LOVE AND MALICE.
Savage walked home with Georgiana Halstead, but there was little
conversation between them. She was a good deal excited, and walked with
a quick, almost impetuous step, while her eyes brightened, her lips
parted, and a warm red came into her cheeks. She said nothing, and
seemed almost to wish the handsome young fellow by her side far away;
his presence annoyed her.
Savage was grave, anxious, and so pre-occupied that he did not observe
this change in the graceful young creature whose friendship had always
been so dear to him. When they reached Mrs. Halstead’s residence he
hesitated a moment, lifted his hat, and said, with a smile,
“May I go in, Miss Georgie?”
“Certainly, of course; how rude I was,” she answered, and the color on
her cheeks flushed over her whole face in a scarlet cloud. “They will
all be glad to see you.”
“But I would rather see you alone, just for once, in your own pretty
room—is it quite inadmissible?”
“In my room? Well, why not? Come this way. I only hope Aunt Eliza won’t
be looking over the bannisters.”
Georgie laughed, in spite of all the painful feelings that swelled her
young heart, when she looked upward, with her foot upon the first stair,
and saw the long face of Miss Eliza peering down upon her.
Savage, too, caught a glimpse of the restless female, and joined Georgie
in her sweet, low laugh, but decorously pretended not to see that tall
figure as it drew back and darted away.
The young people entered Georgie’s little sitting-room. Savage placed
his hat on one of the mosaic tables, Georgie placed her bonnet beside
it, and threw her India shawl across a chair, unconsciously forming a
sumptuous drapery which swept the carpet.
“Upon my word,” she said, shaking her bright curls loose, and pressing
them back from her flushed cheeks with both hands, “this seems romantic.
I wonder what Aunt Eliza will say?”
“Never mind what she says.”
“Oh! but you would mind, if she lived in the house with you; but there
is dear, old grandmamma to help me out if she bears down too hard—so
find yourself a chair. The fire is delightful after our cold walk. What
a change it is from that room to this?”
Georgiana had seated herself in the Turkish chair, and sat nestled in
its cushions, with the firelight glimmering over her as she made this
remark. Savage drew a low ottoman to her side, and sat down upon it.
“You were thinking of that garret-room in the tenement-house?” he said.
“Yes, and thinking, too, how thoughtless and ungrateful I am for all
this comfort, for which I have done nothing, while——”
Georgie broke off, and her eyes filled with tears, softly and brightly
as violets gather dew.
“While that poor girl is compelled to toil for the bare necessaries of
life; that’s what was in your heart, I know,” said Savage, taking her
hand gently in his. “I—I would speak to you about her.”
“To me—and about her?” said Georgie, drawing her hand away. “I scarcely
know her. She is a nice girl, I dare say; but why should any one wish to
talk to me about her?”
“Because you are good and generous; because she is helpless and
beautiful.”
“Beautiful!—is she? I did not particularly observe it. A brunette, isn’t
she? Some people like that style. I—I—but you had something to say, and
I interrupted you.”
“Oh, Miss Halstead! you could be of such service to this sweet girl.”
“I of service to her?” said Georgie, lifting her head with a little
fling of pride. “I thank you for the idea. What does she want of me?”
“What, Anna Burns? Nothing. Poor girl! she is not one to ask help; but
knowing you so good and gentle, I thought to interest you in her behalf.
She is a lady.”
“Yes, yes! she is nice and very lady-like, I admit that; and good as she
is beautiful. That means nothing, Mr. Savage. When beauty lies in the
fancy of the beholder, we cannot measure other qualities by it,” said
Georgie. “Please go on and tell me what I can do?”
“You can do every thing for this young girl. She is so lonely, so
isolated in that comfortless place.”
“Yes, it is terrible,” cried Georgie, shivering among her cushions. “Yet
you did not seem to find it so very disagreeable.”
“No place where she is can be disagreeable to me,” answered Savage, with
deep feeling.
Georgie turned white, and shrunk back in her chair, as if some one had
struck her. Her voice scarcely rose above a whisper when she forced it
into words,
“You love this girl, then?”
