I might not. Only a few people about here, so I understand, +can appreciate this sort of thing.” + +“What is it worth?” He was still eying him closely. People who praised +his things were those who never wanted to buy. + +“Not very much,” replied Felix. + +“Oh, but I thought you said it was very rare?” + +“So it is--almost too rare--and almost too old. If it had been done +fifty or more years later, on one of Gutenberg's presses, Quaritch might +give you two thousand pounds for it. Hand-work--which ought really to be +more valuable than machine-work--is worth pence, where the other sells +for pounds. One of Gutenberg's Bibles sold here a year ago for three +thousand guineas, so I am told. What are the other two like?” + +“No difference--a clasp is gone from one. The other is--” He stopped, +his mien suddenly changing to one of marked respect, even to one of awe. +“Will you do me a favor, sir?” + +“With pleasure”--again the same quiet smile. He had read the financial +workings of the bookseller's mind with infinite amusement and decided to +see more of him. “What can I do for you?” + +“I want you to come over with me to my shop. You won't object, will you, +Otto? I won't keep him a minute.” + +“Let me come a little later, sir, say about nine o'clock. I have work +here until six and an engagement, which is important, until nine. You +are open as late as that?” + +“Oh, I am always open, or can be,” Kelsey answered. “What would I shut +up shop for except to keep out the rats--human and otherwise? I live in +my place, and, as I live alone, nobody ever disturbs me--nobody I want +to see--and I do want you, and want you very much. Well, then, come at +nine, and if the blinds are up, ring the bell.” And so the acquaintance +began. + + +And yet, interesting as he found these diversions with his neighbors, +there were moments when, despite his determination to be cheerful and to +add his quota to the general fund of good-fellowship, he had to summon +all his courage to prevent his spirit sinking to its lowest ebb. It was +then he would turn to the thing that lay nearest to hand, his work--work +often so irksome to him that, but for his sense both of obligation +and of justice to his employer and his love for Masie, he would have +abandoned it altogether. + +A possible relief came when through the protests of a customer he +had begun to realize the clearer Kling's deficiencies and had, in +consequence, cast about for some plan of helping him to do a larger and +more remunerative business. + +Several ways by which this could be accomplished were outlined in his +mind. The disorder everywhere apparent in the shop should first come to +an end. The present chaos of tables, chairs, bureaus, and sideboards, +heaped higgledy-piggledy one upon the other--the customers edging their +way between lanes of dusty furniture--must next be abolished. So must +the jumble of glass, china, curios, and lamps. This completed, color and +form would be considered, each taking its proper place in the general +scheme. + +To accomplish these results, all the unsalable, useless, and ugly +furniture taking up valuable space must be carted away to some auction +room and sold for what it would bring. Light, air, and much-needed room +would then follow, and prices advanced to make up for the loss on the +“rattletrap” and the “rickety.” Stuffs which had been poked away in +worthless bureau drawers for years, as being too ragged even to show, +were next to be hauled out, patched, and darned, and then hung on the +bare white walls, concealing the dirt and the cracks. + +And these improvements, strange to say--Kling being as obstinate as the +usual Dutch cabinetmaker, and as set in his ways--were finally carried +out; slowly at first, and with a rush later when every customer who +entered the door began by complimenting Otto on the improvement. Soon +the sales increased to such an extent and the stock became so depleted +that Kling was obliged to look around for articles of a better and +higher grade to take its place. + +At this juncture a happy and unforeseen accident came to his aid. A +bric-a-brac dealer with a shop in Jersey City filled with some very +good English and Italian patterns and a fine assortment of European +gatherings--most of them rare, and all of them good--fell ill and was +ordered to Colorado for his health. His wife had insisted on going with +him, and thus the whole concern, including its good-will--worthless to +Kling--was offered to him at half its value. + +O'Day spent the entire morning crawling in and out of the interstices +of the choked-up Jersey City shop; Masie, as his valuable assistant, +propped up with Fudge on a big table until he had finished. The next day +the bargain was made. Mike, Bobby, the two Dutchies, and both Kitty's +teams were then called in and the transfer began. + +It was when this collection of things really worth having were being +moved into their new home under Felix's personal direction that Masie +announced to him an important event. They were on the second floor at +the time, overlooking Hans and Mike, who had just brought up-stairs the +first of the purchase, a huge, high-backed gilt chair, stately in its +proportions--Spanish, Felix thought--with a few renovations about the +arms and back, but a good specimen withal. The chair had evidently +excited her imagination, reminding her, perhaps, of some of the pictures +in Tim Kelsey's fairy books, for after looking at it for a moment she +began clapping her hands and whirling about the room. + +“I've thought of such a lovely thing, Uncle Felix! Let's play kings and +queens! I will sit in this chair and will dress Fudge up like a page and +everybody will come up and courtesy, or I will be the fairy princess and +you will be my beauty prince, and--” + +Felix, who was holding up the heavy end of a piece of tapestry while +the two men were clearing a place for it behind the chair, called out, +“When's all this to happen, Tootcoms?”--one of his pet names; he had a +dozen of them. + +“Next Saturday.” + +“Why next Saturday?” + +“Because then I'm eleven years old, and you know that a great many fairy +princesses are never any older.” + +Down went the tapestry. “Your birthday! You blessed little angel! Eleven +years old! My goodness, how time flies! Pretty soon you will be in long +dresses, with your hair in a knot on the top of your head. You never +told me a word about it!” + +“No, but I do now. And I am just going to have a party--a real party. +And I am going to invite everybody, all the girls I know and all the +boys and all the old people.” + +Felix had her beside him now, her fresh young cheek against his. “You +don't tell me! Well! I never heard anything like it! And what will your +father say?” + +Her face fell. “Don't let's tell him! Let's have a surprise.” + +Felix shook his head. “I am afraid we could never do that, unless we +locked him up in the cellar and did not give him a thing to eat until +everything was ready. Oh, just think how he would beg for mercy!” + +Masie rubbed her cheek up and down that of Felix in disapproval. “No, +you wouldn't be so mean to poor Popsy.” + +“Well, then, suppose--suppose--” and he held her teasingly from him +to note the effect of his words--“suppose we make him go away--way off +somewhere, to buy something--so far away that he could not come back +until the next day. How would that do?” + +“No, that won't do--not a little bit! I've got a better plan. You go +right down-stairs this minute and tell him it's all fixed, and that I'm +going out this very afternoon to invite everybody myself.” + +Felix made a wry fate. “Suppose he sends me about my business?” + +“He won't. He thinks you are the most WONDERFUL man in the world--he +told Mr. Kelsey so; I heard him--and he won't refuse you anything--oh, +Uncle Felix”--both arms were around his neck now, always her last +argument--“I do so want a birthday party and I want it right here in +this room.” + +Felix smoothed back the hair from her pleading eyes and kissed her +tenderly on the forehead. For a moment there was silence between them, +he continuing to smooth back her hair, she cuddling the tighter, her +usual way. She always let him think a while and it always came out +right. But he had made up his mind. It had been years since a birthday +of his own had been celebrated; nor had he ever helped, so far as he +could recollect, to celebrate the birthday of any child. Yes, Masie +should have her birthday, if he could bring it about, and it should be +the happiest of all her life. + +Suddenly he rose, releasing his neck from her grasp, and ran his eyes +around the almost bare interior--the big chair being the only article, +so far, in place. “It will make a grand banquet hall, Masie,” he said, +as if speaking more to himself than to her. “Let me see!” He walked +half the length of the floor and began studying the walls and the bare +rafters of the ceiling. These last had once been yellow-washed, age and +dust having turned the kalsomine to an old-gold tint, reminding him of a +ceiling belonging to a Venetian palace. + +“Yes,” he continued, with the same abstracted air, his head upturned, +“there's a good place for hanging a big lamp, if there is one in the new +lot, and there are spots where I can hang twenty or more smaller ones. +I will cover the side walls with stuffs and embroideries and put those +long Italian settees against--yes, Tweety-kins, it will come out all +right. It will make a splendid banquet hall! And after the party we will +leave it just so. Fine, my child! And I have an idea, too--a brilliant +idea. Hans, ask Mr. Kling to be good enough to come up here!” + +With the surrender of her Uncle Felix, Masie resumed her spinning around +the room and kept it up until the father's bald head showed clear above +the top of the stairs. + +“Masie has had one brilliant idea, Mr. Kling, and I have another. I will +tell you mine first.” It was wonderful how thoroughly he understood the +Dutchman. + +“Vell, vot is it?” Otto had sniffed something unusual in the atmosphere +and was on the defensive. When there was only one to deal with he +sometimes had his way; never when they were leagued together. + +“I propose,” continued O'Day, “to turn this whole floor into the sort +of a room one could live in--like many of the great halls I have seen +abroad--and I think we have enough material to make a success of it, +plenty of space in which to put everything where it belongs. Leave that +big chair where I have placed it, throw some rugs on the floor, nail the +stuffs and tapestries to the walls, fasten the brackets and sconces and +appliques on top of them, filled with candles, and hang the lanterns and +church lamps to the rafters. When I finish with it, you will have a room +to which your customers will flock.” + +Kling, bewildered, followed the play of O'Day's fingers in the air as if +he were already placing the ornaments and hangings with which his mind +was filled. + +“Vell, vot ve do vid de stuff dot's comin'--all dem sideboards and +chairs and de pig tables? Ve ain't got de space.” + +“Half of them will go here, and the balance we will pile away on the +top floor. When these are sold then we'll bring down the others--always +keeping up the character of the room. That is my idea. What do you think +of it?” + +The shopkeeper hesitated, his fat features twisted in calculation. +Every move of his new salesman had brought him in double his money. The +placing of his goods so that a customer would be compelled to crawl over +a table in order to see whether a chair had three whole legs or two, +dust and darkness helping, had always seemed to him one of the tricks of +the trade and not to be abandoned lightly. + +“You mean dot ve valk 'round loose in de middle, and everyting is shoved +back de Vall behind, so you can see it all over?” + +Felix smothered a smile. “Certainly, why not?” + +“Vell, Mr. O'Day, I don't know.” Then, noticing the quickly drawn brows +of his clerk's face and the shadow of disappointment: “Of course, ve can +try it, and if it don't vork ve do it over, don't ve?” + +Masie slipped her arm through O'Day's and began a joyous tattoo with her +foot. She knew now that Felix had carried the day. + +“And now for Masie's idea, Mr. Kling.” + +“Oh, dere is someting else, eh? I tought dere vould be ven you puts your +two noddles togedder--Vell, vot is dot all about, eh?” + +“She is to have a birthday. She will be eleven years old next Saturday.” + +“By Jeminy, yes, dot's so! I forgot dot, Masie. Yes, it comes on de +tventy-fust. Vy you don't tell me before, little Beesvings?” + +“Yes, next Saturday; only four days off,” continued Felix, forging ahead +to avoid any side-tracking of his main theme. “And what are you going to +do for her? Not many more of them before she will be out of the window +like a bird, and off with somebody else.” + +Otto ruminated. He loved his daughter, even if he did sometimes forget +her very existence. “Oh, I don't know. I guess ve buy her sometings +putty--vot you like to have, Beesvings? Or maybe you like to go to de +teater vid Auntie Gossburger. I get de tickets.” + +The child disengaged her hand from O'Day's arm, pushed back her hair +and tiptoed to her father. “I want a party, Popsy--a real party,” she +whispered, tipping his chin back with her fingers, so he could look at +her through his spectacles--not over them, like an ogre. + +“Vere you have it?” This came in a bewildered way, as if the pair had +the big ballroom at Delmonico's in the back of their heads. + +“Here, in this very place,” broke in Felix, “after I get it in order.” + +Kling, gently freeing himself from Masie's hold, stared at his clerk. +“Dot vill cost a lot of money, don't it?” + +“No, I do not think so.” + +“Vell, who is coming? De childer all around?” + +“Everybody is coming--big, little, and middle-sized,” answered Felix. +The cat was all out of the bag now. + +“Vell, dot's vot I said. You don't can get someting for nodding. You +must have blenty to eat and drink.” + +“No. Some simple refreshment will do--sandwiches, cake, and some +ice-cream. I'll take care of that myself, if you'll permit me.” + +“Vell, now stop a minute vunce--here is anudder idea. Suppose ve make +it a Dutch treat--everybody bring sometings. Ve had vun last vinter at +Budvick's, de upholsterer, ven he vas married tventy-five years. I give +de apples--more as half a peck.” + +Felix broke into a hearty, ringing laugh--one of the few either Masie or +his employer had ever heard escape his lips. + +“We will let you off without even the apples this time,” he said, when +he recovered himself. “They are not coming to get something to eat this +time. I will give them something better.” + +“And you say everybody is comin'. Who is dot everybody?” + +“Just leave it all to me, Mr. Kling. And give yourself no concern. I +am going to use everything we have: all our cups and saucers, no matter +whether they are Spode, Lowestoft, or Worcester; all the platters, +German beer mugs, candlesticks--even that rare old tablecloth +trimmed with church lace. This is an entertainment to be given by a +distinguished antiquary in honor of his lovely daughter”--and he bowed +to each in turn--“the whole conducted under the management of his junior +clerk, Mr. F. O'Day, who is very much at your service, sir.” + + + + +Chapter VIII + + + +Bright and early the following morning Felix began work, and for the +next two days took entire charge of the room, walking up and down its +length, an absolute dictator, brooking no interference from any one. +When Mike's frowsy head or Hans's grimy hands appeared above the level +of the landing from the floor below, steadying with their chins some new +possession, it was either, “here, in the middle of the room, men!” or, +if it were big and cumbersome, “up-stairs, out of the way!” This had +gone on until the banquet hall was one conglomerate mass of mixed +chattels from the Jersey shop, Kling's old stock being stowed in some +other part of the building. Then began the picking out. First the +doubtful, but rich in color, tapestries, then the rugs--some fairly +good ones--stuffs, old and new, and every available rag which would +hold together were spread over the four walls and the front windows. The +heavier and more decorative pieces of furniture came next--among them +a huge wooden altar which had never been put together and which was now +backed close against the tapestries and hanging rugs in the centre of +the long wall. Two Venetian wedding-chests, low enough to sit upon, were +next placed in position, and between them three Spanish armchairs in +faded velvet and one in crinkly leather, held together by big Moorish +nails of brass. Above these chests and chairs were hung gilt brackets +holding church candles, Spanish mirrors so placed that the shortest +woman in the party could see her face, and big Italian disks of dull +metal. The walls were wonderful in their rich simplicity, and so was the +disposition of the furniture, Felix's skilful eye having preserved +the architectural proportions in both the selection and placing of the +several articles. + +More wonderful than all else, however, was the great gold throne at the +end of the room, on which Masie was to sit and receive her guests and +which was none other than the big cardinal's chair, incrusted with +mouldy gilt, that had first inspired her with the idea of the party. +This was hoisted up bodily and placed on an auctioneer's platform which +Mike had found tilted back against the wall in the cellar. To hide its +dirt and cracks, rugs were laid, pieced out by a green drugget which +extended half across the floor, now swept of everything except two +refreshment tables. + +Next came the ceiling. What Felix did to that ceiling, or rather what +that ceiling did for Felix, and how it looked when he was through with +it is to this very day a topic of discussion among the now scattered +inhabitants of “The Avenue.” Masie knew, and so did deaf Auntie +Gossburger, who often spent the day with the child. She, with Masie, had +been put in charge of the china and glass department, and when the +old woman had pulled up from the depths of a barrel first one red cup +without a handle and then a dozen or more, and had asked what they were +for, Felix had seized them with a cry of joy: “Oil cups! They fit on +the tops of these church lamps. I never expected to find these! Mike! +Go over to Mr. Pestler's and tell him to send me a small box of floating +night-tapers--the smallest he has. Now, Tootcums, you wait and see!” + +And then the step-ladder was moved up, and Mike and one of the +Dutchies passed up the lamps to Felix, who drove the hooks into the +rafters--twenty-two of them--and then slid down to the floor, taking in +the general effect, only to clamber up again to lengthen this chain, or +shorten that, so that the whole ceiling, when the cups were filled and +the tapers lighted, would be a blaze of red stars hung in a firmament of +dull, yellow-washed gold. + +The final touch came last. This was both a surprise and a discovery. +Hans had found it flattened out on the top of a big, circular table, +and was about to tear it loose when Felix, who let nothing escape +his vigilant eye, seized its metal handle, whereupon the mass sagged, +tilted, straightened, and then rounded out into a superb Chinese lantern +of yellow silk, decorated with black dragons, with only one tear in its +entire circumference, and that one Auntie Gossburger darned so skilfully +that nobody noticed the hole. This, Felix, after much consideration, +swung to the rafter immediately over the throne, so that its mellow +light should fall directly on the child's face. + +Kling, while these preparations were in progress, was in a state of mind +bordering on the pathetic. Felix had made him promise not to come up +until the room was finished, but every few hours his head would be +thrust up over the edge of the stairs, his eyes screwed up in his fat +face, an expression of wonder, not unmixed with anxiety, flitting across +his countenance. Then he would back down-stairs, muttering to himself +all the time; his chief cause of complaint being the hiding of so many +things his customers might want to buy and the displaying of so many +others at which they might only want to look! + +There was, however, even after the decorations seemed complete, a bare +corner to be filled with something neither too big, nor too small, nor +too insistent in color or form. Felix went twice over the stock, old +and new, twisted and turned, and was about to give up when he +suddenly called to Masie, his face lighting under the glow of a fresh +inspiration: + +“I have it now! Come, Tootcums, with me! Mr. Sanderson will help us +out.” All of which came true; for Mr. Sanderson, ten minutes later, +had bent his head close to the child's lips to hear the better, and had +said: “Only two? Why, Masie, you can have the lot.” And that was how the +bare corner was filled with three great palms--the biggest he had in +his shop--and the grand salon of the Grande Duchesse Masie Beeswings de +Kling at last made ready for her guests. + +This done, Felix made a final inspection of the room, adding a touch +here and there--shifting a piece of pottery or redraping the frayed end +of a square of tapestry--and finding that everything kept its place in +the general effect, without a single discordant note, drew Masie to a +seat beside him on one of the old Venetian chests. Here, with his arms +about the enthusiastic child, he laid bare the next and to him the most +important number on the programme. + +And in this he wrought another upheaval, one almost as great as had +taken place in the room. The time-honored custom of all birthday parties +entailing upon the invited the giving of presents as proof of affection, +was not, he hinted gently, to be observed upon this occasion. “It is +Masie who is to give the presents,” he whispered, holding her closer, +“and not her guests.” + +The child at first had protested. The long procession of guests coming +up to hand her their gifts, and her fun next day when looking them +over--knowing how queer some of them would be--had been part of her +joyful anticipation, but Felix would not yield. + +“You see, Masie, darling,” he coaxed, “now that you are going to be a +real princess,” he was smoothing back her curls as he spoke, “you are +going to be so high up in the world that nobody will dare to give you +any presents. That is the way with all princesses. Kings and queens +are never given presents on their birthdays unless their permission is +asked, but, just because they ARE kings and queens, they give presents +to everybody else. And then again, Masie, dear, if you stop to think +about it, people really get a great deal more fun out of giving things +than they do of having things given to them.” + +She succumbed, as she always did, when her “Uncle Felix,” with his voice +lowered to a whisper, his lips held close to her ear, either counselled +or chided her, and a new joy thrilled through her as he explained how +his plan was to be carried out. + +Kling lifted up his hands in protest when he heard of O'Day's +innovation, but was overruled and bowled over before he had framed his +first sentence. It was the sentiment, Felix insisted, which was to be +considered, the good feeling behind the gift, not the cost of it. He and +Masie had worked it all out together, and please not to interfere. + +But Kling did interfere, and right royally, too, when he found time to +think it over. Some one of the old German legends must have worked its +way through the dull crust of his brain, bringing back memories of his +childhood. Perhaps his conscience was pricked by his clerk's attitude. +Whatever the cause, certain it is that he crept up-stairs a few hours +before his house was to be thrown open to Masie's guests, and, finding +the banquet hall completely finished and nobody about, Felix and Masie +having gone out together to perfect some little detail connected with +the gifts, walked around in an aimless way, overwhelmed by the beauty +and charm of the interior as it lay before him in the afternoon light. + +On his way down he met the deaf Gossburger coming up. + +“Dot is awful nice!” he shouted. “I couldn't believe dot was possible! +Dot is a vunderful--VUNderful man! I don't see how dem rags and dot +stuff look like dot ven you get 'em togedder anodder vay. And now dere +is vun thing I don't got in my head yet: Vot is it about dese presents?” + +The old woman recounted the details as best she could. + +“And dot is all, is it, Auntie Gossburger? Only of pasteboard boxes +vid candies in 'em, and little pieces paper vid writings on 'em dot Mr. +O'Day makes? Is dot vot you mean?” + +The old woman nodded. + +Kling turned suddenly, went down-stairs with his head up and shoulders +back, called Hans to keep shop, and put on his hat. + +When he returned an hour later, he was followed by a man carrying a big +box. This was placed behind Masie's throne and so concealed by a rug +that even Felix missed seeing it. + + +That everybody had accepted--everybody who had been invited--“big, +little, and middle-sized”--goes without saying. Masie had called at each +house herself, with Felix as cavalier--just as he had promised her. And +they had each and every one, immediately abandoned all other plans +for that particular night, promising to be there as early as could be +arranged, it being a Saturday and the shops on “The Avenue” open an hour +later than usual--an indulgence counterbalanced by the fact that next +day was Sunday and they could all sleep as long as they pleased. + +And not only the neighbors, but Nat Ganger and Sam Dogger accepted. +Felix had gone down himself with Masie's message, and they both had said +they would come--Sam to be on hand half an hour before the appointed +hour of nine so as to serve as High Lord of the Robes, Masie having +determined that nobody but “dear old Mr. Dogger” should show her how to +put on the costume he had given her. + +As for these two castaways, when they did enter the gorgeous room on the +eventful night they fairly bubbled over. + +“Don't let old Kling touch it,” Ganger roared out as soon as he stepped +inside, before he had even said “How do you do?” to anybody. “Keep it as +an exhibit. Better still, send circulars up and down Fifth Avenue, +and open it up as a school--not one of 'em knows how to furnish their +houses. How the devil did you--Oh, I see! Just plain yellow-wash and the +reflected red light. Looks like a stained-glass window in a measly old +church. Where's Sam. Oh, behind that screen. Well come out here and look +at that ceiling!” + +Sam didn't come out, and didn't intend to. He was busy with the child's +curls, which were bunched up in the fingers of one hand, while the other +was pressing the wide leghorn hat into the precise angle which would +become her most, the Gossburger standing by with the rest of the +costume, Masie's face a sunburst of happiness. + +“And now the long skirt, Mrs. Bombagger, or whatever your name is. +That's it, over her head first and then down along the floor so she will +look as if she was grown up. And now the big ostrich-plume fan--a little +seedy, my dear, and yellow as a kite's foot, but nobody'll see it under +that big, yellow lantern. Now let me look at you! Nat, NAT! where are +you, you beggar, stop rummaging around that dead stuff and come behind +here and look at this live child! yes, right in here. Now look! Did you +ever in all your born days see anything half so pretty?” the outburst +ending with, “Scat, you little devil of a dog!” when Fudge gave a howl +at being stepped upon. + +Masie, as she listened, plumed her head as a pigeon would preen its +feathers, stood up to see her train sweep the floor, sat down again to +watch the stained satin folds crumple themselves about her feet, and was +at last so overcome by it all that she threw her arms around Sam, to his +intense delight, and kissed him twice, and would have given Nat an equal +number had not Felix called to him that the guests were beginning to +arrive. + +As to these guests, you could not have gotten their names on one side of +Kitty's order-book, nor on both sides, for that matter. There was brisk, +bustling Bundleton the grocer in a green necktie, white waistcoat, +and checked trousers, arm and arm with his thin wife in black silk and +mitts; there was Heffern the dairyman in funeral black, relieved by a +brown tie, and his daughter, in variegated muslin, accompanied by two +young men whom neither Kling nor Felix nor the Gossburger had ever +heard of or seen before, but who were heartily welcomed; there were fat +Porterfield the butcher in his every-day clothes, minus his apron, with +his two girls, aged ten and fourteen, their hair in pigtails tied +with blue ribbons; there were Mr. and Mrs. Codman, all in their best +“Sunday-go-to-meetings,” with their little daughter Polly, named after +the mother, pretty as a picture and a great friend of Masie--most +distinguished people were the Codmans, he looking like an alderman and +his wife the personification of good humor, her rosy cheeks matching the +tint of her husband's necktie. + +There was Digwell the undertaker in his professional clothes, enlivened +by a white waistcoat and red scarf, quite beside himself with joy +because nobody had died or was likely to die so far as he had heard, +thus permitting him to “send dull care to the winds!”--his own way of +putting it. There was Pestler the druggist in an up-to-date dress suit +as good as anybody's--almost as good as the one Felix wore, and from +which, for the first time since he landed, he had shaken the creases. +There was Tim Kelsey, in the suit of clothes he wore every day, the only +difference being the high collar instead of the turned-down one, the +change giving him the appearance of a man with a bandaged neck, so +narrow were his poor shoulders and so big was the fine head overtopping +it. There were Mike and Bobby and the two Dutchies and Sanderson, who +came with his hands full of roses for Masie, and a score of others whose +names the scribe forgets, besides lots and lots of children of all sizes +and ages. + +And there were Kitty and John--and they were both magnificent--at least +Kitty was--she being altogether resplendent in black alpaca finished off +by a fichu of white lace, her big, full-bosomed, robust body filling +it without a crease; and he in a new suit bought for the occasion, and +which fitted him everywhere except around the waist--a defect which +Kitty had made good by means of a well-concealed safety-pin in the back. + +It was for Kitty that Felix had been on the lookout ever since the +guests began to arrive, and no sooner did her rosy, beaming face appear +behind that of her husband, than he pushed his way through the throng +to reach her side. “No, not out here, Mistress Kitty,” he cried. Had she +been of royal blood he could not have treated her with more distinction. +“You are to stand alongside of Masie when she comes in; the child has no +mother, and you must look after her.” + +“No mother! Mr. O'Day! God rest your soul, she won't need to do without +one long, she's that lovely. There'll be plenty will want to mother, and +brother her, too, for that matter. My goodness, what a place ye made of +it! Look at them lamps, all fireworks up there, and that big chair! I +wonder who robbed a church to get it! Well--well---WELL! John! did +ye ever see the like? Otto, ye ought to rent this place out for a +chowder-party ball. Well, well, I NEVER!” + +The comments of some of the others, while they voiced their complete +surprise, were less enthusiastic. Bundleton, after shaking hands with +Felix and Kitty, and then with Kling, dropped his wife and made a tour +of the room without uttering a sound of any kind until he reached Felix +again, when he remarked gravely: “I should think it would worry you some +to keep the moths out of this stuff,” and then passed on to tell Kling +he must look out “them lamps didn't spill and set things on fire.” + +Porterfield, as was to be expected, was distinctly practical. “Awful lot +of truck when you get it all together, ain't it, Mr. O'Day? I was +just tellin' my wife that them two chairs up t'other side of the room +wouldn't last long in my parlor, they're that wabbly. But maybe these +Fifth Avenue folks don't do no sittin'--just keep 'em in a glass case to +look at.” + +Pestler was more discerning. He had come across an iridescent glass jar, +and was edging around for an opportunity to ask Kling the price without +letting Felix overhear him--it being an occasion, he knew, in which Mr. +O'Day would feel offended if business were mentioned. “Might do to put +in my window, if it didn't cost too much,” he had begun, and as suddenly +stopped as he caught Felix's eyes fastened upon him. + +There were others, however, whose delight could not be repressed. Tim +Kelsey, after the proper greetings were over, had wandered off down +the room, stopping to examine each article in its place on the walls. +Finally some pieces of old Delft caught his eye. He made a memorandum of +two in a little book he took from his inside pocket, and later on, when +a break in the surrounding conversation made it possible, remarked +to Felix: “They seem to get everything in the new Delft but the old +delicious glaze. On a wall it doesn't matter, but you don't feel like +putting real old Delft on a wall. I like to stroke it, as I would a +friend's hand.” + +These inspections and comments over, and that peculiar timidity which +comes over certain classes lifted out of their customary environment and +doing their best to become accustomed to new surroundings having begun +to wear away under the tactful welcome of Felix, and the hour having +arrived for the grand ceremony of gift-giving, the throne was pushed +back, Masie called from behind her screen, and O'Day's wicker basket +filled with the presents was laid by the side of the big chair. + +Kling and Kitty were now beckoned to and placed on the left of the +throne, Felix taking up his position on the right. + +The stir on the platform caused by these arrangements soon attracted +everybody's attention and a sudden hush fell upon the room. What was +about to happen nobody knew, but something important, or Mr. O'Day would +not have stepped to its edge, nor would Otto have been so red in the +face, nor Kitty so radiant. + +Felix raised his hand to command supreme silence. + +“Masie wishes me,” he began in his low, even voice, “to tell you that +she has done her best to remember every one, and that she hopes nobody +has been forgotten. These little trifles she is about to give you are +not gifts, but just little mementos to express her thanks for your +kindness in coming to her first party. She bids me tell you, too, that +her love goes out to every one of you on this the happiest night of her +life and that she welcomes you all with her whole heart.” + +He turned, stepped back a pace, made the radiant child a low bow, held +out his hand, and led her into full view of the audience, the rays of +the big lantern softening the tones of the quaint, picturesque costume +which concealed her slight figure, transforming the child of eleven into +the woman of eighteen. + +For at least ten seconds, and that is a long period of time when your +heart is in your mouth and you are ready to explode with uncontrollable +delight, not a sound of any kind broke the silence, no handclap of +welcome, no murmur of applause; just plain, simple astonishment, the +kind that takes your breath away. That Kling's little girl stood before +them, nobody believed. O'Day had fooled them with this new vision, just +as he had bewitched them by the glamour of the decorated room. Only when +a few simple words of welcome fell from her lips were the flood-gates +opened. Then a shout went up which set the candles winking--a shout +only surpassed in volume and good cheer when Felix began handing up the +little packages from Masie's basket. And dainty little packages they +were, filled with all sorts of inexpensive souvenirs that she and Felix +(not much money between the two of them) had picked up at Baxter's +Toy Shop on Third Avenue, all suggested by some peculiarity of the +recipient, all kindly and good-natured, and each one enlivened by a +quotation or some original line in Felix's own handwriting. + +During the whole delightful ceremony Otto had stood on the left of his +daughter, his heart thumping away, his face growing redder every minute, +his eyes intent on each guest elbowing a way through the crowd as Masie +handed them their gifts, noting the general happiness and the laughter +that followed the reading of the lines, wondering all the time why no +one was offended at the size and, to him, worthlessness of the several +offerings. + +When it was all over and the basket empty, he jumped down from the +platform, his fat back bent in excitement, tossed aside the rug, lifted +the big box, placed it beside the gilt throne, and raised his puffy +hands to command attention: “Now listen, everybody! I got someting to +say. Beesvings don't have all dis to herselluf. Now it is my turn. Come +up closer so I get hold of you. Vait, and I git back on de platform. +Here, you olt frent of mine, Dan Porterfield, here is a new +butcher-knife sharpener for you, to sharpen your knives on ven you cuts +dem bifsteaks. And, Heffern, come close; here is a silver-plated skimmer +for dot cream you make, and a pig fan for your daughter. And Polly +Codman--git out of de way dere, and let Polly Codman come up!--here, +Polly, is a pair of gloves for you and a muffler for Codman, and here is +more gloves and neckties and--I got a lot more; I didn't got much time +and I bought dem all in a hurry--and dey are all from me and Masie and +don't you forgit dot. I ain't never been so happy as I am to-night, +and you vas awful good to come and see my little girl dot don't got no +mudder. And you must all tank Mr. O'Day for de great help he vas. Now +dot's all I got to say.” + +He drew his hand across his eyes, made an awkward bow, and sat down. +Everybody gasped in amazement. Many of them had known him for years, +ever since he moved into “The Avenue”--twenty years, at least--but +nobody had ever seen him as he was to-night. That he had in his intended +generosity overlooked half of his friends made no difference. Those who +received something showed it for weeks afterward to everybody who came. +Those who had nothing forgave him in their delight over the good-will +he had shown to the others. Even Felix, who had been watching him soften +and thaw out under the warmth of the child's happiness, and who thought +he knew the man and his nature, was astounded, and showed it by grasping +for the first time his employer's hand, looking him in the eyes as he +said, “I owe you an apology, sir,” a proceeding Otto often pondered +over, its meaning wholly escaping him. + +But the great surprise of the evening, in which even Felix had had no +share, was yet to come. He had carried out his promise to provide the +simple refreshments, and a table had been set apart for their serving. +The sandwiches made at the bakeshop a block below had already arrived +and been put in place, and he was about to announce supper, when he +became aware that a mysterious conference was being held near the top of +the stairs, in which Kitty, Polly Codman, and Heffern's daughter Mary, +were taking part. He had already noticed, with some discomfiture, the +absence of a number of male guests, half of them having left the room +without presenting themselves before Masie to bid her good night, and +was about to ask Kitty for an explanation, when a series of thumping +sounds reached his ear; something heavy was being rolled along the +floor beneath his feet. As the noise increased, Kitty and her beaming +coconspirators craned their necks over the banisters and a welcoming +roar went up. Bundleton's head now came into view, a wreath of smilax +wound loosely around his neck, followed by one of his men carrying a keg +of beer; another shouldering a sawhorse, a wooden mallet, and a wooden +spigot; and still a third with a basket of stone mugs. + +“Come, folks and neighbors, everybody have a glass of beer with me!” + shouted Bundleton. + +Up went the sawhorse before you would wink your eye! Down went the keg +across its arms, the smilax around it! Bang went the bung! In went the +wooden spigot! And out flew the white froth! + +Another roar now went up, accompanied by great clapping of hands. It +was Codman's head this time, a cook's cap resting on his ears, his hands +bearing a great dish athwart which lay a cold salmon that the baker +had cooked for him that morning. Close behind came Pestler with a tray +filled with boxes of candy, and next Sanderson with a flattish basket +piled high with carnations, each one tied as a boutonniere; and +Porterfield with a bunch of bananas; and so on and so on--each arrival +being received with fresh roars and shouts of welcoming approval. Last +of all came Kitty, her face one great, pervading, all-embracing laugh, +her own big coffee-pot filled to the brim and smoking hot on a waiter, +her boy Bobby following, loaded down with cups and saucers. + +Supper over--and it was a mighty feast, with everybody waiting on +everybody else, Kitty busiest of all, filling each cup herself--Digwell +the undertaker, who had really been the life of the party, remarked in +a voice loud enough to be heard half-way across the room that it was a +pity there was no piano, as a party could not be a real party without +a dance. At this Kling, who was having a mug with Codman, rose from +his seat, stepped to the top of the stairs and, looking over the crowd, +called for four strong men, “right avay, k'vick!” Codman, Pestler, Mike, +and Digwell responded, and before anybody knew where they had gone, +or what it was all about, up came an old-fashioned spinet, which Kling +remembered had been hidden behind a Martha Washington bedstead on the +floor below. + +“All together, men!” shouted Codman, and it was picked up bodily, +whirled into position, dusted off in a jiffy, and ready for use. + +At this Pestler sprang to his feet, shouted he was coming back in a +minute, rushed to the stairway, went down three steps at a time, bolted +through the front door, across the street, up into his bedroom, and back +again, all in one breath, waving his violin triumphantly over his head +as he entered. + +And then it was that the real fun began. And then it was that virtue had +its own reward, for not a living soul in the room could play a note on +the spinet except the tallest and spookiest and, to all appearances, the +stupidest of the two young men, whom the Heffern girl had brought and +who turned out to have once been the star pianist in some dance-hall +on the Bowery. And the scribe remarks, parenthetically and in all +seriousness, that the way that lank, pin-headed young man revived the +soul of that old, worn-out harpischord, digging into its ribs, kicking +at its knees with both feet, hand-massaging every one of the keys up, +down, and crossways, until the ancient fossil fairly rattled itself +loose with the joy of being alive once more, was altogether the most +astounding miracle he has ever had to record. And Pestler with his +violin was not far behind. + +Everything had now broken loose. + +At the first note, up jumped Kitty, caught John around the neck, and +went whirling around the room. At the second note, up jumped Codman, +made a dive for Polly, missed her in the mix-up and, grabbing Mrs. +Digwell instead, went sailing down the room as if he had done nothing +else all his life. At the third note, away went Sanderson and Bundleton, +Heffern, everybody but the two castaways and Tim Kelsey, who beat juba +on their knees, old Sam Dogger playing a tattoo all by himself with two +knife-handles and a plate. Some danced with their own wives; some +with anybody's wife or daughter or child--a grand hullabaloo, down the +middle, across, back, and up again, until everybody was exhausted +and fell in a heap into Felix's Spanish chairs, or on his Venetian +wedding-chests, or wherever else they could find resting-places in which +to catch their breaths. + +And now comes the crowning touch of all--the last of the evening's +surprises, and one remembered the longest because of its simplicity and +its beauty! + +When everybody was resting, out stepped Felix, the light of the overhead +candles falling on his pale, thoughtful face, white shirt-front, and +faultless suit of black which fitted his well-knit, handsome frame like +a glove, and with him the Grande Duchesse Masie de Kling, the child +bowing and smiling as she passed, the wide leghorn hat shading her +face from the light of the lanterns above, her long train caught, +woman-fashion, over her arm. Then, with a low word to the pin-headed +young man, followed by a downward wave of his palm to denote the time, +and the child's fingers firm in his own, Felix led her through an +old-fashioned, stately minuet, telling her in an undertone just what +steps to take. + + +It was Sunday morning before the merry party broke up and streamed out +through Kling's lower shop, and so on into the street. Everybody had had +the time of their lives. Such remarks as “Would ye have believed it +of Otto?” or, “Wasn't Masie the sweetest thing ye ever saw?” or, “Just +think of Mr. O'Day fixing up that old junk room the way he did--ye can't +beat him nowheres!” or, “Oh, I tell ye, Otto struck it rich when he took +him on!”, were heard on all sides. + +So loud were the laughter and chatter, the good nights and good-bys, +that big Tom McGinniss moved over from the opposite curb. + +“Halloo, John!” cried the policeman. “I thought I couldn't be mistaken. +And Kitty, that you with your coffee-pot? I just come up from Lexington +Avenue and heard the row, wondering what was up. Is it up-stairs ye +were? WHAT! Dutchy givin' a ball? Oh, ye can't mean it! No, thank ye, +Kitty, it will be too late for ye all--I'll drop in to-morrow night. +Well, take care of yourselves,” and he disappeared in the darkness. + +Felix watched the throng disperse, bade Kitty and John good night, and, +turning sharply, directed his steps toward Madison Square. Here he sank +upon a bench, away from the glare of an overhead lamp. For some minutes +he sat without moving, his mind wholly absorbed with the events of the +preceding hours. The roar and crush of the room came back to him. He +caught again the light in Masie's eyes as she followed his lead in the +dance and the mob of happy faces crowding to her side, and then with a +shudder he confronted the gaunt sorrow that had hourly dogged his steps. +An overpowering sense of depression now took possession of him. Pushing +back his hat as if to give himself more air, he was about to resume his +walk when he became conscious that something had stirred at the far end +of the seat. + +Straightening his broad shoulders, his quick, alert manner returning, he +moved nearer, his eyes searching the gloom. A newsboy, a little chap of +seven or eight, his papers under him, lay fast asleep. + +For an instant he watched the rise and fall of the boy's breath, +adjusted the short, patched coat about the little fellow's knees, and +then slid back to his end of the bench. + +“Same old grind,” he said to himself, “no home--no money--cold--maybe +hungry. Never too young to suffer--never too old to eat your heart out. +What a damnable world it is!” + +Rising to his feet, he felt in his pocket for a coin, widened the pocket +of the waif's jacket, and slipped it in. The boy stirred, tightened his +grasp on his papers, and lay still. + +Felix looked down at him for a moment, turned, and with lightened steps +continued his walk. + +“Well, thank God,” he said as he neared “The Avenue,” “Masie was happy +one night in her life.” + + + + +Chapter IX + + + +That the memories of Masie's birthday party should have been revived +again and again, and that the several incidents should have been +discussed for days thereafter--every eye growing the brighter in the +telling--was to have been expected. Kitty could talk of nothing +else. The beauty of the room; the charm of Masie's costume; Kling's +generosity; and last, O'Day's bearing and appearance as he led the child +through the stately dance, looking, as Kitty expressed it, “that fine +and handsome you would have thought he was a lord mayor,” were now her +daily topics of conversation. + +Masie was equally enthusiastic, rushing down-stairs the next morning to +throw her arms around his neck with an “Oh, Uncle Felix, I never, NEVER, +NEVER was so happy in all my life!” + +Kling was still more jubilant. The success of Masie's banquet room had +established him at once among bric-a-brac dealers as a competitor quite +out of the ordinary. His old customers came in flocks, walking about +with gasps of astonishment. Before the week was out, a masonic lodge had +bought the throne, a seaside resort the big Chinese lantern, and two of +the four Spanish chairs had found a home in a millionaire's library. + +Moreover--and this was all the more remarkable in view of his early +training--a certain deference became apparent in the Dutchman's manner +not only toward Felix but toward his customers. He no longer received +them in his shirt-sleeves. He bought some new clothes and sported a +collar, necktie, and hat, duplicating those worn by Felix as near as his +memory served. + +Still more remarkable were the changes wrought among the neighbors in +their attitude toward O'Day. Until then they had, in their independent +fashion, treated him like any of the other men who came in and out their +several stores, pleased with his interest in the business, but quickly +forgetting him as they became reabsorbed in the affairs of the day. Now, +as they told him what a good time they had had on the birthday, they +raised their hats. Porterfield went so far as to tell the radiant Kitty +that her boarder was a “Jim Dandy,” and that if she should lay her hands +on another to “trot him out.” + +Kitty of course had expected these triumphs, but that it was she who had +made them possible, and that but for her own individual efforts Felix +might still be wandering around the streets in search of bed and board, +apparently never crossed her mind. He would have been just as splendid, +she said to herself, and just as much of a man no matter who had helped +and no matter where his feet had landed. + +If O'Day were aware of the changes of public opinion going on around +him, there was nothing in either his manner or in his speech to show it. +When they complimented him on the way in which he had utilized Otto's +old stock, producing so wonderful an interior, he would remark quietly +that it was nothing to his credit. He had always loved such things; that +it came natural to some people to put things to rights, and that any one +could have done as much. It was only when some one alluded to Masie that +his face would light up. “Yes, charming, was she not? Such a wonderful +little lady, and so good!” + +That which did please him--please him immensely--was the outcome of a +visit made some days after the party by old Nat Ganger. + +“Regular Aladdin lamp,” Nat shouted, slamming Kling's door behind +him. “One rub, bang goes the rubbish, and up comes an Oriental palace. +Another rub and little devils swarm over the walls and ceilings and +begin hanging up stuffs and lamps. Another rub, and before you can wink +your eye, out steps a little princess, a million times prettier than any +Cinderella that ever lived. Wonderful! WONDERFUL! + +“Where is the darling child anyway. Can't I see her? I got away from +Sam, telling him I was going to look up another frame for one of my +pictures. Here it is. All a lie, every bit of it. It's Sam's picture. +Not mine. I wrapped it up so he wouldn't know, but I came to see that +darling child all the same, for I've got a surprise for her. But first I +want you to see this picture. Here, wait until I untie this string. +It's one of Sam's Hudson Rivery things. Palisades and a steamboat in the +foreground, and an afternoon sky. Easy dodge, don't you see? Yellow sky +and purple hill, and short streak for the steamboat and its wake, and a +smear of white steam straggling behind. Sam does 'em as well as anybody. +Sometimes he puts in a pile or two in the foreground for a broken dock +and a rowboat with a lone fisherman squatting on the hind seat. Then +he asks five dollars more. Always get more you know for figures in a +landscape.” + +He had unwrapped the canvas by this time, and was holding it to the +light of the window that Felix might see it better. + +Felix studied it carefully, even to the cramped signature in the corner, +“Samuel Dogger, A. N. A.”; and with an appreciative smile said: “Very +good, I should say. Yes, very good.” + +“Good! It's really very bad, and you know it. So do I. But you're too +much of a gentleman to say so. Can't be worse, really, but 'puttying up' +is down by the heels, and there hasn't been an old master from Flushing, +Long Island, or Weehawken, New Jersey, lugged up our stairs for a +month;--two months, really. We had one last week from a dealer down-town +which turned out to be genuine after Sam had looked it over. And, of +course, Sam wouldn't touch it and sent for the auctioneer and told him +so. And the beggar made Sam hunt for the signature and Sam found it +at the top of the canvas instead of at the bottom. One of the early +Dutchmen Sam said it was. Some kind of a Beck or a Koven. And would you +believe it, the very next day the fellow got a whacking price for it +from a collector up in one of the side streets near the Park. So Sam +has gone back to the early American school. This means that he's getting +down to his last five-dollar bill, and I want to tell you that I'm +not far from it myself. I'd have been dead broke if I hadn't sold +two Fatimas. One in pink pants and the other a flying angel in summer +clothes to fit an alcove in an up-town barroom over the cigar-stand. + +“But my money isn't Sam's money,” he went on without pausing, “and Sam +won't touch a penny of it. Never does unless I fool him on the sly. And +I've come up here to fool him now, and fool him bad. I want you to hold +on to this bust--wait until I get it out of my pocket.” Here he pulled +out a small bronze, a head of Augustus, beautifully wrought. + +“If you buy the picture, I'll throw in the ancient Roman,” and he laid +it on the counter. + +“And I want you to write Sam a note, asking him if he can't look around +for one of his masterpieces, something say ten by fourteen; wanted for a +customer who only buys good things. That any little landscape with water +in it will do. Remember, don't leave out the water. Then Sam will come +thumping down-stairs with the note, and I'll be awfully astonished and +we'll talk it over, and I'll pull this out from under a pile of stuff +where I'll hide it as soon as I get home. Then I'll say: 'Well, I'm +going up-town and have Mr. O'Day look at it, and maybe it will suit him, +and that if it does, I'll make him pay fifty dollars for it.' How do you +think that will work?” + +Felix, who had been looking into the old fellow's eyes, reading his mind +in their depths, seeing clear down into the heart beneath, now picked up +the bronze and began passing his hand over it. + +“Very lovely,” he said at last, “and a marvellous paten. Where did you +get it?” + +“Spoken like a gentleman and a man of honor, and this time you tell the +truth. It's just what you say--marvellous. I swapped a twenty by thirty +for it. Will you take it?” + +Felix shook his head, a smile playing about his lips. + +“I would if I wanted to be unfair. Here, take your bronze and leave the +picture. I will find a frame for it, and have one of the men give it a +coat of varnish.” + +“And you'll write the note?” + +“Is that necessary?” + +“Of COURSE, it's necessary. You don't know Sam. He's as cunning as a +weasel and can get away before you know it. Got to fool him. I always +do. Told him more lies in one minute this morning than a horse can trot. +Will you write the note?” + +Felix laughed. “Yes, just as soon as you go.” + +“And you won't hold on to the bronze?” + +“No, I won't hold on to the bronze.” + +“And you can get fifty dollars for this unexampled work of art? That, of +course, is the ASKING price. Ten would do a whole lot of good.” + +“I cannot say positively, but I will try.” + +“All right. And now where's that darling child?” + +A laugh rang out from the top of the stairs, the laugh of a child +overjoyed at meeting some one she loves, followed by “do you mean me?” + +“Of course, I mean you, Toddlekins. Come down here and let me give you +a big hug. And I've got a message for you from that dried-up old fellow +with the shaggy head. He sent you his love--every bit of it, he said. +And he's found some more gewgaws he's going to bring up some day. Told +me that, too.” + +Masie had reached the floor and was running toward him with her hands +extended, Fudge springing in front. + +The old painter caught her up in his arms, lifting her off her little +feet, and as quickly setting her down, his eyes snapping, his whole face +aglow. The joy bottled up in the child seemed to have swept through him +like an electric current. + +“And wasn't it a beautiful party?” she burst out when she found her +breath. “And wasn't Uncle Felix good to make it all for me?” She had +moved to O'Day's side and had slipped her hand in his. + +“Yes, of course, it was,” roared Ganger. “Why, old Sam Dogger was so +excited when he went to bed, he didn't sleep a wink all night. He's +thought of nothing else but parties ever since. He's getting up one for +you. Told me so this morning.” + +The child's eyes dilated. + +“What sort of a party?” + +“Oh, a dandy party, but it's not going to be at night. It's going to be +in the daytime. All out in the blessed sunshine and under the trees. And +everybody is going to be invited--everybody who belongs.” + +The child's brow clouded. “Everybody who belongs? Why, can't Uncle Felix +come?” + +“Certainly, he can come. He 'belongs.'” + +“And--Fudge?” + +“What, that little devil of a dog? Yes, he can come, if he promises +to behave himself,” and he shook his head at the culprit. “And all the +chippies can come. Lots of 'em, and perhaps a couple of robins, if they +haven't gone away south. And there's a big Newfoundland dog, or was +before he was stolen, that could have swallowed this gentleman down +at one gulp, but he won't now. HE 'belonged' and always has. And, of +course, you 'belong' and so does Sam and so do I. We go out every +other week and sit under these very same trees. Sam paints the branches +wiggling down in the water, and I do leaky boats. When I get the picture +home, I put Jane Hoggson fishin' in the stern.” + +Masie rolled her eyes. + +“And you don't take her with you?” + +“No.” + +“Why?” + +“'Cause she don't 'belong.' Great difference whether you belong or not. +Jane Hoggson couldn't 'belong' if she was to be born all over again.” + +O'Day now joined in. He had been watching Masie, noting the lights and +shadows which swept over her face as the old painter chattered away. +He always welcomed any plan for giving her pleasure, and was blessing +Ganger in his heart for providing the diversion. + +“And where is all this to take place, Mr. Ganger?” Felix asked at last. + +“Up on the Bronx. A place you know nothing of and wouldn't believe a +word about if I should tell you--not 'til you see it yourself. It's as +full of birds and butterflies as England along the Thames, or one of +those ducky little streams out of Paris. And it only costs five cents to +get there and five cents to get back. And you won't be more than a few +hours away from your shop. Fine, I tell you, you'll never forget it.” + +Again Felix broke in. + +“I have not a doubt of it, but when is all this to take place?” + +Ganger gave a little start and grew suddenly grave. + +“Well, as to that, you see the day is not yet fixed, not precisely. In +a week maybe, or it may be two weeks. This is Sam's party, you know, and +he hasn't completed all his arrangements--that is, he hadn't completed +them when I left him this morning. And, of course, a lot has to be +done to make everything ready”--here he nodded at Masie--“for little +princesses and great ladies in plumes and satins. But it is certainly +coming off. Old Sam told me so, and he means every word of it. And he +was to let you know when. That's it, he was to LET YOU KNOW. That's +another thing he told me to tell you.” + +The child's name was now called from the top of the stairs, and the +Gossburger's head craned itself over the hand-rail. Fudge opened with a +sharp bark, and Masie, with an air kiss to Ganger, raced up the steps, +the dog at her heels, shouting as she ran: “Tell Mr. Dogger I send him a +kiss, and I thank him ever so much, and won't he please come and see me +very soon.” + +When she had disappeared, the old fellow leaned forward, gazed knowingly +at Felix, and in soft-pedal tones said: + +“You see, Sam couldn't say EXACTLY when the party was to take place +because--well, because he hasn't heard a word about it, and won't until +I get back. It is my party, not Sam's, and I've got to break it to him +gently. And I've got to fool him about the party, make him think it's +his party, or he'll think I'm holding it over him because I've got a +little more money than he has, just as I intend to fool him about the +picture. I couldn't say, when you asked me, when the day was to be +fixed, because I've told lies enough to that dear child. But I know just +what Sam will do when I tell him about his party; he'll stand on his +head he'll be so happy. You see if, when I unwrapped the picture, you +had talked ten dollars right out, why then I was going to make it next +Saturday; that is, to-morrow. But you hemmed and hawed so, I had to make +it 'some day soon.' Of course, I never expected the fifty; ten will be +enough for car-fare all around and some beer and sandwiches, that's all +we ever have. That's why I chucked in Augustus to make sure. Well, see +what you can do, and don't forget to write the note and I'll do the rest +of the lying.” And chuckling to himself he hurried away. + +As the door swung wide, a slim man bustled past him, and, spying Felix, +moved briskly to where he stood. He had just ten minutes to spare, he +announced, and was looking for a present for his wife; “something in the +way of fans, old ones, and not over five dollars.” + +Felix, who had raised the lid of the case and was stowing Dogger's +masterpiece inside to keep it out of harm's way, his mind wholly +occupied with the two old painters and their tenderness toward each +other, roused himself to answer: + +“Yes, half a dozen. Not at your price, though, not old ones. Here are +two fairly good specimens,” and he handed them out and laid them on the +glass before him. + +The man leaned forward and peered into the case. + +“That's a picture of the Palisades, isn't it?” He had ignored the fans. + +“Yes, so I understand.” + +“Oh, I knew it first time I put my eyes on it. I'm in the real-estate +business. I've got a lot of cottage sites along that top edge. Is it for +sale?” + +“It will be when it's cleaned and varnished and I have it framed.” + +“Belong to you?” + +“No; it belongs to a man who has left it for sale. He went out as you +came in.” + +“What does he want for it?” + +“He would be satisfied with ten dollars, even less, because he needs the +money. I want fifty.” + +“You want to make the rest?” + +“No, it all goes to him.” + +“Well, what do you stick it on for?” + +“Because if it isn't worth that, it isn't worth anything.” + +“Take it out and let me have a look at it. Yes, just the spot. That +whitish streak and that little puff of steam is where they're breaking +stone. Make a good advertisement, wouldn't it, hanging up in your +office? You can show the owners just where the land lies, and you can +show a customer just what he's going to own.” + +A brisk bargaining then followed, he determined to buy, and Felix to +maintain his price. Before the ten minutes were out, the bustling man +had forgotten all about the fan he was in search of for his wife and, +having assured himself that it was all oil-paint, every square inch of +it, had propped it up against an ancient clock, standing back to see the +effect, had haggled on five, then ten, then twenty-five, and had finally +surrendered by laying five ten-dollar bills on the glass case. After +which he tucked the picture under his arm, and without a word of any +kind disappeared through the street-door. + +And that is why the note which Felix had promised to write Dogger was +sent by messenger instead of by mail within five minutes after the +picture and the buyer had disappeared. And that is why, too, all the +preliminary subterfuges were omitted, and the substitute contained the +announcement which follows: + +“Dear Mr. Dogger: + +“I have just sold your Palisade picture for fifty dollars. The amount is +at your service whenever you call. + +“Yours truly, + + “Felix O'Day.” + + +That, too, is why Dogger was so overjoyed that he beat the messenger +back to Kling's, skipping over the flag-stones most of the way till he +reached the Dutchman's door, where, as befitted a painter whose genius +had at last been recognized, he slowed down, entering the store with a +steady gait, a little restrained in his manner, saying, as he tried to +cram down his joy, that it was a mere sketch, you know, something that +he had knocked off out-of-doors; that Nat had liked it and had, so +he said, taken it up to have it framed. That, of course, he could not +afford ever to repeat the sale price--not for a ten by fourteen of that +quality, but that most of his rich patrons were still out of town, and +so it came in very well. + +And, oh, yes, he had almost forgotten! He and Nat were going up to +Laguerre's, on the Bronx, to an old French cafe, where they often +lunched and painted; that Nat had suggested just as he left the studio +that it would be a good thing if Felix and that dear child Masie would +go with them, and that they would go Saturday, which was to-morrow, if +that would suit O'Day and Masie. And if that wouldn't suit, why then +they'd go the very first day that did, say Sunday or Monday, the sooner +the better. + +To all of which Felix, reading every thought that lurked behind the +moist eyes of the tender-hearted old fraud, had replied that, if he had +the choosing, to-morrow, of all the days in the year, would be the very +day he would select, and that he and Masie would be ready any hour that +he and Mr. Ganger would be good enough to call for them. + +At which the old painter took himself off in high glee. + +And an altogether delightful and a very happy party it was. Sam, as +host-in-chief, sparing no expense, his first act being to pre-empt +a summer-house covered with vines, already tinged by the touches of +autumn's fingers; and his second to insist in a loud voice on chairs and +table-cloths, instead of a sandwich spread out on a bench, as had been +their custom, followed by a demand for olives and a small bottle of red +wine, to say nothing of a double brace of chops, and all with the air of +a multimillionaire ordering a cold bottle and a hot bird at Delmonico's. +And Nat, grown ten years younger--a mere boy in fact--showed Masie how +to throw little leaden weights down the throat of a small cast-iron +frog, and Felix mixed the salad and served it, Masie changing the dishes +and running back to the house for fresh ones, while Fudge, in frenzied +glee, scurried over the soft earth as if he had suddenly been seized +with St. Vitus's dance. And then, when there was not a crumb of anything +left even for the chippies, they all stretched themselves flat on +the grass in the warm Indian summer weather, the two old fellows +entertaining the child with all the stories they could think of, Felix +looking on, replenishing his pipe from time to time, his own spirit +soothed and comforted by the happiness around him. + +Even Kitty noticed the new light in his eyes when they all came back, +for Felix brought the two old painters into her sitting-room so that +they might renew an acquaintance they had made on the night of the ball +and “become better known to a woman of distinction,” as he laughingly +put it, which so delighted the dear soul that that night she said to her +husband: + +“He'll stop trampin' pretty soon, I think, John. Somethin's soaked into +him in the last day or two. It's them old painters, I think, that's +helpin' him. He come in a while ago with that child clingin' to him and +them two mossbacks followin' behin', and his face was all ironed out, +and I could see a song trembling on his lips all ready to burst out. +Pray God it'll last!” + + + + +Chapter X + + + +While it was true that Felix, since Masie's party, had gained the +complete good-will of his neighbors, there were, strange as it may +seem, certain individuals who, while they acknowledged the charm of his +personality, resented his quiet reserve. What nettled them most was his +not having told them at once who he was and why he had come to Kling's, +and why he had stayed on wrapped in mystery. They considered themselves, +so to speak, as defrauded of something which was their right and said so +in plain terms. + +“Well, I hope it won't be a pair of handcuffs they'll surprise him with +some day”; or, “When that pal of his turns up, then you'll see fun,” + being some of the suggestions frequently made over counters, to be +answered by his loyal adherents with a “Well, I don't care what ye say. +I ain't never come across no man any better than Felix O'Day since I +lived here, and that's no lie.” + +There were others, too, who refused to believe any good of the +self-contained, reticent stranger. The nephew of somebody's +brother-in-law, who lived in Lexington Avenue, was one. He had been +promised, by the cousin of somebody else, the position of clerk with +Otto Kling, and although Otto had never heard of it, he WOULD have heard +of it and the nephew been duly installed but for “a galoot who SAID his +name was O'Day.” + +And another thing. What was a fellow, who would work under a Dutchman +like Kling, for only enough to pay his board, doing with a dress suit, +anyhow? The fact was that O'Day was either here “on the quiet” to escape +his creditors, while his friends were trying to patch things up for his +return, or he was an English valet who had stolen his master's clothes. + +A new rumor now filled the air. O'Day, was a spy sent by some foreign +government to look after important interests, like that Russian who +had been employed in a publishing house, where he wrote articles for an +encyclopaedia, only to be recognized later, whereupon he had disappeared +and was never seen again. Tim Kelsey had known him. In fact, he had +visited often Tim's bookstore at night, just as O'Day was visiting it, +and where a lot of other queer-looking people could be found if anybody +would “take the trouble to knock at Kelsey's door and peer in through +the tobacco smoke some night.” + +All this gossip rolled off Kitty's mind as rain from a tin roof. Only +once did she rise up in anger with a “Get out of my place! I'll not have +ye soiling the air with yer dirty talk. Get out, I say! Ye don't know a +gentleman when ye see him, and ye never will.” + +It was when these rumors as to her lodger's identity were thickest and +when Kitty's heart had begun to fear that his despondency was returning, +his nightly prowls having been resumed, that a hansom cab stopped in +front of her door. + +It was one of her busy days, the sidewalk being blocked up with twenty +or more trunks, parcels, cribs, and baby-carriages on their way, by the +aid of Mike, the big white horse, and John, to the Ferry for shipment +to Lakewood. Kitty was in charge of the quarter-deck, her head bare, +her sleeves rolled above her elbows, showing her plump, ruddy arms, her +cheeks and eyes aglow with the crisp air of the morning. October had +set in, and one of those lung-filling, bracing days--the sky swept by +dancing clouds, dragging their skirts in their flight--was making glad +the great city. + +Kitty loved its snap and tang. She loved, too, the excitement aroused +by her duties, and was never so happy as when there were but so many +minutes to catch a train--a fact she never ceased to impress upon +everybody about her, she knowing all the time that she would so manage +the loading as to have five minutes to spare. + +“In with those hand-bags, Mike--in the front, where that Saratoga trunk +won't smash 'em. Now that crib--no--not loose! Get that strap around it; +do ye want to have to pick it up before ye get half-way to the tunnel? +Hurry up, John, dear! Hold on--give me the other handle of that--look at +it now, big as a chicken-coop! Them Fifth Avenue ladies will be livin' +in these things if they keep on.” + +These orders and remarks, fired in rapid succession, were interrupted to +her great annoyance by the driver of the hansom cab, who, impatient at +the delay, had touched his horse lightly with the whip, bringing the +big wheels to a stop in front of the huge trunk which Kitty was +anathematizing. + +“Go on wid ye! Drive on, I tell ye!” she cried, opening fire on the +driver. + +“Gentleman wants to--” + +“Well, I don't care what the gentleman wants. This stuff's got to go +aboard that wagon.” + +Here the passenger's head was thrust forward. + +“Can you--” + +“Yes, of course I can, and glad to, no matter what it is--but not this +minute. Don't ye see what I'm up against?” + +The hansom was backed its full length, the passenger watching Kitty's +movements with evident amusement. + +Two strong hands, one Kitty's and the other John's--mostly +John's--lifted the chicken-coop of a trunk bodily, rested it for an +instant on the forward wheel, and with another “all together” jerk sent +it rolling into the wagon. This completed the loading. + +The passenger craned his head again. + +“I am staying in Gramercy Park, and want--” + +Kitty, who had been stretching her neck to its full length to catch his +words, straightened up. “Ye'll have to get out. I'm no long-distance +telephone, and the racket of them horse-cars is enough to set a body +crazy.” + +The passenger laughed, stretched out a leg, gathered the other beside +it, and stepped to the sidewalk. “You seem to understand your business, +my good woman,” he began, unbuttoning his overcoat to get at the inside +pocket of his cutaway. + +“Why shouldn't I? I been at it these twenty years.” + +She had taken him in now, from his polished silk hat, gray hair, and red +cheeks down to his check trousers, white spats, and well-brushed shoes. +Her own face was by this time wreathed in smiles; she saw the man was a +gentleman who had intended only to be courteous. “Is that what ye came +to tell me?” she cried. + +“No, but I would have done so if I had ever watched you work. Oh, here +it is,” he continued, drawing out his pocketbook. “I want you to--” + he stopped and looked at her from over the rims of his gold +spectacles--“but I may not have hold of the right person. May I ask if +you belong here?” + +Her head went up with a toss, her eyes dancing. “Of course ye can ask +anything ye please, but I'll tell ye right off I don't belong here. +Every blessed thing here belongs to me and my man John.” + +The passenger broke into a laugh. He had evidently found a rara avis, +and was enjoying the discovery to the full. American types always +interested him; this sample of Irish-New York was a revelation. + +“Go on,” smiled Kitty, “I'm waitin'.” + +“Well, take this order to No. 3 Gramercy Park, and they will give you my +two boxes, a shirt case, a roll of steamer-rugs, and some golf-sticks in +a leather pouch, five pieces in all. Get them down to the Cunard dock by +eleven, and my servant will be there to take charge of them. The steamer +sails at twelve. Is that clear?” + +She reached for the paper and began checking off the number of +the apartment, number of pieces, dock, and hour. This was all that +interested her. + +“It is--clear as mud--and they'll be on time. And now, who's to pay?” + +“I am, and--” He stopped suddenly, staring in blank amazement at Felix, +who had just emerged from the side door and was stopping for a word +with one of John's drivers. “My God!” he muttered in a low voice, as if +talking to himself. “I can't be mistaken.” + +Felix nodded a good morning to Kitty and, with an alert, quick stride +crossed the sidewalk diagonally, and bent his steps toward Kling's. + +The Englishman followed him with his gaze, his open pocketbook still in +his hands. “Is that gentleman a customer of yours?” Had he seen a dead +man suddenly come to life he could not have been more astounded. + +“He is, and pays his rent like one.” + +“Rent? For what?” The customer seemed completely at sea. + +“For my up-stairs room. He's my lodger and I never had a better.” + +The Englishman caught his breath. “Do you know who he is?” he asked +cautiously. + +“Of course I do! Do you happen to know him?” John had moved up now and +stood listening. + +“Not personally, but, unless I am very much mistaken, that is Sir Felix +O'Day.” + +“Ye ain't mistaken, you're dead right--all but the 'Sir.' That's +somethin' new to me. It's MR. Felix O'Day around here, and there ain't +a finer nor a better. What do ye know about him?” Her voice had softened +and a slight shade of anxiety had crept into it. John craned his head to +hear the better. + +“Nothing to his discredit. He has had a lot of trouble--terrible +trouble--more than anybody I know. I heard he had gone to Australia. I +see now that he came to New York. Well, upon my soul, Sir Felix living +over an express office!” + +He handed her a bill, waited until John had fished up the change from +the trousers pocket, repeated, in an absent-minded way: “Sir Felix +living here! Good God! What next?” and, beckoning to the driver, stepped +inside the hansom and drove off. + +Kitty looked at her husband, her color coming and going. “What did I +tell ye, John, dear? And ye wouldn't believe a word of it.” + +John returned Kitty's look. He, too, was trying to grasp the full +meaning of the announcement. “Are ye going to tell him ye know, Kitty?” + Neither of them had the slightest doubt of its truth. + +“No, I ain't,” she flashed back. “Not a word--nor nobody else. When Mr. +Felix O'Day gits ready to tell us, he will.” + +“Will ye tell Father Cruse?” he persisted. + +“I don't know that I will. I'll have to think it over. And now, John, +remember!--not a word of this to any livin' soul. Do ye promise?” + +“I do.” He hesitated, another question struggling to his lips, and then +added: “What's up wid him, do ye think, Kitty?” + +“I don't know, John, dear. I wish I did, but whatever it is, its +breakin' his heart.” + + + + +Chapter XI + + + +The discovery of her lodger's title made but little difference to +Kitty, nor did it raise him a whit in her estimation. At best, it only +confirmed her first impression of his being a gentleman--every inch of +him. She may have studied the more closely her lodger's habits, noting +his constant care of his person, the way in which he used his knife and +fork, the softness and cleanliness of his hands--all object-lessons to +her, for she broke out on her husband the day after her talk with the +Englishman in the hansom cab with: + +“I want to tell ye that ye'll have to stop spatterin' yer soup around +after this, John, dear. I'm going to have a clean table-cloth on every +day, and a clean napkin for him, and as I'm doin' the washing myself +ye've got to help an' not muss things. First thing ye know he'll sour +on what we are giving him and be goin' off worse than ever, trampin' the +streets till all hours of the night.” At which John had stretched +his big frame and with a prolonged yawn, his arms over his head, had +remarked: “All right, Kitty, you're boss. Sir or no sir, he's got no +frills about him--just plain man like the rest of us.” + +Neither would his title, had they known it, have made the slightest +difference to any one of the habitues who gathered in Tim Kelsey's +book-shop. + +Who Felix was, or what he had done, or what he was about to do, were +questions never considered, either by Kelsey or by his friends. That +he was part of the driftwood left stranded and unrecognized on the +intellectual shore was enough. All that any of them asked for was +brains, and Felix, even before the first evening had ended, had +uncovered a stock so varied, and of such unusual proportions, and of +so brilliant a character that he was always accorded the right of way +whenever he took charge of the talk. + +And a queer lot they were who listened, and a queer lot they had to be, +to enjoy Kelsey's confidence. “Men are like books,” he would often say +to Felix. “It is their insides I care for, no matter how badly they +are bound. The half-calf or all-morocco sort never appeal to me. Shelf +fellows seldom handled, I call them, and a man who is not handled and +rubbed up against, with a corner worn off here and there, is like a book +kept under glass. Nobody cares anything about it except as an ornament, +and I have no room for ornaments.” + +That is why the door was kept shut at night, when some half-calf rapped +and Tim would get a look at his binding through the shutter and tiptoe +back, closing the door of the inner room behind him. + +Among Kelsey's collection was old Silas Murford, the custom-house +clerk--a fat, stupid-looking old fellow whose chin rested on his +shirt-front and whose middle rested on his knees, the whole of him, when +seated, filling Tim's biggest chair. Tim prized this volume most, for +when Silas began to talk, the sheepish look would fade out of his placid +face, his little pig eyes would vanish, and the listener would discover +to his astonishment that not only was this lethargic lump of flesh a +delightful conversationalist but that he had spent every hour he +could spare from his custom-house in a study of the American system +of immigration--and had at his tongue's end a mass of statistics about +which few men knew anything. + +Crackburn, an authority on the earlier printers, then in charge of the +prints in the Astor Library, and who, for diversion, ground lenses on +the sly, was another prize document. And so was Lockwood, the lapidary, +famous as a designer of medals and seals; and many more such oddities. +“Fine old copies,” Kelsey would say of them, “hand-printed, all of them; +one or two, like old Silas, extremely rare.” + +That he considered Felix entitled to a place in his private collection +had been decided at their first meeting. “Met a mask with a man behind +it,” he had announced to his intimates that same night. “Got a fine nose +for what's worth having. Located that chant book as soon as he laid his +hands on it. I didn't get any farther than the skin of his face and you +won't, either. He has promised to come over, and when you have rubbed up +against him for half an hour, as I did this morning, you will think as I +do.” + +Since that time, Felix had spent many comforting hours in Kelsey's +little back room. Sometimes he would drop in about nine and remain until +half past ten; at other times, it would be nearer midnight before he +would turn the knob. + +As for the shop itself, nothing up and down “The Avenue” was quite as +odd, quite as ramshackly, or quite as picturesque. What the public saw, +on either side of the down-two-steps entrance, was a bench with slanting +shelves, holding a double row of books and two patched glass windows, +protecting disordered heaps of prints, stained engravings, and old +etchings, the whole embedded in dust. + +What the owner's intimates saw, once they got inside and continued +to the end of the building, was a low-ceiled room warmed by an +old-fashioned Franklin stove and lighted by a drop covered by a green +shade. All about were easy chairs, a table or two, a sideboard, some +long shelves loaded down with books, and an iron safe which held some +precious manuscripts and one or two early editions. + +When the room was shut the shop was open, and when the shop was shut, +the shutters fastened, and the two benches with their books lifted +bodily and brought inside, the little back room, smoke-dried as an old +ham, and as savory and inviting, once you got its flavor, was ready for +his guests. + +On one of these rare nights when the room was full, it happened that +the same fifteenth-century chant book, which had brought Tim and Felix +together, was lying on the table. The discussion which followed easily +drifted into the influence of the Roman Catholic church on the art of +the period; Felix maintaining that but for the impetus it gave, neither +the art of illumination nor any of the other arts would at the time have +reached the heights they attained. + +“This missal is but an example of it,” he continued, drawing the +battered, yellow-stained book toward him. “Whatever these old monks, +with their religious fervor, touched they enriched and glorified, +whether it were an initial letter, as you see here, or an altar-piece; +and more than that, many of them painted wonderfully well.” + +“And a narrow-minded, bigoted lot they were,” broke in Crackburn. “If +they'd had their way there would not have been a printing-press in +existence. If you are going to canonize anybody, begin with Aldus +Minutius.” + +“Only a difference in patrons,” chimed in Lockwood, “the difference +between a pope and a doge.” + +“And it's the same to-day,” echoed Kelsey, taking the book from O'Day's +hand, to keep the leaves from buckling. “Only it's neither pope nor +doge, but the money king who's the patron. We should all starve to death +but for him. I've been waiting for Mr. O'Day to hunt one down and make +him buy this,” he added, closing the book carefully. “Nobody else around +here appreciates its rarity or would give a five-dollar bill for it.” + +“Go slow,” puffed old Silas, hunched up in his chair. “Money kings are +good in their way, and so perhaps were popes and doges, but give me a +plain priest every time. You wonder, Mr. O'Day, what those great masters +in art could have done without the protection of the church. I wonder +what the poor of to-day would do without their priests. Go up to 28th +Street and look in at St. Barnabas's. Its doors are open from before +sunrise until near midnight. When you are in trouble, either hungry or +hunted, and most of the poor are both, walk in and see what will happen. +You'll find that a priest in New York is everything from a policeman to +a hospital nurse, and he is always on his job. When nobody else listens, +he listens; when nobody else helps, he holds out a hand. I haven't lived +here sixty years for nothing.” + +“When you say 'listen,'” asked Felix, whose attention to the +conversation had never wavered, “do you refer to the confessional?” + +“I do not. That's the least part of it. So are the mass and the candles +and choir-boys and the rest of the outfit, all very well in their way, +for Sundays and fast-days, but just so much stage scenery to me, though +its heaven to the poor devils who get color and music and restful quiet +in contrast to their barren homes. But praying before the altar is only +one-quarter of what these priests are doing every hour of the day and +night. It's part of my business to follow them around, and I know. Hand +me a light, Tim, my pipe's out.” + +Felix, being nearest the box, struck a match and held it close to +Silas's bowl, a cloud of smoke rising between them. When it had cleared, +O'Day remarked quietly: “Don't stop, Mr. Murford; go on, I am listening. +You have, as you said, only told us one-quarter of what these priests +are doing. Where do the other three-quarters come in?” + +Silas rapped the bowl against the arm of his chair to clear it the +better, and, twisting his great bulk toward O'Day, said slowly: “If I +tell you, will you listen and keep on listening until I get through?” + +Felix bowed his head in acquiescence. The others, knowing what a story +from Silas meant, craned their necks in his direction. + +“Well! One night last winter--over on Avenue A, snow on the ground, +mind you, and cold as Greenland--a row broke out on the third floor of a +tenement house. In the snow on the sidewalk shivered a half-naked girl. +She was sobbing. Her father had come in from his night shift at the gas +house, crazy drunk, a piece of lead pipe in his hand. + +“Two or three people had stopped, gazed at the girl, and passed her +by. Tenement-house rows are too common in some districts to be bothered +over. A policeman crossed the street, peered up the stairway, listened +to the screams inside, looked the sobbing girl over, and kept on his +way, swinging his club. A priest came along--one I know, a well-set-up +man, who can take care of himself, no matter where. He touched the +girl's arm and drew her inside the doorway, his head bent to hear her +story. Then he went up--in jumps--two steps at a time--stumbling in the +dark, picking himself up again, catching at the rail to help him mount +the quicker, the screams overhead increasing at every step. When he +reached the door, it was bolted on the inside. He let drive with his +shoulder and in it went. The girl's mother was crouching in the far +corner of the room, behind a heavy sofa. The drunken husband stood over +her, trying to get at her skull with the piece of lead pipe. + +“At the bursting in of the door the brute wheeled and, with an oath, +made straight for the priest, the weapon in his fist. + +“The priest stepped clear of the door-jamb, moved under the single +gas-jet, drew out his crucifix, and held it up. + +“The drunkard stood staring. + +“The priest advanced step by step. The brute cowered, staggered back, +and fell in a heap on the floor.” + +“Magnificent,” broke out Lockwood. “Superb! And well told. You would +make a great actor, Murford.” + +“Perhaps,” answered Silas with a reproving look, “but don't forget that +it HAPPENED.” + +“I haven't a doubt of it,” exclaimed Felix quietly, “but please go on, +Mr. Murford. To me your story has only begun. What happened next?” + +Silas's eyes glistened. Lockwood's criticism had gone over his head; he +was accustomed to that sort of thing. What pleased him was the interest +O'Day had shown in his pet subject--the sufferings of the poor being one +of his lifelong topics of thought and conversation. + +“The confessional happened next,” replied Silas. “Then a sober husband, +a sober wife, and a girl at work--and they are still at it--for I got +the man a job as night-watchman in the custom-house, at Father Cruse's +request.” + +Felix started forward. “You surely don't mean Father Cruse of St. +Barnabas's?” he exclaimed eagerly. + +“Exactly.” + +“Was it he who burst in that door?” + +“It was, and there isn't a tramp or a stranded girl within half a mile +of where we sit that he doesn't know and take care of. So I say you can +have your money kings and your popes and your doges; as for me, I'll +take Father Cruse every time, and there's dozens just like him.” + +Felix pushed back his chair, reached for his hat, said good night in his +usual civil tone, and left the shop, Murford merely nodding at him over +the bowl of his pipe, the others taking no notice of his departure. It +was the way they did things at Kelsey's. There were no great welcomings +when they arrived and no good-bys when they parted. They would meet +again the next night, perhaps the next morning--and more extended +courtesies were considered unnecessary. + +All the way back to Kitty's the erect figure of Father Cruse, holding +the emblem of his faith in that dimly lighted room stood out clear. He +wondered why he had not seen more of the man whose courage and faith he +himself had dimly recognized at their first meeting, and determined to +cultivate his acquaintance at once. Long ago he had promised Kitty to +do so. He would keep that promise by timing his visit so as to reach St. +Barnabas's when the service was over. The balance of the evening could +then be spent with the father. + +He glanced at his watch and a glow of satisfaction spread over his +face as he noted the hour. Kitty would be up, and he would have the +opportunity of delighting her with the details of the tribute Murford +had paid her beloved priest. The more he pictured the effect upon her, +the lighter grew his heart. + +He began before the knob of the sitting-room had left his hand and had +gone as far as: “Oh I heard something about a friend of yours who--” + when she checked him by rising to her feet and exclaiming: + +“Hold on a minute and listen to me first. I have something that belongs +to ye. I found it after ye'd gone out, and ran after ye. I thought ye'd +miss it and come back. I wonder ye didn't. Ye see I was tidyin' up yer +room, and yer brush dropped down behind the bureau; and when I pushed it +out from the wall I found this under the edge of the carpet. Ye better +keep these little things in the drawer.” Her hand was in the capacious +pocket of her apron as she spoke, her plump fingers feeling about its +depths. “Oh, here it is,” she cried. “I was gettin' nigh scared ter +death fer fear I'd lost it. Here, give me your cuff and I'll put it in +fer ye.” + +“What is it? A cuff button?” he asked, controlling his disappointment +but biding his time. + +“Yes, and a good one.” + +“I'm sorry, Mistress Kitty, but it cannot be mine,” he returned with a +smile. “I have but one pair, and both buttons are in place, as you can +see,” and he held out his cuffs. + +“Well, then, who can this one belong to? Take a look at it. It's got +arms on one button and two letters mixed up together on the other,” and +she dropped it into his hand. + +Felix held the sleeve-links to the light, smothered a cry and, with a +quick movement of his hands, steadied himself by the table. + +“Where did you get this?” he breathed rather than spoke. + +“I just told ye. Down behind the bureau where ye dropped it, along with +your hair-brush.” + +Felix tightened his fingers, straining the muscles of his arms, striving +with all his might to keep his body from shaking. He had his back to +her, his face toward the lamp, and had thus escaped her scrutiny. “I +haven't lost it,” he faltered, prolonging the examination to gain time +and speaking with great deliberation. + +“Ye haven't! Oh, I am that disappointed! And ye didn't drop it? Well, +then, who did drop it?” she cried, looking over his shoulder. She had +been thinking all the evening how pleased he would be when she returned +it, and in her chagrin had not noticed the mental storm he was trying to +master. + +“And ye're sure ye didn't drop it?” she reiterated. + +“Quite sure,” he answered slowly, his face still in the shadow, the link +still in his hand. + +“Well, that's the strangest thing I ever heard! We don't have nobody--we +ain't never had nobody up in that room with things on 'em like that. The +fellow that John and I fired didn't have no sleeve-buttons.” + +“Perhaps somebody else may have dropped it,” he answered, sinking into +a chair. He was devouring her face, trying to read behind her eyes, +praying she would go on, yet fearing to prolong the inquiry lest she +should discover his agitation. + +“No, there ain't nobody,” she said at last, “and if there was there +wouldn't--Stop! Hold on a minute, I got it! You've bin here six months +or more, ain't ye?” + +Felix nodded, his eyes still fastened on her own. A nod was better than +the spoken word until his voice obeyed him the better. + +“An' ye ain't had a soul in that room but yerself since ye've been here? +Is that true?” + +Again Felix nodded. + +“Of course it's true, whether ye say it or not. What a fool I was to ask +ye! I got it now. That sleeve-link belongs to a poor creature who slept +in that room three or four days before ye come and skipped the next +morning.” + +Felix's fingers tightened on the arm of the chair. For the moment it +seemed to him as if he were swaying with the room. “Some one you were +kind to, I suppose,” he said, lifting a hand to shade his face, the +words coming one at a time, every muscle in his body taut. + +“What else could we do? Leave the poor thing out in the cold and wet?” + +“It was, then, some one you picked up, was it not?” The room had stopped +swaying and he was beginning to breathe evenly again. He saw that he had +not betrayed himself. Her calm proved it; and so did the infinite pity +that crept into her tones as she related the incident. + +“No, some one Tom McGinniss picked up on his beat, or would have picked +up hadn't John and I come along. And that wet she was, and everything +streamin' puddles, an' she, poor dear, draggled like a dog in the +gutter.” + +Felix's sheltering hand sagged suddenly, exposing for a moment his +strained face and wide-open eyes. + +“I didn't understand it was a woman,” he stammered, turning his head +still farther from the light of the lamp. + +“Yes, of course, it was a woman, and a lady, too. That's what I've been +a-tellin' ye. Here, take my seat if that light gets into your eyes. I +see it's botherin' ye. It's that red shade that does it. It sets John +half crazy sometimes. I'll turn it down. Well, that's better. Yes, a +lady. An' she wet as a rat an' all the heart out of her. An' that link +ye got in yer hand is hers and nobody else's. John and I had been to +evening service at St. Barnabas's, an' we hung on behind till everybody +had gone so as to have a word with Father Cruse, after he had taken off +his vestments. We bid him good night, come out of the 29th Street door, +and kept on toward Lexington Avenue. We hadn't gone but a little way +from the church, when John, who was walking ahead, come up agin Tom +McGinniss. He was stooping over a woman huddled up on them big front +steps before you get to the corner. + +“'What are you doin', Tom?' says John. + +“'It's a drunk,' he says, 'an I'll run her in an' she'll sleep it off +and be all the better in the mornin'.' + +“'Let me take a look at her, Tom,' says I; an' I got close to her breath +and there was no more liquor inside her than there is in me this minute. + +“'You'll do nothin' of the kind, Tom McGinniss,' says I. 