Before the day went, Miss Eunice awoke to the disagreeable fact that her
plans had become shrunken and contracted, that a certain something had
curdled her spontaneity, and that her ardor had flown out at some
crevice and had left her with the dry husk of an intent.
She exerted herself to glow a little, but she failed. She talked well
at the tea-table, but she did not tell about the glove. This matter
plagued her. She ran over in her mind the various doings of Miss
Crofutt, and she could not conceal from herself that that lady had never
given a glove to one of her wretches; no, nor had she ever permitted the
smallest approach to familiarity.
Miss Eunice wept a little. She was on the eve of despairing.
In the silence of the night the idea presented itself to her with a
disagreeable baldness. There was a thief over yonder that possessed a
confidence with her.
They had found it necessary to shut this man up in iron and stone, and
to guard him with a rifle with a large leaden ball in it.
This villain was a convict. That was a terrible word, one that made her
blood chill.
She, the admired of hundreds and the beloved of a family, had done a
secret and shameful thing of which she dared not tell. In these solemn
hours the madness of her act appalled her.
She asked herself what might not the fellow do with the glove? Surely he
would exhibit it among his brutal companions, and perhaps allow it to
pass to and fro among them. They would laugh and joke with him, and he
would laugh and joke in return, and no doubt he would kiss it to their
great delight. Again, he might go to her friends, and, by working upon
their fears and by threatening an exposure of her, extort large sums of
money from them. Again, might he not harass her by constantly appearing
to her at all times and all places and making all sorts of claims and
demands? Again, might he not, with terrible ingenuity, use it in
connection with some false key or some jack-in-the-box, or some
dark-lantern, or something, in order to effect his escape; or might he
not tell the story times without count to some wretched
curiosity-hunters who would advertise her folly all over the country, to
her perpetual misery?
She became harnessed to this train of thought. She could not escape from
it. She reversed the relation that she had hoped to hold toward such a
man, and she stood in his shadow, and not he in hers.
In consequence of these ever-present fears and sensations, there was one
day, not very far in the future, that she came to have an intolerable
dread of. This day was the one on which the sentence of the man was to
expire. She felt that he would surely search for her; and that he would
find her there could be no manner of doubt, for, in her surplus of
confidence, she had told him her full name, inasmuch as he had told her
his.
When she contemplated this new source of terror, her peace of mind fled
directly. So did her plans for philanthropic labor. Not a shred
remained. The anxiety began to tell upon her, and she took to peering
out of a certain shaded window that commanded the square in front of
her house. It was not long before she remembered that for good behavior
certain days were deducted from the convicts' terms of imprisonment.
Therefore, her ruffian might be released at a moment not anticipated by
her. He might, in fact, be discharged on any day. He might be on his way
toward her even now.
She was not very far from right, for suddenly the man did appear.
He one day turned the corner, as she was looking out at the window
fearing that she should see him, and came in a diagonal direction across
the hot, flagged square.
Miss Eunice's pulse leaped into the hundreds. She glued her eyes upon
him. There was no mistake. There was the red face, the evil eyes, the
large mouth, the gray hair, and the massive frame.
What should she do? Should she hide? Should she raise the sash and
shriek to the police? Should she arm herself with a knife? or--what? In
the name of mercy, what? She glared into the street. He came on
steadily, and she lost him, for he passed beneath her. In a moment she
heard the jangle of the bell. She was petrified. She heard his heavy
step below. He had gone into the little reception-room beside the door.
He crossed to a sofa opposite the mantel. She then heard him get up and
go to a window, then he walked about, and then sat down; probably upon a
red leather seat beside the window.
Meanwhile the servant was coming to announce him. From some impulse,
which was a strange and sudden one, she eluded the maid, and rushed
headlong upon her danger. She never remembered her descent of the
stairs. She awoke to cool contemplation of matters only to find herself
entering the room.
Had she made a mistake, after all? It was a question that was asked and
answered in a flash. This man was pretty erect and self-assured, but she
discerned in an instant that there was needed but the blue woollen
jacket and the tall cap to make him the wretch of a month before.
He said nothing. Neither did she. He stood up and occupied himself by
twisting a button upon his waistcoat. She, fearing a threat or a demand,
stood bridling to receive it. She looked at him from top to toe with
parted lips.
He glanced at her. She stepped back. He put the rim of his cap in his
mouth and bit it once or twice, and then looked out at the window. Still
neither spoke. A voice at this instant seemed impossible.
He glanced again like a flash. She shrank, and put her hands upon the
bolt. Presently he began to stir. He put out one foot, and gradually
moved forward. He made another step. He was going away. He had almost
reached the door, when Miss Eunice articulated, in a confused whisper,
"My--my glove; I wish you would give me my glove."
He stopped, fixed his eyes upon her, and after passing his fingers up
and down upon the outside of his coat, said, with deliberation, in a
husky voice, "No, mum. I'm goin' fur to keep it as long as I live, if it
takes two thousand years."
