Continental Monthly , Vol. 6, No. 1, July, 1864

Nine o'clock struck, and people began to come in; there was likely to be a rush to-night, and the players in the front room commenced their liveliest round of operatic airs. One after another turned into the side room, and the calls for service grew lively. Jane moved among them mechanically, thinking all the while of Nobby tossing in his pain; of the tree waiting for to-morrow; of her father turned out of his place; of the rent and the grocer's bill that were about due; and of her own wages, pretty much all that was left. Was it such a terrible sin to be there—for them? Then she shivered to think she might be sliding down. No, no, she would be kept—they should be taken care of, but she wouldn't fall while she had them to think of. A hot flush colored her face as she thought of young Prescott, confusing her so that she almost stumbled. What would he think if he knew where she worked? No matter, he shouldn't know it. He would take her out of this by and by, and after that she would tell him all about it, and what she did it for, and he would love her all the better for it.

The hours struck and went by, and the room grew hotter and noisier. Once the tables were emptied; but a fresh party came in, and their leader waved them to seats with maudlin politeness. He was a handsome young man, partly drunk already; he pushed the woman he had with him into a chair, and dropped into another himself. His back was toward Jane; she stood still a minute, then walked slowly, as if something dragged her, till she could see his face.

The glass she held fell from her hand with a crash, but she stood dumb and white, and clung trembling to the table. He started, but gave her a nod.

'You, Will Prescott! Oh, my God!'

'You here, Jane! And you're one of 'em too! I didn't think it quite so soon.'

She did not seem to hear the last words. The blood surged back to her face, and she sank at his feet.

'No, no,' she moaned, 'I'm not, I'm not—I'm only here. You won't think worse of me, Will, seeing I did it for them? I must work somewhere, and this was all I could find. Say you don't think that! Say you believe me!'

He smiled in a drunken way, without speaking.

'Say it, Will! Say you love me, and take me out of this!'

'Ho, ho! that's a devilish good one! You're here, and so'm I; I'm just a little merry to-night—couldn't wait till to-morrow. We're well met, Jane—these are my friends; here's my most par-ticular friend,' laying his hand on his companion's shoulder.

The girl seemed to be stunned so that she did not understand.

'See it, hey? 'Say you love me!' You do it beautifully, Jane—do some more. Did you ever think I loved you?—Oh, yes! and that I wanted to marry you—of course! If your face hadn't looked prettier'n it does now, damn me if I'd ever looked twice at it!'

He turned his chair a little.

'What's that!' he screamed, catching sight of the painting on the wall. 'Take it away! You put it there, you wretch!' staring at it with his eyes fixed.

The noise brought the owner to the door—a burly Dutchman.

'Landlord, put that thing away—cover it up! Damnation! Do I want to come here to be preached at?'

'Who pulled that paper off, I say?' said the man. 'I pinned The Clipper over it. You did it, I swar! Be off with yer!'

'Oh, let her stay, Lumpsey,' said a woman that came in from the bar; 'she'll be one on 'em when she gits round.'

'I won't; I won't have nobody here that's better'n we be no longer. Here's yer pay; an' now, missis, start yerself, an' don't yer come nigh here agen 'thout yer'll behave decent an' be one on us.'

He tossed some bank notes toward her, took her by the shoulders, and shoved her out, shutting the door upon her.

IV

Everybody had gone out on Christmas eve—darting about in sleighs; at service in the churches; at a party given in their set; shopping, as if their lives depended on it. Buying, selling, visiting, looking, the city was all astir. In the churches, soberly gay with evergreen trimming, like a young widow very stylish in black, but very proper withal, people were listening to the anthems, and everything about the place was wide awake, unless it was the chimes taking a nap until twelve o'clock; drygoods men ran to and fro, dropping smiles, and winding themselves up in a great medley reel of silks, laces, and things of virtu in general; next door, the booksellers were resplendent in dazzling bindings, pictures and photographs of everything and everybody, all of which were at everybody's disposal—take 'em all home, if you pleased; livery stables were as bare as if there had been an invasion of the country that day, and smiling keepers touched their pockets, and shook their heads pityingly at late comers; and even in the markets jolly butchers laughed, and sawed, and cut, and counted their money—and those leathery fellows that were never jolly, suddenly found out a new commercial maxim, that jollity is the best policy, and they fell to laughing too. 'Christmas is coming!' thought everybody. 'Christmas is coming!' and some of the lively small bells in the towers, not grown yet to years of ripe discretion, whispered to each other, and had to bite their tongues to keep from shouting it right out.

