TWO WOMEN AND A BABE.
"Mr. Sherrod is not working for the paper now," responded a man in the
counting room when Justine, overawed, applied for information at the
office of the newspaper in which her husband's pictures had attracted
such widespread notice. At the station a policeman had put her in a
cab with directions to the driver. With her baby and her pitiful old
satchel, she was jolted over the streets and up to the door of the
newspaper office. She felt small, helpless, lost in this vast solitude
of noises. The rush of vehicles, cars and people frightened her.
Every moment she expected there would be a collision and catastrophe.
And Jud was somewhere in this seething, heartless city, sick, unhappy,
discouraged and longing for her.
"I know," she responded, thickly, to the clerk, whose glance had been
cold and whose tones were curt. "He left here some months ago, but he
gets his mail here."
"Does he?" brusquely.
"I address all of my letters to this office and he gets them."
"Country as can be," thought the clerk, his eye sweeping over her, "but
devilish pretty. Lord, what eyes she's got." Then aloud, with a
trifle more cordiality: "I'll ask Mr. Brokell if he knows where Sherrod
lives. Just wait a minute, please." As he walked away there was one
thought in his mind: "Sherrod is a lucky dog if he can get this woman
to leave her happy home for him." In a few minutes he returned with
the information that the address was not known in the office, but that
he would be glad to assist her in the search. She thanked him and
walked away. Somehow she did not like to meet the eye of this man.
There was in it an expression she had never seen before, she who had
looked only into the honest faces of countrymen.
The shock of the clerk's blunt announcement that Jud's address was not
known to any one then in the office was stupefying. So stunned with
surprise was she that her wits did not return until she found herself
caught up by the rushing throng on the sidewalk. When she paused in
the aimless progress through the crowd she was far from the newspaper
office and paralyzed by the realization that she and the baby had
nowhere to go. In sheer terror she stopped still and looked about with
the manner of one who is aroused from a faint and finds a strange world
looking on in sympathetic curiosity.
Busy men jostled her rudely, thoughtlessly; women arrayed as she had
seen but one in her life, stared at her as she stood frightened and
undecided in the middle of the sidewalk. There was no friendly face,
no kindly hand in all that rushing crowd. Scarcely realizing what she
did, she asked a man who leaned against the building nearby if he knew
Dudley Sherrod. The man stared at her blankly for an instant, a
sarcastic grin flashing across his hard face. The smile faded
instantly, however, for, street loafer though he was, he saw the agony
in her eyes, and knew that she had lost her way. With a politeness
that surprised himself, he answered in the negative and then advised
her to consult a directory.
She looked so helpless and unhappy that he volunteered to lead her to
the nearest drug store. She followed him across the street, her baby
on one arm, the big "telescope" bumping against her tired leg as she
lugged it with the other hand. The city directory gave Dudley
Sherrod's address as 1837 E---- street, but she remembered that he had
left this place nearly a year before. Her friend, the lounger, advised
her to appeal to the police, but she revolted against anything
suggestive of the "criminal." To ask the police to look for her
husband was to her shocking.
A clerk in the store was appealed to by the lounger, and that
individual agreed with him that the police alone could find "the Man,"
if he was to be found at all. All this was adding new terror. Tears
came to Justine's eyes and she did not try to dash them away. Pride
was conquered by despair. The clerk, taking matters in his own hands,
called in a passing policeman, and bluntly told her to state the
situation to him.
"In the fir'rst place, ma'am, d'ye know the felly here?" asked the
officer, regarding the lounger with an unfriendly eye. The latter
winced a bit but did his best to put up a brave show of resentment.
"She never seen me till ten minutes ago, Maher, an' I ain't done or
said nawthin' wrong to her. Leave it to th' girl herself if I ain't
been dead square. Ain't I, ma'am?"
"He's been very kind, policeman," answered Justine, eagerly.
"Sure, sure, Maher, dat's right," said the lounger, triumphantly.
"Did he's thry to touch ye, ma'am?" demanded the officer, still
unsatisfied.
"No, sir; he did not do anything so rude. He was very kind, and I
thank him," responded she, taking the word "touch" literally.
"What d'I tell you?" said the suspect in hurt tones.
"Kape yer gab out, Biggs," said the officer. "I mean, ma'am, did he
ask yez fer money?"
"Oh, no, sir," said Justine confusedly.
"Never asked her fer a cent, on the dead----"
"That'll do ye, Biggs. Clear out, onnyhow," said the policeman,
unpityingly.
"Aw, dat's not right----"
"G'wan now, will ye?" exclaimed Officer Maher, roughly shoving Mr.
Biggs toward the door.
