Читать книгу The Turn of the Balance - Brand Whitlock - Страница 7

XII

Gusta hurried out of the alley as fast as she could go; she wished to get away from the police station, and to forget the faces of those men in prison. It was now nine o'clock and the activity of the Market was waning; the few gardener's wagons that lingered with the remnants of their loads were but a suggestion of the hundreds of wagons that had packed the square before the dawn. Under the shed, a block long, a constable was offering at public vendue the household goods of some widow who had been evicted; the torn and rusty mattresses, broken chairs and an old bed were going for scarcely enough to pay the costs; a little, blue-bearded man, who had forced the sale, stood by sharply watching, ready to bid the things in himself if the dealers in second-hand furniture should not offer enough. Gusta hurried on, past butcher-shops, past small saloons, and she hurried faster because every one--the policemen, the second-hand dealers, the drivers of the market-wagons, the butchers in their blood-stained smock frocks--turned to look at her. It was three blocks to the Wayne Building, rearing its fifteen stories aloft from the roaring tide of business at its feet, and Gusta was glad to lose herself in the crowds that swarmed along the street.

The waiting-room of Marriott's office was filled; the door which was lettered with his name was closed, and Gusta had to wait. She joined the group that sat silent in the chairs along the walls, and watched the girl with the yellow hair at the typewriter. The girl's white fingers twinkled over the keys; the little bell tinkled and the girl snatched back the carriage of the machine with a swift grating sound; she wrote furiously, and Gusta was fascinated. She wished she might be a typewriter; it must be so much easier to sit here in this pleasant, sunlit office, high above the cares and turmoil of the world, and write on that beautiful machine; so much easier than to toil in a poor, unhappy home with a mother ill, a father maimed and racked by pains so that he was always morose and cross, a brother in jail, and always work--the thankless task of washing at a tub, of getting meals when there was little food to get them with. Gusta thought she might master the machine, but no--her heart sank--she could not spell nor understand all the long words the lawyers used, so that was hopeless.

After a while the door marked "Mr. Marriott" opened, and a man stepped out, a well-dressed man, with an air of prosperousness; he glanced at the yellow-haired typewriter as he passed out of the office. Marriott was standing in his door, looking at the line of waiting clients; his face was worn and tired. He seemed to hesitate an instant, then he nodded to one of the waiting women, and she rose and entered the private office. Just as Marriott was closing the door, he saw Gusta and smiled, and Gusta was cheered; it was the first friendly smile she had seen that day.

She had to wait two hours. The men did not detain Marriott long, but the women remained in his private office an interminable time, and whenever he opened his door to dismiss one of them, he took out his watch and looked at it. At last, however, when all had gone, he said:

"Well, Gusta, what can I do for you?" He dropped into his chair, swung round to face her, rested one elbow on the top of the desk and leaned his head in his hand.

"I came to see about Archie."

Marriott felt the deadly ennui that came over him at the thought of these petty criminal cases. The crimes were so small, so stupid, and so squalid, they had nothing to excuse them, not even the picturesque quality of adventure that by some sophistry might extenuate crimes of a more enterprising and dangerous class. They were so hopeless, too, and Marriott could hardly keep a straight face while he defended the perpetrators, and yet he allowed himself to be drawn into them; he found himself constantly pleading for some poor devil who had neither money to pay him nor the decency to thank him. Sometimes he wondered why he did it, and whenever he wondered he decided that he would never take another such case. Then the telephone would ring, and before he knew it he would be in police court making another poor devil's cause his own, while more important litigation must wait--for the petty criminals were always in urgent need; the law would not stay for them nor abide their convenience; with them it was imperative, implacable, insistent, as if to dress the balance for its delay and complaisance with its larger criminals. Marriott often thought it over, and he had thought enough to recognize in these poor law-breakers a certain essential innocence; they were so sublimely foolish, so illogical, they made such lavish sacrifice of all that was best in their natures; they lived so hardly, so desperately; they paid such tremendous prices and got so little; they were so unobservant, they learned nothing by experience. And yet with one another they were so kind, so considerate, so loyal, that it seemed hard to realize that they could be so unkind and so disloyal to the rest of mankind. In his instinctive love of human nature, their very hopelessness and helplessness appealed to him.