“Love her, Georgie? Yes, better than my life—better than all the world
beside!”
There was silence for a moment. Georgie’s lovely face grew cold and
white as marble. She seemed to wither up like a flower cut at the
stalks. The very lips were pale. At last an almost noiseless sob broke
through them, and she started into life.
“Does she love you?”
“I hope, I think so. She has said as much.”
“And then?”
“Oh! my sweet friend, it is for her I want your help. I know how
difficult it will be to reconcile my mother; she has such lofty
expectations regarding me.”
“Who has not?” murmured Georgie.
“Do you know,” cried Savage, laughing, and patting her hand as if it had
been a pet bird he was playing with, so much occupied that he did not
feel its marble coldness, or read the agony in those shrinking eyes, “do
you know she has set her heart on making a match between you and me; as
if people who have played together in childhood ever fell in love with
each other; but she will not give up this hope without a struggle,
though I have told her fifty times that we like each other too well for
love.”
“You are right, we do,” said the lovely young creature, sitting upright,
and putting the hair back from her throbbing temples. “What an idea!”
and a laugh broke from her which startled him a little; there was such a
ring of pain in it.
“She is so fond of you, Georgie. Indeed, who could help it? Then we have
been a good deal together. I got a habit of coming here somehow, and it
wasn’t so very strange, after all; only it seems absurd to us, who never
thought of such a thing.”
“Yes, very absurd,” cried Georgie, with another laugh, which brought
fresh tears into her eyes.
“And now, when I am in such deadly earnest, when I would give the world
to make Anna Burns my wife, even this foolish idea comes up as an
obstacle.”
“But you have told your mother that there is nothing in it?”
“Yes, fifty times; but she will not believe me.”
“She will believe me when I tell her it is impossible—ridiculous!”
Poor Georgie, she caught her breath, and broke up a great sob before she
could utter the word ridiculous; but carried it off with a laugh, which
the blind young fellow passed over without a thought of the pain which
made it sound so unlike her usual silvery outgushes of merriment.
“Will you do this, Georgie? Say that you never fancied me in that light,
that nothing would induce you to marry me?”
“But she—she will hate me forever after,” said Georgie, mournfully; “and
I think she did like me.”
“Oh! it will not last a month; and I—I shall love you so dearly for this
help. Anna, also, you cannot think how much she admires you.”
“I am sure she is very kind.”
“Kind—no! She is only the most appreciative creature in the world. Then
you are my friend?”
Georgie shrunk from all this praise, which was bitter when mingled with
that of another so much more beloved than she ever was, and desperately
changed the subject.
“But there was something else; you had more than this on your mind.”
“But I shall oppress you with my selfishness.”
“No, that you cannot. I—I shall only be too happy in serving you.”
“That is my old, dear friend,” cried the young man, looking brightly
into her face, which must have struck him as strangely pallid but for
the firelight that fell upon it. “Do you know, Georgie, that something
in your way of receiving my confidence has almost chilled me?”
“Indeed, it is because you cannot read my heart—that is not cold; try it
and see.”
“I am trying it,” answered Savage, quite unconscious of the cruel truth
he spoke. “Last night, as I thought all this over in my room, I said if
there is a creature on earth that I can trust, heart and soul, it is
Georgiana Halstead.”
“And so you can,” cried Georgie, holding out both her trembling hands,
which he clasped eagerly. “I am not very strong, and sometimes I have
felt pain; but I will be your faithful friend.”
“And hers, Georgie?”
“Yes, and hers,” answered the young creature, bravely. “Now tell me what
more can I do?”
“I will, Georgie. This girl, Anna Burns, you know, is very poor. Her
father was an artist, and, I think, must have been educated as a
gentleman, for his children have received great care; but he died in the
army, and left his family helpless, even more destitute than you saw
them to-day.”
“Dear me,” murmured Georgie, glad of any excuse to weep, “that seems
scarcely possible.”
“How kind you are; so tender-hearted, so good—do not cry. How you sob!
There, there! the worst of this suffering is over now. A little help
will make them comfortable.”
