When Amy Goodrich went to her room after the scene with her brutal
father, wounded pride, anger at his injustice, and reckless defiance
filled her heart. Mrs. Goodrich had heard the harsh words and quietly
followed her daughter, but the door was locked. When she called softly
for admittance, Amy only answered between her sobs, "No, no, mamma;
please go away. I want to be alone." But the girl did not spend much
time in weeping. With a look of determination upon her tear-stained
face, she caught up a daily paper that was lying where she had dropped
it that morning, and carefully studied time-cards. Then removing as
far as possible the evidence of her grief, she changed her dress for
a more simple and serviceable gown, and gathering together a few
necessary articles, packed them, with her jewelry, in a small satchel.
She had finished her simple preparations and was just writing the last
word of her brief farewell message, when Mrs. Goodrich came quietly
to the door again.
Amy started to her feet in alarm when she heard the low knock, and
then as she listened to her mother's voice softly calling her name,
the hot tears filled her eyes once more, and she moved as though to
destroy the note in her hand. But as she hesitated, her father's words
came back: "You may have your tramp, but don't call me father. You are
no daughter of mine," and a cruel something seemed to arrest her better
impulse and force her to remain silent.
Mrs. Goodrich, when she received no answer to her call, thought that
her daughter was sleeping, and with a sigh of relief, went to her own
room. A little later, the father came upstairs and retired. Then Frank
returned home, and the trembling listener heard the servants locking
up the house. When all was still, and her watch told her that it was
a few minutes past midnight, she carefully opened the door, and with
her satchel in her hand, stole cautiously down the stairs and out of
the house. Hurrying as fast as she could to Broadway, she found a cab,
and was driven to the depot on the east side.
As Amy stepped from the vehicle beneath the electric light and paused
a moment to give the driver his fare, a man came out of a saloon on
the corner near by. It was Mr. Whitley. He recognized the girl
instantly, and springing to one side, drew back into the shadow of the
building, where he waited until she went to the ticket office. Then
going quickly to the open window of the waiting room, he heard her ask
for a ticket to Jonesville. After the train had pulled in and he had
watched her aboard, he entered the cab that had brought her to the
station, and was driven to his hotel.
The next morning Whitley was the first to learn from Frank Goodrich,
of Amy's quarrel with her father, and the reason. Without a word of
what he had seen, he made hurried preparation and followed her on the
next train.
At Jonesville, he easily made the rounds of the hotels and carefully
examined the registers, but Amy's name was on none of them. Concluding
that she must be at the home of some friend, he had placed his own
name on the last book he examined, and seated himself to think over
the situation, when he heard a bell-boy say: "That girl in number
sixteen wants a 'Frisco' time-table."
Whitley lounged carelessly up to the counter and again glanced over
the register. Number sixteen was occupied by a Miss Anderson. Catching
the eye of the clerk, he placed his finger on the name and winked.
"When did she get in?" he asked, in a low tone, at the same time
slipping a gold-piece beneath the open page.
"On the one-thirty from the west, last night," the fellow replied, in
the same cautious manner, as he whirled the book toward him and deftly
transferred the coin to his own pocket, without attracting the attention
of the landlord who stood near by.
"I believe I'll go to my room and clean up," said Whitley, a moment
later.
"Show this gentleman to number fifteen," promptly called the clerk,
and Whitley followed the boy who had answered Miss Anderson's call
upstairs.
When he had placed the heavy grip on the floor, the boy turned to see
Whitley holding out a dollar bill.
"Did you get a look at the lady in number sixteen, when you went up
with that time-card?"
"Course I did."
"Can you describe her?"
"You bet, mister; she's a daisy too." And as he folded the bill and
carefully placed it in his vest pocket, he gave an accurate description
of Amy.
Whitley, dismissed the boy and seated himself to watch through the
half-closed door, the room across the hall. He had not long to wait.
