The news of Mike's arrest had been received by kitty's neighbors
with varying degrees of indifference. Everybody realized that, as the
run-over boy had lost nothing but his breath--and but little of that,
judging from his vigorous howl when Mike picked him up--nothing would
come of the affair so long as the present captain ruled the precinct.
Kitty and John and all who belonged to them were too popular around the
station; too many of the boys had slipped in and slipped out of a cold
night, warmed up by the contents of her coffee-pot.
Indeed, between the captain and the denizens of “The Avenue,” only the
most friendly, amicable, and delightful personal relations prevailed. To
the habitual criminal, the sneak-thief, and the hold-up, he might be
a mailed despot swinging a mailed fist, but to the occasional “Monday
drunk,” or the man who had had the best or the worst of it in a fight,
or to one like Mike who was the victim of an unavoidable accident,
he was only a heathen idol of justice behind which sat a big-waisted,
tightly belted man whose wife and daughters everybody knew as he himself
knew everybody in return; who belonged to the same lodge, played poker
in the same up-stairs room when off duty, and was as tender-hearted in
time of trouble as any one of their other acquaintances. Not to have
allowed Mike, a man he knew, a man who had been Kitty and John's driver
for years, to hunt up his own bond, would have been as unwise and
impossible as his releasing a burglar on straw bail, or a murderer
because the dead man could not make a complaint.
When, therefore, Mike burst into the kitchen with the additional
information that “the cap” had let him go to bring back the wagon and
somebody with “cash” enough to go bail, a general movement, headed by
Tim Kelsey, who happened to be passing at the time, was immediately
organized--Tim to proceed at once to the station-house, take the captain
on one side, and so end the matter. Locking up Mike, even threatening
him, was, as the captain knew, an invasion of the rights of “The
Avenue.” Nobody within its confines had ever been entangled in the
meshes of the law--simply because nobody had wanted to break it. It was
the howling boy who should have been locked up for getting under Mike's
wheels, or his father who ought to have kept his son off the street.
Mike listened impatiently to the discussion and, watching his chance,
beckoned to Kitty, shut the door upon the two, and poured into her ear a
full account of what he had seen and heard at the station-house.
“Well, what's that got to do with it?” Kitty demanded. “What did she
have to do with the boy?”
“Nothing, don't I tell ye--she's been swipin' a department store, and
they got her dead to rights.”
“Who's been swipin'? What are ye talkin' about, Mike? Stop it now--I've
got a lot to do, and--”
“The woman ye put to bed that night. The one ye picked up near St.
Barnabas, and brought in here and dried her off. She skipped in the
mornin' without sayin' 'thank ye'--why, ye must remember her! She was--”
Kitty clapped her two palms to her face, framing her bulging eyes--a
favorite gesture when she was taken completely by surprise.
“That woman!” she cried, staring at Mike. “Where is she now? Tell me--”
“I don't know--but she--”
“Ye don't know, and ye come down here with this yarn? Don't ye try and
fool me, Mike, or I'll break every bone in yer skin. Go on, now! How do
ye know it's the same woman?”
“I'm tellin' ye no lies. Come back with me and see for yerself. The cap
will let ye go down and talk to her. I heard Father Cruse tell ye to
keep an eye out for her if she ever came around here agin. Ye got to
hurry or they'll have her in the Black Maria on the way to the Tombs.
Bunky told me so.”
Kitty stood in deep meditation. She remembered that Mike had been in
the kitchen when the woman sat by the stove. She remembered, too, that
Father Cruse had cautioned her to send word to the rectory if the poor
creature came again and, if there were not time to reach him, then to
tell Mr. O'Day. That the priest had not run across the woman at the
station-house was evident, or he would have sent word by Mike. She would
herself find out and then act.
“But ye must have seen Father Cruse. Did he send any word?”
“Yes, he come in just as I was leavin'. It was him who told me to be
sure to hurry back. See the horse gits some water, will ye? I got to go
back.”
“Hold on--what did the Father say about the woman?”
