The infinite pathos of life was never better illustrated, perhaps, than
in the merrymaking that night at Grady's Pavilion. The easy camaradarie
between conscious and unconscious vice; the so-evident struggle the
young girls had made to be beautiful and stylish, and the ghastly result
of their cheap and incongruous finery; their ignorant acceptance of
leers that meant to them honest admiration or affection, and to others
meant far different things; their jolly, thoughtless, eager effort to
get something joyful out of their narrow lives; the brilliant tints
in which they saw the future, and the ghastly light in which it stood
revealed to older and more experienced eyes, would have combined to
depress a heart less tender and a vision less clear than could have been
attributed to Selden Avery. Not that Grady's Pavilion was a bad place.
Many of the girls present would not have been there had it been known as
anything short of quite respectable; but it was a free and easy place,
where vice meets ignorance without having first made an appointment,
where opportunity shakes the ungloved hand of youth and leaves a stain
upon the tender palm too deep and dark for future tears to wash away.
"I wonder if I am growing morbid," mused Avery, as he sighed for the
third time while looking at the face of a girl not over eighteen
years old, but already marked by lines that told of a vaguely dawning
comprehension of what the future held for her. Her round-eyed companion,
a girl with a childish mind and face, sat beside her, but all the world
was bright to her. Life held a prince, a fortune and a career which
would be hers one day. She had only to wait, look pretty, and be ready
when the apple of fortune fell. Her part was to hold out a pretty apron
to break its descent.
"Oh, the infinite pathos of youth!" muttered Avery, feeling himself very
old with his thirty years of wider experience as his eyes turned from
one girl to the other. "It is hard to tell which is the sadder sight;
the disillusioned one or the one who will be even more roughly awakened
to-morrow."
His heart ached whenever he studied the face of a young girl. "There is
nothing so sad in all the wretched world," he sometimes said, "as the
birth of a girl in this grade of life. I am not sure that the nations
we look upon as barbarous because they strangle the little things before
they are able to think--I am not at all sure that they are not more
civilized than we after all. We only maim them with ignorance and utter
dependence, and then turn them out into a life where either of these
alone is an incalculable curse, and the combination is as fatal as fire
in a field of ripened grain."
The younger girl was looking at him. Her wide expectant eyes rested on
his face with a frankness and interest that touched his mood anew.
"Poor little thing," he said, half aloud; "if I were to see her bound
hand and foot and cast into a den of wolves, I might hope to rescue her;
but from this, for such as she there is absolutely no escape. How dare
people bring into the world those who must suffer?"
"Huh?" said a voice beside him. He had spoken in a semi-audible tone,
and his neighbor had responded after his habitual fashion, to what he
looked upon as an overture to conversation.
"I did not intend to speak aloud," said Avery, turning to glance at
the man beside him; "but I was just wondering how people dared to have
children--girls particularly."
The man beside him turned his full face upon him and examined him
critically from head to foot. Then he laughed. It was the first time he
had ever heard it hinted that it was not a wholly commendable thing to
bring as many children into the world as nature would permit. His first
thought had been that Avery was insane, but after looking at him he
decided that he was only a grim joker.
"I reckon they don't spend no great deal of time prayin' over the
subject," he said, laughing again. Then he crossed his legs and added,
"an' I don't suppose they get any telegrams tellin' them they're goin'
to _be_ girls, neither. If they did, a good many men would lick the boy
that brought the despatch, for God knows most of us would a dam sight
ruther have boys."
The laugh had died out of his voice, and there was a ring of
disappointment and aggrieved trouble in it. Selden Avery shifted his
position.
"I was not looking at it from the point of view of the parents of
unwelcome girls," he said, presently, "but from the outlook of the girls
of unwelcome parents. The reckoning from that side looks to me a good
deal longer than the other." His voice was pleasant, but his eyes looked
perplexed and determined. His neighbor began to readjust his opinion
of Avery's sanity, and moved his chair a little farther away before he
spoke.
"Got any children of your own?" he inquired, succinctly. Avery shook
his head. The man drew down the comers of his mouth in a contemptuous
grimace. "I thought not. If you had, you'd take it a dam sight easier.
