Three days had passed, and the excitement in the neighborhood was
nearly at an end. The apothecary’s shop at the corner into which John
Baker’s body and the living four-year-old child had been carried
together immediately after the catastrophe had lost most of its
interest for the curious, although the noses of a few idlers were
still pressed against the large pane in apparent search of something
beyond the brilliant colored bottles or the soda-water fountains. Now
that the funeral was over, the womenkind, whose windows commanded a
view of the house where the dead man had been lying, had taken their
heads in and resumed their sweeping and washing, and knots of their
husbands and fathers no longer stood in gaping conclave close to the
very doorsill, rehearsing again and again the details of the
distressing incident. Even the little child who had been so
miraculously saved from the jaws of death, although still decked in
the dirty finery which its mother deemed appropriate to its having
suddenly become a public character, had ceased to be the recipient of
the dimes of the tender-hearted. Such is the capriciousness of the
human temperament at times of emotional excitement, the plan of a
subscription for the victim’s family had not been mooted until what
was to its parents a small fortune had been bestowed on the rescued
child; but the scale of justice had gradually righted itself.
Contributions were now pouring in, especially since it was reported
that the mayor and several other well-known persons had headed the
list with fifty dollars each; and there was reason to believe that a
lump sum of from fifteen hundred to two thousand dollars would be
collected for the benefit of the widow and seven children before
public generosity was exhausted.
Local interest was on the wane; but, thanks to the telegraph and the
press, the facts were being disseminated through the country, and
every leading newspaper in the land was chronicling, with more or less
prominence according to the character of its readers, the item that
John Baker, the gate-keeper at a railroad crossing in a Pennsylvania
city, had snatched a toddling child from the pathway of a swiftly
moving locomotive and been crushed to death.
A few days later a dinner-company of eight was gathered at a country
house several hundred miles distant from the scene of the calamity.
The host and hostess were people of wealth and leisure, who enjoyed
inviting congenial parties from their social acquaintance in the
neighboring city to share with them for two or three days at a time
the charms of nature. The dinner was appetizing, the wine good, and
conversation turned lightly from one subject to another.
They had talked on a variety of topics: of tarpon fishing in Florida;
of amateur photography, in which the hostess was proficient, and of
gardens; of the latest novels and some current inelegancies of speech.
Some one spoke of the growing habit of feeing employés to do their
duty. Another referred to certain breaches of trust by bank officers
and treasurers, which occurring within a short time of one another had
startled the community. This last subject begot a somewhat doleful
train of commentary and gave the lugubrious their cue. Complaints were
made of our easygoing standards of morality, and our disposition not
to be severe on anybody; of the decay of ideal considerations and the
lack of enthusiasm for all but money-spinning.
“The gist is here,” reiterated one of the speakers: “we insist on
tangible proof of everything, of being able to see and feel it--to get
our dollar’s worth, in short. We weigh and measure and scrutinize, and
discard as fusty and outworn, conduct and guides to conduct that do
not promise six per cent per annum in full sight.”
“What have you to say to John Baker?” said the host, breaking the
pause which followed these remarks. “I take for granted that you are
all familiar with his story: the newspapers have been full of it.
There was a man who did not stop to measure or scrutinize.”
A murmur of approbation followed, which was interrupted by Mrs. Caspar
Green, a stout and rather languid lady, inquiring to whom he referred.
“You know I never read the newspapers,” she added, with a decidedly
superior air, putting up her eye-glass.
“Except the deaths and marriages,” exclaimed her husband, a lynx-eyed
little stockbroker, who was perpetually poking what he called fun at
his more ponderous half.
“Well, this was a death: so there was no excuse for her not seeing
it,” said Henry Lawford, the host. “No, seriously, Mrs. Green, it was
a splendid instance of personal heroism: a gate-keeper at a railway
crossing in Pennsylvania, perceiving a child of four on the track just
in front of the fast express, rushed forward and managed to snatch up
the little creature and threw it to one side before--poor fellow!--he
was struck and killed. There was no suggestion of counting upon six
per cent there, was there?”