Georgie buried her face in both hands, and gave way to the grief that
had been struggling in her heart till it was almost broken.
Savage rose, and bent over her, smoothing her bright hair caressingly
with his hand.
“Dear, tender-hearted girl,” he said, full of self-reproach: “and I
thought her cold, unsympathizing. Georgie, can you forgive me?”
“Forgive you! forgive you!” repeated the poor girl, removing her hands,
and lifting those deep, troubled eyes to his face. “Oh, yes! I am sure
to forgive you; but what a child I have been, crying about troubles that
are nothing. Now tell me what it is that I can do for these people. It
is a shame that any man who has died fighting for his county should
leave suffering to his family.”
“But many a soldier’s family have suffered, and will, notwithstanding
the people’s gratitude. This is what I desire of you. This family are
even now suffering great privation. It is terrible for refined and
educated persons to be crowded, as they are, under the roof of a house
crowded with low families. You saw how pale they were; what a look of
weariness lay even on the faces of the children. They need neat, airy
apartments, pure air, wholesome food. All this it would be easy to give;
but I cannot do it in my own person.”
“Why not?” inquired Georgie, in her innocence.
Savage smiled, and began to smooth her hair again.
“Simply for this reason, dear friend: that nice old lady would not take
a dollar of my money for any purpose; nor would Anna, I am certain. But
from you it would be different. Let me find the money, and you shall be
my agent—the fairest and sweetest that ever served a friend.”
“I understand now. Yes, you are right; they could not receive benefits
from you; but I am different. Let me once reach their hearts, and all
will be easy.”
“Then you will do this?”
“Why should you ask me? Have I not promised? But I only ask one
privilege; let me tell grandmamma. She will help me as no one else can.”
“But will she consent? Will she keep our secret?”
“What, grandmamma? Of course she will.”
Here a knock at the door disturbed the young people. Savage drew back
and leaned against the mantel-piece, while Georgie bade the intruder
enter.
A servant came in with Miss Eliza Halstead’s compliments, and she
trusted Mr. Savage would give her a few moments’ conversation up stairs
before he left the house. Miss Eliza had something very particular,
indeed, which she wished to communicate.
Mr. Savage sent word that he should be delighted to pay his respects to
Miss Eliza, and would do himself that honor in a few minutes.
The servant closed the door. Then Savage, with ardent thanks, that went
to the young girl’s heart like arrows tipped with flame, took his leave
of Georgiana, and left her alone with her wounded life.
Miss Eliza had been in a state of wild commotion from the moment she saw
young Savage enter the house from her stand-point over the banisters.
She, too, had her boudoir, which, however, was half dressing-room, into
which she made a plunge with a breathless determination to convert the
confusion, which usually reigned there, into a state of picturesque
elegance, suggestive of her own poetic mind. To this end she hustled a
pile of paper-covered books, two or three pairs of old slippers, a faded
bouquet, and a dilapidated dressing-case into the next room; dusted the
tables with a fold of her morning-wrapper, in which she had been
indolently reading, and then took a general survey of the apartment.
Over the small centre-table, which she had just dusted, hung a basket of
artificial flowers, somewhat faded and dusty, but in good preservation,
considering that they had done duty for more than one season on Miss
Eliza’s head. Over this, apparently plunging downward, as if intent on
burying himself in the flowers, dust or no dust, was a moderately-sized
cupid, white as snow, suspended to the ceiling by an invisible wire, and
holding his arms out toward the flowers which that envious wire
permitted him to contemplate, but forbade him to reach.
Miss Eliza glanced up at the cupid with a simpering smile, made a dash
at the basket with her handkerchief, which set both that and the cupid
in motion, and made another application to the table necessary; then
scattering some books over it in picturesque confusion, she took a
volume of Tennyson, laid it open, with the leaves downward, on the edge
of the table, drew an easy-chair into position, and hurried into her
bed-chamber.
