FACING THE PROBLEM
My fingers closed yet more tightly over the small hand, but her face
remained rigid, the lines deep about the mouth.
"The landlady had turned me out," speaking now bitterly and swiftly,
"retaining my few belongings, and calling me a foul name which made me
cower away like a whipped child. I had nothing left--nothing. For a
week I had listened to no kind word, met with no kind act. I was upon
the street, alone, at night, purposeless, homeless, wandering aimlessly
from place to place, weakened by hunger, stupefied by despair. Men spoke
to me, and I fled their presence as though they were pestilence; women,
painted, shameless creatures, greeted me in passing as one of their own
class, and I sought to avoid them. Once I mustered sufficient courage to
ask help, but--but the man only laughed, and called me a foul name. I do
not know where I went, what the streets were called. I remember the
brilliantly lighted hotel: the theater crowds jostling me on the
sidewalks; the saloons where I saw women slipping in through side
entrances, the strains of piano music jingling forth on the night air.
I--I knew what it meant, and lingered, faint and trembling, before one
illuminated front, like a fascinated bird, until a drunken man, reeling
forth, laid hand on my shoulder with proposal of insult. I broke away
from him, and ran into the dark, every nerve tingling."
She shuddered, catching her breath sharply.
"Then--then I found myself out among the residences, where everything was
still and lonely, walking, walking, walking, every shadow appearing like
a ghost. I sat down to rest on the curbing, but a policeman drove me
away; once I crept into a darkened vestibule in a big apartment building,
but another discovered me there, and threatened to take me to the
station. I did n't care much by that time, yet finally he let me go, and
I crept miserably on. I became afraid of the police; I felt as I suppose
criminals must feel; I slunk along in the dark shadows like a hunted
thing. The night grew misty and damp, but I found no shelter. I had no
will power left, no womanhood, no remorse; I had become a thing to play
with, a body without a soul. I had ceased to care, to think, to even
remember; I only wanted to drop the struggle, and have it over with.
Perhaps I should have taken my own life, had I only known how to
accomplish it--it seemed infinitely worse to live than to die. It was
thus I came there, to that corner. I heard the policeman approaching
along the side street, and, terrified, sprang into the yard to
escape--then--then, I met you."
Someone laughed at one of the other tables, and I wheeled about in my
chair. For an instant I believed her voice had been overheard, but
instantly realized the mistake and turned back, noticing how she was
trembling.
"Tell me," I questioned earnestly, "what caused you to interfere between
me and the officer?"
"What! Oh, I hardly know," a touch of hysteria in the nervous
exclamation. "It was just a natural ending to all the rest, I suppose.
I was a criminal in heart, a fugitive; I hated the law, and was afraid of
the police. I merely did what occurred to me first, without thought,
volition, purpose. I was compelled to choose instantly between his mercy
and yours; the--the difference seemed small enough then, but--but I
realized you were frightened also, and--and so I preferred to trust you.
That was all; it was my fate, and--and, well I did n't care much how it
ended."
"But you endeavored to escape from me; you sought to compel my leaving
you?"
She lifted her face again, flushing, saddened, slightly indignant, the
brown eyes widening.
"Perhaps the soul was not all dead," she returned gravely. "Perhaps
womanhood was not all gone. I did not know you; I was in terror."
"And now?"
Our eyes met, her own cleared of tears, gazing frankly at me.
"I am not afraid; I believe I have found a man, and a friend."
I was conscious of a sudden wild throb of the heart, a swift rush of
blood through my veins.
"I might have doubted that myself a while ago," I acknowledged almost
bitterly, "but now I am going to make good. Lord! how a fellow can run
to seed when he lets himself go. Don't you know you are helping me, as
much as I am you? You didn't find much out there--only a drunken
discharged soldier, an ex-hobo, with a laborer's job. I 've wasted my
chance in life, and been an infernal fool. I can see that plain enough,
and despise myself for it. I knew it before you came--the difference was
then I did n't care, while now I do. You have made me care. Yes, you
have, girl," as she glanced up again, plainly startled by this unexpected
avowal. "You care, and because I know you do, things are different. I
mean it; this is no word play. I tell you when a man has been steadily
dropping, in his own estimation, as well as the social scale; when he has
just about lost his pride, his self-respect, his realization of right and
wrong; when he sees nothing ahead worth fighting for; when he seeks
happiness in drink, and makes companions out of crooks and hobos, that is
when it amounts to something to have a real woman like you come into his
life, and hear her speak of trust and friendship. Lord! it 's like a
breath of pure air amid the foulness of the pit. I believe in _you_, and
I have n't believed in anybody for a long while. Perhaps you didn't
wholly mean all you said to me; perhaps you 'll forget about it when your
luck changes, but it 's a thing that is going to stay with me; you can
bet on that! I guess it was what I 've been hungry for; the loss of it
had taken the very heart out of me," I paused, fearful I might be going
too far, yet given fresh courage by the expression of her face. "You see
you belong to my class, little girl, and--and you are the first of them
to speak a kind word to me in five years. It's--it's a bit tough to be
cut dead by your own class."
