A PAEAN OF VICTORY HYMNED IN HELL.
On the day following that upon which Leonard and Natalie had last met in
Leonard's study, there were two women in a room of a shabby New York
house, evidently once a worthy residence, but now sadly fallen from that
estate.
One of the two, half dressed, with a good deal of tarnished lace
decorating such clothing as she had on, sat on the bed in an easy
attitude, careless as to the display of a handsome person. Dark,
heavy-browed, her first youth past, her haggard face was redeemed by
deep, soft eyes, that now, however, from beneath their long lashes,
looked out upon the face of the other woman with suspicious wariness.
This one, overfed, coarse, vile to look upon, with the face of a painted
gargoyle, red and mottled, garishly dressed in a loose gown, stood with
arms akimbo, her little eyes bent wickedly upon the woman on the bed.
"Ten days' board," croaked the fat one. "Ten days."
"Ten weeks, for all I care," was the reply.
The fat creature wheezed and snorted; she half lifted her great red hand
as if to administer a blow.
"Try it," said the other, "and I'll stick this into you," holding
threateningly the blade of a pair of scissors.
The fat one recoiled; there was enough recklessness in the eyes of the
woman with the scissors to justify the movement. "Now, now, Frenchy,"
she remonstrated, "you won't be a fool. Possy bate, eh?"
"_Pas si bete_," laughed the other grimly. "Try it and see!"
"You know," said the rubicund one, "this ain't white, Berthe. Whose
fault is it if you've no money?"
"Ah!" exclaimed Berthe. "You think me of your kind. I'm a lady; I was a
fool to come here."
"Sure, you're a lady; and for that very reason ought to make a mint of
money. I'll tell you what's the matter with you, Berthe--you're a mule.
I swear," she exclaimed, suddenly conscious of wrong, "my boarders is
the bane of my life. Mules--but there, nobody'd believe what I've
borne."
"_Malheureuse!_" sneered Berthe.
"I tell you, missy, girls don't talk that way to me!" exclaimed the
red-gowned dame, perhaps suspecting unseemly profanity veiled in a
foreign tongue.
"I don't want to talk any way to you. Get out," replied Berthe.
"And the board bill?"
"I've had nothing to eat for two days."
"And won't have as long as you're a mule. If you have no money by this
time to-morrow, out you go, and without your trunk; so Frenchy,"
concluded the woman, changing her tone to persuasion, "be reasonable.
You shall have dinner if you'll promise to go out afterward. Think it
over," and she waddled off.
Berthe lay back upon the pillow, her long arms stretched above her head,
and thought it over.
She had left Mrs. Leon long ago, and since then her steps had been
downward. For awhile a nursery governess, which, being amply capable,
she might have long remained had it not been for her eyes. She was not
altogether conscious of the capacity of her eyes, and was long innocent
of the knowledge of the strife and hatred they had wrought in the family
in which she served. Maltreated by an infuriated mistress, she had
avenged herself amply, living for months in luxury, and on the money and
caresses legally belonging to the other. But she had never cared for her
sinner, and he had been glad to creep back to that which he had
dishonored, not forgiven, but accepted as a hard necessity. Her luxuries
and her money were soon spent--as for the rest, it is a dark tale that
she recalls, lying there majestic, with her long arms above her black
head and her dark eyes brooding.
The present was a problem. The move to this house was toward a deeper
degradation than any she had known, and she recoiled from its demands.
She knew its probable end, too. She was shrewd, dominant if she chose to
be; in short, no fool. She could rise to prosperity and become like the
gargoyle, but the prospect sickened her. All the inmates of the house
were to her abhorrent, but the gargoyle was a loathsome, soulless,
pitiless beast, only not a fool. The others were fools, and she knew,
feeling the sparks of humanity within her, that she must even be a fool
rather than a beast. And the end of the fool was misery, from which
there was but one escape.
She was hungry. It was true that, except as to some slices of bread,
smuggled to her by soft-hearted ones, she had eaten nothing for two
days. She had long ago pawned her articles of jewelry. Her clothes were
in the clutch of the beast. She would have to apply to her for garments
for the street. She must surrender.
So she asked for her clothes and her dinner. The beast was gracious, but
chary as to giving too many garments. The truth was, the beast hoped her
boarder would not return. She had the trunk--she was sick of the mule.
Berthe wandered toward the lower part of the city. Plainly dressed, her
carriage dignified, she was not molested, nor did she cast her eyes upon
any passer-by. She walked straight on, yet not rapidly, for there was no
purpose in her walk. Useless to seek that man upon whose wife she had
avenged herself; he had been hurried off to do penance in the country;
even if he had returned, she knew nothing of his present abode.
Mrs. Leon was a dweller in hotels, and at this season, not in town.
Besides, Mrs. Leon could not be ignorant of what had been accomplished
by the nursery governess she had herself recommended.
She wished now, for in truth, as she walked on, terror of possible
starvation began to haunt her, that she had carried out an often
neglected impulse to write to a man she knew, and who she believed could
help her. She would have done so before this, but the man's wife was a
friend of Mrs. Leon. This recollection had prevented her addressing him.
Yet she knew he would have helped her. He was young, he was kind. Ah! he
was adorable.
So she walked on, thinking of that adorable man, forgetting her fear of
starvation. He had kissed her, or rather, and she smiled as she
corrected herself, she had kissed him. He had been helpless. The
innocent!
