CHAPTER XXIV
THE UPPER AND THE NETHER MILLSTONES
Out on the street once more, Ben Blair looked about him as one awakeningfrom a dream. From the darkened arch of a convenient doorway he watchedthe endless passing throng with a dull sort of wonder. He was surprisedthat the city should be awake at that late hour; and stepping out intothe light he held up his watch. The hands indicated a few minutes pastten, and in surprise he carried the timepiece to his ear. Yes, it wasrunning, and must be correct. He had seemed to be up there on theeleventh floor for hours; but as a matter of fact it had been onlyminutes. Practically, the whole night was yet before him.
Slowly, in a listless way, he started to walk back to his hotel. Insteadof the night becoming cooler it had grown sultrier, and in places thewalk was fairly packed with human beings. More than once he had to turnout of his way to pass the chattering groups. In so doing he was oftenconscious that the flow of small talk suddenly ceased, and that, nudgingeach other, the chatterers pointed his way. At first he looked about tosee what had attracted them, but he very soon realized that he himselfwas the object of attention. Even here, cosmopolitan as were thesurroundings, he was a marked man, was recognized as a person from awholly different life; and his feeling of isolation deepened. He movedon more swiftly.
The sidewalk in front of his hotel was fringed with a row of chairs, inwhich sat guests in various stages of negligee costume. Nearly every manwas smoking, and the effect in the semi-darkness was like that offootlights turned low. Steps and lobby were likewise crowded; but Benmade his way straight to his room. One idea now possessed him. Hisbusiness was finished, and he wanted to be away. Turning on a light, hefound a railroad guide and ran down the columns of figures. There was nolate night train going West; he must wait until morning. Extinguishingthe light, he drew a chair to the open window and lit a cigar.
With physical inactivity, consciousness of his surroundings forcedthemselves on his attention. Subdued, pulsating, penetrating, the murmurof the great hotel came to his ears; the drone of indistinguishablevoices, the pattering footsteps of bell-boys and _habitues_, the purr ofthe elevator as it moved from floor to floor, the click of the gate asit stopped at his own level, the renewed monotone as it passed by.
Continuous, untiring, the sounds suggested the unthinking vitality of asteam-engine or of a dynamo in a powerhouse. A mechanic by nature, as aschool-boy Ben had often induced Scotty to take him to the electriclight station, where he had watched the great machines with afascination bordering on awe, until fairly dragged away by the prosaicEnglishman. This feeling of his childhood recurred to him now withirresistible force. The throb of the motor of human life was pulsatingin his ears; but added to it was something more, something elusive,intangible, but all-powerful. The moment he had arrived within the citylimits he had felt the first trace of its presence. As he approached thecentre of congestion it had deepened, had become more and more a guidinginfluence. Since then, by day or by night, wherever he went, augmentingor diminishing, it was constantly with him. And it was not with himalone. Every human being with whom he came in contact was likewiseconsciously or unconsciously under the spell. The crowds he had passedon the streets were unthinkingly answering its guidance. The trolleycars echoed its voice. It was the spirit of unrest--a thing ubiquitousand all-penetrating as the air that filled their lungs--a subtlestimulant that they took in with every breath.
Ben Blair arose and put on his hat. He had been sitting only a fewminutes, but he felt that he could not longer bear the inactivity. To doso meant to think; and thought was the thing that to-night he wasattempting to avoid. Moreover, for one of the few times in his life hecould remember he was desperately lonely. It seemed to him that nowherewithin a thousand miles was another of his own kind. Instinctively hecraved relief, and that alleviation could come in but one way,--throughphysical activity. Again he sought the street.
