Kitabı oku: «The Man. A Story of To-day», sayfa 8
CHAPTER XXI.
PERSECUTION
“Oh, you didn’t know we was here or you wouldn’t have kep’ us waitin’, would you?” – “Now, ain’t she a slick un! – and in her bare feet too. Well, the walk through the grass will be good fer her corns.” – “Say, now less get her drunk. She’ll be awful funny when she’s full,” and they passed up a whisky-bottle toward me; and so the remarks flew as the crowd of thirty or more men kept pushing closer around, anxious to get a nearer view of me.
“I say, miss, is that the latest style of wearing hair on Canal street?” – “Oh, you forgot your bustle!” – “You don’t feel as big as you generally do!” – “You won’t snub us now, will you, even if we do live at the Cross-roads?”
Sam Scott took me by the arm. “Don’t be afraid, missis – I know them all. Let us go,” he said.
I looked into the face of this tall young man, and saw the look of quiet determination as we moved out of the door. There are two kinds of composure – one which speaks of calm rest and peace, the other a calm that is so quiet it threatens. It is the hush we feel before the storm – the composure of the couchant leopard before he springs. This was the look on the face of this twenty years old stripling as he pushed me not ungently before him and motioned that The Man should walk by my side.
Bilkson led the way, his head tied up so he could not wear his hat. Doubtless he exaggerated the severity of his wounds, hoping to get sympathy from the crowd. But be it known this was not a sympathetic assemblage. Scott seemed the only sober man among them, and they kept still crowding near, and still the ribald jeering continued. Scott walked close behind me, and I noticed that he was the only one who carried no weapon – even Bilkson, who walked like a drum major at the head of the procession, carried on his shoulder a fencerail.
“The band will now play the wedding-march,” shouted a loud mouthed buffoon. “They took their wedding tower afore the ceremony, didn’t they?” And still the awful obscenity which I dare not think of, still less write, continued.
One man, no longer young but drunker than the rest, big, red whiskered and burly, reeled up by my side and endeavored to put his arm around me. “Only one kiss, my dear – just one. Now don’t be frisky,” he hiccoughed.
I felt the nauseous hot whisky breath against my cheek. A suppressed scream came from my lips and I started back. Suddenly I saw the right arm of Scott shoot forward. I saw the ruffian dodge and thought Scott had struck at him and missed his mark; but quicker than the flash of thought the tall young man grew a foot taller, the head went back, the chest heaved, the lungs filled, his body seemed to sway to the left and pitch forward, the brawny left fist shot out like a thunderbolt and caught the ruffian square on the angle of the jaw. The man seemed to spring into the air, and as he fell in a heap ten feet away I saw blood gush from his eyes, nose and mouth. The first right hand move of Scott was merely a feint. As the man dodged to the left he ran square against that terrific stroke, which was not a mere hit with the clenched hand, but a stroke backed up by the entire weight of the body. In dodging the blow he had rushed to meet it.
As we passed on, scarcely pausing during the incident I have described, I heard a coarse voice behind say, “He is dead! He got that awful left hander! He’s done for sure! What will his wife say to this?”
Some fell back to look after the man who was hurt and others dropped off or fell behind one by one. I looked in the east and saw the great red streaks which told of the coming of the day. The stars disappeared. I heard the merry song of birds (how the birds do sing early in the morning!) and when we reached the village the sun was just peering over the far off hills. Bilkson, still with his fence rail, marched ahead. The Man and I walked hand in hand, for my woman’s nature had began to assert itself; although at first I felt strong and able to endure anything, but as we entered the village my hand went out to The Man and I felt his reassuring grasp.
This was the first time my hand had touched his, and the only time he had come near me since the first night I saw him, when he passed his hand over my face as I went to sleep.
The mob had disappeared, but a quarter or an eighth of a mile back, I saw coming, jauntily swinging a cane, a high white hat on the back of his head, the Prince Albert coat buttoned around his pompous form, Mr. Pygmalion Woodbur, attorney and counsellor at law. Close behind me still followed Sam Scott, dark and determined.
We entered the little tumbledown depot, and The Man and I sat down on one of the hard benches, Sam Scott seated scowlingly between us. Bilkson and the fencerail thought best to remain outside. Mr. Woodbur entered and smilingly bid me “Good-morning,” stroked the high hat and hoped I was well. He said he heard that I was in trouble; that I had been indiscreet; and knowing my little lapses from the path of rectitude were merely sins of the head and not of the heart, he at once decided to befriend me, and had come out from the city to see that I received right treatment. There I sat, hatless and shoeless, but not friendless, for ever did I feel the serene composure of The Man, and spread out over his bony knee I saw the great brown hand of Sam Scott.
