CHAPTER XIV.
Doctor McCall had been five minutes too late for the first train, and so had been delayed for the express in which Kitty started on her adventure. Commonplace accidents determine commonplace lives, was a favorite maxim of the Berrytown Illuminati. The Supreme Intelligence whom they complimented with respect could not be expected to hold such petty trifles or petty lives in His controlling hand.
Doctor McCall had seen Catharine when she first entered the station. Her very manner had the air of flight and secresy. Puzzled and annoyed, he sat down in the rear of the car, himself unseen. When they reached Philadelphia it was not yet dawn. The passengers rushed out of the cars: Kitty sat quiet. She had never slept outside of the Book-house before. She looked out at the dim-lighted dépôt, at the slouching dark figures that stole through it from time to time, the engines, with their hot red eyes, sweeping back and forward in the distance, breaking the night with portentous shrieks. Where should she go? She had never been in a hotel in her life: she had no money. If she ventured into the night she would be arrested, no doubt, as a vagrant. She had a gallant heart to take care of Hugh Guinness's life, but her poor little woman's body was quaking in deadly fear for herself. In a moment a decent mulatto woman, whom McCall had sent, came from the waiting-room into the deserted car.
"There is a room for ladies, where you can be comfortable until daybreak, madam," she said respectfully.
"I am much obliged to you," said Catharine.
When she saw how young she was, the mulatto, a motherly body, took her into a little inner snuggery used to store packages: "You can turn the key, and sleep if you will until morning."
"I'll not close my eyes until my errand is done," thought Kitty, and sat down in a rocking-chair, placing her satchel beside her. In five minutes she was fast asleep. McCall, pacing up and down the platform, could see her through the open window. He forgot to wonder why she had come. There was a certain neatness and freshness about her which he thought he had never observed in other women. After her night's travel her dress fell soft and gray as though just taken from the fold, her petticoat, crisp and white, peeped in one place to sight. How dainty and well-fitting were the little boots and gloves! Where the hair was drawn back, too, from her forehead he could see the blue veins and pink below the skin, like a baby's. He did not know before what keen eyes he had. But this was as though a breath of the old home when he had been a child, one of the dewy Bourbon roses in his father's garden, had followed him to the stifling town. It made the station different—even the morning. Fresh damp winds blew pleasantly from the reddening sky. The white marble steps and lintels of the street shone clean and bright; the porters going by to the freight dépôt gave him good-day cheerfully. In the window the old mulatto had some thriving pots of ivy and fragrant geraniums. Even a dog that came frisking up the sidewalk rubbed itself in a friendly fashion against his legs.
McCall suddenly remembered a journey he had made long ago, and a companion whose breath was foul with opium as her head at night rested on his shoulder.
But there was no need that one woman's breath should sicken him even now with the whole world; and again he stopped in his walk to look at Kitty.
The fresh wind blowing on her wakened her presently. The mulatto was anxious to serve her: it was always the case with people of her class after Kitty had once spoken to them.
"I should like fresh water and towels," she said coolly, as though toilet appurtenances were to be found at every street corner. The woman paused, and then with a queer smile brought them. In a a few moments McCall saw her come out fresher than before.
"Where is this house?" showing a name and number to the mulatto, who read it once or twice, and then looked steadily at Kitty.
"Are you going alone to that place?"
"Certainly."
The woman gave her the directions without further parley, adding that it was about six miles distant, and turned away. Catharine followed her to thank her, and put a dollar note in her hand. It was all the money she had.
She walked on down the rapidly filling streets—for miles, as she thought. The hurry and rush of the day had begun. The sense of nothingness in the midst of this great multitude came upon Kitty. The fear, the excitement began to tell on her: yesterday she had eaten but little in her pity for Muller. "Which was very foolish of me," she said to herself. "Now I've no money to buy anything to eat. I have acted in this matter without common sense." The sun lighted up the yellow leaves of the maples along the sidewalk. The wind blew strongly up from the rivers. She passed a stand with some withered apples and stale cakes, and put her hand in her pocket, then with a wistful look went on.
It was late in the morning before she reached her journey's end. Showing her paper now and then, she had noticed the curious inquiring look which both men and women gave her on reading it. She found herself at last under a long gray stone wall pierced by an iron-knobbed gate. By the side of it a man was setting out on an eating-stand a half-eaten ham, chaffy rolls and pies yellow with age. The man was an old, cleanly shaven fellow, whose aquiline nose reminded her with a twinge of conscience of Mr. Muller.
"Am I near to this house?" showing her paper.
"Here," nodding back at the stone wall, cutting his pies.
"This! What is this place, sir?"