Children are an ungrateful lot. They're never satisfied--or next to
never. They think you're made for their comfort instead of their bein'
for yours. I've got nine, and I know what I'm talkin' about. If you've
got any sympathy to throw away don't waste it on children. Parents, in
these days of degenerate youngsters, are passin' around the hat for
sympathy. In my day it was just the other way. If one of the young ones
went wrong, people pitied the father and blamed the child. Now-a-days
they blame the father and weep over the young one that makes the
mischief. It makes me mad."
He shut his teeth with a suddenness that suggested a snap, and flashed a
defiant look about the room.
Avery glanced at his heavy, stubborn face, and decided not to reply. He
was in no mood for controversy. And what good could it do, he said to
himself, to argue with a mere lump of selfish egotism?
"That is an unusually pretty girl over by the piano," he said, in a
tone of mild indifference which he hoped would serve as a period to the
conversation.
"She's Tom Berton's girl," was the quick reply. "Berton's up to Albany
most o' the time, with me. I represent our district. She's a nice little
thing. She'll do anything you ask her to. I never see her equal for
that. It's easier for her to do your way than it is to do her own. She
likes to; so everybody likes her. I wish I had one like her; but my
girls are as stubborn as mules. They won't drive, and they won't lead,
and they'd ruther kick than eat. I don't know where they got it. Their
mother wasn't half so bad that way, and the Lord knows it ain't in _my_
family. The girl she's with is one o' mine. She looks like she could eat
tenpenny nails. She might be just as pretty an' just as much liked as
Ettie Berton, but she ain't. She's always growlin' about somethin'. I'll
bet a dollar she'll growl about this when we get home. Ettie will think
it was splendid. She'd have a good time at a funeral; but that girl of
mine 'll get me to spend a dollar to come here and then she'll go home
dissatisfied. It won't be up to what she expected.
"Things never are. She's always lookin' to find things some other way.
Now, what would you do with a girl like that?" he asked suddenly.
Then without waiting for a reply, he added, "I give her a good tongue
lashin', an' as she always knows it's comin', she's got so she don't
kick _quite_ so much as she used to, but she just sets an' looks sullen
like that. It makes me so mad I could--"
He did not finish his remark, but got up and strolled away without the
formality of an adieu.
Avery watched his possible future colleague until he was lost in the
crowd, and then he walked deliberately over to where the two girls
stood.
"I have been talking with your father," he said, smiling and bowing to
the older girl, "and although he did not say that I might come and talk
to you, he told me who you were, and I think he would not object."
"Oh, no; he wouldn't object," said the younger girl, eagerly. "Would he,
Fan? Everybody talks here. He told me so before we came. It's the first
time we've been; but he's been before. I think it's splendid, don't
you?"
The older girl had not spoken. She was looking at Selden Avery with half
suppressed interest and embryonic suspicion. She still knew too little
of life to have formed even a clearly defined doubt as to him or his
intentions in speaking to them. She was less happy than she had expected
to be when she dressed to come with her ever-dawning hope for a real
pleasure. She thought there must be something wrong with her because
things never seemed to come up to her expectations. She supposed this
must be "society," and that when she got used to it, she would enjoy it
more. But somehow she had wanted to resent it the first time a man spoke
to her, and then, afterward, she was glad she did not, for he had danced
with Ettie twice, and Ettie had said it was a lovely dance. She had made
up her mind to accept the next offer she had, but when it came, the
eyes of the man were so beady-black, and the odor of bay rum radiated
so insistently from him that she declined. She hated bay rum because
the worst scolding her father ever gave her was when she had emptied
his cherished bottle upon her own head. The odor always brought back
the heart-ache and resentment of that day, and so she did not think she
cared to dance just then.
Selden Avery looked at Ettie. He did not want to tell her what he did
think and he had not the heart to dampen her ardor, so he simply smiled,
and said:
"It is my first visit here, too; and I don't know a soul. I noticed you
two young ladies a while ago, and spoke of you to the gentleman next
to me and it chanced to be your father"--he turned to the older girl
again--"so that was what gave me courage to come over here. If I had
thought of it before he left me, I'd have asked him to introduce me, but
I'm rather slow to think. My name is Selden Avery."
"Did father tell you mine?" she asked, looking at him steadily, with
eyes that held floating ends of thoughts that were never formed in full.
"No, he didn't," replied Avery, laughing a little. "He told me yours,
though," turning to the merry child at his side. "Ettie Berton, Tom
Berton's daughter."
