The Peace of Roaring River Part 3

Yet something kept urging her. It was some sort of a fraud, doubtless.

The man was probably not in earnest. A letter from her would obtain no attention from him. A minute later she was seated at the table, in spite of all these misgivings, and writing to this man she had never seen or heard of. She stated candidly that life had been too hard for her and that she would do her best to be a faithful and willing helper to a man who would treat her kindly. It was a poor little despairing letter whose words sounded like a call for rescue from the deep. After she had finished it she threw it aside, deciding that it was useless to send it. An hour later she rushed out of the house, procured a stamp at the nearest drug-store, and threw the letter in a box at the street-corner. As soon as it was beyond her reach she would have given anything to recall it. Her pale face had become flushed with shame. A postman came up just then, who took out a key fastened to a bra.s.s chain. She asked him to give her back her letter. But he swept up all the missives and locked the box again, shaking his head.

"Nothing doing, miss," he told her, gruffly.

Before her look of disappointment he halted a few seconds to explain some measure, full of red-tape, by which she might perhaps obtain the letter again from the post-office. To Madge it seemed quite beyond the powers of man to accomplish such a thing. And, moreover, the die was cast. The thing might as well go. She would never hear from it again.

The next day she found work in a crowded loft, poorly ventilated and heated, and came home to throw herself upon her bed, exhausted. Her landlady's children were making a terrible noise in the next room, and the racket shot pains through her head. On the morrow she was at work again, and kept it up to the end of the week. When she returned on Sat.u.r.day, late in the afternoon, with her meagre pay-envelope in her ragged m.u.f.f, she had forgotten all about her effort to obtain freedom.

"There's a letter for ye here, from foreign parts," announced Mrs.

MacRae. "Leastwise 't ain't an American stamp."

Madge took it from her, wondering. A queer tremor came over her. The man had written!

Once in her room she tore the envelope open. The handwriting was queer and irregular. But a man may write badly and still be honest and true.

And the words she read were wonderful. This individual, who merely signed A. B. C., was eager to have her come to him. She would be treated with the greatest respect. If the man and the place were not suited to her she would naturally be at liberty to return immediately.

It was unfortunate that his occupations absolutely prevented his coming over at once to New York to meet her. If she would only come he felt certain that she would be pleased. The hosts of friends he had would welcome her.

Thus it ran for three pages and Madge stared at the light, a tremendous longing tearing at her soul, a great fear causing her heart to throb.

She forgot the meagre supper she had brought with her and finally sat down to write again. Like the first letter it was a sort of confession. She acknowledged again that life no longer offered any prospect of happiness to her. After she looked again in the little gla.s.s she wrote that she was not very good-looking. To her own eyes she now appeared ugly. But she said she knew a good deal about housekeeping, which was true, and was willing to work and toil for a bit of kindness and consideration. Her face was again red as she wrote. There was something in all this that shocked her modesty, her inborn sense of propriety and decency. But, after all, she reflected that men and women met somehow, and became acquainted. And the acquaintance, in some cases, became love. And the love eventuated in the only really happy life a man or a woman could lead.

Nearly another week went by before the second answer arrived. It again urged her to come. It spoke of the wonderful place Carcajou was, of the marvel that was Roaring Falls, of the greatness of the woodlands of Ontario. Indeed, for one of her limited attainments, Sophy's letter was a remarkable effort. This time the missive was signed in printed letters: HUGO ENNIS. This seemed queer. But some men signed in very puzzling fashion and this one had used this method, in all likelihood, in order that she might be sure to get the name right. And it was a pleasant-sounding name, rather manly and attractive.

The letter did not seem to require another answer. Madge stuffed it under her pillow and spent a restless night. On the next day her head was in a whirl of uncertainty. She went as far as the Grand Central Station and inquired about the price of a ticket to Carcajou. The man had to look for some time before he could give her the information. It was very expensive. The few dollars in her pocket were utterly inadequate to such a journey, and she returned home in despair.

On the Monday morning, at the usual hour, she started for the factory.

She was about to take the car when she turned back and made her way to her room again. Her mind was made up. She would go!

She opened a tiny trunk she had brought with her from her country home and searched it, swiftly, hurriedly. She was going. It would not do to hesitate. It was a chance. She must take it!

She pulled out a little pocketbook and opened it swiftly. Within it was a diamond ring. It had been given to her mother by her father, in times of prosperity, as an engagement ring. And she had kept it through all her hardships, vaguely feeling that a day might come when it might save her life. She had gone very hungry, many a time, with that gaud in her possession. She had felt that she could not part with it, that it was something that had been a part of her own dear mother, a keepsake that must be treasured to the very last. And now the moment had come. She placed the little purse in her m.u.f.f, clenched her hand tightly upon it, and went out again into the street.

She looked out upon the thoroughfare in a new, impersonal way. She felt as if now she were only pa.s.sing through the slushy streets on her way to new lands. From the tracks of the Elevated Road dripped great drops of turbid water. The sky was leaden and an easterly wind, in spite of the thaw, brought the chill humidity that is more penetrating than colder dry frost.