The train was two hours late, and as we sat in the depot children came, curiously peering in the door to see the bad man and woman whom the officers from the city were obliged to arrest. Women came carrying babies in their arms, and rough-whiskered but kindly-hearted men stared at us, and carried on sotto voce conversations which I could partially hear.
“Now ain’t she a wicked-looking thing?” said a woman. “See her long hair clear to her waist – and how brazen!” said another. “Why, if it was me I would cry my eyes out for very shame, and there she sits pale like and not a bit scared.” – “Ah, you Sam Scott, where did you get the introduction?”
Sam Scott sent back a look for an answer, and the questioner sneaked away.
I shook with the cold morning air, for I brought no wrap. One woman, who carried a baby dressed only in its nightgown, stared at me, and I saw her hastily throw her apron over her head and go out, running against the door as she turned. Soon she came back. I noticed her eyes were very red. She brought me an old pieced bed-quilt, and told me to put it around me to keep me warm; to take it with me, and if I didn’t have a chance to send it back I needn’t; and abruptly as she came she rushed away.
The train arrived and we entered the smoking-car, leaving Sam Scott on the platform. I looked at him and endeavored to speak, but the words stuck in my throat. He guessed what I wanted to say, and stammered,
“Now, you, missis, keep still will you. I know, don’t I – how that blamed sun does hurt my eyes!” and he began gouging one eye with the knobby knuckles.
Arriving in Buffalo, I saw drawn up in the depot yard a patrol-wagon, with three brass-buttoned officers seated therein. I knew they were waiting for us, and that Bilkson had telegraphed for them, possibly to deepen my humiliation. As we descended from the car, Bilkson called out in the direction of the officers,
“Here they are, and you’d better look out for ’em! Just look at me all chawed up. An awful fight we had!” And surely he looked as if he spoke the truth, for a half dozen dirty men had contributed a dirty handkerchief apiece to tie up his broken head. “Take no chances, or you must run your own risks,” he continued.
At this one of the officers went back to the patrol-wagon and returned with handcuffs.
“Here, old gal,” he said, “we’re used to sech as you – the worse you are the better we like you! Spit and kick and scratch now all you want, but put on the jewelry just for looks, as it is Sunday morning, you know.”
I felt the cold steel close with a snap around my wrists, we were pushed into the wagon, Bilkson climbed on the seat with the driver, and amid a general yell from a party of street gamins we dashed up Exchange street. The bells were ringing, calling worshipers to church. Children dressed out in stiff white dresses, women daintily attired, family groups, we passed on their way to church, and they turned to look with wondering eyes.
At Michigan street I saw coming toward us a form I knew full well, the first and only face which I had seen – it seemed for years – which I might truly call friend. It was Martha Heath, walking briskly forward, going I knew to a mission Sunday-school on Perry street, where she taught a class of grinning youngsters. She, too, looked at the patrol-wagon with its motley load, and I saw she did not recognize me. I thought of calling to her, but the restraining influence of the officer’s club, who sat close to me, froze the words on my lips. Still she looked. I held up my hands showing the handcuffs in mute appeal. I saw the books drop from her grasp. Her hand went to her head in dazed manner – she reeled – staggered – and grasped a friendly railing as we whirled by.
The driver cracked his whip in the direction of a passing policeman, and pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, and they both laughed.
“What charge?” the officer asked, as we were marched up before the high desk at the station-house.
“Make the entry in lead pencil and call it burglary – we may want to change it later. Oh, we’ve got it in for ’em though! Put ’em in the freezer, and mind no one sees ’em, for we want to make ’em confess,” said Woodbur, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper.
The next morning in the Daily Times was the following item, and the clipping now adorns my scrap book.
BEAUTY’S BLOWOUT
A FREE RIDE
HOW ASPASIA HOBBS HOBNOBS WITH CAPTAIN KILBUCK AT NO. 10
Church goers yesterday morning in the vicinity of Main and Exchange streets were treated to the shocking sight of seeing one of Buffalo’s former society belles taking a ride with the genial Jimmy Smith, who received first prize in the recent Times contest as the most popular policeman in Buffalo.
Old residents well remember Hobbs, of Hobbs, Nobbs & Porcine, who skipped by the light of the moon to Canada, and the fair virgin in the patrol-wagon was none other than Aspasia Hobbs, daughter of the above. Now who says there is nothing in heredity? Aspasia was attired in her bare feet and a blue quilt which the officers provided for her for decency’s sake, and looked as if she had been having a high old time with the elderly hayseed seated in the wagon with her.