'This poor +thing is beat out with cold and hunger. Give her to me. I'll take her +home. Get hold of her, John, an' lift her up.' + +“If ye'd 'a' seen her, Mr. O'Day, it would have torn ye all to pieces. +The life and spirit was all out of her. She was like a child half +asleep, that would go anywhere you took her. If I'd said, 'Come along, +I'm goin' to drown ye,' she'd 'a' come just the same. Not one word fell +out of her mouth. Just went along between us, John an' I helpin' her +over the curbs and gutters until she got to this kitchen, an' I sat her +down in that chair, close by the stove, and began to dry her out, for +her dress was all soaked in the mud and streamin' with water. I got some +hot coffee into her, an' found a pair of John's old shoes, an' put 'em +on her feet till I had dried her own, an' when she got so she could +speak--not drunk, mind ye, nor doped; just dazed like as if she had been +hunted and had given up all hope. She said like a sick child speakin': +'You've been very kind, and I'm very grateful. I'll go now.' + +“'No, ye won't,' I says; 'ye'll stay where ye are. Ye don't leave this +place to-night. Ye'll go up-stairs and git into my bed.' She looked at +me kind o' scared-like; then she looked at John an' our big man Mike who +had come in while I was dryin' her out, but I stopped that right away. +'No, ye needn't worry,' I said, 'an' ye won't. Ye're just as safe here +as ye would be in your mother's arms. Ye ain't the first one my man John +an' I have taken care of, an' ye won't be the last. Take another sip o' +that hot coffee, an' come with me.' + +“Well, we got her up-stairs, an' I helped her undress, an' when I +unhooked her skirt an' it fell to the floor, I saw what I was up aginst. +She had the finest pair of silk stockings on her feet ye ever seen +in your life, and her petticoat was frills up to her knees. She said +nothin' an' I said nothin'. 'Git in,' I said, an' I turned down the +cover and come out. The next mornin' the boys had to get over to +Hoboken, an' I was up before daylight and then back to bed again. At +seven o'clock I went to her room and pushed in the door. She was gone, +an' I've never seen her since. That cuff-link's hers. Take it up-stairs +with ye an' put it in the wash-stand drawer. I'll lose it if I keep it +down here, an' she's bound to come back for it some day. What time is +it? Twelve o'clock, if I'm alive! Well, then, I'm goin' to bed, and +you're goin', too. John's got his key, and there's his coffee, but he +won't be long now.” + +Felix sat still. Only when she had finished busying herself about the +room making ready to close the place for the night did he rouse himself. +So still was he, and so absorbed that she thought he had fallen asleep, +until she became aware of a flash from under the overhanging brows and +heard him say, as if speaking to himself: “It was very good of you. Yes, +very good--of you--to do it, and--I suppose she never came back?” + +“She never did,” returned Kitty, drawing a chair away from the heat +of the stove, “and I'm that sorry she didn't. I'll fix the lights when +ye've gone up. Good night to ye.” + +“Good night, Mrs. Cleary,” and he left the room. + +In the same absorbed way he mounted the stairs, opened his own door and, +without turning up the gas, sank heavily into a chair, the link still +held fast in his hand. A moment later he sprang from his seat, stepped +quickly to the gas-jet, turned up the light, and held one of the small +buttons to the flame, as if to reassure himself of the initials; then +with a smothered cry fell across the narrow bed, his face hidden in the +quilt. + +For an hour he lay motionless, his mind a seething caldron, above which +writhed distorted shapes who hid their faces as they mounted upward. +When these vanished and a certain calm fell upon him, two figures +detached themselves and stood clear: a woman cowering on a door-step, +her skirts befouled with the slime of the streets, and a priest with +hand upraised, his only weapon the symbol of his God. + + + + +Chapter XII + + + +The morning brought him little relief. He drank his coffee in +comparative silence and crossed the street to his work with only a +slight bend of his head toward Kitty, who was helping Mike tag some +baggage. She noticed then how pale he was and the wan smile that swept +over his face as she waved her hand at him in answer, but she was too +busy over the trunks to give the subject further thought. + +Masie was waiting for him in the back part of the shop, which, by the +same old process of moving things around, had been fitted up into a sort +of private office for Kling, two high-back settles serving for one wall, +three bureaus for another, while some Spanish chairs, a hair-cloth sofa +studded with brass nails, an inlaid table, and a Daghestan rug helped to +make it secluded and attractive. Kling liked the new arrangement because +he could keep one eye on his books and the other on the front door, thus +killing two birds with one stone. Masie loved it because when Felix +had so many customers that he could neither talk nor play with her, it +served her as a temporary refuge--as would a shelter until the rain was +over--and Felix delighted in it because it kept Kling out of the way, +the good-natured Dutchman having often spoiled a sale by what Felix +called “inopportune remarks at opportune moments.” + +Although Masie's business on this particular morning was nothing more +important than merely saying good-by to her “Uncle Felix” before she +went to school, her wee stub of a nose had, until she saw him cross the +street, been flattened against the glass of her father's front door, +her two eager, anxious eyes fixed on Kitty's sidewalk. Felix was over an +hour late, something which had never happened before and something which +could not have happened now unless he had either overslept himself--an +unbelievable fact, or was ill--a calamity which could not be thought of +for a moment. + +While a nod and a faint smile had done for Kitty, and a “No, I was not +very well last night,” had sufficed for Kling, whose eyebrows made the +inquiry--he never finding fault with O'Day for lapses of any kind--the +case was far different when it came to Masie. The little lady had to +be coaxed into one of the easy chairs in the improvised office and +comforted with an arm around her shoulder, to say nothing of having +her hair smoothed back from her face, followed by a kiss on her white +forehead, before her overwrought anxieties were allayed. + +That he was not himself was apparent to every one. Masie was still sure +of it when she bade him good-by, and Kling became convinced of it long +before the day was over. As the afternoon wore on, however, he grew +calmer. His indomitable will began to reassert itself. His manner became +more alert, and his glance clearer. + +When he found himself able to think, he determined that his first move +must be to find Carlin, and that very night. It had been some weeks +since he had visited the ship-chandler. He had tried the latch several +times, and would have repeated his visits had not a bystander told +him that Carlin was in the country fitting out a yacht for one of his +customers and would not be back for a month. The time was now up. + +And yet, when he thought it all over, could he, in view of this +new phase of the case, seek Carlin's help and advice? What might be +better--and his heart gave a bound--would be to see Father Cruse. The +woman whom Kitty had picked up might be one of his waifs, who, overcome +by fatigue or illness after leaving the church, had fallen on the +door-step where the policeman had found her. + +At six o'clock he left the shop with a formal good night to Kling, a +hasty, almost abrupt good-by to Masie, and, without a word of any kind +to Kitty, whose quiet scrutiny he dreaded, bent his steps to a small +eating-room in the basement of one of the old-time private houses in +Lexington Avenue, where he sometimes took his meals. At seven o'clock he +was threading his way through the crowds in Third Avenue, searching the +face of every one he met. At eight o'clock, his impatience growing, he +turned into 28th Street and mounted the short flight of steps in front +of St. Barnabas's. The tones of the organ, as well as the illumined +stained-glass windows and the groups of people around the swinging doors +of the vestibule, showed that a service was being held. These, however, +were the only evidences that a body of people had met to pray inside, +both pavements outside being filled with hurrying throngs, as were the +barrooms opposite, crowded with loud-talking men lining the bars, with +here and there a woman at a table. + +Passing through the vestibule doors, he entered the church and found +a seat near the entrance. Father Cruse, in full vestments, was +officiating. He was before the altar at the moment, his back to the +congregation. Most of them were working people who had only their +evenings free, and for whom these services were held: girls from the +department stores, servants with an evening out, trainmen from the +Elevated, off duty for an hour or two, small storekeepers whose places +closed early, with their wives and children beside them, all under the +spell of the hushed interior. Some prayed without moving, their heads +bowed; others kept their eyes fixed on the priest. One or two had their +faces turned toward the choir-loft, completely absorbed in the full, +deep tones that rolled now and then through the responses. + +Nothing of all this impressed Felix at first. He had always regarded +the Roman Catholic church as embodying a religion adapted only to the +ignorant and the superstitious. But, as he looked about on the rapt body +of worshippers, he suddenly wondered if there were not something in its +beliefs, forms, and ceremonies that he had hitherto missed. + +The wonder grew upon him as he watched the worshippers, his eyes resting +now on a figure of a woman on her knees before the small altar at his +left, her half-naked baby flat on its back beside her; and again that of +an unkempt gray-haired man, his clothes old and ragged, his body bent, +his lips trembling in supplication. All at once, and for the first +time in his life, he began to realize the existence of a something +all-powerful, to which these people appealed, a something beneficent +which swept their faces free of care, as a light drives out darkness, +and sent them home with new hope and courage. Religion had played no +part in his life. From his boyhood he had made his fight without it. Had +they tried and failed and, disheartened in their failure, sought at last +for higher help, realizing that no one man was strong enough to make the +fight of life alone? + +As he asked himself these questions, the personality of the priest began +to exert its influence over him. He followed his movements, the dignity +and solemnity with which he exercised his functions, the reverential +tones of his voice, the adoration shown in his every act and gesture. +And as he watched there arose another question--one he had often debated +within himself: Were these people about him calmed and rested by the +magnetic personality of the big-chested, strong-armed man; were they +aided by the seductions of music, incense, and color, including the very +vestments that hung from his broad shoulders; or did the calm and rest +and aid proceed from a source infinitely higher, more powerful, more +compelling, as had been shown in the case of the would-be murderer cowed +by the sight of a sacred emblem? And if there were two personalities, +two influences, two dominant powers, one of man and the other of God, +which one had he, Felix O'Day, come here to invoke? + +At this mental question, the more practical side of his nature came to +the fore. + +“Neither of them,” he said firmly to himself, “neither God nor priest.” + What he had come for had nothing to do with religion or with its forms. +A woman had been found lying on a door-step near this church, who might +have attended the same evening service. If so, Father Cruse might have +seen her--no doubt knew her, in fact, must have both seen and recognized +her. She was the kind of woman whom Murford said Father Cruse helped. +What he was here for was to ask the priest a simple, straightforward +question. This over, he would continue on his way. + +Then a sudden check arose. How was he to describe this woman? He had not +dared probe Kitty for any further details than those she had given +him. To waste therefore, the valuable time of Father Cruse with no more +information than he at present possessed would be as inconsiderate as it +was foolish. + +With this new view of the difficulty confronting him, he reached for +his hat, so as to be ready at the first break in the service to tiptoe +noiselessly out. He would then go back to Kitty and, without exciting +her suspicions, learn something more of the outward appearance of the +object of her tender sympathy. + +As he was about to leave the pew, the tones of a tiny bell were heard +through the aisles. Instantly a deep, almost breathless, silence fell +upon the church. The penitents, who were on their knees beneath the +clusters of candles lighting the side chapels, remained motionless; +those in the seats bowed their heads, their foreheads resting on the +backs of the pews. + +As he listened with lowered head, a dull, scuffling sound was heard near +the swinging doors of the vestibule, as if some one were being +roughly handled. Then an angry voice, “she shan't go in!” followed by +high-pitched, defiant tones: “Get out of my way. I shan't go in, shan't +I? I'd like to see you or anybody else keep me out! This place is free, +and so am I. Jim hasn't showed up, and I'm going to wait for him here. +I've got a date.” + +She was abreast of Felix now, a girl of twenty, maudlin drunk, her hat +awry, her hair in a frowse, her dress open at the neck. + +She steadied herself for a moment, and became conscious of Felix, who +had risen, horror-stricken, from his seat. + +“Jim ain't showed up. He is all right, and don't you forget it. Them +guys wanted to give me the grand bounce, but I got a date, see?” + +She reeled on up the aisle until she reached the steps of the altar. +There she stood, swaying before the lights, repeating her cry: “They +dassen't touch me. I got a date, I tell you!” + +Father Cruse, without turning, continued his ministrations with the same +composure he would have maintained at a baptism had its solemnity been +disturbed by the cry of a child. By this time, several women, appalled +by the sacrilege, left their seats and moved toward her, begging, then +commanding, her to stop talking, all fearing to add to the noise yet +not daring to let it continue, until they gently but firmly pushed her +through the door at the end of the church and so on into the street. + +Felix had followed every movement of the girl with an intensity that +almost paralyzed his senses. He had looked into her bloodshot eyes, +noted the hard lines drawn around the corners of her mouth, the coarse, +painted lips, dry hair, and sunken cheeks. He had heard her harsh laugh +and caught the glint of her drunken leer. A cold shiver swept through +him. It was as if he had stepped on a flat stone covering a grave which +had tilted beneath his feet, revealing a corpse but a few months buried. +Had he been anywhere else he would have sunk to the floor--not to pray, +but to rest his knees, which seemed giving out under him. + +When service was over, he made his way down the aisle, waited until the +last of the worshippers had had their final word with their priest, and, +with a respectful bend of the head in recognition, followed Father Cruse +into the sacristy. + +“You remember me?” he said in a hoarse, constrained voice when the +priest turned and faced him. + +“Yes, you are Mr. O'Day--Kitty Cleary's friend, and I need not tell you +how glad I am to see you,” and he held out a cordial hand. + +“I have come as I promised you I would. Can you give me half an hour?” + +“With the greatest pleasure. My duties are over just as soon as I put +these vestments away. But I am sorry you came to-night, for you have +witnessed a most distressing sight.” + +Felix looked at him steadily. “Do such things happen often?” he asked, +his voice breaking. + +“Everything happens here, Mr. O'Day,” replied the priest gravely; +“incredible things. We once found a baby a month old in the gallery. We +baptized him and he is now one of our choir-boys. But, forgive me,” he +added with a smile, “such sights are best forgotten and may not interest +you.” He was studying his visitor as a doctor does a patient, trying to +discover the seat of the disease. That Felix was not the same man he +had met the night at Kitty's was apparent; then he had been merely a man +with a sorrow, now he seemed laboring under a weight too heavy to bear. + +Felix drew back his shoulders as if to brace himself the better and +said: “Can we talk here?” + +“Yes, and with absolute privacy and freedom. Take this chair; I will sit +beside you.” It was the voice of the father confessor now, encouraging +the unburdening of a soul. + +Felix glanced first around the simple room, with its quiet and +seclusion, then stepped back and closed the sacristy door, saying, as he +took his seat: “There is no need, I suppose, of locking it?” + +“Not the slightest.” + +For a moment he sat with head bowed, one hand pressed to his forehead. +The priest waited, saying nothing. + +“I have come to you, Father Cruse, because I need a man's help--not a +priest's--a MAN'S. If I have made no mistake, you are one.” + +The fine white fingers of the priest were rising and falling ever so +slightly on the velvet arm of the chair on which his hand rested, a +compound gesture showing that both his brain and his hand were at his +listener's service. + +“Go on,” he said gently and firmly. “As priest or man, Mr. O'Day, I am +ready.” + +Felix paused; the priest bent his head in closer attention. He was +accustomed to halting confessions, and ready with a prompting word if +the sinner faltered. + +“It is about my wife.” + +The words seemed to choke him, as if the grip of a long-held silence had +not yet quite relaxed its hold. + +“Not ill, I hope?” + +“No, she is not ill.” + +The priest leaned forward, a startled look on his face. “You surely +don't mean she is dead?” + +O'Day did not answer. + +Father Cruse settled back into the depths of his chair. “She has left +you, then,” he said in a conclusive tone. + +“Yes--a year ago.” + +He stopped, started to speak, and, with a baffled gesture, said: “No, +you might better have it all. It is the only way you will understand; I +will begin at the beginning.” + +The priest laid his hand soothingly on O'Day's wrist. “Take your time. I +have nothing else to do except to listen and--help you if I can.” + +The touch of the priest had steadied him. “Thank you, Father,” he said +simply, and went on. + +“A year ago, as I have said, my wife left me and went off with a man +named Dalton. Later I learned she was here, and I came over to see what +I could do to help her.” + +Father Cruse raised his eyebrows inquiringly. + +“Yes, just that--to help her when she needed help, for I knew she would +need it sooner or later. She was not a bad woman when she left me, +and she is not now, unless he has made her so. She is only an easily +persuaded, pleasure-loving woman, and when my father was forced into +bankruptcy and we all suffered together, she blamed me for giving up +what money I had in trying to straighten out his affairs; and then our +infant daughter died, and that so upset her mind that when Dalton came +along she let everything go. That is one solution of it--the one which +her friends give out. I will tell you the truth. It is that I was twenty +years older than she, that she loved me as a young girl loves an older +man who had been brought up almost in her own family, for our properties +adjoined, and that when she woke up, it was to find out that I was not +the man she would have married had she been given a few more years' time +in which to make up her mind. + +“When she ran away I lost my bearings. I used to sit in my room in the +club for hours at a time, staring at the morning paper, never seeing the +print; thinking only of my wife and our life together--all of it, from +the day we were married. I recalled her childish nature, her fits of +sudden temper always ending in tears, and her wilfulness. Then my own +responsibility loomed up. To let this child go to the devil would be +a crime. When this idea became firmly set in my mind, I determined to +follow her no matter what she had done or where she had gone. + +“I had meant to go to Australia and look after sheep--I knew something +about them--but I changed my plans when I overheard a conversation at +my club and concluded that Dalton had brought her here--although the +conversation itself was only the repetition of a rumor. Since then I +have found out that they are both here, or were some six months ago. + +“You can understand, now, why I am living at Mrs. Cleary's and working +in Mr. Kling's store. I had but a few pounds left after paying my +passage and there was no one from whom I could borrow, even if I had +been so disposed; so work of some kind was necessary. It may be just as +well for me to tell you, too, that nobody at home knows where I am, +and that but two persons in New York know me at all. One is a man named +Carlin, who served on one of my father-in-law's vessels, and the other +is his sister Martha, who was a nurse in my wife's family. + +“Dalton, so I understood, had considerable money when he left, enough to +last him some months, and until yesterday I have hunted for them where +I thought he would be sure to spend it, in the richer cafes +and restaurants, outside the opera-houses and the fashionable +theatres--places where two strangers in the city would naturally spend +their evenings, and a woman loving light and color as she did would want +to go. + +“All these theories were upset last night when Mrs. Cleary gave me some +details of a woman she had picked up near your church. She found her, it +seems, some months ago--last April, in fact--on the steps of a private +house near your church--here on 29th Street--took her home and made her +spend the night there. In the morning she disappeared without any one +seeing her. Yesterday, while moving the bureau in my room, Mrs. Cleary +found a sleeve-link on the carpet; she thought it was one I had dropped. +I have it in my trunk. It is one of a pair my wife gave me on my +birthday, the year we were married. I missed it from my jewel case after +she left, and thought somebody had stolen it. Now I know that my wife +must have taken it, and then dropped it at Mrs. Cleary's. So I came +here tonight hoping against hope--it was so many months ago--to get +some further information regarding her. Then I remembered that I had not +asked Mrs. Cleary what the woman looked like, and I was about to return +home, when that poor girl staggered in, and I got a look at her face. I +lost my hold on myself then and--” + +He sprang to his feet and began striding across the room, his eyes +blazing, one clinched fist upraised: “By God! Father Cruse, I know +something of Dalton's earlier life and of what he is capable. And I tell +you right here, that if he has brought my wife to that, I shall kill him +the moment I set my eyes on him. To take a child of a woman, foolish and +vain as she was--stupid if you will--and--” he halted, covered his face +in his hands, and broke into sobs. + +During the long recital Father Cruse had neither spoken nor moved. He +was accustomed to such outbursts, but it had been many years since he +had seen so strong a man weep as bitterly. Better let the storm pass--he +would master himself the sooner. + +A full minute elapsed, and then, with a groan that seemed to come from +the depths of his being, O'Day lifted his head, brushed the hot tears +from his eyes, and continued: + +“You must forgive me, for I am utterly broken up. But I can't go on any +longer this way! I have got to let go--I have got to talk to somebody. +That dear woman with whom I live is kindness itself and would do +anything she could for me, but somehow I cannot tell her about these +things. I may be wrong about it--but I was born that way. You know black +from white--you live here right in the midst of it--you see it every +day. Mr. Silas Murford told me the other night at Kelsey's that you knew +everybody in this neighborhood, and so I came to you. Help me find my +wife!” + +Father Cruse drew his chair closer and laid his hand soothingly on +O'Day's knee. + +“It is unnecessary for me to tell you I will help you,” he answered in +his low, smooth voice: “And now let us get to work systematically and +see what can be done. I will begin by asking you a few questions. What +sort of a looking woman is your wife?” + +Felix straightened himself in his chair, felt in his inside pocket, and +took from it a colored photograph. “As you see, she is rather small, +with fair hair, blue eyes, and a slight figure--the usual English type. +She has very beautiful teeth--very white--teeth you would never forget +once you saw them; and she has quite small ears and, although the +picture does not show this, small hands and feet.” + +“And how would she dress now? This evidently was taken some years ago. +I mean, what was her habit of dress? Would it be such as an Englishwoman +would wear?” + +Felix pondered. “Well, when Lady Barbara left she had--” + +An expression of surprise on the priest's face cut short the sentence. +O'Day looked at him in a startled way; then he recalled his words. + +“Pardon me, but it is only fair that you should know that Lady Barbara +is the daughter of Lord Carnavon, and that since my father's death they +call me Sir Felix. I have never used the title here and may never use +it anywhere. I would have assumed some other name when I arrived +here, except that I could not bring myself to give up my own and my +father's--he never did anything to disgrace it. He was caught in a trap, +that is all, and I signed away everything I could to help him out. He +stood by me when I was in India, and when he had a shilling he gave me +half. I would rather have died, much as my wife blamed me, than not to +have done what I did. + +“And I would do it all over again, although I did not realize how big +the load was until settling-day came. Dalton was at the bottom of it +all. He floated the company. There was a story going around the clubs +that he had got me into squaring it all up, knowing that I would be done +for, and he could get away with her easier, but I never believed it. +He has come into his own, if this wretched, suffering woman that Mrs. +Cleary picked up is my wife; and I will come into mine”--here his eyes +flashed--“if he has dragged her down and--” + +Father Cruse again laid his quieting fingers this time on Felix's wrist. + +“He has not dragged her down, Mr. O'Day. Of that you may be sure. A +woman of her class doesn't go to pieces in a year. When she reaches the +end of her means she will either seek work or she will go to one of the +institutions to wait until she can hear from her people at home. I have +known--” + +Felix shook his head with an impatient movement. “You don't know her,” + he exclaimed excitedly, “nor do you know her family. Her father has shut +his door against her, and would step across her body if he found it +on the sidewalk rather than recognize her. Nor would she ask him for a +penny, nor let him or me or any one else know of her misery.” + +Again the priest sat silent. He did not attempt to defend his +theory--some better way of calming his visitor must be found. He merely +said, as if entirely convinced by O'Day's denial: “Oh, well, we will let +that go, perhaps you know best”; and then added, his voice softening, +“and now one word more, before we go into the details of our search, +so that no complications may arise in the future. You, of course, are +hunting for Lady Barbara to reinstate her as your wife if--” + +O'Day sprang from his chair and stood over the priest. The suggestion +had come as a blow. + +“I will take her back!” + +The priest looked up in astonishment. “Yes, is it not so?” + +The answer came between closed teeth. “I did not expect that of +you, Father Cruse, I thought you were bigger--MUCH bigger. Can't you +understand how a man may want to stand by a woman for herself alone +without dragging in his own selfishness and--No, I forgot--you cannot +understand--you never held a woman in your arms--you do not realize her +many weaknesses, her childishness, her whims, her helplessness. But take +her back? NEVER! That chapter in my life is dosed. My hunt for her all +these months has been to save her from herself and from the scoundrel +who has ruined her. When that is done I shall pick up my life as best I +can, but not with her.” + +For some seconds the priest did not speak. Then he said gently, again +avoiding any disagreement. “Let us hope that so happy an ending to +all your sufferings is not far off, my dear Mr. O'Day. And now another +question before we part for the night, one I perhaps ought to have asked +you before. Are you quite positive that Kitty's visitor was your wife?” + +He had reserved this hopeful suggestion--one he himself believed in--for +the last. It would help lift the dead weight of bitter anxiety which was +sure to overwhelm his visitor in the wakeful hours of the night. + +Felix moved impatiently, like one combating a physician's cheering +words. “It must have been she, who else could have dropped the +sleeve-link?” + +“Several people. Excuse me if I talk along different lines, but I have +had a good deal of experience in tracing out just such things as this, +and I have always found it safest to be sure of my facts before deducing +theories. It is not all clear to me that Kitty's woman dropped the +links. And even if she did, the fact is no proof that the woman is your +wife.” + +“But the links are mine. There is no question of it--my initials and +arms are cut into them.” The impatience was gone and a certain curiosity +was manifesting itself. + +“Quite true, and yet you once thought the links were stolen. So let us +presume for the present that they were stolen and that this woman either +bought them, or was given them, or found them.” + +Felix began pacing the floor, a gleam of hope illumining the dark +corners of his heart. The interview, too, had calmed him--as do all +confessions. + +The priest settled back in his seat. He saw that the crisis had passed. +There might be another outburst in the future, but it would not have the +intensity of the one he had just witnessed. He waited until Felix was +opposite his chair and then asked, in a low voice: “Well, may I not be +right, Mr. O'Day?” + +Felix paused in his walk and gazed down at the priest. “I don't know,” + he answered slowly. “My head is not clear enough to think it out. Mrs. +Cleary might help unravel it. She saw her and will remember. Shall I +sound her when I go home--not to excite her suspicions, of course, but +so as to find out whether her visitor were large or small--details like +that?” + +“No, I will ask her, and in a way not to make her suspect. She will +think I am hunting for one of my own people. It is wiser that she should +not know yet what you have told me. I would rather wait for the time +when this poor creature, whoever she is, needs a sister's tenderness. +She will get it there, for no finer woman lives than Kitty Cleary.” + +A sigh of intense relief escaped Felix. “And now tell me where you will +begin your hunt?” he asked, one of his old search-light glances flashing +from beneath his brows. + +“Nowhere in particular. On the East Side, perhaps, where I have means +of knowing what strangers come and go. Then among my own people here. I +shall know within twenty-four hours whether she has been in the habit of +attending evening service--that is, within the last six months. A woman +of the poorer class would be difficult to locate, but there should not +be the slightest trouble in picking out one who, less than a year ago, +occupied your wife's social position--no matter how badly she were +dressed.” + +Felix stood musing. He had reached the limit of the help he had come +for. + +“And what can I do to assist?” + +“Nothing. Go home, and when I need you I will send word. Good night.” + + + + +Chapter XIII + + + +Had Felix continued his visits to Stephen Carlin's shop, he might have +escaped many sleepless hours and saved himself many weary steps. + +Fate had doubtless dealt him one of those unlucky cards which we so +often find in our hands when the game of life is being played. If, for +instance, the book to the right, holding the lost will, had been opened +instead of the book to the left; or if we had caught the wrecked train +by a minute or less; or had our penny come up heads instead of coming +up tails: how many of the ills of life would have been avoided? And so +I say that had Felix continued his visits to Stephen as he should have +done, he would, one December afternoon, have found the ship-chandler +standing in the door, spectacles on his nose, checking off a wagon-load +of manila rope which had just been discharged on his pavement, stopping +only to nod to the postman who had brought him a letter. The delay in +breaking the seal was due entirely to the fact that a coil of light +cordage, used aboard the yachts he was accustomed to fit out, had just +been reported as missing, and so the unopened letter was tossed on top +a barrel of sperm-oil to await his convenience. But it was when Stephen +caught sight of the small cramped writing scrawled over the cheap yellow +envelope, the stamp askew, his own name and address crowded in the lower +left-hand corner, that the supreme moment really arrived, for at that +instant--had Felix been there--he would have seen Carlin slit the +covering with his thumb-nail, lay aside his invoice, and drop on the +first seat within reach, to steady himself. + +Indeed, had Felix on this same December afternoon surprised him even an +hour later, say at six o'clock, which he could very well have done, for +Carlin did not close his shop until seven, he would have come upon +him with the same letter in his hand, his whole mind absorbed in its +contents, especially the last paragraph: “Be here at seven o'clock, +sharp; don't ring the bell below, just rap twice and I shall know it is +you. I have to be very careful who I let in.” + + +It had been several weeks since Carlin had heard from his sister. She +had called at the store on her return from Canada, where she had spent +the summer, and he had helped her find a small suite of rooms on a side +street off St. Mark's Place, which she subsequently occupied, but since +then she had never crossed his threshold. At first she had kept him +advised of her nursing engagements--the days when her work carried her +out of town, or the addresses of those who needed her in the city. +These brief communications having entirely ceased, he had decided in his +anxiety to look her up and, strange to say, on that very night. That +his hand trembled and his rough, weather-browned face became tinged with +color as he read her letter to the end, turning the page and reading the +whole a second time, would have surprised anybody who knew the stern, +silent old sailor. His clerk, a thin, long-necked young man wearing +a paper collar and green necktie, noticed his agitation and guessed +wrong--Carlin being a confirmed old bachelor. And so did the driver +of the wagon, who had to wait for his receipt and who, wondering at +Stephen's emotion, would have asked what the letter was all about had +not the ship-chandler, after consulting his watch, crammed the envelope +into his side pocket, jumped to his feet, and shouted to the Paper +Collar to “roll the stuff off that sidewalk and get everything stowed +away, as he was going up to St. Mark's Place.” + + +Here and there in the whir of the great city a restful breathing-spot +is found, its stretch of grass dotted with moss-covered tombs grouped +around a low-pitched church. At certain hours the sound of bells is +heard and the low rhythm of the organ throbbing through the aisles. Then +lines of quietly dressed worshippers stroll along the bordered walks, +the children's hands fast in their mothers' the arched vestibule-door +closing upon them. + +Most of these oases, like Trinity, St. Paul's, and St. Mark's, differ +but little--the same low-pitched church, the same slender spire, the +same stretch of green with its scattered gravestones. And, outside, the +same old demon of hurry, defied and hurled back by a lifted hand armed +with the cross. + +Of these three breathing-spaces, St. Mark's is, perhaps, a little +greener in the early spring, less dusty in the summer heat, less bare +and uninviting in the winter snow. It is more restful, too, than the +others, a place in which to sit and muse--even to read. Out from its +shade and sunshine run queer side streets, with still queerer houses, +rising two stories and an attic, each with a dormer and huge chimney. +Dried-up old aristocrats, these, living on the smallest of pensions, +taking toll of notaries public, shyster lawyers, peddlers of steel pens, +die-cutters, and dismal real-estate agents in dismal offices boasting a +desk, two chairs, and a map. + +Stephen's course lay in the direction of one of these relics of better +days--a wide-eyed house with a pieced-out roof, flattened like an old +woman's wig over a sloping forehead, the eyebrows of eaves shading +two blinking windows. A most respectable old dowager of a building, no +doubt, in its time, with the best of Madeira and the choicest of cuts +going down two steps into its welcoming basement. That was before the +iron railings were covered with rust and before the three brownstone +steps leading to the front door were worn into scoops by heavy shoes; +before the polished mahogany doors were replaced by pine and painted a +dull, dirty green; before the banisters with their mahogany rail were +as full of cavities as a garden fence with half its palings gone; and +before--long before--some vulgar Paul Pry had cut a skylight in the +hipped roof, through which he could peer, taking note of whatever went +on inside the gloomy interior: each of these several calamities but so +much additional testimony to its once grand estate, and every one of +them but so many steps in its downward career. + +For it had become anything but a happy house--this old dowager dwelling +of the long ago. Indeed, it was a very mournful and most depressing +house, and so were its tenants. In the basement was a barber who spent +half his time lounging about inside the small door, without his white +jacket, waiting for customers. On the first-floor-back there was a +music-teacher whose pupils were so few and far between that only the +shortest of lessons at the longest of intervals were recited on her +piano; on the second-floor-front was a wood-engraver who took to +photography to pay his rent. On the second-floor-back was a dressmaker +who could not collect her bills; while in the rear was a laundress who +washed for the tenants. Lastly, there was Mrs. Martha Munger, Stephen +Carlin's sister, who occupied the third floor both front and back, over +the laundress's quarters, the one chimney serving them both. + +While the evil eye of the skylight, despite its dishonorable calling, +might have been put to some good use during the day, it can be safely +said that it was of no earthly, and for that matter of no heavenly, use +during the night. Nor did anything else in the way of illumination take +its place. My Lady Dowager's patrons were too poor or too stingy to +furnish even a single burner up and down the three flights. The excuse +was that the rays of the arc-light, blazing away on the opposite side +of the street, were not only powerful enough to shine through the +weather-beaten hall door covering the entrance but, still further, to +illuminate the rickety staircase--the very staircase up which Stephen +Carlin was now groping in answer to Martha's letter. + +She had heard his heavy tread on the creaky steps, and was watching +for him with the door ajar--an inch at first, and then wide open, her +kerosene lamp held over the railing to give him light. + +“Oh, but I'm glad you've come, Stephen. I was getting worried. I was +afraid maybe you didn't get the letter. It's black dark outside, isn't +it?” and she glanced at the cheap clock on the mantel behind her. “Come +in, the kettle was boiling over when I heard you. I'll talk to you in a +minute.” + +He followed with only a pressure of her hand, and, without a word of +greeting, seated himself near a table. In the same quiet, silent way +he watched her as she busied herself about the apartment, lifting the +kettle from the stove, adjusting the wick of the lamp which had begun to +smoke from the draft of the open door, taking from a shelf two cups and +saucers and from a tin bread box a loaf and some crackers. + +When, in one of her journeys to and fro, she passed where the light of +the lamp fell full upon her round face, framed in its white cap and long +strings, he gave a slight start. There were dark circles below her eyes +and heavy lines near the corners of her mouth--signs he had not seen +since the month she had spent in the Marine Hospital when the plague +was stamped out. He noticed, too, that her robust figure, with its broad +shoulders and capacious bosom, restful pillow to many a new-born +baby, seemed shrunken--not in weight, but in its spring, as if all her +alertness (she was under fifty) had oozed out. It was only when she had +completed her labors and taken a chair beside him, her soft, nursing +hand covering his own, that his mind reverted to the tragedy which +had brought him to her side. Even then, although she sat with her face +turned toward his, her eyes reading his own, some moments passed before +either of them spoke. At last, in a wondering, dazed way, she exclaimed: +“Have you, in all your life, Stephen, ever heard anything like it?” + +Carlin shook his head. The letter had given him the facts, and no +additional details could alter the situation. It was as if a dead body +were lying in the next room awaiting interment; when the time came +he would step in and look at it, ask the hour of burial, and step out +again. + +“I came as soon as I'd read your letter,” he said slowly examining +one by one his rough fingers bunched together in his lap. “We got +chuck-a-block on Second Avenue or I'd have been here before. Why didn't +you let me know sooner?” As he spoke he shifted his gaze to the wrinkles +in her throat--a new anxiety rising as he noticed how