In the Heart of a Fool

“You don’t want that brass falling out, and them tracing you down here and jugging you–you fool,” she panted as she climbed to the ground.

“Lookee here, Henry Fenn,” she cried, “you’re too good a man for this. You’ve had a dirty deal. I knew it when she married you–the snake; I know it–I’ve always known it.”

The woman’s voice was shrill with emotion. Fenn saw that she was verging on the hysterical, and took her arm and led her down the dark alley between the cars. The man’s heart was touched–partly by the wreck he saw, and partly by her words. They brought back the days when he and she had seen their visions. The liquor had left his head, and he was a tremble. He felt her cold, hard hand, and took it in his own dirty, shaken hand to warm it.

“How are you living?” he asked.

“This way,” she replied. “I got my children–they’ve got to live someway. I can’t leave them day times and see ’em run wild on the streets–the little girls need me.”

She looked up into his face as they hurried past an arc lamp, and she saw tears there.

“Oh, you got a dirty deal, Henry–how could she do it?” cried the woman.

He did not answer and they walked up a dingy street. A car came howling by.

“Got car fare,” he asked. She nodded.

“Well, I haven’t,” he said, “but I’m going with you.”

They boarded the car. They were the only passengers. They sat down, and he said, under the roar of the wheels:

“Violet–it’s a shame–a damn shame, and I’m not going to stand for it. This a Market Street car?” he asked the conductor who passed down the aisle for their fares. The woman paid. When the conductor was gone, Henry continued:

“Three kids and a mother robbed by a Judge who knew better–just to stand in with the kept attorneys of the bar association. He could have knocked the shenanigan, that killed Hogan, galley west, if he’d wanted to, and no Supreme Court would have dared to set it aside. But no–the kept lawyers at the Capital, and all the Capitals have a mutual admiration society, and Tom has always belonged. So he turns you and all like you on the street, and Violet, before God I’m going to try to help you.”

She looked at the slick, greasy, torn stiff hat, and the dirty, shiny clothes that years ago had been his Sunday best, and the shaggy face and the sallow, unwashed skin; and she remembered the man who was.

The car passed into South Harvey. She started to rise. “No,” he said, stopping her, “you come on with me.”

“Where are we going?” she asked. He did not answer. She sat down. Finally the car turned into Market Street. They got off at the bank corner. The man took hold of the woman’s arm, and led her to the alley. She drew back.

He said: “Are you afraid of me–now, Violet?” They slinked down the alley and seeing a light in the back room of a store, Fenn stopped and went up to peer in.

“Come on,” he said. “He’s in.”

Fenn tapped on the barred window and whistled three notes. A voice inside cried, “All right, Henry–soon’s I get this column added up.”

The woman shrank back, but Fenn held her arm. Then the door opened, and the moon face of Mr. Brotherton appeared in a flood of light. He saw the woman, without recognizing her, and laughed:

“Are we going to have a party? Come right in, Marianna–here’s the moated Grange, all right, all right.”

As they entered, he tried to see her face, but she dropped her head. Fenn asked, “Why, George–don’t you know her? It’s Violet–Violet Mauling–who married Denny Hogan who was killed last winter.”

George Brotherton looked at the painted face, saw the bald attempt at coquetry in her dress, and as she lifted her glazed, dead eyes, he knew her story instantly.

For she wore the old, old mask of her old, old trade.

“You poor, poor girl,” he said gently. Then continued, “Lord–but this is tough.”

He saw the miserable creature beside him and would have smiled, but he could not. Fenn began,

“George, I just got tired of coming around here every night after closing for my quarter or half dollar; so for two or three weeks I’ve been stealing. She caught me at it; caught me stripping a dead engine down in the yards by the round house.”

“Yes,” she cried, lifting a poor painted face, “Mr. Brotherton–but you know how I happened to be down there. He caught me as much as I caught him! And I’m the worst–Oh, God, when they get like me–that’s the end!”

The three stood silently together. Finally Brotherton spoke: “Well,” he drew a long breath, “well, they don’t need any hell for you two–do they?” Then he added, “You poor, poor sheep that have gone astray. I don’t know how to help you.”

“Well, George–that’s just it,” replied Fenn. “No one can help us. But by God’s help, George, I can help her! There’s that much go left in me yet! Don’t you think so, George?” he asked anxiously. “I can help her.”

The weak, trembling face of the man moved George Brotherton almost to tears. Violet’s instinct saw that Brotherton could not speak and she cried:

“George–I tell Henry he’s had a dirty deal, too–Oh, such a dirty deal. I know he’s a man–he never cast off a girl–like I was cast off–you know how. Henry’s a man, George–a real man, and oh, if I could help him–if I could help him get up again. He’s had such a dirty deal.”

Brotherton saw her mouth in all its ugliness, and saw as he looked how tears were streaking the bedaubed face. She was repulsive beyond words, yet as she tried to hold back her tears, George Brotherton thought she was beautiful.

Fenn found his voice. “Now, here, George–it’s like this: I don’t want any woman; I’ve washed most of that monkey business out of me with whisky–it’s not in me any more. And I know she’s had enough of men. And I’ve brought her here–we’ve come here to tell you that part is straight–decent–square. I wanted you to know that–and Violet would, too–wouldn’t you, Violet?” She nodded.

“Now, then, George–I’m her man! Do you understand–her man. I’m going to see that she doesn’t have to go on the streets. Why, when she was a girl I used to beau her around, and if she isn’t ashamed of a drunken thief–then in Christ’s name, I’m going to help her.”

He smiled out of his leaden eyes the ghost of his glittering, old, self-deprecatory smile. The woman remembered it, and bent over and kissed his dirty hand. She rose, and put her fingers gently upon his head, and sobbed:

“Oh, God, forgive me and make me worthy of this!”