She hastened along the sidewalk flooded with the icy grime of the last snowfall. It went through the thin soles of her worn boots. Once she shivered in a way that was suggestive of threatened illness and further resort to the great hospital. Before crossing the avenue she was compelled to halt, as the great circular brooms of a monstrous sweeper shot forth streams of brown water and melting snow. Then she went on, casting glances at the windows of small stores, and finally stopped before a little shop, dark and uninviting, whose soiled gla.s.s front revealed odds and ends of old jewelry, watches, optical goods and bric-a-brac that had a sordid aspect. She had long ago noticed the ancient sign disposed behind the panes. It bore the words:

"We buy Old Gold and Jewelry"

For a moment only she hesitated. Her breath came and went faster as if a sudden pain had shot through her breast. But at once she entered the place. From the back of the store a grubby, bearded, unclean old man wearing a black skullcap looked at her keenly over the edge of his spectacles.

"I--I want to sell a diamond," she told him, uneasily.

He stared at her again, studying her poor garb, noticing the gloveless hands, appraising the worn garments she wore. He was rubbing thin long-fingered hands together and shaking his head, in slow a.s.sent.

"We have to be very careful," his voice quavered. "We have to know the people."

"Then I'll go, of course," she answered swiftly, "because you don't know me."

The atmosphere of the place was inexpressibly distasteful to her and the old man's manner was sneaking and suspicious. She felt that he suspected her of being a thief. Her shaking hand was already on the doork.n.o.b when he called her back, hurrying towards her.

"What's your hurry? Come back!" he called to her. "Of course I can't take risks. There's cases when the goods ain't come by honest. But you look all right. Anyway 't ain't no trouble to look over the stuff. Let me see what you've got. There ain't another place in New York where they pay such good prices."

She returned, hesitatingly, and handed to him a small worn case that had once been covered with red morocco. He opened it, taking out the ring and moving nearer the window, where he examined it carefully.

"Yes. It's a diamond all right," he admitted, paternally, as if he thus conferred a great favor upon her. "But of course it's very old and the mounting was done years and years ago, and it's worn awful thin. Maybe a couple of dollars worth of gold, that's all."

"But the stone?" she asked, anxiously.

"One moment, just a moment, I'm looking at it," he replied, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g a magnifying gla.s.s in the socket of one of his eyes. "Diamonds are awful hard to sell, nowadays--very hard, but let me look some more."

He was turning the thing around, estimating the depth of the gem and studying the method of its cutting.

"Very old," he told her again. "They don't cut diamonds that way now."

"It belonged to my mother," she said.

"Of course, of course," he quavered, repellently, so that her cheeks began to feel hot again. She was deeply hurt by his tone of suspicion.

The sacrifice was bad enough--the implication was unbearable.

"I don't think you want it," she said, coldly. "Give it back to me. I can perhaps do better at a regular p.a.w.nshop."

But he detained her again, becoming smooth and oily. He first offered her fifty dollars. She truthfully a.s.serted that her father had paid a couple of hundred for it. After long bargaining and haggling he finally agreed to give her eighty-five dollars and, worn out, the girl accepted. She was going out of the shop, with the money, when she stopped again.

"It seems to me that I used to see pistols, or were they revolvers, in your show window," she said.

He lifted up his hands in alarm.

"Pistols! revolvers! Don't you know there's the Sullivan law now? We ain't allowed to sell 'em--and you ain't allowed to buy 'em without a license--a license from the police."

"Oh! That's a pity," said Madge. "I'm going away from New York and I thought it might be a good idea to have one with me."

The old man looked keenly at her again, scratching one ear with unkempt nails. Finally he drew her back of a counter, placing a finger to his lips.

"I'm taking chances," he whispered. "I'm doing it to oblige. If ye tell any one you got it here I'll say you never did. My word's as good as yours."

"I tell you I'm going away," she repeated. "I--I'm never coming to this city again--never as long as I live. But I want to take it with me."

When she finally went out she carried a cheap little weapon worth perhaps four dollars, and a box of cartridges, for which she paid him ten of the dollars he had handed out to her. It was with a sense of inexpressible relief that she found herself again on the avenue, in spite of the drizzle that was coming down. The air seemed purer after her stay in the uninviting place. Its atmosphere as well as the old man's ways had made her feel as if she had been engaged in a very illicit transaction. She met a policeman who was swinging his club, and the man gave her an instant of carking fear. But he paid not the slightest heed to her and she went on, breathing more freely. It was as if the great dark pall of clouds hanging over the city was being torn asunder. At any rate the world seemed to be a little brighter.

She went home and deposited her purchase, going out again at once. She stopped at a telegraph office where the clerk had to consult a large book before he discovered that messages could be accepted for Carcajou in the Province of Ontario, and wrote out the few words announcing her coming. After this she went into other shops, carefully consulting a small list she had made out. Among other things she bought a pair of stout boots and a heavy sweater. With these and a very few articles of underwear, since she could spare so little, she returned to the Grand Central and purchased the needed ticket, a long thing with many sections to be gradually torn off on the journey. Berths on sleepers, she decided, were beyond her means. Cars were warm, as a rule, and as long as she wasn't frozen and starving she could endure anything. Not far from the house she lived in there was an express office where a man agreed to come for her trunk, in a couple of hours.

Then she climbed up to Mrs. MacRae's.

"I'm going to leave you," announced the girl. "I--I have found something out of town. Of course I'll pay for the whole week."

The woman expressed her regret, which was genuine. Her lodger had never been troublesome and the small rent she paid helped out a very poor income mostly derived from washing and scrubbing.

"I hope it's a good job ye've found, child," she said. "D'ye know for sure what kind o' place ye're goin' to? Are you certain it's all right?"