_FOR_ an hour Mrs. Bray waited the reappearance of Pinky Swett, but the
girl did not come back. At the end of this time a package which had been
left at the door was brought to her room. It came from Mrs. Dinneford,
and contained two hundred dollars. A note that accompanied the package
read as follows:
“Forgive my little fault of temper. It is your interest to be my friend.
The woman must not, on any account, be suffered to come near me.”
Of course there was no signature. Mrs. Bray's countenance was radiant as
she fingered the money.
“Good luck for me, but bad for the baby,” she said, in a low, pleased
murmur, talking to herself. “Poor baby! I must see better to its
comfort. It deserves to be looked after. I wonder why Pinky doesn't
come?”
Mrs. Bray listened, but no sound of feet from the stairs or entries, no
opening or shutting of doors, broke the silence that reigned through the
house.
“Pinky's getting too low down--drinks too much; can't count on her any
more.” Mrs. Bray went on talking to herself. “No rest; no quiet; never
satisfied; for ever knocking round, and for ever getting the worst
of it. She was a real nice girl once, and I always liked her. But she
doesn't take any care of herself.”
As Pinky went out, an hour before, she met a fresh-looking girl, not
over seventeen, and evidently from the country. She was standing on the
pavement, not far from the house in which Mrs. Bray lived, and had
a traveling-bag in her hand. Her perplexed face and uncertain manner
attracted Pinky's attention.
“Are you looking for anybody?” she asked.
“I'm trying to find a Mrs. Bray,” the girl answered. “I'm a stranger
from the country.”
“Oh, you are?” said Pinky, drawing her veil more tightly so that her
disfigured face could not be seen.
“Yes I'm from L----.”
“Indeed? I used to know some people there.”
“Then you've been in L----?” said the girl, with a pleased, trustful
manner, as of one who had met a friend at the right time.
“Yes, I've visited there.”
“Indeed? Who did you know in L----?”
“Are you acquainted with the Cartwrights?”
“I know of them. They are among our first people,” returned the girl.
“I spent a week in their family a few years ago, and had a very pleasant
time,” said Pinky.
“Oh, I'm glad to know that,” remarked the girl. “I'm a stranger here;
and if I can't find Mrs. Bray, I don't see what I am to do. A lady from
here who was staying at the hotel gave me at letter to Mrs. Bray. I was
living at the hotel, but I didn't like it; it was too public. I told the
lady that I wanted to learn a trade or get into a store, and she said
the city was just the place for me, and that she would give me a letter
to a particular friend, who would, on her recommendation, interest he
self for me. It's somewhere along here that she lived, I'm sure;” and
she took a letter from her pocket and examined the direction.
The girl was fresh and young and pretty, and had an artless, confiding
manner. It was plain she knew little of the world, and nothing of its
evils and dangers.
“Let me see;” and Pinky reached out her hand for the letter. She put it
under her veil, and read,
“MRS. FANNY BRAY, “No. 631----street, “----
“By the hand of Miss Flora Bond.”
“Flora Bond,” said Pinky, in a kind, familiar tone.
“Yes, that is my name,” replied the girl; “isn't this----street?”
“Yes; and there, is the number you are looking for.”
“Oh, thank you! I'm so glad to find the place. I was beginning to feel
scared.”
“I will ring the bell for you,” said Pinky, going to the door of No.
631. A servant answered the summons.
“Is Mrs. Bray at home?” inquired Pinky.
“I don't know,” replied the servant, looking annoyed. “Her rooms are in
the third story;” and she held the door wide open for them to enter. As
they passed into the hall Pinky said to her companion,
“Just wait here a moment, and I will run up stairs and see if she is
in.”
The girl stood in the hall until Pinky came back.
“Not at home, I'm sorry to say.”
“Oh dear! that's bad; what shall I do?” and the girl looked distressed.
“She'll be back soon, no doubt,” said Pinky, in a light, assuring voice.
“I'll go around with you a little and see things.”
The girl looked down at her traveling-bag.
“Oh, that's nothing; I'll help you to carry it;” and Pinky took it from
her hand.
“Couldn't we leave it here?” asked Flora.
“It might not be safe; servants are not always to be trusted, and
Mrs. Bray's rooms are locked; we can easily carry it between us. I'm
strong--got good country blood in my veins. You see I'm from the country
as well as you; right glad we met. Don't know what you would have done.”
