Amy was kindly received by Madam when she reached her house after that
terrible night on the streets of Cleveland, and under the woman's
skillful treatment, rapidly regained her strength and beauty. Never
doubting that Whitley had made it impossible for her ever to return
to Boyd City, she felt that she was dead to the kindly world she had
once known, and looked upon the life she was entering as her only
refuge from the cruel world she had learned to know. Several of the
girls proved very pleasant and sympathetic companions. Little by little
she grew accustomed to her surroundings and learned to look upon the
life they led from their point of view; and when the time came for her
to join the company in the parlor she accepted her lot with calm
resignation.
When she had carefully dressed in a silken evening gown provided by
Madam, she made her way alone down to the wine rooms. The scene that
met her eye was beautiful and fascinating. The apartment was large and
brilliantly lighted; the furniture, appointments and pictures were of
the finest, with rare bits of statuary half-hidden in banks of choicest
flowers. Upon the floor were carpets and rugs, in which the foot sank
as in beds of moss; and luxurious chairs and couches invited the visitor
to ease and indolence. From behind silken curtains came soft strains
of music, and deft waiters glided here and there, bearing trays of
expensive wines and liquors.
Seated at the card tables, drinking, laughing and playing, were the
wealthy patrons of the place, and mingling with them, the girls, all
of exceptional grace and beauty, dressed in glittering evening costume;
but not one eclipsed the radiant creature who stood with flushed cheeks
and shining eyes hesitating on the threshold.
Madam, moving here and there among her guests, saw Amy as she stood
in the doorway, and went to her at once. Leading the girl to a little
alcove at one end of the room, she presented her to a middle-aged man
who was seated by himself and seemed to be waiting for someone. Amy
did not know that he was waiting for her. As the three stood there
chatting, a servant came quietly to Madam's side and whispered in her
jeweled ear.
"Certainly," she answered, "Tell them to come in." Then turning, she
stepped to a table and rapping with her fan to attract attention,
cried, "The Salvation Army people want to hold a prayer meeting here,
what do you say?"
There was a babble of voices, shrieks of feminine laughter, and an
oath or two from the men. Some shouted, "Let them come." Others
protested until Madam stopped the clamor by saying sharply: "Of course
they shall come in. You know it is my custom never to refuse these
people. I respect and admire them. They believe in their own teaching
and live what they preach; and I want it understood that they shall
not be insulted in this house. Jake--" A huge ex-prize fighter stepped
into the room from a side door. "You all know Jake, gentlemen,"
continued Madam, with a smile; "and if you are not acquainted with him
you can easily obtain an introduction by making some slighting remark,
or offering an insult to these Salvation Soldiers. Here they come;
remember."
As the little band of men and women filed slowly in, everybody rose
at a sign from Madam, and gathered about the soldiers, who took their
position in the center of the room; all except the girl in the alcove,
who turned her back to the group and stood partly screened by the lace
drapery of the archway.
The visitors opened their service with a song, rendered with much good
taste and feeling. Not loud and martial as on the street, but soft,
low and pleading. Many eyes glistened and many lips trembled when the
song came to a close; and as the singers dropped to their knees, not
a few heads involuntarily bowed.
One after another, the little band prayed, pleading with God to be
kind and merciful to the erring; asking the Father, in the name of
Jesus, to pity and forgive. Truly it was a picture of great
contrasts--of brightest lights and deepest shadows--almost as when the
Son of God prayed for his enemies, and wept because they were his
enemies.
Three out of the six had offered their prayers and the fourth began
to speak: "Our Father and our God,"--At the first word, uttered in a
clear, manly, but subdued tone, the girl behind the curtain started
violently; and as the prayer continued slowly, in that voice so full
of manly truth and vigor, she raised her head and the rich blood colored
neck and cheek. Little by little the hard look in her eyes gave way
to mingled wonder, doubt and awe; then the blood fled back to the
trembling heart again, leaving her face as white as the marble figure
near which she stood; and then, as though compelled by a power superior
to her own will, she turned slowly, and stepped from her hiding place
into full view. As if stricken dumb, she stood until the prayer was
finished. The captain gave the signal and the little company rose to
their feet.
"O God!" The young soldier who had prayed last, sprang forward; but
he was not quick enough, for before he could cross the room, with a
moan of unutterable anguish, the girl sank to the floor.