"Keep it!" she stammered.
"Keep it," he replied.
He gave her an untranslatable look. It neither frightened her nor
permitted her to demand the glove more emphatically. She felt her cheeks
and temples and her hands grow cold, and midway in the process of
fainting she saw him disappear. He vanished quietly. Deliberation and
respect characterized his movements, and there was not so much as a jar
of the outer door.
Poor philanthropist!
This incident nearly sent her to a sick-bed. She fully expected that her
secret would appear in the newspapers in full, and she lived in dread of
the onslaught of an angry and outraged society.
The more she reflected upon what her possibilities had been and how she
had misused them, the iller and the more distressed she got. She grew
thin and spare of flesh. Her friends became frightened. They began to
dose her and to coddle her. She looked at them with eyes full of supreme
melancholy, and she frequently wept upon their shoulders.
In spite of her precautions, however, a thunder-bolt slipped in.
One day her father read at the table an item that met his eye. He
repeated it aloud, on account of the peculiar statement in the last
line:
"Detained on suspicion.--A rough-looking fellow, who gave the name of
Gorman, was arrested on the high-road to Tuxbridge Springs for suspected
complicity in some recent robberies in the neighborhood. He was
fortunately able to give a pretty clear account of his late whereabouts
and he was permitted to depart with a caution from the justice. Nothing
was found upon him but a few coppers and an old kid glove wrapped in a
bit of paper."
Miss Eunice's soup spilled. This was too much, and she fainted this time
in right good earnest; and she straightway became an invalid of the
settled type. They put her to bed. The doctor told her plainly that he
knew she had a secret, but she looked at him so imploringly that he
refrained from telling his fancies; but he ordered an immediate change
of air. It was settled at once that she should go to the "Springs"--to
Tuxbridge Springs. The doctor knew there were young people there, also
plenty of dancing. So she journeyed thither with her pa and her ma and
with pillows and servants.
They were shown to their rooms, and strong porters followed with the
luggage. One of them had her huge trunk upon his shoulder. He put it
carefully upon the floor, and by so doing he disclosed the ex-prisoner
to Miss Eunice and Miss Eunice to himself. He was astonished, but he
remained silent. But she must needs be frightened and fall into another
fit of trembling. After an awkward moment he went away, while she called
to her father and begged piteously to be taken away from Tuxbridge
Springs instantly. There was no appeal. She hated, _hated_, HATED
Tuxbridge Springs, and she should die if she were forced to remain. She
rained tears. She would give no reason, but she could not stay. No,
millions on millions could not persuade her; go she must. There was no
alternative. The party quitted the place within the hour, bag and
baggage. Miss Eunice's father was perplexed and angry, and her mother
would have been angry also if she had dared.
They went to other springs and stayed a month, but the patient's fright
increased each day, and so did her fever. She was full of distractions.
In her dreams everybody laughed at her as the one who had flirted with a
convict. She would ever be pursued with the tale of her foolishness and
stupidity. Should he ever recover her self-respect and confidence?
She had become radically selfish. She forgot the old ideas of
noble-heartedness and self-denial, and her temper had become weak and
childish. She did not meet her puzzle face to face, but she ran away
from it with her hands over her ears. Miss Crofutt stared at her, and
therefore she threw Miss Crofutt's book into the fire.
After two days of unceasing debate, she called her parents, and with
the greatest agitation told them _all_.
It so happened, in this case, that events, to use a railroad phrase,
made connection.
No sooner had Miss Eunice told her story than the man came again. This
time he was accompanied by a woman.
"Only get my glove away from him," sobbed the unhappy one, "that is all
I ask!" This was a fine admission! It was thought proper to bring an
officer, and so a strong one was sent for.
Meanwhile the couple had been admitted to the parlor. Miss Eunice's
father stationed the officer at one door, while he, with a pistol, stood
at the other. Then Miss Eunice went into the apartment. She was wasted,
weak, and nervous. The two villains got up as she came in, and bowed.
She began to tremble as usual, and laid hold upon the mantelpiece. "How
much do you want?" she gasped.
The man gave the woman a push with his forefinger. She stepped forward
quickly with her crest up. Her eyes turned, and she fixed a vixenish
look upon Miss Eunice. She suddenly shot her hand out from beneath her
shawl and extended it at full length. Across it lay Miss Eunice's glove,
very much soiled.
"Was that thing ever yours?" demanded the woman, shrilly.
"Y-yes," said Miss Eunice, faintly.
The woman seemed (if the apt word is to be excused) staggered. She
withdrew her hand, and looked the glove over. The man shook his head,
and began to laugh behind his hat.
"And did you ever give it to him?" pursued the woman, pointing over her
shoulder with her thumb.
Miss Eunice nodded.
"Of your own free will?"