And she drew the girl out, talking familiarly, as they went.
“Haven't had your dinner yet?”
“No; just arrived in the cars, and came right here.”
“You must have something to eat, then. I know a nice place; often get
dinner there when I'm out.”
The girl did not feel wholly at ease. She had not yet been able to get
sight of Pinky's closely-veiled features, and there was something in her
voice that made her feel uncomfortable.
“I don't care for any dinner,” she said; “I'm not hungry.”
“Well, I am, then, so come. Do you like oysters?”
“Yes.”
“Cook them splendidly. Best place in the city. And you'd like to get
into a store or learn a trade?”
“Yes.”
“What trade did you think of?”
“None in particular.”
“How would you like to get into a book-bindery? I know two or three
girls in binderies, and they can make from five to ten dollars a week.
It's the nicest, cleanest work I know of.”
“Oh, do you?” returned Flora, with newly-awakening interest.
“Yes; we'll talk it all over while we're eating dinner. This way.”
And Pinky turned the corner of a small street that led away from the
more crowded thoroughfare along which they had been passing.
“It's a quiet and retired place, where only the nicest kind of people
go,” she added. “Many working-girls and girls in stores get their
dinners there. We'll meet some of them, no doubt; and if any that I know
should happen in, we might hear of a good place. Just the thing, isn't
it? I'm right glad I met you.”
They had gone halfway down the square, when Pinky stopped before the
shop of a confectioner. In the window was a display of cakes, pies and
candies, and a sign with the words, “LADIES' RESTAURANT.”
“This is the place,” she said, and opening the door, passed in, the
young stranger following.
A sign of caution, unseen by Flora, was made to a girl who stood behind
the counter. Then Pinky turned, saying,
“How will you have your oysters? stewed, fried, broiled or roasted?”
“I'm not particular--any way,” replied Flora.
“I like them fried. Will you have them the same way?”
Flora nodded assent.
“Let them be fried, then. Come, we'll go up stairs. Anybody there?”
“Two or three only.”
“Any girls from the bindery?”
“Yes; I think so.”
“Oh. I'm glad of that! Want to see some of them. Come, Miss Bond.”
And Pinky, after a whispered word to the attendant, led the way to a
room up stairs in which were a number of small tables. At one of these
were two girls eating, at another a girl sitting by herself, and at
another a young man and a girl. As Pinky and her companion entered,
the inmates of the room stared at them familiarly, and then winked and
leered at each other. Flora did not observe this, but she felt a sudden
oppression and fear. They sat down at a table not far from one of the
windows. Flora looked for the veil to be removed, so that she might see
the face of her new friend. But Pinky kept it closely down.
In about ten minutes the oysters were served. Accompanying them were two
glasses of some kind of liquor. Floating on one of these was a small bit
of cork. Pinky took this and handed the other to her companion, saying,
“Only a weak sangaree. It will refresh you after your fatigue; and I
always like something with oysters, it helps to make them lay lighter on
the stomach.”
Meantime, one of the girls had crossed over and spoken to Pinky. After
word or two, the latter said,
“Don't you work in a bindery, Miss Peter?”
“Yes,” was answered, without hesitation.
“I thought so. Let me introduce you to my friend, Miss Flora Bond. She's
from the country, and wants to get into some good establishment. She
talked about a store, but I think a bindery is better.”
“A great deal better,” was replied by Miss Peter. “I've tried them both,
and wouldn't go back to a store again on any account. If I can serve
your friend, I shall be most happy.”
“Thank you!” returned Flora; “you are very kind.”
“Not at all; I'm always glad when I can be of service to any one. You
think you'd like to go into a bindery?”
“Yes. I've come to the city to get employment, and haven't much choice.”
“There's no place like the city,” remarked the other. “I'd die in the
country--nothing going on. But you won't stagnate here. When did you
arrive?”
“To-day.”
“Have you friends here?”
“No. I brought a letter of introduction to a lady who resides in the
city.”
“What's her name?”
“Mrs. Bray.”
Miss Peter turned her head so that Flora could not see her face. It was
plain from its expression that she knew Mrs. Bray.
“Have you seen her yet?” she asked.