Miss Eliza never allowed any person to witness the mysteries of her
toilet, so I cannot describe what took place in the inner room. But
after a time she came forth, radiant, in a white merino dress, ruffled
half a yard deep with convolutions of blue ribbons. Long streamers of
the same color fell from the clustering bows on her shoulders, and
another ribbon was drawn, snood fashion, through a mass of crimped hair
lifted high from her temples, and floated off airily with a mass of
curls that fell from the back of her head.
Miss Eliza rang the bell, turned up her eyes with a devout look, which
made the little cupid tremble on his wire, and sunk into her easy-chair,
smiling upon the folds of her dress as they settled around her with
statuesque effect. Then a new idea seized upon her. A gardiniere, full
of plants, stood in one of the windows. In eager haste Miss Eliza
gathered therefrom two or three sweet-scented geranium leaves, and a
half-open rose; these she placed on her bosom, and returned to her seat
beneath the cupid, and sat waiting with her hand upon the volume of
Tennyson, and one foot pressed upon an ottoman, as if she had been
sitting for a portrait.
I am certain she heard that light footstep the moment it touched the
stairs, thick as the carpet was, for a soft flutter of delight stirred
her garments as if they had been the plumage of a bird; and starting
suddenly, she stood a moment on the ottoman, flirting her handkerchief
upward till the cupid went off in an ecstasy of motion, and seemed quite
unable to contain itself. Then she settled down again, and cried out
softly, “Come in,” when Savage knocked at the door.
“Oh, Mr. Savage! how long you have been in coming,” she said, reaching
forth her left hand with a motion which threw the sleeve back from an
arm that had once been round and white, but keeping her seat all the
time, not caring to destroy the effect of her position. “Indeed, you are
too bad, I have quite thrilled myself with Tennyson waiting for you.”
“I have but just got your summons, Miss Halstead,” said Savage.
“Indeed! but there are moments in life when moments seem like ages.”
“Oh! don’t talk of ages, Miss Halstead, it makes one feel so old!”
Miss Eliza waved her head with a gentle smile, and looked upward, which
assured her that the cupid was softly vibrating above her.
“Ah, Mr. Savage! there ever will exist persons who cannot grow old!”
Savage bowed, and answered that it needed no words to convince him that
she spoke truly. The young man laid his hand on the back of a chair as
he spoke; but removing her foot from the ottoman, she motioned him to
sit there.
“Forgive me, I dare not presume,” he said. “Once at your feet, I might
never be able to leave them.”
Miss Eliza looked down modestly, and a sigh disturbed the geranium
leaves on her bosom.
“You sent for me, Miss Halstead?” said Savage, a little embarrassed by
these gentle demonstrations.
“Sent for you? Oh, yes! But let us waive the subject a little longer; it
will be soon enough for the serpent to creep into our paradise when it
cannot be kept out.” She glanced upward, and Savage, following her eyes,
saw the god of love hovering over them. Spite of himself a smile broke
all over his face.
Miss Eliza had reached a phase in her programme which required a
drooping of the eyelashes, and she lost the smile while performing her
part.
“We were speaking of age,” she said, dreamily; “not that it is a subject
which can, as yet, interest either of us; but I sometimes think that the
lightness of selfish enjoyment and surface life of mere youth is more
unendurable than age itself. There is my niece down stairs now——”
“What! Georgie? She is the very embodiment of all that is sweet and
lovable in youth. You cannot say more in her praise than I will indorse
heart and soul,” cried Savage, whose heart was brimful of gratitude for
the young creature who, all unknown to him, was weeping so bitterly in
the room below. “If you wish to depicture all the grace and bloom of
youth in its perfection, a lovelier object could not be found.”
Miss Eliza moved restlessly in her chair, clasped her hand fiercely in
the folds of her dress, and choked back the venom that burned for
utterance with the resolution of a martyr.
“You—you think so? Well, yes; the same roof shelters us, and magnanimity
is always a virtue. Georgiana is, as you say, very lovely; and no one
can dispute that she is young—verdantly so, I fear. Why, Mr. Savage, you
would hardly believe it, but she—in her innocence, I will not say
obstinacy—is always doing the most extraordinary things. Why, this very
day she has been in one of the most extraordinary neighborhoods,
absolutely disreputable, and visiting a house—really, I cannot tell you
how low her associates sometimes are. I expostulated with her, reasoned
with her; but it was of no earthly use; go she would, and go she did.”