"Mr. Marriott, do you think he is guilty?" Gusta was asking.

"Guilty?" said Marriott, automatically repeating the word. "Guilty? What difference does that make?"

"Oh, Mr. Marriott!" the girl exclaimed, her blue eyes widening. "Surely, it makes all the difference in the world!"

"To you?"

"Why--yes--shouldn't it?"

"No, it shouldn't, Gusta, and what's more, it doesn't. And it doesn't to me, either. You don't want him sent to prison even if he is guilty, do you?"

"N--no," Gusta hesitated as she assented to the heresy.

"No, of course you don't. Because, Gusta, we know him--we know he's all right, don't we, no matter what he has done? Just as we know that we ourselves are all right when we do bad things--isn't that it?"

The girl was sitting with her yellow head bent; she was trying to think.

"But father would say--"

"Oh, yes," Marriott laughed, "father would say and grandfather would say, too--that's just the trouble. Father got his notions from the Old World, but we--Gusta, we know more than father or grandfather in this country."

Marriott enjoyed the discomfiture that Gusta plainly showed in her inability to understand in the least what he was saying. He felt a little mean about it, for he recognized that he was speaking for his own benefit rather than for hers; he had wished Elizabeth might be there to hear him.

"I don't know much about it, Mr. Marriott," Gusta said presently, "but when will you go to see him?"

"Oh, I'll try to get down this afternoon."

"All right. He told me to ask you please to bring him some cigarettes. Of course," she was going on in an apologetic tone, but Marriott cut her short:

"Oh, he wants cigarettes? Well, I'll take them to him."

Then they talked the futilities which were all such a case could inspire, and Marriott, looking at his watch, made Gusta feel that she should go. But the world wore a new aspect for her when she left Marriott's office. The spring sun was warm now, and she felt that she had the right to glory in it. The crowds in the streets seemed human and near, not far away and strange as they had been before; she felt that she had somehow been restored to her own rights in life. She had not understood Marriott's philosophy in the least, but she went away with the memory of his face and the memory of his smile; she could not realize her thoughts; it was a feeling more than anything else, but she knew that here was one man, at least, who believed in her brother, and it seemed that he was determined to believe in him no matter what the brother did; and he believed in her, too, and this was everything--this made the whole world glad, just as the sun made the whole world glad that morning.

But Gusta's heart sank at the thought of going home; there was nothing there now but discord and toil. The excitement, the change of the morning, the little interview with Marriott, had served to divert her, and now the thought of returning to that dull and wearisome routine was more than ever distasteful. It was nearly noon, and she would be expected, but she did not like to lose these impressions, and she did not like to leave this warm sunshine, these busy, moving streets, this contact with active life, and so she wandered on out Claybourne Avenue. There was slowly taking form within her a notion of eking out her pleasure by going to see Elizabeth Ward, but she did not let the thought wholly take form; rather she let it lie dormant under her other thoughts. She walked along in the sunlight and looked at the automobiles that went trumpeting by, at the carriages rolling home with their aristocratic mistresses lolling on their cushions. Gusta found a pleasure in recognizing many of these women; she had opened the Wards' big front door to them, she had served them with tea, or at dinner; she had heard their subdued laughter; she had covertly inspected their toilets; some of them had glanced for an instant into her eyes and thanked her for some little service. And then she could recall things she had heard them say, bits of gossip, or scandal, some of which gave her pleasure, others feelings of hatred and disgust. A rosy young matron drove by in a phaeton, with her pretty children piled about her feet, and the sight pleased Gusta. She smiled and hurried on with quickened step.

At last she saw the familiar house, and then to her joy she saw Elizabeth on the veranda, leaning against one of the pillars, evidently taking the air, enjoying the sun and the spring. Elizabeth saw Gusta, too, and her eyes brightened.

"Why, Gusta!" she said. "Is that you?"

Gusta stood on the steps and looked up at Elizabeth. Her face was rosy with embarrassment and pleasure. Elizabeth perched on the rail of the veranda and examined the vine of Virginia roses that had not yet begun to put forth.

