When Maria reached home, she pushed open the front door, which was
unlocked, and rushed violently in. Wollaston and Gladys followed her,
after a slight hesitation, but remained standing in the vestibule.
When Maria had come in sight of the house, she had perceived the
regular motion of a rocking female head past the parlor light, and
she knew that it was Ida. Ida nearly always occupied a rocking-chair,
and was fond of the gentle, swaying motion.
"There she is, rocking just as if the baby wasn't lost," Maria
thought, with the bitterest revulsion and sarcasm. When she opened
the door she immediately smelled tea, the odor of broiling beefsteak
and fried potatoes. "Eating just as if the baby wasn't lost," she
thought. She rushed into the parlor, and there was Ida swaying back
and forth in her rocking-chair, and there were three ladies with her.
One was Mrs. Jonas White; one was a very smartly dressed woman, Mrs.
Adams, perhaps the most intimate friend whom Ida had in Edgham; one
was the wife of the minister whose church the Edghams attended, Mrs.
Applegate, or, as she was called, Mrs. Dr. Applegate--her husband had
a degree. Her sister had just died and she was dressed in the deepest
mourning; sitting in the shade in a corner, she produced a curious
effect of a vacuum of grief. Mrs. Adams, who was quite young and very
pretty, stout and blond, was talking eagerly; Mrs. Jonas White was
sniffing quietly; Mrs. Applegate, who was ponderously religious,
asked once in a while, in a subdued manner, if Mrs. Edgham did not
think it would be advisable to unite in prayer.
Ida made no reply. She continued to rock, and she had a curious set
expression. Her lips were resolutely compressed, as if to restrain
that radiant smile of hers, which had become habitual with her. She
looked straight ahead, keeping her eyes fastened upon a Tiffany vase
which stood on a little shelf, a glow of pink and gold against a
skilful background of crimson velvet. It was as if she were having
her photograph taken and had been requested by the photographer to
keep her eyes fixed upon that vase.
"The detective system of New York is so lax," said Mrs. Adams. "I do
wish there was more system among them and among the police. One would
feel--" She heaved a deep sigh.
Mrs. Jonas White sobbed audibly.
"Do you not think, dear friends, that it would be a good plan to
offer up our voices at the Throne of Grace for the dear child's
return?" asked Mrs. Applegate in a solemn voice, albeit somewhat
diffidently. She was a corpulent woman, and was richly dressed, in
spite of her deep mourning. A jet brooch rimmed with pearls, gleamed
out of the shadow where she sat.
Ida continued to rock.
"But," said Mrs. Adams, "a great many children are lost every year
and found. Sometimes the system does really work in a manner to
astonish any one. I should not be surprised at any minute to see Mr.
Edgham or a policeman walking in with her. But--well--there is so
much to be done. The other night, when Mr. Adams and I went in to
hear Mrs. Fiske, we drove eight blocks after the performance without
seeing one policeman."
"I suppose, though, if you had been really attacked, a dozen would
have sprung out from somewhere," said Mrs. White, in a tearful voice.
Mrs. White could not have heard Satan himself assailed without a word
in his defence, such was the maternal pity of her heart.
"That was what Mr. Adams said," retorted Mrs. Adams, with some
asperity, "and I told him that I would rather the dozen policemen
were in evidence before I was shot and robbed than after. I had on
all my rings, and my diamond sunburst."
"Do you not think, dear friend, that it would be a good plan to offer
up our voices at the Throne of Grace for the safe restoration of the
dear child?" asked Mrs. Applegate again. Her voice was sonorous, very
much like her husband's. She felt that, so far as in her lay, she was
taking his place. He was out of town.
It was then that Maria rushed into the room. She ran straight up to
her step-mother. The other women started. Ida continued to rock, and
look at the Tiffany vase. It seemed as if she dared not take her eyes
from it for fear of losing her expression. Then Maria spoke, and her
voice did not sound like her own at all. It was accusatory, menacing.
"Where is my little sister?" she cried. "Where is she?"
Mrs. Jonas White rose, approached Maria, and put her arms around her
caressingly. "You poor, dear child," she sobbed, "I guess you do feel
it. You did set a heap by that blessed little thing, didn't you?"
"She is in the hands of the Lord," said Mrs. Applegate.
"If the police of New York were worth anything, she would be in the
police station by this time," said Mrs. Adams, with a fierce toss of
her pretty blond head.
"We know not where His islands lift their fronded palms in air; we
only know we cannot drift beyond His love and care," said Mrs.
Applegate, with a solemn aside. Tears were in her own eyes, but she
resolutely checked her impulse to weep. She felt that it would show a
lack of faith. She was entirely in earnest.
"Mebbe she _is_ in the police-station," sobbed Mrs. White, continuing
to embrace Maria. But Maria gave her a forcible push away, and again
addressed herself to her step-mother.
"Where is she?" she demanded.
"Oh, you poor, dear child! Your ma don't know where she is, and she
is so awful upset, she sets there jest like marble," said Mrs. White.
"She isn't upset at all. You don't know her as well as I do," said
Maria, mercilessly. "She thinks she ought to act upset, so she sits
this way. She isn't upset."
"Oh, Maria!" gasped Mrs. White.
"The child is out of her head," said Mrs. Adams, and yet she looked
at Maria with covert approval. She was Ida's intimate friend, but in
her heart of hearts she doubted her grief. She had once lost by death
a little girl of her own. She kept thinking of her little Alice, and
how she should feel in a similar case. It did not seem to her that
she should rock, and look at a Tiffany vase. She inveighed against
the detectives and police with a reserve meaning of indignation
against Ida. It seemed to her that any woman whose child was lost
should be up and generally making a tumult, if she were doing nothing
else.
