Chapter XIV The Old Doors Closed
Sober to bed and sober out of it was an uncommon experience and I felt embarrassed by the unwonted sensation. Happily I found some money in my pocket and that deprived me of the excuse to my conscience that I must go to Callahan’s so as to get my breakfast money. How we ate that morning, Bill and I, and how we relished our breakfast. Yes, I had a drink, a big drink of whiskey, but not because I had forgotten my resolve of the night before, but because I was yet ignorant. To be quite frank, I have always been a bit cynical about these sudden conversions of confirmed drunkards.
Not long ago I met a man at a rescue mission where I frequently attend, who, as we say on the Bowery, “eats whiskey” and almost subsists on it. He was homeless, or rather bedless, his home being forfeited long ago, and received his “bed ticket” from the missionary after his confession of salvation. I happened to meet him on the following day; and his breath was strong with the perfume of cloves. He told me he liked to chew them, which is rather an odd hobby.
Far be it from me to slander any one, yet the perfume of cloves can hide a multitude of aromas.
Sublime is the aim of the rescue missions, but how and whether they accomplish this aim is another story, which we might discuss at some future time.
Another habit, which also still clung to me, was my late rising. It was noon before Bill and I appeared on the street on our way to the restaurant. After breakfast we walked over to City Hall Park, looked gravely and wisely at the spot where we had sat the night before, and then we permitted ourselves the luxury of a day dream.
Dreams are funny fellows, always playing pranks. This dream kept me embraced until I found myself in the immediate neighborhood of the school where a certain little professor was engaged in leading the infantile mind through the labyrinth of the A, B, C’s.
Soon they began to stumble out with noisy, natural, healthy laughter and hubbub, and the dingy street became one long, squirming stream of babbling children. I could not help looking back on my boyish years and tried to imagine how it would feel to have your slate and books under your arm. There were many youngsters before me and I kept staring at them to draw the picture in my mind’s eye of how I would have looked coming from school, my school.
At last she came!
As I saw the little tots, her pupils, cling to her skirts from very love of her, I felt a light, an oriflamme, within my breast, and knew that I would have to fight a harder fight than ever before; that I would have to conquer myself before I would dare to touch the hem of her skirt as those children. And he who fights, fights best when in the sight of an inspiring emblem. So then I took my sailing flag and nailed it to the mast of purity. It has withstood all sorts of weather. Sometimes it droops, again it flies defiantly. But, whatever, it is still safely on the mast and will stay there until I strike my colors for the last dipping to my God above.
I crossed the street and put myself in her way so that she could not help seeing me.
“Oh, Mr. Kildare!”
She remembered my name.
It is impossible for me to recall how I acted at this meeting. However, I consider it very fortunate that no camera fiend took a snapshot at me. The human document which would have evolved from it would certainly be very embarrassing to me. Still, lout, churl as I was, it was the first time in my life that I spoke to a girl without even the shadow of an ulterior or impure motif, and some of my want of politeness may be forgiven on that account.
If I cannot recollect my behavior during that scene, I can correctly recollect my feelings. I was in a turmoil. Her face showed real, unaffected pleasure on seeing me, and that to me, if you will understand my social position then—was an incomparable boon. If people, the good, well intending people, would only realize that the hardest heart is very often the most ready to respond to genuine kindness and that, usually, it is only hard, because, through life, it had to be satisfied with the stereotyped prating which passes as a message from our all-loving and loving-all God!
Knowing the awkward propensities of my limbs and arms, it does not surprise me in the least that I stood there shuffling and wobbling, and never noticing the little hand held out to me in truest greeting.
She greeted me kindly, in evident surprise.
Most gingerly I took her dainty hand into my big, brawny paw. She spoke of the “chance meeting.” Since then I have often felt certain that when I said “chance meeting,” a twinkle danced for the time of a breath in her eyes. Afterward, I often accused her of it and was severely squelched for my presumption. Yet, yes, she was an angel, but also very much of a woman, and, between you and me, there are times when a true, little woman with staunch heart, level head and unwavering faith is of more practical benefit to a rough, big fellow like me than the angel who wouldn’t dare take a chance of spoiling those snowy garments or to let the harp remain untwanged for a few moments.
Being more unfamiliar with etiquette than I am now, I had no little white lie ready, but blurted out that I had come there for the express purpose of seeing her. She seemed a trifle annoyed at this and I hastened to explain that I was there to see her home, so that she would not have to run the risk of being insulted again. When she learned this determination of mine to act henceforth as her body guard, she chided at first, declared it absolutely unnecessary, but then laughed, and told me it was very kind of me.