The dance house and the narrow alley left behind, Jane was in the street too; she went with the crowd, pulling her hood so as to hide her face. She glanced at the costly goods that lay in confusion on the counters of the stores, and smiled bitterly, taking hold of her own cheap dress; the sleighs almost ran over her, they shot back and forth so wildly, to her whirling brain; a German air that a band was playing on a serenade somewhere in the distance seemed to roar in her ears like thunder. She stopped before a confectioner's. The hot smell of meats came up through the grating where she stood; the window was ablaze with gas, piled high with pyramids of glittering frost, which rose out of a heaped profusion of carved lobster and turkey, and fruits and candies; she saw girls with pretty faces and nice dresses waiting on the fashionable crowd inside, and said to herself that she ought to be there. Some one touched her. It was a girl younger than herself, who stood glaring at the window, shivering in her ragged clothing; her eyes looked unnaturally large out of her sharp, pinched face, daubed with tears and dirt.

'Look a' thar!' she cried eagerly, catching Jane's arm, 'see them! Why ben't them mine? Why ben't I in thar, a buyin' o' them? I ort to ride, ortn't I? Why ben't I got nice things on, like a' them thar? Pinchin' Dave's got my dress for three shillin' to-night—the last un I been a savin'; must ha' some drink, so't I'd be forgettin'—to-night, to-night, ye see, I say—hoh!'

Giving a wild laugh, the girl ran off. A man inside was looking angrily through the window; so Jane turned from the thoroughfare, and finally struck into the road by which she came. The street lamps had given way to the moon. The flats adjoining the city were all white except marshy spots; passing two tall buildings, that made a sort of gateway, the country spread to the sky unbroken, except where rows of dreary houses, shadowy without the twinkle of a light, stood on some new land; this was not the fashionable road, and it was empty. How pure and cool it was! In the city, there was straggling moonlight, darkened by the brick walls, but no moon; out here, the moon had just broken from a bank of cloud low down, piled on a bank of snow, all looking snowy and alike, the horizon line being hardly distinguishable; the light poured from the edge in a shining flood, and rippled without a sound over the crisp, crusted snow—all of one kin, cold, sparkling, desolate.

Jane noted nothing of this; she walked dizzily along the road. Only one day since morning, after living a whole lifetime in that! She scooped up a handful of snow, and rubbed it furiously into her face and eyes, they burned so; her eyes were dry, melting the snow without feeling wet any. Clear back in the morning, Margery Eames met her; then the day dragged along as if it never would go, and she ate nothing but the tears she swallowed; going down those steps, through that dreadful door, waiting on those tables—the evening, till Will Prescott came in. She had wanted so to have what others had, to study, to paint—such things as she had seen, and she couldn't make a stroke! to learn to sing, as she had heard them sing in the churches; to see Germany, that her mother had told her about; she wanted to be loved—not like father and Nobby, but another way too; she had a right to have such things—other people had them. He had praised her, stroked her hair; said she was too pale, but no matter, she'd brighten up by and by; she was his little bluebell he had found in the woods, that he was going to make over into a red rose; she should have everything she wanted, and go with him everywhere, pretty soon—only be patient; if he could wait, couldn't she? And she had been patient, without telling father about it, though somehow he found out; she had waited in the road an hour more than once for a kind word and a smile as he rode by; she had borne with her hard fare, and waited for him to do the things he promised; and after she had to go into the dance house, she hated it most for his sake—she hated him to kiss her, for fear he'd find some taint on her lips of the place she went to; she thought of him all the while, to keep up courage; of course it was for father and Nobby she did it, but he helped her. It was all over now.

