THE gas-light that came
with an effect of difficulty through the dust-stained windows on either side of
the door gave strange hues to the faces and forms of the three women who stood
gabbling in the hallway of the tenement. They made rapid gestures, and in the
background their enormous shadows mingled in terrific effect.
"Aye, she ain't so
good as he thinks she is, I'll bet. He can watch over 'er an' take care of 'er
all he pleases, but when she wants t' fool 'im, she'll fool 'im. An' how does
he know she ain't foolin' 'im now?"
"Oh, he thinks
he's keepin' 'er from goin' t' th' bad, he does. Oh yes. He says she's too
purty t' let run 'round alone. Too purty! Huh! My Sadie--"
"Well, he keeps a
clost watch on 'er, you bet. On'y las' week she met my boy Tim on th' stairs,
an' Tim hadn't said two words to 'er b'fore th' ol' man begun t' holler,
'Dorter, dorter, come here; come here!'"
At this moment a young
girl entered from the street, and it was evident from the injured expressions
suddenly assumed by the three gossipers that she had been the object of their
discussion. She passed them with a slight nod, and they swung about in a row to
stare after her.
On her way up the long
flights the girl unfastened her veil. One could then clearly see the beauty of
her eyes, but there was in them a certain furtiveness that came near to marring
the effect. It was a peculiar fixture of gaze, brought from the street, as of
one who there saw a succession of passing dangers, with menaces aligned at
every corner.
On the top floor she
pushed open a door, and then paused on the threshold, confronting an interior
that appeared black and flat like a curtain. Perhaps some girlish ideas of
hobgoblins assailed her then, for she called, in a little breathless voice,
"Daddie!"
There was no reply. The
fire in the cooking-stove in the room crackled at spasmodic intervals. One lid
was misplaced, and the girl could now see that this fact created a little
flushed crescent upon the ceiling. Also a series of tiny windows in the stove
caused patches of red upon the floor. Otherwise the room was heavily draped
with shadows.
The girl called again,
"Daddie!"
Yet there was no reply.
"Oh, daddie!"
Presently she laughed,
as one familiar with the humors of an old man. "Oh, I guess yer
cussin'-mad about yer supper, dad," she said, and she almost entered the
room, but suddenly faltered, overcome by a feminine instinct to fly from this
black interior, peopled with imagined dangers. Again she called, "Daddie!"
Her voice had an accent of appeal. It was as if she knew she was foolish, but
yet felt obliged to insist upon being reassured. "Oh, daddie!"
Of a sudden a cry of
relief, a feminine announcement that the stars still hung, burst from her. For,
according to some mystic process, the smouldering coals of the fire went aflame
with sudden fierce brilliance, splashing parts of the walls, the floor, the
crude furniture, with a hue of blood-red. And in this dramatic outburst of
light the girl saw her father seated at a table, with his back turned toward
her.
She entered the room
then with an aggrieved air, her logic evidently concluding that somebody was to
blame for her nervous fright. "Oh, yer on'y sulkin' 'bout yer supper! I
thought mebbe ye'd gone somewheres."
Her father made no
reply. She went over to a shelf in the corner, and taking a little lamp, she
lit it, and put it where it would give her light as she took off her hat and
jacket in front of a tiny mirror. Presently she began to bustle among the
cooking utensils that were crowded into the sink, and as she worked she rattled
talk at her father, apparently disdaining his mood.
"I'd 'a' come
earlier t' night, dad, on'y that fly foreman he kep' me in th' shop till half
past six. What a fool! He came t' me, yeh know, an' he ses, 'Nell, I wanter
give yeh some brotherly advice'--oh, I know him an' his brotherly advice. 'Yeh
too purty, Nell,' he ses, 't' be workin' in this shop an' paradin' through th'
streets alone, without somebody t' give yeh good brotherly advice, an' I wanter
warn yeh, Nell. I'm a bad man, but I ain't as bad as some, an' I wanter warn
yeh!' 'Oh, g'long 'bout yer business,' I ses. I know 'im. He's like all of 'em,
on'y he's a little slyer. I know 'im. 'You g'long 'bout yer business,' I ses.
Well, he sed after a while that he guessed some evenin' he come up an' see me.
'Oh, yeh will!' I ses. 'Yeh will? Well, you jest let my ol' man ketch yeh
comin' foolin' 'round our place. Yeh'll wish yeh went t' some other girl t'
give brotherly advice.' 'What th'ell do I care fer yer father?' he ses. 'What's
he t' me?' 'If he throws yeh down stairs yeh'll care for 'im,' I ses. 'Well,'
he ses, 'I'll come when 'e ain't in.' 'Oh, he's allus in when it means takin'
care o' me,' I ses. 'Don't yeh fergit it, either. When it comes t' takin' care
o' his dorter, he's right on deck every single possible time.'" After a
time she turned and addressed cheery words to the old man. "Hurry up th'
fire, daddie! We'll have supper pretty soon."
But still her father
was silent, and his form in its sullen posture was motionless.
At this the girl seemed
to see the need of the inauguration of a feminine war against a man out of
temper. She approached him, breathing soft coaxing syllables.
"Daddie! Oh,
daddie! O-o-oh, daddie!" It was apparent from a subtle quality of valor in
her tones that this manner of onslaught upon his moods had usually been
successful, but to-night it had no quick effect.
The words, coming from
her lips, were like the refrain of an old ballad, but the man remained stolid.
"Daddie! My
daddie! Oh, daddie, are yeh mad at me-- really, truly mad at me?" She
touched him lightly upon the arm. Should he have turned then, he would have
seen the fresh laughing face, with dew-sparkling eyes, close to his own.
"Oh, daddie! My
daddie! Pretty daddie!" She stole her arm about his neck, and then slowly
bended her face towards his. It was the action of a queen who knows she reigns
notwithstanding irritations, trials, tempests.
But suddenly from this
position she leaped backward with the mad energy of a frightened colt. Her face
was in this instant turned to a gray, featureless thing of horror. A yell, wild
and hoarse as a brute cry, burst from her. "Daddie!" She flung
herself to a place near the door, where she remained crouching, her eyes
staring at the motionless figure, splattered by the quivering flashes from the
fire, her arms extended, and her frantic fingers at once besought and repelled.
There was in them an expression of eagerness to caress and an expression of the
most intense loathing. And the girl's hair, that had been a splendor, was in
these moments changed to a disordered mass that hung and swayed in witchlike
fashion. Again a cry burst from her. It was more than the shriek of agony; it
was direct, personal, addressed to him in the chair, the first word of a tragic
conversation with the dead.
It seemed that when she
had put her arm about its neck she had jostled the body in such a way that now
she and it were face to face. The attitude expressed an intention of rising
from the table. The eyes, fixed upon her, were filled with an unspeakable
hatred.
The cries of the girl
aroused thunders in the tenement. There was a loud slamming of doors, and
presently there was a roar of feet upon the boards of the stairway. Voices rang
out sharply.
"What is it?"
"What's th'
matter?"
"He's killin'
her."
"Slug 'im with
anything yeh kin lay hold of, Jack."
But over all this came
the shrill, shrewish tones of a woman: "Ah, th' ol' fool, he's drivin' 'er
inteh th' street--that's what he's doin'. He's drivin' 'er inteh th'
street."