Arthur heaved an involuntary sigh, as he gazed upon those sad wrecks of
womanhood, striving to harden their sense of degradation by its impudent
display. But an expression of bewildered and sorrowful surprise suddenly
overspread his countenance. Seated alone upon a cushioned stool, at the
chimney-corner, was a young woman, her elbows resting upon her knees,
and her face bent thoughtfully upon her palms. She was apparently lost
in thought to all around her. She was thinking--of what? Perhaps of the
green fields where she played in childhood; perhaps of her days of
innocence; perhaps of the mother at whose feet she had once knelt in
prayer. But she was far away, in thought, from that scene of infamy of
which she was a part; for, in the glare of the gaslight, a tear
struggled through her eyelashes, and glittered like a ray from heaven
piercing the glooms of hell.
Arthur walked to her, and placed his hand softly upon her yellow hair.
"Oh, Mary!" he murmured, in a tone of gentle sorrow, that sounded
strangely amid the discordant merriment that filled the room.
She looked up, at his touch, but when his voice fell upon her ear, she
arose suddenly and stood before him like one struck dumb betwixt
humiliation and wonder. The angel had not yet fled that bosom, for the
blush of shame glowed through the chalk upon her brow and outcrimsoned
the paint upon her cheek. As it passed away, she would have wreathed her
lip mechanically with the pert smile of her vocation, but the smile was
frozen ere it reached her lips, and the coarse words she would have
spoken died into a murmur and a sob. She sank down again upon the
cushion, and bent her face low down upon her hands.
"Oh, Mary! is it you! is it you! I pray heaven your mother be in her
grave!"
She rose and escaped quickly from the room; but he followed her and
checked her at the stairway.
"Let me speak with you, Mary. No, not here; lead me to your room."
He followed her up-stairs, and closing the door, sat beside her as she
leaned upon the bed and buried her face in the pillow.
It was the child of his old nurse. Upon the hill-sides of his native
State they had played together when children, and now she lay there
before him, with scarce enough of woman's nature left to weep for her
own misery.
"Mary, how is this? Look up, child," he said, taking her hand kindly. "I
had rather see you thus, bent low with sorrow, than bold and hard in
guilt. But yet look up and speak to me. I will be your friend, you know.
Tell me, why are you thus?"
"Oh, Mr. Wayne, do not scold me, please don't. I was thinking of home
and mother when you came and put your hand on my head. Mother's dead."
"Well for her, poor woman. But how came you thus?"
"I scarcely seem to know. It seems to me a dream. I married John, and he
brought me to New York. Then the war came, and he went and was killed.
And mother was dead, and I had no friends in the great city. I could get
no work, and I was starving, indeed I was, Mr. Wayne. So a young man,
who was very handsome, and rich, I think, for he gave me money and fine
dresses, he promised me--Oh, Mr. Wayne, I was very wrong and foolish,
and I wish I could die, and be buried by my poor mother."
"And did he bring you here?"
"Oh no, sir. I came here two weeks ago, after he had left me. And when
he came in one night and found me here, he was very angry, and said he
would kill me if I told any one that I knew him. And I know why; but you
won't tell, Mr. Wayne, for it would make him angry. I have found out
that he is married to the mistress of this house. He's a bad man, I know
now, and often comes here drunk, and swears at the woman and the girls.
Hark! that's her room, next to mine, and I think he's in there now."
The faint sound of voices, smothered by the walls, reached them from the
adjoining chamber; but as they listened, the door of that room opened,
and the loud and angry tones of a man, speaking at the threshold, could
be distinctly heard. Arthur quietly and carefully opened the door of
Mary's room, an inch or less, and listened at the aperture. He was not
mistaken; he recognized the voice of Philip Searle.
"I'll do it, anyhow," said Philip, angrily, and with the thick utterance
of one who had been drinking. "I'll do it; and if you trouble me, I'll
fix you."
"Philip, if you marry that girl I'll peach; I will, so help me G--d,"
replied a woman's voice. "I've given you the money, and I've given you
plenty before, as much as I had to give you, Philip, and you know it. I
don't mind that, but you shan't marry till I'm dead. I'm your lawful
wife, and if I'm low now, it's your fault, for you drove me to it."
"I'll drive you to hell if you worry me. I tell you she's got lots of
money, and a farm, and niggers, and you shall have half if you only keep
your mouth shut. Come, now, Molly, don't be a fool; what's the use,
now?"
They went down the stairway together, and their voices were lost as they
descended. Arthur determined to follow and get some clue, if possible,
as to the man's, intentions. He therefore gave his address to Mary, and
made her promise faithfully to meet him on the following morning,
promising to befriend her and send her to his mother in Vermont. Hearing
the front door close, and surmising that Philip had departed, he bade
her good night, and descending hastily, was upon the sidewalk in time to
observe Philip's form in the starlight as he turned the corner.
It was now ten o'clock; too late to call upon Miranda without disturbing
the household, which he desired to avoid. Arthur's present fear was that
possibly an elopement had been planned for that night, and he therefore
determined, if practicable, to keep Searle in view till he had traced
him home. The latter entered a refreshment saloon upon Broadway; Arthur
followed, and ordering, in a low tone, some dish that would require time
in the preparation, he stepped, without noise, into an alcove adjoining
one whence came the sound of conversation.
"Well, what's up?" inquired a gruff, coarse voice.
"Fill me some brandy," replied Philip. "I tell you, Bradshaw, it's
risky, but I'll do it. The old woman's rock. She'll blow upon me if she
gets the chance; but I'm in for it, and I'll put it through. We must
manage to keep it mum from her, and as soon as I get the girl I'll
accept the lieutenancy, and be off to the wars till all blows over. If
Moll should smoke me out there, I'll cross the line and take sanctuary
with Jeff. Davis."
"What about the girl?"
"Oh; she's all right," replied Philip, with a drunken chuckle. "I had an
interview with the dear creature this morning, and she's like wax in my
hands. It's all arranged for to-morrow morning. You be sure to have the
carriage ready at the Park--the same spot, you know--by ten o'clock.
She can't well get away before, but that will be time enough for the
train."
"I want that money now."
"Moll's hard up, but I got a couple of hundred from her. Here's fifty
for you; now don't grumble, I'm doing the best I can, d--n you, and you
know it. Now listen--I want to fix things with you about that blue-eyed
chap."
The waiter here brought in Arthur's order, and a sudden silence ensued
in the alcove. The two men had evidently been unaware of the proximity
of a third party, and their tone, though low, had not been sufficiently
guarded to escape Arthur hearing, whose ear, leaning against the thin
partition, was within a few inches of Philip's head. A muttered curse
and the gurgling of liquor from a decanter was all that could be heard
for the space of a few-moments, when the two, after a brief whisper,
arose and left the place, not, however, without making ineffectual
efforts to catch a glimpse of the occupant of the tenanted alcove.
Arthur soon after followed them into the street. He was aware that he
was watched from the opposite corner, and that his steps were dogged in
the darkness. But he drew his felt hat well over his face, and by
mingling with the crowd that chanced to be pouring from one of the
theatres, he avoided recognition and passed unnoticed into his hotel.