Chapter XVII Lying on the Sidewalk
Bradley lived in Aldine Square. By the light of the first gas lamp he looked at his watch and found that it wanted but three minutes to midnight. At the corner of the street he waited for a cross-town car, but as none was within sight, he walked on, thinking little of the distance home, which was not great, for his mind was on Agnes. He had not decided that she would make a good wife, but he knew that he would ask her to marry him. He believed that his happiness depended upon her decision. This is a conclusion reached by nearly every man. His salary was not large, for his church was poor, but it was growing rich in numbers and that meant a popularity insuring larger pay. But why should he consider his income? They could live happily in Aldine Square. It was a charming place, and so romantic that one would scarcely expect to find it in Chicago. It might have been a part of Paris. It was come upon suddenly, its gate, with two great posts of stone, opening into the street. There was a plastered wall, and it looked as if it had been built for ages. Through the gate, which was always left open, the view was attractive—there were trees, shrubbery, flowers, a pool, a fountain and a carriage drive. It would charm Agnes.
The street was deserted, with the exception of a straggler here and there, turned out of a saloon. “Vice shutting its red eye,” he mused, as one place closed its door. Looking ahead he saw a man leaning against a lamp post. As Bradley came up the man, stepping out, said: “Mister, will you please tell me what time it is?”
Bradley halted and took out his watch, and, holding it so as to catch the light, was about to tell him when the man snatched the watch, broke the chain and fled down an alley. The preacher shouted after him, ran a short distance down the alley, but, realizing that pursuit was folly, if not dangerous, returned to the street and continued his way homeward, the piece of chain dangling from his pocket. He thought of going to the nearest station to report the robbery, but his mind flew back to Agnes. How delicious it would be to have her all to himself, sitting by the fountain in the summer air. The perfume of the flowers would be sweeter, the falling of the water more musical. They would read together till the twilight came, read silly books, if she preferred them; and in the twilight they would read a book in which God had written—the book of their own hearts. And in cold weather they would sit in the warm light, at the window, and look out upon the little park, the shrubbery covered with snow, the statuary of winter. He would never seek to change the current of her mind. Nature had fashioned it a laughing rivulet and it should never be a sighing wave. With her in the congregation he could be more eloquent, touch more hearts through his love for her; he would be more akin to the young, for her love would be as a stream of youth constantly flowing into his life. Nature might have shown her power in the creation of man, but surely her glory in the creation of woman. He drew a contrast between Florence and Agnes. Florence was stronger, and had more dignity; but, of course, he believed that Agnes was more affectionate, and love was more beautiful than strength.
He turned into the street leading to the Aldine gate. And how quiet everything was. It was a love night, the leaves murmuring. But, what was that lying on the sidewalk in front of the gate? A woman. He stood looking down at her. Could she have been murdered. The light was not strong, but he could see that she was not ill dressed. She was lying on her right side. He touched her shoulder and she turned upon her back with a moan. He leaned over her and caught the fumes of liquor. But he got down upon his knees, raised her head and spoke to her.
“What are you doing here, poor girl?” he said. The light falling upon her face showed that she was young. She moaned and mumbled something. He asked her where she lived, but she could not tell him.
“I don’t know what to do with you,” he said.
“Don’t leave me,” she mumbled.
“I will be back in a moment,” he said, placing her with her back against the wall. Then he ran to the fountain, wet his handkerchief, and returning with it dripping, bathed her face. It was hot and feverish. The cold handkerchief appeared somewhat to revive her.
“Don’t you know where you live?”
“I can’t—don’t know the number.”
“Nor the street?”
“Nothing.”
Again he bathed her face, and taking his hat fanned her with it. “How did you come here?”
“They must have left me.”
“Then you were with someone.”
“Yes—three.”
“Where had you been?”
“Wine room. Don’t turn me over to the police. I won’t go there again.”
“Can’t you remember now where you live?”
“It is a long ways from here—over on the West Side. I won’t go there in this fix. I would rather die.”
“Then I don’t know what to do.”
“Don’t turn me over to the police,” she moaned.
He stood with his hat in his hand, looking up and down the street. From the corner came the whack of the policeman’s club against a lamp post. Not far away the fountain splashed its music. “Can you walk?” he asked.
“I’ll try. But where are you going to take me?”
“To my home.”
“No,” she cried piteously. “I don’t want a woman to see me this way.”
“No woman is there to see you. Come on.”
He led her along, supporting her with his arm. He did not look to see if there were any windows lighted about the square; he did not think of scandal; he thought of the poor thing heavy upon his arm, not as a preacher, but as a man. He carried her up the stone steps, unlocked the door and went into the hall, into the red light falling from the lamp. Up the stairs he led her, into a front room, striking a match as he entered, lighted the gas and eased her down upon a chair. She was deathly pale.
“Let me lie down,” she said.
He pointed to the bed, stepped out into another room and drew the portières. Then he lay down upon a sofa, not to think of what he had done, but of Agnes.
He was awakened by the housekeeper’s tap upon the door. “Come in,” he called, and as she entered he thought of the woman. The housekeeper was fat and full of scandal. She walked straightway to the portières and drew them aside to enter the room, and started back with a gasp of surprise.
“My sister,” said Bradley. “She came on a late train, and is going out early. Don’t disturb her. She brought me bad news from home, and must go on further to see my other brother. She could not explain by telegraph. It involves the settling of an estate.”
He was now standing beside the housekeeper and could see into the adjoining room. The girl, with a remnant of modesty, had drawn the covering over her.
Two days later, Sunday, at the close of services, a woman came forward, held out her hand to Bradley and said: “I want you to pray for me.”
Her face was pale and there was true repentance in her eyes. “You are my sister,” Bradley replied, and this time he did not believe that he had told a falsehood. She went out, with tears on her cheeks; and a lady who had come up to compliment the preacher on his sermon, asked:
“Who is that girl?”
“I don’t know her name.”
“She met me just as I was coming in,” said the lady, “and was anxious as to whether or not this was your church. She was evidently not looking for denominations.”
She was not. She was looking for something nearer God—a man.