"And how are you getting along?" she said. "How are they all at home?"

Gusta told her of her father and of her mother and of the children.

Elizabeth tried to talk to her; she was fond of her, but there seemed to be nothing to talk about. She knew, too, how Gusta adored her, and she felt that she must always retain this adoration, and constantly prove her kindness to Gusta. But the conversation was nothing but a series of questions she extorted from herself by a continued effort that quickly wearied her, especially as Gusta's replies were delivered so promptly and so laconically that she could not think of other questions fast enough. At last she said:

"And how's Archie?"

And then instantly she remembered that Archie was in prison. Her heart smote her for her thoughtlessness. Gusta's head was hanging.

"I've just been to see him," she said.

"I wished to hear of him, Gusta," Elizabeth said, trying by her tone to destroy the quality of her first question. "I spoke to Mr. Marriott about him--I'm sure he'll get him off."

Gusta made no reply, and Elizabeth saw that her tears were falling.

Elizabeth saw that her tears were falling

"Come, Gusta," she said sympathetically, "you mustn't feel bad."

The girl suddenly looked at her, her eyes full of tears.

"Oh, Miss Elizabeth," she said, "if you could only know! To see him down there--in that place! Such a thing never happened to us before!"

"But I'm sure it'll all come out right in the end--I'm sure of that. There must have been some mistake. Tell me all about it."

And then Gusta told her the whole story.

"You don't know how it feels, Miss Elizabeth," she said when she had done, "to have your own brother--such a thing couldn't happen to you--here." Gusta glanced about her, taking in at a glance, as it were, the large house, and all its luxury and refinement and riches, as if these things were insurmountable barriers to such misfortune and disgrace.

Elizabeth saw the glance, and some way, suddenly, the light and warmth went out of the spring day for her. The two girls looked at each other a moment, then they looked away, and there was silence. Elizabeth's brows were contracted; in her eyes there was a look of pain.

When Gusta had gone Elizabeth went indoors, but her heart was heavy. She tried to throw off the feeling, but could not. She told herself that it was her imagination, always half morbid, but this did not satisfy her. She was silent at the luncheon-table until her mother said:

"Elizabeth, what in the world ails you?"

"Oh; nothing."

"I know something does," insisted Mrs. Ward.

Elizabeth, with her head inclined, was outlining with the prong of a fork the pattern on the salad bowl.

"Gusta has been here, telling me her troubles."

"Oh, that's it, is it?" said Mrs. Ward.

"You know her brother has been arrested."

"What for?"

"Stealing."

"Indeed! Well! I do wish she'd keep away! I'm sure I don't know what we've done that we should have such things brought into our house!"

"But it's too bad," said Elizabeth. "The young man--"

"Yes, the young man! If he'd go to work and earn an honest living, he wouldn't be arrested for stealing!"

"I was just thinking--" Elizabeth finished the pattern on the salad bowl and inclined her head on the other side, as if she had really designed the pattern and were studying the effect of her finished work,--"that if Dick--"

"Why, Elizabeth!" Mrs. Ward cried. "How can you say such a thing?"

Elizabeth smiled, and the smile irritated her mother.

"I'm sure it's entirely different!" Mrs. Ward went on. "Dick does not belong to that class at all!"

XIII

The truth was that Elizabeth had been worried for days about Dick. A few evenings before, Ward, who took counsel of his daughter rather than of his wife in such affairs, had told her of his concern about his son.

"I don't know what to do with the boy," he had said. "He seems to have no interest in anything; he tired of school, and he tired of college; and now he is of age and--doing nothing."

She remembered how he had sat there, puffing at his cigar as if that could assist him to some conclusion.

"I tried him in the office for a while, you know, but he did not seem to take it seriously--of course, it wasn't really serious; the work went on as well without him as with him. I guess he knew that."

Elizabeth sat and thought, but the problem which her father had put to her immediately overpowered her; there seemed to be no solution at all--she could not even arrange its terms in her mind, and she was silent, yet her silence was charged with sympathy.

"I've talked to him, but that does no good. I've pleaded with him, but that does no good. I tried giving him unlimited money, then I put him on an allowance, then I cut him off altogether--it was just the same."

