CHAPTER XII.
The evening was somewhat advanced, but Arthur determined at once to seek an interview with Miss Ayleff. Hastily arranging his toilet, he walked briskly up Broadway, revolving in his mind a fit course for fulfilling his delicate errand.
To shorten his way, he turned into a cross street in the upper part of the city. As he approached the hall door of a large brick house, his eye chanced to fall upon a man who was ringing for admittance. The light from the street lamp fell full upon his face, and he recognized the features of Philip Searle. At that moment the door was opened, and Philip entered. Arthur would have pa.s.sed on, but something in the appearance of the house arrested his attention, and, on closer scrutiny, revealed to him its character. One of those impulses which sometimes sway our actions, tempted him to enter, and learn, if possible, something further respecting the habits of the man whose scheme he had been commissioned to thwart. A moment"s reflection might have changed his purpose, but his hand was already upon the bell, and the summons was quickly answered by a good-looking but faded young woman, with painted cheeks and gay attire. She fixed her keen, bold eyes upon him for a few seconds, and then, tossing her ringlets, pertly invited him to enter.
"Who is within?" asked Arthur, standing in the hall.
"Only the girls. Walk in."
"The gentleman who came in before me, is he there?"
"Do you want to see him?" she asked, suspiciously.
"Oh, no. Only I would avoid being seen by any one."
"He will not see you. Come right in." And she threw open the door, and flaunted in.
Arthur followed her without hesitation.
Bursts of forced and cheerless laughter, and the shrill sound of rude and flippant talk, smote unpleasantly upon his ear. The room was richly furnished, but without taste or modesty. The tall mirrors were displayed with ostentation, and the paintings, offensive in design, hung conspicuous in showy frames. The numerous gas jets, flashing among glittering crystal pendants, made vice more glaring and heartlessness more terribly apparent. Women, with bold and haggard eyes, with brazen brows, and cheeks from which the roses of virgin shame had been plucked to bloom no more forever--mostly young girls, scourging their youth into old age, and gathering poison at once for soul and body--with sensual indolence reclined upon the rich ottomans, or with fantastic grace whirled through lewd waltzes over the velvet carpets. There was laughter without joy--there was frivolity without merriment--there was the surface of enjoyment and the substance of woe, for beneath those painted cheeks was the pallor of despair and broken health, and beneath those whitened bosoms, half veiled with gaudy silks, were hearts that were aching with remorse, or, yet more unhappy, benumbed and callous with habitual sin.
Yet there, like a crushed pearl upon a heap of garbage, lingers the trace of beauty; and there, surely, though sepulchred in the caverns of vice, dwells something that was once innocence, and not unredeemable.
But whence is the friendly word to come, whence the guardian hand that might lift them from the slough. They live accursed by even charity, shunned by philanthropy, and shut from the Christian world like a tribe of lepers whose touch is contagion and whose breath is pestilence. In the glittering halls of fashion, the high-born beauty, with wreaths about her white temples and diamonds upon her chaste bosom, gives her gloved hand for the dance, and forgets that an erring sister, by the touch of those white fingers, might be raised from the grave of her chast.i.ty, and clothed anew with the white garments of repentance. But no; the cold world of fashion, that from its cushioned pew has listened with stately devotion to the words of the Redeemer, has taught her that to redeem the fallen is beneath her caste. The bond of sisterhood is broken. The lost one must pursue her hideous destiny, each avenue of escape blocked by the scorn and loathing which denies her the contact of virtue and the counsel of purity. In the broad fields of charity, invaded by cold philosophers, losing themselves in searching unreal and vague philanthropies, none so practical in beneficence as to take her by the hand, saying, "Go, and sin no more."