To some persons a great relief from loneliness is found in mingling witha crowd, even though it be of strangers; but Ben was not like these. Hisdesire was to be away as far as possible from the maddening drone.Boarding a street car, he rode out into the residence section, clear tothe end of the loop; then, alighting, he started to walk back. A fullmoon had arisen, and outside the shadow-blots of trees and buildings theearth was all alight. The asphalt of the pavements and the cement of thewalks glistened white under its rays. Loth to sacrifice the comparativeout-of-door coolness for the heat within, practically every house hadits group on the doorsteps, or scattered upon the narrow lawns.Accustomed to magnificent distances, to boundless miles of surroundingcountry, to privacy absolute, Ben watched this scene with a return ofthe old wonder,--the old feeling of isolation, of separateness. Side byside, young men and women, obviously lovers, kept their places,indifferent to his observation. Other couples, still more careless, satwith circling arms and faces close together, returning his gazeimpassively. Nothing, apparently, in the complex gamut of human naturewas sacred to these folk. To the solitary spectator, the revelation wasmore depressing than even the down-town unrest; and he hurried on.
Further ahead he came to the homes of the wealthy,--great piles of stoneand brick, that seemed more like hotels than residences. The forbiddingdarkness of many of the houses testified that their owners were out oftown, at the seaside or among the mountains; but others were brilliantlylighted from basement to roof. Before one a long line of carriages wasdrawn up. Stiffly liveried footmen, impassive as automatons, waited theerratic pleasure of their masters. A little group of spectators wasalready gathered, and Ben likewise paused, observing the spectaclecuriously.
A social event of some sort was in progress. From some concealed placecame the music of a string orchestra. Every window of the great pile wasopen for ventilation, and Ben could hear and see almost as plainly asthe guests themselves. For a time, deep, insistent, throbbing inmeasured beat, came the drone of the 'cello, the wail of the clarionet,and, faintly audible beneath, the rustle of moving feet. Then the musicceased; and a few seconds later a throng of heated dancers swarmedthrough the open doorway to the surrounding veranda, and simultaneouslya chatter broke forth. Fans, like gigantic butterfly wings, vibrated toand fro. Skilful waiters, in black and white, glanced in and out.Laughter, thoughtless and care-free, mingled in the general scene.
The music still, Ben Blair was about to move on, when suddenly a man anda girl in the shadow of a window on the second floor caught and held hisattention. As far as he could see, they were alone. Evidently one or theother of them knew the house intimately, and had deliberately sought theplace. From the veranda beneath, the flow of talk continueduninterruptedly; but they gave it no attention. The spectator coulddistinctly see the man as he leaned back in the light and spokeearnestly. At times he gesticulated with rapid passionate motions, suchas one unconsciously uses when deeply absorbed. Now and again, with thebodily motions that we have learned to connect with the French, hisshoulders were shrugged expressively. He was obviously talking againsttime; for his every motion showed intense concentration. No spectatorcould have mistaken the nature of his speech. Passion supreme, abandonabsolute, were here personified. As he spoke, he gradually leanedfarther forward toward the woman who listened. His face was no longer inthe light. Suddenly, at first low, as though coming from a distance,increasing gradually until it throbbed into the steady beat of a waltz,the music recommenced. It was the signal for action and for throwing offrestraint. The man leaned forward; his arm stretched out and closedabout the figure of the woman. His face pressed forward to meet hers,again and again.
Not Ben alone, but a half-dozen other spectators had watched the scene.An overdressed girl among the number tittered at the sight.
But Ben scarcely noticed. With the strength of insulted womanhood, thegirl had broken free, and now stood up full in the light. One look shegave to the man, a look which should have withered him with its scorn;then, gathering her skirts, she almost ran from the room.
Only a few seconds had the girl's face been clear of the sha
dow; yet ithad been long enough to permit recognition, and instantly liquid fireflowed in the veins of Benjamin Blair. His breath came quick and shortas that of a runner passing under the wire, and his great jaw set. Thewoman he had seen was Florence Baker.
With one motion he was upon the terrace leading toward the house.Another second, and he would have been well upon his way, when a handgrasped him from behind and drew him back. With a half-articulatedimprecation Ben turned--and stood fronting Scotty Baker. TheEnglishman's face was very white. Behind the compound lenses his eyesglowed in a way Ben had not thought possible; but his voice was steadywhen he spoke.
