Gordon Craig Part 6

I smiled grimly, determined to admit the worst.

"Little better than a tramp, I suppose, although I have held a job lately--driving for a lumber yard across the river."

A moment she sat in silence, her eyes lowered to the table.

"What--what was that you offered the man for security?" she asked quietly.

"Oh, nothing much. It had no intrinsic value, and the fellow would not even accept it. He was willing to trust me."

"Yes, but tell me what it was? Something you valued highly?"

I felt my cheeks reddening, yet there was no reason why I should not answer.

"It was a medal, an army medal."

"You were in the army then?"

"Yes, I served an enlistment in the Philippines, and was invalided home; discharged at the Presidio. Someway I have been up against tough luck ever since I got back. I think the climate over there must have locoed me; anyhow the liquor did. Tonight the pendulum is swinging the other way."

"Why do you think that?"

"I have met you, have I not?"

There was no brightening of her eyes, no acknowledgment of the words.

"To have the misery of another added to your own requires no congratulations," she said gravely. "But I am glad you told me. I know there are many who return home like that. I can understand why much better now than I could once. I have had experience also. It is so easy to drift wrong, when there is no one to help you go right. I used to believe this world was just a beautiful playground. I never dreamed what it really means to be hungry and homeless, to be alone among strangers. I had read of such things, but they never seemed real, or possible. But I know it all now; all the utter loneliness of a great city. Why it is easier to fall than to stand, and, oh! I was so desperate tonight. I--I actually believe I had come to the very end of the struggle. Whatever happens--whatever possibly can happen to me hereafter--I shall never again be the same thoughtless creature, never again become uncharitable to others in misery." Her eyes dropped before mine, yet only to uplift themselves again, shining with brave resolution. "Would you care to tell me what it is with you? What it is you fight?"

"I am afraid I do not fight, except physically," I confessed soberly.

"Probably that is the whole trouble. If I have ever had a grip I 've lost it. However I 'm willing to tell my story, although it's a poor one, just the uninteresting recital of a fool. My home was in New England, my father a fairly successful manufacturer. My mother died while I was a child, and I grew up without restraining influence. I led an ordinary boy's life, but was always headstrong, and willful, excelling physically. My delight was hunting, and the out-of-doors.

However I kept along with my studies after a fashion, and entered the University. Here I devoted most of my time to students' pranks, and athletics, but got through two years before being expelled.

Interesting, is n't it?"

"Yes," she said. "It is what I wish to know."

"This expulsion resulted In a row at home," I went on, disgusted at myself. "And I took French leave. For six months I knocked about, doing a little of everything, having rather a tough time, but too obstinate to confess my mistake and return. Of course I naturally fell in with a hard set, and finally enlisted. My regiment was sent to the Philippines, where we had some fighting. I liked that, and was a good enough soldier to be promoted to a sergeantcy. I reckon I had better have remained in the service, for when I was sent back to Frisco, because of wounds, and then discharged, I went to h.e.l.l."

"And your father does n't know?"

"Not from me. I had money at first, and transportation to Chicago where I enlisted. I blew in the cash, and lost the other. Then I started in to beat my pa.s.sage east, working only when I had to. I was thrown off a train about twenty miles west of here, and came into this burg on foot. It was tough luck for a day or two until I caught on to a lumber yard job. I 've been working now for a couple of weeks. Nice record, is n't it?"

Her parted lips trembled, but those questioning brown eyes never deserted my face.

"It is not as bad as I feared, if--if you have told me all."

"I have confessed the worst anyhow. I 'm a rough, I suppose, and a b.u.m, but I 'm not a criminal."

"Why were you at that house? and so afraid of the police?"

"Well, that is a long story," I replied hesitatingly. "I had been talking with some men inside, who had offered me work, and good pay.

There was a reason why I did not wish to be seen coming out at that hour."

"Not--not anything criminal?"

"No; I 've confessed to being a good-for-nothing, but I 'm clear of crime."

She drew a long breath of relief.

"I do not quite believe," she said firmly. "You--you do not look like that."

I laughed in spite of my efforts.

"I am delighted to have you say so. No more do I feel like that now.

Yet so the record reads, and you must accept me just as I am, or not at all. I have nothing else to offer."

She lowered her eyes, her fingers still nervously fumbling the menu card.

"Perhaps I have no more."

"I have asked no explanation of you."

"True; yet you cannot be devoid of curiosity. You meet me after midnight, wandering alone in the streets; you see me boldly, shamelessly, interfering to prevent the arrest of a strange man; you hear me deliberately falsify, again and again. What could you think of such a woman? Then I accept your invitation, and accompany you here, believing you a criminal. What possible respect could you, or any other man, entertain for a girl guilty of such indiscretion?"

"You ask my individual judgment, or that of the world?"

"Yours, of course; I know the other already."

I extended my hand across the table, and placed it over her own. A swift flush sprang to her cheeks, but she made no effort to draw away.

The action was so natural, so unaffectedly sincere, as to awaken no resentment.

"I am a young man," I said earnestly, "but I have seen all kinds of life, both right and wrong, upper and lower. I can realize how easy it is to sit in a club window, and criticize the people pa.s.sing along the street. That is an amus.e.m.e.nt of fools. The inclination to become one of that cla.s.s left me long ago. Now I do not understand why you were upon the street tonight unattended; why you came to my a.s.sistance, or why you are here with me now. I have no desire to pry into your secret. I am content to remain grateful, to count this a red-letter day, because somehow, out of the mystery of the dark, we have thus been brought together. An old professor used to say all life hinges on little things, and I believe our chance meeting is going to change both our lives, and for the better. Without asking a question, or harboring a suspicion, I have faith in you--is that enough?"

"You mean, you accept me upon trust?"

"Certainly; even as you must accept me. I have no letters of recommendation."

She was again looking directly toward me, her brown eyes earnest and fearless.

"I--I confess I like your face," she admitted, "and I believe you have tried to tell me the truth about yourself, but our situation is so peculiar, so different from what I have been taught was proper." She smiled sadly, her eyes misting. "I am afraid you will not understand.

You can scarcely appreciate how strictly I have been brought up, or what such an unconventional meeting as this means to me. I ought to be ashamed of myself."

"But are you?"

"Really I--I do not seem to be. It almost frightens me to realize I am not, I do not understand myself at all. Why should I talk thus frankly with you? Why feel confidence in you? It is not in accordance with the rules of my old life, nor of my nature. Such actions would shock those who know me; they ought to shock me. Am I in a dream, from which I am going to awaken presently? Is that the explanation?"

I shook my head.

"No, not in that sense, at least. Rather the other way around. You have been in a dream all your life--a dream that some social code somewhere const.i.tuted the real world. Under these petty regulations of conduct you were not yourself at all, only a make-believe. Something serious has occurred in your life, and changed all in an instant. You have been thrown against the real world. You find it not to be what you supposed. It is no cause for shame or regret; womanhood lies deeper than any pretense at gentility. Men seldom fail to recognize this fact--their lives of struggle compel them to, but a woman finds it hard to understand."

"To understand what?"