Amy stepped out into the corridor and started toward the stairway. In
an instant Whitley was by her side. The girl gave a start of surprise
and uttered a frightened exclamation.
"Don't be frightened, Miss Goodrich, I have very important news for
you from home. Step into the parlor please."
Too bewildered to do other than obey, she followed him.
"I have been searching for you all day," he said, as he conducted her
to a seat in the far corner of the empty room.
Amy tried to look indignant and started to reply when he interrupted
her.
"Wait a moment, please, Miss Goodrich, and hear me, before you condemn.
When your father discovered this morning, that you had left home, he
came at once to me and told me the whole story. I tried to explain to
him that it was I, and not Falkner, who had been with you, but he would
not listen; and in spite of my pleading, declared that you should never
enter his home again. I am sorry, but he is very angry and I fear will
keep his word, for a time at least. He even accused me of telling
falsehoods to shield you, and insisted that I should forget you forever
and never mention your name in his hearing again. I learned at the
depot that you had purchased a ticket to this city, and took the first
train, hoping to find and offer you any assistance that might be in
my power to give. A girl in your position needs a friend, for you
cannot go home just now."
In spite of herself, Amy was touched by the words spoken with such
seeming truth and earnestness, but her heart was filled with anger at
her father, and her face was hard and set as she replied coldly: "I
thank you, but you might have saved yourself the trouble. I have no
wish to go home."
"Indeed, I do not see how you can feel differently under the
circumstances," admitted the other with apparent reluctance; "but have
you thought of the future? What can you do? You have never been
dependent upon yourself. You know nothing of the world."
Amy's face grew white. Seeing his advantage, Whitley continued, drawing
a dark picture of a young woman without friends or means of support.
At last, as he talked, Amy began to cry. Then his voice grew tender.
"Miss Goodrich--Amy--come to me. Be my wife. I have long loved you.
I will teach you to love me. Let me comfort and protect you."
The girl lifted her head. "You dare ask that after what happened the
other night?"
"God knows how I regret that awful mistake," he replied earnestly.
"But you know I was not myself. I am no worse than other men, and--"
He hesitated--"you must remember that it was through you that I drank
too much. I could not refuse when you gave me the glass. I never was
intoxicated before. Won't you forgive me this once and let me devote
my life to righting the wrong?"
Amy's eyes fell. The seeming justice and truth of his words impressed
her.
Again the man saw his advantage and talked to her of the life his
wealth would help her to live. She would be free from every care. They
would travel abroad until her father had forgotten his wrath, and could
she doubt that all would be well when she returned as his wife?
Amy hesitated, and again he pointed out the awful danger of her trying
to live alone. As he talked, the girl's utter helplessness overcame
her, and rising to her feet she faltered, "Give me time to think; I
will come to you here in an hour."
When she returned she said: "Mr. Whitley, I will marry you; but my
people must not know until later."
Whitley started toward her eagerly, but she stepped back. "Not now.
Wait. We will go east on the evening train and will take every
precaution to hide our course. We will travel in separate cars as
strangers, and while stopping at hotels will register under assumed
names, and will not even recognize each other. When we reach New York,
I will become your wife."
Whitley could scarcely conceal his triumph; that she should so fully
play into his hand was to him the greatest good luck. With every
expression of love he agreed to everything; but when he would embrace
her she put him away--"Not until we are married;" and lie was compelled
to be satisfied.
For a while longer they talked, completing their plans. Then drawing
out his pocket-book he said: "By-the-way, you will need money." But
she shook her head: "Not until I have the right. Here are my jewels;
sell them for me."
He protested and laughed at her scruples. But she insisted. And at
last, he took the valuables and left the hotel. Going to a bank where
he was known, he drew a large sum of money, and returning, placed a
roll of bills in her hand. Thinking that it was the price of her rings,
she accepted it without the slightest question.
That night, he bought a ticket for Chicago, over the Wabash from St.