The Maria, standing before the beautiful woman swaying gently, with
her eyes fixed upon the pink and gold of the vase, spoke out for the
first time what was in her heart of hearts with regard to her.
"You are a wicked woman," said she; "that is what you are. I don't
know as you can help being wicked. I guess you were made wicked; but
you _are_ a wicked woman. Your mouth smiles, but your heart never
does. You act now as if you were sorry," said she, "but you are not
sorry, the way my mother would have been sorry if she had lost me,
the way she would have been sorry if Evelyn had been her little girl
instead of yours. You are a wicked woman. I have always known it, but
I have never told you so before. Now I am going to tell you. Your own
child is lost, you let her be lost. You didn't look out for her. Yes,
your own child is lost, and you sit there and rock!"
Ida for a moment made no reply. The other women, and Gladys and
Wollaston in the vestibule, listened with horror.
"You have had beefsteak and fried potatoes cooked, too," continued
Maria, sniffing, "and you have eaten them. You have been eating
beefsteak and fried potatoes when your own child was lost and you did
not know where she was!" It might have been ridiculous, this last
accusation in the thin, sweet, childish voice, but it was not. It was
even more terrible than anything else.
Ida turned at last. "I hate you," she said slowly. "I have always
hated you. You have hated me ever since I came into this house," she
said, "though I have done more than your own mother ever did for you."
"You have not!" cried Maria. "You have got nice clothes for me, but
my own mother loved me. What are nice clothes to love? You have not
even loved Evelyn. You have only got her nice clothes. You have never
loved her. Poor papa and I were the only ones that loved her. You
never even loved poor papa. You saw to it that he had things to eat,
but you never loved him. You are not made right. All the love in your
heart is for your own self. You are turned the wrong way. I don't
know as you can help it, but you are a dreadful woman. You are
wicked. You never loved the baby, and now you have let her be lost.
She is my own little sister, and papa's child, a great deal more than
she is anything to you. Where is she?" Maria's voice rang wild. Her
face was blazing. She had an abnormal expression in her blue eyes
fixed upon her step-mother.
Ida, after her one outburst, gazed upon her with a sort of fear as
well as repulsion. She again turned to the Tiffany vase.
Mrs. White, sobbing aloud like a child, again put her arms around
Maria.
"Come, come," she said soothingly, "you poor child, I know how you
feel, but you mustn't talk so, you mustn't, dear! You have no right
to judge. You don't know how your mother feels."
"I know how She doesn't feel!" Maria burst out, "and She isn't my
mother. My mother loves me more way off in heaven than that woman
loves Her own child on earth. She doesn't feel. She just rocks, and
thinks how She looks. I hate Her! Let me go!" With that Maria was out
of the room, and ran violently up-stairs.
When she had gone, the three visiting women looked at one another,
and the same covert expression of gratified malice, at some one
having spoken out what was in their inmost hearts, was upon all three
faces. Ida was impassive, with her smiling lips contracted. Mrs.
Applegate again murmured something about uniting in prayer.
Maria came hurrying down-stairs. She had in her hand her purse, which
contained ten dollars, which her father had given her on her
birthday, also a book of New York tickets which had been a present
from Ida, and which Ida herself had borrowed several times since
giving them to Maria. Maria herself seldom went to New York, and Ida
had a fashion of giving presents which might react to her own
benefit. Maria, as she passed the parlor door, glanced in and saw her
step-mother rocking and staring at the vase. Then she was out of the
front-door, racing down the street with Wollaston Lee and Gladys
hardly able to keep up with her. Wollaston reached her finally, and
again caught her arm. The pressure of the hard, warm boy hand was
grateful to the little, hysterical thing, who was trembling from head
to foot, with a strange rigidity of tremors. Gladys also clutched her
other sleeve.
"Say, M'ria Edgham, where be you goin'?" she demanded.
"I'm going to find my little sister," gasped out Maria. She gave a
dry sob as she spoke.
"My!" said Gladys.
"Now, Maria, hadn't you better go back home?" ventured Wollaston.
"No," said Maria, and she ran on towards the station.
"Come home with me to my mother," said Wollaston, pleadingly, but a
little timidly. A girl in such a nervous strait as this was a new
experience for him.
"She can go home with me," said Gladys. "My mother's a heap better
than Ida Slome. Say, M'ria, all them things you said was true, but
land! how did you darse?"
Maria made no reply. She kept on.
"Say, M'ria, you don't mean you're goin' to New York?" said Gladys.
"Yes, I am. I am going to find my little sister."
"My!" said Gladys.
"Now, Maria, don't you think you had better go home with me, and see
mother?" Wollaston said again.
But Maria seemed deaf. In fact, she heard nothing but the sound of
the approaching New York train. She ran like a wild thing, her
little, slim legs skimming the ground like a bird's, almost as if
assisted by wings.
When the train reached the station, Maria climbed in, Wollaston and
Gladys after her. Neither Wollaston nor Gladys had the slightest
premeditation in the matter; they were fairly swept along by the
emotion of their companion.
When the train had fairly started, Gladys, who had seated herself
beside Maria, while Wollaston was in the seat behind them, heaved a
deep sigh of bewilderment and terror. "My!" said she.
Wollaston also looked pale and bewildered. He was only a boy, and had
never been thrown much upon his own responsibility. All that had been
uppermost in his mind was the consideration that Maria could not be
stopped, and she must not go alone to New York. But he did not know
what to think of it all. He felt chaotic. The first thing which
seemed to precipitate his mentality into anything like clearness was
the entrance of the conductor. Then he thought instinctively about
money. Although still a boy, money as a prime factor was already
firmly established in his mind. He reflected with dismay that he had
only his Wardway tickets, and about three dollars beside. It was now
dark. The vaguest visions of what they were to do in New York were in
his head. The fare to New York was a little over a dollar; he had
only enough to take them all in, then what next? He took out his
pocket-book, but Gladys looked around quickly.