But whenever the path of benevolence is intricate and doubtful, whenever the work is linked with a riddle whose solving will breed discord and trouble among men, whenever there is a chance to make philanthropy a plea for hate, and bitterness and charity can be made a battle-cry to arouse the spirit of destruction, and spread ruin and desolation over the fair face of the earth, then will the domes of our churches resound with eloquence, then will the journals of the land teem with their mystic theories, then will the mourners of human woe be loud in lamentation, and lift up their mighty voices to cry down an abstract evil. When actual misery appeals to them, they are deaf; when the plain and palpable error stalks before them, they turn aside. They are too busy with the tangles of some philanthropic Gordian knot, to stretch out a helping hand to the sufferer at their sides. They are frenzied with their zeal to build a bridge over a spanless ocean, while the drowning wretch is sinking within their grasp. They scorn the simple charity of the good Samaritan; theirs must be a gigantic and splendid achievement in experimental beneficence, worthy of their philosophic brains. The wrong they would redress must be one that half the world esteems a right; else there would be no room for their arguments, no occasion for their invective, no excuse for their pa.s.sion. To do good is too simple for their transcendentalism; they must first make evil out of their logic, and then, through blood and wasting flames, drive on the people to destruction, that the imaginary evil may be destroyed. While Charity soars so high among the clouds, she will never stoop to lift the Magdalen from sin.
CHAPTER XIII.
Arthur heaved an involuntary sigh, as he gazed upon those sad wrecks of womanhood, striving to harden their sense of degradation by its impudent display. But an expression of bewildered and sorrowful surprise suddenly overspread his countenance. Seated alone upon a cushioned stool, at the chimney-corner, was a young woman, her elbows resting upon her knees, and her face bent thoughtfully upon her palms. She was apparently lost in thought to all around her. She was thinking--of what? Perhaps of the green fields where she played in childhood; perhaps of her days of innocence; perhaps of the mother at whose feet she had once knelt in prayer. But she was far away, in thought, from that scene of infamy of which she was a part; for, in the glare of the gaslight, a tear struggled through her eyelashes, and glittered like a ray from heaven piercing the glooms of h.e.l.l.
Arthur walked to her, and placed his hand softly upon her yellow hair.
"Oh, Mary!" he murmured, in a tone of gentle sorrow, that sounded strangely amid the discordant merriment that filled the room.
She looked up, at his touch, but when his voice fell upon her ear, she arose suddenly and stood before him like one struck dumb betwixt humiliation and wonder. The angel had not yet fled that bosom, for the blush of shame glowed through the chalk upon her brow and outcrimsoned the paint upon her cheek. As it pa.s.sed away, she would have wreathed her lip mechanically with the pert smile of her vocation, but the smile was frozen ere it reached her lips, and the coa.r.s.e words she would have spoken died into a murmur and a sob. She sank down again upon the cushion, and bent her face low down upon her hands.
"Oh, Mary! is it you! is it you! I pray heaven your mother be in her grave!"
She rose and escaped quickly from the room; but he followed her and checked her at the stairway.
"Let me speak with you, Mary. No, not here; lead me to your room."
He followed her up-stairs, and closing the door, sat beside her as she leaned upon the bed and buried her face in the pillow.
It was the child of his old nurse. Upon the hill-sides of his native State they had played together when children, and now she lay there before him, with scarce enough of woman"s nature left to weep for her own misery.
"Mary, how is this? Look up, child," he said, taking her hand kindly. "I had rather see you thus, bent low with sorrow, than bold and hard in guilt. But yet look up and speak to me. I will be your friend, you know.
Tell me, why are you thus?"
"Oh, Mr. Wayne, do not scold me, please don"t. I was thinking of home and mother when you came and put your hand on my head. Mother"s dead."
"Well for her, poor woman. But how came you thus?"
"I scarcely seem to know. It seems to me a dream. I married John, and he brought me to New York. Then the war came, and he went and was killed.
And mother was dead, and I had no friends in the great city. I could get no work, and I was starving, indeed I was, Mr. Wayne. So a young man, who was very handsome, and rich, I think, for he gave me money and fine dresses, he promised me--Oh, Mr. Wayne, I was very wrong and foolish, and I wish I could die, and be buried by my poor mother."
"And did he bring you here?"
"Oh no, sir. I came here two weeks ago, after he had left me. And when he came in one night and found me here, he was very angry, and said he would kill me if I told any one that I knew him. And I know why; but you won"t tell, Mr. Wayne, for it would make him angry. I have found out that he is married to the mistress of this house. He"s a bad man, I know now, and often comes here drunk, and swears at the woman and the girls.