Ettie laughed, and clapped her hands together twice.
"Got it right the first time! But what did he give me away for and not
her? She is Francis King. That is, her father's name's King, but she is
so awfully particular about things and so hard to suit she ought to be
named Queen, I tell her, so I call her Queen Fan mostly." There was a
little laugh all around, and Avery said:--
"Very good, very good, indeed;" but Francis looked uncomfortable and so
he changed the subject. Presently she looked at him and asked:--
"Do you think things are ever like they are in books? Do you think this
is? She waved her hand toward the music and the lights. In the books I
have read--and the story papers--it all seems nicer than this and--and
different. It is because I say that, that they all make fun of me and
call me Queen Fan, and father says--" she paused, and a cold light
gathered in her eyes. "He don't like it, so I don't say it much, now. He
says it's all put on; but it ain't Everything does seem to turn out so
different from what you expected--from the way you read about. I've not
felt like I thought _maybe_ I should to-night because--because--" she
stopped again.
"Because why?" asked Avery, laughing a little. "Because I'm not a bit
like the usual story-book prince you ought to have met and--?"
She smiled, and Ettie made a droll little grimace.
"No, it wasn't that at all. I've been thinking most all evening that it
wasn't worth--that--"
"Oh, she's worried," put in Ettie, "because she got her father to spend
a dollar to bring her. She's afraid he'll throw it up to her afterward,
and she thinks it won't pay for that, so it spoils the whole thing
before he does it--just being afraid he will. But I tell her he won't,
this time. I--" Francis' eyes had filled with tears of mortification,
and Avery pretended not to have heard. He affected a deep interest in
the music.
"Do you know what it is they are playing now?" he asked, with his eyes
fixed upon the musicians. "I thought at first that it was going to
be--No, it is--Ton my word I can't recall it, and I ought to know what
it is, too. The first time I ever heard it, I remember--"
He turned toward where Francis had stood, but she was gone. "Why, what
has become of Miss King?" he asked of the other girl. Ettie looked all
about, laughed and wondered and chattered as gaily as a bird.
"I expect she's gone home. She's the queerest you ever saw. I guess she
didn't want me to say that about her pa. But it'll make him madder than
anything if she has gone that way. He won't like it at all--an' I can't
blame him. What's the use to be so different from other folks?" she
inquired, sagely, and then she added, laughing: "I don't know as she is
so different, either. We all hate things, but we pretend we don't. Don't
you think it's better to pretend to like things, whether you do or not?"
"No," replied Avery, beginning to look with surprise upon this small
philosopher who had no conception of the worldly wisdom of her own
philosophy.
"I do," she said, laughing again. "It goes down better. Everybody
likes you better. I've found that out already, and so I pretend to like
everything. Of course I do like some of 'em, and some I don't, but it's
just as easy to say you like 'em all." She laughed again, and kept time
with her toe on the floor.
"Just what don't you like?" asked Avery, smiling. "Won't you tell me,
truly? I won't tell any one, and I'd like to be sure of one thing you
object to--on principle."
"Well, tob--Do you smoke?" she asked.
He shook his head, and pursed up his lips negatively.
"I thought not," she said, gaily. "You look like you didn't. Well, I
hate--hate--hate--hate smoke. When I go on a ferry-boat, and the air is
so nice and cool and different from at home, and seems so clean, I just
love it, and then--"
"Some one sits near you and smokes," put in Avery, consolingly.
"Yes, they do; and I just most pray that he'll fall over and get
drownded--but he never does; and if he asks me if I object to smoke,
I say, 'Oh! not at all!' and then he thinks I'm such a nice, sensible
girl. Fan tells 'em right out that she don't like it. It makes her
deadly sick, and the boys all hate her for it. Her father says it's
da---- I was going to say his cuss word, but I guess I won't. Anyhow,
he says it's all nonsense and put on. I guess I better go. There is
her father looking for us. Poor Fan'll catch it when we get home!
Good-night. I've had a lovely time, haven't you?" She waved her hand.
Then she retraced the step she had taken. "Don't tell that I don't like
tobacco," she said, and started away laughing. He followed her a few
steps.
"How is any fellow to know what you really do like?" he asked, smiling,
"if you do that way?"