“No. She was out when I called. I'm going back in a little while.”
The girl sat down, and went on talking while the others were eating.
Pinky had emptied her glass of sangaree before she was half through with
her oysters, and kept urging Flora to drink.
“Don't be afraid of it, dear,” she said, in a kind, persuasive way;
“there's hardly a thimbleful of wine in the whole glass. It will soothe
your nerves, and make you feel ever so much better.”
There was something in the taste of the sangaree that Flora did not
like--a flavor that was not of wine. But urged repeatedly by her
companion, whose empty glass gave her encouragement and confidence, she
sipped and drank until she had taken the whole of it. By this time she
was beginning to have a sense of fullness and confusion in the head, and
to feel oppressed and uncomfortable. Her appetite suddenly left her, and
she laid down her knife and fork and leaned her head upon her hand.
“What's the matter?” asked Pinky.
“Nothing,” answered the girl; “only my head feels a little strangely. It
will pass off in a moment.”
“Riding in the cars, maybe,” said Pinky. “I always feel bad after being
in the cars; it kind of stirs me up.”
Flora sat very quietly at the table, still resting her head upon
her hands. Pinky and the girl who had joined them exchanged looks of
intelligence. The former had drawn her veil partly aside, yet concealing
as much as possible the bruises on her face.
“My! but you're battered!” exclaimed Miss Peter, in a whisper that was
unheard by Flora.
Pinky only answered by a grimace. Then she said to Flora, with
well-affected concern,
“I'm afraid you are ill, dear? How do you feel?”
“I don't know,” answered the poor girl, in a voice that betrayed great
anxiety, if not alarm. “It came over me all at once. I'm afraid that
wine was too strong; I am not used to taking anything.”
“Oh dear, no! it wasn't that. I drank a glass, and don't feel it any
more than if it had been water.”
“Let's go,” said Flora, starting up. “Mrs. Bray must be home by this
time.”
“All right, if you feel well enough,” returned Pinky, rising at the same
time.
“Oh dear! how my head swims!” exclaimed Flora, putting both hands to
her temples. She stood for a few moments in an uncertain attitude, then
reached out in a blind, eager way.
Pinky drew quickly to her side, and put one arm about her waist.
“Come,” she said, “the air is too close for you here;” and with the
assistance of the girl who had joined them, she steadied Flora down
stairs.
“Doctored a little too high,” whispered Miss Peter, with her mouth close
to Pinky's ear.
“All right,” Pinky whispered back; “they know how to do it.”
At the foot of the stairs Pinky said,
“You take her out through the yard, while I pay for the oysters. I'll be
with you in a moment.”
Poor Flora, was already too much confused by the drugged liquor she had
taken to know what they were doing with her.
Hastily paying for the oysters and liquor, Pinky was on hand in a few
moments. From the back door of the house they entered a small yard, and
passed from this through a gate into a narrow private alley shut in on
each side by a high fence. This alley ran for a considerable distance,
and had many gates opening into it from yards, hovels and rear
buildings, all of the most forlorn and wretched character. It terminated
in a small street.
Along this alley Pinky and the girl she had met at the restaurant
supported Flora, who was fast losing strength and consciousness. When
halfway down, they held a brief consultation.
“It won't do,” said Pinky, “to take her through to----street. She's too
far gone, and the police will be down on us and carry her off.”
“Norah's got some place in there,” said the other, pointing to an old
wooden building close by.
“I'm out with Norah,” replied Pinky, “and don't mean to have anything
more to do with her.”
“Where's your room?”
“That isn't the go. Don't want her there. Pat Maley's cellar is just
over yonder. We can get in from the alley.”
“Pat's too greedy a devil. There wouldn't be anything left of her when
he got through. No, no, Pinky; I'll have nothing to do with it if she's
to go into Pat Maley's cellar.”
“Not much to choose between 'em,” answered Pinky. “But it won't do to
parley here. We must get her in somewhere.”