Well, the good book is right when it says, “There is no fool like an old fool.” Verily, when a woman falls she goes to depths to which a man can not descend. The festive Hobbs has been going it strong lately and as there are quite a number of charges against her, doubtless Judge Prince will do his duty. By the way, we hear the worthy judge has decided to accept the nomination for another term.
CHAPTER XXII.
BY THE WAY
Reader, pray do not be a fool and say this story is fiction. Would that part of it was! But the treatment I received by the mob on that terrible night is the most natural and easiest thing in the world under the present conditions of society. It may happen to you, and worse, anytime, in any town, village or city, from Boston to Texas – for humanity is the same wherever you go.
Woodbur and Bilkson arrived at the village of Jamison at eight o’clock on that Saturday evening. They called on the shoemaker, who was a justice of the peace, showed him their warrants for the arrest of “John Doe” and “Mary Roe,” supposed to be secreted in a log house in a certain woods two miles away. They desired to surround the house at three o’clock in the morning and capture the inmates, who were said to be desperate characters.
The shoemaker J. P. put on his specs, read the warrant with a great show of wisdom, said of course he would help make the capture, and so would his son Tom.
Tom was called in, told the circumstances, and requested to engage the services of two or three trusty men to go along. “But, Tom, mind you keep the matter quiet,” wound up the shoemaker.
So Tom promised, and of course told confidentially every one he saw that the “cranky old man and stuck up woman” they had seen, who lived in Smith’s log house up in the clearing, were escaped murderers, and that all who wanted to help make the capture must be at the tavern at three o’clock Sunday morning. Now excitement is a scarce article in country towns, and mankind is ever greedy for it; so at three o’clock the select male population of Jamison was at the tavern – mind you not bad people either, just good, plain, homely, honest citizens. Most of them would have been terribly insulted if you had hinted that they were not Christians.
I told you only one man out of fifty thinks, that the rest have no opinions but those furnished by parents, preachers and sophistical politicians. I do not say these opinions are error necessarily, but that they are simply borrowed. Having received this second-hand opinion, they will dig over the whole earth for reasons and excuses to defend it, honestly thinking the while they are in search of truth – mere followers of a bell-wether.
Bilkson just at this time was the aforesaid bell-wether. Someone said this man and woman were criminals (there is the opinion); therefore they must be – in fact, there was no proof to the contrary. Then they began to back up the opinion which had been so skilfully injected into them. They remembered certain blasphemous remarks of the man, for had he not said, “I am the son of God, and all men may be if they claim their heritage,” – “I have divine rights by reason of heavenly parentage,” – “A church is no more sacred than a blacksmith shop,” – “Sunday is no more holy than any other day, and a preacher’s calling no more sacred than a farmer’s,” – “No man by dying can wipe out the sins of others, but every man is a savior of his race who lashes himself to the mast of righteousness” etc.?
“Just as if there is any sense,” said the blacksmith, “in lashing one’s self to the mast except to save one’s self! He is a Catholic, too, for didn’t he say he not only worshiped Jesus but also His mother?” And another declared he had heard him say he not only worshiped the Virgin Mary, but all good women who conceived good thoughts and had high and holy aspirations. Then someone had asked him what worship was, and he said it “was not an act of the body, like going to a church and kneeling, but only that state of mind where the worshiper thought of the person or being worshiped with profound respect, good-will and love.”
The simple country people were very sure that any man who held such heretical beliefs was a rascal or worse, and being about like other people at the time, were honest in the belief that a man who rejects the Trinity cannot have much respect for the Ten Commandments. So they were glad of an opportunity to assist in ridding the community of a man who was endangering the religious faith of the young. In short, the man was corrupting the youth of Athens and must go.
On this particular occasion Bilkson was leader, for when a man assumes leadership and calls in a loud voice “Fall in everybody,” he is never without a following.
The persistent advertiser in trade is a self-appointed leader, and if he talks big and keeps his promise passably well, he can hold his followers for a time at least.
If you would go well-dressed, smiling, serene and confident, to the homes of any of these mobbers, they would acknowledge your superiority; and if you were only firm and plausible, they would grant you any favor and lend you any assistance you desired. You are leader then – not Bilkson. But woe betide you if cold, naked, a-hungered, you fall famishing on their doorsteps, and at the same time some Bilkson happens to point the finger of suspicion in your direction. You have no “inflooence.” “Inflooence” is king not only with Straight, superintendents of schools, and other politicians, but also in society and church. He who subscribes the largest amount to the pastor’s salary has the most to say in the management of the church, and if he becomes displeased he threatens to “come out,” (the “come outers” are numerous), and adds, “You know that if I go I do not go alone.” Thus does he shake his “inflooence” over us as a club, and we cringe, explain, apologize, and the fear that the big subscriber will tramp out with heavy tread, numerous following and fierce black looks, disappears as we see the great man placated by our abject attitude.
