Chapter XIX The Girl Again
Bodney’s “breaking away” from Goyle had taken place on the day following the night when Bradley had been robbed of his watch, and two days before the girl appeared in church to ask for prayers. On the Monday following, about noon, she appeared again, this time at Bradley’s lodgings. The housekeeper answered her ring at the bell. “Ah,” she said, “come in. You are Mr. Bradley’s sister, I believe. I didn’t see you but a moment, but I think I recognize you.”
“Is Mr. Bradley here?” the girl asked.
“No, your brother has gone out. I think you can find him over at Judge Elbridge’s. I don’t know exactly where it is, but some place on Indiana Avenue. Anyone can tell you. I hope you haven’t any more bad news for him.”
The girl was shrewd and did not betray herself. “No,” she said, and went away. Bradley was in the Judge’s drawing room with Agnes when a servant came in to tell him that a young woman at the door wished to see him.
“Oh, a young woman,” cried Agnes, pretending to pout. “Some girl you have been talking sweet to, I warrant.” He had risen to go out, but he halted to lean over and say to her, “I have never talked sweet, as you term it, to anyone—except—”
“This one,” Agnes broke in. “Oh, go on. Don’t let me detain you.”
“Probably someone connected with the church—”
“Of course, they always are. Go on, please.”
“I will tell you all about her when I come back.”
“Oh, don’t mind me. Here’s Florence. She knows I don’t care. Do please go on.”
Bradley went out, and not with a light heart, for his love had now entered into the stew and fretful state. The girl stood in the hall, and in the dim light he did not recognize her till she spoke. She handed him a small package.
“What is this?” he asked.
“It is yours.”
“My what?”
“Your watch.”
It was some time before he could speak. All ideas were as dust blown about his mind. “You don’t mean to say that—you couldn’t have taken it—you—”
“Let me go where I can talk to you—outside.”
He went out with her and together they walked along the street. Looking back, he saw Agnes at the window, and he waved his hand at her. She made a face at him, he thought. “Now, what is it you have to say?”
“You know a man named Goyle?” she said.
“Yes, I have met him at the Judge’s house.”
He waited for her to proceed. “I was with him and two others the night you found me. They left me on the sidewalk because I could not go further, I have been told. Goyle went away alone and snatched your watch.”
“But, my gracious, how do you know? Did he tell you?”
“For some time he has been coming to see me. He was the first man I ever went with to—a place where I should not have gone. I blush to own it, but I was fascinated by him. He asked me to marry him, and I consented. The last time he came after that night was yesterday evening. But you had taught me to despise him. I could not drive him away, however, so I sat in the room with him. His mouth had been hurt—two of his teeth were gone. He said he had fallen off a car. He said also that as soon as he got a little better he was going to Michigan. He took out his watch, one that I had never seen him have before, and I noticed that it had a broken chain. Then I remembered seeing a broken chain hanging from your pocket; and the next morning before I left your house I thought I heard you tell someone that your watch had been snatched from you. I asked him to let me see the watch, and in it I found your name. I did not return it to him—I jumped up and ran out. He called after me, and tried to catch me, but I slammed a door in his face and locked it. Then, my mother, who never did like him, ordered him out of the house.”
“What is your name?”
“Margaret Frayer.”
“Then, Margaret Frayer, I am sorry you brought me the watch.”
“Sorry?”
“I did not wish a reward for what I had done for you.”
“Oh, that—the watch is not your reward. You have saved a soul. In my heart I believe that I have found peace. I went to sleep with a prayer on my lips, and I awoke with such a joy in my heart that I was frightened. I called mother and she came running into the room, and there must have been a spirit there, for before I said a word, and before mother had seen me, for it was dark, she cried out that I was saved. She had always been worried over me; she feared that my soul was lost. And she put her arms about me and sobbed in her happiness. That is your reward, Mr. Bradley.”
“Come back to the house with me,” he said.
