A HARD-HEARTED VILLAIN.
Ward attempted to draw Anna’s hand through his own, but she resisted
him, and at last tore it away in passionate anger.
“Mr. Ward,” she said, “this is unkind—it is rude. You have no right to
take such liberties with me.”
There was fire enough in those eyes, then, and a world of scorn on the
lovely mouth. She turned one look in the direction which Savage had
taken, saw that he was gone, and turned fiercely upon Ward again.
“You are wicked—you are cruel!” she said. “Knowing how helpless I am,
you persecute me horribly!”
“I persecute you, sweet one—the idea! Is it in this way you mistake my
adoration?”
Anna’s red lips curved with scorn; her eyes flashed, her whole form
trembled.
“Great heavens!” she exclaimed, “I never knew what a terrible thing
poverty was before. But for that you could not have forced yourself
under the same roof with a poor, helpless girl; but for that you dare
not have spoken to me.”
“Do not accuse poverty for the acts which spring out of love, sweet
one.”
Anna heard no more; but gathering her shawl about her with the haughty
grace of an empress, she turned away from him and walked quickly into
the house. The young gambler followed her, laughing; the excitement of
her anger charmed him. Quickly as he walked, Anna had mounted the third
flight of stairs before he entered the passage. He just caught a glimpse
of her dress on the upper landing, and that was all. But he went up
stairs, smiling to himself and humming a tune, conscious of his power to
see her almost when he pleased.
Old Mrs. Burns was busy darning the only tablecloth in that poor
establishment, when Anna came in, all on fire with wounded affection and
outraged pride.
“Grandmother,” she said, “we must move; this house is no place for us.
Let us go to-night—this hour!”
The old lady was holding up the tablecloth between her eyes and the
light, searching for more broken threads. She dropped it suddenly as her
granddaughter spoke, and gazed at her a moment in anxious wonder.
“What is it, Anna? Who has troubled you, dear?”
“That young man in the room below. I haven’t told you of it before,
grandmother, but he is always in my way. I cannot go up or down stairs
that he does not say things to me which seem insulting, situated as we
are.”
“My poor child! poor, dear, little Anna!” said the old lady, going up to
the excited girl and smoothing the rich waves of her hair as if she had
been a child. “Perhaps the young man means no harm. What sort of a
person is he?”
“A dandy; a pitiful——”
Here Anna’s anger flowed out, and she burst into tears.
“There, there! Don’t cry so, child! What did the young man say to you?”
“Say—say? I don’t remember, grandma. Nothing, I think; only he held my
hand so close, and _he_ saw it——Oh! it is too bad—it is too bad!”
“Be tranquil, Anna. I cannot think what has come over you. Why, your
eyes are full of smothered shame; your lips tremble, you are giving way
altogether. Sit down quietly, and tell me what it is all about.”
“I will, grandmother. I know it is a shame to take on so, but that man
is enough to drive one mad. What is he doing in this house? Robert says
that he is a gentleman, and a great friend of young Mr. Gould’s. He can
have no honest business here.”
The old lady sat down in her rocking-chair, and sat thoughtfully gazing
in Anna’s face. She was a timid woman, and poverty had fastened its
depressing influence on all her faculties. But there was moral force
asleep in her nature yet; the color came and went in her old cheek; her
soft, brown eyes grew resolute in their expression.
“There is no one to protect us—no one to say a word in our behalf,” said
Anna, with a fresh outburst of tears. “Robert is too young. Oh! what can
we do—what can we do?”
The old lady arose from her chair, and going up to a tiny looking-glass
which hung on the wall, smoothed the gray hair under her cap with two
little withered hands that shook like aspen-leaves. Then, with a look of
gentle resolution on her face, she softly opened the door and went down
stairs.
Young Ward was lying upon his bed with a segar in his mouth. He lay
prone on his back, and sent up clouds of smoke with a vehemence which
seemed to have filled his moustache and hair with smouldering fire. He
turned lazily as the old lady knocked, and emitting a fresh volume of
smoke, called out,
“Come in! Why the deuce don’t you come in?”
Mrs. Burns came gently through the door, and stood a pace inside the
threshold gazing at him. Ward started up, flung his feet over the side
of the bed, and looked his astonishment at this intrusion.
“How do you do, ma’am? Glad to see you. Take a seat. This seems
neighborly. Excuse my dressing-gown; free-and-easy in my room here. Did
not expect the honor of a lady’s company, but glad to have it. Sit
down.”
Mrs. Burns took a chair near the bed, and, folding both hands in her
lap, turned her eyes full upon the flushed face turned upon her.
“Mr. Ward—I believe that is your name?”
