CHAPTER XXI
Jimmy followed me into the taxi, and as Selwyn snapped the door he huddled in an opposite corner as if effacement were an obligation required by the situation in which he found himself. But he had never been in an automobile before, and his sense of awe soon yielded to eager anxiety to miss no thrill of the unexpected experience. His face was pressed against the glass pane of the door before we had gone two blocks, in the hope that he might see some one who would see him in the glory of an adventure long hoped for and long delayed and Selwyn and I were forgotten in the joy of a dream come true.
There was time to tell Selwyn but little of the woman I was going to see. Mrs. Gibbons's home was only a short distance from Scarborough Square, and before I could do more than give the briefest explanation of Mrs. Cotter's condition, of her long hours of work and lack of home life, the cab had stopped, and Jimmy, springing out, hopped, on his unhurt foot, to the sagging gate of his little yard and opened it for us to pass through. Going up the broken steps, I pushed open the partly closed door and went in.
A faint light from a kerosene-lamp, set on a bracket in the wall at the far end of the hall, caused weird shadows to flicker on the floor and up the narrow staircase, and for a half-minute Selwyn and I waited until we could see where we should go. From the middle room we could hear hoarse and labored breathing and the stir of footsteps on the bare floor. Putting my hand on the door-knob, I was about to turn it when Mrs. Gibbons came out, holding Mrs. Cotter's little girl by the hand.
"I'm glad you've come. She keeps calling for you." Her voice was the monotone of old, and, as unmoved as ever, she nodded to me and then looked at Selwyn. "Is he a doctor? Did he come to see her?"
I explained Selwyn's presence and suggested that he wait for me while I went to Mrs. Cotter. Beckoning him to follow, she went toward her kitchen bedroom, but stopped to give warning of the two steps that led down to it, and as she stopped I heard the low whimper of the frightened child by her side and saw her footsteps drag.
"I want my mother! I want to go back to my mother! I don't want to go 'way from my mother!"
Was it well to let her go back? Only a few minutes were left for them to be together. Was it kind or cruel to keep them apart? Uncertain, I looked at the group before me and saw Selwyn stoop and take the child, a little girl of five, up in his arms.
"Your mother is going to sleep." His voice was low. "And we are going to be quiet and not wake her. Jimmy will play with you, and I—"
"Will you tell me a story?" Sleepily the child leaned against his shoulder, one arm thrown over it. "Will you tell me a pretty story about—"
As they disappeared through the door opening into Mrs. Gibbons's quarters I went into Mrs. Cotter's room, but for a moment drew back. I had learned not to shrink at much that once I would have run from, but the gaunt body and ghastly face of the woman propped against pillows on the bed frightened me, and my feet refused to move. All the hardships and denials, the injustices and inequalities, of working womanhood, unfit to fight and unprepared for struggle, were staring at me, and on the open lips was something of the mocking smile that had been on Lillie Pierce's face when she was first brought in to Mrs. Mundy.
Heavily, and with great labor, breath came gaspingly, and the blank stare in the eyes made me think at first I was too late. Slowly I went toward the bed, and at its side I took a twitching hand in mine, and as I did so the staring eyes turned to me. Too nearly gone for aught save faint returning, light struggled back in a supreme and final effort, and with life's last spark of energy she clutched my fingers with her work-worn, weary hands. Miss White, the district nurse, who was standing at the foot of the bed, nodded to me, and from a far corner the sobbing of a man and woman in shabby clothes, and crouched close together, reached across the room. All other worlds were, for the moment, far away, and only the world before me seemed real and true and unescapable.
Drawing a low chair close to the bed, I sat down and leaned toward the woman. There was little time to lose. "What is it, Mrs. Cotter? Look at me. This is Dandridge Heath. You have something you want to say to me. Tell me what it is."
Her head made backward, twisting movement as if for breath, then her eyes held mine, and in them was the cry eternal of all motherhood. "My little girl! My little girl! If only—I could take—her with me! Who's going to—tell her how—not to go—wrong? She won't be safe—on earth. Promise me—promise me!"
"Promise you what?" I leaned still farther over the bed. The fire of a tortured soul was burning in the eyes before me, and out of them had gone dull glaze and ghastly stare; into them had come appeal, both piteous and passionate, and fear that defied death. "What must I promise?" My eyes held hers lest words should wander.
"Tell me what I must do?"