Fear of losing the favor of people of influence keeps men respectful and decent when nothing else will.
“Inflooence” is first cousin to Mrs. Grundy. Inflooence is king – Mrs. Grundy queen.
Note you how some men leave their quiet and virtuous homes where Mrs. Grundy’s goggle eyes are on every side, and go to New York where Mrs. Grundy is not watching them. How intent they are on seeing the “elephant,” and how they do buy green goods and gold bricks! Great is “Inflooence” – great is Mrs. Grundy!
A grimy tramp with thick neck and knotty club possesses “inflooence.” His wishes in rural districts at least are often respected.
Now you are a woman. You may be free from guilt and you may not, but if you are purity itself – sorrowfully do I say it! – in the year of Our Lord, 1891, innocence is not a sufficient shield; and if you are weak, weary and footsore, from the miles and miles you have come down through years of injustice, and the crowd is pressing you close with intent to stone you, it is a miracle if from out the mob there steps the commanding figure of a man, and raising his hand aloft to warn them back, says in a voice not loud but which all can hear,
“Let him who is without sin cast the first stone!”
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE FREEZER
The freezer in No. 10 police-station is a very warm place – an iron cage set up on a platform in a large stone room; said cage being made of iron bars, set three inches apart, with iron floor; the furniture consisting of just two pieces, a wooden bench and an iron bucket. This cage is open on all sides. “So as to give ventilation,” I was told by the officer who helped me up the steps. He remarked as the grated door swung to with a snap, “Oh, now me charmer, you will feel at home, for you have been here many a time afore. Oh, we knows you, we do. If yer wants anything jist tech the ’lectric bell.”
This kind of cell, I am told by those who have tried both, is much worse to be dreaded than a dungeon. Open on all sides, the light is glaring; and any one coming into the room, can walk around the cage, viewing the unhappy prisoner from every side.
It was eleven o’clock Sunday morning when I was locked up, and about every hour an officer came in and looked at me as though I were a wild beast. Once two men came together, and stood carrying on a joking conversation between themselves. One seemed to be a philosopher, for as they went out I heard him say, “It beats the devil to what depths a woman falls when she does go wrong!”
At six o’clock the captain came in, and he seemed more gentlemanly and considerate than any of the officers I had seen. He took off his cap, and leaning against the bars of my cage, said,
“Now, you woman, I am awful sorry for you and am going to help you out of this scrape. I know all about you just as well or better than you know yourself. In fact, your partner, the old man, has given the whole thing away – made a clear confess, don’t you know – and he will have to go down. Now if you will make a clean breast of it all, we can let you off. We already know all about it, but want you to confess just for a formality so as to lay the case before the judge, who is an awful tender-hearted man and does just as I tell him. Now, lady, what do you say? Come, now, shall I unlock that cage and take you in the office where we can write it all out? Come, now, why don’t you speak, haven’t you any tongue? Well, you are the queerest woman! Can’t talk – eh? Oh! well, it’s no difference to me of course. I just wanted to do you a favor, but you have about as much gratitude as most of the rest of the soiled doves. All right, you needn’t say a word if you don’t want to. Hey, you there, Murphy, don’t let anybody see this gal. Bread and water will do, too. She ain’t any appetite. Do you hear? – I’m going now, miss. If you have anything to say now is your time; but if you prefer to have the cage locked for a week or so, why I ’spose you must have your own way. We’re allus willing to oblige our guests, you know. Can’t even say thank you, can you?” (Hesitates at the door – looks back and goes).
Bang went the outside door and I was alone for the night – my only company four electric lights, which made a dazzling glare. I lay down on the bench and tried to sleep. Then I tried the floor. At last I propped the bench against the bars, and half-seated, half-reclining, the long hours passed as a fitful nightmare.
I have since learned that when Martha Heath saw me in the patrol-wagon she hastened straight to the station-house, but they told her I was not there, and showed her the blotter showing the name of “Mary Roe” – Bilkson having explained that my right name was unknown, and further by keeping a prisoner very close they are more apt to confess.
Martha insisted on seeing Mary Roe, who they said was asleep and must not be disturbed. “Call to-morrow,” they said. Martha still insisted, until the captain bawled out to the doorman, “Hey, you, have you got a vacant cell for this crazy woman?” Martha was not to be frightened by such a threat so she said, “All right, put me in a cell! I dare you to! I’m no better than Aspasia Hobbs, and you have locked her up.” The captain took the persistent Martha by the arm, and led her to the door and showed her down the steps.