many more had +gathered since he saw her last. + +“She wouldn't have it, and I want to tell you that you've got to be +careful, as it is. And mind you don't speak too sudden to her.” + +In answer he craned his head as if to see around the jamb of the door +leading into the smaller room and, lowering his voice, whispered: “Is +she here now?” + +“No, but she will be in a few minutes; she's often late, she waits until +it's dark.” + +“How long has she been here with you?” + +“About two weeks.” + +“Two weeks! You didn't tell me that.” + +“She wouldn't let me. She is having trouble enough and I have to do +pretty much as she wants.” + +He ruminated for a moment, this time scrutinizing the palms of his +hands, seemingly interested in some callous spots near the thumb-joint, +and then asked: “How did she find you?” + +“By God's mercy and nothing else. I was sitting in a Third Avenue car +and there she was opposite. I couldn't believe my eyes, she was that +changed! She would have been off the dock, I believe, if she hadn't +found me. She has run away from Dalton now, and is so scared of him she +trembles every time some one comes up the stairs. That's why I wrote you +not to ring. He has nothing left. He kept a-hounding her to write to her +father and nigh drove her crazy; so she left him.” + +“Does she know Mr. Felix is here?” He had finished with the callous +spots and was cracking every horny knuckle in his fingers as he spoke, +as if their loosening might help solve the problem that vexed him. + +“No, I haven't dared tell her. She would be off the dock for sure then. +She is more afraid of him than she is of Dalton.” + +“Mr. Felix won't hurt her,” he rejoined sharply. + +“Yes, but she knows she'd hurt HIM if he finds out how bad she's +off. She'd rather he'd think she's living like she used to do. Oh, +Stephen--Stephen, but it's a bad, bad business! I'm beat out wondering +what ought to be done.” + +She pushed back her chair, and began walking up and down the room like +one whose suffering can find no other relief, pausing now and then to +speak to him as she passed. “I tried to get her to listen. I told her +Mr. Felix might be coming over from London. I had to put it to her that +way, but she nearly went out of her mind, stiffened up, and began to put +on such a wild look that I had to stop. Have you heard from him lately?” + +“No, I wrote and wrote and could get no answer. Then I went up to where +he boarded, and the woman told me he'd been gone some months--she didn't +know where. He left no word, and she forgot to get the name of the +express that came for his trunk. He is down with sickness somewheres, +or he'd have showed up. He was not himself at all when I last saw +him--that's long before you got back from Canada. He's done nothing but +walk the streets since he come ashore.” + +Stephen stopped, as if it were too painful for him to continue, looked +around the room, noting its bareness, and asked, with a break in his +voice: “Where do you put her?” + +“In the little room. She wouldn't take mine and she won't let me help +her. She got work at first on 14th Street, in that big store near the +Square, and worked there for a while, that was when she was with Dalton. +But Dalton drove her out. And when she was near dead, with nothing to +eat, some people picked her up and she stayed with them all night--she +never told me where. That was last spring. She stood it for some months +living from hand to mouth, she working her fingers to the bone for him, +until she was afraid of her life and left him again. She was going she +didn't know where when I looked at her 'cross the car and she saw me. + +“'Martha!' she cried, and was on the seat next me, my two arms about +her. She was sobbing like a lost child who has found its mother again. +There were two other women in the car, and they wanted to help, but I +told them it was only my baby back again. We were near 10th Street +at the time and I got her out and brought her here and put her to +bed--Listen! Keep still a moment! That's her step! Yes, thank God, she's +alone! I'm always scared lest he should come with her. Get in there +behind the curtain!” + +Martha had lifted the lamp again as she spoke, and was holding it over +the banister, one hand down-stretched toward a woman whose small white +fingers were clutching the mahogany rail, pulling herself up one step at +a time. + +“Don't hurry, my child. It's a hard climb, I know. Give me the box. I +began to get worried. Are you tired?” + +“A little. It has been a long day.” She sighed as she passed into the +room, the nurse following with a large pasteboard box. + +“It's good to get back to you,” she continued, sinking into a chair near +the mantel and unfastening her cloak. “The stairs seem to grow steeper +every time I come up. Thank you. Just hang it behind the door. And now +my hat, please.” She lifted the cheap black straw from her head, freeing +a fluff of light-golden hair, and with her fingers combed it back from +her forehead. + +“And please bring me my slippers. I have walked all the way home, and my +poor feet ache.” + +The nurse stooped for the hat, patted the thin shoulders, and went into +the adjacent room for the slippers, whispering to Carlin on her way back +to keep hidden until she called. He was still standing concealed by +the folds of the calico curtain dividing the apartment, a choke in his +throat as he watched the frail woman, her sharpened knees outlined +under the folds of the black dress and, below it, the edge of a white +petticoat bespattered with mud, the whole figure drooping as if there +were not strength enough along its length to hold the body upright. What +shocked him even more were the deep-sunken eyes and the hollows in +the cheeks and about the brows. All the laugh and sparkle of the once +joyous, beautiful girl he had known were gone. Only the gentle voice was +left. + +Martha was now back, kneeling on the floor, untying the shabby shoes, +rubbing the small, delicately shaped feet in her plump hands to rest +and warm them. “There, my lamb, that's better,” he heard her say, as she +drew on the heelless slippers. “I'll have tea in a minute. The kettle's +been boiling this hour.” Then, as though it were an afterthought: +“Stephen wants to see you, so I told him maybe you would let him. Shall +I tell him to come?” + +“Your brother, you mean? The one who lives here in New York?” she asked +listlessly. + +“Yes, he's never forgotten you. And--” + +“Some day I will see him, Martha. I shall be better soon, and then--” + +She stopped and stared at Carlin, who misunderstanding Martha's words, +had drawn aside the calico curtain and was advancing toward her, bowing +as he walked, the choke still in his throat. “I hope your ladyship is +not offended,” he ventured. “It was all one family once, if I may say +so, and there is only Martha and me.” + +She had straightened as she saw him coming and then, remembering that +she was in Martha's room, and he Martha's brother, she held out her +hand. “No, Stephen, I am very glad. I was only a little startled. It is +a long time since I saw you, but I remember you quite well, and you have +not changed. A little grayer perhaps. When was it?” + +“When I came back from Calcutta, your ladyship, and the Rover was +wrecked. Your father ordered the crew home. I was first mate, your +ladyship remembers, and had to look after them. Some six years agone, I +take it.” + +“Yes, it all comes back to me now,” she answered dreamily “six years--is +it not more than that?” + +“No, your ladyship. Just about six.” + +She paused, rested her head on her hand, and looked at him intently +from beneath the wave of hair that had dropped again about her brow, and +asked: “Why do you still call me 'your ladyship' Stephen?” + +“Well, I don't know, your ladyship. Mebbe it's because I've always been +used to it. But I won't if your ladyship doesn't want me to.” + +“Never mind, it does not matter. It has been so long since I have heard +it that it sounded odd, that was all.” She roused herself with an effort +and added, in a brighter tone, changing the topic: “It was very good of +you to come to see Martha. She has me to look after now, and I am afraid +she gets unhappy at times. You cannot think how good she is to me--so +good--so good! I often wake in the night dreaming I am a child again +and stretch out my hand to her, just as I used to do years ago when she +slept beside me. She often speaks of you. I am glad you came to-day.” + +Carlin had been standing over her all the time, his rough pea-jacket +buttoned across his broad chest, his ruddy sailor's face with its +fringe of gray whiskers, bushy eyebrows, and clear, steady gaze in vivid +contrast to her own shrinking weakness. + +“It ain't altogether Martha,” he exclaimed in tones suddenly grown +deliberate. “It's you, your ladyship, that I particular came to see. You +ain't fit to take care of yourself, and there ain't nobody but me and +Martha that I can lay hands on now to help--nobody but just us two. I'm +not here to judge nobody. I know what's happened and what you're going +through, and you've got to let me lend a hand. If I lived to be a +hundred I could never forget his lordship's kindness to me, and things +can't go on as they are with you. There is a way out of it if you only +knew it.” + +She threw back her head quickly. “Not my Father?” + +“No, not your father. Although his lordship would haul down his colors +mighty quick if once he saw you as I do now. But there are others who +would be glad to take a hand at the wheel and help you steer out of all +this misery. You ain't accustomed to it and you don't deserve it, and +I'm going to put a stop to it if I can.” This last came with still +greater emphasis--the first mate was speaking now. + +“Thank you, Stephen. You and Martha are very much alike. She has the +loyalty of an old servant, and you have the loyalty of an old friend. +But we must all pay for our mistakes--” she halted, drew in her breath, +and added, picking at her dress, “--and our sins. Everybody condemns us +but God. He is the only one who forgets, when we are sorry.” + +“Not so many remember as you may think, your ladyship. Some of 'em have +forgotten--forgotten everything--and are standing by ready to catch a +line or man a boat.” + +“Yes, there are always kind people in the world.” + +“Well, there mayn't be such an awful lot of 'em as you think, but I know +one. There's Mr. Felix, for instance, who--” + +She sprang to her feet, her hands held out as a barrier, and stood +trembling, staring wildly at him, all the blood gone from her cheeks. +“Stop, Stephen! Not another word. You must not mention that name to me. +I cannot and will not permit it. I have listened too long already. I am +very grateful for your kindness and for your offers to me, but you must +not touch on my private affairs. I am earning my own living, and I shall +continue to do so. And now I would like to be alone.” + +“But, your ladyship, I've got something to tell you which--” + +Martha stepped between them. “I think, Stephen, you'd better not talk to +her ladyship any more. You might come some other night when she's more +rested. You see she's had a very bad day and--” + +Stephen's voice rang out clear. “Not say anything more, when--” + +Martha dug her fingers into his arm. “Hush!” she whispered hoarsely, her +lips close against his hairy cheek. “She'll be on the floor in a dead +faint in a minute. Didn't I tell you not to mention his name?” + +She stepped quickly to the side of her charge, who had walked +falteringly toward the window and now stood peering into the darkness +through the panes of the dormer. + +“It's only Stephen's way, child, and you mustn't mind him. He doesn't +mean anything. He hasn't seen much of women, living aboard ship half his +life. It's only his way of trying to be kind. And you see he's known you +from a baby, same as me--and that's why he lets out.” + +She had folded the pitiful figure in her arms, her hand patting the bent +shoulders. “But we'll get on together, my lamb--you and me. And we'll +have supper right away--And I must ask you, Stephen, to go, now, because +her ladyship is worn out and I'm going to put her to bed.” + +Carlin picked up his hat and stood fingering the rim, trying to make up +his mind whether he should force the truth upon her then or obey orders +and wait. The training of long years told. + +“Well, just as you say, your ladyship, I won't stay if you don't want +me, but don't forget I'm within call, not more than a half-hour away. +All Martha's got to do is to send a postal card and I'm here. I'm sorry +I hurt your feelings. God knows I didn't mean to! Martha knows what +I wanted to tell you. You'll have to come to it sooner or later. Good +night. I hope your ladyship will be rested in the morning. Good night, +Martha. You know you can write when you want me. Good night again, your +ladyship.” + +He opened the door softly, closed it behind him without a sound, placed +his hat on his head, and, reaching out for the hand-rail, felt his way +in the dark down the rickety stairs and out onto the sidewalk. + +Once there, he looked up and down the street as if undecided, turned +sharply, and bent his steps toward Second Avenue, muttering to himself +over and over again as he walked: “I got to find Mr. Felix. I got to +find Mr. Felix.” + + + + +Chapter XIV + + + +Felix O'Day's runaway wife, despite the many quiet hours spent in +Martha's room, near St. Mark's Place, had not told her old nurse all her +story. She had wept her heart out on the dear woman's shoulder and had +cuddled close in her arms, giving her scraps and bits of her unfortunate +history, with side-lights here and there on a misery so abject and +so terrifying that the dear nurse had hugged the frail figure all the +tighter, seeing only the wound and knowing nothing of the steps that had +led up to the final blow or the anger that hastened it. + +Martha had known, of course, that there had been bankruptcy and ruin; +that Oakdale, the ancestral estate of the O'Days--theirs for two +centuries, with all its priceless old furniture, tapestries, pictures, +and porcelains--had, after the owner's death, been sold at public +auction; that Fernlodge, Mr. Felix's own home, had gone in the same way; +that Lady Barbara, for some reason, had returned to her father, Lord +Carnavon; that the girl baby had died; and that “Mr. Felix,” as she +always called him, had gone to London where he had taken up his abode +at his club. Lady Barbara herself had given these details in a letter +written a couple of weeks after the death of the child, Martha being in +Toronto at the time. + +Martha had also learned, through a letter from the head gardener's wife, +that after a few months' stay, Lady Barbara had left her father's house +because of a fierce scene with Lord Carnavon, who had sent for his +carriage, conducted her into it, and given directions to his coachman +either to set his daughter down on the main road, outside his gates, or +to take her to the nearest public house. + +She had learned, too, that her former charge, after having eloped +with Dalton, had dropped entirely out of sight and, so far as her own +knowledge was concerned, had never come to light again until, with a cry +of joy, Lady Barbara sank sobbing on her shoulder in that Third Avenue +car. + +Much of this information had been gathered from newspaper clippings that +her old uncle, living in London, had mailed to her. More particulars had +come in a letter from James Muldoon, one of the grooms at Oakdale, who +gave a most pitiful and graphic account of the way the London dealers +crowded about the old porcelains in the ebony cabinets, and of the +prices paid by the Earl of Brinsmore, who bought most of the pictures, +half of the old Spanish furniture, as well as the largest but one of +the great tapestries, to enrich the new mansion he was then building in +London and in which James Muldoon was happy to say he had been promised +a place. + +In still other letters, open references had also been made to a much +discussed speculation, entangling many of those whom Martha had formerly +known, followed by a grand financial explosion in which some of the +same people had been badly injured. In connection with these disasters +mention was likewise made of a certain Mr. Dalton, who had disappeared +shortly after, leaving rather a bad name behind him, altogether +undeserved, according to many of the papers, he always having been a +“financier of the highest standing.” This last ball of gossip was rolled +Martha's way by her nephew, who was a clerk in a solicitor's office off +the Strand and who had mailed an editorial on the matter to his uncle, +who promptly forwarded it to Martha. She had read it carefully to the +end and had put it in her drawer without at first grasping the full +meaning of the fact that, but for the activities of this same Mr. +Dalton, her dear mistress and her dear mistress's husband, Felix O'Day, +and her dear mistress's father-in-law, the late Sir Carroll O'Day, would +still be in possession of their ancestral estates and in undisturbed +enjoyment of whatever happiness they, individually and collectively, +could get out of life. + +What the dear woman never knew, and it was just as well that she +did not, were the special happenings which ended in the overwhelming +catastrophe. + +It really began with a tea basket, holding enough for two, which was +opened one lovely afternoon under the big willows skirting that little +strip of land bordering the backwater at Cookham-on-Thames. My lady at +the time was wearing a wide leghorn hat with blue ribbons that matched +her eyes and set off the roses in her fair English cheeks. Her companion +was in white flannels--a muscular, well-set-up young man of thirty, +fifteen years younger than her husband and with twice his charm--one of +those delightful companions who possess the rare quality of making an +hour seem but five minutes. A gay party had dropped down the river in +her father's launch, which had been tied up at Ferry Inn, and Dalton +had insisted on taking my lady for just a half-hour's poling in a punt, +Felix and the others preferring to take their tea at the Inn--plans +readily agreed to and carried out, except that the half-hour prolonged +itself into two whole ones. + +Then there had come a week-end at Glenmore Castle and a garden party +outside London, and then five-o'clock teas at half a dozen private +houses, including one or two meetings a trifle more secluded. And all +quite as it should be, for a most desirable and valuable guest was this +same Mr. Guy Dalton, a man received everywhere with open arms, as “one +of the rising men of the time, my dear sir,” a financier of distinction, +indeed, and a promoter of such skill that he had only to issue a +prospectus, or wink knowingly on the street, or take you aside at the +club and whisper confidentially to you, when everything he had issued, +winked at, or whispered about would go up with a rush, and countless men +and women--a goodly number were women--would be hundreds, nay, thousands +of pounds the richer before the week was out. + +That his own buoyant imagination, as well as that of those who followed +his lead, should have been stretched to the utmost was quite within the +possibilities when one recollects that the basis of all this wealth was +crude rubber, a substance of pronounced elasticity. This, too, accounts +for the vim and suddenness of the final recoil attending the final +collapse--a recoil which smashed everything and everybody within its +reach. + +There were “words,” of course, between Dalton and some of his victims. +There always are “words” when the ball bounces back and you catch it +full in the eye. And for salves and soothing plasters there were the +customary explanations regarding the state of the market, the tightness +of money, the non-arrival of important details, the delaying of +despatches owing to a break in the cable, together with offers of heavy +discounts, and increased allotments of stock for renewed subscriptions. +But the end came, just as it always does. + +And so did the aftermath, as was shown by the advertisements in the +auction columns of the daily papers and the motley mob of hungry, +perspiring dealers, pawing over the household gods; and, more disastrous +still, because of its rarity, Felix's brave fight to save his father's +name, the whole struggle ending in his own ruin. + +As for the very pretty young woman who had been wearing the hat with +blue ribbons, it may be as well to remark that when the milk in the +heart of a woman has become slightly curdled, it is to be expected that, +under certain exciting influences, the whole will turn sour. When to +this curdling process is added the loss of her child and her fortune, +calamities made all the more insupportable by reason of an interview +lasting an hour in which her two hot hands were held in those of a +sympathetic man of thirty, her cheeks within an inch of his lips, the +quickest--in fact, the only way--yes, really the only way, to +prevent any further calamity is to put your best gown in your best +dressing-case, catch up your jewels, and exchange your husband's roof +for that of your father's. And this is precisely what my lady did do, +and there in her father's house she stayed, despite the entreaties of +her own and her father's friends. + +“And why not?” she had argued, with flashing eyes: “I am without a +shilling of my own, owing to the Quixotic ideas of my husband, who, +without thinking of me, has beggared himself to pay his father's debts. +And that, too, just when I need to be comforted most. He does not care +how I suffer; and now that my father has offered me a home, I will lead +my own life, surrounded by the few friends who have loved me for myself +alone.” + +That the eminent financier--it might be better perhaps to say the LATE +eminent financier--was one of those same unselfish beings who had “loved +her for herself alone,” and that he had, at once and without the delay +of an hour, flown to her side followed as a matter of course, as did the +gossip, men and women in and about the clubs and drawing-rooms nodding +meaningly or hinting behind their hands. + +“Rather rough on O'Day,” the men had agreed. “That comes of marrying +a woman young enough to be your daughter.” “She ought to have known +better,” was the verdict of the women. “So many other ways of getting +what you want without making a scandal,” this from a duchess from +behind her fan to a divorcee. But few words of sympathy for the deserted +husband escaped any of them and, except from his old servants, Felix +allowed himself to receive none. + +He had made no move to win her back. To him she was, at the worst, only +the same wilful and spoiled child she had always been, while he was over +twenty years her senior. What he hoped for was that her common sense, +her breeding, and her pride would come to the rescue, and that after her +pique had spent itself, she would become once more the loving wife. + +And it is quite possible that this hope might have been realized had +it not been for one of those unfortunate and greatly to be regretted +concurrences which so often precede if they do not precipitate many of +life's catastrophes. + +One of Lord Carnavon's grooms was the unfortunate match that caused this +explosion. He had been sent down to Dorsetshire for a horse and, in an +out-of-the-way inn in one corner of the county, had stumbled--early +the next morning--into a cosey little sitting-room. When he came to his +senses--he never recovered the whole of them until he was safe once +more inside his lordship's stables--he told, with bulging eyes and bated +breath, what he had seen. Whereupon the head coachman forthwith informed +his wife, who at once poured it into the ears of the housekeeper, +who, being jealous of my lady, fearing her dominance, lost no time in +amplifying the details to Lord Carnavon. That gentleman had walked his +library the rest of the night and, on my lady's return from Scotland, +two mornings later (she had “spent the night with her aunt”), had +denounced her in tones so shrill that every word was heard at the end +of the long gallery; the tirade, to his lordship's amazement, being cut +short by his daughter's defiant answer: “And why not, if I love him?” + +All of which accounts for the infamous order roared five minutes later +by the distinguished nobleman to his coachman, who, having known her +ladyship from a child and loved her accordingly, had not set her down +on the main road, but had taken her to a cottage on an adjoining +estate--her second change of roofs--from whence Dalton carried her off +next day to Ostend, a refuge she had herself selected, the season there +being then at its height. + +Had either of them kept a diary, it is safe to say that the delirious +hours which filled that first week at Ostend would have been checked off +in gold letters. Neither of them had ever been so blissfully happy, nor +so passionately enamoured of the other, nor so overjoyed that the dreary +past, with all its misunderstandings, calumnies, and injustice, had been +wiped out forever. + +There had, of course, been a few colorless moments. On a certain +Saturday, for instance, the eminent ex-financier, having lost his head +after the manner of some born gamblers, had, at the Casino, played +the wrong number--a series of wrong numbers, in fact--an error which +resulted in his pushing a crisp bundle of Bank of England notes--almost +all he had with him--toward the spidery hands of a suave gentleman with +rat eyes and bloodless face, who gathered them up with a furtive, deadly +smile. + +The gold Letters might have been omitted here, and, in their stead, my +lady could have made a common pinhole to remind her, if she ever cared +to remember, that it was on that very night that her passionately +enamoured lover had helped her unfasten from her throat a string of +pearls which O'Day had given her, and which, strange to say, for a +woman so injured, so maligned, and so misunderstood, she, with Dalton's +advice, had carried off when she deserted both her husband and her +husband's bed and board. And she might have inserted just below the +pinhole the illuminating note that, after unfastening the string, Dalton +had forgotten to return it. + +And then there had come an August morning--the following Monday, to be +exact--when, his coffee untasted, he had sat staring at a paragraph in +the financial column of a London paper, not daring to lay it down for +fear she would pick it up. It gave a full and detailed account of the +discovery of a series of certificates bearing duplicate numbers, said +duplicates claiming to be the genuine shares of the Bawhadder Rubber +Co., Ltd. It also hinted at a searching investigation about to be made +by a financial committee of the highest standing at its next regular +meeting, but a few days off. More important still was a crisp editorial, +charging the directors of the aforesaid company, and particularly its +promoter--name withheld--with irregularities of the gravest import. + +And it was on this same Monday morning--another pinhole, made with a big +black pin would serve best here--before the stone-cold coffee and the +dry, uneaten toast had been sent away, that there had arrived a most +important telegram (that is, Dalton had SAID it had arrived) ordering +him back to London on business of the UTMOST IMPORTANCE. So urgent were +the summons that he was forced to leave at once--so he explained to the +manager of the hotel--and as madame wished to avoid the night journey +by way of Ostend--the channel being almost always rough, even in summer, +and she easily disturbed--he had decided to take the shorter and more +comfortable route, and would the urbane and obliging gentleman please +secure two tickets to London by way of Calais and Dover? This would give +them a day in Paris at the house of a friend, and the next morning would +see them safely landed in London, in ample time for the business in +question. + +The pins can be dispensed with now; so can the pencil and so can any +special entries. Henceforth life for these two exiles was to be one long +toboggan slide, with every post they passed marking a lower level. The +sled with its occupants made no stop at Paris nor did it go by way of +Calais nor did it reach Dover. It swooped on down to Havre, the steamer +sailing an hour after the train arrived, crossed the ocean at full +speed, and dumped its two passengers one hot August night in front of a +cheap and inconspicuous hotel on the East Side, New York, where Mr. and +Mrs. Stanton, from Toronto, Canada, would he at home, should anybody +call--which, it is quite safe to say, nobody ever did. + +No, nothing of all this did the heart-broken woman tell the tender old +nurse, who had carried her in her arms many a night, and who was now +willing to sacrifice everything she possessed to give her mistress one +hour of peace. + +Nor did she tell of the shock which she, a woman of quality, had +received when she entered the two cheaply furnished rooms, her only +shelter for months, and which, to a woman accustomed from babyhood to +a luxurious home and the care of attentive and loyal servants, had +affected her more keenly than anything that had yet happened. + +Neither did she confide into the willing ears of the sympathetic +woman the details of her gradual awakening from Dalton's spell as his +irritability, cowardice, and selfishness became more and more apparent. +Nor yet of her growing anxiety as their resources declined; an anxiety +which had so weighed upon her mind that she could neither sleep nor +rest, despite his continued promises of daily remittances that never +came and his rose-colored schemes for raising money which never +materialized. + +Neither did she uncover the secret places of her own heart, and tell the +old nurse of the fight she had made in those earlier days when she had +faced the situation without flinching; nor of her stubborn determination +to still fight on to the end. She had even at one time sought to defend +him against herself. All men had their weaknesses, she had reasoned; +Guy had his. Moreover, the crash had been none of his doing. He had been +deceived by false reports instigated by his enemies, including her own +father-in-law and--yes, her husband as well, who could have avoided +the catastrophe had he followed Guy's advice, and persuaded Sir Carroll +O'Day to hold on to his shares. How, then, could she desert him, poor as +he was and with the world against him? She had been untrue to everything +else. Could she not redeem herself by being at least true to her sin? + +What she did tell Martha, and there was the old ring in her voice as she +spoke, was of her refusal to yield to Dalton's presistent entreaties +to write to her father for sufficient money to start him in a new +enterprise which, with “even his limited means”--thus ran the letter +she was to copy and sign--“was already exceeding his most sanguine +expectations, and which, with a few thousand pounds of additional +capital, would yield enormous returns.” And she might have added that +so emphatic had been her refusal that, for the first time in all their +intercourse, Dalton's eyes had been opened to something he had never +realized in her before, the quality of the blood that runs in some +Englishwomen's veins--this time the blood of the Carnavons, who for two +centuries had been noted for their indomitable will. + +Her defiance had seemed all the more remarkable to him because as he +well knew their combined resources were dwindling. She had, in fact, +only a few finger-rings left, together with some cheap trinkets; among +them a pair of sleeve-buttons then in her cuff's, a pair which she had +given Felix and which she found in her jewel-box the day after she left +him, and which she had determined to return until she realized how small +was their value. + +The rest of her sad story came by fits and starts. + +With her head on Martha's shoulder she told of the horror of that rainy +April night when, with agonized hands against her hot cheeks, she had +heard him stumbling up the narrow stairs staggering drunk, lunging +through the door, and falling headlong at her feet. Of the deadly fear +born in her, for the first time in her life, she, helpless and alone, +without a human being to whom she could appeal, not daring to disclose +her own identity lest graver results might follow; he, prostrate before +her, naked to his inmost bone, with all his perfidy exposed. Of his +cursing her conscientious scruples and family pride, her milk-and-water +principles, demanding again that she should write her father and that +very night, ending his entreaties with a blow of his fiat hand on her +cheek which sent her reeling toward her narrow bed. + +She had watched her chance, caught up her hat and cloak, and had slipped +down-stairs, avoiding the crowd about the side-door, and had then fled +as if for her life, to be found an hour later by an expressman's wife, +who had put her to bed with a kindness and tenderness she had not known +since she left her husband's roof. + +Then there had followed a long, weary day's search for work, ending at +last in defeat when, disheartened and footsore, she had dragged herself +once more up the hotel stairs, with another tightening of her resolution +to fight it out to the end. + +Greatly to her surprise, Dalton had received her with marked politeness. +He had begged her forgiveness, pleading that his nerves had been upset +by his financial troubles. With his arm around her, he had told her how +young and pretty she still was, and how sad it made him when he thought +he had ruined her life and brought her all these weary miles from home, +his contrition being apparently so genuine, that she had determined to +trust him once more, and would have told him so had she not gone into +her room to change her dress, only to find that he had pawned the few +remaining trinkets and articles of wearing-apparel she possessed, in +order to try his luck in a neighboring pool-room. + +She had realized, then, where she stood. There was but one thing for +her to do and that was to hunt again for work. She had been an expert +needlewoman in her better days and this knowledge might earn her their +board. + +With this in her mind, she had consulted a woman, living on the floor +above, who had often spoken to her when they passed each other on the +stairs, and who was employed in a department store on 14th Street +near Broadway, the result being that Stiger & Company had given “Mrs. +Stanton” a place in the repair shop, her wages being equal to her own +and Dalton's board. This had continued all through the summer, her +earnings keeping the roof over their heads, Dalton leaving her for +days at a time, his invariable excuse for his absence being that he was +“trying to get employment.” + +Finally--and again her eyes burned, and the color mounted to her hot +cheeks as she reached this part of her story--there had come that last +awful, unforgettable December night. + +She had come home from work and had put on a thin silk wrapper, too well +worn for pawning, when the door of their little sitting-room was opened +and Dalton entered, bringing two men with him. One of them kept his hat +on as he talked, the other slouched his from his head after he had taken +a seat and had had a chance to look her over. The three had come upon +her suddenly, and she, realizing her dishabille, had risen hastily, +excusing herself, when Dalton, who was half tipsy, stepped between her +and her bedroom door. + +“No, you'll stay here,” he had cried; “you're prettier as you are. I +never saw you so fetching. Don't mind them, they're friends of mine. +We've ordered up something to drink.” + +She had stood trembling, looking from one to the other, her heart +hammering wildly. No man had ever addressed her with such insolence and +before such company. What she feared was that something would snap in +her and she fall fainting to the floor. + +“I will change my dress,” she had answered firmly, speaking slowly to +hide her terror. She was Lord Carnavon's daughter now. + +“No, I tell you, Barbara--I--” + +There was something in her eyes that told him he had reached the limit +of her forbearance. Beyond that there was danger. + +She had glided past him, shut and locked her bedroom door, struggled +with bungling fingers into her walking-dress, pinned on her hat, thrown +an old silk waterproof around her shoulders, had slid back the bolt of +her chamber opening into the hall, crept down the steps, and fled. + +Ten minutes later Martha's arms were about her, and she sobbing on her +old nurse's shoulder. + + + + +Chapter XV + + + +The day following Stephen's visit was one of many spent by Lady Barbara +in working at “home,” as she called the simple apartment in which Martha +had given her shelter. + +With the aid of a shop-girl whose mother Martha had known, she had found +employment at Rosenthal's, on upper Third Avenue. There had been need +of an expert needlewoman in a department recently opened, and Mangan, +in charge of the work, had taken her name and address. The repairing of +rare laces had been one of her triumphs when a girl, she having placed +an inset in the middle of an old piece of Valenciennes which had +deceived even the experts at Kensington Museum. And so, when one of +Rosenthal's agents had looked up her lodgings, had seen Martha, and +noted “Mrs. Stanton's” quiet refinement, he had at once given her the +place. She had retained, with Martha's advice, the name that Dalton had +assumed for her on her arrival in New York, and Rosenthal's pay-roll and +messengers knew her by no other. + +These days at home bad been gradually extended, her employer finding +that she could work there more satisfactorily, and of late the greater +part of each week had been spent in the small suite of rooms in St. +Mark's Place--much to Martha's delight, who had arranged her own duties +so as to be with her mistress. The good woman had long since given up +night-nursing, and the few patrons dependent upon her during the day +had had to be content with an “exchange,” which she generally managed to +obtain, there being one or two of the fraternity on whom she could call. + +And these days, in spite of the sorrow hovering over her charge, Martha +never found wholly unhappy. They constantly reminded her of the +good times at Oakdale when she used to bring in her young mistress's +breakfast. She could recall the dainty, white egg-shell china, the squat +silver service bearing the Carnavon arms, and the film of lace which she +used to throw around her ladyship's shoulders, lifting her hair to give +it room. The butler would bring the tray to the door, and Martha would +carry it herself to the bedside, where she would be met with the +cry, “Must I get up?” or the more soothing greeting of, “Oh, you good +Martha--well, give me my wrapper!” + +The delicate porcelain and heirloom silver were missing now, and so +was the filmy lace, but the tired mistress, could sleep as long as she +pleased, thank Heaven! and the same loving care be given her. And the +meal could be as nicely served, even though the thick cup cost but a +penny and the tea was poured from an earthen pot kept hot on the stove. + +Martha's deft hands relieved her mistress, too, of many other little +necessary duties, such as the repair of her clothes; having them +carefully laid out for the morning so that the nap might be prolonged +and time be given for the care of the beautiful hair and frail hands; +helping her dress; serving her breakfast, and getting her ready for the +day's work. These services over, Martha would move the small pine table +close to the sill of the window, where the light was better, spread a +clean white towel over its top, and sit beside her while she sewed. + +This restful, almost happy, life had been rudely shaken, if not entirely +wrecked, by Stephen's visit. Up to that time, Lady Barbara--who had been +nearly three weeks with Martha--had not only delighted in her work, +but had shown an enviable pride in keeping pace with her employer's +engagements, often working rather late into the night to finish her +allotment on time. + +The particular work uppermost in her mind on the night Stephen had +called was the repairing of a costly Spanish mantilla which had +been picked up in Spain by one of Rosenthal's customers. Through the +carelessness of a packer, it had been badly slashed near the centre--an +ugly, ragged tear which only the most skilful of needles could restore. +Mangan, some days before, had given it to her to repair with special +instructions to return it at a given time, when he had agreed to deliver +it to its owner. It was with a sudden gripping of her heart, therefore, +that Martha on her return from an errand at noon had found the mantilla, +promised for that very afternoon at three o'clock, lying neglected on +the table, Lady Barbara sitting by the window with listless hands and +drooping head. She grew still more anxious when at the appointed hour +Rosenthal's messenger rapped at the door and stood silently waiting, his +presence voicing the purpose of his mission, and she heard her mistress +say, without an attempt at explanation: “I am sorry, tell Mr. Mangan, +but the Spanish mantilla is not finished. Some of the other pieces are +ready, but you need not wait. I cannot stop now, even to do them up +properly, but I will bring the mantilla myself to-morrow. Please say so +to Mr. Mangan.” + +The extreme lassitude of her manner only added to Martha's anxiety and, +as the afternoon wore on, she watched Lady Barbara's every move with +ever-increasing alarm. Now and then her poor mistress would drop her +needle, turn her face to the window, and look out into vacancy, her +mouth quivering as if with some inward thought which she had neither the +will nor the desire to voice aloud. + +As the hours lengthened, this mental absorption and growing physical +weariness were followed by a certain nervous tension, so pronounced +that the nurse, accustomed to various forms of feminine breakdowns, had +already determined what remedies to use should the symptoms increase. + +That Stephen's visit was responsible for this condition, she now no +longer doubted. What she had intended as a relief had only complicated +the situation. And yet in going over all that had happened and all that +was likely to happen, she became more than ever convinced that either +his visit must be repeated, or that she alone must make the announcement +that had trembled on Stephen's lips. She had recognized, almost from the +first, that despite the relief her mistress had enjoyed in the little +apartment some strong, masculine hand and mind were needed to stem the +tide of further disaster. Her own practical common sense also told her +that their present way of living was far too precarious to be counted +upon. Lady Barbara's position with Rosenthal was but temporary. At any +moment it might be lost, and then would follow another dreary hunt for +work, with all its rebuffs, and sooner or later the delicately nurtured +woman would succumb and go under in a mental or physical collapse, the +hospital her only alternative. + +None of these forebodings, it must be said, had filled Lady Barbara's +mind. As long as she continued under Martha's care she could rest in +peace, free from the dread of the drunken step on the stair or the rude +bursting in of her chamber door. Free, too, from other deadly terrors +which had pursued her, and of which she could not even think without a +shudder, for try as she could she never forgot Dalton's willingness to +turn their home into a gamblers' resort. + +That he would force her to return to him for any other purpose she did +not believe. He had no legal hold upon her--such as an Englishman has +upon his wife--and, as he had pawned everything of value she possessed +and most of her clothes, she could be of no further use to him, except +by applying to her father or to her friends for pecuniary relief. This, +as she had told him, she would rather die than do, and from the oaths he +had muttered at the time she was convinced he believed her. + +All she wanted now was to earn her bread, help Martha with her rent, +and, when the day's work was over, creep into her arms and rest. + +And yet, while it was true that Stephen's visit had been responsible for +her nervous breakdown, it was not for the reason that Martha supposed. +His reference to her private affairs had of course offended her, and +justly so, but there was something else which hurt her far more--a +something in the old ship-chandler's manner when he spoke to her which +forced to the front a question ever present in her mind, whatever her +task and however tender the ministrations of the old nurse; one that +during all her sojourn under this kindly roof had haunted her, like a +nightmare. + +And it was this. What did the look mean that she sometimes surprised in +Martha's eyes--the same look she had detected in Stephen's? Were they +looks of pity or were they--and she shuddered--looks of scorn? This was +the nightmare which had haunted her, the problem she could not fathom. + +And because she could not fathom it, she had passed a wakeful night, and +this long, unhappy day. This mystery must end, and that very night. + +When the shadows fell and the evening meal was ready, she put away +her work, smoothed her hair and took her seat beside the nurse, eating +little and answering Martha's anxious, but carefully worded questions in +monosyllables. With the end of the meal, she pushed back her chair and +sought her bedroom, saying that, if Martha did not mind, she would throw +herself on her bed and rest awhile. + +She lay there listening until the last clink of the plates and cups and +the moving of the table told her that the evening's work was done and +the things put away; then she called: + +“Martha, won't you come and sit beside me, so that you can brush out my +hair? I want to talk to you. You need not bring the lamp, I have light +enough.” + +Martha hurried in and settled herself beside the narrow bed. Lady +Barbara lifted her head so that the tresses were free for Martha's +hands, and sinking back on the pillow said almost in a whisper: “I have +been thinking of your brother, and want your help. What did he mean when +he said that things could not go on as they were with me? And that he +was going to put a stop to them if he could?” + +Martha caught herself just in time. She was not ready yet to divulge +her plans for her mistress's relief, and the question had taken her +unawares. “He never forgets, my lady, what he owes your people,” she +answered at last. “And when he saw you, he was so sorry for you he was +all shrivelled up.” + +She had the mass of blonde hair in her fingers now, the comb in hand +prepared to straighten out the tangle. + +For a moment Lady Barbara lay still, then turning her cheek, her eyes +fixed on Martha's, she said in firmer tones: “You are to tell me the +truth, you know; that is why I sent for you.” + +“I have told it, my lady.” + +“And you are keeping nothing back?” + +“Nothing.” + +The thin hand crept out and grasped the nurse's wrist. + +“Then you are sure your brother does not despise me, Martha?” + +“MY LADY! How can you say such a thing!” exclaimed Martha, dropping the +comb. + +“Well, everybody else does--everybody I know--and a great many I never +saw and who never saw me. And now about yourself--and you must tell me +frankly--do you hate me, Martha?” + +“Hate you, you poor Lamb”--tears were now choking her--“you, whom I held +in my arms?