Mr. Claghorn's Daughter Part 34

"'He hath chosen some to eternal life and foreordained the rest to dishonor and wrath.' Yet if there were but a single soul to suffer; if but one solitary creature of all the millions of men were doomed to dwell in h.e.l.l forever--the knowledge that your child, Leonard, might be that lonely one--surely such knowledge----"

He ground his teeth. She drew texts from the source he had declared to be the living truth. He had no answer; there was no answer.

"Leave me," he whispered, in a tone that evidenced his fury better than a roar of rage. Again he hid his face in his hands. She often turned to look at him as she slowly withdrew, but he did not raise his head.

He wrestled fiercely with his emotions and with the problem that fate had raised. At times rage consumed his soul, and his thoughts rioted in brutal instigation, which even then he feared, and of which he was ashamed. At moments he hated, at moments he loved, but hating or loving, the seductive charms of the woman swayed before his eyes, mocking him as the mirage mocks the fainting pilgrim. Hours pa.s.sed and he remained in the same att.i.tude, striving to estimate the situation correctly, so that he could evolve a remedy. He could not deny her reasoning; he would not give up his faith. His mind, rigid from the training to which it had been subjected, was incapable of readily admitting new theories; and his best nourished and most vigorous attribute was involved. Whether his integrity could be bent or not, it was certain that his vanity would not submit. No! He would not deny his faith. He would enforce his rights.

But not without further effort at persuasion. He made a heroic and worthy resolve. He would be patient still, meanwhile using every gentle measure. He would enlist Mrs. Joe in his cause. She was a matron, shrewd and too well balanced to allow religious notions to carry her to fanatical extremes; and she did not hold his own views, apparently not even as to eternal punishment. Perhaps she would convince Natalie that there was no h.e.l.l. It would be a lie, but better that his wife believe a lie than that h.e.l.l reign in his house and in his bosom.

At the dinner hour the maid handed her mistress a note. It ran thus:

"Dear Natalie--I have decided to leave home for a little time.

I think we are better apart. If you will open your heart to Mrs. Joe she will explain that which you and I cannot discuss.

I learn that you are in your own room, and think it better not to disturb you. Good-bye, for a little time. It may be that I shall not write.

"LEONARD."

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

A PAN OF VICTORY HYMNED IN h.e.l.l.

On the day following that upon which Leonard and Natalie had last met in Leonard's study, there were two women in a room of a shabby New York house, evidently once a worthy residence, but now sadly fallen from that estate.

One of the two, half dressed, with a good deal of tarnished lace decorating such clothing as she had on, sat on the bed in an easy att.i.tude, careless as to the display of a handsome person. Dark, heavy-browed, her first youth past, her haggard face was redeemed by deep, soft eyes, that now, however, from beneath their long lashes, looked out upon the face of the other woman with suspicious wariness.

This one, overfed, coa.r.s.e, vile to look upon, with the face of a painted gargoyle, red and mottled, garishly dressed in a loose gown, stood with arms akimbo, her little eyes bent wickedly upon the woman on the bed.

"Ten days' board," croaked the fat one. "Ten days."

"Ten weeks, for all I care," was the reply.

The fat creature wheezed and snorted; she half lifted her great red hand as if to administer a blow.

"Try it," said the other, "and I'll stick this into you," holding threateningly the blade of a pair of scissors.

The fat one recoiled; there was enough recklessness in the eyes of the woman with the scissors to justify the movement. "Now, now, Frenchy,"

she remonstrated, "you won't be a fool. Possy bate, eh?"

"_Pas si bte_," laughed the other grimly. "Try it and see!"

"You know," said the rubicund one, "this ain't white, Berthe. Whose fault is it if you've no money?"

"Ah!" exclaimed Berthe. "You think me of your kind. I'm a lady; I was a fool to come here."

"Sure, you're a lady; and for that very reason ought to make a mint of money. I'll tell you what's the matter with you, Berthe--you're a mule.

I swear," she exclaimed, suddenly conscious of wrong, "my boarders is the bane of my life. Mules--but there, n.o.body'd believe what I've borne."

"_Malheureuse!_" sneered Berthe.

"I tell you, missy, girls don't talk that way to me!" exclaimed the red-gowned dame, perhaps suspecting unseemly profanity veiled in a foreign tongue.

"I don't want to talk any way to you. Get out," replied Berthe.

"And the board bill?"

"I've had nothing to eat for two days."

"And won't have as long as you're a mule. If you have no money by this time to-morrow, out you go, and without your trunk; so Frenchy,"

concluded the woman, changing her tone to persuasion, "be reasonable.

You shall have dinner if you'll promise to go out afterward. Think it over," and she waddled off.