The good girl saw she was powerless, and as my mother knew nothing about the matter she concluded to wait until Monday morning and then stir heaven and earth if needs be to get me out.
Monday morning, bright and early, Mr. Bilkson and Mr. Woodbur walked arm in arm down South Division street, to the cottage of Mrs. Hobbs, and Grimes showed them into the little parlor. Mrs. Hobbs entered, delighted to think two such eminent gentlemen should call on her; and in her joy she forgot the time of day, and believed it was only a social call, for on Delaware Avenue callers were constant. What is the matter with South Division street?
Both gentlemen shook hands with the widow. Then they whispered together. Then Woodbur said,
“Mr. Bilkson, will you please oblige the lady and also myself by assuming a standing position?”
Bilkson obeyed.
“Mr. Bilkson, now will you further oblige us by opening your mouth?”
Bilkson’s face opened in half, and revealed to the now thoroughly astonished woman a very lacerated set of gums and absence of front teeth.
“That will do, Mr. Bilkson. Now your eye.”
Mr. Bilkson removed the bandage from his left eye, and revealed a symphony in black, blue and yellow, shaded with green.
“That will do, Mr. Bilkson – be seated.”
Woodbur still remained standing in tragic attitude, with his right hand thrust in the bosom of his buttoned coat. Suddenly raising his voice he shouted,
“Madame, it was your daughter who done this – your daughter! Yes, madame, your daughter! Ah, you doubt it; but I have the proof, madame, the proof!” and he drew forth a copy of the Morning Times on which the ink was scarcely dry and read in a deep sepulchral voice the article which I have already mentioned, “Beauty’s Blowout,” etc.
Among his other accomplishments Mr. Woodbur was an elocutionist, and Grimes afterward told me that he read the article so effectively and with such fierce looks directed over the top of the paper at Mrs. Hobbs, that at the last words the good lady fell in hysterics on the sofa, screaming:
“Oh, my daughter, my adopted daughter! why did you do this? Why did you do it? Disgraced us! You have disgraced us! I, who before we bust, when we lived on the avenue, furnished you a chiropodist, and an elocootionist, and a manicure, and the best pew in the Rev. Doctor Fourthly’s! I, who educated you, and cared for you, and never let you go to the public but always sent you to a private school, and taught you dancing, French and music, and gave tiddle de winks and progressive eucher parties in your honor! Oh, why, w-w-w-h-y – d-d-did you do i-t-t-t!”
Dr. Bolus was hastily sent for and administered morphine and whisky. When my mother had been quieted (Woodbur and Bilkson had in the meantime departed), the doctor called in Grimes and demanded the reason of this row which had so unnerved Mrs. Hobbs.
“Some dam lie about ’Pasia that is in the paper,” said Grimes. “Two devils with high hats was here – one had no teeth – and they read the paper at Mrs. Hobbs’ head so she just throws up her hands and yells and yells and cries and shouts and thanks God that ’Pasia ain’t her own child. And then she cries agin and so she kep’ it up ’till you come.”
“Why, why this is queer, very strange! Two – what did you say they were that read the paper, Grimes? Strange! – Say, you black cub” (calling to a colored boy holding his horse at the door) “get up town, as quick as you can and get me a Times. Don’t play marbles on the way, or I’ll slice you up for a subject.”
The boy soon returned with the paper, and the doctor quickly adjusted his glasses and read the article. He dropped the paper from his hands and sat in amazement.
“It’s acute dementia, combined with melancholia! I knew it all along – hereditary! Who were her parents, Mrs. Hobbs? Ah, yes, you don’t know. That proves it – hereditary! Takes to crime like a duck to water. Why, she’s crazy, that’s all, Mrs. Hobbs, crazy as a bed bug! Now take these powders as I told you, Mrs. Hobbs – but then, we ought to get the girl out though. What’s that! Great God! She killed Bilkson did you say? Why didn’t you tell me five minutes ago that Bilkson was here? Oh, I see; she tried to kill him. That is different.”
“And it’s a pity she didn’t succeed!” broke in Grimes, who was standing in the doorway.
“Will you shut up, you old fool!” shouted the doctor. “How impertinent servants are getting now-a-days! Never mind, Grimesy, you don’t know any better. I’ll be here with my double carriage at one o’clock, and we will all go up and get Aspasia out. Oh, I say, Grimes, if the old lady has ’em again just put the powders in the whisky and give her a tablespoonful every ten minutes until she lets up – hear?”