--Oh, don't talk that way to me--I can't stand it, my lady! +Ever since you were a child, I--” + +“Yes, Martha, that is one reason for my asking you. You did love me as +a child--but do you love me as a woman? A child is forgiven because it +knows no better; a woman DOES know. Tell me, straight from your heart; I +want to know; it will not make any difference in the way I love you. You +have been everything to me, father, mother--everything, Martha. Tell me, +do you forgive me?” + +“I have nothing to forgive, my lady,” she answered, her voice clearing, +her will asserting itself. “You have always been my lady and you always +will be. Maybe you'd better not talk any more--you are all tired out, +and--” + +“Oh, yes, I will talk and you must Listen. Don't pick up my comb. Never +mind about my hair now. I know very well that there is not a single +human being at home who would not shut the door in my face. Some of them +do not understand, and never will, and I should never try to explain +my life to them. I have suffered for my mistakes and made myself an +outcast, and nobody has any compassion for an outcast. That is why I sit +and wonder about Stephen, and why I have sat all day and wondered about +you, and whether I ought to run away, for I could not stay here if you +felt about me as I know those people feel at home. I want you to love +me, Martha. Oh! yes, you prove it. You do everything for me, but way +down deep in your heart, how do you feel? Do you love me as you always +did?--LOVE, Martha, not just pity, or feeling sorry like Stephen, or +blaming me like the others? Yes, yes, yes, I know it, but I have wanted +you to tell me. I am so in the dark. There, there, don't cry! Just one +thing more. What did your brother mean when he said there were others +who would lift me out of my misery?” + +Again the old servant, brushing away her tears, hesitated to reply. She +had sent for Stephen to answer this very question, and her mistress had +practically driven him from the room. How, then, was she to meet it? + +“He meant Mr. Felix, and if you had only listened, my lady, he would +have--” + +“Yes, I knew he did--although he did not dare say it,” she cried with +sudden intensity, sinking deeper back in her pillow as if to protect +herself even from Martha. “I did not listen, for I never want to hear +his name again. He drove me to what I did. He let me leave his house +without so much as a word of regret, and not one line did he write +me the whole time I was at my father's. Two months, Martha! +TWO--WHOLE--MONTHS!” The words seemed to clog in her throat. “All +that time he hid himself in his club, abusing me to every man he met. +Somebody told me so. What was I to do? He had turned over to his father +every shilling he possessed and left me without a penny--or, worse +still, dependent on my father, and you know what that means! And then, +when I could stand it no longer and went home, he sailed for South +Africa on a shooting expedition.” + +Martha listened patiently. The outburst was not what she had expected, +but she knew the unburdening would help in the end. She slid one plump +hand under the tired head, and with the other stroked back the mass of +hair from the damp forehead--very gently, as she might have calmed some +fevered patient. + +“May I finish what Stephen tried to tell you, my lady?” she crooned, +still stroking back the hair. “And may I first tell you that Mr. Felix +never went to Africa?” + +“Oh, but he did!” she cried out again. “I know the men he went with. +He was disgusted with the whole business--so he told one of his +friends--and never wanted to see me or England again.” + +“You are sure?” + +“Yes, I heard about it in Ostend when--” She did not finish the +sentence. + +The nurse's free hand now closed on Lady Barbara's thin fingers, with a +quiet, compelling softness, as if preparing her for a shock. + +“Mr. Felix--came here--to New York--my lady--and is here now--or was +some weeks ago--doing nothing but walk the streets.” The words had come +one by one, Martha's clasp tightening as she spoke. + +The wasted figure lifted itself from the pillow and sat bolt upright. + +“MARTHA! What do you mean!” + +“Yes, right here in New York, my lady.” + +“It isn't so!” Her hands were now clutching Martha's shoulders. “Tell me +it isn't so! It can't be so!” + +“It's the blessed God's truth, every word of it! He and Stephen have +been looking for you day and night.” + +“Looking for me? Me! Oh, the shame of it, the shame!” Then with sudden +fright: “But he must not find me! He shall not find me! You won't let +him find me, will you, Martha?” Her arms were now tight about the old +woman's neck, her agonized face turning wildly toward the door, as if +she thought that Felix were already there. “You don't think he wants to +kill me, do you?” she whispered at last, her face hidden in the nurse's +neck. + +Martha folded her own strong arms about the shaking woman, warming and +comforting her, as she had warmed and comforted the child. She would go +through with it now to the end. + +“No, it's not you he wants to kill,” she said firmly, when the trembling +figure was still. + +Lady Barbara loosened her grasp and stared at her companion. “Then what +does he want to see me for?” she asked, in a dazed, distracted tone. + +“He wants to help you. He never forgets that you were his wife. He'll +have his arms around you the moment he gets his eyes on you, and all +your troubles will be over.” + +“But I do not want his help and I won't accept his help,” she exclaimed, +drawing herself up. “And I won't see him if he comes! You must not let +me see him! Promise me you won't! And he must not find”--she hesitated +as if unwilling to pronounce the name--“he must not find Mr. Dalton. +There has been scandal enough. You do not think he wants to find Mr. +Dalton, too, do you, Martha?” she added slowly, as if some new terror +were growing on her. + +“That's what Stephen thinks--find him and kill him. That's why he wanted +you to listen last night. That's why he wants to get you and Mr. Felix +together. Mr. Dalton won't stay here if he knows Mr. Felix is looking +for him. He's too big a coward.” + +Lady Barbara shivered, drew her gown closer, and sank to the bed again, +gazing straight before her. “Yes, that is what will happen, Martha--he +would kill him. I see it all now. That is what would have happened to +our gardener who ruined the gatekeeper's daughter, if the man had not +left England. She was only a girl--hardly grown; yes, it all comes back +to me. I remember what my husband did.” She was still speaking under +her breath, reciting the story more to herself than to Martha, her +voice rising and falling, at times hardly audible. “Nothing--happened +then--because my husband--did not find the man.” + +She faced the nurse again. “You won't let him come here, will you, +Martha?” + +“He'll come, my lady, if Stephen can get hold of him,” came the positive +reply. “He had a room in a lodging-house not far from here, but he left +it, and Stephen doesn't know where he's gone. But he'll turn up again +down at the shop, and then--” + +“But you must not let him come,” she burst out. + +Again she sat upright. “I won't have it--please--PLEASE! I will go away +if you do, where nobody will ever find me. I could not have him see +me--see me like this.” She looked at her thin hands and over her shabby +gown. “Not like THIS!” + +“No, you won't go away, my lady.” There was a ring of authority now +in the nurse's voice. “You'll stay here. It's the only way out of this +misery for you. As for Mr. Felix and that scoundrel who has ruined you, +Mr. Felix will take care of him. But I'm going to let Mr. Felix in, if +the dear Lord will let him come. Mr. Felix loves you and--” + +Her body stiffened. “He never loved me. He only loved his father,” she +cried angrily, and again she sank back on her pillow. “All my misery +came from that.” + +Martha bent closer. “You never got that right, my lady,” she returned +firmly. “You mustn't get angry with me, for I got to let it all out.” + She was the nurse no longer; no matter what happened, she would unburden +her heart. “Mr. Felix isn't like other men. He stood by his father and +helped him when he was in trouble, just as he'll stand by and help you, +just as he helps everybody--Tom Moulton's daughter for one, that he +picked up on the streets of London and sent home to her mother. If he'd +killed Sam Lawson, who ruined her, he'd have given him what he deserved; +and if he kills this man Dalton, he won't give him half what he deserves +or what's coming to him sooner or later. Dalton isn't fit to live. He +got Sir Carroll O'Day all tangled up so that his character and all his +money was hanging by a thread, and then, when Mr. Felix gave up what he +had to save Sir Carroll, Dalton coaxed you away. You didn't know that, +did you? But it's true. That man Dalton ruined Mr. Felix's father. Oh, +I know it all--and I have known it for a long time. Stephen told me all +about it. No, don't stop me, my lady! I'm your old Martha, who's nursed +you and sat by you many a night, and I'll never stop loving you as +long as I live. I don't care what you do to me or what you have done to +yourself. Your leaving Mr. Felix was like a good many other things you +used to do when you were crossed. You would have your way, just as your +father will have his way, no matter who is hurt. What Lord Carnavon +wants, he wants, and there is no stopping him. Anybody else but his +lordship would have hushed the matter up, instead of ruining everybody. +But that's all past now; I don't love you any less for it; I'm only +sorrier and sorrier for you every time I think of it. Now we've got to +make another start. Stephen'll help and I'll work my fingers to the bone +for you--and Mr. Felix'll help most of all.” + +Except for the gesture of surprise when Dalton's part in the ruin of +her husband's father was mentioned, Lady Barbara had listened to the +breathless outburst without moving her head. Even when the words cut +deepest she had made no protest. She knew the nurse's heart, and +that every word was meant for her good. Her utter helplessness, too, +confronted her, surrounded as she was by conditions she could neither +withstand nor evade. + +“And if he comes, Martha,” she asked in a low, resigned voice, “what +will happen then?” + +“He'll get you out of this--take you where you needn't work the soul out +of you.” + +“Pay for my support, you mean?” she asked, with a certain dignity. + +“Of course; why not?” + +“Never--NEVER! I will never touch a penny of his money--I would rather +starve than do it!” + +“Oh, it wouldn't be much--he's as poor as any of us. When Stephen saw +him last, all he had was a rubber coat to keep him warm. But little as +he has you'll get half or all of it.” + +“Poor as--any of us! Oh, my God, Martha!” she groaned, covering her face +with her hands. “I never thought it would come to that--I never thought +he could be poor! I never thought he would suffer in that way. And it is +my fault, Martha--all of it! You must not think I do not see it! Every +word you say is true--and every one else knows that it is true. It was +all vanity and selfishness and stubbornness, never caring whom I hurt, +so that I had the things I wanted. I put the blame on my husband a while +ago because I did not want you to hate me too much. All the women who +do wrong talk that way, hoping for some comforting word in their misery. +But it is I who am to blame, not he. I talk that way to myself in the +night when I lie awake until I nearly lose my mind. Sometimes, too, I +try to cheat myself by thinking that all these terrible things might not +have happened had God not taken my baby. But I don't know. They might +have happened just the same, my head was so full of all that was wicked. +When I think of that, I am glad the baby died. It could never have +called me mother. Oh, Martha, Martha, take me in your arms again--yes, +like that--close against your breast! Kiss me, Martha, as you used to do +when I was little! You do love me, don't you? And you will promise not +to let my husband see me? And now go away, please, and leave me alone. I +cannot stand any more.” + + + + +Chapter XVI + + + +The talk with Father Cruse, while it had calmed and, to a certain +extent, reassured Felix, had not in any way swerved him from his +determination to find his wife at any cost. + +The only change he made in his plans was one of locality. Heretofore, +with the exception of his visits to Stephen--long since discontinued +now that he feared she was an outcast--he had mingled with the throngs +crowding the Great White Way ablaze with light or had haunted the doors +of the popular theatres and expensive restaurants, and the waiting-rooms +of the more fashionable hotels. After this it must be the byways, places +where the poor or worse would congregate: cheap eating-houses; barrooms, +with so-called “family rooms” attached; and always the streets at a +distance from those trodden by the rich and prosperous classes. Father +Cruse might have been right in his diagnosis, and the sleeve-button +might form but a minor link in the chain of events circling the problem +to the solution of which he had again consecrated his life, but certain +it was that the clew Kitty had discovered had only strengthened his own +convictions. If the woman whom Kitty had picked up some months before, +and put to bed, were not his wife, she must certainly have been near +her person; which still meant not only poverty but the possibility of +Dalton's having abandoned her. Possibly, too, this woman, whose outside +garments had contrasted so strangely with her more sumptuous underwear, +might have been an inmate of the same house in which his wife was +living--some one, perhaps, in whom his wife had had confidence. +Perhaps--no! That was impossible. Whatever the depths of suffering into +which his wife had fallen, she had not yet reached the pit--of that +he was convinced. If he were mistaken--at the thought his fingers +tightened, and his heavy eyebrows and thin, drawn lips became two +parallel straight lines--then he would know exactly what to do. + +These convictions filled his mind when, having bid good-by to Kitty--who +knew nothing of his interview with the priest--he buttoned his +mackintosh close up to his throat, tucked his blackthorn stick under his +arm, and, pressing his hat well on his head, bent his steps toward the +East Side. A light rain was falling and most of the passers-by were +carrying umbrellas. Overhead thundered the trains of the Elevated--a +continuous line of lights flashing through the clouds of mist. +Underneath stretched Third Avenue, its perspective dimmed in a slowly +gathering fog. + +As he tramped on, the brim of his soft hat shadowing his brow, he +scanned without ceasing the faces of those he passed: the men with +collars turned up, the women under the umbrellas--especially those with +small feet. At 28th Street he entered a cheap restaurant, its bill of +fare, written on a pasteboard card and tacked on the outside, indicating +the modest prices of the several viands. + +He had had no particular reason for selecting this eating-house from +among the others. He had passed several just like it, and was only +accustoming himself to his new line of search; for that purpose, one +eating-house was as good as another. + +Drawing out a chair from a table, he sat down and ran his eye over the +interior. + +What he saw was a collection of small tables, flanked by wooden chairs, +their tops covered with white cloths and surmounted by cheap casters, +a long bar with the usual glistening accessories, and a flight of steps +which led to the floor above. His entrance, quiet as it had been, had +evidently attracted some attention, for a waiter in a once-white apron +detached himself from a group of men in the far corner of the room and, +picking up, as he passed, a printed card from a table, asked him what he +would have to eat. + +“Nothing--not now. I will sit here and smoke.” He loosened his +mackintosh and drew his pipe from his pocket, adding: “Hand me a match, +please.” + +The waiter looked at him dubiously. “Ain't you goin' to order nothin'?” + +“Not yet--perhaps not at all. Do you object to my smoking here?” + +“Don't object to nothin', but this ain't no place to warm up in, see!” + +Felix looked at him, and a faint smile played about his lips--the first +that had lightened them all day. “I shan't ask you to start a fresh +fire,” he said in a decided tone; “and now, do as I bid you, and pass me +that box of matches.” + +The man caught the tone and expression, placed the box beside him, and +joined the group in the rear. There was a whispered conference, and a +stout man wearing a dingy jacket disengaged himself from the others and +lounged toward Felix. + +“Nasty night,” he began. “Had a lot of this weather this month. Never +see a December like it.” + +“Yes, a bad night. Your servant seemed to think I was in the way. Are +you the proprietor?” + +“Well, I am one of them. Why?” + +“Nothing--only I hoped to find you more hospitable.” + +“Oh, smoke away--guess we can stand it, if you can. Dinner's over”--he +looked at the big clock decorating the white wall--“but they'll be +piling in here after the theatres is out. You live around here?” + +“No, not immediately.” + +“Looking for any one?” + +Felix gave a slight start and, from under his narrowed lids, shot one of +his bull's-eye flashes. + +The man caught the flash and, misinterpreting it, bent down and said in +a hoarse whisper: “Come from the central office, don't you?” + +Felix took a long puff at his pipe. “No, I am only a very tired man who +has come in out of the wet to rest and smoke,” he answered, with a dry +smile, “but if it will add to your comfort and improve your hospitality +in any way, you can send your waiter back here and I will order +something to eat.” + +The stout man laid his hand confidently on Felix's shoulder. “That's all +right, pard--I ain't worryin', and don't you. There's nothin' doin', and +I'm a-givin' it to you straight.” + +Felix nodded in dismissal, rested his elbows on the table, and again +puffed away at his brierwood. Being mistaken for a central office +detective might or might not be of assistance. At present, he would let +matters stand. + +As he smoked on, the room, which had been almost entirely empty of +customers, began filling up. A reporter bustled in, ordered a cup of +coffee, and, clearing away the plates and casters, squared his elbows +and attacked a roll of paper. Two belated shop-girls entered laughing, +hung their wet waterproofs on a hook behind their chairs, and were soon +lost in the intricacies of the printed menu. Groups of three and four +passed him, beating the rain from their hats and cloaks, the women +stamping their wet feet. + +The sudden influx from the outside, bringing in the wet and mud of the +streets, had started innumerable puddles over the clean, sanded floor. +The man wearing the dingy white jacket craned his head, noticed the +widening pools, opened a door behind the bar leading to the cellar +below, and shouted down, in a coarse voice, “Here, Stuffy, git +busy--everything slopped up,” and resumed his place beside the group +of men, their talk still centred on the stranger in the mackintosh, who +could be seen scrutinizing each new arrival. + +Something in the poise and dignity of the object of their attention as +he sat quietly, paper in hand, a curl of blue smoke mounting ceilingward +from his pipe, must also have impressed the newcomers, for no one of +them drew out any of the empty chairs immediately beside him, although +the room was now comparatively crowded. Finally, the man who answered to +the name of “Stuffy” appeared from the direction of the group near the +bar, and made his way toward Felix. He carried a broom and a bucket, +from which trailed a mop used for swabbing wet floors. When he reached +O'Day's table, he dropped to his knees and attacked a sluiceway leading +to a miniature lake, fed by the umbrellas and waterproofs belonging to +the two girls opposite. + +“Got to ask ye to move a little, sir,” he said in apology. + +“Hold on,” replied Felix, in considerate tones, “I will stand up and you +can get at it better. Bad night for everybody.” He was on his feet now, +his long mackintosh hanging straight, his hat still on his head, and in +his hand the blackthorn stick, which he had picked up from beside the +table as he rose. + +The man stared at the mackintosh, the hat, and the cane, and sprang to +his feet. “I know ye!” he cried excitedly. “Do you know me?” + +Felix studied him closely. “I do not think I do,” he answered, frowning +slightly. + +“Well, ye ought to. I ain't never forgot ye, and I never will. You give +me a meal once and a dollar to keep me going.” + +O'Day's brow relaxed. “Yes, now I do. You are the man whose wife left +him, and who tried to steal my watch.” + +“That's it--you got it. You didn't give me away. Say, I been straight +ever since. It's been tough, but I kep' on--I work here three nights in +the week and I got another job in a joint on Second Avenue. Say--” he +added, glancing furtively over his shoulder. Then finding his suspicions +confirmed, and the attention of the group fastened on him, he began to +push the broom vigorously, muttering in jerks to Felix: “This ain't no +place for ye--git into trouble sure--what yer doin' here?--They're +onto ye, or the bunch wouldn't have their heads together--don't make no +difference who's here, everybody gits pinched--I can't talk--they'll git +wise and fire me.” + +Felix's lip curled and an amused expression drifted over his face. His +jaws set, the muscles forming little ridges about his ears. + +“I will attend to that later,” he said, in a firm voice. “Keep on with +your work.” + +He shook the ashes from his pipe, resumed his seat, and leaned +carelessly forward with his elbows on his thighs, his former protege, +now deep in his work, squeezing the wet rag into the bucket, and using +the broom where the mud was thickest. When the swabbing-up process +brought the man within speaking distance again Felix leaned still +further forward and asked: + +“What sort of a place is this--a restaurant?” + +The man turned his head. He was again on his knees, and had drawn +nearer. He was now wiping the same spot so as to be within reach of +Felix's ear. + +“Downstairs--yes,” he returned in a low voice. “Upstairs--in the +rear--across a roof--” He glanced again at the group and stopped. + +“A gambling house?” + +“No--a pool-room. That's why I give ye the tip.” + +Felix ruminated, the man polishing vigorously. “What kind of people come +here?” + +“The kind ye see--and crooks.” + +“Do you know them all?” + +“Why not? I been workin' here two months. Had two raids--that's why I +posted ye. It's the chop-house game now, with a new deal all around, but +they're onto it--so a pal of mine tells me.” + +Again Felix ruminated. “Women ever come here?” + +“Oh, yes, up to ten o'clock or so--telephone operators, shop-girls--that +kind. Two of 'em are over there now; they work in Cryder's store +Christmas and New Year's, and they get taken on extra.” + +“Any others?” + +“You mean fancies?” + +“No--straight, decent women, who may live around here and who come +regularly in for their meals.” + +“Oh, yes--but they don't stay long. And then”--he nodded toward the +group--“they don't want 'em to stay--no money in grub. Just a bluff +they've put up.” + +“Have you come across your wife since I saw you?” + +“No, and don't want to. I've got all over that. A man's a damn fool to +get crazy over a woman, and a bigger damn fool to keep worryin' when she +goes back on him. They ain't wuth it, none on 'em.” + +“What became of the man she went off with?” + +“Got tired and chucked her, after he made a tank of her. That's what +they all do.” + +“Have you ever tried to find her?” + +“What for?” + +“You might do her some good.” + +“Cut it out! Nuthin' doin'! She was rotten when she left me, and she's +rotten now. Bums round a Raines joint over here on Twenty-eighth Street. +Pick up anybody. Came staggerin' into the church full of booze, so a pal +o' mine told me, and got half-way down the aisle before they could fire +her. Drop in there sometime when you go by and ask the sexton if I'm +a-lyin'. No more of that for me, I'm through. There ain't but one place +for that kind, and that's Blackwell's Island, and that's where they +fetch up. I went through hell afore I saw you because of her, and I'm +just pullin' out and I want to stay out.” + +He raised his head, glanced furtively again at the group by the bar, and +in a low whisper muttered: + +“I've got to go now. They'll get onto me next.” + +“Never mind those men. They cannot harm you,” Felix answered, and was +about to add some word of sympathy, when he checked himself. It would +only hurt him the more, he thought. He said instead, his voice conveying +what his lips would have uttered: + +“Do you like it here?” + +“Got to.” + +Felix pushed back his chair, stood erect, and with a gesture as if his +mind had been made up said: “Would you care to do something else?” + +The man dropped his broom and straggled to his feet. “Can ye give me +somethin'? I been a-tryin' everywhere, but this kind o' work hoodoos a +man, and they won't give me no ref'rence 'cause I don't git more'n +my board and they don't want to lose me. And then”--here he winked +meaningly--“I know a thing or two. But, say, do ye mean it? I'll go +anywhere you want.” + +Felix felt in his pocket, drew out a card, and pencilled his address. +“Come some night--say about eight o'clock. It's not far from here. I am +glad you pulled yourself together and went to work. That is a good deal +better than the business you tried to follow when we first met,”--and +one of his dry smiles flickered about his mouth. “And now, good night,” + and he held out his hand. + +The man drew back. It was a new experience. “You mean it?” he asked. + +“Yes, give me your hand. Now that you are decent I want to shake it. +That is the only way we can help each other.” + +Kitty was poring over her accounts when Felix arrived at the +express-office and made his way to her sitting-room. She had had a busy +day, the holiday season always bringing a rush of extra work, and her +wagons had been kept going since daylight. The trend of travel was to +Long Island and Jersey towns, the goods being mainly for the Christmas +and New Year's festivities. John was away--somewhere between the Battery +and Central Park--and so were Mike and Bobby, the boy having been +pressed into service now that his vacation had begun. + +“Are you too busy to talk to me, Mistress Kitty?” he said, stripping off +his mackintosh and hanging it where its drip would do no harm. + +“Too busy! God rest ye. Mr. O'Day! I'm never too busy to eat, sleep, +look after John and Bobby, and listen to what ye've got to say. Hold +on till I put these bills away. There ain't one of 'em'll be paid till +after New Year--not then, if the customer can help it. They'll all spend +their own money or somebody else's. There!”--and she laid the pile on a +shelf behind her. “Now, go on--what's it ye want? Come, out with it; and +mind, I've said 'Yes, and welcome' before ye've asked it.” + +O'Day, from his seat near the stove, studied her face for a moment, his +own brightening as he felt the warmth of her loyalty. “Don't promise too +much till you hear me out. I am looking for a job.” + +Kitty turned quickly, her eyes two round O's, all the ruddiness gone +from her cheeks. “Mr. O'Day! Why! Why!--and what's Otto done to ye? I'll +go to him this minute and--” + +Felix laughed gently. “You will do nothing of the kind. Mr. Kling is all +right and so am I. I want the job for a tramp who tried to hold me up +one night, and who is now scrubbing the floor in a rather disreputable +public house on Third Avenue.” + +Kitty let out all her breath and brought her plump hands down on her +plump knees, her body rocking as she did so. “Oh, is that it? What a +start ye give me! I thought ye and Kling had quarrelled. Sure, I'll take +your tramp if ye say so. We want a man to wash the wagons, and help Mike +clean up. John fired the macaroni we had last month and I didn't blame +him. What can yer man do?” + +“Not much.” + +“What do ye know about him?” + +“Nothing, except that he tried to rob me.” + +“And what do ye want me to take him on for? To have him get away some +night with a Saratoga trunk and--” + +“No, to KEEP him from getting away with it. He's been on the ragged edge +of life for some months, if I read him aright, and has all he can do to +keep his footing. I found him a while ago by the merest accident, and he +is still holding on. A week with you and your husband will do him more +good than a legacy. He will get a new standard.” + +“What's he been doin' that he's up against it like this?” she asked, +ignoring the compliment. + +“Trying to forget a wife who went back on him--so he tells me.” + +“Has he done it?” + +“Yes. If you can believe him. She has become a drunkard.” + +“Well--that's about the worst thing can happen to a man--if he's telling +ye the truth. What's become of her?” + +“He did not say. All I know is that he has not seen her since she went +away.” + +“Maybe he didn't want to,” she flashed back. “Did ye get out of him +whose fault it was?” + +Felix, whose remarks had been addressed to the red-hot coals in the +stove, glanced quickly toward Kitty, but made no answer. + +“Ye don't know, that's it, and so ye don't say I'll tell ye that it's +the man's fault more'n half the time.” + +“And what makes you think so, Mistress Kitty?” he asked, trying to speak +casually, not daring to look at her for fear she would detect the tremor +on his lips, wondering all the time at her interest in the subject. + +“It ain't for thinkin', Mr. O'Day, it's just seein' what goes on every +day, and it sets me crazy. If a man's got gumption enough to make a girl +love him well enough to marry him, he ought to know enough to keep +it goin' night and day--if he don't want her to forget him. Half of +'em--poor souls!--are as ignorant as unborn babes, and don't know any +more what's comin' to them than a chicken before its head's cut off. She +wakes up some mornin' after they've been married a year or two and finds +her man's gone to work without kissin' her good-by--when he was nigh +crazy before they were married if he didn't get one every ten minutes. +The next thing he does is to stay out half the night, and when she is +nigh frightened to death, and tells him so with her eyes streamin', +instead of comfortin' her, he tells her she ought to have better sense, +and why didn't she go to sleep and not worry, that he was of age and +could take care of himself--when all the time she is only lovin' him +and pretty near out of her mind lest he gets hurted. And last he gets to +lyin' as to where he HAS been--maybe it's the lodge, or a game in a back +room, or somethin' ye can't talk about--anyhow, he lies about it, and +then she finds it out, and everything comes tumblin' down together, and +the pieces are all over the floor. That runs on for a while, and +pretty soon in comes a dandy-lookin' chap and tells her she's an abused +woman--and she HAS been--and he begins pickin' up the scraps and piecin' +them together, tellin' her all the time the pretty things the first man +told her and which, fool-like, she believes over agin, and then one +fine day she skips off and the husband goes round, tearin' his hair with +shame or shakin' his fist with rage, and says she broke up his home, and +if she ever sets foot on his doorstep again he'll set the dogs on her, +or let her starve before he'd give her a crumb. Don't it make you laugh? +It does me. And you should see 'em swell round and air their troubles +when most everybody knows just what's happened from the beginnin'! If it +was any of my business, I'd let out and tell 'em so. + +“What my John knows, I know; and what I know, he knows. There's never +been a time, and there ain't one now, when I'm beat out and my bones are +hangin' stiff in me--and I get that way sometimes even now--that I don't +go to John and say, 'John, dear, get yer arms around me and hold me +tight, I'm that tired,' and down goes everything, and he's got my head +on his shoulder and pattin' my cheeks, and up I get all made over new, +and him too. That's the way we get on, and that's the way they all ought +to get on if--” + +She paused, stretching her neck as if for more air. + +“God save me! Will ye hear me run on? And ye sittin' there drinkin' it +all in, not known' a word about the women and carin' less. Ye've got to +forgive me, for I'm like John's alarm-clock in this wife business, and +when I'm wound up I keep strikin' until I run down. Whew! What a heat I +got myself into! Now go on, Mr. O'Day. What'll I pay him, and when's he +comin?” + +Felix waved his hand deprecatingly. “And so you never think, Mistress +Kitty, that it may be the woman's fault?” + +“Yes, sometimes it is. Faults on both sides, maybe. If it's the woman's +fault, it always begins when she lets her man do all the work. Look up +and down 'The Avenue' here! Every wife is helpin' her husband in his +business, and every wife knows as much about it as the man does. That +ain't the way up around Central Park. Half of 'em ain't out of bed till +purty nigh lunch-time. I've heard 'em all talk; and worse yet, they +glory in it. What can ye expect when there ain't five of 'em to a block +who knows whether her husband has made a million in the past year or +whether he's flat broke, except what he tells her? No wonder, when +trouble comes, they shift husbands as they do their petticoats, and try +it over again with a new one!” + +“And if she takes this last plunge, when will she wake up to her +mistake?” asked Felix, in a low voice. + +“Oh, ye can't always tell. It'll generally run on for a while until +she starts up and stares about her like she's been in a trance or a +nightmare, and then the dear God help her after that, for nobody else +can--nor will! That's the worst of it--NOR WILL! John was readin' out +to me the other night about the Red Cross Society for pickin' up wounded +off the battle-field, and carryin' them in where they can be patched up +again and join their companies when they get well. Why don't they have a +Red Cross for some of the poor girls and wives who are hurted--hundreds +of 'em lyin' all over the lot--and patch 'em up and bring 'em back to +their homes? Now I'm done.” + +“No! Not yet. One more question. After the last nightmare, what?” + +“The gutter--or worse--that's what! And when it's all over, most people +say: 'Served her right--she had a happy home once, why didn't she stay +in it?' And somebody else says: 'She was always wild and foolish--I knew +her as a girl.' And some don't say a blessed word because they couldn't +dirty their clean lips with her name-the hypocrites!--and so they cart +off her poor body and dump it in a lot back of Calvary cemetery. Oh, I +know 'em, and that's what makes me get hot under the collar every time +I get talkin' as I've been to-night!--And now let's quit it. If yer +dead-beat wants a job, and we can keep him from stealin' the tires +off the wagon and the shoes off my big Jim, he can come to work in the +mornin', and John will pay him a dollar a day and he can sleep over the +stables. And if he's decent, he can come in here once in a while and +I'll warm him up with a cup of coffee. I'm glad to take him on just +because ye want it--and ye knew that before I said it, for there's +nothin' I wouldn't do for ye, and ye know that, too. Listen! That's John +drivin' in, and I'm going out to meet him.” + + + + +Chapter XVII + + + +To the fears already possessing Lady Barbara a new one had now been +added, freezing her blood and leaving her prostrate and helpless, like a +plant stricken by an icy blast. + +There had been no sleep for her after Martha's revelations regarding +the presence of Felix in town, and turn as she would on her pillow, she +could not escape the dread of one hideous possibility--her meeting him +face to face, uncovering to his penetrating gaze her shame. + +That he had had any other purpose in pursuing her across the sea than to +humiliate and punish her, she did not believe. No man, certainly no +man as proud as her husband, would forgive a woman who had trailed his +ancestral name in the mud, and made his family life a byword in clubs +and drawing-rooms. That Martha believed he could still love her was +natural. Such good souls, women of the people, who had always led +restrained and wholesome lives, would believe nothing else, but not a +woman of her own class. She had only to recall a dozen instances where +the bonds of marriage had been broken, with all the attendant scandal +and misery, to be convinced of what would befall her were she and Felix +to meet. + +Her one hope was that her husband, baffled in his search, had left the +city, and that neither Martha nor Stephen would ever see him again. +Their inability to find him of late might mean that he had given up the +search, having found no trace of her during all the months in which +he had been trying to find her. Or it might mean that he, too, had +succumbed to the same poverty which she had endured and, being no longer +able to maintain himself in the great city, had sought work elsewhere. + +As the thought of this last possibility suddenly took possession of her, +her heart gave a great bound of relief, and in the quiet that ensued, +a certain tenderness for the man whom she had wronged began to well up +within her. She recalled their early life and his unfailing generosity. +Never in all the years she had known him had he refused her the +slightest thing which could, in any way, add to her happiness. Indeed, +he had often denied himself many of the luxuries to which a man of his +tastes and training was entitled, in order to add to her store. Nor had +he ever restrained her in her whims or her extravagance, and never, in +any way, had he curtailed her freedom. She had been free to come and +free to go, and with whom she pleased. Her intimacy with Dalton had been +proof of all this, as well as her friendships with various men to whose +companionship many another husband might have objected. “All right, +Barbara,” was his invariable reply; “you will get over your youth one of +these days, and then you and I will settle down.” + +Even when the financial crash had come, he had begged her to go with him +to Australia, where he had important family connections, and where he +could build up his fortunes anew. It was by no means certain, he had +told her, that he was entirely ruined. His father's estate, when all the +debts were paid, might still leave a surplus. There was some land just +outside of London, too, on the line of suburban improvement, and this, +with the title which had come to him with his father's death, would +doubtless, after a few years, enable them to return to England and +resume their former position. She remembered very well the night he had +pleaded with her, and she remembered, too, with a gripping at her heart, +her own contemptuous answer, and her departure the next morning for her +father's roof. And then the lie she had told!--that Felix had bluntly +announced to her his plan for raising sheep in Australia, ordering her +to get ready to go with him at once. + +She recalled, too, this time with burning cheeks, a certain unsigned +letter, in an unknown hand, which had reached her after her flight with +Dalton, describing her husband as stunned and dazed by the blow, +the writer denouncing her for her desertion, and warning her of the +retribution in store for her if she remained with a man like the one +on whom she had staked her future happiness. She had laughed at its +contents and tossed it across the table to Dalton, who had read it with +a smile, caught it between a pair of tongs and, lighting a match, held +it over the flame until it was consumed. + +Then--as, tortured by these recollections, she lay staring at the +dark--Martha's prediction, based on Stephen's, belief, that Felix would +kill Dalton at sight, rose up in her mind, and with it came another +great fear--one that, for a moment, stopped her heart from beating and +left her numb. In the quick succession of blows that Martha had dealt, +she had not fully grasped this part of the story. Now she did. That her +husband was capable of it she fully believed. Quiet, reticent men like +Felix--men who had served their country both in India and Egypt--men who +never boasted, who never discussed their intentions or plans until they +were carried out, were the men to take the law into their own hands when +their honor was involved, no matter who was hurt. Such a catastrophe +would not only bring to light her own misery, but the unavoidable +publicity would tarnish still further the good name of her people at +home. Even were only an attempt on Dalton's life made, and an official +investigation held--as she was convinced would be the case--the scandal +would be almost as bad. Rather than have this occur she would make +any sacrifice, even that of humiliating herself on her knees before +Felix--begging his forgiveness, not for the sake of the man she now +feared and detested, but for the sake of her father at home, and to +shield her own identity. She feared, too, for Felix. He, of all men, +should be saved from committing such an act. + +With this a sudden resolve born of her fears and shattered nerves took +possession of her. She would not only see her husband whenever he +came, but she would send word in the morning to Stephen to redouble his +search, leaving no stone unturned until he was found. + +Nothing of all this did she say to Martha, who helped her dress, +watching the dark circles beneath the eyes. Breakfast over, she silently +took her seat by the window, drew from the big paper box at her feet her +several pieces of lace, including the mantilla, and began to work. + +As she held up to the light the ragged tear in the Spanish lace, and +noted the width and length of the gash in its delicate texture, her +heart sank. She saw at a glance that she could not finish it before +closing time, even if she devoted the whole day to its repair. Better +complete, thought she, the other and smaller pieces--one a fichu of +Brussels lace, and the others some embroidered handkerchiefs on which +she was to place monograms. These she would finish and take to Mangan. +When he saw how tired she was, he would accept her excuses and give her +another day for the large and more important piece. She did not have to +leave the house until four o'clock, and as Martha was to be out most of +the day, she could work on without distraction of any kind. + +When, at noon, Martha left her, with a caressing pat of the hand, +promising to be back in time for supper, the anxious, weary woman picked +up her needle again, her fingers darting in and out like shuttles, her +shoulders aching with the strain, her mind still intent on the problems +which had tortured her all night, and only rousing herself when the +clock in a neighboring tower struck four. Then she gathered up her work, +wrapped the whole in the same sheet of tissue-paper in which the several +pieces had been packed, and, adjusting her hat and cloak, started for +Rosenthal's. + +Mangan, who was in charge of the department, had been waiting for her +in a small room off the repair shop, and as he caught sight of her frail +figure making her way toward him, rose to greet her. “Well, I'm glad +you've come,” he began, as she reached his desk. “Brought that Spanish +piece, didn't you? Ought to have had it last night.” + +She tried to smile, but his face was too forbidding. “No, I am sorry to +say that--” + +“You didn't! What have you done with it?” + +“I could not finish it. I have brought everything else. I will have it +for you in the morning.” + +Mangan looked at her curiously, a smirk of suspicion crossing his narrow +fox face. “Oh! You'll bring it to-morrow, will you?” he sneered. “Well, +do you know that to-morrow's New Year's Eve and that this mantilla's +got to be delivered to-night? They have been telephoning all day for it. +To-morrow, eh? Well, don't that make you tired! It does me.” + +An indignant protest quivered through her, but she dared not show +resentment. Only within the last few months had she been subjected to +these insults, and only her helplessness had compelled her to bear them. + +“I am very sorry,” she answered simply, and with a certain dignity. “I +have not been very well. I have done all I could. The damage was greater +than I expected. Some of the threads must be entirely restored.” + +“What time to-morrow?” Every kind of excuse known to the shop-worker +had been poured into his ears. Very few of them contained a particle of +truth. + +“Before noon, if I can; certainly by four o'clock.” + +“Four o'clock?” he roared. He had already made up his mind that she was +lying, but there was no use in his telling her so, nor would any time +be gained by taking the work from her and handing it over to another +employee. + +“Four means eight, I guess. What's the matter with ten o'clock? I got +to have that sure, and no monkeying. Can't you brace up and jam it +through?” + +“I will try.” Her cheeks were burning under the sting of his coarse +lashes. + +“Try! You bet you'll try! Better get home right away. Give me that +bundle--I'll have it checked up, so you won't lose no time.” + +She bit her lip, her whole nature in revolt, but she made no reply. Too +much was at stake for her to show anger at such coarseness. She had no +rights that he was bound to respect. She was only one of his work-girls, +and her short experience had shown her that but few of her associates +received better treatment from him. + +“Thank you,” was all she said as, with downcast eyes, she picked her way +through the crowded workroom, down the long, steep staircase reserved +for employees and so on to the street. There she caught a Third Avenue +car and sank into a seat near the door, encroaching upon her small +reserve of pennies to reach home the sooner. She saw but too clearly +that not only did her present position depend on her returning the +mantilla at the earliest possible moment, but that, exhausted as she +was, she must utilize the few remaining minutes of daylight as well as +the earlier hours of the morning to keep her promise. To work long +at night she knew was impossible. She had not the eyes to follow the +intricacies of the meshes with no other light than that afforded by +Martha's kerosene lamp. She had tried it before, and had been forced to +stop. + +When she reached the cross street leading to Martha's door, she hurried +from the car, caught her skirts in her hand, a habit of hers when +nervously hurried, and, summoning up all her strength, sped on, mounting +the narrow, rickety steps with but a pause for breath on the last +landing. Once there, she took her latch-key from her pocket and unlocked +the door, leaving it on the jar, as she knew Martha might come in at any +moment. + +As she entered the humble apartment, its restful seclusion, after her +experience with Mangan, sent a thrill of thankfulness through her. One +after another the several objects passed in review--the kettle singing +on the stove, its ample bed of coals warming the room; her own tiny +chamber, leading out of the one large room, with its small iron bedstead +and white cotton quilt; the table with its lamp; the pine shelves with +the few pieces of china, and even the big paper box in which her work +was delivered and later returned to the shop, either by wagon or special +messenger, and which Martha, before she had gone out, had placed on a +chair near the door to keep it out of the dust. All told her of peace +and warmth and comfort. + +She lighted the lamp, picked up the box containing the mantilla, +and half raised the lid, intending to place the contents on her +sewing-table, but, catching sight of the kettle again, she let the box +lid drop from her hands. She was chilled from the ride in the car, the +water was boiling, and it would take but a minute to make herself a cup +of tea. This would give her renewed strength for her task. Hardly had +she drained her cup when she became conscious of a step on the stairs--a +steady, firm step. Not Martha's nor that of the boy. Nor that of the +expressman who often sought Martha's apartment. + +As it approached the landing, a sickening faintness assailed her. + +She had heard that step before. + +It was Felix! + +Her hour of trial had come! + +He would find the door ajar, stride into the room with that quiet, +self-contained manner of his; and she must face him and stand ashamed! + +For a brief instant she wavered, her resolution of the morning, to throw +herself at his feet, put to flight by a sense of some impending terror. +Should she spring forward and shut the door before he reached it, +refusing to admit him until Martha came, or should she creep noiselessly +into her room and lock herself in, remaining silent until he should +leave the premises, believing no one at home? While she stood, half +paralyzed with fear, the door moved gently, almost stealthily, swinging +back half its width, and a man in cape-coat, and slouch hat drawn dose +over his eyes, stepped into the room. + +Lady Barbara gave a piercing shriek, sprang from her seat, and staggered +back, grasping a chair to keep her from falling. “How dare you, Guy +Dalton, to--” + +The intruder loosened the top button of his cape, watching, meanwhile, +the terrified woman, and, with a sneer, said: “Oh, stop that, will you? +I've had enough of it. You thought you could get away, did you? Well, +you can't, and the sooner you find that out the better for you.” He +glanced coolly around the room. “So this is where you are, is it?