Ward smoked a moment in silence.

"I've thought of every known profession. He says he doesn't want to be a lawyer or a doctor; he has no taste for mechanics, and he seems to have no interest in business. I've thought of sending him abroad, or out West, but he doesn't want to do that."

And again the silence and the smoking and the pain.

"He's out to-night--where, I don't know. I don't want to know--I'm afraid to know!"

There was something wild, appealing and pathetic in this cry wrung from a father's heart. Elizabeth had looked up quickly, her own heart aching with pity. She recalled how he had said:

"Your mother--she doesn't understand; I don't know that I want her to; she idolizes the boy; she thinks he can't do wrong."

And then Elizabeth had slipped her arm about his neck, and, leaning over, had placed her cheek against his; her tears had come, and she had felt that his tears had come; he had patted her hand. They had sat thus for a long while.

"Poor boy!" Ward had said again. "He's only making trouble for himself. I'd like to help him, but somehow, Bess, I can't get next to him; when I try to talk to him, when I try to be confidential and all that--something comes between us, and I can't say it right. I can't talk to him as I could to any other man. I don't know why it is; I sometimes think that it's all my fault, that I haven't reared him right, that I haven't done my duty by him, and yet, God knows, I've tried!"

"Oh, papa," she had replied protestingly, "you mustn't blame yourself--you've done everything."

"He's really a good boy," Ward had gone on irrelevantly, ignoring himself in his large, unselfish thought for his son. "He's kind and generous, and he means well enough--and--and--I think he likes me."

This had touched her to the quick, and she had wept softly, stroking her father's cheek.

"Can't you--couldn't you--" he began. "Do you think you could talk to him, Bess?"

"I'll try," she said, and just then her brother had come into the room, rosy and happy and unsuspecting, and their confidences were at an end.

Ward did not realize, of course, that in asking Elizabeth to speak to Dick he was laying a heavy burden on her. She had promised her father in a kind of pity for him, a pity which sprang from her great love; but as she thought it over, wondering what she was to say, the ordeal grew greater and greater--greater than any she had ever had to encounter. For several days she was spared the necessity of redeeming her promise, for Dick was so little at home, and fortunately, as Elizabeth felt, when he was there the circumstances were not propitious. Then she kept putting it off, and putting it off; and the days went by. Her father had not recurred to the subject; having once opened his heart, he seemed suddenly to have closed it, even against her. His attitude was such that she felt she could not talk the matter over with him; if she could she might have asked him to give her back her promise. She could not talk it over with her mother, and she longed to talk it over with some one. One evening she had an impulse to tell Marriott about it. She knew that he could sympathize with her, and, what was more, she knew that he could sympathize with Dick, whereas she could not sympathize with Dick at all. Though she laughed, and sang, and read, and talked, and drove, and lived her customary life, the subject was always in her thoughts. Finally she discovered that she was adopting little subterfuges in order to evade it, and she became disgusted with herself. She had morbid fears that her character would give way under the strain. At night she lay awake waiting, as she knew her father must be waiting, for the ratchet of Dick's key in the night-latch.

In the many different ways she imagined herself approaching the subject with Dick, in the many different conversations she planned, she always found herself facing an impenetrable barrier--she did not know with what she was to reproach him, with what wrong she was to charge him. She conceived of the whole affair, as the Anglo-Saxon mind feels it must always deal with wrong, in the forensic form--indictment, trial, judgment, execution. But after all, what had Dick done? As she saw him coming and going through the house, at the table, or elsewhere, he was still the same Dick--and this perplexed her; for, looking at him through the medium of her talk with her father, Dick seemed to be something else than her brother; he seemed to have changed into something bad. Thus his misdeeds magnified themselves to her mind, and she thought of them instead of him, of the sin instead of the sinner.

That night Dick did not come at all. In the morning when her father appeared, Elizabeth saw that he was haggard and old. As he walked heavily toward his waiting carriage, her love and pity for him received a sudden impetus.