It was her hand, white and slender, which reached shyly across the table,
and touched mine, but her eyes alone made answer.
"That is all right," I continued, my voice shaking. "I understand how
you feel. Anyhow you 've made a new man out of me; maybe the stuff is
n't much, but there is a soul in it somewhere, and you 've given that
soul something to get a grip on. That was all I needed, just to get my
teeth set. But what about you? This is no fit place for your kind--you
better go home to your mother."
She shook her head with decision.
"Why not? is she hard?"
"Yes, she would be very hard with me."
"Do you mean you would rather risk it here with--with me, than go back,
and face her?"
"Yes, even that," she replied soberly. "I have courage to fight it out
here, but not there. I know what it will mean if I go back--reproaches,
gossip, ostracism--all the petty meannesses of a small town. I loathe
the very thought. I am strong again, and I will not go. It is between
God and me, this decision; between God and me." She drooped her head,
hiding her face upon her arms, her shoulders trembling. "You--you may
despise me; you may think me the lowest of the low, but I--I am going to
stay here."
I sat in silence, amazed, puzzled, gazing across at her, my face sober,
my hands clinched.
"You actually mean you dare risk yourself here--with me?"
"With your help; with you as a friend to talk to--yes."
I drew in my breath sharply, my forehead beaded with perspiration.
"But stop and think what I am," I urged recklessly. "A mere hobo."
She raised her face, the flushed cheeks wet, the brown eyes glowing
indignantly.
"No," she said earnestly. "You are not that; you are a man."
For a long minute I did not answer, unable to determine what to do, how
to act. We had both finished our meal, and there was no excuse for
lingering longer at the table.
"You will go with me, then?"
"Yes."
I pushed back my chair, and she arose also, following me without question
as I passed across to the door. The cashier nodded to my good night, and
I opened the door for her passage to the street. The mist of the cloudy
night had been blown away by an increasing breeze. The air was warm, and
the sky brightening in the east. I glanced aside into her face, and led
the way into a near-by park, the two of us trudging along a well-kept
gravel path, until I discovered a bench hidden from observation amid
surrounding shrubbery.
"I 've simply got to think this whole matter out," I explained simply.
"It's happened so unexpectedly. I 'm stumped as to what had better be
done."
She remained standing, resting one hand on the back of the settee, a
slender figure, neatly enough dressed, yet exhibiting evidence of her
long night's wandering.
"You mean I am a problem? You--you do not know what to do with me?"
I glanced at her, surprised by the change in her voice.
"Naturally; a young woman is usually a problem, isn't she? This
particular one has come with a suddenness sufficient to jar anybody's
nerves. Three hours ago I was without responsibility, a mere log adrift
on the current. I 've hardly wakened up yet to the change in conditions.
Here I am a fellow so utterly worthless that I have n't even been able to
take decent care of myself alone, yet all at once the duty fronts me to
double my responsibilities."
Her cheeks reddened.
"No, you are not! Is that then your conception of me? Let me tell you
differently. Just so soon as this city wakes up, I am going to start
forth again and seek work."
The smile I was attempting faded.
"Seek work! I understood you confided yourself to my care."
"Not--not in that way--never!" indignantly. "You had no right to so
construe my words. You--you know I am not like that. I trusted you as a
man; I--I gave you my--my confidence as a friend," her speech growing
swift, and impetuous. "Do not make me sorry. I will not accept your
money; I will never remain dependent upon you, or a burden. I have
regained my courage, and am no longer afraid. All I needed was to know
that I was not all alone--I can fight for the rest."
"Mrs. Bernard," I began quietly, realizing her spirit. "You have given a
wrong meaning to my words; I respect you, believe in you, and merely
desire to help you to the best of my ability. Sit down here, and let us
face this thing squarely together. We must n't act like children, or
close our eyes to facts. For instance--we have both been up all night.
That is n't specially new for me, but it is to you, and the exposure and
strain shows. You are not fit to go out hunting employment."
"Poverty has no choice," bitterly. "The fact that I am tired does not
matter."
"Oh, but it does. Now I am not quite so badly off as you suppose. All I
ask is a chance to think, to arrange some plan. Won't you sit quietly
there until I puzzle it out?"
She sank down wearily upon one end of the settee, and I took the other,
leaning forward, my face in my hands.