"She's got a whole book of tickets," she said.
However, Wollaston, who was proud, started to pay the conductor, but
he had reached Maria first, and she had said "Three," peremptorily.
Then she handed the book to Wollaston, with the grim little ghost of
a smile. "You please keep this," said she. "I haven't got any pocket."
Wollaston was so bewildered that the possession of pockets seemed
instantly to restore his self-respect. He felt decidedly more at his
ease when he had Maria's ticket-book in his innermost pocket. Then
she gave him her purse also.
"I wish you would please take this," said she. "There are ten dollars
in it, and I haven't any pocket." Wollaston took that.
"All right," he said. He buttoned his gray vest securely over Maria's
pretty little red purse. Then he leaned over the seat, and began to
speak, but he absolutely did not know what to say. He made an idiotic
remark about the darkness. "Queer how quick it grows dark, when it
begins," said he.
Maria ignored it, but Gladys said: "Yes, it is awful queer."
Gladys's eyes looked wild. The pupils were dilated. She had been to
New York but once before in her life, and now to be going in the
evening to find Maria's little sister was almost too much for her
intelligence, which had its limitations.
However, after a while, Wollaston Lee spoke again. He was in reality
a keen-witted boy, only this was an emergency into which he had been
surprised, and which he had not foreseen, and Maria's own abnormal
mood had in a measure infected him. Presently he spoke to the point.
"What on earth are you going to do when you get to New York, anyhow?"
said he to Maria.
"Find her," replied Maria, laconically.
"But New York is a mighty big city. How do you mean to go to work?
Now I--"
Maria cut him short. "I am going right up to Her cousin's, on West
Forty-ninth Street, and find out if Evelyn is there," said she.
"But what would make the child want to go there, anyhow?"
"It was the only place she had ever been in New York," said Maria.
"But I don't see what particular reason she would have for going
there, though," said Wollaston. "How would she remember the street
and number?"
"She was an awful bright kid," said Gladys, with a momentary lapse of
reason, "and kids is queer. I know, 'cause we've got so many of 'em
to our house. Sometimes they'll remember things you don't ever think
they would. My little sister Maud remembers how my mother drowned
five kittens oncet, when she was in long clothes. We knowed she did,
'cause when the cat had kittens next time we caught her trying to
drown 'em herself. Kids is awful queer. Maud can't remember how to
spell her own name, either, and she's most six now. She spells it
M-a-u-d, when it had ought to be M-a-u-g-h-d. I shouldn't be one mite
surprised if M'ria's little sister remembered the street and number."
"Anyway, she knew her whole name, because I've heard her say it,"
said Maria. "Her cousin's name is Mrs. George B. Edison. Evelyn used
to say it, and we used to laugh."
"Oh, well, if she knew the name like that she might have found the
place all right," said Wollaston. "But what puzzles me is why she
wanted to go there, anyway?"
"I don't know," said Maria.
"I don't know," said Wollaston, "but it seems to me the best thing to
do would be to go directly to a police-office and have the chief of
police notified, and set them at work; but then I suppose your father
has done that already."
Maria turned upon him with indignation. "Go to a police-station to
find my little sister!" said she. "What would I go there for?"
"Yes, what do you suppose that kid has did?" asked Gladys.
"What would I go there for?" demanded Maria, flashing the light of
her excited, strained little face upon the boy.
Maria no longer looked pretty. She no longer looked even young. Lines
of age were evident around her mouth, her forehead was wrinkled. The
boy fairly started at the sight of her. She seemed like a stranger to
him. Her innermost character, which he had heretofore only guessed at
by superficial signs, was written plainly on her face. The boy felt
himself immeasurably small and young, manly and bold of his age as he
really was. When a young girl stretches to the full height of her
instincts, she dwarfs any boy of her own age. Maria's feeling for her
little sister was fairly maternal. She was in spirit a mother
searching for her lost young, rather than a girl searching for her
little sister. Her whole soul expanded. She fairly looked larger, as
well as older. When they got off the train at Jersey City, she led
the little procession straight for the Twenty-third Street ferry. She
marched ahead like a woman of twice her years.
"You had better hold up your dress, M'ria," said Gladys, coming up
with her, and looking at her with wonder. "My, how you do race!"
Maria reached round one hand and caught a fold of her skirt. Her new
dress was in fact rather long for her. Ida had remarked that morning
that she would have Miss Keeler shorten it on Saturday. Ida had no
wish to have a grown-up step-daughter quite yet, whom people might
take for her own.
The three reached the ferry-boat just as she was about to leave her
slip. They sat down in a row midway of the upper deck. The heat
inside was intense. Gladys loosened her shabby little sacque. Maria
sat impassible.
"Ain't you most baked in here?" asked Gladys.
"No," replied Maria.
Both Gladys and Wollaston looked cowed. They kept glancing at each
other and at Maria. Maria sat next Gladys, Wollaston on Gladys's
other side. Gladys nudged Wollaston, and whispered to him.
"We've jest got to stick close to her," she whispered, in an alarmed
cadence. The boy nodded.
Then they both glanced again at Maria, who seemed quite oblivious of
their attention. When they reached the other side, Wollaston, with an
effort, asserted himself.
"We had better take a cross-town car to the Sixth Avenue Elevated,"
he said, pressing close to Maria's side and seizing her arm again.