--a +rotten hole, anyhow. You might better have stayed where you were. Does +Rosenthal pay you enough to keep this up, or is somebody else footing +the bills? Now, you get your things on and be quick about it.” + +She had been edging toward her bedroom door all this time, her eyes +glaring into his with the fierceness of a cornered animal, muttering +as she stepped--one word at a time: + +“You--have--no--right--to--come--in--here.” + +“I haven't, haven't I? I'd like to know who has a better right?” he +returned angrily. + +“No, you have not.” She was moving an inch at a time, keeping a chair +between herself and Dalton, her eyes watching his every expression, her +right hand stretched along the wall. + +“Still at it, are you? Well, get through, and hurry up. I'll go where I +please, and you'll come when I want you. Everybody is inquiring for you +down at the house, and I promised them you would be back to-night, and +you will. You were a fool to leave. It's a lot better than this. From +what I heard last night, from one of Rosenthal's girls, I thought you +had moved into something palatial.” + +She had reached the bedroom door now, and her hand was on the knob. + +“Yes--that's right,” he said, mistaking her purpose, “get into your +wraps, and--” + +The door closed with a sudden bang, and the inside bolt was pushed +tight. + +Dalton stood with his hands in his pockets. “Oh, that's the game, is +it?” he called, in a loud voice. He saw he had been outwitted, and an +oath escaped him. He saw, too, that the door was a heavy one, and the +effort to force it might bring in the neighbors. “Well, there's no +hurry. I can wait,” he added savagely, “but if you know what's good for +you, you'll come out now.” + +She had sunk down on her bed, hardly daring to breathe. Her only hope +now lay in Martha, and she might not come back for an hour. + +Dalton sauntered away from the door and began an inspection of the room. +The box on the chair came first. He lifted the lid and drew out the +mantilla. “Rather good, this--wonder how she got hold of it--Oh, yes, I +see, she must be repairing it. There are her work-basket and the spools +of black silk.” + +He turned to the box again and read the name of “Rosenthal” stencilled +on the bottom. “So that is what she is doing--they did not tell me what +she worked at.” He spread out the mantilla again and looked it over +carefully. Then a smile of cunning crossed his face. “Just what I want,” + he said, folding it up and tucking it inside his capacious cape. + +He now made a tour of the room, his tread like that of a cat, lifted the +plates on the dresser as if in search of something behind them, rummaged +through the work-basket, opening and turning the leaves of a book lying +on the table. So occupied was he that he did not hear Martha's noiseless +step nor know that she had entered the room. + +For a moment she stood watching his every movement. The man she saw was +well-knit and rather handsome, not much over thirty, with clean-shaven +face, drooping eyelids, and a hard-set lower jaw. She had a suspicion +that it might be Dalton, but was not sure, never having seen him but +once, when he was much younger. + +“Who do you want to see?” she asked at last, in a firm voice. + +Dalton wheeled sharply, and took her in with one comprehensive glance. +He had always prided himself on never having been outwitted or taken +unawares, and that Lady Barbara could lock herself in her room, and that +this woman could creep up behind him unobserved, rather nettled him. + +“I don't know that it is any of your business, my good woman,” + he answered, his insolence increasing as he noticed how mild and +inoffensive she appeared to be; “but if it makes any difference to you, +I will tell you that I am waiting for my wife.” + +“Where is she?” Martha's voice was clear and incisive, with a ring of +determination through it that, for the moment, disconcerted him. + +Dalton pointed to the bedroom door. + +Martha stepped across the room and tried the knob. “Open the door, Lady +Barbara. It's Martha. Who is this man?” + +The bolt shot back and Barbara's frightened face peered out. “Oh, thank +God you have come!” she moaned, her teeth chattering. “It is Mr. Dalton. +I ordered him from the room, and he would not go, and--” + +“Oh, it's Mr. Guy Dalton, is it?” Martha cried, facing him. “The man +who's been a curse to you ever since you met him. I know every crook and +turn of you--you ought to be ashamed of yourself to treat a woman as you +have treated Lady Barbara O'Day. Now, sir, this is my room and you can't +stay in it a minute longer. There's the door!” + +Dalton laughed a dry, crackling laugh. “You are a regular virago, are +you not, my dear woman?” he said. “Quite refreshing to hear your defense +of a woman on whom I have spent every shilling I had. Now, do not get +excited--cool down a bit, and we will talk it over--and while we are at +it, please make me a cup of tea. It is about my hour. When my wife comes +to her senses, as she will in a minute, she will get over her tantrums +and think better of it.” + +Martha strode straight toward him until her capacious body was within a +few inches of his shirt-front, her hands tightly clinched. “Don't make +any mistake, Mr. Dalton. Your airs won't go here. My brother Stephen +looks after me and after Lady O'Day, and he and another man you wouldn't +care to meet are looking after you.” + +She called to her mistress: “Lock and bolt that door on you, and don't +open it until I tell you.” + +Again she confronted Dalton, her contempt for him increasing as she +caught the wave of anxiety that swept his face at her reference to the +men who would help her. “Now, you can have just one minute to leave this +room, Mr. Dalton,” she cried, throwing back the door. “If you're over +that time, the policeman on the block will help you down-stairs.” + +Dalton hesitated. The allusion to Stephen, whoever he might be, and to +the other man, disturbed him. That the woman knew more of his history +than she was willing at that time to tell was evident. That she was +entirely in earnest, and meant what she said, and that it would be more +than dangerous for him to defy her, should she appeal to the police for +help, were equally evident. + +“Of course, my dear woman,” he said, with assumed humility, his eyes +glistening with anger, “if you do not want me to stay, I suppose I shall +have to go. I did not come to make any fuss; I only came to take my wife +home where I can take care of her. She seems to think she can get along +without me. All right--I am willing she should try it for a while. She +has my address, which is more than I had when she left me without a word +of any kind.” + +He slid his hand under his cape to assure himself that the mantilla +was safe and out of sight, picked up his hat, and stepped jauntily out, +saying as he went down the staircase: “Next time, she will come to me. +Do you hear? Tell her so, will you?” + + + + +Chapter XVIII + + + +Sometimes on life's highway we meet a man who reminds us of one of those +high-priced pears seen in fruiterers' windows: wholesome, good to look +at, without a speck or stain on their smooth, round, rosy skins--until +we bite into them. Then, close to their hearts, we uncover a greedy, +conscienceless worm, gnawing away in the dark--and consign the whole to +the waste-barrel. + +Dalton, despite his alluring exterior, had been rotten at heart from the +time he was sixteen years of age, when he had lied to his father about +his school remittances, which the old man had duplicated at once. + +That none of his associates had discovered this was owing to the fact +that no one had probed deeper than the skin of his attractiveness--and +with good reason: it was clean, good to look at, bright in color, a most +welcome addition to any dinner-table. But when the drop came--and +very few fruits can stand being bumped on the sidewalk--the revelation +followed all the quicker, simply because bruised fruit rots in a day, as +even the least qualified among us can tell. + +And the bruises showed clearer as time went on. The lines in his once +well-rounded, almost boyish face grew deeper and more strongly marked, +the eyes shrank far back beneath the brows, the lips became thinner and +less mobile, the hair was streaked with gray, and the feet lacked their +old-time spring. + +With these there had come other changes. The smile which had won many a +woman was replaced by a self-conscious smirk; the debonair manner which +had charmed all who met him was now a mere bravado. His dress, too, +showed the strain. While his collar and neckwear were properly looked +after, and his face was clean-shaven, other parts of his make-up, +especially his shoes and hat, were much the worse for wear. + +This, then, was the man who, with thoughts intent on his last and +most degrading makeshift, was forging his way up Second Avenue, the +mantilla--the veriest film of old Salamanca lace--pressed into a small +wad and stuffed in his inside pocket. + + +And now, while we follow him on his way up-town, it may be just as well +for us to note that up to this precise moment our devil-may-care, still +rather handsome Mr. Dalton, with the drooping eyelids and cold, hard +lips, had entirely failed to grasp the idea that, in so far as public +and private morals were concerned, he had in the last thirty minutes +fallen to the level of a common sneak-thief. + +His own reasoning, in disproof of this theory, was entirely +characteristic of the man. While the pawning of one's things was of +course unfortunate and might occasion many misunderstandings and +much obloquy, such an act was not necessarily dishonest, because many +gentlemen, some of high social position, had been compelled to do the +same thing. He himself, yielding to force of circumstances, had already +pawned a good many things--his wife's first, and then his own--and would +do it again under similar conditions. That the article carefully hidden +in his pocket belonged to neither one of them, did not strike him as +altering the situation in the slightest. The mantilla was of no value to +him, nor, for that matter, to Lady Barbara. He would pawn it not alone +for the sake of the money it would bring him, to tide him over his +troubles until he could recover his losses--only a question of days, +perhaps hours--but because, by means of the transaction, he would be +enabled to restore harmony to a home which, through the obstinacy of a +woman on whom he had squandered every penny he possessed in the world, +had been temporarily broken up. + +Should she rebel and refuse to join him--and she unquestionably had that +right--he would carry out a plan which had come to him in a flash when +he first picked it up. He would pawn it for what it would bring and, +watching his chance some day when Lady Barbara was out at work, force +his way into the apartment, slip the pawn-ticket where it could easily +be found--behind the china or in among her sewing materials--and with +that as proof, charge her with having stolen the lace, threatening her +with exposure unless she yielded. If she relented, he would destroy the +ticket and let the matter drop; if she continued obstinate, he would +charge her companion with being an accessory. The woman was evidently +befriending Lady Barbara for what she could get out of her. Neither +of them was seeking trouble. Between the two he could accomplish his +purpose. + +What would happen in the meanwhile, when she tried to account for its +loss to Rosenthal, never caused him the slightest concern. She, of +course, could concoct some story which they would finally believe. If +not, they could deduct the value of the lace from her earnings. + +He had the best of motives for his action. Their board bill was overdue. +He was harassed by the want of even the small sums of money needed for +car-fare, and of late it had become very evident that if they were to +keep their present quarters--and he was afraid to try for any others--he +must yield at once to the proprietor's pressing suggestion to “patch +up his differences with his wife,” and have her come home and once more +take charge of the suite of rooms; the owner arguing that as Mr. and +Mrs. Stanton were known to be “family people,” a profitable little game +free from police interruption might be carried on, the surplus to be +divided between the “house and Mrs. Stanton's husband.” + +That she should decline again to be party to any such plan seemed to +him altogether improbable, since all she had to do to insure them +both comfort was to return home like a sensible woman, put on the best +clothes she possessed--the more attractive the better, and she certainly +was fetching in that wrapper--and be reasonably polite to such of his +friends as chose to drop in evenings for a quiet game of cards. + +Moreover, she owed him something. He had made every sacrifice for her, +shared with her his every shilling, making himself an exile, if not a +fugitive, for her sake, and it was time she recognized it. + +With the recall of these incidents in his checkered career a new thought +blazed up in his mind--rather a blinding thought. As its rays brightened +he halted in his course, and stood gazing across the street as if +uncertain as to his next move. Perhaps, after all, it would be best NOT +to pawn the mantilla. An outright sale would be much better. If this +were impossible, it would be just as well to destroy the ticket and +postpone his scheme for regaining possession of her person. While +something certainly was due him--and she of all women in the world +should supply it--forcing her to carry out the landlord's plan, now that +he thought it over, might result in a certain kind of publicity, +which, if his own antecedents were looked into, would be particularly +embarrassing. She might--and here a slight shiver passed through +him--she might, in her obstinacy, threaten him with the forged +certificates, a result hardly possible, for no letters of any kind had +reached her, none so far as he knew; neither had he ever discussed the +incident with her, for the simple reason that women, as a rule, never +understood such things. And yet how could he, as a financier, have tided +over an accounting which, if allowed to go on, would have wiped out the +savings of hundreds who had trusted him and whom he could not desert in +their hour of need, except by some such desperate means? Of course, +if he had to do it all over again, he would never have locked up the +stock-book in his own safe. That was a mistake. He ought to have left it +with the treasurer. Then he could have shifted the responsibility. + +Just here, oddly enough, he began to think of Felix--that cold-blooded, +unimaginative man, who knew absolutely nothing about how to treat a +woman, and, for that matter, knew nothing about anything else in so far +as the practical side of life was concerned. The fool--here his brow +knit--had not only broken up the final deal, in which everything had +been fixed with Mullhallsen, the German banker, for an additional loan, +but he had unearthed and compared certain certificates, in his fight to +protect an obstinate old father. Worse still, he had taken himself +off to Australia to starve, instead of saving what he could out of the +wreck. Had he only listened to advice, the whole catastrophe might have +been averted. + +And this fool would have ruined his wife as well, had not +he--Dalton--stepped in and saved her from burying herself in the +wilderness. + +As the memory of the scene with Felix when the stock-book was unearthed +passed through his mind, his hand instinctively sought the bulge in his +coat-pocket. He must get rid of it and at once. Just as the certificates +had proved to be dangerous, so might this lace. + +With this idea of his own peril possessing his mind his whole manner +changed. The air of triumph shown in his step and bearing when he left +Marta's door, due to his discovery of the fugitive and the terror his +presence had inspired, was gone. The old spectre always pursuing him +stepped again to his side and linked arms. His slinking, furtive air +returned, and a certain well-defined fear, as if he dreaded being +followed, showed itself in every glance. + +Suddenly he caught sight of a well-patronized retreat, owned and +operated by a Mrs. Blobbs, the Polish wife of an English cheap John, and +with a quick sliding movement, he paused in front of the narrow door. He +had already taken in, from under his hat, the single gas-jet lighting +up its collection of pinchbeck jewelry, watches, revolvers, satin shoes, +fans, and other belongings of the unfortunate, and after peering up and +down the street, he slipped in noiselessly, his countenance wearing +that peculiar, shame-faced expression common to gentlemen on similar +missions. That it was not his first experience could be seen from the +way he leaned far over the counter, dropped the filmy wad, and then +straightened back--the gesture meaning that if any other customer +should come in while his negotiations were in progress, he was not to be +connected in any way with the article. + +“Something rather good,” he said, pointing to the black roll. + +The proprietress, a square-built woman, solid as a sack of salt, her +waist-line marked by a string tightened just above a black alpaca apron, +her dried-apple face surmounted by a dingy lace cap topped with a soiled +red ribbon, eyed him cautiously, and remarked, after loosening out +the mantilla: “Dem teater gurls only vant such tings, and dey can pay +nuddin'. No, I vouldn't even gif fife tollars. Petter dake it somevares +else.” + +Dalton hesitated, turning the matter over in his mind. The transfer +would bring him the desired pawn-ticket, but the five dollars was not +sufficient to help him tide over the most pressing of his difficulties. +He had borrowed double that sum two nights before, from the barkeeper +of a pool-room where he occasionally played, and he dared not repeat his +visit until he could carry him the money. + +The male Blobbs, the taller and more rotund of the two +shopkeepers--especially about the middle--now strolled in, leaned over +the counter, and picking up the lace, held it to the overhead light. +Looked at from behind, Blobbs was all shirt-sleeves and waist-coat, the +back of his flat head resting like a lid on his shoulders. Looked at +from the front, Blobbs developed into a person with shoe-brush whiskers +bristling against two yellow cheeks, the features being the five dots +a child always insists upon when drawing a face. Dalton saw at a glance +that it was Mrs. Blobbs, and not Mr. Blobbs, who was in charge of +the shop, and that any discussions with him as to the price would be +useless. + +“You're an Hinglishnan, I take it,” came from the lowest dot of the +five, a blurred and uncertain mouth. + +Dalton colored slightly and nodded. + +“Well, what I should adwise ye to do is to take this 'ere lace to some +of them hold furnitoor shops. I know what this is. I 'ate to see a chap +like ye put to it like this, that's why I tell ye. 'Ard on your woman, +but--there's a shop hup on Fourth Avenue where they buy such things. A +Dutchman by the name of Kling, right on the corner--you can't miss it. +Take it hup to 'im and tell 'im I sent ye--we often 'elps one another.” + +Dalton crumpled up the black wad, slid the package under his coat, and +without a word of thanks left the shop. + +This was not the first time Blobbs had sent Kling a customer. +Indeed, there had always been more or less of a trade between the two +establishments. For, while Mrs. Blobbs had a license and could advance +money at reasonable rates, her principal business was in old-clothes +and ready-to-wear finery. Being near “The Avenue” and well known to its +denizens, many of their outgrown and out-of-fashion garments had passed +across her counter. Here the young man who pounded away on Masie's +piano, the night of her birthday party, borrowed, for a trifle, his +evening suit. Here Codman had exchanged a three-year-old overcoat, +which refused to be buttoned across his constantly increasing girth, +for enough money to pay for the velvet cuffs and collar of the new one +purchased on Sixth Avenue. Here Mrs. Codman bought remnants of finery +with which to adorn her young daughter's skirts when she went to the +ball given by the Washington chowder party. Here, too, was where the +undertaker sold the clothes of the man who stepped off a ten-story +building in the morning and was laid out that same night in Digwell's +back room, his friends depositing a fresh suit for him to be buried in, +telling the undertaker to do with the old one as he pleased. And to this +old-clothes shop flocked many another denizen of side streets, who at +one time or another had reached crises in their careers which nothing +else could relieve. + +Mrs. Blobbs's curt refusal to receive the lace only added fuel to the +blazing thought that had flared up in Dalton's mind when he recalled the +certificates. Holding on to them had caused one explosion. The mantilla +might prove another such bomb. He dared not leave it at home and he +could not carry it for an indefinite time on his person. If the man +Kling would pay any decent price for it, he could have it and welcome. + +With the grim spectre still linking arms with him he hurried on, making +short-cuts across the streets, until he arrived at Kling's corner. At +this point he paused. His terror must not betray him. Shaking himself +free of the spectre, he assumed his one-time nonchalant air, entered the +store and walked down the middle aisle, between the lines of sideboards, +bureaus and high desks drawn up in dress parade. Over the barricade of +the small office he caught the shine of Otto's bald head, the only other +live occupant, except Fudge, who had crept out from behind a bureau, and +bounded back with a growl. Fudge had sniffed around the legs of a good +many people, and might have written their biographies, but Dalton was +new to him. Few thieves had ever entered Kling's doors. + +“I have just left your old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Blobbs,” he began +gayly, “who have advised me to bring to you rather a rare piece of lace +belonging to my wife. Fine, isn't it?” He loosened the bundle and shook +out the folds of the mantilla. + +Otto put on his glasses, felt the texture of the piece between his +fingers, and spread out the pattern for closer examination. “Yes, dot's +a good piece of lace. Vot you vant to do vid it? Dere's a hole in it, +you see,” and he thrust a pudgy finger into the gash. + +“Yes, I know,” returned Dalton, who, with his eye still on the dog, had +been crushing it together so that the tear might not show; “but that is +easily remedied. I want to sell it. Mr. Blobbs tells me it is worth a +hundred dollars.” + +“Is dot so? Vell--vell--a hundred tollars! Dot's a good deal of money.” + He had begun to wrap it up, tucking in the ends. “No--dot Fudge dog +don't bite--go away, you. T'ank you for lettin' me see it, tell Mr. +Blobbs, but I don't vant it at dot price. And I doan know I vant it at +any price. Dey doan buy dem t'ings any more.” + +Dalton saw that the mantilla had favorably impressed the dealer. He had +caught the look of pleasure when the lace was first unrolled, reading +the man's brain as he had often read the brains of the men at home who +listened to some rose-colored prospectus. These experiences had taught +him that there was always a supreme moment when one must stop praising +an article for sale, whether it were a rubber concession from an African +chief or a pound of tea over a grocer's counter. This moment had arrived +with Kling. + +“I agree with you,” he said smilingly. “The valuation was Mr. Blobbs's, +not mine. I told him I should be glad to get half that amount--or even +less.” + +Otto took the bundle and loosened the roll again. “I got a little girl, +Beesving--dot was her dog make such foolishness--who likes dese t'ings. +But dot is not business, for I doan sell it again once I gif it to her. +I joost put it around her shoulders for a New Year's gift. Maybe if +you--” He re-examined it closely, especially the tear, which had partly +yielded to Lady Barbara's deft fingers and tired eyes. “Vell, I tell you +vot I do, I gif you tventy tollars.” + +“That, I am afraid, will not answer my purpose,” said Dalton. “Perhaps, +however, you will loan me thirty dollars on it and hold the lace for a +week or so, and I will pay you back thirty-five when some money that is +due me comes in?” + +Otto looked at him from under his bushy eyebrows. “Ve don't do dot kind +of business. If I buy--I buy. If I sell--I sell. Sometimes I pay more as +a t'ing is vorth. Sometimes I pay less. I have a expert vid me who knows +vat dis is vorth, but he is busy vid a customer on de next floor, and I +doan sent for him. If you vant de tventy tollars you can have it. If you +doan, den take avay de lace. I got a lot of t'ings to do more as to talk +about it. Ven you see Blobbs, you tell him vat I say.” + +Dalton's mind worked rapidly. To take the money would clean off his debt +and leave him a margin which he might treble before midnight. + +“Give me the money,” he said. “It is not one-third of its value, but I +see that it is all I can do.” + +Otto smiled--the smile of a man who had hit the thing at which he +aimed--felt in his inside pocket, drew out a great flat pocketbook, and +counted out the bills. + +Dalton swept them up as a winner at baccarat sweeps up his coin, +apparently without counting them, stuffed the crumpled bank-notes into +his pocket, and started for the door. + +Half-way down the long shop he halted opposite a sideboard laden with +old silver and glass and, to show that he was not in a hurry, paused for +an instant, picking up a cut-glass decanter with a silver top, remarking +casually, as he laid it back, “Like one I have at home,” continuing +his inspection by holding aloft a pipe-stem glass, to see the color the +better. + +As he resumed his walk to the door, Felix, with Masie and a customer +ahead of him, was just descending the rear stairs from the “banquet +hall” above. He thus had a full view of the store below. Something in +the way with which the bubble-blown glass was handled attracted O'Day's +attention. He had seen a wrist with a movement like that, the poised +glass firmly held in an outstretched hand. Where, he could not tell; at +his own table, perhaps, or possibly at a club dinner. He remembered +the quick, upward toss, the slender receptacle held high. He leaned far +forward, and watched the nervous step and halting gait. Had Masie and +the customer not been ahead of him, he would have hurried past them +and called to the man to stop--not an unusual thing with him when his +suspicions were aroused. Instead, he waited until he was well down the +stairs, then strolled carelessly toward the door, intending to make some +excuse to accost the man on the sidewalk. Not that he had any definite +conviction regarding his likeness to the man he wanted; more to satisfy +his conscience that he had permitted no clew to slip past him. + +What made him hesitate was the way the slouch-hat shaded the intruder's +face, the gas-jets not revealing the features. Only the end of the chin +was visible, and the round of the lower cheek showing above the heavy +cape-collar of the overcoat. + +Dalton by this time had reached the street-door, which he closed gently +behind him, holding it for an instant to prevent its making a noise. +Felix lunged forward, reopened it quickly, and gazed out into the night. +Dalton had vanished as completely as if the earth had swallowed him. + +Another man, who had kept his eyes on O'Day as he peered into the dark, +an undersized, gaunt-looking man, sidled toward Felix and pulled at his +coat sleeve. “I ain't too early, am I? You said eight o'clock?” + +Felix looked at him keenly. “Oh, yes, I remember--no, you are all right. +How long have you been here?” + +“About half an hour.” + +“Did you notice which way that man went who has just shut the door?” + +The tramp looked about him in a helpless way. “I wasn't lookin'. I was +a-watchin' you--waitin' for you to come out--but I got on to him when he +went in awhile ago.” + +“Then you have seen him before?” + +“Of course I've seen him before. He plays pool where I've been +a-workin'.” + +Felix bent closer. “Do you know his name?” + +“Sure! His name's Stanton. He's been puttin' sompin' to soak, I guess. I +heard last week he was up against it. Do you know him?” + +Felix remained silent a moment, checking his own disappointment, and +then answered slowly: “I thought I did, but I see I am mistaken. Come +inside the store where it is warmer. I have secured you a job, and will +take you with me when I have finished here.” + + + + +Chapter XIX + + + +Had a spark of human feeling been left in Dalton's body, it would have +been kindled into a flame of sympathy, could he have seen Lady Barbara +when she opened the box early next morning, and stood trembling over the +loss of the mantilla. + +Her first hope was that she had inadvertently taken it to Rosenthal's +with the other pieces of lace, and that Mangan had found it when he +checked up her work. Then a cold chill ran through her, her anxiety +increasing every moment. Had she dropped it in the street? Had the woman +who jostled her on the way up the long staircase to the workroom, picked +up her package when she stumbled? Perhaps some one had crept in during +the night and, finding the box near the door, had caught up the mantilla +and escaped without being detected? Could she herself have dragged it +into her bedroom, entangled in the folds of her skirt? Was it not near +the window, or in her basket, or behind the door, or-- + +Martha, with a shake of her head, put all these theories to flight. + +“No, it isn't in your room at all, and it isn't anywhere else around +here; and nobody's been in here from the outside; and they couldn't get +in if they tried, for I bolted the door when we went to bed. The only +person who has had the run of the place is Mr. Dalton, and he--” + +“Martha!” + +“Well, I wasn't here when he first came, but when I opened the door he +was peeking behind the china.” + +“But I had not been inside my room a minute before I heard your voice. +How could he have taken it? You don't think--” + +“I don't say what I think, because I don't know, but he's mean enough +to do anything he could to hurt you. How long had he been talking to you +when I came in?” + +“Just long enough for me to run past him and lock myself in.” + +“And how long do you think it would take him to steal it, if he thought +nobody was looking?” + +“But he could not have stolen it, Martha; he was on the other side of +the room. The box is by the door where I left it; you can see it for +yourself. Oh what shall I do? Where could I have dropped it? It must be +at the store in that bundle. Mr. Mangan said I need not wait, and I did +not see him open it. He has found it by this time and he is waiting for +me. I will go right away and see him. Anybody could make a mistake like +that. He must--he WILL understand when I explain it all. Get my cloak +and hat, please, Martha. I will take the car up and back, and you can +have my coffee ready for me upon my return. I won't be half an hour. Oh! +how awful it is, how awful! If I had only found it out last night! I had +meant to work, but I could not after what happened. Mr. Mangan was very +much put out yesterday, and I know he will be furious to-day. No, you +need not come with me,” and she was gone. + +Martha closed the door, walked to the window, and stood looking through +the panes until the slight figure had reached the street, where she +caught up her skirt, to free her steps the better, and started on a run +for the car line. When the fragile form was lost in the whirl of the +traffic, Martha walked slowly to the table and sank into a chair, her +elbows resting on its top, her face in her hand. + +The next instant she was on her feet examining Lady Barbara's +work-basket, wondering what Dalton had found in it, wondering, too, why +he had looked through it. Crossing to the dresser, she moved the plates +and cups, as he had done, searching for a possible note, or perhaps for +a duplicate key of their former apartment which he might have left for +Barbara, and then moved toward the door of the smaller chamber, behind +which her mistress had lain shivering. Her eye now fell on the box, the +lid awry. She remembered that this lid had been in that same position +when she had ordered the intruder from the room, and that, at the time, +she had thought it strange that Lady Barbara, always so careful, had +not fastened it to keep the dust from its contents. Stooping closer, +she examined the various articles. She noted that one sleeve of the lace +blouse had been lifted from its place, while the other sleeve remained +snug where her mistress had tucked it. In pulling out one of the upper +pieces, this sleeve must have been caught in its meshes and dragged +clear. This could only have been done by the mantilla which, she +distinctly remembered, had been laid neatly on top the afternoon before, +so as to be ready for work in the morning. + +“He's got it,” she exclaimed in an excited tone, replacing the lid. +“I'll stake my life he stole it, the dirty cur! He's done it to get even +with her. She'll be back in a little while, half distracted. There is +going to be trouble, plenty of it. I'll have Stephen here right away, +and we'll talk it over. I can take care of her when she's inside these +rooms, but what if that man waylays her on the street and raises a row, +and she goes back to him to smooth over things? This has got to stop. +She won't live the month out if he gets to hounding her again, and now +he's found out where she is, I shan't have a moment's peace. What a +hang-dog face he's got on him! And he's a coward, too, or he wouldn't +have slunk out when I ordered him. And he had it on him all the time! I +wonder what he'll do with it. Hold it over her, I expect; maybe take it +to Rosenthal's with some lie about her, so they will discharge her and +she come back to him. + +“Maybe--” Here she stopped, and grew suddenly grave. “Maybe he'll--No, I +don't think he'd dare do that, but I've got to get Stephen, and I'll go +for him this minute. Going's quicker than a letter, and I'll leave word +down-stairs where I'm gone, so she'll know when she comes in, and I'll +fix her coffee so she can get it.” + +Hurrying into her own room, she began changing her dress, putting on her +shoes, taking her night cloak and big, flare bonnet from the hook behind +the door, talking to herself as she moved. + +“It's getting worse all the time, instead of getting better. God knows +what's to become of her! She's most beat out now, and can't stand much +more; and she's the best of the lot, except Mr. Felix, for she's clean +inside of her, and only her heart is to blame--and that father of hers, +Lord Carnavon, with his dirty pride, and this scoundrel she's wrecking +her life on, and all the fine ladies at home who turned up their noses +at her when half of them are twice as bad--oh, I know 'em--you can't +fool Martha Munger! I've been too long with 'em. And this poor child +who--Oh! I tell you this is a bad business, and it's getting worse--yes, +it's getting worse. Rosenthal isn't going to stand losing that piece of +lace, without its costing somebody some money. Stephen's got to come and +be around evenings while I'm out. And I'll go with her to Rosenthal's +and fetch her back home, so that man Dalton can't frighten the life out +of her.” + +She put the coffee-pot where it would keep hot, and laid the cups and +saucers ready for her mistress. This done, she shut the door, and made +her way down-stairs. “Tell Mrs. Stanton when she comes in,” she said to +the old woman who acted as janitor, “that I've gone to see my brother, +and that I'll be back just as soon as I can.” + +All hopes which had cheered Lady Barbara on her way to Rosenthal's, even +when she climbed the long stairs and was ushered into Mangan's small +office, died out of her heart when she saw the manager's face. She had +anticipated an outburst of anger, followed by a brutal tirade over +her carelessness in wrapping up the mantilla with the other pieces and +leaving it behind her the night before. Instead, he came forward to meet +her--his lean, nervous body twitching with expectation. + +“Well, this is something like! Didn't think you'd turn up for an hour. +Let's have it.” This with a low chuckle--the nearest he ever got to a +laugh. + +“Something dreadful has happened, Mr. Mangan,” she began, stumbling over +her words, her knees shaking under her. “I thought I had wrapped the +mantilla up with the pieces I brought you last night, but I see now +that--” + +“You thought! Say, what are you giving me? Ain't you got it?” + +“I have not, and I don't know what has become of it. It was not in the +box this morning, and--” + +“IT WASN'T IN THE BOX THIS MORNING!” he roared. “See here, what kind of +a damn fool do you take me for?” He wheeled suddenly, caught her by the +wrist, dragged her clear of the door, and shut it behind her. + +“Now, Mrs. Stanton,” he said, in cold, incisive tones, “let's you and I +have this out, and I want to tell you right here that I believe you're +lying, and I've been suspecting it for some time. Now, make a clean +breast of it. You've pawned it, haven't you?” + +“I--pawn it? You think I--I won't allow you to speak to me in that way. +I--” + +“Oh, cut that out, it won't wash here. Now, listen! I've got to get that +mantilla, see? And I'm going to get it if I go through every pawn-shop +in town with a fine-tooth comb. I orter to have had better sense than +to let you take it out of the shop. Now open up, and I'll help you +straighten out things. Where is it? Come, now--no side-tracking.” + +She had sunk down on the chair, her fingers tightly interlocked, his +words stunning her like blows. Their full meaning she missed in her +dazed condition. All she knew was that, in some way, she must defend +herself. + +“Mr. Mangan, will you please listen to me? I have not pawned it, and I +would never dream of doing such a thing. I can only think that some one +has taken it from the box--I don't know who. I came to you the moment +I discovered the loss. I thought perhaps I had wrapped it up with the +other pieces I brought you last night, or that I had dropped it in the +street on my way here. And, yet, none of these things seemed possible +when I began to think about it. I will do all I can to pay for it. You +can take its value from my work until it is all paid.” + +Mangan, who had been pacing the floor, hearing nothing of her +explanation--his mind intent upon his next move--dragged a chair next to +hers. + +“Now, pull yourself together for a minute, Mrs. Stanton. I'm not going +to be ugly. I'm going to make this just as easy as I can for you. You've +got a lot of common sense, and you're some different from the women who +handle our stuff. I've seen that, and that's why I've trusted you. Now, +think of me a little. That mantilla don't belong to Rosenthal's. It +belongs to a big customer who lives up near the Park, and who left it +here on condition we had it mended on time. It's worth $250 if it's +worth a cent, and it's worth a lot more to me, because I lose my job if +I don't get hold of it to-day. It's a New Year's present and has got +to be sent home to-night. Now, don't that make things look a little +different to you? And now, one thing more, and I'm going to put it up to +you, just between ourselves, and nobody will get onto it--nobody around +here. If it's a matter of ten or fifteen dollars, I've got the money +right here in my clothes. And you can slip out and I'll keep close +behind, and you can go in and get it, and I'll bring it back here, and +that's all there will be to it. Now, be decent to me. I've been decent +to you ever since you come here. Ain't that so?” + +Lady Barbara had now begun to understand. This man was accusing her of +lying, if not of theft, while she sat powerless before him, incapable of +speech. Once, as the horror of his suspicion rose before her, she felt a +wild impulse to cry out, even to throw herself on his mercy--telling him +her story and Martha's suspicions. Then the recollection of the cunning +of the man, his vulgarity, his insincerity, slowly steadied her. Her +secret must be kept, and she must not anger him further. + +“Perhaps, Mr. Mangan, if you came with me to my rooms, and saw my old--” + she paused, then added softly, “the old woman I live with, and I showed +you where the box is always kept and the way the door opens, perhaps you +could help us to find out how it could have happened.” + +Mangan rose and pushed back his chair. “Well, you are the limit!” he +gritted between his teeth. “I guess I'm in for it. The old man will be +howling mad, and I don't blame him.” + +He walked to his desk, picked up his telephone, and, in a restrained +voice, said: “Send Pickert up here. I'm in my office. Tell him there's +something doing.” + +Lady Barbara rose from her chair and stood waiting. She did not know +who Pickert was nor whether her pleading had moved Mangan, who had now +resumed his seat at the desk, piled high with papers, one of which he +was studying closely. + +“And you don't think it will do any good if you come to my room?” + +Mangan shook his head. + +“And shall I wait any longer?” she continued. The words were barely +audible. She knew her dismissal had come and that she must face another +dreary hunt for new work. + +Mangan did not raise his head. “Sit down. I'll tell you when I'm +through.” + +The door opened and a thick-set man, in a brown suit and derby hat, +stepped in. + +Mangan wheeled his chair and fronted the two. “This woman, Pickert, is +carried on our pay-roll as Mrs. Stanton. She's got a room off St. Mark's +Place. Here's the number. About a week ago I gave her a lace mantilla +to fix, something good--worth over $200--and every day she's been coming +here with a new lie. Now she says she's lost it. She's either got it +down where she lives or she's pawned it. I've done what I could to +save her, but she sticks to it. Better take some one from the office, +down-stairs, with you. Maybe when she thinks it over she'll come to her +senses. Take her along with you. I'm through.” + +As the man stepped forward, Lady Barbara sprang away from his touch. +“You do not mean you are going to let this man take me--Mr. Mangan, +you must not, you shall not! You would not commit that outrage. Do you +mean--?” + +Pickert made a gesture of disgust, his fingers outspread. “Keep all that +for the captain. It won't cut any ice here, and you'd better not talk. +Now come along, and don't make any fuss. If it's a mistake, you can +clear it up at the station-house. I ain't going to touch you. You keep +ahead until you get to the street-door. I'll be right behind, and meet +you on the sidewalk.” + +Lady Barbara drew herself up proudly. “I won't allow it!” she cried; +“what I told you--” + +Pickert swaggered closer. “Drop that, will you? I got my orders. You +heard 'em, didn't you? Will you go easy, or shall I have to--” and he +half dragged a pair of handcuffs from his side pocket. “Now, you do just +as I tell you; it'll all come right, and there won't nobody know what's +goin' on. You get to hollerin' and mussin' up things and there'll be +trouble, see? Open that door now, and walk out just as if everything was +reg'lar.” + + + + +Chapter XX + + + +The routine of Felix's