Dick did not return until the next evening, and the following morning he came down just as his father was leaving the house. If Ward heard his son's step on the stairs, he did not turn, but went on out, got into his brougham, and sank back wearily on its cushions. It happened that Elizabeth came into the hall at that moment; she saw her father, and she saw her brother coming down the stairs, dressed faultlessly in new clothes and smoking a cigarette. As Elizabeth saw him, so easy and unconcerned, her anger suddenly blazed out, her eyes flashed, and she took one quick step toward him. His fresh, ruddy face wore a smile, but as she confronted him and held out one arm in dramatic rigidity and pointed toward her father, Dick halted and his smile faded.

"Look at him!" Elizabeth said, pointing to her father. "Look at him! Do you know what you're doing?"

"Why, Bess"--Dick began, surprised.

"You're breaking his heart, that's what you're doing!"

She stood there, her eyes menacing, her face flushed, her arm extended. The carriage was rolling down the drive and her father had gone, but Elizabeth still had the vision of his bent frame as he got into his carriage.

"Did you see him?" she went on. "Did you see how he's aging, how much whiter his hair has grown in the last few weeks, how his figure has bent? You're killing him, that's what you're doing, killing him inch by inch. Why can't you do it quick, all at once, and be done with it? That would be kinder, more merciful!"

Her lip curled in sarcasm. Dick stood by the newel-post, his face white, his lips open as if to speak.

"You spend your days in idleness and your nights in dissipation. You won't work. You won't do anything. You are disgracing your family and your name. Can't you see it, or won't you?"

"Why, Bess," Dick began, "what's the--"

She looked at him a moment; he was like her mother, so good-natured, so slow to anger. His attitude, his expression, infuriated her; words seemed to have no effect, and in her fury she felt that she must make him see, that she must force him to realize what he was doing--force him to acknowledge his fault--force him to be good.

"Of course, you'd just stand there!" she said. "Why don't you say something? You know what you're doing--you know it better than I. I should think you'd be ashamed to look a sister in the face!"

Dick had seen Elizabeth angry before, but never quite like this. Slowly within him his own anger was mounting. What right, he thought, had she to take him thus to task--him, a man? He drew himself up, his face suddenly lost its pallor and a flush of scarlet mottled it. Strangely, in that same instant, Elizabeth's face became very white.

"Look here," he said, speaking in a heavy voice, "I don't want any more of this from you!"

For an instant there was something menacing in his manner, and then he walked away and left her.

Elizabeth stood a moment, trembling violently. He had gone into the dining-room; he was talking with his mother in low tones. Elizabeth went up the stairs to her room and closed the door, and then a great wave of moral sickness swept over her. She sat down, trying to compose herself, trying to still her nerves. The whole swift scene with her brother flashed before her in all its squalor. Had she acted well or rightly? Was her anger what is called a righteous indignation? She was sure that she had acted for the best, for her father in the first place, and for Dick more than all, but it was suddenly revealed to her that she had failed; she had not touched his heart at all; she had expended all her force, and it was utterly lost; she had failed--failed. This word repeated itself in her brain. She tried to think, but her brain was in turmoil; she could think but one thing--she had failed. She bent her head and wept.

XIV

Archie Koerner and Spud Healy and the others of the gang lay in prison for a week; each morning they were taken with other prisoners to the bull-pen, and there they would stand--for an hour, two hours, three hours--and look through the heavy wire screen at officers, lawyers, court attachés, witnesses and prosecutors who passed and repassed, peering at them as at caged animals, some curiously, some in hatred and revenge, some with fear, now and then one with pity. The session would end, they would be taken downstairs again--the police were not yet ready. But finally, one Saturday morning, they were taken into the court-room and arraigned. Bostwick, the judge, heard a part of the evidence; it was nearly noon, and court never sat on Saturday afternoons. Bostwick and the prosecutor both were very anxious to get away for their half-holiday. The session had been long and trying, the morning was sultry, a summer day had fallen unexpectedly in the midst of the spring. Bostwick was uncomfortable in his heavy clothes. He hurried the hearing and sent them all to the workhouse for thirty days, and fined them the costs. Marriott had realized the hopelessness of the case from the first; even he was glad the hearing was over, glad to have Archie off his mind.

