A KISS IN THE DARK.
Bertha Lund's aunt, Mrs. Christenson, kept a boarding house for Swedes,
on a street near the water front. By virtue of an intelligence-office
license she was also empowered to obtain places in domestic service for
newly imported Frederikas and Katherinkas. But the Swedish housemaid is
one of those rare commodities in which the demand exceeds the supply. So
there had been no crowded gallery of sodden faces around the
waiting-room when Emily called Thursday morning before going to work,
but only two or three laughing maidens who chatted with the boarders.
All had the bloom of a winter apple in their cheeks and their blue eyes
sparkled with reflections of the sea. Mrs. Christenson was making terms
with a lady in an inner room.
"You wish for a servant?" she said, coming forward pleasantly.
"My business is with Miss Bertha Lund, your niece. I believe she is
lodging here."
"My niece is gone," answered the landlady, unceremoniously turning her
back and shutting the door with that emphasis which is feminine for
profanity. Then her voice was heard, pitched a little higher, as she
interpreted the silvery Swedish of the girl within, for the benefit of
her future mistress.
"Something must be wrong," thought Emily. But there was nothing for her
to do but retreat, somewhat hurt and a great deal troubled. She had
reached the head of the stairs when one of the domestics in the
waiting-room came forward sympathetically and in her pretty, broken
English explained Mrs. Christenson's conduct. Bertha, it seems, had not
returned home since the night of the trial. Search had been made for
her, but without result. From what the girl said, though this was put
guardedly and in an almost inaudible whisper, Emily inferred that
Bertha, who was naturally quick-tempered, had chafed under her aunt's
imperious discipline and had probably gone to board with some friend,
registering herself for employment meanwhile in one of the other
intelligence offices. Once before she had manifested the same impatience
of restraint and had disappeared into the country for an entire summer.
It was still possible, even probable, that she could be found if search
were instituted at once. Bertha had only a day's start of her pursuer,
and it was not likely that she had secured a situation to her taste so
soon. Emily formed the heroic resolve to scour the intelligence offices
herself. Finding the list in the directory incomplete, she boldly
visited police headquarters, from which licenses are issued, and copied
the name and address of every keeper in the city.
With a letter from one of the police commissioners and a minute
description of Bertha at her tongue's end, Emily had passed from office
to office, braving discourtesy and even insult. As this was the busy
season her truancy from the studio would have to be made up by lamplight
work, which meant ache to her weary eyes, and the unwonted climbing of
stairs and trudging about for hours soon exhausted her small stock of
strength. But Emily was less concerned over her personal sacrifice than
over the failure of her inquiries. By 4 o'clock her task was still
uncompleted. The rounds of the offices had not been half-made. Still no
Bertha could be found, no girl answering her description or dressed as
Bertha had been dressed at the trial having applied for work on the
previous day. With a cloud of despondency forming over her heart, only
lightened by a dim hope of consolation from Shagarach, she had turned
her steps in the direction of his office when John Davidson overtook
her.
"Not to be found!" echoed the marshal.
"When was she seen last?" inquired Shagarach, calmly.
"The evening of the trial," answered Emily. "She hasn't returned to her
aunt's, where she was lodging, since then."
"Why, I saw the girl talking with McCausland," said Davidson.
"When?" asked the lawyer.
"Tuesday evening. Everybody else had gone and Miss Barlow and I were
alone in the ante-chamber. McCausland put his head in, as if he wanted
the room, and I noticed two women behind him. One was the housemaid and
the other was----"
"Mrs. Arnold?"
"True enough. 'Twa'nt no need to tell you, was it?"
The marshal's eyes grew big with admiration.
"Merely a guess. Bertha Lund is a government witness, and McCausland has
a habit of keeping his witnesses under cover, especially when they are
poor and he is fighting wealth or influence. However, we have a right to
know all Bertha knows. Could you find out if she is living with the
Arnolds?" he said, turning to Emily.
"They are out of town, but I'll make inquiries," answered the resolute
girl.
"This may be of use." Shagarach handed her the note he had rapidly
written. It was unsealed and addressed to the warden of the state
prison. When the young girl was settled again to John Davidson's
satisfaction in the seat of his buggy, she opened the envelope and read
its contents aloud:
"My Dear Sir: The bearer, Miss Emily Barlow, is assigned to
important duties for the defense in the cause of Commonwealth vs.
Floyd. I shall esteem it a favor if you will grant her admission to
the defendant as my personal representative at all times when she
may apply to you. Respectfully yours,
"MEYER SHAGARACH,
"Counsel for the Accused."
"Well, that was clever, wasn't it?" said old John Davidson, and for the
rest of the ride he entertained her with anecdotes of Shagarach's most
memorable victories, as well as other fascinating relations. For the
marshal, among his many virtues, was a famous traveler, being one of the
handful who can boast of having set foot in every state of our union. He
may not have been a marvel of detective cunning, as McCausland had
intimated, but Emily had forgotten all about her fatigue and was in an
agreeably hopeful frame of mind when he set her down before her house
door in the plain side street.
