HER ATONEMENT.
The strains of music from the hidden orchestra rise and fall to the
time of a popular march. No longer the low serenade or the sad sweet
lullaby that falls like the rippling of running water on the ears of
those who converse, but the strong, joyous marching music that means
in so many words, “get your partner and advance upon the food that has
been prepared by the first caterer of the World’s Fair City.”
Double doors glide open and a royal spread is disclosed, as only
a millionaire can afford in such tight times. There is the usual
delightful bustle; a dozen seem imbued with the same thought, and seek
out Miss Dorothy only to find that the “young wooer from over the
border” has been too quick for Chicago, since she is already at the
head of the line, with Aleck Craig at her side.
The feast is a jolly time. Light of heart are those present. The
hard times give them no occasion for worry. Not once does a soul
present, in the midst of this abundance, cast a single thought upon the
thousands who see the coming of fall and winter with dread because that
they have no work.
These butterflies of fashion know little of corroding care. The value
of the gems sparkling upon the persons of millionaires’ wives and
daughters at Samson Cereal’s reception would keep food in the families
of all Chicago’s poor for a twelvemonth.
At last the feast is over, and they repair again to the brilliant
drawing and ball rooms where there is to be singing and dancing. What
remains of the night will be passed thus; and, as is usual, the last
stragglers cannot be expected to go until the small hours of the
morning.
Aleck would under ordinary circumstances have gone long before, but
somehow he cannot tear himself away while others remain. Nor can he
understand what it is that chains him unless it is love that fills his
heart. It begins to appear a very serious business, and Craig takes
himself to task several times about it.
The company has dwindled down to a few, and Aleck resolves upon
leaving. Wycherley has gone, actually seeing a banker’s daughter home
like the audacious fellow he is.
Craig has promised to come around in the morning and help translate
the tale Phœnix left behind him in shorthand--which is to disclose the
intended plans of the wily Turk.
Feeling very much at peace with himself and the world in general, Aleck
is descending the stairs after having donned his light overcoat, and
secured his hat, when there rings through the house the sudden shriek
of a woman.
He knows that it comes from the ladies’ dressing room, and without
losing a second makes a dash in that direction. On the way he overtakes
Samson Cereal, and together the two push through the door into the
apartment.
What they see is an appalling spectacle!
There has been a fire in the grate, for the night air is chilly, and
society ladies are not too warmly clad. How it happened no one may
discover, but Dorothy in passing must have gone too near, and her train
swept into contact with the fire. At any rate she was ablaze almost in
a flash, her light drapery burning like matchwood.
Not from her lips did that shriek issue, for sudden fright palsied her
voice; but the attendant gave the alarm; she, regardless of her own
safety, threw herself bodily on the lovely young girl and beat out the
fire with her hands.
In this she is successful, but the flames communicated to her own
clothes. She throws Dorothy from her, just as the gentlemen rush in
through the doorway.
Aleck takes in the situation at a glance. He snatches up a costly rug
from the floor. Without a second’s delay he throws this around the
blazing form and effectually extinguishes the fire. She looks into his
face, and Aleck is amazed to see so little fright there--indeed, he
imagines he can detect a smile upon the countenance of the poor lady.
As for Cereal, he has rushed to his daughter and stamps upon the still
smoldering train.
“Great Heavens! Dorothy, tell me, my darling, how did this happen--are
you injured?” he cries.
“An accident, father. I am not hurt in the least, but I might have
been burned to death only for her devotion, her bravery. Oh! I fear she
has been dreadfully injured! Leave me--go to her, father. I will send
for Dr. Edison, who has just gone home.”
Relieved of his sudden fears, and with a spasm of gratitude welling up
in his heart, Samson Cereal turns to the woman who at the risk of her
own life has saved his daughter.
She looks him in the face now; it is the first time, for hitherto
she has not attracted his attention. As he looks he seems to be
electrified--carried back nearly thirty years and face to face with the
romance of his youth.
“Good God! Adela--you!” falls from his lips.
Suffering intense pain as she must be, the divorced wife still smiles.
“Ah, Samson! I have prayed for this hour, when Heaven would let me wipe
out the past. I have saved her for you, this lovely child whom the
greedy flames would have ruined for life. God has heard my prayer. I
have not long to live. Welcome death, now!”
Then she swoons.
The old man is thoroughly aroused. He will not even allow Aleck to
carry her over to the bed, but raises the slight form himself. God
alone knows the rush of holy feelings that sweep over him as his arms
encircle this fragile body, once as dear to him as the apple of his
eye. They see his tear-dewed eyes and must guess the rest.