"Moyamensing Prison." He finished cutting the pies carefully, and then, wiping the knife, looked up at her, and suddenly came from behind the stand:
"You're not well?" pushing a seat toward her. "Here's some water. Or coffee?"
She sat down: "Oh, it's nothing. Only I've traveled a long way, and I did not know it was a prison I was coming to."
"Won't you have some coffee? You don't look rugged."
"No, thank you."
"Well, it's not what you've been used to, of course. But hot." He put the water within her reach and drew aside, looking at her now and then. He was used to the pale faces and tears of women at that gate. "Though she's different from them as has friends here," he thought, silencing one or two noisy customers by a look. Presently he came up to her: "You're afeard to go in there alone, young lady?"
"Yes, I am. What shall I do?"
"I thought as much. Yonder comes the chaplain. I'll speak to him," going to meet two gentlemen who crossed the street.
"You wished to see a prisoner?" one of them said, coming up to her.
Kitty was herself again. She stood up and bowed with her old-fashioned, grave politeness: "I do not know. It was this that brought me here," handing him the telegram.
"Ah? I remember," glancing at it. "Number 243 sent it, you recollect?" to his companion. "But this is addressed to Hugh Guinness?" turning inquiringly to Kitty.
"I am a—a member of his family. He was not at home, and I came to receive the message for him."
"Will you go in with us, doctor?" The chaplain turned to his companion.
"Presently. There is a man coming up the street I want to see."
The chaplain motioned her to follow him, casting a curious glance back at her. They passed up into the long stone corridors, tier over tier, with the lines of square iron doors, each with its slate dangling outside, with a name scrawled on it. He stopped at one, opened it and drew back, motioning her to enter.
Kitty caught sight of the damp wall of a cell, and stopped.
"Shall I go in with you?" seeing her shiver.
"No: Mr. Guinness might wish the message kept as private as possible."
"It is very probable. The prisoner is very ill, or you could not have a private interview."
She went in, and the door closed behind her. It was a moment before she could distinguish any object in the dimly lighted cell. Then she saw the square window, the cobwebbed walls, and close at hand a narrow pallet, on which lay a woman in a coarse and soiled night-dress. She was tall and gaunt: one arm was thrown over her head, framing a heavy-jawed, livid face, with dull black eyes fixed on Catharine.
"Who are you?" she said.
Kitty went straight up to her. The foul smell made her head reel. But this was only a woman, after all; and one in great bodily need—dying, she thought. Kitty was a born nurse. She involuntarily straightened the wretched pillows and touched the hot forehead before she spoke: "I came instead of Hugh Guinness. You had a message for him."
"I don't know. It doesn't matter for that," her eyes wandering. The soft touch and the kind face bending over her were more to her just now than all that had gone before in her life. "It is here the pain is," moving Kitty's hand to her side. The pain filled the dull eyes with tears. "This is a poor place to die in," trying to smile.
"Oh, you are not going to die," cheerfully. "Let me lift you up higher on the pillows. Put your arm about me—so. You're not too heavy for me to lift."
The woman, when she was arranged, took Kitty's fingers and feebly held them to her side. "It is so long since anybody took care of me. I sha'n't live till to-morrow. Don't leave me—don't go away."
"I'll not go away," said Kitty.
The man whom the prison physician had waited to meet was Doctor McCall. He had followed Kitty so far, unwilling to interfere by speaking to her. But when he saw her enter Moyamensing he thought that she needed a protector. "Ha, Pollard, is this you?" stopping to shake hands. They were old acquaintances, and managed, in spite of their profession, to see something of each other every year. McCall ran up to town once or twice through the winter, and stayed at Pollard's house, and Pollard managed to spend a week or two with him in peach season.
"I thought I knew your swing, McCall, two squares off. Looking for me?"
"No: I followed a lady, a friend of mine, who has just gone in at the gate."
"You know her, eh?" eagerly. "A most attractive little girl, I thought: She went in with the chaplain to see one of the prisoners."
McCall paused, his hand on the gate. A horrible doubt stopped his heart-beating for an instant. But how utterly absurd it was! Only because this black shadow pursued him always could such a fancy have come to him. "The prisoner is a woman?" with forced carelessness.
"Yes. A poor wretch brought here last spring for shoplifting. Her term's out next week. She has had a sharp attack of pneumonia, and has not much strength to bear it: she is a miserable wreck from opium-eating."
"Opium-eating? Can I go in?" said McCall.
"Certainly."
When the woman heard their steps on the corridor she said to Catharine, "I hear my husband coming now."
"That will be pleasant for you," kindly, wondering to herself what sort of a ruffian had chosen this creature for a mate and had the burden of her to carry.
"Yes, I know his step," turning dully to the door. It opened, and Hugh Guinness stood on the threshold.