"I saw too, Ben," he said, "and I understand. I know what you want todo, and God knows I want to do the same thing myself; but it would do nogood; it would only make the matter worse." He looked at the younger manfixedly, almost imploringly. His voice sank. "As you care for Florence,Ben, go away. Don't make a scene that will do only harm. Leave her withme. I came to take her home, and I'll do so at once." The speakerpaused, and his hand reached out and grasped the other's with a gripunmistakable. "I appreciate your motive, my boy, and I honor it. I knowhow you feel; and whatever I may have been in the past, from this timeon I am your friend. I am your friend now, when I ask you to go," and hefairly forced his companion away.
Once outside the crowd, Ben halted. He gave the Englishman one longlook; his lips opened as if to speak; then, without a word, he movedaway.
There was no listlessness about him now. He was throbbing with repressedenergy, like a great engine with steam up. His feet tapped with theregularity of clock-ticks over mile after mile of the city walks. Helonged for physical weariness, for sleep; but the day, with its manifoldmental exaltations and depressions, prevented. It seemed to him that hecould never sleep again, could never again be weary. He could only walkon and on.
Down town again, he found the crowds smaller and the border of chairs infront of his hotel largely empty. A few cigars still burned in thehalf-light, but they were the last flicker of a conflagration now allbut extinguished. The restless throb of the human dynamo was lower andmore subdued. The street cars were practically empty. Instead of aconstant stream of vehicles, an occasional cab clattered past. The citywas preparing for its brief hours of fitful rest.
Straight on Ben walked, between the towering office buildings, besidethe now darkened department-store hives, past the giant wholesaleestablishments and warehouses; until, quite unintentionally on his part,and almost before he realized it, he found himself in another world,another city, as distinct as though it were no part of the cosmopolitanwhole. Again he came upon throbbing life; but of quite another type.Once more he met people in abundance, noisy, chattering human beings;but more frequently than his own he now heard foreign tongues that hedid not understand, and did not even recognize. No longer were thepedestrians well dressed or apparently prosperous. Instead, poverty andsqualor and filth were rampant. More loth even than the well-to-do ofthe suburbs to go within doors, the swarming mass of humanity coveredthe steps of the houses, and overflowed upon the sidewalk, even upon thestreet itself. There were men, women, children; the lame, the halt, theblind. The elders stared at the visitor, while the youngsters, securein numbers, guyed him to their hearts' content.
It was all as foreign to any previous experience of this countryman asthough he had come from a different planet. He had read of the cityslums as of Stanley's Central African negro tribes with unpronounceablenames; and he had thought of them in much the same way. To him they hadbeen something known to exist, but with which it was but remotelyprobable he would ever come in contact. Now, without preparation orpremeditation, thrown face to face with the reality, it brought upon hima sickening feeling, a sort of mental nausea. Ben was not aphilanthropist or a social reformer; the inspiring thought of theinexhaustible field for usefulness therein presented had never occurredto him. He wished chiefly to get away from the stench and ugliness; and,turning down a cross street, he started to return.
The locality he now entered was more modern and better lighted than theone he left behind. The decorated building fronts, with their dazzlingelectric signs, partook of the characteristics of the inhabitants, whoseemed overdressed and vulgarly ostentatious. The gaudily trappedsaloons, _cafes_, and music halls, spoke a similar message. This was therecreation spot of the people of the quarter; their land of lethe. Sonear were the saloons and drinking gardens that from their open doorwaysthere came a pungent odor of beer. Every place had instrumental music ofsome kind. Mandolins and guitars, in the hands of gentlemen of color,were the favorites. Pianos of execrable tone, played by youths withdefective complexions, or by machinery, were a close second. Before oneplace, a crowd blocked the sidewalk; and there Ben stopped. A vaudevilleperformance was going on within--an invisible dialect comedian doing aGerman stunt to the accompaniment of wooden clogs and disarranged verbs.A barker in front, coatless, his collar loosened, a black string tiedangling over an unclean shirt front, was temporarily taking amuch-needed rest. An electric sign overhead dyed his cheeks withshifting colors--first red, then green, then white. Despite its veneerof brazen effrontery, the face, with its great mouth and two days'growth of beard, was haggard and weary looking. Ben mentally pictured,with a feeling of compassion, other human beings doing their idiotic"stunts" inside, sweltering in the foul air; and he wondered how, if anatom of self-respect remained in their make-up, they could fail todespise themselves.