“Unless in another sphere,” interjected Caspar Green.
“Don’t be sacrilegious, Caspar,” pleaded his wife, though she added
her mite to the ripple of laughter that greeted the sally.
“It was superb!--superb!” exclaimed Miss Ann Newbury, a young woman
not far from thirty, with a long neck and a high-bred, pale,
intellectual face. “He is one of the men who make us proud of being
men and women.” She spoke with sententious earnestness and looked
across the table appealingly at George Gorham.
“He left seven children, I believe?” said he, with precision.
“Yes, seven, Mr. Gorham--the eldest eleven,” answered Mrs. Lawford,
who was herself the mother of five. “Poor little things!”
“I think he made a great mistake,” remarked George, laconically.
For an instant there was complete silence. The company was evidently
making sure that it had understood his speech correctly. Then Miss
Newbury gave a gasp, and Henry Lawford, with a certain stern dignity
that he knew how to assume, said----
“A mistake? How so, pray?”
“In doing what he did--sacrificing his life to save the child.”
“Why, Mr. Gorham!” exclaimed the hostess, while everybody turned
toward him. He was a young man between thirty and thirty-five, a
lawyer beginning to be well thought of in his profession, with a
thoughtful, pleasant expression and a vigorous physique.
“It seems to me,” he continued, slowly, seeking his words, “if John
Baker had stopped to think, he would have acted differently. To be
sure, he saved the life of an innocent child; but, on the other hand,
he robbed of their sole means of support seven other no less innocent
children and their mother. He was a brave man, I agree; but I, for
one, should have admired him more if he had stopped to think.”
“And let the child be killed?” exclaimed Mr. Carter, the gentleman who
had deplored so earnestly the decay of ideal considerations. He was a
young mill-treasurer, with aristocratic tendencies, and a strong
interest in church affairs.
“Yes, if need be. It was in danger through no fault of his. Its
natural guardians had neglected it.”
“What a frightful view to take!” murmured Mrs. Green; and, although
she was very well acquainted with George Gorham’s physiognomy, she
examined him disapprovingly through her glass, as if there must be
something compromising about it which had hitherto escaped detection.
“Well, I don’t agree with you at all,” said the host, emphatically.
“Nor I,” said Mr. Carter.
“Nor I, Mr. Gorham,” said Mrs. Lawford, plaintively conveying the
impression that if a woman so ready as she to accept new points of
view abandoned him there could be no chance of his being right.
“No, you’re all wrong, my dear fellow,” said Caspar Green. “Such ideas
may go down among your long-haired artistic and literary friends at
the Argonaut Club, but you can’t expect civilized Christians to accept
them. Why, man, it’s monstrous--monstrous, by Jove!--to depreciate
that noble fellow’s action--a man we all ought to be proud of, as Miss
Newbury says. If we don’t encourage such people, how can we expect
them to be willing to risk their lives?” Thereupon the little broker,
as a relief to his outraged feelings, emptied his champagne-glass at a
draught and scowled irascibly. His jesting equanimity was rarely
disturbed; consequently, everybody felt the importance of his
testimony.
“I’m sorry to be so completely in the minority,” said Gorham, “but
that’s the way the matter strikes me. I don’t think you quite catch my
point, though, Caspar,” he added, glancing at Mr. Green. At a less
heated moment the company, with the possible exception of Mrs. Green,
might have tacitly agreed that this was extremely probable; but now
Miss Newbury, who had hitherto refrained from comment, in order to
digest the problem thoroughly before speaking, came to the broker’s
aid.
“It seems to me, Mr. Gorham,” she said, “that your proposition is a
very plain one: you claim simply that John Baker had better not have
saved the child if, in order to do so, it was necessary to lose his
own life.”
“Precisely,” exclaimed Mr. Green, in a tone of some contempt.