She came to the bridge over the river, and stopped on it. Just then she happened to think of a choral her mother liked to sing: 'A mighty fortress is our God.' A fortress—not hers. Did He sometimes turn against people and crowd them—who crowded the girl at the confectioner's window? Was there any God at all? Not in the city; only two sorts of people were there, who either lived in fine houses, and had no souls at all, or else went about the streets, and had lost them. Was there any God out here? If there was, He wouldn't have let Mr. Cowles turn her father off, and she wouldn't be out in the cold; there wasn't any anywhere.

Jane looked down at the water. It was muddy, but it gave a wavering reflection as the wind ruffled it; now and then a piece of driftwood glided from under the bridge, and was borne along toward the factory dam. Her mind flashed round to the factory, and home, and the Christmas tree for to-morrow, and she laughed bitterly. Jump! She had lost him, all that had been keeping her up so long—he never meant to marry her, though he said so, and she believed him. Everything went with that love; what was there left? What matter what came now? Jump! But father and Nobby? She couldn't leave them unprovided for. Money, money! she must have money, for them.

The bells began to chime very softly, as they always did at twelve o'clock of this night in the year. They seemed to say: 'Come! come! come!' She caught at the sound. There was money in the city, and one way yet to earn it.

'They're calling me!' she cried, clutching her dress wildly with both hands; 'they're pushing me into hell—why shouldn't I go? They'll have money, and I'm gone already.'

She turned, and walked back without faltering, to the edge of the city, and stopped between the two buildings. There was an alley close by, like one she knew so well; by the noise there was revel in it. She hesitated a minute, crouching out of sight in the shadow of the buildings.

'Don't stop here!' she muttered to herself; 'now as well as any other time!' and turned into the alley. The light was streaming from a door near the middle, and a man in sailor's dress came out and caught a glimpse of her creeping along close to the wall.

'Hey, lass!' he said, 'merry Christmas to ye! 'Rived in port to-day. Been a cruisin'. Locker full, an' all hands piped ashore. What craft be you—a Dutch galley? Sail down a bit, till I get within speakin' distance.'

She only staggered closer against the wall.

'Beatin' off, hey? Well, lass, come an' drink to better acquaintance.'

'It's the first time, but I'll go—I'll go with you,' she answered. She followed him to the door. The gas flared full on his face, and she gave a mortal scream.

'Brother Tom!'

He made a headlong clutch at her, but she broke away, leaving a fragment of her dress in his hand, and flew round the corner out of his sight.

She ran blindly through several streets, but finally she regained the road, and never stopped her headlong speed till she leaned against the door of Adam Craig's cottage. She pushed the door open softly, and went in. Quick as she had been, her brother was there already, standing by Nobby's bed; Adam Craig was there, but his back was turned.

'Did you—tell him?' she whispered.

Her brother nodded, and put out his hand. She took it, with a half hesitation.

'He understands,' he whispered, answering the question of her eyes.

The old stoker turned around. She made a move to shrink away, but he caught her, and drew her to his breast, crying and sobbing:

'Lord, Lord, Lord's good!' he cried, 'thank Him for't! She's saved, my little girl! I've found more'n I've lost, to-day. Oh, she's pure yet, she's saved—she's nawt lost, my girl, she's nawt! I didn't knaw't! didn't knaw what she was doin', but it's all right noo! We'll never want any more, but if Net'd been lost—but she's nawt, nawt—she's nawt gone, she's here, an' harm never'll come nigh her any more! I knowed Tom'd come back, an' now Net! they both hev saved each other, Lord's good for't!'

'But Nobby?' she whispered.

'Lord brought us one, an' noo He's goin' to take back t'other,' said Adam.

The child was twisting in his father's arms in the height of his pain.

'I knaw noo why 'twas I went away thet mornin', an' Nobby got t'bump,' said Adam, looking on sadly.

The young sailor made no answer. The partial drunkenness of his first night on shore was gone, and he only held his suffering child, wiping the drops from its face. So they stood watching, and the hours went on.

'Zuhöret!' cried Adam's wife. 'Die Weihnachtsglocken!'