But the comedian had subsided in a roar of applause, and again thebarker's hands were gesticulating wildly.
"Now's your time, ladies and gentlemen," he harangued. "It's continuous,you know, and Madame--"
But Ben did not wait for more. Elbow first, he pushed into the crowd,and as it instantly closed about him the odor of unclean bodies made himfairly hold his breath.
Straight ahead, looking neither to right nor to left, went thecountryman; he turned the corner of the block, a corner without a light.Suddenly, with an instinctive tightening of his breath, he drew back. Hehad nearly stepped upon a man, dead drunk, stretched half in a darkeneddoorway, half on the walk. The wretch's head was bent back over one ofthe iron steps until it seemed as if he must choke, and he was snoringheavily.
Not a policeman was in sight, and Ben, in great physical disgust,carried the helpless hulk to one side, out of the way of pedestrians,took off the tattered coat and rolled it into a pillow for the head, andthen moved on with the sound of the stertorous drunken breathing stillin his ears.
Still other experiences were in store for him. He made a half blockwithout further interruption; then he suddenly heard at his back afrightened scream, and a young woman came running toward him, followedat a distance by a roughly dressed man, the latter apparently the worsefor liquor. Blair stopped, and the girl coming up, caught him by the armimploringly.
"Help me, Mister, please!" she pleaded breathlessly. "He--Tom, backthere--insulted me. I--" A burst of hysterical tears interrupted theconfession.
Meanwhile, seeing the turn events had taken, the pursuer had likewisestopped, and now he hesitated.
"All right," replied Ben. "Go ahead! I'll see that the fellow doesn'ttrouble you again." And he started back.
But the girl's hand was again upon his arm. "No," she protested, "notthat way, please. He's my steady, Tom is, only to-night he's drank toomuch, and--and--he doesn't realize what he's doing." The grip on his armtightened as she looked imploringly into his face. "Take me home,please!" A catch was in her voice. "I'm afraid."
Ben hesitated. Even in the half-light the petitioner's face hintedbrazenly of cosmetics.
"Where do you live?" he asked shortly.
"Only a little way, less than a block, and it's the direction you'regoing. Please take me!"
"Very well," said Blair, and they moved on, the girl still clinging tohim and sobbing at intervals. Before a dark three-story and basementbuilding, with a decidedly sinister aspect, she stopped and indicated astairway.
"This is the place."
"All right," responde
d Ben. "I guess you're safe now. Good-night!"
But she clung to him the tighter. "Come up with me," she insisted."We're only on the second floor, and I haven't thanked you yet. Really,I'm so grateful! You don't know what it means to be a girl, and--and--"Her feelings got the better of her again, and she paused to wipe hereyes on her sleeve. "My mother will be so thankful too. She'd neverforgive me if I didn't bring you up. Please come!" and she led the wayup the darkened stair.
Again Ben hesitated. He did not in the least like the situation in whichcircumstances had placed him. The prospect of the girl's mother, likeherself, scattering grateful tears upon him was not alluring; but itseemed the part of a cad to refuse, and at last he followed.
His guide led him up a short flight of stairs and turned to the right,down a dimly lighted hall. The ground-floor of the building was used forstore purposes. This second floor was evidently a series of apartments.Lights from within the rooms crept over the curtained transoms. Voicessounded; glasses clinked. A piano banged out ragtime like mad.
At the fourth door the girl stopped. "Thank you so much for coming," shesaid. "Walk right in," and throwing open the door she fairly shoved thevisitor inside.