“But where did she go? I do not understand.”
“You remember that night when you first knelt at my feet before an
admiring multitude. Oh! shall I ever forget it! There was a young person
admitted into social communication with the choice few, by what
influence we will not now wait to question, who was absolutely raked up
from the very dregs of society—a poor sewing-girl. Worse than that, a
creature brought up in one of those loathsome dens called
tenement-houses; a low bred——”
“Madam—Miss Halstead!” cried Savage, while his face wore one flush of
indignation.
“I do not wonder that you are astonished,” persisted Miss Eliza. “It was
an insult; no amount of prettiness could excuse it—not that I think the
creature pretty, far from it. Well, this girl, after standing up in one
of the most vulgar, poverty-stricken pictures you ever saw, in her real
dress, and character, too, flaunted herself in velvet, and gold, and
jewels, as Rebecca, in a gorgeous tableau, with young Gould as the
Templar. This was directly after our exquisite representation, and, I
dare say, intended to rival it. Well, somehow, Georgiana, who is always
doing childish things, got acquainted with the girl then and there,
behind the scenes, I believe, where the artful thing had pretended to
faint.”
“Oh! Miss Halstead, this is too much!” exclaimed Savage, starting up
with anger in his eyes.
“I thought that you would feel this keenly, knowing how nearly
Georgiana, foolish child, is related to myself,” resumed Miss Eliza,
with great self-complacency. “And this generous indignation touches me
to the heart. Oh! it is so sweet to be thoroughly appreciated. But this
is not all; Georgiana was full of this girl’s praises, pitied her, raved
about her beauty-beauty, indeed! but that was to annoy me—the silliness
of youth is often very malicious; and at last went off to the horrid
place where this creature lives, in defiance of my wishes, in absolute
scorn of my opinion. This very day she visited this disreputable
creature in her garret, as if she had been an equal.”
“Disreputable!” repeated Savage, starting up, pale with suppressed
wrath. “Miss Halstead, I cannot listen to this. I, too, have visited the
young lady you condemn so bitterly.”
“Young lady, Mr. Savage! and to me!” faltered Miss Eliza, with a flame
of natural color overpowering the permanent roses of her cheek. “Great
heavens! to me!”
“Yes, Miss Halstead, I said lady; and that Miss Anna Burns certainly is,
if one ever lived.”
Miss Eliza grew livid about her mouth and forehead; even her hands
turned coldly white.
“A lady, and live in that house!” she said, with a snarling laugh.
“Yes, madam; even there.”
“Madam! You call me madam—you!” cried the spinster, burying her face
between both hands. “Has it come to this, and for her sake?”
“Poverty, undeserved poverty does not change a refined nature. That
girl, madam, is good, gentle, intelligent. Her presence would make any
place beautiful.”
“Oh! oh! my heart, my heart!” cried Miss Eliza, pressing both hands to
her side, and rocking to and fro in her chair. “These words pierce me
like a poisoned arrow!”
“Forgive me; I do not wish to be harsh; but this young girl is so
unprotected.”
“Forgive you! Alas! this poor heart has no choice,” cried the lady,
reaching out her arms with touching impulsiveness. “Its fibres are too
delicate; the touch of woe wounds it. With me, forgiveness is a sweet
duty.”
A smile quivered over the young man’s lip, spite of anger; at which Miss
Eliza drew in her arms, and clasped her hands, with a deep, deep sigh.
“Oh! how grieved you will be when the whole is told you,” she said,
seating herself on the chair he had resigned, and clasping her fingers
over the hand which still rested on its back. “You have been in that
house? Horrible desecration! I shudder to think of it. How you have
wronged me. It was not this creature’s poverty that shocked me so, but
her depravity.”
“Depravity!”
“Her artfulness! her duplicity! Do not look at me so sternly. I, too,
have been in that tenement-house.”