Hark! that"s her room, next to mine, and I think he"s in there now."
The faint sound of voices, smothered by the walls, reached them from the adjoining chamber; but as they listened, the door of that room opened, and the loud and angry tones of a man, speaking at the threshold, could be distinctly heard. Arthur quietly and carefully opened the door of Mary"s room, an inch or less, and listened at the aperture. He was not mistaken; he recognized the voice of Philip Searle.
"I"ll do it, anyhow," said Philip, angrily, and with the thick utterance of one who had been drinking. "I"ll do it; and if you trouble me, I"ll fix you."
"Philip, if you marry that girl I"ll peach; I will, so help me G--d,"
replied a woman"s voice. "I"ve given you the money, and I"ve given you plenty before, as much as I had to give you, Philip, and you know it. I don"t mind that, but you shan"t marry till I"m dead. I"m your lawful wife, and if I"m low now, it"s your fault, for you drove me to it."
"I"ll drive you to h.e.l.l if you worry me. I tell you she"s got lots of money, and a farm, and n.i.g.g.e.rs, and you shall have half if you only keep your mouth shut. Come, now, Molly, don"t be a fool; what"s the use, now?"
They went down the stairway together, and their voices were lost as they descended. Arthur determined to follow and get some clue, if possible, as to the man"s, intentions. He therefore gave his address to Mary, and made her promise faithfully to meet him on the following morning, promising to befriend her and send her to his mother in Vermont. Hearing the front door close, and surmising that Philip had departed, he bade her good night, and descending hastily, was upon the sidewalk in time to observe Philip"s form in the starlight as he turned the corner.
It was now ten o"clock; too late to call upon Miranda without disturbing the household, which he desired to avoid. Arthur"s present fear was that possibly an elopement had been planned for that night, and he therefore determined, if practicable, to keep Searle in view till he had traced him home. The latter entered a refreshment saloon upon Broadway; Arthur followed, and ordering, in a low tone, some dish that would require time in the preparation, he stepped, without noise, into an alcove adjoining one whence came the sound of conversation.
"Well, what"s up?" inquired a gruff, coa.r.s.e voice.
"Fill me some brandy," replied Philip. "I tell you, Bradshaw, it"s risky, but I"ll do it. The old woman"s rock. She"ll blow upon me if she gets the chance; but I"m in for it, and I"ll put it through. We must manage to keep it mum from her, and as soon as I get the girl I"ll accept the lieutenancy, and be off to the wars till all blows over. If Moll should smoke me out there, I"ll cross the line and take sanctuary with Jeff. Davis."
"What about the girl?"
"Oh; she"s all right," replied Philip, with a drunken chuckle. "I had an interview with the dear creature this morning, and she"s like wax in my hands. It"s all arranged for to-morrow morning. You be sure to have the carriage ready at the Park--the same spot, you know--by ten o"clock.
She can"t well get away before, but that will be time enough for the train."
"I want that money now."
"Moll"s hard up, but I got a couple of hundred from her. Here"s fifty for you; now don"t grumble, I"m doing the best I can, d--n you, and you know it. Now listen--I want to fix things with you about that blue-eyed chap."
The waiter here brought in Arthur"s order, and a sudden silence ensued in the alcove. The two men had evidently been unaware of the proximity of a third party, and their tone, though low, had not been sufficiently guarded to escape Arthur hearing, whose ear, leaning against the thin part.i.tion, was within a few inches of Philip"s head. A muttered curse and the gurgling of liquor from a decanter was all that could be heard for the s.p.a.ce of a few-moments, when the two, after a brief whisper, arose and left the place, not, however, without making ineffectual efforts to catch a glimpse of the occupant of the tenanted alcove.
Arthur soon after followed them into the street. He was aware that he was watched from the opposite corner, and that his steps were dogged in the darkness. But he drew his felt hat well over his face, and by mingling with the crowd that chanced to be pouring from one of the theatres, he avoided recognition and pa.s.sed unnoticed into his hotel.