“Nothin', don't I tell ye?--he didn't see her. They'd locked her up
before he came.”
“Why didn't ye tell him who it was?”
“How was I a-goin' to tell him when the cap told me to git?”
“Go on, then, wid ye! If the Father's still there, tell him I'm a-comin'
up, and will bring Mr. O'Day wid me, and to hold on till I get there.”
She took her wraps from a peg behind the door, threw it wide, and joined
her neighbors in the office, composing her face as best she could.
“I've got to go over to Otto Kling's,” she announced bluntly, without
any attempt at apologies. “Some one of ye must go up and bail Mike
out--any one of ye will do. Mr. Kelsey spoke first, so maybe he'd better
go. I'd go myself and sign the bond only I'm no good, for I don't own
a blessed thing in the world, except the shoes I stand in--and they're
half-soled and not paid for; John's got the rest. I'll be there later
on, ye can tell the captain. Mr. Codman, please send over one of your
boys to mind my place. John ain't turned up and won't for an hour. That
trunk went to Astoria instead of the Astor House, bad 'cess to it, and
that's about as far apart as it could git. And, Mike, don't stand there
with yer tongue out! And don't let Toodles go with ye. Get back as quick
as ye can--and tell the captain to make it easy for me, that if the
boy's badly hurt I'll go and nurse him if he ain't got anybody to take
care of him. Git out, ye varmint--thank ye, Tim Kelsey, I'll do as much
for you next time ye have to go to jail. Good-by”--and she kept on to
Kling's.
Otto's store was full of customers when Kitty strode in. Even little
Masie had been pressed into service to help on with the sales, as well
as one of the “Dutchies” whom Kling had brought up from the cellar. The
few remaining hours of the old year were fast disappearing and the crowd
of buyers, intent on securing some small remembrance for those they
loved, or more important gifts with which to welcome the New Year,
thronged the store and upper floor.
Kitty made straight for Felix, who was leaning over the low counter,
absorbed in the sale of some old silver. His disappointment over Kling's
rebuff regarding Masie's future had been greatly lightened, relieved
by his talk with Father Cruse an hour before, and he had again thrown
himself into his work with a determination to make the last days of
the year a success for his employer,--all the more necessary when he
remembered his plans for the child. The customer, an important one,
was trying to make up her mind as to the choice between two pieces, and
Felix was evidently intent on not hurrying her.
He had seen Kitty when she opened the door and approached the counter,
had noticed her excitement when she stopped in front of him, and knew
that something out of the ordinary had sent her to him at this, the
busiest part of his own and her day. But his only sign of recognition
was the lift of an eyelid and a slight movement of his hand, the palm
turned toward her, a gesture which told as plainly as could be that,
while he was glad to see her--something she was never in doubt of--the
present moment was ill adapted to protracted conversation.
Kitty, however, was not built on diplomatic lines. What she wanted she
wanted at once. When she had something vital to accomplish she went
straight at it, and certainly nothing more vital than her present
mission had come her way for weeks.
That the news she carried had something to do with O'Day's happiness,
she was convinced, or Father Cruse would not have been so insistent.
That the woman herself was, in some way, connected with his misfortunes,
she also suspected--and had done so, in reality, ever since the night
on which she gave him the sleeve-links. She had not said so to John; she
had not hinted as much to Father Cruse; but she had never dismissed the
possibility from her mind.
“I'm sorry, ma'am,” she said, ignoring Felix and going straight to the
cause of the embargo, “but couldn't ye let me have Mr. O'Day for a few
minutes? I've somethin' very partic'lar to say to him.”
“Why, Mistress Kitty--” began Felix, smiling at her audacity, the
customer also regarding her with amused curiosity.
“Yes, Mr. O'Day, I wouldn't butt in if I could help it. Excuse me,
ma'am, but there's Otto just got loose, and--Otto, come over here and
take care of this lady who is goin' to let me have Mr. O'Day for half
an hour. Thank ye, ma'am, you don't know me, but I'm Kitty Cleary, the
expressman's wife, from across the street, and I'm always mixin' in
where I don't belong and I know ye'll forgive me. Otto'll charge ye
twice the price Mr. O'Day would, but he can't help it because he's
Dutch. Oh, Otto, I know ye!”