“You, Miss Eliza?”
“Yes, even that I have endured, in hopes of saving our Georgiana from a
dangerous acquaintance. I have seen the woman who keeps the house—a
coarse, vicious creature, buried to her knees in slop-work, who eyed me
like a terrier when I went in, and would hardly stop working while I
inquired about the people up stairs. A weak person might have been
driven away by this rudeness; but I had a duty to perform, and that
thought gave me courage. I took out my porte-monnaie and laid some money
in her lap; then she told me all—all!”
Savage, spite of himself, grew interested; for now Eliza spoke
naturally, and seemed really in earnest; her dull eyes lighted up with
venomous fire. She was eager as a snake when it charms a bird to
destruction.
“And what did she tell you?” he said, ashamed of the question as he
uttered it.
“Mr. Savage, I had seen this girl more than once in the street, talking
with gentlemen.”
Savage blushed crimson.
“With gentlemen, Miss Eliza? I know that you saw her once with me,
coming from my mother’s.”
“Yes, I saw it. Oh! God forgive you the pang the sight gave me—but that
was not all. I said _gentlemen_.”
“You saw her with some one else, then?”
“I did, and who—a gamester—a blackleg—a hotel-lounger—that Ward, who is
so much with young Gould.”
“What! Ward? And you saw him walking with Anna Burns?”
“Worse than that; I saw them standing together on the public pavement,
conversing earnestly.”
“But that might have been innocent enough.”
“Yes; but was it quite so innocent when he followed her home an hour
after?”
Savage laid his hand almost fiercely on the spinster’s shoulder.
“Woman, is this the truth?”
“Do you question it? I saw him with my own eyes enter the house.
Georgiana’s infatuation about the girl made me vigilant.”
“But this was only once,” said the young man, desperately. “I cannot
believe she encouraged him in this impudence.”
“This was the first time; but he went there again and again—I know it—I
am sure of it; the woman told me so.”
Savage clenched his teeth hard, and, going up to the gardiniere, tore a
branch from the geranium and flung it angrily from him.
“It is impossible—I will not believe it,” he said, with passionate
violence. “There is some combination against her.”
“What combination could have induced this gambler, Ward, to hire a room
and become an inmate in this squalid house?”
“And is this so?”
“The woman herself showed me his chamber—a miserable, shabby room, for
which he had paid the rent in advance, she stated.”
“Great heavens! this is terrible! Woman, woman, I charge you, tell me
the truth! Is there no mistake in this?” His lips quivered, his eyes
were bright with pain.
“Go to the woman yourself if you doubt me,” was the answer. “Then say if
I am not right in forbidding our Georgiana ever to enter that place
again. She may be obstinate enough to insist; but I shall have done my
duty.”
Miss Eliza folded her hands over each other, and rubbed them gently as
she spoke. Savage looked at her with no pleasant expression in his eyes.
Up to this time she had amused him by her ridiculous affectation; but
now he began to hate her, for he saw under all her extravagance a vein
of bitter malice, subtle as the venom of a serpent. He could not
altogether disbelieve her, but detested her the more for that. We never
love, and seldom forgive, those who destroy our illusions.
Miss Eliza took the half-open rose from her bosom, blew a kiss into its
leaves, and gave it to him.
“We have wasted some precious minutes on this worthless girl,” she said,
“let this compensate for the annoyance.”
Savage took the rose and crushed it ruthlessly in his hand.
“As I could crush her!” he muttered, turning away and leaving the room
before Eliza had time to stop him.
She started up and ran to the door, calling out, “Mr. Savage! Mr.
Savage!”
He heard her, and muttered something between his teeth, which was
neither a compliment nor a blessing. That moment he was opposite the
door of Georgiana’s room.