He places a tender hand upon her brow and smooths back the white hair.
John has come in, after seeing a young lady home, and as the old man
notices him he beckons.
“My son,” he says brokenly, “the story of the bitter past can no longer
be withheld from you. There is your mother!”
Amazed, John falls on his knees beside the bed. The poor woman opens
her eyes and looks up in his face, startled, frightened.
“My poor mother!” John murmurs--he does not comprehend beyond the one
fact that she suffers agony. Out from the rug struggle the poor burned
hands and clasp him in a fierce embrace as though she would never let
him go again. For years her heart has yearned for him, yet fear of his
reproach has kept her aloof. Now the pent-up emotion of a lifetime
breaks forth.
Her lips move as if uttering a prayer, and then exhausted nature again
causes her to swoon.
The doctor comes and drives them all from the room save Samson and
the housekeeper, who is a trained nurse. All the guests have gone but
Aleck, and with John he sits in the deserted parlor, talking, while
Dorothy changes her dress upstairs.
John is feverish with impatience, and, as best he can, Aleck tells him
the sad story of the past. It causes him intense agony, but the depths
of his heart are stirred with love for the poor mother who so bitterly
paid the penalty the world exacts for a single sin.
When Craig describes with enthusiasm how his friend Wycherley saved
the poor woman from the burning tenement John is running over with
gratitude toward the actor. Indeed, all of them have pretty much the
same feeling for him.
Then Dorothy joins them, looking very sweet, Craig thinks, in her dark
robe, though the color has left her cheeks, and a look of sadness and
fear haunts her eyes.
While they talk in subdued tones Samson Cereal joins them. His face
is not as of old--the stern lines are softened, the eyes tender. It is
with a trembling hand that he draws Dorothy into his embrace.
“It was a narrow escape, my darling. Only for her heroism you must have
been lost to me. I hardly know what to say. God in his goodness has,
I trust, forgiven me. This is the way he has chosen to open my eyes.
Adela sinned, and it was right that we should part, but I have been
wicked to keep alive in my heart the elements of bitterness and anger,
instead of forgiving the wrong of the past. Now the scales are removed
and I see my lamentable fault. Her last days shall be passed in peace,”
he says brokenly.
“Oh, father! is she then fatally burned--has she given her life for
me?” cries Dorothy.
“It is not that, my child. Her burns, though of a painful nature, are
not fatal; but she is the victim of disease--consumption has claimed
her for its own. God knows how it was contracted; perhaps through a
lack of the necessaries of life, or it may be through nursing those
who suffered from that terrible disease, for she tells me she has been
a nurse in the hospitals, and through several yellow fever epidemics
down South, trying to wash out her sin by doing good. The doctor has
told me that she cannot live through another winter. Dorothy, shall
this home be hers to the end?”
“A thousand times, yes, father; and it shall be my pleasure to wait
upon her as though she were my own mother.”
John in the fullness of his heart draws her toward him and kisses her
reverently.
“God bless you, sister,” he says brokenly; while her words have caused
Aleck to suddenly remember the fortune teller of Cairo Street and
wonder what part she will have in the last scene of this strange play,
the dramatic climax arranged by the wily Turk.
“John,” says Samson Cereal, “you have heard this sad story from our
good friend Craig. Do you hate me for the part I have played in it?”
“No, no, father. I can imagine your painful position. I blame no one.
It is, as you say, a sad thing, indeed. The only way now is to forget
the past.”
“That is right, John, you speak sensibly.”
“And endeavor to make my poor mother’s last days as easy as may be. She
erred, but she has nobly atoned for the past. Let us not judge lest we
be judged.”
“How is she? May we not see her, father?”
“Here comes the doctor. He has made her as easy as possible. Ask him!”
The physician can see no harm in it. He has given her a sleeping
potion, but knows that a glimpse of happiness will do even more to
bring ease of mind; so, with a warning, he grants them permission.
Aleck takes his leave. He shakes hands with each in parting, for it
seems to him he is in some way affiliated with these good people,
since circumstances control his destiny and places it side by side
with theirs. Perhaps he squeezes the small hand Dorothy places in his;
at any rate she blushes beautifully at the words he says, so low that
other ears hear not, and when he has gone, glances smilingly at the
mark upon her finger made by the setting of a ring, which is ocular
proof regarding the warmth of a Canadian handshake.
_BOOK FOUR._
THE SPIDER’S WEB OF CAIRO STREET.