Felix laughed outright. “Thank you, Mr. Kling,” he said, yielding his
place to his employer, “and if you will excuse me, madam,” and he bowed
to his customer, “I will see what it is all about--and now, Mistress
Kitty, what can I do for you?”
Kitty backed away toward the door, so that a huge wardrobe shielded her
from Otto and his customer.
“Come near, Mr. O'Day,” she whispered, all her forced humor gone. “I've
got the woman who dropped the sleeve-buttons.”
Felix swayed unsteadily, and gripped a chair-back for support.
“You've got--the woman--What do you mean?” he said at last.
“Mike saw her at the police-station. They've put her in a cell.”
“Arrested?”
“Yes, for stealin'.”
Involuntarily his fingers brushed his throat as if he were choking, but
no words came. He had been all his life accustomed to surprises, some
of them appalling, but against this, for the instant, he had no power to
stand.
Kitty stood watching the quivering of his lips and the drawn, strained
muscles about his jaw and neck as his will power whipped them back
to their normal shape. She was convinced now of the truth of her
suspicions--the woman was not only interwoven with his past, but was
closely identified with his present anguish.
She drew closer, her voice rising. “Ye'll go with me, won't ye,
Mr. Felix?” she went on, hiding under an assumed indifference all
recognition of his struggle. “Father Cruse told me if I ever come across
her again, and there wasn't time to get hold of him, to let ye know.”
“I will go anywhere, where Father Cruse thinks I should, Mrs.
Cleary--especially in cases of this kind, where I may be of use.” The
words had come from between partly closed lips; his hands were still
tightly clinched. “And you say she was arrested--for stealing?”
“Yes, shopliftin', they call it. Poor creatures, they get that miserable
and trodden on they don't know right from wrong!”
Then, as if to give him time in which to recover himself fully, she went
on, speaking rapidly: “And, after all, it may only be a put-up job or
a mistake. Half the women they pinch in them big stores ain't reg'lar
thieves. They get tempted, or they can't find anybody to tell 'em the
price o' things, especially these holiday times, and they carry 'em
round from counter to counter, and along comes a store detective and
nabs 'em with the goods on 'em. They did that to me once, over at
Cryder's, and I told him I'd knock him down if he put his hand on me,
and somebody come along who knew me, and they was that scared when they
found out who I was that they bowed and scraped like dancin' masters
and wanted me to take the skirt along if I'd say nothin' about it. That
might have happened to this poor child--”
“Has Father Cruse seen her?” asked Felix. No word of the recital had
reached his ears.
“No--that's why I come to ye.”
“And where did you say she was?” He had himself under perfect control
again, and might have been a man bent only on aiding Father Cruse in
some charitable work.
“Locked up in the station-house not far from here. It won't take ye ten
minutes to get there.”
Felix glanced at the big-faced clock, facing the side window of the
store.
“Yes, of course I will go, since Father Cruse wishes it. Thank you for
bringing his message. You need not wait.”
“Needn't wait! Ye're not goin' one step without me. They'd chuck ye out
if ye did, and that's what they won't do to me if the captain's in his
office. Besides, Mike run over a boy, and Tim Kelsey is up there now
standin' bail for him. There's no use goin' unless ye see her. That's
what the Father wanted ye to do, and that ain't easy unless ye've got
the run of the station. So, ye see, I got to go with ye whether ye want
me or not, or ye won't get nowheres. I'll wait till ye get yer hat and
coat.”
All the way to the station-house, Kitty beside him, Felix was putting
into silent words the thoughts that raced through his mind.
“Barbara arrested as a vulgar thief!” he kept saying over and over.
“A woman brought up a lady--with the best blood of England in her
veins--her father a man of distinction! The woman I married!”