"God help us, she's dead," cried Dick. And dropping on one knee, he
supported the senseless girl in his arms.
All was confusion in an instant. Men and women crowded about their
companion, and the Salvationists looked at one another in pity, surprise
and wonder. Then Madam spoke: "Girls be quiet. Gentlemen make way. Amy
is not dead. Bring her in here." The stalwart prize-fighter touched
Dick on the shoulder and the latter, with the lovely form still in his
arms, followed as in a dream, to Madam's own private apartments. A
doctor came, in answer to a hurried call, and after no little effort
the color slowly returned to the cheeks and the long, dark lashes began
to tremble.
The physician turned to Dick. "Leave us now; she must not see you at
first."
Dick looked at Madam. "May I have a few words privately with you?"
The woman nodded; and with the Army captain, they retired to another
room, leaving Amy in charge of the doctor and one of the Salvation
lassies.
Then Dick told Madam and the captain the whole story of Amy's life and
home, how she had gone away because of her father's mistake, how Whitley
had deceived her, and how they had searched for her in vain. Then as
he told of the mother's broken health, and the sorrowing friends,
though he made no mention of himself, they could not but read as he
spoke of others, something of his own trouble.
Tears gathered in Madam's eyes, and when the tale was finished, she
said: "Somehow I have always felt that Amy would never remain with
us." And then she told of the poor girl's bitter experience alone in
the great city, and how as a last resort, she had accepted her present
situation. "She is more refined and gentle than the others," continued
Madam, "and in my heart, I have always hoped that she would leave here.
But what could she do? She had no friends; and we can't afford to have
any feelings in this wretched business. Oh sir, this life is a very
Hell on earth, and bad as I am, I would never lay a straw in any girl's
way who wanted to get out of it. I am glad, glad, that you came in
time. You know, captain, that I have never opposed your work; and have
seen you take several girls from my place without protest. But I can't
be expected to look after them myself."
They discussed the situation for some time, and finally Madam said
again, "Mr.--; I don't know your name, and I don't want to; you wear
that uniform and that's enough for me--just let Amy remain here for
a day or two. One of the Salvation girls will stay with her, and can
do more for her than you. She shall have my own room and no one shall
see her. Then when she is strong enough, you may come and take her if
she will go; and I am sure she will. She will be as safe here as in
her father's home."
The captain nodded. "Madam has passed her word, sir," he said. "You
come with me and arrange for the future while your friend is getting
strong again. Our Sarah will remain with her and keep us posted."
Dick yielded; and after hearing from the doctor that Amy was resting
easier, they bade Madam goodnight and passed out into the room where
again the music played, jewels sparkled, wine flowed, and the careless
laugh and jest were heard.
With a shudder of horror Dick muttered, "My God, Amy in such a place."
And yet--another thought flashed through his mind, that brought a flush
of shame to his cheek. "But Amy--" And again the strong man trembled,
weeping like a child.
Never, though he lived to be an old man, could Dick look back upon
that night and the days following, without turning pale. How he lived
through it he never knew. Perhaps it was because he had suffered so
much in his checkered career that he was enabled to bear that which
otherwise would have been impossible. And the consciousness of the
great change in his own life led him to hope for Amy, when others would
have given up in despair.
On his tour of study and investigation for the Association, he had
presented his letters to the Salvation Army people, and had been warmly
welcomed by them, as is everyone who manifests a desire to help
humanity. Every kindness and courtesy was shown him, and at the
invitation of the captain, he had gone with them on one of their regular
rescue trips. He had donned the uniform of the Army, for greater
convenience and safety; for the blue and red of these soldiers of the
cross is received and honored in places where no ordinary church member,
whatever be his professed purpose, would be admitted.
While Dick and his friends planned for Amy's future, Sarah, the
Salvation girl, remained by her bedside caring for her as a sister.
Not one hint of reproach or censure fell from her lips; only words of
loving kindness, of hope and courage. At first the poor girl refused
to listen, but sobbing wildly, cried that her life was ruined, that
she could only go on as she had started, and begged that they leave
her alone in her disgrace and sin.
But Sarah herself could say, "I know sister, I have been through it
all; and if Jesus could save me he can save you too." So at last love
and hope conquered; and as soon as she was strong enough, she left the
place and went with Sarah to the latter's humble home. There Dick
called to see her.