Berthe lay back upon the pillow, her long arms stretched above her head, and thought it over.

She had left Mrs. Leon long ago, and since then her steps had been downward. For awhile a nursery governess, which, being amply capable, she might have long remained had it not been for her eyes. She was not altogether conscious of the capacity of her eyes, and was long innocent of the knowledge of the strife and hatred they had wrought in the family in which she served. Maltreated by an infuriated mistress, she had avenged herself amply, living for months in luxury, and on the money and caresses legally belonging to the other. But she had never cared for her sinner, and he had been glad to creep back to that which he had dishonored, not forgiven, but accepted as a hard necessity. Her luxuries and her money were soon spent--as for the rest, it is a dark tale that she recalls, lying there majestic, with her long arms above her black head and her dark eyes brooding.

The present was a problem. The move to this house was toward a deeper degradation than any she had known, and she recoiled from its demands.

She knew its probable end, too. She was shrewd, dominant if she chose to be; in short, no fool. She could rise to prosperity and become like the gargoyle, but the prospect sickened her. All the inmates of the house were to her abhorrent, but the gargoyle was a loathsome, soulless, pitiless beast, only not a fool. The others were fools, and she knew, feeling the sparks of humanity within her, that she must even be a fool rather than a beast. And the end of the fool was misery, from which there was but one escape.

She was hungry. It was true that, except as to some slices of bread, smuggled to her by soft-hearted ones, she had eaten nothing for two days. She had long ago p.a.w.ned her articles of jewelry. Her clothes were in the clutch of the beast. She would have to apply to her for garments for the street. She must surrender.

So she asked for her clothes and her dinner. The beast was gracious, but chary as to giving too many garments. The truth was, the beast hoped her boarder would not return. She had the trunk--she was sick of the mule.

Berthe wandered toward the lower part of the city. Plainly dressed, her carriage dignified, she was not molested, nor did she cast her eyes upon any pa.s.ser-by. She walked straight on, yet not rapidly, for there was no purpose in her walk. Useless to seek that man upon whose wife she had avenged herself; he had been hurried off to do penance in the country; even if he had returned, she knew nothing of his present abode.

Mrs. Leon was a dweller in hotels, and at this season, not in town.

Besides, Mrs. Leon could not be ignorant of what had been accomplished by the nursery governess she had herself recommended.

She wished now, for in truth, as she walked on, terror of possible starvation began to haunt her, that she had carried out an often neglected impulse to write to a man she knew, and who she believed could help her. She would have done so before this, but the man's wife was a friend of Mrs. Leon. This recollection had prevented her addressing him.

Yet she knew he would have helped her. He was young, he was kind. Ah! he was adorable.

So she walked on, thinking of that adorable man, forgetting her fear of starvation. He had kissed her, or rather, and she smiled as she corrected herself, she had kissed him. He had been helpless. The innocent!

By this time she was in Fourteenth Street. A man seeing the smile upon her lips, stood in her path and addressed her. She moved aside and walked on; the smile had been born of a memory sweet to her. The man looked after her, astonished at the majestic ignoring of himself.

Suddenly the woman stopped, as if struck. Then she started, walking quickly, and entered a brilliantly lighted resort.

Leonard had pa.s.sed a sleepless night in the train. In New York he went to a hotel which he had never before frequented. He desired to be alone.

He had left home to think, not to seek acquaintance or distraction.

And he thought, walking the streets of the great city until he was footsore, and the more he thought, the less capable was he of reasoning, the more weary he grew of thought; finally, striding onward in a dream of incoherent fancies, that were not thoughts, but impotent efforts of a tired brain. All day long there swayed before his eyes visions inspired by objects seen but not noted and most incongruous. The pa.s.sing glance upon a billboard, gay with motley figures, gave birth to a picture of living damsels, languishing in postures of inviting loveliness. He saw no stony streets, no squalid scenes, but wandered in a Moslem heaven in whose crystal streams Naiads bathed fair round limbs or sported in wanton frolic in silvery cascades, anon decking with lilies the roseate beauties of their queen. He took no heed of time or place, pacing street after street, along the wharves, seeing neither ship nor dray; in the Hebrew crowd of the East Side, noting nothing of the soft-eyed men with dirty beards, nor the women wearing wigs of jute, nor the children dancing in the streets to hand-organs, nor any of the sights of that crowded foreign city, full of strange interest. Of the things before his eyes he saw nothing; nor could he, being entranced by raptures which had tried the souls of saints a thousand years ago!

At ten o'clock at night, having eaten nothing since an early and neglected breakfast, he stood in the street, conscious that he must eat or faint. He entered a brilliantly lighted room where there were tables, but which was nearly empty.