The little trial was but a trivial incident in the life of the city; Bostwick and the prosecutor, to whom it was but a part of the day's work, forgot it in the zest of ordering a luncheon; the police forgot it, excepting Kouka, who boasted to the reporters and felt important for a day. Frisby, a little lawyer with a catarrhal voice, thought of it long enough to be thankful that he had demanded his fee in advance from the mother of the boy he had defended--it took her last cent and made her go hungry over Sunday. Back on the Flats, in the shadow of the beautiful spire of St. Francis, there were cries, Gaelic lamentations, keening, counting of beads and prayers to the Virgin. The reporters made paragraphs for their newspapers, writing in the flippant spirit with which they had been taught to treat the daily tragedies of the police court. Some people scanned the paragraphs, and life passed by on the other side; the crowds of the city surged and swayed, and Sunday dawned with the church-bells ringing peacefully.

The Koerner family had the news that evening from Jerry Crowley, the policeman who had recently been assigned to that beat, his predecessor, Miller, having been suspended for drunkenness. Crowley had had a hard time of it ever since he came on the beat. The vicinity was German and he was Irish, and race hatred pursued him daily with sneers, and jibes, and insults, now and then with stones and clods. The children took their cue from the gang at Nussbaum's; the gang made his life miserable. Yet Crowley was a kindly Irishman, with many a jest and joke, and a pleasant word for every one. Almost anybody he arrested could get Crowley to let him go by begging hard enough. On the warm evenings Koerner would sit on the stoop, and Crowley, coming by, would stop for a dish of gossip.

"Oh, come now, Mr. Koerner," he said that Saturday night, after he had crudely told the old German of his son's fate, "I wouldn't take it that hard; shure an' maybe it's good 'twill be doin' the lad an' him needin' it the way he does."

Officer Crowley was interrupted in his comforting by a racket at the corner--the warm, soft nights were bringing the gang out, and he went away to wage his hopeless battle with it. When he returned, old man Koerner had gone indoors.

Gusta shared all her father's humiliation and all her mother's grief at Archie's imprisonment. She felt that she should visit her brother in prison, but it was a whole week before she could get away, and then on a brilliant Sunday afternoon she went to the workhouse. The hideous prison buildings were surrounded by a high fence, ugly in its dull red paint; the office and the adjoining quarters where the superintendent lived had a grass plot in which some truckling trusty had made flower-beds to please the superintendent's wife. In the office an old clerk, in a long black coat, received Gusta solemnly. He was sitting, from the habit of many years, on the high stool at the desk where he worked; ordinarily he crouched over his books in the fear that political changes would take his job from him; now a Sunday paper, which the superintendent and his family had read and discarded, replaced the sad records, but he bent over this none the less timidly. After a long while an ill-natured guard, whose face had grown particularly sinister and vicious in the business, ordered Gusta to follow him, and led her back into the building. Reluctantly he unlocked doors and locked them behind her, and Gusta grew alarmed. Once, waiting for him to unlock what proved to be a final door, he waited while a line of women, fourteen or fifteen of them, in uniform of striped gingham, went clattering up a spiral iron stairway; two or three of the women were negresses. They had been down to the services some Christian people had been holding for the inmates, preaching to them that if they believed on Jesus they would find release, and peace, and happiness. These people, of course, did not mean release from the workhouse, and the peace and happiness, it seemed, could not come until the inmates died. So long as they lived, their only prospect seemed to be unpaid work by day, bread and molasses to eat, and a cell to sleep in at night, with iron bars locking them in and armed men to watch them. However, the inmates enjoyed the services because they were allowed to sing.

After the women disappeared, Gusta stood fearfully before a barred door and looked down into a cell-house. The walls were three stories high, and sheer from the floor upward, with narrow windows at the top. Inside this shell of brick the cells were banked tier on tier, with dizzy galleries along each tier. Though Gusta could see no one, she could hear a multitude of low voices, like the humming of a bee-hive--the prisoners, locked two in each little cell, were permitted to talk during this hour. The place was clean, but had, of course, the institutional odor. The guard called another guard, and between them they unlocked several locks and threw several levers; finally a cell-door opened--and Gusta saw Archie come forth. He wore a soiled ill-fitting suit of gray flannel with wide horizontal stripes, and his hair had been clipped close to his head. The sight so confused and appalled Gusta that she could not speak, and the guard, standing suspiciously by her side to hear all that was said, made it impossible for her to talk. The feeling was worse than that she had had at the police station when an iron door had thus similarly separated her from her brother.