Maria shook her head. "No," she said. "Where Mrs. Edison lives is not
so near the Elevated. It will be better to take a cross-town car and
transfer at Seventh Avenue."
"All right," said Wollaston. He led the way in the run down the
stairs, and aided his companions onto the cross-town car. He paid
their fares, and got the transfers, and stopped the other car. He was
beginning to feel himself again, at least temporarily.
"Well, I think the police-station is the best place to look, but have
your own way. It won't take long to see if she is there now," said
Wollaston. He was hanging on a strap in front of Maria. The car was
crowded with people going to up-town theatres. Some of the ladies, in
showy evening wraps, giving glimpses of delicate waists, looked
curiously at the three. There was something extraordinary about their
appearance calculated to attract attention, although it was difficult
to say just why. After they had left the car, a lady with a white
lace blouse showing between the folds of a red cloak, said to her
escort: "I wonder who they were?"
"I don't know," said the man, who had been watching them. "I thought
there was something unusual."
"I thought so, too. That well-dressed young woman, and that handsome
boy, and that shabby little girl." By the "young woman" she meant
Maria.
"Yes, a queer combination," said the man.
"It wasn't altogether that, but they looked so desperately in
earnest."
Meantime, while the lights of the car disappeared up the avenue,
Maria, Wollaston, and Gladys Mann searched for the house in which had
lived Ida Edgham's cousin.
At last they found it, mounted the steps, and rang the bell. It was
an apartment-house. After a little the door opened of itself.
"My!" said Gladys, but she followed Wollaston and Maria inside.
Wollaston began searching the names above the rows of bells on the
wall of the vestibule.
"What did you say the name was?" he asked of Maria.
"Edison. Mrs. George B. Edison."
"There is no such name here."
"There must be."
"There isn't."
"Let me see," said Maria. She searched the names. "Well, I don't
care," said she. "It was on the third floor, and I am going up and
ask, anyway."
"Now, Maria, do you think--" began Wollaston.
But Maria began climbing the stairs. There was no elevator.
"My!" said Gladys, but she followed Maria.
Wollaston pushed by them both. "See here, you don't know what you are
getting into," said he, sternly. "You let _me_ go first."
When they reached the third floor, Maria pointed to a door. "That is
the door," she whispered, breathlessly.
Wollaston knocked. Immediately the door was flung open by a very
pretty young woman in a rose-colored evening gown. Her white
shoulders gleamed through the transparent chiffon, and a comb set
with rhinestones sparkled in the fluff of her blond hair. When she
saw the three she gave a shrill scream, and immediately a very small
man, much smaller than she, but with a fierce cock of a black pointed
beard, and a tremendous wiriness of gesture, appeared.
"Oh, Tom!" gasped the young woman. "Oh!"
"What on earth is the matter, Stella?" asked the man. Then he looked
fiercely at the three. "Who are these people?" he asked.
"I don't know. I opened the door. I thought it was Adeline and
Raymond, and then I saw these strange people. I don't know how they
got in."
"We came in the door," said Gladys, with some asperity, "and we are
lookin' for M'ria's little sister. Be you her ma-in-law's cousin?"
"I don't know who these people are," the young woman said, faintly,
to the man. "I think they must be burglars."
"Burglars, nothin'!" said Gladys, who had suddenly assumed the
leadership of the party. Opposition and suspicion stimulated her. She
loved a fight. "Be you her ma-in-law's cousin, and have you got her
little sister?"
Wollaston looked inquiringly at Maria, who was very pale.
"It isn't Her cousin," she gasped. "I don't know who she is. I never
saw her."
Then Wollaston spoke, hat in hand, and speaking up like a man.
"Pardon us, sir," he said, "we did not intend to intrude, but--"
"Get out of this," said the man, with a sudden dart towards the door.
His wife screamed again, and put her hand over a little diamond
brooch at her throat. "I just know they are sneak-thieves," she
gasped. "Do send them away, Tom!"
Wollaston tried to speak again. "We merely wished to ascertain," said
he, "if a lady by the name of Mrs. George A.--"
"B." interrupted Gladys.
"B. Edison lived here. This young lady's little sister is lost, and
Mrs. Edison is a relative, and we thought--"
The man made another dart. "Don't care what you thought," he shouted.
"Keep your thoughts to yourself! Get out of here!"
"Do you know where Mrs. George B. Edison lives now?" asked Wollaston,
courteously, but his black eyes flashed at the man.
"No, I don't."
"No, we don't," said the young woman in pink. "Do make them go, Tom."
"We are perfectly willing to go," said Wollaston. "We have no desire
to remain any longer where people are not willing to answer civil
questions."
Maria all this time had said nothing. She was perfectly overcome with
the conviction that Ida's cousin was not there, and consequently not
Evelyn. Moreover, she was frightened at the little man's fierce
manner. She clung to Wollaston's arm as they retreated, but Gladys
turned around and deliberately stuck her tongue out at the man and
the young woman in rose. The man slammed the door.
The three met on the stoop of the house two people in gay attire.
"Go up and see your friends that don't know how to treat folks
decent," said Gladys. The woman looked wonderingly at her from under
the shade of a picture hat. Her escort opened the door. "Ten chances
to one they had the kid hid somewhere," said Gladys, so loudly that
both turned and looked at her.
"Hush up," said Wollaston.
"Well, what be you goin' to do now?" asked Gladys.
"I am going to a drug-store, and see if I can find out where Maria's
relatives have moved to," replied Wollaston. He walked quite alertly
now. Maria's discomfiture had reassured him.
They walked along a few blocks until they saw the lights of a
drug-store on the corner. Then Wollaston led them in and marched up
to the directory chained to the counter.
"What's that?" Gladys asked. "A Bible?"