“Certainly. Nothing could be more correct,” answered Ward, thrusting his
foot into an embroidered slipper trodden down at the heel, which had
dropped to the floor; “delighted that you remember it.”
“Mr. Ward, we are two helpless creatures—my grandchild and myself; one
from age, the other because of her youth. A more helpless family, in
fact, does not exist. We have nothing in the wide world but our good
name, and the work of our hands to live on. Unhappily! most unhappily!
my granddaughter, Anna, is so pretty that men turn to look at her in the
street; and even ladies think much of her on that account.”
“They are deuced jealous of her, I can tell you that,” burst forth young
Ward, puffing away at his segar, which was half extinguished. “And no
wonder; she cuts into them all hollow. Of course, men turn to look at
her in the street; they don’t see a figure and face like that often, I
can tell you. Then her instep, one sees it now and then coming up
stairs, you know, when her dress is looped up—and it’s Spanish,
absolutely Spanish, I can tell you. My dear madam, you have got a
treasure of beauty in that girl—you have, indeed; I give you my honor
upon it.”
“I have come,” said the old lady, ignoring this speech, though a flush
of red came across her withered cheek, and the hands moved restlessly in
her lap, “I have come to tell you how unprotected we are, and how hard
it is for us to get a living. I have come to ask a great favor of you.”
“What! want money? All right. I thought it would come to that! How much?
I’ll stand a pretty heavy pull; hang me, if I wont.
Ward flouted his slipper on the floor, and, drawing a porte-monnaie from
one of his pockets, took out a roll of treasury-notes.
This time the color in the old woman’s face burned into scarlet.
“I did not mean that, young man—I did not mean that. The favor I want is
more important to us than all the money you possess.”
Ward put the roll of bills slowly back into his porte-monnaie, and
closed it with a loud snap.
“Not want money? Then in the name of Jupiter! what is it you are after?”
“I wish you to give up this room and leave the house. This is no place
for a rich man like you. It is injuring us cruelly—my granddaughter most
of all.”
Ward fell back upon the bed and laughed aloud.
“This is splendid!” he cried. “Give up my room! Why, you precious old
thing, I like the room—it’s a capital place to hide away in. Besides, I
am one of the fellows who think your granddaughter handsome. No harm in
that, I hope. Like to see her going up and down stairs; steps like a
fairy; lifts her head like a princess. Smoke at ease here; admire beauty
at my leisure. Why should you wish to break up these little innocent
enjoyments? It is inhuman—I would not have thought it of you.”
“Your presence under the same roof with my girl is sure to injure her.
People will not know that we cannot prevent it.”
“But I know it. I, at least, do ample justice to the subject. You can no
more force me to leave this pleasant room than you can change the moon.”
“I do not hope to force your absence, but come in all kindness to say
how much your stay here is injuring us. I come to entreat, implore you
not to force us away from the only shelter we have. Here the woman of
the house is kind to us, and that makes it seem like home. My son died
fighting for his country—perhaps you did not know that. When he was with
us we were very comfortable, and _so_ happy. Now, the children have no
one but me; and I am only a weak old woman; but my child’s good name
must not be lost. We were getting a little comfortable, just now; but if
you will stay, we must go.”
“Go!” exclaimed Ward, in sudden excitement. “You really don’t mean that,
old lady?”
“It is hard. I am an old woman, and age shrinks from change. We had got
used to the rooms; but if we must go, we must! Heaven help us!”
Mrs. Burns arose as she spoke, and stood with one hand on the chair,
looking sadly on the floor. At last she lifted her brown eyes mournfully
to his, and turned away. Poor thing! She did not know how to struggle,
but she was patient to endure.
I think the young man was a little disturbed by the expression of those
eyes, for the fire went out from his segar, and he flung it away half
consumed, muttering something between his teeth that sounded like an
exclamation of self-loathing.
“I’ll go and see Gould,” he said, throwing his dressing-gown across a
chair, and thrusting his arms into a coat. “No, I wont, either! Hang it
all, I’m getting too fond of the girl myself; half tempted to marry her,
and get religion. That sweet old woman, now, would be like a sermon in
one’s house. If one only had a nice little fortune—income sure? How easy
it is for rich men to be good. But we fellows that live by our wits,
find ‘Jordan a hard road to travel.’ I wish that old lady had stayed
away. I can stand the girl’s haughty airs, for anger fires up her beauty
into something wonderful; but that sweet, low voice; those poor little
hands, trembling like birds in the cold; and those eyes, take a fellow’s
spirit out of his bosom. I think they reminded me of my own mother.
Well, I’ll think about going away, poor, old woman; if it was only her,
I’d quit at once—I would, indeed!”