"Don't let them put her in—an orphan home. The ones who—manage it—don't know themselves—how life—treats girls. They mean kind—but they don't teach them—what might happen. Little Etta—little Etta Blake lived in an orphan home. And now—now—"
The hands in mine were dropped, amazement for the moment making me forget all else. I leaned yet closer. "Where is she? Where is Etta Blake? Where can I find her?"
As if groping, the eyes looking into mine made effort to understand, then turned away. "You can't find her—now. It's—too late. She was let go—to work—and she—didn't know. She come—from a little town—to a big one. And nobody—told her—what might happen. My little Nora—who's going to tell her?"
With violent effort, the figure on the bed attempted to sit up, and the twitching hands were flung one on either side, then again they clutched mine. "Why don't God—let me—take her—with me? Promise me—you won't forget—my little Nora! Won't let them—put her—in an orphan home. Promise me—you'll watch—"
Gaspingly she lay back on the pillows, but her eyes held mine.
"Promise—"
"I promise I will not—forget." Before God and a dying woman I was pledging protection for a homeless child. My voice broke and then steadied. "I promise—and I will watch."
As if that which held had snapped, the tossing head lay quiet, and out of the face fear faded, and into it, as softly as widens dawn at break of day, came peace. The sobbing in the corner of the room had ceased, and through the thin walls I could hear Selwyn's low tones as he told stumblingly to the child a story that was keeping her quiet, and I knew he, too, was on new thresholds; he, too, was entering unknown worlds.
"Tell her—" Flame-spent, the eyes again opened and this time looked at Miss White. "Tell her—why I—don't want— They mean—to be good—but—people like that—don't know how—people like us—"
Martha White thrust her handkerchief up her sleeve, cleared her throat, and straightened her wide and rustling apron. "She's been trying to tell me all day that she didn't want Nora to be put in an orphan asylum, and yet there's nobody to take her. All her people are too poor to add another child to their families." She came closer and lowered her voice that it might reach no one but me, and with her shoulders made movement toward the bed, with her hands to the man and woman still close together in tearless silence in the corner. "You know how people like that are. They judge everything by the few cases that come within their knowledge, and—"
"Most of us do. What does she know about asylums that prejudices her so?"
"Little, except she's come across some girls who came out of them who have gone wrong, and she thinks it's because they were kept too shut off from outside life, and told too little of temptations and real truths and—and things like that. What she means is that she thinks those who manage asylums and homes try to keep the girls innocent through ignorance, and when they're turned out to go to work they don't understand the dangers that are ahead. Some grown-ups forget that young people crave young ways and pretty things and good times, and that they've got to be taught about what they don't understand."
"Little Etta—Etta Blake was an orphan. She was like a bird—in a cage. When she—got out— If only—they had—told her—" The voice from the bed was strangely stronger, and the fingers, still twisted into mine, made feeble pressure.
I leaned closer. "Where is she? Where is Etta Blake? Where can I find her?"
"You can't find her. It's—too late. We worked—at the same place—once. And I tried—to make— But she said—it was—too late."
The gasping voice trailed wearily and the face, turning from me, lay still upon the pillow. Presently I saw Miss White start and come closer. The short, quick breath had stopped.
At Mrs. Mundy's front door Selwyn, holding the sleeping child in his arms, looked at me. "What are you going to do with her?" His voice was uncertain, but in it there was not the disapproval I had expected from the telling of my promise to Mrs. Cotter. "You can't keep her, can you?"
I shook my head. "She mustn't stay in town. The doctor says her case is too advanced to be arrested, and the only thing that can be done is to make her as comfortable and happy as possible until she—can go—to her mother. I don't know what is best to be done. I must be near enough to see her every now and then. Mr. Guard will tell me what to do. Whenever I don't know I ask him. He always helps me."
"Are you never to ask me to—help you?" Selwyn's voice was low, but from his eyes was no escape, and as the light from the door which I had opened with my latch-key fell upon his face I saw it flush—saw in it what I had never seen before.
"You!" I was very tired, and something long held back struggled for utterance. "You!" The word was half a sob. "If only you—"
Mrs. Mundy was coming down the hall, and at the door her hands went out to take the child from Selwyn. "Bettina told me, and I thought perhaps you'd bring the little creature here. I've got a place all fixed. You are tired out." She turned to me, and then to Selwyn. "Thank you, sir, for taking care of her—for going with her and bringing her back. I'm sorry I wasn't here to do it myself. She's needing of some one to look after her." Turning, she went down the hall with the child in her arms, and Selwyn, also turning, walked down the steps and got into the cab.