He halted one brief moment. It seemed to Catharine that he was an older man than she had known him.
"It is you, then, Louise?" he said calmly, going up to the bed and looking down on her, his hands clasped, as usual, behind him.
"Yes, it is I. I thought you would like to see me and talk things over before I died, Hugh." She held out her hand, but he did not touch it. Looking at her a moment from head to foot as she lay in her unclean garments, he turned to where the other woman stood, a ray of light from the window shining on her fair hair and innocent face: "Do you know that I am Hugh Guinness, Kitty?"
"I knew that long ago."
"This," nodding down at the pallet, "is my wife. Now do you know why I could not go home to my father or to you?"
"God help us!" ejaculated Pollard. The next moment, remembering himself, he put his hand on McCall's shoulder: "I understand. When you were a boy, eh? Never mind: every man has his own trouble to carry."
"I've been a very real trouble to you, Hugh," whined Louise. "But I always loved you: I always meant to come back to you."
"When her later husbands had abandoned her." McCall laughed savagely, turning away.
She started up on the pallet, clenching her bony, dirty hands: "There were faults on both sides. I never would have been the woman I am if you had loved me. What will you do with me now?"
There was a dead silence in the cell, broken only by the heavy breathing of the woman. McCall stood dumb, looking first at Catharine and then at his wife.
"This is what he will do," said Kitty's clear, quiet tones. "You shall be washed and dressed, and taken home as his wife, to live or die as suits God's will."
"Never," muttered McCall.
"How soon can she leave this—this place?" she said, turning as if he had not spoken to Pollard.
"As soon as she is able to be moved. But," hesitating, with a doubtful look at McCall, "is that plan best?"
"Why, she's his wife!" with her innocent eyes wide. "He has no right to desert her. She will die if she is not properly cared for," turning to McCall.
"Do you stay with me: don't leave me," holding Kitty's sleeve. "If you would nurse me, I should get well."
"It is impossible that the lady should nurse you," said Pollard.
Kitty sat down: she began to tremble and turn white. "She has nobody but me. I'll stay," she said quietly.
McCall beckoned his fellow-physician out into the corridor.
"My dear fellow—" Pollard began.
"No: I know you sympathize with me. But we will not talk of this matter. Is that woman dying?"
"I'm afraid—that is, I think not. She is decidedly better to-day than she was last night. With care she may recover."
Kitty came out and stood with them in the corridor. McCall looked at her with amazement. The shy, silly school-girl, afraid to find her way about Berrytown, bore herself in this desperate juncture like the sagest of matrons.
"Is there no hospital to which she can be taken?" she said to Pollard.
"Yes, of course, of course."
"I'll go with her there, then. You know," laying her hand on McCall's arm, "you did marry her. You ought to try to help her poor body and soul as long as she lives."
"Would you have me take her as my wife again?"
"Not for an hour!" cried Kitty vehemently. She went into the cell, but came back in a moment: "Will you bring me some breakfast? I shall not be of much use here until it comes."
"She has more of the angel in her than any woman I ever knew," muttered McCall.
"She has a good deal of common sense, apparently," rejoined Pollard.
Kitty went with McCall's wife to the hospital, and helped to nurse her for a week. Pains and chills and nausea she could help, but for the deeper disease of soul, for the cure of which Kitty prayed on her knees, often with tears, there was little hope in her simple remedies, unless the cure and its evidence lay deep enough for only God's eye to see.
The woman's nature, of a low type at birth, had grown more brutal with every year of drunkenness and vice. She died at last, alone with Kitty.
"She said, the last thing, 'God be merciful to me a sinner!'" Kitty told the chaplain. "But I am afraid she hardly understood the meaning."
"He understood, my dear child. We can leave her with Him, You must go home now: you have done all you could. Doctor McCall will go with you?"
"No, I shall go alone: I came alone."
"He will follow you home to Berrytown, then?" for the chaplain was but a man, and his curiosity was roused to know the exact relation between McCall and this old-fashioned, lovable girl.
Kitty hesitated: "I think he will come to Berrytown again. There is some business there which his wife's death will leave him free now to attend to."
She went to a sofa and sat down: "I shall be glad to be at home," beginning to cry. "I want to see father."
"Broke down utterly," the chaplain told his wife, "as soon as her terrible work was done."
As for Kitty, it seemed to her that her work in life and death was over for ever.
"You must come back," she said when McCall put her in the cars, looking like a ghost of herself. "Your father will be wanting to see you. And—and Maria."
"Maria? What the deuce is Maria to me?"
It was no ghost of Kitty that came home that evening. The shy, lively color came and went unceasingly, and her eyes sparkled.
"Poor Maria!" she whispered to her pillow as she went to bed—"poor Maria!"