“Was not Mr. Gorham’s meaning that, though it required very great
courage to do what Baker did, a man who stopped to think of his own
wife and children would have shown even greater courage?” asked Miss
Emily Vincent. She was the youngest of the party, a beautiful girl, of
fine presence, with a round face, dark eyes, and brilliant
pink-and-white coloring. She had been invited to stay by the Lawfords
because George Gorham was attentive to her; or, more properly
speaking, George Gorham had been asked because he was attentive to
her.
“Thank you, Miss Vincent: you have expressed my meaning perfectly,”
said Gorham; and his face gladdened. He was dead in love with her, and
this was the first civil word, so to speak, she had said to him during
the visit.
“Do you agree with him?” inquired Miss Newbury, with intellectual
sternness.
“And do you agree with Mr. Gorham?” asked Mrs. Lawford, at the same
moment, caressingly.
All eyes were turned on Emily Vincent, and she let hers fall. She felt
that she would give worlds not to have spoken. Why had she spoken?
“I understand what he means; but I don’t believe a man in John Baker’s
place could help himself,” she said quietly.
“Of course he couldn’t!” cried Mrs. Lawford. “There, Mr. Gorham, you
have lost your champion. What have you to say now?” A murmur of
approval went round the table.
“I appreciate my loss, but I fear I have nothing to add to what has
been said already,” he replied, with smiling firmness. “Although in a
pitiful minority, I shall have to stand or fall by that.”
“Ah, but when it came to action we know that under all circumstances
Mr. Gorham would be his father’s son!” said Mrs. Lawford, with less
than her usual tact, though she intended to be very ingratiating.
Gorham’s father, who was conspicuous for gallantry, had been killed in
the Civil War.
Gorham bowed a little stiffly, feeling that there was nothing for him
to say. There was a pause, which showed that the topic was getting
threadbare. This prompted the host to call his wife’s attention to the
fact that one of the candles was flaring. So the current of
conversation was turned, and the subject was not alluded to again,
thereby anticipating Mr. Carter, who, having caught Miss Newbury’s
eye, was about to philosophize further on the same lines.
During the twelve months following his visit at the Lawfords’ the
attentions of George Gorham to Emily Vincent became noticeable. He had
loved her for three years in secret; but the consciousness that he was
not able to support a wife had hindered him from devoting himself to
her. He knew that she, or rather her father, had considerable
property; but Gorham was not willing to take this into consideration;
he would never offer himself until his own income was sufficient for
both their needs. But, on the other hand, his ideas of a sufficient
income were not extravagant. He looked forward to building a
comfortable little house in the suburbs in the midst of an acre or two
of garden and lawn, so that his neighbors’ windows need not overlook
his domesticity. He would have a horse and buggy wherewith to drive
his wife through the country on summer afternoons, and later, if his
bank-account warranted it, a saddle-horse for Emily and one for
himself. He would keep open house in the sense of encouraging his
friends to visit him; and, that they might like to come, he would have
a thoroughly good plain cook--thereby eschewing French kickashaws--and
his library should contain the best new books, and etchings and
sketches luring to the eye, done by men who were rising, rather than
men who had risen. There should be no formality; his guests should do
what they pleased, and wear what they pleased, and, above all, they
should become intimate with his wife, instead of merely tolerating her
after the manner of the bachelor friends of so many other men.
Thus he had been in the habit of depicting to himself the future, and
at last, by dint of undeviating attention to his business, he had got
to the point where he could afford to realize his project if his
lady-love were willing. His practice was increasing steadily, and he
had laid by a few thousand dollars to meet any unexpected emergency.
His life was insured for fifty thousand dollars, and the policies were
now ten years old. He had every reason to expect that in course of
time as the older lawyers died off he would either succeed to the
lucrative conduct of large suits or be made a judge of one of the
higher tribunals. In this manner his ambition would be amply
satisfied. His aim was to progress slowly but solidly, without splurge
or notoriety, so that every one might regard him as a man of sound
dispassionate judgment, and solid, keen understanding. His especial
antipathy was for so-called cranks--people who went off at half-cock,
who thought nothing out, but were governed by the impulse of the
moment, shilly-shally and controlled by sentimentality.