That night Robert Floyd slept in a state prison cell. The atmosphere of
the place oppressed him. Everything, down to the very keys and padlocks,
was more massive than at the county jail. Led along a narrow corridor by
tenanted cells, whose inmates came to the bars and greeted him, or
crouched in the inmost recesses, he was reminded of a menagerie of
dangerous beasts. At the door of his own cell the revulsion had seized
him like an epileptic fit and he had wrenched himself loose from the
jailer. In an instant four vise-like hands were tightened on him and he
was flung bodily into the apartment. The iron door swung to with a clang
and he heard the jailer's footsteps receding.
"Coo-ee! Ducky, don't ee like ee c'adle?"
"He's a lifer, sure!"
"Don't cry, Johnnie. You'll never get out any more."
"I move a resolution of sympathy for our newly elected associate. All in
favor, curse Longlegs!"
There is a passage in Bach's "Passion" music where the infuriated Jews,
being offered the choice of pardon for Barabbas or the Savior, shriek
out the name of the robber. Robert remembered thinking that up to then
he had never heard anything more devilish than the roar of rage with
which the multitude express their preference for "Barabbas!" But the
chorus of curses from the convict pack that greeted the sobriquet of
"Longlegs" was like an uproar from still lower deeps, where spirits more
hideous than the deicides may be confined.
This is not the normal temper of prisons, by any means. But the
Georgetown prison had been for months in a state of incipient mutiny and
the brewing storm was now threatening to break. Among the grounds of
complaint alleged against the present warden was his retention of the
obnoxious turnkey, "Longlegs," who was loathed as a "squealer," because
he could not be bought. It was further alleged that the men's tobacco
rations had been unjustly diminished one-half, such a thing as gratitude
for the allowance of this luxury at all not entering their minds. The
teams that carted goods from the workshops had recently been put in
charge of prison employes, and a useful means of communication with
outer friends thus cruelly cut off. In the eyes of the "solitaries" and
"hard-labor" men their bill of rights had been monstrously trampled
upon, and there was ample cause for the deposing of Warden Tapp and the
establishment of anarchy in the institution. Only the "lifers" were for
peace.
"Half a plug is better than no smoke, boys," said John Bryant, who had
killed his wife, humorously. But he had served fourteen years already
and lived in hopes of a pardon some Thanksgiving day for his good
behavior.
After exhibiting so clearly their position "against the government,"
Robert's fellow-lodgers began to put inquiries to himself.
"Say, freshy, what's your name?"
Robert was too exasperated, too disgusted, to answer.
"He's tongue-tied."
"Wants his supper."
"Look out for a spy, fellers. That ain't true blue."
"Mum's the word."
It was evident that Floyd's refusal to make free had branded him at once
with the stamp of unpopularity. But the young man had other thoughts to
occupy his mind. He was pondering upon his own terrible plight and upon
Shagarach's visit. Fully an hour must have passed in these reflections,
for it was very dark, when they were disturbed by a low remark from his
left-hand neighbor.
"Say, chummy, I hain't one of these 'ere bloomin' mutineers."
It was a wheezy voice and Floyd remembered to have heard at intervals
from that quarter one of those racking coughs which distress the
listener almost as much as the sufferer. The man seemed to be in the
rear of his cell and to have his mouth to the wall. Robert said nothing,
but his interest was languidly aroused.
"Say, get into the hospital, Dobbs," remarked a voice that was beginning
to be familiar to Robert.
"I 'ave been in the 'ospital, you unfeelin', bloomin' coves," replied
the asthmatic prisoner.
"Ho, ee's Henglish, ee his," said some one, whereupon there was a faint
storm of laughter. Robert's sympathy was enlisted on the side of the man
called Dobbs. His uncle had been an Englishman and the national feeling
was strong in the nephew. Speaking as low as possible, so that the
others might not hear, he said to Dobbs:
"You are an Englishman? This is bad company you've got into."
"Lord, me boy, Hi know that--a scurvy job lot o' bloomin' ordinary coves
as I'd cut dead if Hi was a gentleman of fortune. But you see Hi
hain't. Being only Bill Dobbs, Hi can't afford to preach hinnocence, and
choose me hown 'ouse-mates, like a juke."
The cough choked his utterance for awhile and evoked further
remonstrance from the yawning crew around him.
"What is your sentence?" asked Robert.
"Height years for burglary--if they can 'old me," and Bill Dobbs
chuckled knowingly, like one who had tested the fragility of prison
walls before. "W'ich, bein' a slippery fish, is a question Hi 'ave been
considerin' seriously."
"Why did you leave England?" asked Robert.
"The climate is gettin' so warm," answered the cockney. "W'y, the gulf
stream is comin' so near us there it would almost boil a turkey.
Hawfully bloomin' 'ot, you know, chummy. I'm a-winkin' at you."