daily life had been broken this morning by the +receipt of a letter. The postman had handed it to him as he crossed the +street from Kitty's to Kling's, the tramp who was sweeping the sidewalk +having pointed him out. + +“That's him,” cried the tramp. “That's Mr. O'Day. Catch him before he +gets inside his place, or you'll lose him. Here, I'll take it.” + +“You'll take nothin'. Get out of my way.” + +“For me?” asked Felix, coloring slightly as the postman accosted him. + +“Yes, if you're Mr. O'Day.” + +“I'm afraid I am. Thank you. If you have any others, bring them here to +Mr. Kling's, where I can always be found during the day.” + +He glanced at the seal and the address, but kept it in his hands until +he reached Kling's counter, where he settled into a chair, and with the +greatest care slit the envelope with his knife. A year had passed since +he had received a letter, nor had he expected any. + +He read it through to the end, turning the pages again, rereading +certain passages, his face giving no hint of the contents, folded the +sheets, put them back in the envelope, and slid the whole into his +inside pocket. After a little he rose, stood for a moment watching +Fudge, who, now that Masie had gone to school, had taken up his +customary place in the window, his nose pressed against the pane. Then, +as if some sudden resolve had seized him, he walked quickly to the rear +of the store in search of his employer. + +Otto was poring over his books, his bald head glistening under the rays +of the gas-jet, which he had lighted to assist him in his work, the +morning being dark. + +“I have been wanting to talk to you for some time, Mr. Kling, about +Masie,” he began abruptly. “I may be going home to England, perhaps for +a few weeks, perhaps longer, and I should like to take her with me. +I have a sister who would look after her, and the trip would do her a +world of good. I have been wanting to do this for a long time, but I am +a little freer now to carry out the plan I had for her. And so I have +come to propose it to you.” + +Otto listened gravely, his fat features frozen into calm. This clerk of +his had made him many startling propositions, and every surrender had +brought him profit. But turning over Beesving to him meant something +so different that the father in him stood aghast. Yet his old habit of +deference did not desert him when at last he spoke: + +“Vell, vat vill I do? You knew I don't got notin' but Beesving. Don't +she get everytin' vere she is? I do all de schoolin' and de clothes and +Aunty Gossburger look after her. Vhen she gets older maybe perhaps she +vould like a trip. And den maybe ve both go and leave you here to mind +de shop in de summer-time. But now she's notin' but jus' Beesving, vid +her head full of skippin' aroun'. No, I don't tink I can do dat for you. +I do most anytin' for you, but my little girl, you see, dat come pretty +close. Dat make a awful hole in me if Beesving go avay. No, you mustn't +ask me dot.” + +“Not if it were for her good?” + +“Yes, vell, of course, but how do I know dot? And vot you vant to go +avay for? Dot's more vorse as Beesving. Ain't I pay you enough? Maybe +you vants a little interest in de business? I vas tinkin' about dat only +yesterday. Ve vill talk about dot sometimes.” + +Felix laughed gently. + +“No, I don't wish any interest in the business. You pay me quite enough +for the work I do, and I am quite willing to continue to serve you as +long as I can. But Masie should not be brought up in these surroundings +much longer. Perhaps you would be willing to send her to a good school +away from here, if I could arrange it. Either here or in England.” + +Otto threw up his hands; he was becoming indignant, his mind more and +more set against Felix's proposition. + +“Vell, but vat's de matter vid de school she has now? She is more dan +on de top of all de classes. De superintendent told me so ven he vas in +here last veek buying Christmas presents. I sold him dat old chair you +got Hans to put a new leg on. You remember dot chair. Vell, dat vas +better as a new von vhen Hans got trough. Hadn't been for you, dot +old chair vould be kicking around now, and I vouldn't have de fifteen +dollars he paid me for it. I vish sometimes you look around for more +chairs like dot.” + +Felix nodded in assent, reading the Dutchman's obstinate mind in the +shopkeeper's sudden return to business questions. If Masie's future was +to be helped, another hand than his own must be stretched out. He turned +on his heel, and was about to regain his chair, when Otto, craning his +head, called out: + +“Dot's Father Cruse comin' in. You ask him now vonce about dis goin' +avay bizness. He tell you same as me.” + +The priest was now abreast of Felix, who had stepped forward to greet +him, Otto watching their movements. The two stood talking in a +low voice, Felix's eyes downcast as if in deep thought, the priest +apparently urging some plan, which O'Day, by his manner, seemed to +favor. They were too far off, and spoke too low, for Otto to catch the +drift of the talk, and it was only when Felix, who had followed the +priest outside the door, had returned that he called, from his high seat +under the gas-jet: “Vell, vat did Father Cruse say?” + +Felix drew his brows together. “Say about what?” he asked, as if the +question had surprised him. + +“About Beesving. Didn't you ask him?” + +“No, we talked of other things,” replied Felix and, turning on his heel, +occupied himself about the shop. + +Across the street meanwhile Kitty's own plans had also gone astray this +winter's morning--so many of them, in fact, that she was at her wits' +end which way to turn. A trunk had been left at the wrong address, and +John had been two hours looking for it. Bobby had come home from school +with a lump on his head as big as a hen's egg, where some “gas-house +kid,” as Bobby expressed it, “had fetched him a crack.” Mike, on his way +down from the Grand Central, knowing that John was away with the other +horse and Kitty worrying, had urged big Jim to gallop, and, in his +haste, had bowled over a ten-year-old boy astride of a bicycle, and, +worse yet, the entire outfit--big Jim, wagon, Mike, boy, bicycle, and +the boy's father--were at that precise moment lined up in front of the +captain's desk at the 35th Street police station. + +The arrest did not trouble Kitty. She knew the captain and the captain +knew her. If bail were needed, there were half a dozen men within fifty +yards of where she stood who would gladly furnish it. Mike was careless, +anyhow, and a little overhauling would do him good. + +What did trouble her was the tying up of big Jim and her wagon at a +time when she needed them most. Nobody knew when John would be back, and +there was the stuff piling up, and not a soul to handle it. She stood, +leaning over her short counter, trying to decide what to do first. +She could not ask Felix to help her. He was tired out with the holiday +sales. Nor was there anybody else on whom she could put her hands. It +was Porterfield's busy time, and Codman had all he could jump to. No, +she could not ask them. Here she stepped out on the sidewalk to get a +broader view of the situation, her mind intent on solving the problem. + +At that same instant she saw Kling's door swing wide and Father Cruse +step out, Felix beside him. The two shook each other's hands in parting, +Felix going back into the shop, and Father Cruse taking the short-cut +across the street to where Kitty stood--an invariable custom of his +whenever he found himself in her neighborhood. + +Instantly her anxiety vanished. “Look at it!” she cried +enthusiastically. “Can you beat it? There he comes. God must 'a' sent +him!” Then, as she ran to meet him: “Oh, Father, but it's better than +a pair o' sore eyes to see ye! I'm all balled up wi' trouble. John's +huntin' a lost trunk. Bobby's up-stairs with a slab o' raw beef on his +head. Mike's locked up for runnin' over a boy. And my big Jim and my +wagon is tied up outside the station, till it's all straightened out. +Will ye help me?” + +“I am on my way now to the police station,” said the priest in his +kindest voice. + +“Oh, then, ye heard o' Mike?” + +“Not a word. But I often drop in there of a morning. Many of the night +arrests need counsel outside the law, and sometimes I can be of service. +Is the boy badly hurt?” + +“No, he hollered too loud when the wheel struck him, so they tell me. +He's not half as bad as Bobby, I warrant, who hasn't let a squeak out o' +him. Will ye please put in a word for me, Father? I can't leave here or +I'd go meself. I don't care if the captain holds on to Mike for a while, +so he lets me have big Jim and the wagon. John will be up to go bail as +soon as he gets back, if the captain wants it, which he won't, when he +finds out who Mike is. Oh, that's a good soul! I knew ye'd help me. An' +how did ye find Mr. Felix?”--a new anxiety now filling her mind. + +The priest's face clouded. “Oh, very well; he spent last evening with +me.” + +“Oh, that was it, was it? An' were ye trampin' the streets with him, +too? It was pretty nigh daylight when he come in. I always know, for he +wakes me when he shuts his door.” + +The priest, evidently absorbed in some strain of thought, parried her +question with another: “And so the boy was not badly hurt? Well, that is +something to be thankful for. Perhaps I may know his people. I will send +Mike and the wagon back to you, if I can. Good-by.” And he touched his +hat, passing up the street with his long, even stride, the skirt of his +black cassock clinging to his knees. + + +The arrest, so far as could be seen from Mike's general deportment, had +not troubled that gentleman in the least. He had nodded pleasantly +to the captain, who, in return, had frowned severely at him while the +father of the boy was making the complaint; had winked good-naturedly at +him the moment the accuser had left the room; had asked after Kitty and +John, motioned to him to stay around until somebody put in an appearance +to go bail, and had then busied himself with more important matters. A +thick-set man, in a brown suit and derby hat, accompanied by an officer +and another man, had brought in a frail woman, looking as if life were +slowly ebbing out of her; and the four were in a row before his desk. +The usual questions were asked and answered by the detective and the +clerk--the nature of the charge, the name and address of the party +robbed, the name and address of the accused--and the entries properly +made. + +During the hearing, the frail woman had stood with bent head, dazed and +benumbed. When her name was asked, she had made no answer nor did she +give her residence. “I am an Englishwoman,” was all she had said. + +Mike, now privileged to enjoy the freedom of the room, had been watching +the proceedings with increasing interest, so much so that he had edged +up to the group, as close as he dared, where he could get the light +full on the woman. When the words, “I am an Englishwoman,” fell from +her lips, he let out an oath, and slapped his thigh with the fiat of +his hand. “Of course it is! I thought I know'd her when she come in. +English, is she? What a lot o' lies they do be puttin' up. She never +saw England. She's a dago from 'cross town. Won't Mrs. Cleary's eyes pop +when I tell her!” + +The group in front of the captain's desk disintegrated. The woman, still +silent, was led away to the cell. Rosenthal's clerk, who had made the +charge for the firm, had come round to the captain's side of the desk +to sign some papers. Pickert and the officer had already disappeared +through the street-door. At this juncture the priest entered. His +presence was noted by every man in the room, most of whom rose to their +feet, some removing their hats. + +“Good-morning, captain,” he said, including with his bow the other +people present. “I have just left Mrs. Cleary, who tells me that one of +her men is in trouble. Ah! I see him now. Is there anything that I can +do for him?” + +“Nothing, your reverence; the boy's not much hurt. I don't think it was +Mike's fault, from the testimony, but it's a case of bail, all right.” + +“I am afraid, captain, she is not worrying so much about our poor Mike +here as she is about the horse and wagon. These she needs, for Mr. +Cleary is away, and there is no one to help her. Perhaps you would be +good enough to send an officer with Mike, and let them drive back to +her?” + +“I guess that won't be necessary, your reverence. See here, Mike, get +into your wagon and take it back to the stable, and bring somebody with +you to go bail. We didn't want the wagon, only there was no place to +leave it, and we knew they would send up for it sooner or later. It's +outside now.” + +“Thank you, captain. And now, Mike, be very sure you come back,” + exclaimed the priest, with an admonishing finger; “do you hear?” He +always liked the Irishman. + +Mike grinned the width of his face, caught up his cap, and made for +the door. The priest watched him until he had cleared the room, then, +leaning over the desk, asked: “Anything for me this morning, captain?” + +“No, your reverence, not that I can see. Two drunks come in with the +first batch, and a couple of crooks who had been working the 'elevated'; +and a woman, a shoplifter. Got away with a piece of lace--a mantilla, +they called it, whatever that is. She's just gone down to wait for the +four o'clock delivery. It's a case of grand larceny. They say the lace +is worth $250. Wasn't that about it?” + +Rosenthal's man bobbed his head. He had not lifted his hat to the +priest, and seemed to regard him with suspicion. + +“What sort of a looking woman is she?” continued the priest. + +“Oh, the same old kind; they're all alike. Nothing to say--too smart for +that. I guess she stole it, all right. All I could get out of her was +that she was an Englishwoman, but she didn't look it.” + +The priest lowered his head, an expression of suddenly awakened interest +on his face. “May I see her?” he asked, in an eager tone. + +“Why, sure! Bunky, take Father Cruse down. He wants to talk to that +Englishwoman.” + +To most unfortunates, whether innocent or guilty, the row of polished +steel bars which open and close upon those in the grip of the law, are +poised rifles awaiting the order to fire. To a woman like Lady Barbara, +these guarded a dark and loathsome tomb, in which her last hope lay +buried. That she had not deserved the punishment meted out to her did +not soothe her agony. She had deserved none of Dalton's cruelty, and yet +she had withered under its lash. This was the end; beyond, lay only a +slow, lingering death, with her torture increasing as the hours crept +on. + +The sound of the turnkey's hand on the lock roused her to consciousness. + +“Bring her outside where I can talk to her,” said Father Cruse, pointing +to a bench in the corridor. + +She followed the guard mechanically, as a whipped spaniel follows its +master, her steps dragging, her body trembling, her head bowed as if +awaiting some new humiliation. She had no strength to resist. Something +in the priest's quiet, in the way he trod beside her, seemed to have +reassured her, for as she sank on the bench beside him, she leaned over, +laid one hand on his sleeve, and asked feebly: “Are they going to let me +go?” + +“That I cannot say, my good woman; I can only hope so.” He looked toward +the guard. “Better leave us for a while, Bunky.” The turnkey touched his +cap and mounted the narrow iron steps to the room above. + +Father Cruse waited until the footsteps had ceased to echo in the +corridor, and then turned to Lady Barbara. “And now tell me something +about yourself; have you no friends you can send for? I will see they +get your message. The captain told me you were English. Is this true?” + +She had withdrawn her hand and now sat with averted face, the faint +flicker of hope his presence had enkindled extinguished by his evasive +answer. Only when he repeated the question did she reply, and then in a +mere whisper, without lifting her head: “Yes, I am English.” + +“And your people, are they where you can reach them?” + +She did not answer; there was nothing to be gained by yielding to his +curiosity. Nor did she intend to reply to any more of his questions. He +was only one of those kind priests who looked after the poor and whose +sympathy, however well meant, would be of little value. If she told +him how cruel had been the wrong done her, and how unjust had been her +arrest, it would make no difference; he could not help her. + +“There must be somebody,” he urged. He had read her indecision in the +nervous play of her fingers, as he had read many another human emotion +in his time. “There must be somebody,” he repeated. + +“There is only Martha,” she answered at last, yielding to his influence. +“She was my nurse when I was a child. She is as poor as I am. She will +come to me if you will send word to her. They would not listen to me at +Rosenthal's when I begged them to bring her to the store.” She lifted +her head and stared wildly about her. “Oh, the injustice of it all--and +the awful horror of this place! How can men do such things? I told them +the truth, Father, I told them the truth. I never stole it. How could I +ever steal anything? How dared he speak to me as he did?” + +She turned, straining her whole body as if in mortal anguish; then, with +her shoulder against the hard, whitewashed wall, she broke at last into +sobs. + +The priest sat still, waiting and watching, as a surgeon does a patient +slowly emerging from delirium. + +“Men are seldom reasonable, my good woman, when they lose their +property, and they often do things which they regret afterward. Of what +were you accused?” + +His tone reassured her, and, for the first time, she looked directly at +him. “Of stealing a mantilla which I had taken to my rooms to repair.” + +“Whose was it?” + +“Rosenthal's, for whom I worked.” + +“The large store near by here, on Third Avenue?” + +“Yes.” + +Father Cruse lapsed once more into silence, absorbed in a study of +certain salient points of her person--her way of sitting and of folding +her hands, her thin, delicately modelled frame, the pallor of her oval +face, with its mobile mouth, the singular whiteness of her teeth, and +the blue of her eyes, shaded by the cheap, black-straw hat which hid her +forehead. Then he glanced at her feet, one of which protruded from her +coarse skirt--no larger than a child's. + +When he spoke again, it was in a positive way, as if his inspection had +caused him to adopt a definite course which he would now follow. “This +old nurse of yours, this woman you called Martha, does she know of any +one who could get bail for you? You can only stay here for a few hours, +and then they will take you to the Tombs, unless some one can go bail. +I know the Rosenthals, and they would, I think, listen to any reasonable +proposition.” + +“Would they let me go home, then?” + +“Yes, until your trial came off.” + +She shuddered, hugging herself the closer. Her mind had not gone that +far. It was the present horror that had confronted her, not a trial in +court. + +“Martha has a brother,” she said at last, “who has a business of some +kind, and who might help. If you will bring her to me, she can find +him.” + +“You don't remember what his business is?” he continued. + +“I think it is something to do with fitting out ships. He was once a +mate on one of my father's vessels and--” + +She stopped abruptly, frightened now at her own indiscretion. She had +been wrong in wanting to send for Stephen, even in referring to him. +Whatever befell her, she was determined that her people at home should +not suffer further on her account. + +Father Cruse had caught the look, and his heart gave a bound, though +no gesture betrayed him. “You have not told me your name,” he said +simply--as if it were a matter of routine in cases like hers. + +She glanced at him quickly. “Does it make any difference?” + +“It might. I do not believe you are a criminal, but if I am to help you +as I want to do, I must know the truth.” + +She thought for a moment. Here was something she could not escape. The +assumed name had so far shielded her. She would brave it out as she had +done before. + +“They call me Mrs. Stanton.” + +“Is that your true name?” + +The Carnavons were imperious, unforgiving, and sometimes brutal. Many +of them had been roues, gamblers, and spendthrifts, but none of them had +ever been a liar. + +“No!” she answered firmly. + +Father Cruse settled back in his seat. The ring of sincerity in the +woman's “No” had removed his last doubt. “You do very wrong, my good +woman, not to tell me the whole truth,” he remarked, with some +emphasis. “I am a priest, as you see, and attached to the Church of St. +Barnabas--not far from here. I visit this station-house almost every +morning, seeing what I can do to help people just like yourself. I will +go to Rosenthal, and then I will find your old nurse, and I will try to +have your case delayed until your nurse can get hold of her brother. But +that is really all I can do until I have your entire confidence. I am +convinced that you are a woman who has been well brought up, and that +this is your first experience in a place of this kind. I hope it will be +the last; I hope, too, that the charge made against you will be proved +false. But does not all this make you realize that you should be frank +with me?” + +She drew herself up with a certain dignity infinitely pathetic, yet in +which, like the flavor of some old wine left in a drained glass, there +lingered the aroma of her family traditions. “I am very grateful, sir, +to you. I know you only want to be kind, but please do not ask me to +tell you anything more. It would only make other people unhappy. There +is no one but myself to blame for my poverty, and for all I have gone +through. What is to become of me I do not know, but I cannot make my +people suffer any more. Do not ask me.” + +“It might end their suffering,” he replied quickly. “I have a case in +point now where a man has been searching New York for months, hoping to +get news of his wife, who left him nearly a year ago. He comes in to +see me every few nights and we often tramp the streets together. My work +takes me into places she would be apt to frequent, so he comes with +me. He and I were up last night until quite late. He has nothing in his +heart but pity for that poor woman, who he fears has been left stranded +by the man she trusted. So far he has heard nothing of her. I left him +hardly an hour ago. Now, there, you see, is a case where just a word of +frankness and truth might have ended all their sufferings. I told Mr. +O'Day this morning, when I left him, that--” + +She had grown paler and paler during the long recital, her wide-open +eyes staring into his, her bosom heaving with suppressed excitement, +until at the mention of Felix's name, she staggered to her feet, and +cried: “You know Felix O'Day?” + +“Yes, thank God, I do, and you are his wife, Lady Barbara O'Day, Lord +Carnavon's daughter.” + +She cowered like a trapped animal, uncertain which way to spring. In her +agony she shrank against the wall, her arms outstretched. How did +this man know all the secrets of her life? Then there arose a calming +thought. He was a priest--a man who listened and did not betray. +Perhaps, after all, he could help her. He wanted the truth. He should +have it. + +“Yes,” she answered, her voice sinking. “I am Lord Carnavon's daughter.” + +“And Felix O'Day's wife?” + +“And Felix O'Day's wife,” came the echo, and, with the last word, her +last vestige of strength seemed to leave her. + +The priest rose to his full height. “I was sure of it when I first +saw you,” he said, a note of triumph in his voice. “And now, one last +question. Are you guilty of this theft?” + +“GUILTY! I guilty! How could I be?” The denial came with a lift of the +head, her eyes kindling, her bosom heaving. + +“I believe you. There is not a moment to be lost.” The priest and father +confessor were gone now; it was the man of affairs who was speaking. “I +will see Rosenthal at once, and then send for your nurse. Give me her +address.” + +When he had written it, he stepped to the foot of the stairs, and called +to one of the guards. Then he slipped his hand under his cassock, drew +out his watch, noted the hour, and in a firm voice--one intended to be +obeyed--said: + +“Go back into your cell and sit there until I come. Do not worry if I +am away longer than I expect, and do not be frightened when the key is +turned on you. It is best that you be locked up for a while. You should +give thanks to God, my dear woman, that I have found you.” + + + + +Chapter XXI + + + +The news of Mike's arrest had been received by kitty's neighbors +with varying degrees of indifference. Everybody realized that, as the +run-over boy had lost nothing but his breath--and but little of that, +judging from his vigorous howl when Mike picked him up--nothing would +come of the affair so long as the present captain ruled the precinct. +Kitty and John and all who belonged to them were too popular around the +station; too many of the boys had slipped in and slipped out of a cold +night, warmed up by the contents of her coffee-pot. + +Indeed, between the captain and the denizens of “The Avenue,” only the +most friendly, amicable, and delightful personal relations prevailed. To +the habitual criminal, the sneak-thief, and the hold-up, he might be +a mailed despot swinging a mailed fist, but to the occasional “Monday +drunk,” or the man who had had the best or the worst of it in a fight, +or to one like Mike who was the victim of an unavoidable accident, +he was only a heathen idol of justice behind which sat a big-waisted, +tightly belted man whose wife and daughters everybody knew as he himself +knew everybody in return; who belonged to the same lodge, played poker +in the same up-stairs room when off duty, and was as tender-hearted in +time of trouble as any one of their other acquaintances. Not to have +allowed Mike, a man he knew, a man who had been Kitty and John's driver +for years, to hunt up his own bond, would have been as unwise and +impossible as his releasing a burglar on straw bail, or a murderer +because the dead man could not make a complaint. + +When, therefore, Mike burst into the kitchen with the additional +information that “the cap” had let him go to bring back the wagon and +somebody with “cash” enough to go bail, a general movement, headed by +Tim Kelsey, who happened to be passing at the time, was immediately +organized--Tim to proceed at once to the station-house, take the captain +on one side, and so end the matter. Locking up Mike, even threatening +him, was, as the captain knew, an invasion of the rights of “The +Avenue.” Nobody within its confines had ever been entangled in the +meshes of the law--simply because nobody had wanted to break it. It was +the howling boy who should have been locked up for getting under Mike's +wheels, or his father who ought to have kept his son off the street. + +Mike listened impatiently to the discussion and, watching his chance, +beckoned to Kitty, shut the door upon the two, and poured into her ear a +full account of what he had seen and heard at the station-house. + +“Well, what's that got to do with it?” Kitty demanded. “What did she +have to do with the boy?” + +“Nothing, don't I tell ye--she's been swipin' a department store, and +they got her dead to rights.” + +“Who's been swipin'? What are ye talkin' about, Mike? Stop it now--I've +got a lot to do, and--” + +“The woman ye put to bed that night. The one ye picked up near St. +Barnabas, and brought in here and dried her off. She skipped in the +mornin' without sayin' 'thank ye'--why, ye must remember her! She was--” + +Kitty clapped her two palms to her face, framing her bulging eyes--a +favorite gesture when she was taken completely by surprise. + +“That woman!” she cried, staring at Mike. “Where is she now? Tell me--” + +“I don't know--but she--” + +“Ye don't know, and ye come down here with this yarn? Don't ye try and +fool me, Mike, or I'll break every bone in yer skin. Go on, now! How do +ye know it's the same woman?” + +“I'm tellin' ye no lies. Come back with me and see for yerself. The cap +will let ye go down and talk to her. I heard Father Cruse tell ye to +keep an eye out for her if she ever came around here agin. Ye got to +hurry or they'll have her in the Black Maria on the way to the Tombs. +Bunky told me so.” + +Kitty stood in deep meditation. She remembered that Mike had been in +the kitchen when the woman sat by the stove. She remembered, too, that +Father Cruse had cautioned her to send word to the rectory if the poor +creature came again and, if there were not time to reach him, then to +tell Mr. O'Day. That the priest had not run across the woman at the +station-house was evident, or he would have sent word by Mike. She would +herself find out and then act. + +“But ye must have seen Father Cruse. Did he send any word?” + +“Yes, he come in just as I was leavin'. It was him who told me to be +sure to hurry back. See the horse gits some water, will ye? I got to go +back.” + +“Hold on--what did the Father say about the woman?” + +“Nothin', don't I tell ye?--he didn't see her. They'd locked her up +before he came.” + +“Why didn't ye tell him who it was?” + +“How was I a-goin' to tell him when the cap told me to git?” + +“Go on, then, wid ye! If the Father's still there, tell him I'm a-comin' +up, and will bring Mr. O'Day wid me, and to hold on till I get there.” + +She took her wraps from a peg behind the door, threw it wide, and joined +her neighbors in the office, composing her face as best she could. + +“I've got to go over to Otto Kling's,” she announced bluntly, without +any attempt at apologies. “Some one of ye must go up and bail Mike +out--any one of ye will do. Mr. Kelsey spoke first, so maybe he'd better +go. I'd go myself and sign the bond only I'm no good, for I don't own +a blessed thing in the world, except the shoes I stand in--and they're +half-soled and not paid for; John's got the rest. I'll be there later +on, ye can tell the captain. Mr. Codman, please send over one of your +boys to mind my place. John ain't turned up and won't for an hour. That +trunk went to Astoria instead of the Astor House, bad 'cess to it, and +that's about as far apart as it could git. And, Mike, don't stand there +with yer tongue out! And don't let Toodles go with ye. Get back as quick +as ye can--and tell the captain to make it easy for me, that if the +boy's badly hurt I'll go and nurse him if he ain't got anybody to take +care of him. Git out, ye varmint--thank ye, Tim Kelsey, I'll do as much +for you next time ye have to go to jail. Good-by”--and she kept on to +Kling's. + +Otto's store was full of customers when Kitty strode in. Even little +Masie had been pressed into service to help on with the sales, as well +as one of the “Dutchies” whom Kling had brought up from the cellar. The +few remaining hours of the old year were fast disappearing and the crowd +of buyers, intent on securing some small remembrance for those they +loved, or more important gifts with which to welcome the New Year, +thronged the store and upper floor. + +Kitty made straight for Felix, who was leaning over the low counter, +absorbed in the sale of some old silver. His disappointment over Kling's +rebuff regarding Masie's future had been greatly lightened, relieved +by his talk with Father Cruse an hour before, and he had again thrown +himself into his work with a determination to make the last days of +the year a success for his employer,--all the more necessary when he +remembered his plans for the child. The customer, an important one, +was trying to make up her mind as to the choice between two pieces, and +Felix was evidently intent on not hurrying her. + +He had seen Kitty when she opened the door and approached the counter, +had noticed her excitement when she stopped in front of him, and knew +that something out of the ordinary had sent her to him at this, the +busiest part of his own and her day. But his only sign of recognition +was the lift of an eyelid and a slight movement of his hand, the palm +turned toward her, a gesture which told as plainly as could be that, +while he was glad to see her--something she was never in doubt of--the +present moment was ill adapted to protracted conversation. + +Kitty, however, was not built on diplomatic lines. What she wanted she +wanted at once. When she had something vital to accomplish she went +straight at it, and certainly nothing more vital than her present +mission had come her way for weeks. + +That the news she carried had something to do with O'Day's happiness, +she was convinced, or Father Cruse would not have been so insistent. +That the woman herself was, in some way, connected with his misfortunes, +she also suspected--and had done so, in reality, ever since the night +on which she gave him the sleeve-links. She had not said so to John; she +had not hinted as much to Father Cruse; but she had never dismissed the +possibility from her mind. + +“I'm sorry, ma'am,” she said, ignoring Felix and going straight to the +cause of the embargo, “but couldn't ye let me have Mr. O'Day for a few +minutes? I've somethin' very partic'lar to say to him.” + +“Why, Mistress Kitty--” began Felix, smiling at her audacity, the +customer also regarding her with amused curiosity. + +“Yes, Mr. O'Day, I wouldn't butt in if I could help it. Excuse me, +ma'am, but there's Otto just got loose, and--Otto, come over here and +take care of this lady who is goin' to let me have Mr. O'Day for half +an hour. Thank ye, ma'am, you don't know me, but I'm Kitty Cleary, the +expressman's wife, from across the street, and I'm always mixin' in +where I don't belong and I know ye'll forgive me. Otto'll charge ye +twice the price Mr. O'Day would, but he can't help it because he's +Dutch. Oh, Otto, I know ye!” + +Felix laughed outright. “Thank you, Mr. Kling,” he said, yielding his +place to his employer, “and if you will excuse me, madam,” and he bowed +to his customer, “I will see what it is all about--and now, Mistress +Kitty, what can I do for you?” + +Kitty backed away toward the door, so that a huge wardrobe shielded her +from Otto and his customer. + +“Come near, Mr. O'Day,” she whispered, all her forced humor gone. “I've +got the woman who dropped the sleeve-buttons.” + +Felix swayed unsteadily, and gripped a chair-back for support. + +“You've got--the woman--What do you mean?” he said at last. + +“Mike saw her at the police-station. They've put her in a cell.” + +“Arrested?” + +“Yes, for stealin'.” + +Involuntarily his fingers brushed his throat as if he were choking, but +no words came. He had been all his life accustomed to surprises, some +of them appalling, but against this, for the instant, he had no power to +stand. + +Kitty stood watching the quivering of his lips and the drawn, strained +muscles about his jaw and neck as his will power whipped them back +to their normal shape. She was convinced now of the truth of her +suspicions--the woman was not only interwoven with his past, but was +closely identified with his present anguish. + +She drew closer, her voice rising. “Ye'll go with me, won't ye, +Mr. Felix?” she went on, hiding under an assumed indifference all +recognition of his struggle. “Father Cruse told me if I ever come across +her again, and there wasn't time to get hold of him, to let ye know.” + +“I will go anywhere, where Father Cruse thinks I should, Mrs. +Cleary--especially in cases of this kind, where I may be of use.” The +words had come from between partly closed lips; his hands were still +tightly clinched. “And you say she was arrested--for stealing?” + +“Yes, shopliftin', they call it. Poor creatures, they get that miserable +and trodden on they don't know right from wrong!” + +Then, as if to give him time in which to recover himself fully, she went +on, speaking rapidly: “And, after all, it may only be a put-up job or +a mistake. Half the women they pinch in them big stores ain't reg'lar +thieves. They get tempted, or they can't find anybody to tell 'em the +price o' things, especially these holiday times, and they carry 'em +round from counter to counter, and along comes a store detective and +nabs 'em with the goods on 'em. They did that to me once, over at +Cryder's, and I told him I'd knock him down if he put his hand on me, +and somebody come along who knew me, and they was that scared when they +found out who I was that they bowed and scraped like dancin' masters +and wanted me to take the skirt along if I'd say nothin' about it. That +might have happened to this poor child--” + +“Has Father Cruse seen her?” asked Felix. No word of the recital had +reached his ears. + +“No--that's why I come to ye.” + +“And where did you say she was?” He had himself under perfect control +again, and might have been a man bent only on aiding Father Cruse in +some charitable work. + +“Locked up in the station-house not far from here. It won't take ye ten +minutes to get there.” + +Felix glanced at the big-faced clock, facing the side window of the +store. + +“Yes, of course I will go, since Father Cruse wishes it. Thank you for +bringing his message. You need not wait.” + +“Needn't wait! Ye're not goin' one step without me. They'd chuck ye out +if ye did, and that's what they won't do to me if the captain's in his +office. Besides, Mike run over a boy, and Tim Kelsey is up there now +standin' bail for him. There's no use goin' unless ye see her. That's +what the Father wanted ye to do, and that ain't easy unless ye've got +the run of the station. So, ye see, I got to go with ye whether ye want +me or not, or ye won't get nowheres. I'll wait till ye get yer hat and +coat.” + +All the way to the station-house, Kitty beside him, Felix was putting +into silent words the thoughts that raced through his mind. + +“Barbara arrested as a vulgar thief!” he kept saying over and over. +“A woman brought up a lady--with the best blood of England in her +veins--her father a man of distinction! The woman I married!” + +Then, as a jagged thread of light breaks away from a centre bolt, +illuminating a distant cloud, a faint ray cheered him. Perhaps the woman +was not Barbara. No one had any proof. Father Cruse had never believed +it, and he had only argued himself into thinking that the woman who had +dropped the sleeve-link must be his wife. Until he knew definitely, saw +her with his own eyes, neither would HE believe it, and a certain shame +of his own suspicion swept through him like a flame. + +The captain was out when the two reached the station. Nor was there +any one who knew Kitty except a departing patrolman, who nodded to her +pleasantly as she passed in, adding in a whisper the information that +Mike and Kelsey had gone up to Magistrate Cassidy, who held court in the +next block, and that she was “not to worry,” as it was “all right.” + +A new appointee--a lieutenant she had never seen before--was temporarily +in charge of the station. + +“I'm Mrs. Cleary,” she began, in her free, outspoken way, “and this is +Mr. Felix O'Day.” + +The new appointee stared and said nothing. + +“Ye never saw me before, but that wouldn't make any difference if the +captain was around. But ye can find out about me from any one of yer men +who knows me. I'm here with Mr. O'Day lookin' up a woman who was brought +here this morning for stealin' some finery or whatever it was from one +of these big stores--and we want to see her, if ye plaze.” + +The lieutenant shook his head. “Can't see no prisoner without the +captain's orders.” + +Kitty bridled, but she kept her temper. “When will he be back?” + +“Six o'clock. He's gone to headquarters.” + +“He'd let me see her if he was here,” she retorted, with some asperity. + +“No doubt--but I can't.” All this time he had not changed his +position--his arms on the desk, his fingers drumming idly. + +Felix rested his hands on the rail fronting the desk. “May I ask if you +saw the woman?” + +“No. I only came on half an hour ago.” + +“Is there any one here who did see her?” + +Something in O'Day's manner and in the incisive tones of his voice, +those of command not supplication, made the lieutenant change his +position. The speaker might have a “pull” somewhere. He turned to the +sergeant. “You were on duty. What did she look like?” + +The sergeant yawned from behind his hand. He had been up most of the +previous night and was some hours behind his sleep schedule. Kitty's +presence had not roused him but the self-possessed man could not be +ignored. + +“You mean the girl who got Rosenthal's lace?” he answered. + +“You're dead right,” returned the lieutenant obligingly. He had, of +course, always been ready to do what he could for people in trouble, and +was so now. + +“Oh, about as they all look.” This time the sergeant directed his +remarks to Felix. “We get two or three of 'em every day, specially +about Christmas and New Year's. Rather run down at the heel, this one, +and--no, come to think of it, I'm wrong--she looked different. Been +a corker in her time--not bad now--about thirty, I guess--maybe +younger--you can't always tell. Rather slim--had on a black-straw hat +and some kind of a cloak.” + +Kitty was about to freshen his memory with some remembrance of her +own, and had got as far as, “Well, my man Mike was here and he told me +that--” when Felix lifted a restraining hand, supplementing her outburst +by the direct question: “Did she say nothing about herself?” + +“She did not. All we could get out of her was that she was English.” + +Felix bent nearer. “Will you please describe her a little closer? I have +a reason for knowing.” + +The sergeant caught the look of determination, dallied with a tin +paper-cutter, bent his head on one side, and pursed a pair of thick +lips. It was a strain on his memory, this recalling the features of one +of a dozen prisoners, but somehow he dared not refuse. + +“Well, she was one of the pocket kind of women, small and well put up +but light built, you know. She had blue eyes--big ones--I noticed 'em +partic'lar--and about the smallest pair of feet I ever seen on a girl. +She stumbled down-stairs and caught her dress, and I remember they was +about as big as a kid's. That was another thing set me to wondering how +she got into a scrape like this. She could have done a lot better if she +had a-wanted to,” this last came with a leer. + +Felix clenched his teeth, and drove his nails into the palms of his +hands. He would have throttled the man had he dared. + +“Did she make any defense?” he asked, when he had himself under control +again. + +“No--there warn't no use--she owned up to having pinched it. Not here +at the desk, but to Rosenthal's man who made the charge--that is, she +didn't deny it. The stuff was worth $250. That's a felony, you know.” + +Kitty saw Felix sway for an instant, and was about to put out a +protecting hand when he turned again to the lieutenant. + +“Officer, I do not ask you to break your rules, but I would consider it +an especial favor if you would let me see this woman for a moment--even +if you do not permit me to speak to her.” + +“Well, you can't see her.” The reply came with some positiveness and a +slight touch of irony. He had made up his mind now that if the speaker +had a pull, he would meet it by keeping strictly to the regulations. + +“Why not?” + +“Because she ain't here. She's in the Tombs by this time, unless +somebody went her bail up at court. They had her in the patrol-wagon as +I come on duty.” + +“The Tombs? That is the city prison, is it not?” Felix asked, hardly +conscious of his own question, absorbed only in one thought--Lady +Barbara's degradation. + +“That's what it is,” answered the lieutenant with a contemptuous glance +at Felix, followed by a curl of the lip. No man had a pull who asked a +question like that. + +“If I went there, could I see her?” + +“When?” + +“This afternoon.” + +“Nothin' doin'--too late. You might work it to-morrow. Step down to +headquarters, they'll tell you. If she's up for felony it means five +years and them kind ain't easy to see. Can I do anything more for you?” + +“No,” said Felix firmly. + +“Well, then, move on, both of you--you can't block up the desk.” + +Felix turned and left the station-house, Kitty following in silence, her +heart torn for the man beside her. Never had he seemed finer to her than +at this moment; never had her own heart stirred with greater loyalty. +But never since she had known him had she seen him so shaken. + +“There is nothing more we can do to-day,” he said, speaking evenly, +almost coldly, when they reached the corner of the street. “I will see +Father Cruse to-night and tell him of your kindness, and he can decide +as to what is to be done. And if you do not mind, I will leave you.” + +She stood and watched him as he disappeared in the throng. She +understood her dismissal and was not offended. It was not her secret and +she had no right to interfere or even to advise. When he was ready he +would tell her. Until that time she would wait with her hands held out. + +Felix crossed the street, halted for an instant as if uncertain as to +his course, and turned toward the river. He wanted to be alone, and the +crowd gave him a greater sense of isolation. It was the first time +in months that he had tramped the thoroughfares without some definite +object in view. All that was now a thing of the past, never to be +revived. His quest was finished. The interview with the sergeant had +ended it all. Every item in his detailed account of the woman now in +the Tombs tallied with Kitty's description of the woman with the +sleeve-buttons and so on, in turn, with the woman who was once his wife. + +With this knowledge there flamed up in his heart an uncontrollable +anger, fanned to white heat by hatred of the man who had caused it all. +His fingers tightened and his teeth ground together. That reckoning, he +said to himself, would come later, once he got his hands on him. If +she were a thief, Dalton had made her so. If she were an outcast and a +menace to society, Dalton had done it. By what hellish process, he could +not divine, knowing Lady Barbara as he did, but the fact was undeniable. + +What then was he to do? Go back to London and leave her, or stay here +and fight on in the effort to save her? SAVE HER! Who could save her? +She had stolen the goods; been arrested with them in her possession; was +in the Tombs; and, in a few weeks, would be lost to the world for a term +of years. + +He could even now see the vulgar, leering crowd; watch the jury, picked +from the streets, file in and take their seats; hear the few, curt, +routine words, cold as bullets, drop from the lips of the callous judge, +the frail, desolate woman deserted by every soul, paying the price +without murmur or protest--glad that the end had come. + +And then, with one of those tricks that memory sometimes plays, he saw +the altar-rail, where he had stood beside her--she in her bridal robes, +her soft blue eyes turned toward his; he heard again the responses, +“for better or for worse”--“until death do us part,” caught the scent +of flowers and the peal of the organ as they turned and walked down the +aisle, past the throng of richly dressed guests. + +“Great God!” he choked, worming his way through the crowd, unconscious +of his course, unmindful of his steps, oblivious to passers-by--alone +with an agony that scorched his very soul. + + + + +Chapter XXII + + + +When Martha, on her return from Stephen's, had climbed the dimly lighted +stairs leading to her apartment, she ran against a thick-set man, in +brown clothes and derby hat, seated on the top step. He had interviewed +the faded old wreck who served as janitress and, learning that Mrs. +Munger would be back any minute, had taken this method of being within +touching distance when the good woman unlocked her door. She might +decide to leave him outside its panels while she got in her fine work of +hiding the thing he had climbed up three flights of stairs to find. In +that case, a twist of his foot between the door and the jamb would block +the game. + +“Are you the man who has been waiting for me?” she exclaimed, as the +detective's big frame became discernible under the faint rays from the +“Paul Pry” skylight. + +“Yes, if you are the woman who is living with Mrs. Stanton.” He had +risen to his feet and had moved toward the door. + +“I'm Mrs. Munger, if that's who you are looking for, and we live +together. She's not back yet, so the woman down-stairs has just told me. +Are you from Rosenthal's?” + +“I am.” He had edged nearer, his fingers within reach of the knob, his +lids narrowing as he studied her face and movements. + +“Did they find the lace--the mantilla?” + +“Not as I heard,” he answered, noting her anxiety. “That's what brought +me down. I thought maybe you might know something about it.” + +“Didn't find it?” she sighed. “No, I knew they wouldn't. She was sure +she had taken it up night before last, but I knew she hadn't. Where's +my key?