And she pushed open a gate as she spoke. It swung back on one hinge
and struck the fence with a bang, disclosing a yard that beggared
description in its disorder and filth. In the back part of this yard
was a one-and-a-half-story frame building, without windows, looking more
like an old chicken-house or pig-stye than a place for human beings
to live in. The loft over the first story was reached by ladder on the
outside. Above and below the hovel was laid off in kind of stalls or
bunks furnished with straw. There were about twenty of these. It was
a ten-cent lodging-house, filled nightly. If this wretched hut or
stye--call it what you will--had been torn down, it would not have
brought ten dollars as kindling-wood. Yet its owner, a gentleman (?)
living handsomely up town, received for it the annual rent of two
hundred and fifty dollars. Subletted at an average of two dollars a
night, it gave an income of nearly seven hundred dollars a year. It was
known as the “Hawk's Nest,” and no bird of prey ever had a fouler nest
than this.
As the gate banged on the fence a coarse, evil-looking man, wearing a
dirty Scotch cap and a red shirt, pushed his head up from the cellar of
the house that fronted on the street.
“What's wanted?” he asked, in a kind of growl, his upper lip twitching
and drawing up at one side in a nervous way, letting his teeth appear.
“We want to get this girl in for a little while,” said Pinky. “We'll
take her away when she comes round. Is anybody in there?” and she
pointed to the hovel.
The man shook his head.
“How much?” asked Pinky.
“Ten cents apiece;” and he held out his hand.
Pinky gave him thirty cents. He took a key from his pocket, and opened
the door that led into the lower room. The stench that came out as the
door swung back was dreadful. But poor Flora Bond was by this time so
relaxed in every muscle, and so dead to outward things, that it was
impossible to get her any farther. So they bore her into this horrible
den, and laid her down in one of the stalls on a bed of loose straw.
Inside, there was nothing but these stalls and straw--not a table or
chair, or any article of furniture. They filled up nearly the entire
room, leaving only a narrow passage between them. The only means of
ventilation was by the door.
As soon as Pinky and her companion in this terrible wickedness were
alone with their victim, they searched her pocket for the key of her
traveling-bag. On finding it, Pinky was going to open it, when the other
said,
“Never mind about that; we can examine her baggage in safer place. Let's
go for the movables.”
And saying this, she fell quickly to work on the person of Flora,
slipping out the ear-rings first, then removing her breast-pin and
finger-rings, while Pinky unbuttoned the new gaiter boots, and drew off
both boots and stockings, leaving upon the damp straw the small, bare
feet, pink and soft almost as a baby's.
It did not take these harpies five minutes to possess themselves of
everything but the poor girl's dress and undergarments. Cloth oversack,
pocket-book, collar, linen cuffs, hat, shoes and stockings--all these
were taken.
“Hallo!” cried the keeper of this foul den as the two girls hurried out
with the traveling-bag and a large bundle sooner than he had expected;
and he came quickly forth from the cellar in which he lived like a cruel
spider and tried to intercept them, but they glided through the gate
and were out of his reach before he could get near. He could follow them
only with obscene invectives and horrible oaths. Well he knew what had
been done--that there had been a robbery in the “Hawk's Nest,” and he
not in to share the booty.
Growling like a savage dog, this wretch, in whom every instinct of
humanity had long since died--this human beast, who looked on innocence
and helplessness as a wolf looks upon a lamb--strode across the yard and
entered the den. Lying in one of the stalls upon the foul, damp straw
he found Flora Bond. Cruel beast that he was, even he felt himself
held back as by an invisible hand, as he looked at the pure face of the
insensible girl. Rarely had his eyes rested on a countenance so full of
innocence. But the wolf has no pity for the lamb, nor the hawk for the
dove. The instinct of his nature quickly asserted itself.
Avarice first. From the face his eyes turned to see what had been left
by the two girls. An angry imprecation fell from his lips when he saw
how little remained for him. But when he lifted Flora's head and unbound
her hair, a gleam of pleasure came info his foul face. It was a full
suit of rich chestnut brown, nearly three feet long, and fell in thick
masses over her breast and shoulders. He caught it up eagerly, drew it
through his great ugly hands, and gloated over it with something of a
miser's pleasure as he counts his gold. Then taking a pair of scissors
from his pocket, he ran them over the girl's head with the quickness and
skill of a barber, cutting close down, that he might not lose even the
sixteenth part of an inch of her rich tresses. An Indian scalping his
victim could not have shown more eagerness. An Indian's wild pleasure
was in his face as he lifted the heavy mass of brown hair and held it
above his head. It was not a trophy--not a sign of conquest and triumph
over an enemy--but simply plunder, and had a market value of fifteen or
twenty dollars.
