Gordon Craig Part 7

"How any man meeting her as I have you--in the street at night, under conditions society would frown at--can still feel for her a profound respect, and pay her the deference which a gentleman must always extend to one he deems worthy."

For a long moment she did not speak, but withdrew her hand from beneath mine, resting her chin in its palm.

"What is your name?" she asked finally.

"Gordon Craig."

The lashes drooped quickly, securely shadowing the brown depths, the flush deepening on her cheeks. In the momentary hush which followed the waiter came shuffling forward with our order.

CHAPTER VII

THE WOMAN'S STORY

I had never supposed I lacked audacity, yet I found it strangely difficult to again pick up our conversation. This woman puzzled me; was becoming an enigma. She encouraged me, and yet something about her precluded all familiarity. I was haunted by the vague suspicion that she might be "stringing" me; that she was not as innocent as she pretended. Her eyes again glanced up, and met mine.

"It is a terrible experience being penniless, and alone," she said with a shudder. "I can never condemn some forms of evil as I once did, for now I have felt temptation myself. I--I have even learned to doubt my own strength of character. I walked past a great hotel last evening, and looked in through the windows, at the dining-room. It was brilliant with electric lights, in rose globes over the spotless tables, and hundreds of people were gathered about eating and drinking.

I had been there myself more than once, yet then I was alone outside, in the misty street, penniless. I had no strength left, no virtue--I was in heart a criminal. Have you ever felt that?"

"Yes," I acknowledged, hopeful she would explain further. "I comprehend fully what you mean. Nature is stronger than any of us when it comes to the supreme trial."

"I had never known before. It is strange to confess such a thing, but it is true. I--I do not believe I am weak as compared with others.

Never before have I had any occasion to question the supremacy of my will, yet I learned a lesson last night--that I am not a saint. I actually faced crime, and it did not even look horrible to me! it appeared justified. Even now, sitting here with you, I cannot believe I was wicked. You will not misconstrue my words, but--but life is not always the same, is it? How inexpressibly cruel a great city may be with glaring wealth flaunting itself in the pinched face of poverty.

How can I help being rebellious now that I have seen all this through hungry eyes?"

Her hands were clasped above her plate, the slender fingers intertwined. I was looking at her so intently forgot to answer.

"I--I am glad I met you," she said frankly. "I--I think you have saved me from myself."

"You asked me my name," I broke in eagerly. "Would you mind telling me who you are?"

"I?" the clear cheeks reddening. "Why, I am only a fool."

"Then there is, at least, one tie between us. But, if we are to remain friends I must know how to address you."

Her red lips parted doubtfully, her brow wrinkling.

"Yes, and we cannot afford to be conventional, can we? I am Viola Bernard."

"I knew a girl once by that name; ages ago it seems now. A little thing in short skirts, but I thought her rather nice. I believe we are inclined to like names a.s.sociated with pleasant memories. So I am glad your name is Viola."

"It was my mother's name," she said quietly, her eyes downcast, "and I am not sorry you like it." She stirred the coffee in her cup, watching the bubbles rise to the surface. "I feel more confidence in you than I did, because you have been so honest about yourself."

"I have told you the truth. I think I comprehend one trait, at least, of your character--you would never again trust one who had deliberately deceived you."

She did not remove her eyes from the cup, nor appear to note my interruption, but continued gravely:

"I must tell my story to someone; I can fight fate alone no longer.

Perhaps I may not confess everything, for I do not know you well enough for that, but enough, at least, so you will no longer suspect that I--I am a bad woman."

"I could never really believe that."

"Oh, yes, you could. I have read in your face that my character puzzles you. You invited me to drink a c.o.c.ktail to try me. Don't protest, for really I do not wonder at it, or blame you in the least.

How could you think otherwise? My position was a strange one, bound to awaken suspicion; my conduct immodest. Yet you must accept my explanation, for I shall tell the truth. I was never guilty of such an act before--never! Perhaps because I was never tempted. There is a home I could return to, and a mother, but they are more than a thousand miles from here. But I cannot go, even if I possessed the means, because of my pride--my false pride possibly. I have chosen my course, and must abide by it to the end."

She drew a long breath, speaking very slowly.

"It is a hard story to tell, for the wound is still fresh, and hurts.

I was upon the stage--not long, but with sufficient success so that I had become leading woman with one of the best stock companies. It was against my mother's wish I entered the profession, and she has never become reconciled to it, although our relations.h.i.+p remained pleasant.