Then, as a jagged thread of light breaks away from a centre bolt,
illuminating a distant cloud, a faint ray cheered him. Perhaps the woman
was not Barbara. No one had any proof. Father Cruse had never believed
it, and he had only argued himself into thinking that the woman who had
dropped the sleeve-link must be his wife. Until he knew definitely, saw
her with his own eyes, neither would HE believe it, and a certain shame
of his own suspicion swept through him like a flame.
The captain was out when the two reached the station. Nor was there
any one who knew Kitty except a departing patrolman, who nodded to her
pleasantly as she passed in, adding in a whisper the information that
Mike and Kelsey had gone up to Magistrate Cassidy, who held court in the
next block, and that she was “not to worry,” as it was “all right.”
A new appointee--a lieutenant she had never seen before--was temporarily
in charge of the station.
“I'm Mrs. Cleary,” she began, in her free, outspoken way, “and this is
Mr. Felix O'Day.”
The new appointee stared and said nothing.
“Ye never saw me before, but that wouldn't make any difference if the
captain was around. But ye can find out about me from any one of yer men
who knows me. I'm here with Mr. O'Day lookin' up a woman who was brought
here this morning for stealin' some finery or whatever it was from one
of these big stores--and we want to see her, if ye plaze.”
The lieutenant shook his head. “Can't see no prisoner without the
captain's orders.”
Kitty bridled, but she kept her temper. “When will he be back?”
“Six o'clock. He's gone to headquarters.”
“He'd let me see her if he was here,” she retorted, with some asperity.
“No doubt--but I can't.” All this time he had not changed his
position--his arms on the desk, his fingers drumming idly.
Felix rested his hands on the rail fronting the desk. “May I ask if you
saw the woman?”
“No. I only came on half an hour ago.”
“Is there any one here who did see her?”
Something in O'Day's manner and in the incisive tones of his voice,
those of command not supplication, made the lieutenant change his
position. The speaker might have a “pull” somewhere. He turned to the
sergeant. “You were on duty. What did she look like?”
The sergeant yawned from behind his hand. He had been up most of the
previous night and was some hours behind his sleep schedule. Kitty's
presence had not roused him but the self-possessed man could not be
ignored.
“You mean the girl who got Rosenthal's lace?” he answered.
“You're dead right,” returned the lieutenant obligingly. He had, of
course, always been ready to do what he could for people in trouble, and
was so now.
“Oh, about as they all look.” This time the sergeant directed his
remarks to Felix. “We get two or three of 'em every day, specially
about Christmas and New Year's. Rather run down at the heel, this one,
and--no, come to think of it, I'm wrong--she looked different. Been
a corker in her time--not bad now--about thirty, I guess--maybe
younger--you can't always tell. Rather slim--had on a black-straw hat
and some kind of a cloak.”
Kitty was about to freshen his memory with some remembrance of her
own, and had got as far as, “Well, my man Mike was here and he told me
that--” when Felix lifted a restraining hand, supplementing her outburst
by the direct question: “Did she say nothing about herself?”
“She did not. All we could get out of her was that she was English.”
Felix bent nearer. “Will you please describe her a little closer? I have
a reason for knowing.”
The sergeant caught the look of determination, dallied with a tin
paper-cutter, bent his head on one side, and pursed a pair of thick
lips. It was a strain on his memory, this recalling the features of one
of a dozen prisoners, but somehow he dared not refuse.
“Well, she was one of the pocket kind of women, small and well put up
but light built, you know. She had blue eyes--big ones--I noticed 'em
partic'lar--and about the smallest pair of feet I ever seen on a girl.
She stumbled down-stairs and caught her dress, and I remember they was
about as big as a kid's. That was another thing set me to wondering how
she got into a scrape like this. She could have done a lot better if she
had a-wanted to,” this last came with a leer.
Felix clenched his teeth, and drove his nails into the palms of his
hands. He would have throttled the man had he dared.
“Did she make any defense?” he asked, when he had himself under control
again.