“I ought to go in and release her from that kind promise; but not
yet—not yet. I have not the courage to tell her yet. Besides, it may be
false—it may be false! Georgiana, herself, did not seem more innocent
than she was; and the old woman, too—was all her sweetness put on? I
have heard of such things—seen them, too. The meekest looking woman I
ever saw had murdered two husbands, and was caught looking out for a
third. If mother Burns is one of that sort, no wonder her grandchild is
mistress of her art. But it is not true—I cannot believe it. So sweet,
so gentle, so——”
With a gesture of passionate grief Savage turned from the door of
Georgie’s room, which he had almost opened, and hurried down stairs.
Miserable, jealous, and burning with fierce indignation, he followed a
passionate instinct, and went directly into the neighborhood where Anna
Burns lived. He had formed no positive design, but went blindly to work,
fearing that every step he took would tear that dear image from his
heart, yet eager to seize upon the bitter truth. Following the scent of
fried ham, which came to him on the stairs, he knocked at an ill-fitting
door, through which a hissing sound bespoke the fair progress of some
meal, and was told by a loud voice to come in.
It was the room which we have once described, and the same coarse,
repulsive woman presided in it. But this time she was busy over a
cooking-stove, turning some slices of ham in a short-handled frying-pan,
where they hissed and sent off steam, as if she were torturing them with
her knife. A basket, crowded full of slop-work, stood in one corner of
the room, and a little side-thimble lay upon the narrow window-sill,
close by a cushion of scarlet cloth, bristling all over with coarse
needles and crooked pins.
When Savage entered the room, the woman turned her face, which flamed
out, hot and red, from its cloud of steam, and stood, with her knife
half suspended, waiting for him to speak.
“Madam, are you the mistress of this house?” he said, lifting the hat
from his head.
“I believe they generally call me so,” she answered, bending the point
of her knife against the stove. “Wont you walk in and help yourself to a
chair?”
“No, thank you. I come to inquire for a gentleman who has a room here, I
think—Mr. Ward.”
“Oh! that’s it, is it?” exclaimed the woman. “Didn’t know but it might
be another big-bug struck with a liking for the house. Suppose it must
be because they’ve took sich a fancy to me all at once. Anna Burns has
nothing to do with it. Oh, no!”
Here the woman thrust her knife under a slice of ham and turned it over
with emphasis, laughing a low, disagreeable laugh, and shaking her head,
as if greatly enjoying her own words.
“You want to see Mr. Ward?” she said at last, coming out of her laugh.
“Jest mount the next stairs, and you’ll find his room on the left, right
under their’n. I shouldn’t wonder if he ain’t at home, though. Never had
a more uncertain person under this roof. But then I never had a genuine
big-bug afore. Wait a minute, and I’ll show you the way.”
“No, thank you, I can find it,” answered Savage, turning away white and
faint. Until that moment he had hoped that something might arise to
refute Miss Eliza’s slander—but bitter confirmation met him at every
step. He made no effort to see Ward; indeed, had no intention of meeting
him from the first. His name had only been used as an excuse for
questioning that fiery-faced woman, who was cross and coarse, but not
bad at heart.
“If you want a room, or any thing of that sort, I may as well out with
it, and say that it can’t be had,” cried that female, standing up
resolutely with the knife in her hand. “It don’t set easy on my
conscience letting in that other chap. There’s something mean and
underhanded about his coming here, or I don’t know good from bad. The
fact is, I offered him his money back, and would a put up with the loss;
but he said he had got friends in the house, and couldn’t think of it.
This riled me more than any thing, for I had a liking for that old woman
and the girl, to say nothing of the little boys, that are worth their
weight in gold, going up and down stairs chattering and laughing so
bright; and I told him it was a shame to come here just to unsettle a
poor young cretur’s head that had got trouble enough already. At which
he laughed and hitched up his shoulders, and woke up my temper till I
could a boxed his ears, and gloried over it like sixty, if it hadn’t
been for the law, which makes sich things salt and battery, and six
months in the penitentiary; which I shouldn’t like, being respectable,
and working for one of the best clothing houses in the city, besides
hiring this house on speculation; and a purty speculation it’s been, one
month in advance, and then three dunning for—and obliged to turn ’em out
at last; except that family in the top, I never dunned them, poor
creturs! and wouldn’t anyhow, knowing that they would starve rather than
not pay, if they had it. Poor girl! Poor girl! I feel as if I’d helped
to hunt her down, somehow, and it sets hard here.”