The dress was next examined; it was new, but not of a costly material.
Removing this, the man went out with his portion of the spoils, and
locked the door, leaving the half-clothed, unconscious girl lying on
the damp, filthy straw, that swarmed with vermin. It was cold as well as
damp, and the chill of a bleak November day began creeping into her warm
blood. But the stupefying draught had been well compounded, and held her
senses locked.
Of what followed we cannot write, and we shiver as we draw a veil over
scenes that should make the heart of all Christendom ache--scenes that
are repeated in thousands of instances year by year in our large cities,
and no hand is stretched forth to succor and no arm to save. Under
the very eyes of the courts and the churches things worse than we have
described--worse than the reader can imagine--are done every day. The
foul dens into which crime goes freely, and into which innocence is
betrayed, are known to the police, and the evil work that is done
is ever before them. From one victim to another their keepers pass
unquestioned, and plunder, debauch, ruin and murder with an impunity
frightful to contemplate. As was said by a distinguished author,
speaking of a kindred social enormity, “There is not a country
throughout the earth on which a state of things like this would not
bring a curse. There is no religion upon earth that it would not deny;
there is no people on earth that it would not put to shame.”
And we are Christians!
No. Of what followed we cannot write. Those who were near the “Hawk's
Nest” heard that evening, soon after nightfall, the single wild,
prolonged cry of a woman. It was so full of terror and despair that even
the hardened ears that heard it felt a sudden pain. But they were used
to such things in that region, and no one took the trouble to learn what
it meant. Even the policeman moving on his beat stood listening for only
a moment, and then passed on.
Next day, in the local columns of a city paper, appeared the following:
“FOUL PLAY.--About eleven o'clock last night the body of a beautiful
young girl, who could not have been over seventeen years of age, was
discovered lying on the pavement in----street. No one knew how she came
there. She was quite dead when found. There was nothing by which she
could be identified. All her clothes but a single undergarment had been
removed, and her hair cut off close to her head. There were marks of
brutal violence on her person. The body was placed in charge of the
coroner, who will investigate the matter.”
On the day after, this paragraph appeared:
“SUSPICION OF FOUL PLAY.--The coroner's inquest elicited nothing in
regard to the young girl mentioned yesterday as having been found dead
and stripped of her clothing in----street. No one was able to identify
her. A foul deed at which the heart shudders has been done; but the
wretches by whom it was committed have been able to cover their tracks.”
And that was the last of it. The whole nation gives a shudder of fear at
the announcement of an Indian massacre and outrage. But in all our large
cities are savages more cruel and brutal in their instincts than the
Comanches, and they torture and outrage and murder a hundred poor
victims for every one that is exposed to Indian brutality, and there
comes no succor. Is it from ignorance of the fact? No, no, no! There is
not a Judge on the bench, not a lawyer at the bar, not a legislator at
the State capital, not a mayor or police-officer, not a minister who
preaches the gospel of Christ, who came to seek and to save, not an
intelligent citizen, but knows of all this.
What then? Who is responsible? The whole nation arouses itself at news
of an Indian assault upon some defenseless frontier settlement, and the
general government sends troops to succor and to punish. But who takes
note of the worse than Indian massacres going on daily and nightly in
the heart of our great cities? Who hunts down and punishes the human
wolves in our midst whose mouths are red with the blood of innocence?
Their deeds of cruelty outnumber every year a hundred--nay, a
thousand--fold the deeds of our red savages. Their haunts are known, and
their work is known. They lie in wait for the unwary, they gather in the
price of human souls, none hindering, at our very church doors. Is no
one responsible for all this? Is there no help? Is evil stronger than
good, hell stronger than heaven? Have the churches nothing to do in this
matter? Christ came to seek and to save that which was lost--came to
the lowliest, the poorest and the vilest, to those over whom devils had
gained power, and cast out the devils. Are those who call themselves
by his name diligent in the work to which he put his blessed hands?
Millions of dollars go yearly into magnificent churches, but how
little to the work of saving and succoring the weak, the helpless, the
betrayed, the outcast and the dying, who lie uncared for at the mercy
of human fiends, and often so near to the temples of God that their
agonized appeals for help are drowned by the organ and choir!