--Oh, yes--stand back and get out of my light so I can find the +keyhole. It's dark enough as it is. That's right. Now come inside. You +can wait for her better in here than out on these steps. Look, will you! +There's her coffee just as she left it. She hasn't had a crumb to eat +to-day. What do you want to see her about? The rest of the work? It's in +the box there.” + +Pickert, with a swift, comprehensive glance, summed up the apartment +and its contents: the little table by the window with Lady Barbara's +work-basket; the small stove, and pine table set out with the breakfast +things; the cheap chairs; the dresser with its array of china, and the +two bedrooms opening out of the modest interior. Its cleanliness and +order impressed him; so did Martha's unexpected frankness. If she knew +anything of the theft, she was an adept at putting up a bluff. + +“When do you expect Mrs. Stanton back?” he began, in an offhand way, +stretching his shoulders as if the long wait on the stairs had stiffened +his joints. “That's her name, ain't it?” + +“I expected to find her here,” she answered, ignoring his inquiry as to +Lady Barbara's identity. “They are keeping her, no doubt, on some new +work. She hasn't had any breakfast, and now it's long past lunch-time. +And they didn't find the piece of lace? That's bad! Poor dear, she was +near crazy when she found it was gone!” + +Pickert had missed no one of the different expressions of anxiety and +tenderness that had crossed her placid face. “No--it hadn't turned +up when I left,” he replied; adding, with another stretch, quite as a +matter of course, “she had it all right, didn't she?” + +“Had it! Why, she's been nearly a week on it. I helped her all I could, +but her eyes gave out.” + +“Then you would know it again if you saw it?” The stretch was cut short +this time. + +“Of course I'd know it--don't I tell you I helped her fix it?” + +The detective turned suddenly and, with a thrust of his chin, rasped +out: “And if one, or both of you, pawned it somewhere round here, you +could remember that, too, couldn't you?” + +Martha drew back, her gentle eyes flashing: “Pawned it! What do you +mean?” + +The detective lunged toward her. “Just what I say. Now don't get on your +ear, Mrs. Munger.” He was the thorough bully now. “It won't cut any ice +with me or with Mr. Mangan. It didn't this morning or he wouldn't have +sent me down here. We want that mantilla and we got to have it. If we +don't there'll be trouble. If you know anything about it, now's the +time to say so. The woman you call Mrs. Stanton got all balled up this +morning, and couldn't say what she did with it. They all do that--we get +half a dozen of 'em every week. She's pawned it all right--what I want +to know is WHERE. Rosenthal's in a hole if we don't get it. If you've +spent the money, I've got a roll right here.” And he tapped his pocket. +“No questions asked, remember! All I want is the mantilla, and if +it don't come she'll be in the Tombs and you'll go with her. We mean +business, and don't you forget it!” + +Martha turned squarely upon him--was about to speak--changed her +mind--and drawing up a chair, settled down upon it. + +“You're a nice young man, you are!” she exclaimed, scornfully. “A very +nice young man! And you think that poor child is a thief, do you? Do +you know who she is and what she's suffered? If I could tell you, you'd +never get over it, you'd be that ashamed!” + +She was not afraid of him; her army hospital experience had thrown her +with too many kinds of men. What filled her with alarm was his reference +to Lady Barbara. But for this uncertainty, and the possible consequences +of such a procedure, she would have thrown open her door and ordered him +out as she had done Dalton. Then, seeing that Pickert still maintained +his attitude--that of a setter-dog with the bird in the line of his +nose--she added testily: + +“Don't stand there staring at me. Take a chair where I can talk to you +better. You get on my nerves. It's pawned, is it? Yes. I believe you, +and I know who pawned it. Dalton's got it--that's who. I thought so +last night--now I'm sure of it.” She was on her feet now, tearing at her +bonnet-string as if to free her throat. “He sneaked it out of that box +on the floor beside you, when she was hiding from him in her bedroom.” + +Pickert retreated slightly at this new development; then asked sharply: +“Dalton! Who's Dalton?” + +“The meanest cur that ever walked the earth--that's who he is. He's +almost killed my poor lady, and now she must go to jail to please him. +Not if I'm alive, she won't. He stole that mantilla! I'm just as sure of +it as I am that my name is Martha Munger!” + +Pickert's high tension relaxed. If this new clew had to be followed it +could best be followed with the aid of this woman, who evidently hated +the man she denounced. She would be of assistance, too, in identifying +both the lace and the thief--and he had seen neither the one nor the +other as yet. So it was the same old game, was it?--with a man at the +bottom of the deal! + +“Do you know the pawn-shops around here?” he asked, becoming suddenly +confidential. + +“Not one of them, and don't want to,” came the contemptuous reply. “When +I get as low down as that, I've got a brother to help me. He'll be up +here himself to-night and will tell you so.” + +Pickert had been standing over her throughout the interview, despite +her invitation to be seated. He now moved toward a seat, his hat still +tilted back from his forehead. + +“What makes you think this man you call Dalton stole it?” he asked, +drawing a chair out from the table, as though he meant to let her lead +him on a new scent. + +“Come over here before you sit down and I'll tell you,” she exclaimed, +peremptorily. “Now take a look at that box. Now watch me lift the lid, +and see what you find,” and she enacted the little pantomime of the +morning. + +The detective stroked his chin with his forefinger. He was more +interested in Martha's talk about Dalton than he was in the contents of +the box. “And you want to get him, don't you?” he asked slyly. + +“Me get him! I wouldn't touch him with a pair of tongs. What I want is +for him to keep out of here--I told him that last night.” + +“Well, then, tell me what he looks like, so I can get him.” + +“Like anybody else until you catch the hang-dog droop in his eyes, as if +he was afraid people would ask him some question he couldn't answer.” + +“One of the slick kind?” + +“Yes, for he's been a gentleman--before he got down to be a dog.” + +“How old?” + +“About thirty--maybe thirty two or three. You can't tell to look at him, +he's that battered.” + +“Smooth-shaven--well-dressed?” + +“Yes--no beard nor mustache on him. I couldn't see his clothes. His big +cape-coat, buttoned up to his chin, hid them and his face, too. He had a +slouch-hat on his head with the brim pulled down when he went out.” + +“And you say he's been living off of Mrs. Stanton since--” + +“No, I didn't say it. I said he was a cur and that she wouldn't go +to jail to please him--that's what I said. Now, young man, if you're +through, I am. I've got to get my work done.” + +Pickert tilted his hat to the other side of his bullet head, felt in his +side pocket for a cigar, bit off the end, and spat the crumbs of tobacco +from his lips. + +“You could put me on to the mantilla, couldn't you?--spot it for me once +I come across it?” + +“Of course I could, the minute I clapped my eyes on it.” + +“It's a kind of lace shawl, ain't it?” + +“Yes. All black--a big one with a frill around it and a tear in one +side--that's what she was mending. A good piece, I should think, because +it was so fine and silky. You could squash it up in one hand, it was +that soft. That's why she took such care of it, putting it back in that +box every night to keep the dust out of it.” + +“Well, what's the matter with your coming along with me?” + +“And where are you going to take me?” + +“To one or two pawn-shops around here.” + +“Well, I'm not going with you. If I go anywhere it will be up to +Rosenthal's. I'm getting worried. It's after three o'clock now. She's +got no money to get anything to eat. She'll come home dead beat out if +she's been hungry all this time.” + +“Well, it's right on the way. We'll take in a few of the small shops, +and then we'll keep on up. There are two on Second Avenue, and then +there's Blobbs's, one of the biggest around here. The old woman gets +a lot of that kind of stuff and she'll open up when she finds out who +wants to know. I've done business with her--where does this fellow, +Dalton, live?” + +“Up on the East Side.” + +“Well, then, we are all right. He will make for some fence where he is +not known. Come along.” + +Martha hesitated for an instant, abandoned her decision, and retied her +bonnet-strings; she might find her mistress the quicker if she acceded +to his request. She stepped to the stove, examined the fire to see that +it was all right, added a shovel of coal and, with Pickert at her +heels, groped her way down the dingy stairs, her fingers following the +handrail. In the front hall she stopped to say to the janitress that she +was going to Rosenthal's and to tell Mrs. Stanton, when she came, that +she was not to leave the apartment again, as Mr. Carlin was coming to +see her. + +When they reached the corner of the next block, Pickert halted outside +a small loan-office, told her to wait, and disappeared inside, only to +emerge five minutes later and continue his walk with her up-town. The +performance was repeated twice, his last stop being in front of a gold +sign notifying the indigent and the guilty that one Blobbs bought, +sold, and exchanged various articles of wearing-apparel for cash or its +equivalent. + +Martha eyed the cluster of balls suspended above the door, and occupied +herself with a cursory examination of the contents of the front window, +to none of which, she said to herself, would she have given house-room +had the choice of the whole collection been offered her. She was about +to march into the shop and end the protracted interview when Pickert +flung himself out. + +“I'm on--got him down fine! Listen--see if I've got this right! He wore +a black cape-coat buttoned up close-that's what you told me, wasn't +it?--and a kind of a slouch-hat. Been an up-town swell before he got +down and out? That kind of a man, ain't he? Smooth-shaven, with a droop +in his eye--speaks like a foreigner--English. Somethin' doin'!--Do you +know a man named Kling who keeps an old-furniture store up on Fourth +Avenue?” + +“No, I don't know Kling and I don't want to know him. It will be dark, +and Rosenthal's 'll be shut up if I keep up this foolishness, and I'm +going to find my mistress. If you can't find Dalton, I will, when my +brother Stephen comes. Now you go your way and I'll go mine.” + +He waited until she had boarded a car, then wheeled quickly and dashed +up Third Avenue, crossing 26th Street at an angle, forging along toward +Kling's. He was through with the old woman. She was English, and so was +Dalton, and so, for that matter, was a man who, Blobbs had told him, had +“blown in” at Kling's about a year ago from nobody knew where. They'd +all help one another--these English. No, he'd go alone. + +When he reached Otto's window he slowed down, pulled himself together, +and strolled into the store with the air of a man who wanted some one to +help him make up his mind what to buy. The holiday crowd had thinned for +a moment, and only a few men and women were wandering about the store +examining the several articles. Otto at the moment was in tow of a stout +lady in furs, who had changed her mind half a dozen times in the hour +and would change it again, Otto thought, when, as she said, she would +“return with her husband.” + +“Vich she von't do,” he chuckled, addressing his remark to the newcomer, +“and I bet you she never come back. Dot's de funny ting about some +vimmins ven dey vant to talk it over vid her husbands, and de men ven +dey vant to see der vives. Den you might as vell lock up de shop--ain't +dot so? Vat is it you vant--one of dem tables? Dot is a Chippendale--you +can see de legs and de top.” + +“Yes, I see 'em,” replied the detective, scanning the circumference of +Otto's fat body. “But I'm not buying any tables to-day, I'm on another +lead--that is, if I've got it right and your name is Kling.” + +“Yes, you got it right,” answered Otto; “dot's my name. Vat is it you +vant?” + +“And you own this store?” + +“And I own dis store. Didn't you see de sign ven you come in?” The man's +manner and cock-sure air were beginning to nettle him. + +“I might, and then again, I mightn't,” Pickert retorted, relaxing into +his usual swaggering tone. “I'm not looking for signs. I'm looking for a +piece of lace, a mantilla they call it, that disappeared a few days ago +from Rosenthal's up here on Third Avenue--a kind of shawl with a frill +around it--and I thought you might have run across it.” + +Otto looked at him over the tops of his glasses, his anger increasing as +he noticed the man's scowl of suspicion. “Oh, dot's it, is it? Dot's vat +you come for. You tink I am a fence, eh?” + +The detective grinned derisively. “You bought a piece of lace, didn't +you?” + +“I buy a dozen pieces maybe--vot's dot your business?” + +“My business will come later. What I want to know is whether you've got +a piece with a hole in it--black, soft, and squashy--with a frill--a +flounce, they call it--and I want to tell you right here that it will +be a good deal better if you keep a decent tongue in your head and stop +puttin' on lugs. It's business with me.” + +Masie had crept up and stood listening, wondering at the stranger's +rough way of talking. So had the tramp, whom Kitty had loaned to Otto +for a few hours to help move some of the heavier furniture. He seemed to +be especially interested in what was taking place, for he kept edging up +the closer, dusting the Colonial sideboard close to which Kling and the +man were standing, his ears stretched to their utmost, in order to miss +no word of the interview. + +“Vell, if it's business, and you don't mean noddin, dot's anudder ting,” + replied Kling, in a milder tone, “maybe den I tell you. Run avay, +Masie, I got someting private to say. Dot's right. You go talk to Mrs. +Gossburger--Yes,” he added, as the child disappeared, “I did buy a big +lace shawl like dot.” + +Pickert's grin covered half his face. He could get along now without a +search-warrant. “And have you got it now?” + +“Yes, I got it now.” + +The grin broadened--the triumphant grin of a boy when he hears the click +of a trap and knows the quarry is inside. + +“Can I see it?” + +“No, you can't see it.” The man's cool persistency again irritated him. +“I buy dot for a present and I--Look here vunce! Vat you come in here +for an' ask dose questions? I never see you before. Dis is my busy time. +Now you put yourselluf outside my place.” + +The detective made a step forward, turned his back on the rest of the +shop, unbuttoned his outer coat, lifted the lapel of the inner one, and +uncovered his shield. + +“Come across,” he said, in low, cutting tones, “and don't get gay. I'm +not after you--but you gotter help, see! I've traced this mantilla down +to this shop. Now cough it up! If you've bought it on the level, I've +got a roll here will square it up with you.” + +Otto gave a muffled whistle. “Den dot fellow vas a tief, vas he? He +didn't look like it, for sure. Vell--vell--vell--dot's funny! Vy, I +vouldn't have tought dot. Look like a quiet man, and--” + +“You remember the man, then?” interrupted the detective, following up +his advantage, and again scraping his chin with his forefinger. + +“Oh, yes. I don't forgot him. Vore a buttoned-up coat--high like up to +his chin--” + +“And a slouch-hat?” prompted Pickert. + +“Yes, vun of dose soft hats, for I tink de light hurt his eyes ven he +come close up to my desk ven I gif him de money.” + +“And had a sort of a catch-look, a kind of a slant in his eye, +didn't he?” supplemented Pickert; “and was smooth-shaven and--on the +whole--rather decent-looking chap, just getting on his uppers and not +quite. Ain't that it?” + +“Yes, maybe, I don't recklemember everyting about him. Vell--vell--ain't +dot funny? But he vasn't a dead beat--no, I don't tink so. An' he stole +it? You vud never tink dot to see him. I got it in my little office, +behind dot partition, in a drawer. You come along. To-morrow is New +Year's”--here he glanced up the stairs to be sure that Masie was out of +hearing--“and I bought dat lace for a present for my little girl vat you +saw joost now--she loves dem old tings. She has got more as a vardrobe +full of dem. Vait till I untie it. Look! Ain't dot a good vun? And all I +pay for it vas tventy tollars.” + +The detective loosened the folds, shook out the flounce, held it up to +the light, and ran his thumb through the tear in the mesh. + +“Of course dere's a hole--I buy him cheaper for dot hole--my little +Beesving like it better for dot. If it vas new she vouldn't have it.” + +Pickert was now caressing the soft lace, his satisfaction complete. “A +dead give-away,” he said at last. “Much obliged. I'll take it along,” + and he began rolling it up. + +“You take it--VAT?” exclaimed Otto. + +“Well, of course, it's stolen goods.” + +Kling leaned over and caught it from his hand. “If it's stolen goods, +somebody more as you must come in and tell me dot. By Jeminy, you have +got a awful cheek to come in here and tell me dot! Ven I buy, I buy, and +it is mine to keep. Ven I sell, I sell, and dot's nobody's business.” + +Pickert bit his lip. His bluff had failed. He must go about it in +another way, if Rosenthal's customer, who owned the lace, was to regain +possession before the New Year set in. + +“Well, then, sell it to me,” he snarled. + +“No, I don't sell it to you. Not if you give me tventy times tventy +tollars. And now you get out of here so k'vick as you can--or me and dot +man over by dot sideboard and two more down-stairs vill trow you out! I +don't care a tam how big a brass ting you got on your coat. So you dake +it along vid you? Vell, you have got a cheek!” + +Pickert's underlip curled in contempt. He had only to step to the door +and blow a whistle were a row to begin. But that would neither help him +to trail the thief nor to secure the mantilla. + +“Now see here, Mr. Kling,” he said, fingering the lapel of Otto's coat, +“I've treated you white, now you treat me white. You make me tired with +your hot air, and it don't go--see, not with me!--and now I'll put it to +you straight. Will you sell me that mantilla? Here's the money”--and he +pulled out a roll of bills. + +Otto was now thoroughly angry. “NO!” he shouted, moving toward the door +of his office. + +“Will you help put me on to the man who sold it to you?” + +“No!” roared Kling again, his Dutch blood at boiling-point. “I put you +on noddin--dot's your bis'ness, dis puttin' on, not mine.” He had walked +out of the office and was beckoning to the tramp. “Here, you! You go +down-stairs and tell Hans to come up k'vick--right avay.” + +The tramp slouched up--a sliding movement, led by his shoulder, his feet +following. + +“Maybe, boss, I kin help if you don't mind my crowdin' in.” He had +listened to the whole conversation and knew exactly what would happen +if he carried out Kling's order. He had seen too many mix-ups in his +time--most of them through resisting an officer in the discharge of +his duty. Kling, the first thing he knew, would be wearing a pair of +handcuffs, and he himself might lose his job. + +He addressed the detective: “I saw the guy when he come in and I saw him +when he went out. Mr. O'Day saw him, too, but he'd skipped afore he got +on to his mug. He'll tell ye same as me.” + +The detective canted his head, looked the tramp over from his shoes to +his unkempt head, and turned suddenly to Kling. “Who's Mr. O'Day?” he +snapped. + +“He's my clerk,” growled Otto, his determination to get rid of the man +checked by this new turn in the situation. + +“Can I see him?” + +“No, you can't see him, because he's gone out vid Kitty Cleary. He'll +be back maybe in an hour--maybe he don't come back at all. He don't know +noddin about dis bis'ness and nobody don't let him know noddin about it +until to-morrow. Den my little Beesving know de first. Half de fun is in +de surprise.” + +The detective at once lost interest in Kling, and turned to the tramp +again--the two moving out of Otto's hearing. A new and fresh scent had +crossed the trail--one it might be wise to follow. + +“You work here?” he asked. He had taken his measure in a glance and was +ready to use him. + +“No, I work in John Cleary's express office,” grunted the tramp. “Mr. +O'Day wanted me to come over and help for New Year's.” + +“What's he got to do with you?” + +“He got me my job.” + +“He's an Englishman, ain't he?” + +“Yes, and the best ever.” + +“Oh, yes, of course,” sneered the detective. “Been working here a year +and knows the ropes. So you saw the man come in and O'Day, the clerk, +saw him go out, did he? And O'Day sent for you to stay around in case +any questions were asked? Is that it?” + +The tramp's lip was lifted, showing his teeth. “No, that ain't it by a +damned sight! I know who pinched the goods--knowed him for months. Know +his name, just as well as I know yours. I got on to you soon as you come +in.” + +The detective shot a quick glance at the speaker. “Me?” he returned +quietly. + +“Yes--YOU. Your name is Pickert--ONE of your names--you've got half a +dozen. And the guy's name is Stanton. He hangs out at the Bowdoin House, +and when he ain't there he's playin' pool at Steve Lipton's where I used +to work. Are you on?” + +The detective betrayed no surprise, neither over the mention of his own +name nor that of Stanton. If the tramp's story were true he would have +the bracelets on the thief before morning. He decided, however, to try +the old game first. + +“It may be worth something to you if you can make good,” he said, with a +confidential shrug of his near shoulder. + +The tramp thrust out his chin with a gesture of disgust. “Nothin' doin'! +You can keep your plunks. I don't want 'em. I know you fellers--I +got onto your curves when I was on my uppers. When you can't get your +flippers on the right man you slip 'em on the first galoot you catch, +and I want to tell you right here that you can't mix Mr. O'Day in this +business, for he don't know nothin' about it, nor anything else that's +crooked. I'll get this man Stanton for you if the boss will let me out +for an hour. Shall I ask him?” + +Pickert examined his finger-nails for a brief moment--one seemed in need +of immediate repairs--his mind all the while in deep thought. The tramp +might help or he might not. He evidently knew him, and it was possible +that he also knew Stanton, the name borne by the woman charged with the +theft; or the whole yarn might be a ruse to give the real thief a tip, +and thus block everything. Lipton's place he frequented, and the Bowdoin +House he could find. + +“No, you stay here,” he broke out. “I'll get him.” + +He walked back to the office, the tramp following. “I say, Mr. Kling!” + he called impudently. + +Otto lifted his head. He had locked up the mantilla and had the key in +his pocket. For him the incident was closed. + +“Vell?” replied Otto dryly. + +“Does this man work over at Cleary's express?” + +“He does. Vy?” + +“Oh, nothing. I may want him later. And, say!” + +“Vell,” again replied Otto. + +“Git wise and surprise that little girl of yours with something +else--she'll never wear that mantilla. So long,” and he strode out of +the store. + + + + +Chapter XXIII + + + +The short winter's day had run its course and a soft, aimless snow was +falling--each flake a lazy feather, careless of its fate. The store +windows were ablaze, and many of the houses on both sides of “The +Avenue” were alive with newly kindled gas-jets, the street-lamps +shedding their light over a broad highway blocked with slipping teams, +their carts crammed to the utmost with holiday freight. + +A spirit of good-fellowship and unrestrained joyousness was everywhere. +When a team was stalled, two or three men put their shoulders to the +wheels; when a horse slipped and fell, a dozen others helped him to his +feet. Snowballs, thrown in good humor and received with a laugh, filled +the air. New York was getting ready to celebrate the night before New +Year's, the maddest night of all the year in old Manhattan, when groups +of merrymakers, carrying tin horns and jingling cow-bells, crowd the +sidewalks, singing and shouting, forming flying wedges, swooping down on +other wedges--strangers all--the whole ending in roars of laughter and +“Happy New Year's,” repeated again and again until the next collision. + +None of this roused Felix as, with heavy heart, he turned into Kitty's. +Of what the morrow would bring forth he dared not think. Father Cruse, +he knew, would do what he could to save Barbara, and the British +consul--a man he had always avoided--might help. But nothing of all +this could lighten his load or relieve his pain. She might be given +her freedom for a time, or she might be turned over to one of the +reformatories for a term of years--either course meant untold suffering +to a woman reared as his wife had been. These mental tortures of the day +had burned their way into his brain, as branding-irons burn into flesh, +the agony seaming the lines of his face and deep-hollowing the eyes, +forming scars that might take years to efface. + +As his fingers gripped the knob of Kitty's outside office, shouts of +“Happy New Year” rang out from a group of girls showering each other +with snowballs. + +“Pray God,” he said to himself, “that it be better than the one which is +passing,” and stepped inside, to find Kitty in the kitchen. + +“I have come to talk to you,” he said, speaking as a man whose strength +is far spent. “And if you do not mind, I will ask you to go into the +sitting-room where we shall not be disturbed. I have something to say to +you. Will you be alone?” + +Kitty gave a start. She knew at once that some new development had +brought him to her at this hour. + +“Yes, not a soul but me. John and Bobby are up to the Grand Central, +Mike's bailed out, and yer tramp just come over from Otto's. They're +cleanin' out the stables. Is it some news ye have of her?” + +“No--nothing more than you know. That must wait until to-morrow. Nothing +can be done to-night.” + +She followed him into the room, dragged out a chair from against the +wall, waited until he had slipped off his mackintosh, and then seated +herself beside him. + +“No,” he repeated, passing his hand across his eyes as if to shut out +some haunting vision. “There is no news. She is in a cell, I suppose. My +God, what does it all mean!” + +He paused, his head averted, staring straight ahead. + +“You have been very kind to me, Mrs. Cleary, since I have been here--you +and your husband. You may not have realized it, but I do not think I +could have gone through the year without you--you and little Masie. I +have come to the end now, where no one can help. I have tried to carry +it through alone. I did not want to burden you with my troubles and--if +I could prevent it, I would not now, but you will know it sooner or +later, and I would rather tell you myself than have you hear it from +strangers.” + +He hesitated for an instant, looked into her eyes, and said slowly: “The +woman you picked up in the street and who is now in prison, is my wife, +or was, until a year ago.” + +Kitty neither moved nor spoke. The announcement did not greatly surprise +her. What absorbed her was the new, hard lines in his face, her wonder +being that such suffering should have fallen upon the head of a man who +so little deserved it. + +“And is that what has been breakin' yer heart all these months ye lived +with us?” + +Felix moved uneasily. “Yes. There has been nothing else.” + +“And she's the same one ye've been a-trampin' the streets to find?” + +Felix bowed his head in assent. + +“And ye kep' all this from me?” she asked, as a mother might reproach +her son. + +“You could have done nothing.” + +“I could have comforted ye. That would have been somethin'. Did she +leave ye?” + +Again Felix bowed his head in answer. The spoken words would only add to +his pain. + +“For another man, was it?--Yes, I see--you twice her age, and she a chit +of a child. Ye can't do much for that kind once they get their heads +set--no matter how good ye are to them. And I suppose that when I found +her that night on the door-steps and brought her into the kitchen, he'd +turned her into the street. That's it, isn't it? And then she got to +stealin' to keep from starvin'?” + +“Yes, I suppose so--I do not know. I only know she is a criminal. That +is shame enough.” + +“And is that all ye came to tell me?” She was going to the bottom of it +now. This man was gripped in the tortures of the damned and could only +be helped when he had emptied out his heart--all of it, down to the very +dregs. + +“No, there is something else. I wanted to speak to you about Masie. I +may go back to England in a few days and I am not satisfied to leave her +unprotected. She has no mother and you have no daughter--would you +look after her for me? I have learned to love her very dearly--and I +am greatly disturbed over her future and who is to look after her. Her +father will not listen to any plans I might make for her, nor will he +take proper care of her. He thinks he does, but he lets her do as she +pleases. She will be a woman in a very short time, and I shudder when +I think of the dangers which beset her. A shop like Kling's is no place +for a child like Masie.” + +Kitty had turned pale when Felix announced his probable departure, +something to which she had not yet given a thought, but she heard him to +the end. + +“I will do all I can for Masie, but that can wait. And now I'm goin' to +talk to ye as if ye were my John, and ye got to be patient with me, Mr. +O'Day. God knows I'd help ye in any way I could, but ye've got to help +me a little so I can help ye the better. May I go on?” + +“Help! How can I help?” he asked listlessly. + +“By trustin' me--and I can be trusted, and so can John. I found out some +months ago that ye were Sir Felix O'Day, but ye never heard me blab it +to any livin' soul, nor did John either--not even to Father Cruse. I've +watched ye go in and out all these months, and many a night, tired as +I was, I didn't get to sleep, worryin' about ye until I'd heard ye shut +yer door. Ye said nothin' to me and I could say nothin' to ye. I knew +ye'd tell me when the time come and it has, with ye nigh crazy, and +she on her way to Sing Sing. What she's been through since that night I +brought her here, I don't know--but she'd 'a' broke your heart if ye'd +seen her staggerin' weak, followin' me and John like a whipped dog. I +thought then she had got the worst of it, somehow, and that she hadn't +deserved what had been handed out to her, and John thought so, too. What +it was I didn't know, but I've got somebody now who does know and who +will tell me the truth, and I'm askin' ye to give it to me straight. +If she was your wife she must be a lady, for ye wouldn't 'a' married +anybody else. And if she was a lady, how has it happened that she is +locked up in the Tombs, and that a gentleman like ye is working at +Otto's? And before ye answer, remember that I'm not askin' for meself, +but for you and the poor woman ye tried to find to-day.” + +His tired eyes had not left her own during the long outburst. He had +never doubted her sincerity nor her kindliness, but now, as he listened, +there stole over him a yearning, strange in one so habitually reticent, +to share with her the secret he had hidden all these months--except from +Father Cruse. + +“Yes, you shall know,” he answered, with a sigh of relief. “It is best +that somebody should know, and best of all that it should be you. But +first tell me how you found out that I could use my father's title--I +have never told anybody here.” + +“An Englishman told me, who wanted his trunk taken to the steamer. He +saw you cross the street. 'That's Sir Felix O'Day,' he said, 'and he has +had more trouble than any man I ever knew.'” + +“Did you check the trunk?” + +“Yes.” + +“That explains how my solicitor in London, whom I have just heard from, +discovered my address. He mentioned a trunk-tag as his clew; he and the +Englishman evidently met. As to the title, it was of no use to me +here. I may use it now, at home, for he writes that there were several +hundreds of pounds sterling saved out of my own and my father's wreck, +together with a small cottage and a few acres of land near London. Had I +known it, however, before I came here, it would have made no difference, +nor would it have altered my plan. I had come here to find my wife, for +I knew that sooner or later she would be utterly stranded, without a +human being to whom she could appeal; but I never expected to find her a +criminal. Terrible! Terrible! I cannot yet take it in. Poor child! What +is to become of her, God only knows!” + +He had risen, and in his agony walked to the window, his updrawn +shoulders tense, like those of a man standing by an open grave. He stood +there for a moment, Kitty silently watching him, until, with a deep +sigh, he came back to his chair. + +“I have been a fool, no doubt, to pursue this thing as I have, but there +seemed no other way. I could not have lived with myself afterward, if I +had not made the effort. I knew that you and your husband often wondered +at the life I led, and I have often thanked you in my heart for your +loyalty. It is but another one of the things that have made this home so +dear to me. I told Father Cruse what brought me to New York, so that he +could help me find her, and he has been more than kind. Many a night we +have tramped the streets together, or have searched haunts that either +she, or the man who ruined her, might frequent, or where we should meet +persons who had seen them, but so far, you are the only person who has +brought us near to each other. + +“I tell you now because it is better that you and I should understand +each other before I sail, and because, too, you are a big, brave, +true-hearted woman who can and will understand. You may not think +it, but you have been a revelation to me, Mrs. Cleary--you and this +home--and the neighborhood, in fact, peopled with clean, wholesome men +and women. It has been a great lesson to me and a marvellous contrast to +what had surrounded me at home. You were right in your surmise that my +wife is a lady, and that I have been born a gentleman. And now I will +tell you why we are both here.” + +Then, in broken words, with long pauses between, he told her the story +of his own and Lady Barbara's home life, and of Dalton's perfidy with +all the horror that had followed, Kitty's body bent forward, her ears +drinking in every word, her plump, ruddy hands resting in her lap, her +heart throbbing with sympathy for the man who sat there so calm and +patient, stating his case without bitterness, his anger only rising when +he recounted the incidents leading up to his wife's estrangement and +denounced the man who had planned her ruin. + +Only when the tale was ended did she burst out: “And I ain't surprised +yer heart's broke! Ye've had enough to kill ye. The wonder to me is that +ye're walkin' around with yer head up and your heart not soured. I been +thinkin' and thinkin' all these months, and John and I have talked it +over many a night; but we never thought it was as bad as it is. And now +I'm goin' to ask ye a question and ye must tell me the truth. What are +ye goin' to do next?” + +“See Father Cruse to-night and tell him what I have found out. He must +do the rest. I have gone as far as I dared, and can go no further. +I must draw the line at crime. In spite of it all, I would have gone +down-stairs to see her, had she not been sent away, but I am glad now +that I did not. She comes of a proud race and that would have been the +last thing she could have borne. As it is, she thinks I am in Australia, +and it's better that she should. She would have thought I had come to +taunt her, and no one could have undeceived her. I know her--and her +wilfulness. Poor child! She has always been her own worst enemy. And +so, just as soon as I learn what is to happen to her, I shall settle my +account with the man who has caused her ruin, and return to England--and +I can go the easier, and pick up my old life again the better, if I can +be assured that you will look after little Masie, and see that no harm +comes to her.” + +Kitty raised her hands from her lap and folded them across her bosom. +“Let me talk a little, will ye, Mr. O'Day? Ye needn't worry about Masie. +I'll take care of her--all that Kling will let me. I knew her mother, +who died when the child was born, and a fine woman she was--ten times as +good as Kling whom her father made her marry. But there's somebody else +who needs me, and who needs ye more than Masie needs us, and that's yer +wife. How do ye know her heart is not breakin' for somebody to say a +kind word to her? Are ye goin' home and leave her like this? That's not +like ye, and I don't want to hear ye say it. Do you mean that if she is +put away up the river, ye won't stay here and--” + +“What for, to sit for five years waiting for her to come out? And what +then? Have you ever seen one reform?” + +“And if she gets off, and wanders around the streets?” + +“Father Cruse must answer that question.” + +“But ye came all these miles to New York to pull her out of the mess she +had got into with that man who's ruined yer home, and ye out in the cold +without a cent--and ye forgave her for that--and now that she's locked +up with only herself to suffer, ye turn yer back on her and leave her to +fight it out alone.” + +“I did not forgive HER, Mrs. Cleary,” he said in deliberate tones. “I +forgave her childish nature, remembering the way she had been educated; +remembering, too, that I was twice her age. Nor did I forget the poverty +I had brought upon her.” + +“And why not forgive her this?” She could hardly restrain a sob as she +spoke. + +His lips straightened and his brows narrowed. “This is not due to +her nature,” he answered coldly, “nor to her bringing up. She has now +committed a crime and is beyond reclaim. Once a thief, always a thief. I +must stop somewhere.” + +“But why not hear her story from her own lips?” she pleaded, her voice +choking. “YOU hear it--not Father Cruse, nor me, nor anybody but YOU, +who have loved her!” + +Felix shook his head. “It is kinder for me to stay away. The very sight +of me would kill her.” His answer was final. + +Kitty squared herself. “I don't believe it,” she cried, the tears now +coursing down her cheeks. “Oh, for the blessed God's sake don't say +it--take it back! Listen to me, Mr. O'Day. If she ever wanted a friend +it's now. I'd go meself but I'd do no good--nor nothin' I'd tell her +would do her any good. It's a man she wants to lean on, not a woman. I +can almost lift my John off his feet with one hand, but when I get into +trouble I'm just so much putty, runnin' to him like a baby, weak as a +rag, and he pattin' my cheek same as if I was a three-year-old. Go and +get yer arms around her and tell her ye don't believe a word of it, and +that ye'll stand by her to the end, and ye'll make a good woman of her. +Turn yer back on her, and they'll have her in potter's field if she +gets out of this scrape, for she can't fight long--she hasn't got the +strength. + +“She could hardly get up-stairs the night I put her to bed--she was that +tremblin', and she's no better to-day. Don't let yer pride shut up yer +heart, Mr. O'Day. You are a gentleman and ye've lived like one, and +ye've got your own and yer father's name to keep clean, and that poor +child has dragged it in the mud, and the papers will be full of it, and +the disgrace of it all dries ye up, and ye can go no further, and so ye +cut loose and let her sink. No, don't ye get angry with me--if ye were +my own John I'd tell ye the same. Listen--do ye hear them horns blowin' +and the children shoutin'? It's New Year's Eve--to-morrow all the slates +will be wiped clean--the past rubbed out and everybody'll have a new +start. Make a clean slate of yer own heart--wipe out everything ye've +got against that poor child. Take her in yer arms once more--help her +come back! If God didn't clean His own slate once in a while and forgive +us, none of us would ever get to heaven. Hush! Quiet now! Somebody's +just come into the office. I'll not let any one in to disturb ye. Stay +where ye are till I see. I hear a voice. WHAT! Well, as I'm alive, it's +Father Cruse--what's he come for at this hour? Shall I let him in?” + +Felix lifted himself slowly to his feet, as would a man in a hospital +ward who sees the doctor approaching. + +“Yes, let him in; I was going to look him up.” He was relieved at the +interruption. Kitty's appeal had deeply stirred him, but had not swerved +him from his purpose. He had done his duty--all of it, to the very last. +The day's developments had ended everything. He had no right to bring a +criminal into his family. + +Kitty swung wide the door and Father Cruse stepped in. He wore his heavy +cassock, which was flecked with snow, and his wide hat. + +“My messenger told me you were here, Mr. O'Day,” he cried out, in a +cheery voice, “and I came at once. And, Mrs. Cleary, I am more than glad +to find you here as well.” + +Felix stepped forward. “It was very good of you, Father. I was coming +down to see you in a few minutes.” They had shaken hands and the three +stood together. + +The priest glanced in question at Kitty, then back again at Felix. “Does +Mrs. Cleary--” + +“Yes, Mrs. Cleary knows,” returned Felix calmly. “I have told her +everything. Lady Barbara--” he paused, the words were strangling him, +“has been arrested--for stealing--and is now in the Tombs prison.” + +Father Cruse laid his hand on O'Day's shoulder. “No, my friend, she +is not in the Tombs. I took her to St. Barnabas's Home and put her in +charge of the Sisters.” + +Felix straightened his back. “You have saved her from it.” + +“Yes, two hours ago. And she can stay there until the matter is settled, +or just as long as you wish it.” His hand was still on O'Day's shoulder, +his mind intent on the drawn features, seamed with the furrows the last +few hours had ploughed. He saw how he had suffered. + +Felix stretched out his hand as if to steady himself, motioned the +priest to a chair, and sank into his own. + +“In the Sisters' Home,” he repeated mechanically, after a moment's +silence. Then rousing himself: “And you will see her, Father, from time +to time?” + +“Yes, every day. Why do you ask such a question--of me, in particular?” + +“Because,” replied Felix slowly, “I may be away--out of the country. I +have just asked Mrs. Cleary to look after Masie and she has promised she +will. And I am going to ask you to look after my poor wife. They must +be very gentle with her--and they should not judge her too harshly.” He +seemed to be talking at random, thinking aloud rather than addressing +his companions. “Since I saw you I have received a letter from my +solicitor. There is some money coming to me, he says, and I shall see +that she is not a burden to you.” + +The priest turned abruptly, and laid a firm hand on O'Day's knee. “But +you will see her, of course?” + +“No, it is better that you act for me. She will not want to see me in +her present condition.” + +Kitty was about to protest, when Father Cruse waved her into silence. +“You certainly cannot mean what you have just said, Mr. O'Day?” + +“I do.” + +The priest rose quickly, passed though the kitchen, and opened the door +leading to the outer office. Two women stood waiting, one in a long +cloak, the other clinging to her arm, her face white as chalk, her lips +quivering. + +“Come in,” said the priest. + +Martha put her arm around Lady Barbara and led her into the room. + +Felix staggered to his feet. + +The two stood facing each other, Lady Barbara searching his eyes, her +fingers tight hold of Martha's arm. + +“Don't turn away, Felix,” she sobbed. “Please listen. Father Cruse said +you would. He brought me here.” + +No answer came, nor did he move, nor had he heard her plea. It was +the bent, wasted figure and sunken cheeks, the strands of her still +beautiful hair in a coil about her neck, that absorbed him. + +Again her eyes crept up to his. + +“I'm so tired, Felix--so tired. Won't you please take me home to my +father--” + +He made a step forward, halted as if to recover his balance, wavered +again, and stretched out his hands. + +“Barbara! BARBARA!” he cried. “Your home is here.” And he caught her in +his arms. + +END + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Felix O'Day, by F. 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