The woman placed her hand, knife and all, against her right side,
solemnly impressed with an idea that her heart lay in that direction;
and a heavy sigh was lost in the hissing which rose from the frying-pan.
“No, no! I’ll have nothing to do with tenants that come here with kid
gloves and coral studs in their bosom. It isn’t for me, a hard-working
woman, to put temptation in the way of my own sect. So, if You’d just as
lieve, I’d rather you wouldn’t come here no more. I’ve seen you more an
once going up to the top of the house, and it kinder made the heart ache
in my bosom.”
Savage listened to all this with an aching heart and changing
countenance. The coarse, hard honesty of the woman enforced his respect;
and he stood with his hat off gazing upon her with strange interest.
“It is not likely that I ever shall come again,” he said, with a pang at
his heart, laying his hand on the door-knob.
“It was that live-folks picture that did it,” said the woman; “afore
that time no living creature ever went to see them. Now it is ladies in
their flounces and with lace parasols; and gentlemen in broadcloth,
cutting up and down all the time. I wish they’d a let the poor soul
alone.”
“And so do I,” answered Savage, with deep feeling. “It was kindly meant.
But I will bid you good-day, madam. If I should ever come here again,
pray believe that it is with no unworthy motive. I cannot permit you to
think otherwise in common self-respect.”
“Well, then, don’t come again, and I’ll believe you. In fact, I do now.
There’s a difference between gentlemen and gentlemen. I only wish the
other chap had a face that could turn red and white like yours. The long
and the short of it is, I wish he was straight out of my house; that
poor child don’t seem like the same cretur since he came here.”
Savage did not stay to ask in what this change consisted, the subject
had become altogether too painful; so, with a bend of his head, he went
out. One moment he paused upon the staircase; his heart turned with
passionate longing toward that lonely upper room. Even in her
unworthiness, he yearned to look upon Anna’s face once more; to hear her
sweet voice proclaim the innocence he never could believe in again. But
he thought of Ward, the gambler and convenient toady, whom so many men
used in his scoundrelism, and despised, as they used him, with a
sensation of such intense loathing, that it turned his very compassion
away from the young creature he had loved with such self-sacrificing
truth.
“Had it been any one else,” he muttered through his shut teeth, “I could
have borne it better; but this paltry wretch, this miserable hound!
Great heavens! and she, so gentle, so exquisitely pure! It is beyond
belief. Never till now did I believe in the utter duplicity of the sex.
Poor girl! Poor, wrecked girl! Could she have known how I loved her?”
With these thoughts, which broke in half-formed words against his shut
teeth, the young man went down stairs, and into the poverty-stricken
neighborhood beyond, feeling, for the first time, in all its force, how
squalid and offensive it was. Scarcely had his foot touched the
pavement, when he saw Anna Burns coming down the side-walk with a small
parcel in her hand. Her face lighted up as she saw him, her cheeks
dimpled, and a warm love-glow came into her eyes. Savage stood
motionless, looking at her with his stern eyes on fire, and his lips
set.
She did not see the expression of his face, for, after the first glad
recognition, her eyelids had drooped in shame at her own eager joy, and
she came up to him shrinking and covered with blushes—came up and held
out her hand; for was he not her declared lover, this brave, handsome
young fellow, whom any lady of the land would have gloried in.
Savage did not touch that eager little hand, but lifting his hat with
haughty coldness, walked on, leaving her chilled with dismay. She turned
and looked after him with a cry of surprised pain, scarcely kept back
from the parted lips which closed slowly, and seemed freezing into
marble as his stern, unyielding footsteps bore him further and further
away. Then, just as he was turning a corner, the cry broke from her,
“Oh, come back! Come back!” and turning wildly, she ran a few steps
after him, till she was checked on the pavement, her face so wildly
pale, coming suddenly opposite that of young Ward, who seized one of her
hands, and asked what it was that had frightened her so.
That moment Savage turned the corner and looked back.