By this time she was in Fourteenth Street. A man seeing the smile upon
her lips, stood in her path and addressed her. She moved aside and
walked on; the smile had been born of a memory sweet to her. The man
looked after her, astonished at the majestic ignoring of himself.
Suddenly the woman stopped, as if struck. Then she started, walking
quickly, and entered a brilliantly lighted resort.
* * * * *
Leonard had passed a sleepless night in the train. In New York he went
to a hotel which he had never before frequented. He desired to be alone.
He had left home to think, not to seek acquaintance or distraction.
And he thought, walking the streets of the great city until he was
footsore, and the more he thought, the less capable was he of reasoning,
the more weary he grew of thought; finally, striding onward in a dream
of incoherent fancies, that were not thoughts, but impotent efforts of a
tired brain. All day long there swayed before his eyes visions inspired
by objects seen but not noted and most incongruous. The passing glance
upon a billboard, gay with motley figures, gave birth to a picture of
living damsels, languishing in postures of inviting loveliness. He saw
no stony streets, no squalid scenes, but wandered in a Moslem heaven in
whose crystal streams Naiads bathed fair round limbs or sported in
wanton frolic in silvery cascades, anon decking with lilies the roseate
beauties of their queen. He took no heed of time or place, pacing street
after street, along the wharves, seeing neither ship nor dray; in the
Hebrew crowd of the East Side, noting nothing of the soft-eyed men with
dirty beards, nor the women wearing wigs of jute, nor the children
dancing in the streets to hand-organs, nor any of the sights of that
crowded foreign city, full of strange interest. Of the things before his
eyes he saw nothing; nor could he, being entranced by raptures which had
tried the souls of saints a thousand years ago!
At ten o'clock at night, having eaten nothing since an early and
neglected breakfast, he stood in the street, conscious that he must eat
or faint. He entered a brilliantly lighted room where there were tables,
but which was nearly empty.
Back of the room he saw another filled with people, decked with palms
and artificial grottoes. He entered and sat down at the first unoccupied
table.
"Bring me a sandwich," he said to the waiter, "and a drink."
The sandwich was brought and the drink. The latter Leonard supposed was
wine. He remembered that he had scruples against wine-drinking; had, in
fact, never tasted wine. He was too tired to care much for scruples, and
besides, he was faint, and even his scruples permitted wine in case of
illness. He swallowed the liquor, which was whiskey, at one gulp, and
commenced to eat ravenously.
He ordered another sandwich and another drink, which was brought, this
time with a carafe of water in addition. He drank greedily of the water,
reserving his liquor, and, as ravenously as before, consumed his second
sandwich.
Then he looked about him with more interest in his surroundings than he
had known during all that day. He felt comfortable, happy in fact. He
stretched out his legs and sipped his liquor, this time noting the
strength of the beverage, which made him cough and brought the tears to
his eyes, causing a woman to smile slyly. He smiled in return, then
looked quickly away, abashed at his own temerity in thus answering the
involuntary expression of a strange lady. This, as he looked about him,
he thought must be one of those German beer-gardens he had heard about,
but in this country had never seen. Evidently the people did not bring
their children. That was well. Beer-drinking was a bad example for
children. The women looked tired, he thought, though some were very
rosy, remarkably so, and all were tawdry. The men were not a
nice-looking set, though there were exceptions. Many were not much more
than boys, and these affected brilliant, if somewhat dirty, neckwear.
There were things about this place that offended him; principally, the
tone of the men. They lolled a good deal and smoked in the women's
faces; that was German, he supposed. The women, of whom a number were
alone, were better behaved. He noticed a waiter order one to leave the
place; that was singular, especially as she had slunk in very quietly
and had seemed very humble. Suddenly the great orchestrion commenced to
squeal and bang and clash, and soon the heads of the people were
strangely bobbing, keeping time; now the strains grew soft and
plaintive; a profound sadness crept over him as he listened to what
seemed the requiem of a dying soul. He felt the tears rising in his
eyes.
For a long time he had been eagerly watched by a woman. Berthe could not
be sure if this were indeed the man she knew. What could he be doing
here? Half hidden behind a curtain which draped a huge column, she
watched the heaving breast of the man. Suddenly, she saw his head fall
forward, smashing a tumbler, and a cry of agony broke from him.
"Natalie, Natalie!"
It might have been the last despairing wail of the soul doomed
thenceforward to darkness, whose requiem he had heard. To the obscene
observers and the superintendent of the place it was the cry of a
drunken man, who had no business there.
There was no hubbub. The habitues of the place comprehended that nothing
of that sort was allowed. The man was quickly hustled into the front
room by the manager.
"Get his hat," said this personage to a waiter. "Has he paid his bill?"
he questioned as the man brought the hat.
"Yes, except the broken glass."
"Damn the glass!" replied the manager, who desired to get rid of the
drunkard. "Come, young fellow, steady on your pins now and be off."
A woman slipped her arm under Leonard's. "I will take care of him," she
said.
The manager looked at the pair as they made their way toward the street.
"Do you know her?" he asked of an employee who had witnessed the
departure.
"She's not a regular, sure."
"Nor he. Well, it's not our affair," and the manager returned to his
duties.
The two wandered off, the man's unsteady steps supported tenderly by the
woman. When the sun rose, his head rested on her bosom and her lips
hovered lovingly above his own, and the hum of the waking city, borne to
his ears, may, to him, have been the distant harmony of a paean of
victory hymned in hell.