Louis, taking a chair car, while she purchased one for a little town
on the Alton, and traveled in a sleeper. But at St. Louis, they remained
two days, stopping at a hotel agreed upon, but as strangers. Then they
again took tickets for different stations, over another road, but
stopped at Detroit. It was here that Amy's suspicions were aroused.
She was sitting at dinner, when Whitley entered the dining room with
two traveling men who seemed to be well acquainted with him. The trio,
laughing and talking boisterously, seated themselves at a table behind
her. Recognizing Whitley's voice, she lifted her eyes to a mirror
opposite, and to her horror, distinctly saw him point her out to his
friends.
Amy's dinner remained untasted, and hiding her confusion as best she
could, she rose to leave the room. As she passed the table where Whitley
and the men were eating, the two drummers looked at her in such a way
that the color rushed to her pale cheeks in a crimson flame. Later,
at the depot, she saw them again, and was sure, from Whitley's manner,
that he had been drinking.
Once more aboard the train, the girl gave herself up to troubled
thought. Worn out by the long journey under such trying circumstances,
and the lonely hours among strangers at the hotels, and now thoroughly
frightened at the possible outcome when they reached New York, the
poor child worried herself into such a state that when they left the
cars at Buffalo, Whitley became frightened, and in spite of her.
protests, registered at the hotel as her brother and called in a
physician.
The doctor at once insisted that she be removed to a boarding place,
where she could have perfect rest and quiet, and with his help, such
a place was found; Whitley, as her brother, making all arrangements.
For three weeks the poor girl lay between life and death, and strangely
enough, in her delirium, called not once for father or mother or
brother, but always for Dick, and always begged him to save her from
some great danger. Whitley was at the house every day, and procured
her every attention that money could buy. But when at last she began
to mend, something in her eyes as she looked at him, made him curse
beneath his breath.
Day after day she put him off when he urged marriage, saying "When we
get to New York." But at last the time came when she could offer no
excuse for longer delay, and in a few firm words she told him that she
could not keep her promise, telling him why and begging his forgiveness
if she wronged him.
Then the man's true nature showed itself and he cursed her for being
a fool; taunted her with using his money, and swore that he would force
her to come to him.
That afternoon, the landlady came to her room, and placing a letter
in her hand, asked, "Will you please be kind enough to explain that?"
Amy read the note, which informed the lady of the house that her boarder
was a woman of questionable character, and that the man who was paying
her bills was not her brother. With a sinking heart, Amy saw that the
writing was Jim Whitley's. Her face flushed painfully. "I did not know
that he was paying my bills," she said, slowly.
"Then it is true," exclaimed the woman. "He is not your brother?"
Amy was silent. She could find no words to explain.
"You must leave this house instantly. If it were not for the publicity
I would hand you over to the police."
She went to a cheap, but respectable hotel, and the next morning,
Whitley, who had not lost sight of her, managed to force an interview.
"Will you come to me now?" he asked. "You see what you may expect from
the world."
Her only reply was, "I will take my own life before I would trust it
in your hands." And he, knowing that she spoke the truth, left her to
return to Boyd City.
A few days later, when Dick Falkner stepped from the cars at Buffalo,
and hurried through the depot toward the hack that bore the name of
the hotel where Whitley had left Amy, he did not notice that the girl
he had come so far to find, was standing at the window of the ticket
office, and while the proprietor of the hotel was explaining why Miss
Wheeler had left his house, the west-bound train was carrying Amy
toward Cleveland.
Whitley had written a letter to the landlord, explaining the character
of the woman calling herself Miss Wheeler, and had just dropped it in
the box, when Dick met him in the post office on the day of Jim's
arrival home.
With the aid of the Buffalo police, Dick searched long and carefully
for the missing girl, but with no results, and at last, his small
savings nearly exhausted, he was forced to return to Boyd City, where
he arrived just in time to take an active part in the new movement
inaugurated by Rev. Cameron and the Young People's Union.