Mrs. Burns heard nothing of this; she had left the room, and was
knocking faintly at her landlady’s door.
“Come in.”
Mrs. Burns obeyed the summons, and entered the room with which our
readers are acquainted. The landlady sat on a low chair, with her foot
on the round of another chair, and the seam of a coarse jacket pinned to
her knee. She looked up, holding her thread half drawn, and pushing the
chair on which her foot rested, asked her tenant to sit down, a little
roughly—for she was not quite satisfied with the aspect of things with
the family up stairs.
Mrs. Burns sat down, and the landlady bent to her work again.
“Any thing stirring?” she inquired, pressing the needle through a thick
double-seam with the side of her steel thimble. “A good deal of going up
and down stairs lately—tramp, tramp! nothing but tramp! Getting to have
lots of genteel company in your story? Silks a rustling, and
patent-leather boots a cracking all the day long. How’s Anna?”
“She is not very well. We are in a little trouble just now, and that’s
what brings me here. I think we shall have to move.”
“Move! Mrs. Burns! Has it come to that? These premises ain’t genteel
enough for you, I dare say. It’s all that girl’s doings, I’ll bet.
Expected it from the minute that young fellow came into the house!
Scamp!”
“That is the reason we must go. We haven’t had a happy minute since he
came here.”
“Then you want to get away from him—is that it?” cried the landlady,
fixing her greenish-gray eyes on the sad face turned so innocently
toward her.
“Yes; that is the only reason we wish to go. People will think something
wrong of it if a man who dresses so well, and spends so much money, is
seen often with a girl like my Anna. And he will insist on walking by
her if she goes out. She came home crying only a few minutes ago,
because he stopped her in the street.”
“Scamp!” exclaimed the landlady, jerking her needle out with snappish
vigor. “Deserves to be kicked into the middle of next week!”
“I have just been to his room.”
The landlady dropped the heavy work down into her lap, overcome with
astonishment.
“You?”
“I asked him to go away; told him how much we had become attached to the
rooms; how hard it would be for us to break up—but it did no good.”
“He wouldn’t go himself, and having received two months’ rent in
advance, I can’t make him. There’s the worst of it, or he’d go out neck
and heels, quicker than you ever saw a fellow go down stairs in all your
born days, Mrs. Burns.”
The landlady thrust her needle in and out so vigorously as she spoke,
that it plunged into her thumb at the termination of this sentence.
“Serves me right!” she said, thrusting her thumb into her mouth. “Serves
me right, for letting the stuck-up creature in. But I’ll make the house
too hot for him; see if I don’t—boil cabbage and fry onions every day of
my life, with the fireboard up and the door open. Just as like as not
his night-key won’t fit some day when he wants to come in. Will have the
lock changed as sure as I live. I’ve offered the fellow his money back,
and he won’t take it. Well, we’ll see. But you’re not going away, Mrs.
Burns; rather than that I’ll go in and out with Anna myself. Owe her
that much for thinking she could like the fellow. I’d like to see him,
or anybody else, speak to her when I’m on hand. Standing down by the
door to look at her feet as she goes up stairs. I’ve seen him do it. If
he wants to look at anybody’s feet, let him look at mine.”
“I am afraid we must move,” said Mrs. Burns, sadly enough. “You have
been so kind to us, it seems almost like a funeral to go away.”
“You shan’t go! That is the long and short of it. Wait a little, and if
the cabbage and onions fail, I’ll think of something else; for go he
shall, and go you shan’t—there!”
Mrs. Burns arose, irresolute. She loved the humble rooms which had
sheltered her deepest affliction; and her heart yearned toward the
semblance of home they gave her.
“Wait a few days,” said the landlady.
“Yes, I will wait. You are very good; but then everybody is so good to
us.”
“Goodness breeds goodness. I don’t believe there is a creature on earth
bad enough to be hard with you, Mrs. Burns. I try to be like you
sometimes, but it isn’t in me.”
“It is in you to be considerate and kind to those who most need
kindness,” said Mrs. Burns, with tears in her eyes.
“Yes, but I’ve got such a way of doing it—rough as a chestnut-burr; but
I don’t mean any harm to a living creature—quite the contrary.”
“You have done nothing but good to us,” said Mrs. Burns, opening the
door in her soft, quiet way; “and God will bless you for it.”
“That’s the kind of woman that people call the salt of the earth,”
muttered the landlady, as her tenant went out; “her very look makes me a
better woman. Yet I was thinking hard of her only a few minutes ago.
Well that was the old native Adam in me. I wonder how she managed to
drive him out. Going to prayer meeting won’t do it. I’ve tried that; but
then she is so different.”