"Fan says nobody wants to know," she said, slyly. "She says they want to
know that I like what they want me to like, and think what they think I
think." She laughed again. "And of course I do," she added, and bowed in
mock submission. "Now, Fan don't. That's where she misses it; and if she
don't--reform," she said, lowering her voice, as she neared that young
lady's father, "she is going to see trouble that is trouble. I'll bet a
cent on it. Don't you?" she asked, as she bestowed a bright smile upon
Mr. King.
"Yes," said Avery, and lifting his hat, turned on his heel and was lost
in the crowd.
"Where's Fan?" inquired that young lady's father in a tone which
indicated that, as a matter of course, she was up to some devilment
again.
"She got a headache and went home quite a while ago," said that young
lady's loyal little friend. "She enjoyed it quite a lot till she did
get a headache." As they neared the street where both lived, Ettie said:
"That man talked to her, and I think she liked him."
"Humph!" said Mr. King. "I wouldn't be surprised. She'd be likely to
take to a lunatic. I thought he was about the damnedest fool I ever saw;
didn't you?"
"Yes," said Ettie, laughing, "and I liked him for it."
Mr. King burst into a roar of laughter. "Of course you did! You'd like
the devil. You're that easy to please. I wish to the Lord Fan was," and
with a hearty "goodnight," he left her at her father's door, and crossed
the street.
Once outside the garden, Avery drew from his pocket the little pamphlet
which his club friend had given him, and ran his finger down the list.
"King, member the--ah, ha! one end of his ward joins mine! 'M-m-m; yes,
I see. He is one of the butchers. I suspected as much. Let me see; yes,
he votes my ticket, too. If I'm elected we'll be comrades-in-arms, so to
speak I suppose I ought to have told him who I was; but if I'm elected
he'll find out soon enough, and if I'm beaten--well, I can't say that
I'm anxious to extend the acquaintance." He replaced the book in his
pocket as the guard called out, 'Thirty-Fourth Street! 'strain for
Arlem!' and left the train, musing as he strolled along. "Yes, Gertrude
was quite right--quite. We fortunate ones have no right to allow all
this sort of thing to go on. We have no right to leave it entirely to
such men as that to make the laws. I don't care if the fellows up at the
club do guy me. Gertrude--" He drew from his breast-pocket a little
note, and read it for the tenth time.
"I am so gratified to hear that you have accepted the nomination," it
said. "You have the time, and mental and moral equipment to give to
the work Were I a man, I should not sleep o' nights until some way
was devised to prevent all the terrible poverty and ignorance and
brutishness we were talking about the other day. I went to see that
Spillini family again. I was afraid to go alone, so I took with me two
girls who are in a sewing class, which is, just now a fad at our Church
Guild. I thought their experience with poverty would enable them to
think of a way to get at this case; but it did not. They appeared to
think it was all right It seems to me that ignorance and poverty leave
no room for thought, or even for much feeling. It hurt me like a knife
to have those girls laugh over it after we came out; at least, one of
them laughed, and the other seemed scornful, It is not fair to expect
more of them, I know, for we expect so little of ourselves. It is
thinking of all this that makes me write to tell you how glad I am that
you are to represent your district in Albany. Such men are needed, for
I know you will work for the poor with the skill of a trained intellect
and a sympathetic heart. I am so glad. Sincerely your friend, Gertrude
Foster."
Mr. Avery replaced the note in his pocket, and smiled contentedly. "I
don't care a great deal what the fellows at the club say," he repeated.
"I'm satisfied, if Gertrude--" He had spoken the last few words almost
audibly, and the name startled him. He realized for the first time that
he had fallen into the habit of thinking of her as Gertrude, and
it suddenly flashed upon him that Miss Foster might be a good deal
surprised by that fact if she knew it. He fell to wondering if she would
also be annoyed. There was a tinge of anxiety in the speculation. Then
it occurred to him that the sewing class of the Guild might give an
outlet and a chance for a bit of pleasure to that strange girl he had
seen at Grady's Pavilion, and he made a little memorandum, and decided
to call upon Gertrude and suggest it to her. He fell asleep that night
and dreamed of Gertrude Foster, holding out a helping hand to a strange,
tall girl, with dissatisfied eyes, and that Ettie Berton was laughing
gaily and making everybody comfortable, by asserting that she liked
everything exactly as she found it.