Archie came close and took hold of the bars with both his hands and peered at her; he asked her a few questions about things at home, and charged her with a few unimportant messages and errands. But she could only stand there with the tears streaming down her face. Presently the guard ordered Archie back to his cell, and he went away, turning back wistfully and repeating his messages in a kind of desperate wish to connect himself with the world.

When Gusta got outside again, she determined that she would not go home, for there the long shadow of the prison lay. She did not know where to go or what to do, but while she was trying to decide she heard from afar the music of a band--surely there would be distraction. So she walked in the direction of the music. About the workhouse, as about all prisons, were the ramshackles of squalid poverty and worse; but little Flint Street, along which she took her way, began to pick up, and she passed cottages, painted and prim, where workmen lived, and the people she saw, and their many children playing in the street, were well dressed and happy. It seemed strange to Gusta that any one should be happy then. When suddenly she came into Eastend Avenue, she knew at last where she was and whence the music came; she remembered that Miami Park was not far away. The avenue was crowded with vehicles, not the stylish kind she had been accustomed to on Claybourne Avenue, but buggies from livery-stables, in which men drove to the road-houses up the river, surreys with whole families crowded in them, now and then some grocer's or butcher's delivery wagon furnished with seats and filled with women and children. The long yellow trolley-cars that went sliding by with incessant clangor of gongs were loaded; the only signs of the aristocracy Gusta once had known were the occasional automobiles, bound, like the Sunday afternoon buggy-riders, up the smooth white river road.

Eastend Avenue ran through the park, and just before it reached that playground of the people it was lined with all kinds of amusement pavilions, little vaudeville shows, merry-go-rounds, tintype studios, shooting galleries, pop-corn and lemonade stands, public dance halls where men and girls were whirling in the waltz. On one side was a beer-garden. All these places were going noisily, with men shouting out the attractions inside, hand-organs and drums making a wild, barbaric din, and in the beer-garden a German band braying out its meretricious tunes. But at the beginning of the park a dead-line was invisibly drawn--beyond that the city would not allow the catch-penny amusements to go. On one side of the avenue the park sloped down to the river, on the other it stretched into a deep grove. The glass roof of a botanical house gleamed in the sun, and beyond, hidden among the trees, were the zoölogical gardens, where a deer park, a bear-pit, a monkey house, and a yard in which foxes skulked and racoons slept, strove with their mild-mannered exhibits for the beginnings of a menagerie. And everywhere were people strolling along the walks, lounging under the trees, hundreds of them, thousands of them, dressed evidently in their best clothes, seeking relief from the constant toil that kept their lives on a monotonous level.

Gusta stood a while and gazed on the river. On the farther shore its green banks rose high and rolled away with the imagination into woods and fields and farms. Here and there little cat-boats moved swiftly along, their sails white in the sun; some couples were out in rowboats. But as Gusta looked she suddenly became self-conscious; she saw that, of all the hundreds, she was the only one alone. Girls moved about, or stood and talked and giggled in groups, and every girl seemed to have some fellow with her. Gusta felt strange and out of place, and a little bitterness rose in her heart. The band swelled into a livelier, more strident strain, and Gusta resented this sudden burst of joyousness. She turned to go away, but just then she saw that a young man had stopped and was looking at her. He was a well-built young fellow, as strong as Archie; he had dark hair and a small mustache curled upward at the corners in a foreign way. His cheeks were ruddy; he carried a light cane and smoked a cigar. When he saw that Gusta had noticed him he smiled and Gusta blushed. Then he came up to her and took off his hat.

"Are you taking a walk?" he asked.

"I was going home," Gusta replied. She wondered how she could get away without hurting the young man's feelings, for he seemed to be pleasant, harmless and well meaning.

"It's a fine day," he said. "There's lots o' people out."

"Yes," said Gusta.