"No, it's a directory," Maria replied, in a dull voice.
"What do they keep it chained for? Books don't run away."
"I suppose they are afraid folks will steal it."
"My!" said Gladys, eying the big volume. "I don't see what on earth
they'd do with it when they got it stole," she remarked, in a low,
reflective voice.
Maria leaned against the counter and waited.
Finally, Wollaston turned to her with an apologetic air. "I can't
find any George B. here," he said. "You are sure it was B?"
"Yes," replied Maria.
"Well, there's no use," said Wollaston. "There is no George B. Edison
in this book, anyhow."
He came forward, and stood looking at Maria. Maria gazed absently at
the crowds passing on the street. Gladys watched them both.
"Well," said Gladys, presently, "you ain't goin' to stand here all
night, be you? What be you goin' to do next? Go to the police-station?"
"I don't see that there is any use," replied Wollaston. "Maria's
father must have been there by this time. This is a wild-goose chase
anyhow." Wollaston's tone was quite vicious. He scowled
superciliously at the salesman who stepped forward and asked if he
wanted anything. "No, we don't, thank you," he said.
"What be you goin' to do?" asked Gladys, again. She looked at the
soda-fountain.
"I don't see anything to do but to go home," said Wollaston. "There
is no sense in our chasing around New York any longer, that I can
see."
"You can't go home to-night, anyhow," Gladys said, quite calmly.
"They've took off that last train, and there ain't more'n ten minutes
to git down to the station."
Wollaston turned pale, and looked at her with horror. "What makes you
think they've taken off that last train?" he demanded.
"Ain't my pa brakeman when he's sober, and he's been real sober for
quite a spell now."
Wollaston seized Maria by the arm. "Come, quick!" he said, and
leaving the drug-store he broke into a run for the Elevated, with
Gladys following.
"There ain't no use in your runnin'," said she. "You know yourself
you can't git down to Cortlandt Street, and walk to the ferry in ten
minutes. I never went but oncet, but I know it can't be did."
Wollaston slackened his pace. "That is so," he said. Then he looked
at Maria in a kind of angry despair. He felt, in spite of his
romantic predilection for her, that he wished she were a boy, so he
could say something forcible. He realized his utter helplessness with
these two girls in a city where he knew no one, and he again thought
of the three dollars in his pocket-book. He did not suppose that
Maria had more than fifty cents in hers. Then, too, he was worldly
wise enough to realize the difficulty of the situation, the possible
danger even. It was ten o'clock at night, and here he was with two
young girls to look out for.
Then Gladys, who had also worldly wisdom, although of a crude and
vulgar sort, spoke. "Folks are goin' to talk like the old Harry if we
stay in here all night," said she, "and besides, there's no knowin'
what is a safe place to go into."
"That is so," said Wollaston, gloomily, "and I--have not much money
with me."
"I've got money enough," Maria said, suddenly. "There are ten dollars
in my pocket-book I gave you to keep."
"My!" said Gladys.
Wollaston brightened for a moment, then his face clouded again.
"Well, I don't know as that makes it much better," said he. "I don't
quite see how to manage. They are so particular in hotels now, that I
don't know as I can get you into a decent one. As for myself, I don't
care. I can look out for myself, but I don't know what to do with
you, Maria."
Gladys made a little run and stepped in front of them. "There ain't
but one thing you can do, so Maria won't git talked about all the
rest of her life, and I kin tell you what it is," said she.
"What is it?" asked Wollaston, in a burst of anger. "I call it a
pretty pickle we are in, for my part. Ten chances to one, Mr. Edgham
has got the baby back home safe and sound by this time, anyway, and
here we are, here is Maria!"
"There ain't but one thing you can do," said Gladys. Her tone was
forcible. She was full of the vulgar shrewdness of a degenerate race,
for the old acumen of that race had sharpened her wits.
"What! in Heaven's name?" cried Wollaston.
The three had been slowly walking along, and had stopped near a
church, which was lighted. As they were talking the lights went out.
A thin stream of people ceased issuing from the open doors. A man in
a clerical dress approached them, walking quite rapidly. He was
evidently bound, from the trend of his steps, to a near-by house,
which was his residence.
"Git married," said Gladys, abruptly. Then, before the others
realized what she was doing, she darted in front of the approaching
clergyman. "They want to git married," said she.
The clergyman stopped and stared at her, then at the couple beyond,
who were quite speechless with astonishment. He was inconceivably
young for his profession. He was small, and had a round, rollicking
face, which he was constantly endeavoring to draw down into lines of
asceticism.
"Who wants to get married?" asked the clergyman.
"Them two," replied Gladys, succinctly. She pointed magisterially at
Wollaston and Maria.
Wollaston was tall and manly looking for his age, Maria's dress
touched the ground. The clergyman had not, at the moment, a doubt as
to their suitable age. He was not a brilliant young man, naturally.
He had been pushed through college and into his profession by wealthy
relatives, and, moreover, with his stupidity, he had a certain spirit
of recklessness and sense of humor which gave life a spice for him.
"Want to get married, eh?" he said.
Then Wollaston spoke. "No, we do not want to get married," he said,
positively. Then he said to Gladys, "I wish you would mind your own
business."
But he had to cope with the revival of a wonderful feminine wit of a
fine old race in Gladys. "I should think you would be plum ashamed of
yourself," she said, severely, "after you have got that poor girl in
here; and if she stays and you ain't married, she'll git talked
about."
The clergyman approached Wollaston and Maria. Maria had begun to cry.
She was trembling from head to foot with fear and confusion.
Wollaston looked sulky and angry.
"Is that true--did you induce this girl to come to New York to be
married?" he inquired, and his own boyish voice took on severe tones.