In Cleveland, Amy sought out a cheap lodging house, for she realized
that her means were limited, and began a weary search for employment.
Day after day she went from place to place answering advertisements
for positions which she thought she could fill. Walking all she could
she took a car only when her strength failed, but always met with the
same result; a cold dismissal because she could give no references;
not a kind look; not an encouraging word; not a helpful smile. As the
days went by, her face grew hard and her eyes had a hopeless, defiant
look, that still lessened her chances of success, and gave some cause
for the suspicious glances she encountered on every hand, though her
features showed that under better circumstances she would be beautiful.
One evening as she stood on the street corner, tired out, shivering
in the sharp wind, confused by the rush and roar of the city, and in
doubt as to the car she should take, a tall, beautifully dressed woman
stopped by her side, waiting also for a car.
Amy, trembling, asked if she would direct her. The lady looked at her
keenly as she gave the needed information, and then added kindly, "You
are evidently not acquainted in Cleveland."
Amy admitted that she was a stranger.
"And where is your home?"
"I have none," was the sad reply.
"You are stopping with friends, I suppose?"
Amy shook her head and faltered, "No, I know no one in the city."
The woman grew very kind. "You poor child," she said, "you look as
though you were in distress. Can't I help you?"
Tears filled the brown eyes that were lifted pleadingly to the face
of the questioner, and a dry sob was the only answer.
"Come with me, dear," said the woman, taking her kindly by the arm.
"This is my car. Come and let me help you."
They boarded the car, and after a long ride, entered a finely furnished
house in a part of the city far from Amy's boarding place. The woman
took Amy to her own apartments, and after giving her a clean bath and
a warm supper, sat with her before the fire, while the girl poured out
her story to the only sympathetic listener she had met.
When she had finished, the woman said, "You have not told me your
name."
"You may call me Amy. I have no other name."
Again the woman spoke slowly: "You cannot find work. No one will receive
you. But why should you care? You are beautiful."
Amy looked at her in wonder, and the woman explained how she had many
girls in her home, who with fine dresses and jewels, lived a life of
ease and luxury.
At last the girl understood and with a shudder, rose to her feet.
"Madam, I thank you for your kindness; for you _have_ been kind; but
I cannot stop here." She started toward the door, but the woman stopped
her.
"My dear child; you cannot go out at this time of night again, and you
could never find your way back to your lodging place. Stay here. You
need not leave this room, and you may bolt the door on this side.
Tomorrow you may go if you will."
Amy could do nothing but stay. As she laid her tired head on the clean
pillow that night, and nestling in the warm blankets watched the
firelight as the flames leaped and played, she heard the sound of music
and merry voices, and thought of the cold, poorly-furnished bed-room,
with coarse sheets and soiled pillows, at her lodging place, and of
the weary tramp about the streets, and the unkind faces that refused
her a chance for life. What would the end be when her money was gone,
she wondered; and after all, why not this?
The next morning, when she awoke, she could not for a moment, remember
where she was; then it all came back, just as a knock sounded on the
door.
"Who is it?" she called.
"Your coffee, miss," came the answer, and she unlocked the door,
admitting an old negro woman with a neat tray, on which was set a
dainty breakfast.
Later, when she was dressed, Madam came. "And do you still feel that
you must go?" she asked.
"Yes, yes, I must. Don't tempt me."
The woman handed her a card with her name and address. "Well, go, my
dear; and when you are driven to the street, because you have no money
and are cold and hungry, come to me if you will, and earn food and
clothing, warmth and ease, by the only means open to you." Then she
went with her to the street and saw that she took the right car.
As Amy said good-bye, the tears filled her eyes again, and oh, how
lonely and desolate the poor girl felt, as she shivered in the sharp
air, and how hopelessly she again took up her fight against the awful
odds.
But the end came at last as Madam had said it would. Without money,
Amy was turned from her boarding place. One awful night she spent on
the street, and the next day she found her way, half frozen, and weak
from hunger, to Madam's place.