He led her into the drawing room and introduced her to Florence and Agnes. “I wish to present a young woman whom God has smiled upon,” he said, and they looked at him in astonishment. He told them that he had found her wandering and had led her home. Florence took her hand.
“I may not be worthy, yet,” said Margaret Frayer. “You don’t know me well enough to take my hand.”
“I know that you must have suffered, and that is enough,” Florence replied. The preacher looked at Agnes. He wondered why she did not come oftener to his church. He wondered what she would say to the young woman.
“You are my sister,” said Agnes, as if inspired, and Bradley clasped his hands and pressed them to his bosom. His heart was full.
Margaret Frayer did not remain long. “You may meet me again,” she said.
“She is to become a member of my church,” Bradley spoke up.
“My heart and my prayers will be with your church, Mr. Bradley,” she said; “I shall remember you and be grateful to you as long as I live, but my soul tells me to go with the Salvation Army, among girls, and persuade them to work in the street when they have the time. It is not goodness alone that saves us, Mr. Bradley; goodness may be selfish—it is saving others that saves us. You know how that is. You have saved others.”
“You are right,” he said. “Go with the army; you can do more there.”
“And, do you say so?” Florence cried. “I thought you too orthodox for that.”
“Not too orthodox for the truth,” he replied, bowing.
“Then,” said Florence, “I think more of you than I did. I thought it was your ambition to build up a church, but I find that you have forgotten your creed to save a woman. I am coming oftener to hear you preach.”
During this time Margaret Frayer stood near the door, waiting, it seemed, for an opportunity to go. The preacher looked at her, and mused upon the change that had come over her face since he had first seen her, only a short time, but a great change. The Salvation Army has a countenance and a complexion peculiarly its own, serene and pale; and so quick, it seems, is the transformation that the coarse-featured, evil-eyed woman of today may, to-morrow, have a striking refinement. “I hope you will come frequently to my church,” said Bradley, taking her hand.
“Whenever I am selfish,” she replied.
“You young ladies have done yourselves credit,” said Bradley, when Margaret Frayer had taken her leave.
“Why so?” said Agnes. “Because we treated her kindly? Did you take us for heathens?”
“Oh, no, but women—women are so slow to forgive.”
“Forgive? Why, what has she done? She simply wanted religion, and you have helped her. Oh, she might have done wrong, I don’t know. But women are more forgiving now that they have taken more of man’s privileges. They may become quite generous after a while.” With Agnes it was innocence; with Florence it was knowledge. She divined the history of the girl; and in giving her hand felt that it was to one who had gone astray, who had suffered, and who had turned back. The Judge came in, to the disappointment of the preacher, who feared that, soon to be followed by William, the old jurist would begin anew to stir up the old straw of family humor. But William did not come, and the Judge was in no mood for joking. He had been brooding, and his brow was dark. “Florence,” he said, after exchanging a few words with Bradley, “I wish you would walk out with me.” She said nothing, but went out and came back with her hat. They walked in the shade of the elms, and he remarked upon different objects, but she said nothing.
“Why don’t you talk, Florence?”
“Because I haven’t anything to say.”
“You mean that you have nothing to say to me.”
“I mean that it is useless to say anything to you. Shall I say something? I will. You are an unnatural father.”
“No, I have an unnatural son.”
“That is not true, Judge. Anyone to see him, to hear him talk, to know him, would feel that he could not commit such a crime. Why, sometimes when I am alone it almost exasperates me to think about it; and to realize that I am in a conspiracy against him. It is cruel, and at times I fancy that I am almost as unnatural as you are.”
“To be bound by an oath? Is that unnatural? Is it unnatural to have honor? I told you in the first place to protect you; I bound you by oath to protect her, his mother. That is simple enough.”
“But you don’t know how near I have come to the violation of that oath. More than once I have had it in my heart to tell him—but I couldn’t,” she broke off. “I couldn’t. But he is going away, and I will write it to him, every detail of it; and I know that he will forgive me.”
“You make me the criminal when I am the injured. Let us go back.”