He was very strong in moral reform.
"No, I did not," replied Wollaston.
"He did," said Gladys. "She'll get talked about if she ain't, too,
and the last train has went, and we've got to stay in New York all
night."
"Where do you come from?" inquired the young clergyman, and his tone
was more severe still.
"From Edgham, New Jersey," replied Gladys.
"Who are you?" inquired the clergyman.
"I ain't no account," replied Gladys. "All our folks git talked
about, but she's different."
"I suppose you are her maid," said the clergyman, noting with quick
eye the difference in the costumes of the two girls.
"Call it anything you wanter," said Gladys, indifferently. "I ain't
goin' to have her talked about, nohow."
"Come, Maria," said Wollaston, but Maria did not respond even to his
strong, nervous pull on her arm. She sobbed convulsively.
"No, that girl does not go one step, young man," said the clergyman.
He advanced closely, and laid a hand on Maria's other arm. Although
small in body and mind, he evidently had muscle. "Come right in the
house," said he, and Maria felt his hand on her arm like steel. She
yielded, and began following him, Wollaston in vain trying to hold
her back.
Gladys went behind Wollaston and pushed vigorously. "You git right in
there, the way he says, Wollaston Lee," said she. "You had ought to
be ashamed of yourself."
Before the boy well knew what he was doing he found himself in a
small reception-room lined with soberly bound books. All that was
clear in his mind was that he could not hinder Maria from entering,
and that she must not go into the house alone with Gladys and this
strange man.
A man had been standing in the doorway of the house, waiting the
entrance of the clergyman. He was evidently a servant, and his master
beckoned him.
"Call Mrs. Jerrolds, Williams," he said.
"What is your name?" he asked Maria, who was sobbing more wildly than
ever.
"Her name is Maria Edgham," replied Gladys, "and his is Wollaston
Lee. They both live in Edgham."
"How old are you?" the clergyman asked of Wollaston; but Gladys cut
in again.
"He's nineteen, and she's goin' on," she replied, shamelessly.
"We are neither of us," began Wollaston, whose mind was in a whirl of
anger of confusion.
But the clergyman interrupted him. "I am ashamed of you, young man,"
he said, "luring an innocent young girl to New York and then trying
to lie out of your responsibility."
"I am not," began Wollaston again; but then the man who had stood in
the door entered with a portly woman in a black silk tea-gown. She
looked as if she had been dozing, or else was naturally slow-witted.
Her eyes, under heavy lids, were dull; her mouth had a sleepy,
although good-natured pout, like a child's, between her fat cheeks.
"I am sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Jerrolds," said the clergyman, "but
I need you and Williams for witnesses." Then he proceeded.
Neither Wollaston nor Maria were ever very clear in their minds how
it was done. Both had thought marriage was a more complicated
proceeding. Neither was entirely sure of having said anything.
Indeed, Wollaston was afterwards quite positive that Gladys Mann
answered nearly all the clergyman's questions; but at all events, the
first thing he heard distinctly was the clergyman's pronouncing him
and Maria man and wife. Then the clergyman, who was zealous to the
point of fanaticism, and who honestly considered himself to have done
an exceedingly commendable thing, invited them to have some
wedding-cake, which he kept ready for such emergencies, and some
coffee, but Wollaston replied with a growl of indignation and
despair. This time Maria followed his almost brutally spoken command
to follow him, and the three went out of the house.
"See that you treat your wife properly, young man," the clergyman
called out after him, in a voice half jocular, half condemnatory, "or
there will be trouble."
Wollaston growled an oath, the first which he had ever uttered, under
his breath, and strode on. He had released his hold on Maria's arm.
Ahead of them, a block distant, was an Elevated station, and Maria,
who seemed to suddenly recover her faculties, broke into a run for it.
"Where be you goin'?" called out Gladys.
"I am going down to the Jersey City station, quick," replied Maria,
in a desperate voice.
"I thought you'd go to a hotel. There ain't no harm, now you're
married, you know," said Gladys, "and then we could have some supper.
I'm awful hungry. I ain't eat a thing sence noon."
"I am going right down to the station," repeated Maria.
"The last train has went. What's the use?"
"I don't care. I'm going down there."
"What be you goin' to do when you git there?"
"I am going to sit there, and wait till morning."
"My!" said Gladys.
However, she went on up the Elevated stairs with Maria and Wollaston.
Wollaston threw down the fares and got the tickets, and strode on
ahead. His mouth was set. He was very pale. He probably realized to a
greater extent than any of them what had taken place. It was
inconceivable to him that it had taken place, that he himself had
been such a fool. He felt like one who has met with some utterly
unexplainable and unaccountable accident. He felt as he had done once
when, younger, he had stuck his own knife, with which he was
whittling, into his eye, to the possible loss of it. It seemed to him
as if something had taken place without his volition. He was like a
puppet in a show. He looked at Maria, and realized that he hated her.
He wondered how he could ever have thought her pretty. He looked at
Gladys Mann, and felt murderous. He had a high temper. As the train
approached, he whispered in her ear,
"Damn you, Gladys Mann, it's a pretty pickle you have got us into."
Gladys was used to being sworn at. She was not in the least
intimidated.
"Do you s'pose I was goin' to have M'ria talked about?" she said.
"You can cuss all you want to."
They got into the train. Wollaston sat by himself, Gladys and Maria
together. Maria was no longer weeping, but she looked terrified
beyond measure, and desperate. A horrible imagination of evil was
over her. She never glanced at Wollaston. She thought that she wished
there would be an accident on the train and he might be killed. She
hated him more than he hated her.