"Oh," cried Justine, indignantly. "Let him alone!" Her eyes were
flashing angrily.
"It's all right, ma'am," explained the clerk, calmly.
"But he's done nothing wrong."
"You can't take chances with these bums. They're a bad lot. He's a
tough customer, Biggs is. Don't have anything to do with strangers on
the street. It's not safe." By this time the red-faced guardian of
the peace was with them again, and Justine reluctantly explained her
dilemma to him.
"He worked here for a long time as a newspaper artist," she said, in
conclusion.
"I've seen his pictures many a time," said the clerk with new interest.
"Is he your husband?"
"Yes, sir."
"I guess he's not on the paper now. I haven't seen his pictures for
some time."
"He's been off the paper for nearly a year."
"Come wid me to hidquarters, ma'am, an' the chief'll sind some wan out
to loca--ate him before night," said the officer. "Sthate yer case to
the boss. It won't be no thrick to find him."
"I hate to have the police look for him," said she imploringly.
"Will, thin, phat'd yez call me in fer?" demanded the officer, harshly.
"I--I didn't call you in, sir," said she, looking helplessly at the
clerk.
"I called you in, officer," said the clerk. "She didn't know what to
do."
"Will, it's up to you, ma'am. We'll find him if yez say so."
"Do you know any one else in Chicago?" asked the clerk. "Maybe there's
some one you could go to while they're trying to find your husband."
"I don't know any one here," she said, despairingly.
"Don't you want to leave your grip here? We'll take care of it till
you come after it."
"That'll be all right, ma'am. It'll be safe here, an' yez don't want
to be luggin' it around town wid that kid on yer hands. L'ave it
here," said Officer Maher, and he picked it up and carried it behind
the prescription counter before she could remonstrate. The clerk
handed her a card containing the name and location of the store.
"Oh, I do know some one here," she cried suddenly, her face
brightening. "Miss Celeste Wood. Do you think I could find her?"
To her dismay, the name was not in the directory.
"Does she live with her parents?" asked the clerk.
"I--I think so," replied Justine, helplessly.
"Do you know her father's name?"
"No, sir. She has a brother named Randall. Would his name be in the
book?"
Young Wood's name and address were readily found by the clerk, and
Officer Maher advised her to take a cab to the place at once. These
men unceremoniously took matters in their own hands, and, almost before
she knew it, a cab was taking her northward, bound for the home of the
girl who had so often sent her love, through Jud, to the other girl of
Proctor's Falls.
The ride gave her ample time to reflect and she had not gone far before
her thoughts were running once more in a straight channel. Her pride
grew as the situation became plainer, displacing the first dread and
confusion. How could she go to a stranger and inflict her with her
troubles? What right had she to ask her assistance or even her
interest in this hour of need? Besides all this, the mere confession
that she could not find her husband would be humiliating to her and
explanations would be sure to put Jud in an unpleasant light. It would
mean that she must tell Miss Wood of his failure in everything, a
condition which the young woman might politely deplore, but that was
all. Her own poor garments now seemed the shabby reflection of Jud's
poverty, his degradation, his fall from the high pedestal that had been
his by promise. She could not look down into the bright, laughing eyes
of her boy and go on to the shameful exposition of his father's
misfortune. The red of pride mounted to her brown cheeks and the new
fire in her eyes burned bright with the resolution to save him and
herself from the humiliation of an appeal to Miss Wood.
Past rows of magnificent homes she was driven, but they interested her
not at all. Beneath her pride, however, there battled the
fast-diminishing power of reason. Try as she would, she could not
drive out the stubborn spark which told her that she must call upon
some one in her helplessness--but that the "some one" should be a woman
was distressing. As she was struggling with pride and reason, the cab
turned in and drew up at the curb in front of a handsome house. Her
heart gave a great bound of dismay.
"This is No. ----, ma'am," said the driver, as he threw open the door.
"I--I don't believe I'll go in," she stammered, trembling in every
nerve.
"Where shall I take you?" he asked wearily. Little he cared for the
emotions of his fares.
"Are you sure this is the place?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am. Do you want to get out?"
Fresh courage inspired her, brought about by the sharp realization that
it was the only way to find help, humiliating though the method might
be. There was no other way, and his question: "Where shall I take
you?" reminded her forcibly that she had no place to go.
"Yes," she said, decisively, and with the haste of one who is afraid
that hesitation will bring weakness, she stepped to the carriage-block.
"Shall I wait, ma'am?"
"I don't know how long I'll be here," she said, her ignorance
confronted by another puzzle. The driver saw in his mind sufficient
cause for her uncertainty, and sagely concluded that she was a poor
mother who expected to find a home for her babe with the wealthy people
who lived at No. ----.