It was with hope and yet with his heart in his mouth that he set out
one afternoon determined to ask Emily Vincent to become his wife. She
lived in the suburbs, within fifteen minutes by the train, or an
hour’s walk from town. Gorham took the cars. It was a beautiful day,
almost the counterpart of that which they had passed together at the
Lawfords’ just a year before. As he sat in the train he analyzed the
situation once more for the hundredth time, taking care not to give
himself the advantage of any ambiguous symptoms. Certainly she was not
indifferent to him; she accepted his attentions without demur, and
seemed interested in his interests. But was that love? Was it any more
than esteem or cordial liking, which would turn to pity at the first
hint of affection on his part? But surely she could not plead
ignorance of his intentions; she must long ere this have realized that
he was seriously attentive to her. Still, girls were strange
creatures. He could not help feeling nervous, because so very much was
involved for him in the result. Should she refuse him, he would be and
remain for a long time excessively unhappy. He obliged himself to
regard this alternative, and his heart sank before the possibility.
Not that the idea of dying or doing anything desperate presented
itself to him. Such extravagance would have seemed out of keeping with
respect either for her or for himself. Doubtless he might recover some
day, but the interim would be terribly hard to endure. Rejection meant
a dark, dreary bachelorhood; success, the crowning of his dearest
hopes.
He found his sweetheart at home, and she came down to greet him with
roses that he had sent her in her bosom. It was not easy for him to do
or say anything extravagant, and Emily Vincent, while she might have
pardoned unseemly effusiveness to his exceeding love for her, was well
content with the deeply earnest though unriotous expression of his
passion. When finally he had folded her in his arms she felt that the
greatest happiness existence can give was hers, and he knew himself to
be an utterly blissful lover. He had won the prize for which he had
striven with a pertinacity like Jacob’s, and life looked very roseate.
The news was broken to her family that evening, and received
delightedly, though without the surprise which the lovers expected.
They were left alone for a little while before the hour of parting,
and in the sweet kisses given and taken Gorham redeemed himself in his
mistress’s estimation for any lack of folly he had been guilty of when
he had asked her to be his wife. There was riot now in his eyes and in
his embraces, revealing that he had needed only to be sure of her
encouragement to become as ridiculous as she could desire. He stood
disclosed to himself in a new light; and when he had kissed her once
more for the last time he went tripping down the lawn radiantly happy,
turning now and again to throw back with his fingers a message from
his lips to the one being in all the world for him, who stood on the
threshold, adding poetry and grace to the beautiful June evening.
When out of sight of the house, Gorham sped fleetly along the road. He
intended to walk to town, for he felt like glorying in his happiness
under the full moon which was shedding her silver light from a clear
heaven. The air was not oppressive, and it was scented with the
perfume of the lilacs and apple-blossoms, so that Gorham was fain
every now and then to draw a deep breath in order to inhale their
fragrance. There was no dust, and nature looked spruce and trig,
without a taint of the frowziness which is observable in the foliage a
month later.
Gorham took very little notice of the details; his eyes were busy
rather with mind-problems than with the particular beauties of the
night; yet his rapt gaze swept the brilliant heavens as though he felt
their lustre to be in harmony with the radiance in his own soul. He
was imagining the future--his hearth forever blessed by her sweet
presence, their mutual joys and sorrows sweetened and alleviated
through being shared. His efforts to live worthily would be fortified
by her example and counsel. How the pleasures of walking and riding
and reading and travelling--of everything in life--would be a
hundredfold enhanced by being able to interchange impressions with
each other! He pictured to himself the cosey evenings they would pass
at home when the day’s work was done, and the jolly trips they would
take together when vacation-time arrived. How he would watch over her,
and how he would guard her and tend her and comfort her if misfortune
came or ill health assailed her! There would be little ones, perhaps,
to claim their joint devotion, and bid him redouble his energies; he
smiled at the thought of baby fingers about his neck, and there arose
to his mind’s eye a sweet vision of Emily sitting, pale but
triumphant, rocking her new-born child upon her breast.