“No--there warn't no use--she owned up to having pinched it. Not here
at the desk, but to Rosenthal's man who made the charge--that is, she
didn't deny it. The stuff was worth $250. That's a felony, you know.”
Kitty saw Felix sway for an instant, and was about to put out a
protecting hand when he turned again to the lieutenant.
“Officer, I do not ask you to break your rules, but I would consider it
an especial favor if you would let me see this woman for a moment--even
if you do not permit me to speak to her.”
“Well, you can't see her.” The reply came with some positiveness and a
slight touch of irony. He had made up his mind now that if the speaker
had a pull, he would meet it by keeping strictly to the regulations.
“Why not?”
“Because she ain't here. She's in the Tombs by this time, unless
somebody went her bail up at court. They had her in the patrol-wagon as
I come on duty.”
“The Tombs? That is the city prison, is it not?” Felix asked, hardly
conscious of his own question, absorbed only in one thought--Lady
Barbara's degradation.
“That's what it is,” answered the lieutenant with a contemptuous glance
at Felix, followed by a curl of the lip. No man had a pull who asked a
question like that.
“If I went there, could I see her?”
“When?”
“This afternoon.”
“Nothin' doin'--too late. You might work it to-morrow. Step down to
headquarters, they'll tell you. If she's up for felony it means five
years and them kind ain't easy to see. Can I do anything more for you?”
“No,” said Felix firmly.
“Well, then, move on, both of you--you can't block up the desk.”
Felix turned and left the station-house, Kitty following in silence, her
heart torn for the man beside her. Never had he seemed finer to her than
at this moment; never had her own heart stirred with greater loyalty.
But never since she had known him had she seen him so shaken.
“There is nothing more we can do to-day,” he said, speaking evenly,
almost coldly, when they reached the corner of the street. “I will see
Father Cruse to-night and tell him of your kindness, and he can decide
as to what is to be done. And if you do not mind, I will leave you.”
She stood and watched him as he disappeared in the throng. She
understood her dismissal and was not offended. It was not her secret and
she had no right to interfere or even to advise. When he was ready he
would tell her. Until that time she would wait with her hands held out.
Felix crossed the street, halted for an instant as if uncertain as to
his course, and turned toward the river. He wanted to be alone, and the
crowd gave him a greater sense of isolation. It was the first time
in months that he had tramped the thoroughfares without some definite
object in view. All that was now a thing of the past, never to be
revived. His quest was finished. The interview with the sergeant had
ended it all. Every item in his detailed account of the woman now in
the Tombs tallied with Kitty's description of the woman with the
sleeve-buttons and so on, in turn, with the woman who was once his wife.
With this knowledge there flamed up in his heart an uncontrollable
anger, fanned to white heat by hatred of the man who had caused it all.
His fingers tightened and his teeth ground together. That reckoning, he
said to himself, would come later, once he got his hands on him. If
she were a thief, Dalton had made her so. If she were an outcast and a
menace to society, Dalton had done it. By what hellish process, he could
not divine, knowing Lady Barbara as he did, but the fact was undeniable.
What then was he to do? Go back to London and leave her, or stay here
and fight on in the effort to save her? SAVE HER! Who could save her?
She had stolen the goods; been arrested with them in her possession; was
in the Tombs; and, in a few weeks, would be lost to the world for a term
of years.
He could even now see the vulgar, leering crowd; watch the jury, picked
from the streets, file in and take their seats; hear the few, curt,
routine words, cold as bullets, drop from the lips of the callous judge,
the frail, desolate woman deserted by every soul, paying the price
without murmur or protest--glad that the end had come.
And then, with one of those tricks that memory sometimes plays, he saw
the altar-rail, where he had stood beside her--she in her bridal robes,
her soft blue eyes turned toward his; he heard again the responses,
“for better or for worse”--“until death do us part,” caught the scent
of flowers and the peal of the organ as they turned and walked down the
aisle, past the throng of richly dressed guests.
“Great God!” he choked, worming his way through the crowd, unconscious
of his course, unmindful of his steps, oblivious to passers-by--alone
with an agony that scorched his very soul.