"I'll drive into the park and be back in half an hour, ma'am, if you
think you'll be there that long," he said, and away he rolled. She
mounted the steps quickly and, after a long and embarrassing search,
found the electric button and rang the door bell. A trim maid
responded. Justine had fondly hoped that Miss Wood herself would come
to the door, and her heart sank with disappointment.
"Is Miss Wood at home?" she managed to ask.
"She does not live here," replied the maid, surveying the caller with a
superior and supercilious air.
"I thought her brother----" began Justine, faintly. She felt as if she
were about to fall.
"Mr. and Mrs. Wood live here, and they have a married daughter living
over in S---- Place. I have only been here since Monday, ma'am, and I
can't tell you her address."
"It is Miss Celeste Wood I want to see," said poor Justine, her lip
trembling.
"That's the name--Celeste. She was here yesterday, and I heard Mrs.
Wood speak the name. Won't Mrs. Wood do as well?" There was kindness
in the voice now; Justine's eyes had made their usual conquest.
"I'd--I'd rather see Miss Celeste," she said, timidly. "Can't you tell
me where she lives?"
"I'll ask Mrs. Wood. The butler'd know, but he is sick. Will you wait
inside the door? What a pretty baby."
She was gone but a few minutes, returning before Justine's dazed eyes
had half accustomed themselves to the attractive place.
"She lives at No. 1733 S---- Place. You go to the next corner and turn
west. The house is in the second block."
The day was cold and her bare hands were numb. The wind from the lake
cut through her thin garments so relentlessly that she longed for the
protection of the carriage, which was not to return for half an
hour--and then to the wrong place. What if Celeste were not at home?
She could not ask to be permitted to sit in her house until her return;
that would be too much of an imposition. She could only return to the
street and wait for half an hour in the freezing winds for the cab,
which seemed like a home to her now.
A hurrying figure in furs and brown approached from the direction in
which she was going. The two drew nearer and nearer, the one walking
rapidly against the wind, the other driven along more swiftly than was
her wont by the heavy gale at her back. Justine was the first to
recognize the other. Her heart gave a great bound of joy, for there
could be no mistaking the face of the woman who faced the wind. The
country girl jubilantly uttered in her soul a prayer of gratitude to
the Providence that had brought her face to face with the one she
sought. She half stopped as the other drew near. Celeste's eyes met
hers. Evidently she was surprised to observe a desire to speak with
her on the part of a stranger. Justine's eyes were wide with relief
and her lips were parted as if words were just inside. Celeste's eyes
narrowed for one brief instant of indecision, and then she knew. There
was but one face like Justine Van's, and it had been in her mind for
days and days. She had just come from it, in fact, and her heart was
still aching with the pain of seeing it on Jud's easel not an hour
before. But what could the girl be doing in Chicago? was the thought
that flashed into her mind. Even as she opened her lips to greet her,
her hands extended, it was known to her that Justine could be going
only to the home of Jud Sherrod. Justine's joy was too great for words
and Celeste's heart went out to her irresistibly. Despite the wanness
of the face and the dark circles under the eyes, Justine's were still
the vivid, matchless features that Celeste had envied in that other
day. Though she was sorely troubled by the inexplicable presence of
the one woman whom she had been thinking of for days, Celeste could but
greet her warmly.
"This is the greatest surprise in the world," cried Celeste. "Who
would have dreamed of seeing you here?"
"I have just come from your old home. They told me you lived on this
street," said Justine, her voice hoarse with emotion.
"And you were going to my home," cried Celeste, just as if intuition
had not told her so before. "I was on my way to mother's. Isn't it
lucky we met? I will go back with you at once. You must be very cold.
And--a baby? Oh, the dear little one! How cold it must be."
"I have him well wrapped up," said Justine. Celeste mentally noted
that the child was protected at the sacrifice of the mother's comfort,
for Justine looked half frozen.
"Is he--is he your boy?" asked Celeste, and a wave of happiness surged
over her when the answer came. Did it not prove that she was married
and forever out of Jud's life?
"I am sure he must be a handsome little fellow," said she, as they
turned from the sidewalk to the steps leading to the door of her home.
"He looks like his father--and not a bit like me," said Justine,
modestly.
"Have you named him?"
"He is named after his father, of course."
"A token of real love."
"Of love, yes--he could have had no other name. I am so happy that he
is a boy." The door swung open and they were in the warm hallway.
"You must let me see him. Bring him to the grate. But, first, take
off your hat and coat. Mary will relieve you of them. Now, let me see
him."
Dudley, the second, was awake, wide-eyed and frightened, when he looked
up into the two faces above him.
"Does he not look like his father?" asked Justine, happily.