There was an awkward pause. When the woman had controlled herself Fenn said: “What I want is to keep right on sleeping in the basement here–until I can get ahead enough to pay for my room. I’m not going to make any scandal for Violet, here. But we both feel better to talk it out with you.”

They started for the back door. The front of the store was dark. Brotherton saw the man hesitate, and look down the alley to see if any one was in sight.

“Henry,” said Brotherton, “here’s a dollar. You might just as well begin fighting it out to-night. You go to the basement. I’ll take Violet home.”

The woman would have protested, but the big man said gently: “No, Violet–you were Denny Hogan’s wife. He was my friend. You are Henry’s ward–he is my friend. Let’s go out the front way, Violet.”

When they were gone, and the lights were out in the office of the bookstore, Henry Fenn slipped through the alley, went to the nearest saloon, walked in, stood looking at the whiskey sparkling brown and devilishly in the thick-bottomed cut glasses, saw the beer foaming upon the mahogany board, breathed it all in deeply, felt of the hard silver dollar in his pocket, shook as one in a palsy, set his teeth and while the tears came into his eyes stood and silently counted one hundred and another hundred; grinning foolishly when the loafers joked with him, and finally shuffled weakly out into the night, and ran to his cellar. And if Mr. Left’s theory of angels is correct, then all the angels in heaven had their harps in their hands waving them for Henry, and cheering for joy!

CHAPTER XXXIV

A SHORT CHAPTER, YET IN IT WE EXAMINE ONE CANVAS HEAVEN, ONE REAL HEAVEN, AND TWO SNUG LITTLE HELLS

“The idea of hell,” wrote the Peach Blow Philosopher in the Harvey Tribune, “is the logical sequence of the belief that material punishments must follow spiritual offenses. For the wicked go unscathed of material punishments in this naughty world. And so the idea of Heaven is a logical sequence of the idea that only spiritual rewards come to men for spiritual services. Not that Heaven is needed to balance the accounts of good men after death–not at all. Good men get all that is coming to them here–whether it is a crucifixion or a crown–that makes no difference; crowns and crosses are mere material counters. They do not win or lose the game–nor even justly mark its loss or winning.

“The reason why Heaven is needed in the scheme of a neighborly man,” said the Peach Blow Philosopher as he stood at his gate and reviewed the procession of pilgrims through the wilderness, “is this: The man who leads a decent life, is building a great soul. Obviously, this world is not the natural final habitat of great souls; for they occur here sporadically–though perhaps more and more frequently every trip around the sun. But Heaven is needed in any scheme of general decency for decency’s sake, so that the decent soul for whose primary development the earth was hung in the sky, may have a place to find further usefulness, and a far more exceeding glory than may be enjoyed in this material dwelling place. So as we grow better and kinder in this world, hell sloughs off and Heaven is more real.”

There is more of this dissertation–if the reader cares to pursue it, and it may be found in the files of the Harvey Tribune. It also appears as a footnote to an article by an eminent authority on Abnormal Psychology in a report on Mr. Left, Vol. XXXII, p. 2126, of the Report of the Psychological Association. The remarks of the Peach Blow Philosopher credited in the Report of the Proceedings above noted, to Mr. Left, appeared in the Harvey Tribune Jan. 14, 1903. They may have been called forth by an editorial in the Harvey Times of January 9 of that same year. So as that editorial has a proper place in this narrative, it may be set down here at the outset of this chapter. The article from the Times is headed: “A Successful Career” and it follows:

“To-day Judge Thomas Van Dorn retires from ten years of faithful service as district judge of this district. He was appointed by the Governor and has been twice elected to this position by the people, and feeling that the honor should go to some other county in the district, the Judge was not a candidate for a third nomination or election. During the ten years of his service he has grown steadily in legal and intellectual attainments. He has been president of the state bar association, delegate from that body to the National Bar Association, member of several important committees in that organization, and now is at the head of that branch of the National Bar Association organized to secure a more strict interpretation of the Federal Constitution, as a bulwark of commercial liberty. Judge Van Dorn also has been selected as a member of a subcommittee to draft a new state constitution to be submitted to the legislature by the state bar association. So much for the recognition of his legal ability.

“As an orator he has won similar and enviable fame. His speech at the dedication of the state monument at Vicksburg will be a classic in American oratory for years. At the Marquette Club Banquet in Chicago last month his oration was reprinted in New York and Boston with flattering comment. Recently he has been engaged–though his term of service has just ended–in every important criminal action now pending west of the Mississippi. As a jury lawyer he has no equal in all the West.

“But while this practice is highly interesting, and in a sense remunerative, the Judge feels that the criminal practice makes too much of a drain upon his mind and body, and while he will defend certain great lumber operators and will appear for the defense in the famous Yarborrough murder case, and is considering accepting an almost unbelievably large retainer in the Skelton divorce case with its ramifications leading into at least three criminal prosecutions, and four suits to change or perfect certain land titles, yet this kind of practice is distasteful to the Judge, and he will probably confine himself after this year to what is known as corporation practice. He has been retained as general counsel for all the industrial interests in the Wahoo Valley. The mine operators, the smelter owners, the cement manufacturers, the glass factories have seen in Judge Van Dorn a man in whom they all may safely trust their interests–amicably settling all differences between themselves in his office, and presenting for the Wahoo Valley an unbroken front in all future disputes–industrial or otherwise. This arrangement has been perfected by our giant of finance, Hon. Daniel Sands of the Traders’ State Bank, who is, as every one knows, heavily interested in every concern in the Valley–excepting the Independent Coal Company, which by the way has preferred to remain outside of the united commercial union, and do business under its own flag–however dark that flag may be.