They were just in time for a boat at Cortlandt Street. When they
reached the Jersey City side Wollaston went straight to the
information bureau, and then returned to Gladys and Maria, seated on
a bench in the waiting-room.
"Well, there _is_ a train," he said, curtly.
"'Ain't it been took off?" asked Gladys.
"No, but we've got to wait an hour and a half." Then he bent down and
whispered in Gladys's ear, "I wish to God you'd been dead before you
got us into this, Gladys Mann!"
"My father said it had been took off," said Gladys. "You sure there
is one?"
"Of course I'm sure!"
"My!" said Gladys.
Wollaston went to a distant seat and sat by himself. The two girls
waited miserably. Gladys had suffered a relapse. Her degeneracy of
wit had again overwhelmed her. She looked at Maria from time to time,
then she glanced around at Wollaston, and her expression was almost
idiotic. The people who were on the seat with them moved away. Maria
turned suddenly to Gladys.
"Gladys Mann," said she, "if you ever tell of this--"
"Then you ain't goin' to--" said Gladys.
"Going to what?"
"Live with him?"
"Live with him! I hate him enough to wish he was dead. I'll never
live with him; and if you tell, Gladys Mann, I'll tell you what I'll
do."
"What?" asked Gladys, in a horrified whisper.
"I'll go and drown myself in Fisher's Pond, that's what I'll do."
"I never will tell, honest, M'ria," said Gladys.
"You'd better not."
"Hope to die, if I do."
"You _will_ die if you do," said Maria, "for I'll leave a note saying
you pushed me into the pond, and it will be true, too. Oh, Gladys
Mann! it's awful what you've done!"
"I didn't mean no harm," said Gladys.
"And there's a train, too."
"Father said there wasn't."
"Your father!"
"I know it. There ain't never tellin' when father lies," said Gladys.
"I guess father don't know what lies is, most of the time. I s'pose
he's always had a little, if he 'ain't had a good deal. But I'll
never tell, Maria, not as long as I live."
"If you do, I'll drown myself," said Maria.
Then the two sat quietly until the train was called out, when they
went through the gate, Maria showing her tickets for herself and
Gladys. Wollaston had purchased his own and returned Maria's. He kept
behind the two girls as if he did not belong to their party at all.
On the train he rode in the smoking-car.
The car was quite full at first, but the passengers got off at the
way-stations. When they drew near Edgham there were only a few left.
Wollaston had not paid the slightest attention to the passengers. He
could not have told what sort of a man occupied the seat with him,
nor even when he got off. He was vaguely conscious of the reeking
smoke of the car, but that was all. When the conductor came through
he handed out his ticket mechanically, without looking at him. He
stared out of the window at the swift-passing, shadowy trees, at the
green-and-red signal-lights, and the bright glare from the lights of
the stations through which they passed. Once they passed by a large
factory on fire, surrounded by a shouting mob of men, and engines.
Even that did not arrest his attention, although it caused quite a
commotion in the car. He sat huddled up in a heap, staring out with
blank eyes, all his consciousness fixed upon his own affairs. He felt
as if he had made an awful leap from boyhood to manhood in a minute.
He was full of indignation, of horror, of shame. He was conscious of
wishing that there were no girls in the world. After they had passed
the last station before reaching Edgham he looked wearily away from
the window, and recognized, stupidly, Maria's father in a seat in the
forward part of the car. Harry was sitting as dejectedly hunched upon
himself as was the boy. Wollaston recognized the fact that he could
not have found little Evelyn, and realized wickedly and furiously
that he did not care, that a much more dreadful complication had come
into his own life. He turned again to the window.
Maria, in the car behind the smoker, sat beside Gladys, and looked
out of the window very much as Wollaston was doing. She also was
conscious of an exceeding horror and terror, and a vague shame. It
was, to Maria, as if she had fallen through the fairy cobweb of
romance and struck upon the hard ground of reality with such force
that her very soul was bleeding. Wollaston, in the smoker, wished no
more devoutly that there were no girls in the world, than Maria
wished there were no boys. Her emotions had been, as it were, thrust
back down her own throat, and she was choked and sickened with them.
She would not look at nor speak to Gladys. Once, when Gladys
addressed a remark to her, Maria thrust out an indignant shoulder
towards her.
"You needn't act so awful mad," whispered Gladys. "I ain't goin' to
tell, and I was doin' it on your account. My mother will give it to
me when I git home."
"What are you going to tell her?" asked Maria, with sudden interest.
"I'm goin' to tell her I've been out walkin' with Ben Jadkins. She's
told me not to, and she'll lick me for all she's wuth," said Gladys,
angrily. "But I don't care. It's lucky father 'ain't been through
this train. It's real lucky to have your father git drunk sometimes.
I'll git licked, but I don't care."
Maria, sitting there, paid no more attention. The shock of her own
plight had almost driven from her mind the thought of Evelyn, but
when a woman got on the train leading a child about her age, the old
pain concerning her came back. She began to weep again quietly.
"I don't see what you are cryin' for," said Gladys, in an accusing
voice. "You might have been an old maid."
"I don't believe she is found," Maria moaned, in a low voice.
"Oh, the kid! You bet your life she'll turn up. Your pa 'll find her
all right. I didn't know as you were cryin' about that."
When they reached Edgham, Maria and Gladys got off the train,
Wollaston Lee also got off, and Harry Edgham, and from a rear car a
stout woman, yanking, rather than leading, by the hand, a little girl
with a fluff of yellow hair. The child was staggering with sleep. The
stout woman carried on her other arm a large wax-doll whose face
smiled inanely over her shoulder.
Suddenly there was a rush and cry, and Maria had the little girl in
her arms. She was kneeling beside her on the dusty platform,
regardless of her new suit.
"Sister! Sister!" screamed the child.