"Mr. Falkner," she said, sadly, after the pain and embarrassment of
the first meeting had passed off a little. "I do not understand; what
makes you do these things?"
And Dick answered, "Did I not tell you once that nothing could make
me change; that nothing you could do would make me less your friend?
You might, for the time being, make it impossible for me to help you,
but the desire, the wish, was there just the same, and sought only an
opportunity to express itself. And besides this," he added gently,
"you know I'm a Christian now."
Amy hung her head. "Yes," she said slowly, "you are a Christian. These
Salvation soldiers are Christians too; and I--I--am--oh, Mr. Falkner,
help me now. Be indeed my friend. Tell me what to do. I cannot go back
home like this. I do believe in Christ and that He sent you to me. I'm
so tired of this world, for I know the awfulness of it now; and these
good people have taught me that one can live close to Christ, even in
the most unfavorable circumstances."
Dick told her of their plan; how his friend, the captain, had arranged
for her to live with his brother on a farm in northern Missouri, and
that they only wanted her consent to start at once. Would she go?
"But how can I? I have no money, and I have never been taught to work."
"Miss Goodrich," answered Dick, "can you not trust me?"
Amy was silent.
"You must let me help you in this. Thank God, I can do it now. Prove
to me that you are still my friend, by letting me make this investment
for Christ. Will you?"
The next day they bade good-bye to the sturdy soldiers of the cross
who had been so true to them, and started on their westward journey.
Dick saw Amy safe in her new home, and then with a promise that she
would write to him regularly, and an agreement that he would send her
letters and papers addressed to the people with whom she lived, he
left her; satisfied that she was in kind hands, and that a new life
was open before her.
But when Dick was once more aboard the train, alone with his thoughts,
without the anxiety for Amy's immediate welfare upon his mind, the
struggle of his life began. He loved Amy dearly; had loved her almost
from the moment she came into George Udell's printing office three
years ago; loved her in spite of the difference in their position,
when he was only a tramp and she was the favored daughter of wealth;
when he was an unbeliever and she was a worker in the church; loved
her when he saw her losing her hold on the higher life and drifting
with the current; loved her when she left home, and as he thought,
honor behind. And he was forced to confess, in his own heart, that he
loved her yet, in spite of the fact that their positions were reversed;
that he was an honored gentleman, respected and trusted by all, while
she, in the eyes of the world, was a fallen woman with no friend but
himself.
But what of the future? Dick's dreams had always been that he would
win such a position in the world as would enable him, with confidence,
to ask her to share his life. But always there had been the feeling
that he never could be worthy. And with the dark picture of his own
past before him, he knew he had no right to think of her as his wife.
But now there was no question as to his position. But what of hers?
Could he think of taking for a wife, one whom he had seen in that house
at Cleveland? On the one hand, his love plead for her; on the other,
the horror of her life argued against it. Again his sense of justice
plead, and his own life came before him like a horrid vision as it had
done that morning when he learned of his father's death. He saw his
childhood home, smelt the odor of the fragrant pines upon the hills,
and heard the murmur of the river running past the cabin. Again he
heard his drunken father cursing in his sleep, and caught the whisper
of his mother's dying prayer; and again he crept stealthily out of the
cabin into the glory of the morning, with a lean hound his only
companion.
Slowly and painfully he traced his way along the road of memory,
recalling every place where he had advanced; every place where he had
fallen; going step by step from the innocence of boyhood to the awful
knowledge of the man of the world. He had fought, had fallen, had
conquered and risen again; always advancing toward the light, but
always bearing on his garment the smell of the fire, and upon his hands
the stain of the pitch. And now, because he was safe at last and could
look back upon those things, should he condemn another? Would not Amy
also conquer, and when she _had_ conquered, by what right could he
demand in her that which he had not in himself? Christ would as freely
welcome her as He had welcomed him. Christianity held out as many
glorious hopes for her as for him. Her past might be past as well as
his. Why should he not shut the door upon it forever, and live only
in the present and future? And then his mind fell to picturing what
that future, with Amy by his side, might be. They were equals now,
before God and their own consciences. What should he care for the
world?
And so the fight went on in the battle-ground of his inner life, until
the whistle blew a long blast for the station, and looking from the
window of the car, he saw the smelter smoke and dust of Boyd City.