He walked swiftly on the wings of transport. It was almost as light as
day, yet he met but few travellers along the country road. An
occasional vehicle passed him, breaking the silvery stillness with its
rumble which subsided at last into the distance. A pair of whispering
lovers, arm in arm, who slunk into the shadow as he came abreast of
them, won from him a glance of sympathy. Just after he had left them
behind the shrill whistle of a locomotive jarring upon the silence
seemed to bring him a message from the woman he adored. Had he not
preferred to walk, this was the train he would have taken, and it must
have stopped not many hundred yards from her door. As he listened to
it thundering past almost parallel to him in the cut below he breathed
a prayer of blessing on her rest.
A little beyond this point the road curved and ran at a gradual
incline so as to cross the railroad track at grade about half a mile
farther on. This stretch was lined on each side by horse-chestnut
trees set near to one another, the spreading foliage of which darkened
the gravelled foot-path, so that Gorham, who was enjoying the
moonlight, preferred to keep in the middle of the road, which, by way
of contrast, gleamed almost like a river. He was pursuing his way with
elastic steps, when of a sudden his attention was arrested about a
hundred and fifty yards from the crossing by something lying at the
foot of one of the trees on the right-hand side. At a second glance he
saw that it was a woman’s figure. Probably she was asleep: but she
might be ill or injured. It was a lonely spot, so it occurred to him
that it was proper for him to investigate. Accordingly, he stepped to
her side and bent over her. From her calico dress, which was her only
covering, she evidently belonged to the laboring class. She was a
large, coarse-looking woman, and was lying, in what appeared to Gorham
to be drunken slumber, on her bonnet, the draggled strings of which
caught his eye. He hesitated a moment, and then shook her by the arm.
She groaned boozily, but after he had shaken her again two or three
times she rolled over and raised herself on her elbow, rubbing her
eyes and staring at him glassily.
“Are you hurt, woman?” he asked.
She made a guttural response which might have meant anything, but she
proved that she was uninjured by getting on her feet. She stared at
her disturber bewilderedly, then, perceiving her bonnet, stooped to
pick it up, and stood for a moment trying sleepily to poke it into
shape and readjust its tawdry plumage. But all of a sudden she gave a
start and began looking around her with recovered energy. She missed
something, evidently. Gorham followed the direction of her gaze as it
shifted, and as his glance met the line of the road he perceived a
little figure standing in the middle of the railway crossing. It was a
child--her child, without doubt--and as he said so to himself the roar
of an approaching train, coupled with the sound of the whistle, made
him start with horror. The late express from town was due. Gorham
remembered that there was a considerable curve in the railroad at this
point. The woman had not perceived the situation--she was too far in
the shade--but Gorham from where he stood commanded a clear view of
the track.
Without an instant’s hesitation, he sprang forward and ran at full
speed. His first thought was that the train was very near. He ran with
all his might and main, his eyes fixed on the little white figure, and
shouting to warn it of its danger. Suddenly there flashed before his
mind with vividness the remembrance of John Baker, and he recalled his
argument at the Lawfords’. But he did not abate his speed. The child
had plumped itself down on one of the sleepers, and was apparently
playing with some pebbles. It was on the farther track, and, startled
by his cries and by the clang of the approaching train, looked up at
him. He saw a pale, besmeared little countenance; he heard behind him
the agonizing screams of the mother, who had realized her baby’s
peril; in his ears rang the shrill warning of the engineer as the
engine rounded the curve. Would he be in time?
As he reached the edge of the tracks, thought of Emily and a terrible
consciousness of the sorrow she would feel if anything were to happen
to him compressed his heart. But he did not falter. He was aware of
the jangle of a fiercely rung bell, the hiss of steam, and a blinding
glare; he could feel on his cheek the breath of the iron monster. With
set teeth he threw himself forward, stooped, and reached out over the
rail: in another instant he had tossed the child from the pathway of
danger, and he himself had been mangled to death by the powerful
engine.