"Where 'bouts do you live?"

"On Bolt Street."

"Oh, I live out that way myself!" said the young man. "It's quite a ways from here. Been out to see some friends?"

"Yes." Gusta hesitated. "I had an errand to do out this way."

"Don't you want to go in the park and see the zoo? There's lots of funny animals back there." The young man pointed with his little cane down one of the gravel walks that wound among the trees. Gusta looked, and saw the people--young couples, women with children, and groups of young men, sauntering that way. Then she looked at the street-cars, loaded heavily, with passengers clinging to the running-boards; she was tempted to go, but it was growing late.

"No, thanks," she said, "I must be going home now."

"Are you going to walk or take the car?" asked the young man.

"I'll walk, I guess," she said; and then, lest he think she had no car fare, she added: "the cars are so crowded."

She started then, and was surprised when the young man naturally walked along by her side, swinging his cane and talking idly to her. At first she was at a loss whether to let him walk with her or not; she had a natural fear, a modesty, the feminine instinct, but she did not know just how to dismiss him. She kept her face averted and her eyes downcast; but finally, when her fears had subsided a little, she glanced at him occasionally; she saw that he was good-looking, and she considered him very well dressed. He had a gold watch chain, and when she asked him what time it was he promptly drew out a watch. Their conversation, from being at the first quite general, soon became personal, and before they had gone far Gusta learned that the young man's name was Charlie Peltzer, that he was a plumber, and that sometimes he made as much as twenty dollars a week. By the time they parted at the corner near Gusta's home they felt very well acquainted and had agreed to meet again.

After that they met frequently. In the evening after supper Gusta would steal out, Peltzer would be waiting for her at the corner, and they would stroll under the trees that were rapidly filling with leaves. Once, passing Policeman Crowley, Gusta saw him looking at them narrowly. There was a little triangular park not far from Gusta's home, and there the two would sit all the evening. The moon was full, the nights were soft and mild and warm. On Sundays they went to the park where they had met, and now and then they danced in the public pavilion. But Gusta never danced with any of the other men there, nor did Peltzer dance with any of the other girls; they danced always together, looking into each other's eyes. Now she could endure the monotony and the drudgery at home, the children's peevishness, her mother's melancholy, her father's querulousness. Even Archie's predicament lost its horror and its sadness for her. She had not yet, however, told Peltzer, and she felt ashamed of Archie, as if, in creating the possibility of compromising her, he had done her a wrong. She went about in a dream, thinking of Peltzer all the time, and of the wonderful thing that had brought all this happiness into her life.

Gusta had not, however, as yet allowed Peltzer to go home with her; he went within half a block of the house, and there, in the shadow, they took their long farewell. But Peltzer was growing more masterful; each night he insisted on going a little nearer, and at last one night he clung to her, bending over her, looking into her blue eyes, his lips almost on hers, and before they were aware they were at her door. Gusta was aroused by Crowley's voice. Crowley was there with her father, telling him again the one incident in all his official career that had distinguished him for a place in the columns of the newspapers. He was just at the climax of the thrilling incident, and they heard his voice ring out:

"An' I kept right on toowards him, an' him shootin' at me breasht four toimes--"

He had got up, in the excitement he so often evoked in living over that dramatic moment again, to illustrate the action, and he saw Gusta and Charlie. Peltzer stopped, withdrew his arm hurriedly from Gusta's waist, and then Crowley, forgetting his story, called out:

"Oh-ho, me foine bucko!"

Then Koerner saw Gusta, and, forgetting for a moment, tried to rise to his feet, then dropped back again.

"Who's dot feller mit you, huh? Who's dot now?" he demanded.

"Aw, tut, tut, man," said Crowley. "Shure an' the girl manes no harm at all--an' the laad, he's a likely wan. Shure now, Misther Koerner, don't ye be haard on them--they're that young now! An' 'tis the spring, do ye moind--and it's well I can see the phite flower on the thorn tra in me ould home these days!"

Gusta's heart and Peltzer's heart warmed to Crowley, but old Koerner said:

"In mit you!"

And she slipped hurriedly indoors.

But nothing could harm her now, for the world had changed.