And all this time I was playing a part and, as I thought, so perfectly that she could not penetrate my disguise. But she could not be deceived. She quickly saw through my pretense of wishing to appear a fairly considerate man of the world, who, not having anything better to do, would do a chivalrous act merely for the sake of killing some of his superfluous time. The only wonder is that she permitted me to bother her.
Then, though no daisies or roses garlanded our path and though we walked along the crowded, not too clean, sidewalks in the precincts of the poor, began walks that one could turn into poetry, but which I cannot do, not having the essential gift of expression. All I could do in return for being permitted to be beside her was to devote myself entirely to the task of protecting her. Protect her against what?
You know the most glorious thing about love is that it is no respecter of persons. To rich and poor it comes alike; here to be received in passion and impurity, there to be welcomed in a better spirit and to be nested in an ever-loyal heart. But the bad thing about love is that it makes us lose our proper respect for truth. In short, it makes splendid liars out of us.
Where is there the young man who has not told her whom he adored that her eyes made the most brilliant star look like a tallow candle, or that her cheeks were as peaches?
In the same way did I magnify my knightly duty to myself. Surely the dangers along the journey to her home were trifling and few, but, thanks to my love-stirred imagination, I felt as serious as a plumed knight, and no proud queen in days of sword and lance had more devoted cavalier to fight, die or live for her. That now became my sole duty, and with such duty, to serve the best and truest, a man must grow better even in spite of himself.
Every day, rain or shine, I waited on the corner above the school to serve as permanent escort. Every day she told me it was not necessary to see her home, yet, every day she permitted me to do so. When one arrives in a strange land the smaller details are often not noticed, and, afterward, you can only re-see the grander pictures. I cannot tell you how and why the turns in our conversations occurred, but I can remember certain bits of talk and questions, very important to both of us.
For instance, on our third meeting she asked me if I were still one of Mike Callahan’s ornamental fixtures. I felt then, as many of us have felt before and will feel again; I was ashamed to admit that I had severed my connection with the gang and had not been there since the night I had taken her home. You see, I still considered myself a “red-hot sport,” and did not care to be identified with anything that was goody-goody. Since then I have learned that it is quite the thing among certain sets to speak lightly of one’s religion and to laugh at being found out as an occasional church-goer. It makes such a rakish impression to intimate you are “really devilish.”
So, to her question, I did not give a straightforward answer, but hummed and hawed and—lied.
“No, I ain’t been there the last two nights, because—because, I wasn’t feeling any too good, and—and, oh, yes, one night I went up to a show.”
The greatest lies can be compressed into the smallest parcels, yet they always weigh the same.
She had a way of letting me know when my lies were too transparent. It was not what she said, but how she looked when she said it.
In reality I had stood away from Callahan’s because I had taken a dislike to the place and everybody in it, but, of course, it would have never done to tell that to a little slip of a girl.
Apparently my explanation was not taken at its face value, for she merely said: “Oh, I see.” Barely a second later she added: “Oh, I’m so glad.”
The intuition of women is certainly wonderful. Even such an accomplished diplomat as myself was floored on the spot by a little girl.
Well, the days wore on, and our walks became to me walks in an unknown realm. Her little casual references to mother, brother, home, friends and daily work gave me a vista of a life not even imagined by me. To live as she, in well-regulated household and according to well-ordained schedule, had never been desired by me and, therefore, never been considered by me.
“If that kind of life turns out such fine little women, it can’t be so bad after all, and may be worth trying,” was my train of reasoning, and a dull but positive desire to try that sort of life began to rankle in my soul.
While I was engaged in these musings, she did not keep entirely quiet, but put me through the most severe kind of civil service. I had to answer so many questions—and truthfully, too, as she could tell a fabrication immediately—until I honestly believe every hour of my life was covered. The finish of it all was that I was made the subject of several of the most scathing lectures ever delivered. Those sermons fairly made my blood boil, and often, under my breath, I wished she were a man, that I could close the lecturing for good and all with a blow.
It is simply awful how impudent little people—and especially women—are. And the worst of it is that we big fellows have to stand it from them.
She had a peculiarly direct way of getting at things and never minced matters. The effect of it was that I began to shrink into myself.
A leering knave, I had stood on the pinnacle of wickedness; had grinned and sneered at decency, manhood and womanhood; had thought myself a “somebody” because the laws of God and man were unregarded by me, and because a chorus of fools and friends had always shouted an amen to my deeds, and now—now I awoke to the pitiful fact that I was not only a “nobody,” but a despicable, contemptible thing, without the least of claims to the grandest title—man.
Yes, there was no denying the fact, the “somebody” had fallen, sadly fallen from his horse, and all his house of cards had been knocked into smithereens by a little bit of a schoolma’am.