A few months ago, while playing in Omaha, I met Fred Bernard. I knew little of him, but he appeared gentlemanly and well-to-do, and was presented to me by one in whom I had confidence. He was pleasant, and apparently in love with me; I liked him, was flattered by his attentions, and discouraged in my ambition. When he asked me to marry him conditions were such that I accepted, even consented, under his urging, to an immediate ceremony. We came to this city, were quietly married here, and occupied a flat on the north side. My husband did no work, but received remittances from home, and apparently had plenty of means. He told me little about himself, or his condition, but promised to take me to his people in a little while. He said his father was wealthy, but eccentric; that he had told him of our marriage, but there had been a quarrel between them, and he could not take me there without an invitation. I was never shown the letters, but they bore Southern postmarks."

She paused, hesitating, her eyes full of pain.

"I--I was afraid to question, for--for he proved so different after our marriage. He was a drunkard, abusive and quarrelsome. I had never before been in intimate contact with anyone like that, and I was afraid of him. Whatever of love I might have felt died within me under abuse.

He struck me the second day, and from that moment I dreaded his home-coming. For weeks I scarcely saw him sober, and his treatment of me was brutal."

Tears were in her eyes, but she held them back, forcing herself to go on.

"Then he was gone two days and nights leaving me alone. He reappeared the third evening in the worst condition I had ever seen him. He acted like a veritable savage, cursing and striking at me, and finally drove me from the house, flouris.h.i.+ng a revolver in my face, and locking the door behind me. I--I sat there on the steps an hour, and endeavored to go back, but there was no response. I walked the streets, and then--having a little money with me--found a place to lodge. The next day I went back, but the flat was locked still, and neighbors said my husband had left with a traveling bag. I--I was actually thrown out upon the streets to starve."

Her voice lowered, so that I was compelled to lean closer to catch the rapidly spoken words.

"At first I--I was not altogether sorry. I thought it would be easy to find work. I was not afraid of that--but--but it was not easy. Oh!

how hard I tried. I faced open insult; cowardly insinuation; brutal coa.r.s.eness. I never dreamed before how men could treat women seeking honorable employment. Scarcely a courteous word greeted me. Refusal was blunt, imperative, or else, in those cases where vague encouragement was given, it was so worded as to cause my withdrawal in shame. If I had been skilled in any business line my reception might have been different; if I possessed recommendations, or could have frankly confessed the truth, perhaps I might have been given a chance.

But as it was everywhere, suspicion was aroused by my reticence, my inability to explain, and the interview ended in curt dismissal, or suggestive innuendo."

She paused again, her bosom rising and falling, her cheeks flushed.

"Go on," I said, encouragingly. "Do not fear I shall misunderstand. I have been through the same mill."

She gave me a quick glance of grat.i.tude, pressing back a straggling strand of hair.

"But you were not a woman," she insisted, "and could defend yourself from insult. I endeavored so hard to discover some opening; I even sought domestic service, and was examined as though I was a horse on sale. I walked the streets; I refused to despair, or permit myself to believe failure possible. I went home at night, tired out, to a little rented room in Forty-Ninth Street, prayed as I used to when a child, cried myself to sleep, only to wake up the next morning determined to continue. I was not weak then; I was as strong as any girl could be; I--I fought it out to the very last," her head suddenly drooping, "but--but the end came just the same. Perhaps I should never have hung on so long; perhaps it would have been better to have sent word to my mother, and asked help to go home. But--but I kept hoping to succeed, until it was too late. I spent all the little money I had, and p.a.w.ned my rings. I had married against my mother's wish. I could not turn to her for help. Oh, I was tempted; I think you must know what I mean!

You realize what temptation is; how it weakens, and conquers the soul?"

I closed my hand firmly over hers.

"Yes, I know."

Her sensitive face brightened; her eyes clearing of mist.

"It is a comfort to speak with a gentleman again. I--I had almost begun to believe there were none left in the world. You give me courage to go on, to acknowledge everything. Mr. Craig, I was a soul tottering on the brink when I met you out yonder; a desperate, disheartened girl, tempted to the point of surrender. I had lost hope, pride, all redeeming strength of womanhood. I scarcely cared whether death, or dishonor, claimed me. I do not know what fateful impulse moves me now, but I can look into your eyes without sense of shame, and confess this. I was, in all essential truth, a woman of the street--not yet lowered utterly to that level, not yet sacrificed, but with no moral strength left for resistance. No fear, no horror. Oh, G.o.d! it seems like some awful dream--yet it was true, true! I had ceased to struggle, to care; I had begun to drift; I had lost everything a woman prizes, even my faith in G.o.d. I know you cannot comprehend what this means--no man could. But I want you to try.

Think what it would mean to your sister, to some pure friend in whom you have implicit trust. Oh, I know what the world would say--the well-fed, well-clothed, well-housed, sneering world--but it is to you I appeal for some slight mercy. You have also suffered, and grown weak, and, because you told me your story first, I dare now to tell mine. I was a soul on the brink, and--G.o.d forgive me!--not afraid of the rocks below. Like one stupefied I looked down, hated myself and laughed."