"Sister's own little darling!" said Maria, then she began to sob
wildly.
"It's her little sister. Where did you get her?" Gladys asked,
severely, of the stout woman, who stood holding the large doll and
glowering, while Harry Edgham came hurrying up. Then there was
another scream from the baby, and she was in her father's arms. There
were few at the station at that hour, but a small crowd gathered
around. On the outskirts was Wollaston Lee, looking on with his
sulky, desperate face.
The stout woman grasped Harry vehemently by the arm. "Look at here,"
said she. "I want to know, an' I ain't got no time to fool around,
for I want to take the next train back. Is that your young one? Speak
up quick."
Harry, hugging the child to his breast, looked at the stout woman.
"Yes," he replied, "she is mine, and I have been looking for her all
day. Where--Did you?"
"No, I didn't," said the stout woman, emphatically. "_She_ did. I
don't never meddle with other folks' children. I 'ain't never been
married, and I 'ain't never wanted to be. And I 'ain't never cared
nothin' about children; always thought they was more bother than they
were worth. And when I changed cars here this mornin', on my way from
Lawsons, where I've been to visit my married sister, this young one
tagged me onto the train, and nothin' I could say made anybody
believe she wa'n't mine. I told 'em I wa'n't married, but it didn't
make no difference. I call it insultin'. There I was goin' up to
Tarrytown to-day to see my aunt 'Liza. She's real feeble, and they
sent for me, and there I was with this young one. I had a cousin in
New York, and I took her to her house, and she didn't know any better
what to do than I did. She was always dreadful helpless. We waited
till her husband got home. He runs a tug down the harbor, and he said
take her to the police-station, and mebbe I'd find out somebody had
been tryin' to find her. So my cousin's husband and me went to the
station, and he was so tuckered out and mad at the whole performance
that I could hear him growlin' cuss words under his breath the whole
way. We took her and this great doll down to the station, and we
found out there who she was most likely, and who she belonged to. And
my cousin's husband said I'd got to take her out here. He looked it
up and found out I could git back to New York to-night. He said he
wouldn't come nohow." Suddenly a light flashed on the woman. "Say,"
she said, "you don't mean to say you've been on the train yourself
all the way out from New York?"
"Yes, I came out on the train," admitted Harry, meekly. "I am sorry--"
"Well, you'd better be," said the woman. "Here I've traipsed out here
for nothin' this time of night. I call you all a set of numskulls. I
don't call the young one very bright, either. Couldn't tell where she
lived, nor what her father's name was. Jest said it was papa, and her
name was peshious, or some such tomfoolery. I advise you to tag her
if she is in the habit of runnin' away. Here I ought to have been up
in Tarrytown, and I've been foolin' round in New York all day with
your young one and this big doll." With that the stout woman thrust
the doll at Maria. "Here, take this thing," said she. "I've had
enough of it! There ain't any sense in lettin' a child of her size
lug around a doll as big as that, anyhow. When does my train come?
Hev I got to cross to the other side? My cousin's husband said it
would be about twenty minutes I'd have to wait."
"I'll take you round to the other side, and I cannot be grateful
enough for your care," began Harry, but the woman stopped him again.
"I suppose you'll be willin' to pay my fare back to New York; that's
all I want," said she. "I don't want no thanks. I 'ain't no use for
children, but I ain't a heathen."
"I'll be glad to give you a great deal more than your fare to New
York," Harry said, in a broken voice. Evelyn was already fast asleep
on his shoulder. He led the way down the stairs towards the other
track.
"I don't want nothin' else, except five cents for my car-fare. I can
get a transfer, and it won't be more'n that," said the woman,
following. "I've got enough to git along with, and I ain't a heathen."
Harry, with Evelyn asleep in his arms, and Maria and Gladys, waited
with the stout woman until the train came. The station was closed,
and the woman sat down on a bench outside and immediately fell asleep
herself.
When the train came, Harry thrust a bank-note into the woman's hand,
having roused her with considerable difficulty, and she stumbled on
to the train over her skirts just as she had done in the morning.
Harry knew the conductor. "Look out for that woman," he called out to
him. "She found my little girl that was lost."
The conductor nodded affably as the train rolled out.
Wollaston Lee had gone home when the others descended the stairs and
crossed to the other track. When Harry, with Evelyn in his arms, her
limp little legs dangling, and Maria and Gladys, were on their way
home, the question, which he in his confusion had not thought to put
before, came.
"Why, Maria, where did you come from?" he asked.
"From New York," replied Maria, meekly.
"Her and me went up to her ma-in-law's cousin's, on Forty-ninth
Street, to find the kid," Gladys cut in, glibly, "but the cousin had
moved."
Harry stared at them. "Why, how happened you to do such a thing?" he
asked.
"I couldn't wait home and not do anything," Maria sobbed, nervously.
"Her ma-in-law's cousin had moved," said Gladys.
"How did you find your way?"
"I had been there before," sobbed Maria. She felt for her father's
hand, and grasped it with a meaning of trust and fear which he did
not understand.
"Well, you must never do such a thing again, no matter what happens,"
he said, and held the poor little girl's hand firmly. "Thank God
father's got you both back safe and sound."
Gladys made an abrupt departure on a corner.
"Good-night, M'ria!" she sung out, and was gone, a slim, flying
figure in the gloom.
"Are you afraid to go alone?" Harry called after her, in some
uncertainty.
"Land, no!" came cheerily back.
"How happened she to be with you?" asked Harry.
"She was down at the station when I came home from Wardway," replied
Maria, faintly. Her strength was almost gone. She could hardly
stagger up the steps of the house with her father, he bearing his
recovered child, she bearing her secret.