"Especially about Scotland Yard, I suppose. You're a professional
burglar?"
"Not always, young man. Hi 'ad a Henglish mother once, w'ich I shall
never forget 'ow she 'eard my prayers. And hevery day Hi dressed myself
up in my blue blouse and breeches, and my dinner pail (w'ich wasn't
hempty) under my harm, and hevery bloomin' bobby I met says Hi to him,
says Hi: 'Hi'm Martin Thimblethorpe, from the west country, and can you
tell me w'ere's Regent row?' Blarst me if they wouldn't point their
fingers this way and that way and follow my departing footsteps with a
look of pride, as much as to say: 'There goes a honest Hinglish
workingman; see 'is hindependent hair."
"But you never worked very hard, I fancy, with your blouse and your
dinner-pail?"
"'Ard? Hi fancy Hi did."
"What did you do?"
"Jeweler's 'elp."
"That is, you sold your plunder to a fence?"
"Fence? Wot fence? Hi 'ad an accommodatin' friend in the business, who
asked no impertinent questions and paid me 'alf price for my
contributions--w'ich was bloomin' low figures, considering Hi never
accepted hanything cheap. If there's one class Hi 'ate, positively 'ate,
young man, it's them bloomin' shoddy gaffers wot sport a genteel
reputation on plated spoons and paste."
"You always discriminated against such people?"
"Halways! Ho, it used to do my 'eart good," continued Dobbs, chuckling
at the reminiscence, "w'en they wrote up one of my nocturnal visits (Hi
halways make my collections in the quiet hours of the hevenin') as 'ow
the leavin' of the plated ware and the abandonin' of a temptin' case of
hartificial diamonds shows the 'and of the solitary cracksman. There's
appreciation, Hi used to say! There's fame! You 'it it 'appily, young
man. Hi always discriminated."
"Martin Thimblethorpe, then, was the solitary cracksman, and your real
name is Dobbs?"
"Bill Dobbs. Wot's your line, chummy? Fashionable embezzlement? Hi
admire that line. It's genteel and the perquisites is liberal
accordingly."
Floyd was getting interested in spite of himself. These first-hand
experiences of a professional burglar were life, and in spite of the
fellow's utter villainy and vulgarity (he could almost see his cunning
leer through the walls) they had a spice of romance that held him. But
their colloquy was interrupted just here by a sound of footsteps and the
approach of a light, which set the whole ward raving again.
"Shut up your screeching," came a voice of command, at which the
mutinous crew subsided, and Robert heard apologetic remarks.
"It's Gradger."
"It isn't Longlegs."
"We thought it was Longlegs."
Gradger, for some reason, was a favorite with the men. He went straight
to Floyd's cell and pointed him out to Emily Barlow.
"Emily!"
"Robert!"
That was all they could say for awhile.
"My darling," cried Robert, who was the first to recover command of
himself. He was indignant to think that she, too, should be forced into
these surroundings. "Why have you come here?"
"Only to be with you for a few moments, Robert. I thought of you all
friendless and lonesome."
"God bless you, dear. But you must not remain. Go away quickly and do
not come here again."
It was the old, natural instinct to screen the purer half of our race
from degrading contact with things we ourselves must meet.
"But why should I not visit you, Robert?"
"Because this is hell and you are an angel."
He drew her to him and kissed her through the bars. Instantly the sound
was re-echoed a hundred times, distorted and vulgarized, throughout the
ward. In the silence which followed Emily's first words, the sweethearts
had forgotten their audience of thieves and cutthroats, to whom every
syllable was audible. Hierarchs of sin, virtuosos in infamy, all the
demon in their souls seemed roused by this innocent pledge of mutual
faith between youth and maiden, and even the stern threats of Gradger
could not silence their outbreak of hideous derision.
Emily started back as red as fire.
"Go, darling," cried Robert, between his set teeth, while shouts of "Ta,
ta, Robert," "Kiss me, Emily," intermingled with the foul ribaldry
generated in minds shut away from all purifying touch of womanhood,
taunted the fleeing girl and roused her imprisoned lover's passion to
frenzy. He could have strangled three of them single-handed.
"Better call daytimes, miss, when the men are working in the shops,"
said Gradger. He had not taken Emily for a girl who herself had to work
daytimes in a shop.
Meanwhile the storm raged louder and louder, and several turnkeys were
called to quell the disturbance and carry the ringleaders away to the
"block." But the more it volleyed around him the cooler grew young
Floyd. His resentment gradually hardened to a kind of pitying scorn, and
when the last oath died away it was with sweeter thoughts that he had
indulged for three bitter nights that he laid his head on the pallet and
drowsed into oblivion. His pillow lay close to the point of the wall
where Dobbs liked to do his talking, and while the midnight bell was
ringing he thought he heard the cracksman whisper:
"The young lady stretched it, chummy. You 'ave one friend 'ere. Let 'em
screech their bloomin' lungs off."
But this may have been a dream.