From out the semi-darkness, Ben now found himself in a well-lightedroom, and the change made him blink about him. Instead of the motherlyold lady in a frilled cap, whom he had expected to see, he found himselfin the company of a half-dozen coatless young men and under-dressedwomen, lounging in questionable attitudes on chairs and sofas. At hisadvent they all looked up. A sallow youth who had been operating thepiano turned in his seat and the music stopped. Not yet realizing thetrick that had been played upon him, Ben turned to look for his guide;but she was nowhere in sight, and the door was closed. His eyes shiftedback and met a circle of amused faces, while a burst of mocking laughterbroke upon his ears.
Then for the first time he understood, and his face went white withanger. Without a word he started to leave the room. But one of the womenwas already at his side, her detaining hand upon his sleeve. "No, no,honey!" she said, insinuatingly. "We're all good fellows! Stay awhile!"
Ben shook her off roughly. Her very touch was contaminating. But one ofthe men had had time to get between him and the door; a sarcastic smilewas upon his face as he blocked the way.
"I guess it's on you, old man!" he bantered. "About a half-dozen quartswill do for a starter!" He nodded to a pudgy old woman who was watchinginterestedly from the background. "You heard the gent's order, mother!Beer, and in a hurry! He looks dry and hot."
Again a gale of laughter broke forth; but Ben took no notice. He madeone step forward, until he was within arm's reach of the humorist.
"Step out of my way, please," he said evenly.
Had the man been alone he would have complied, and quickly. No humanbeing with eyes and intelligence could have misread the warning on BenBlair's countenance. He started to move, when the girl who had firstcome forward turned the tide.
"Aw, Charley!" she goaded. "Is that all the nerve you've got!" and shelaughed ironically.
Instantly the man's face reddened, and he fell back into his firstposition.
"Sorry I can't oblige you, pal," he said, "but you see it's agin dehouse. Us blokes has got--"
The sentence was never completed. Ben's fist shot out and caught thespeaker fair on the point of his jaw, and he collapsed in his tracks.For a second no one in the room stirred; then before Ben could open thedoor, the other men were upon him. The women fled screaming to thefarthest corner of the room, where they huddled together like sheep.Returning with the tray, the old woman realized an only too familiarcondition.
"Gentlemen!" she pleaded. "Gentlemen!"
But no one paid the slightest attention to her. Forced by sheer odds ofmass toward a corner, Ben's long arms were working like flails. Anotherman fell, and was up again. The first one also was upon his feet now,his face white, and a tiny stream of blood trickling from his bruisedjaw. A heavy beer-bottle flung by one of the women crashed on the wallover the countryman's head, the contents spattering over him like rain.One of the men had seized a chair and swung it high, to strike, withmurder in his eye. Attracted by the confusion, the other occupants ofthe floor had rushed into the hall. The door was flung open andinstantly blocked with a mass of sinister menacing faces.
Until then, Ben had been silent as death, silent as one who realizesthat he is fighting for life against overwhelming odds. Now of a suddenhe leaped backward like a great cat, clear of all the others. From histhroat there issued a sound, the like of which not one of those wholistened had ever heard before, and which fairly lifted their hair--theIndian war-whoop that the man had learned as a boy. With the oldinstinctive motion, comparable in swiftness to nothing save the passageof light, the cowboy's hands went to his hips, and as swiftly returnedwith the muzzles of two great revolvers protruding like elongated indexfingers. With equal swiftness, his face had undergone a transformation.His jaw was set and his blue eyes flashed like live coals.
"Stand back, little folks!" he ordered, while the twin weapons revolvedin circles of reflected flame about his trigger fingers. "You seem towant a show, and you shall have it!" The whirling circles vanished. Adeep report fell upon the silence, and a gaudy vase on the mantle flewinto a thousand pieces. "Stand back, people, or you might get hurt!"
Awed into dumb helplessness, the spectators stared with widening eyes;but the spectacle had only begun. Like the reports of giantfire-crackers, only seconds apart, the great revolvers spoke. A nudelysuggestive cast in the corner followed the vase. A quaintly carved clockpaused in its measure of time, its hands chronicling the minute ofinterruption. A decanter of whiskey burst spattering over a table. Twobacchanalian pictures on the wall suddenly had yawning wounds in theircentre. The portrait of a queen of the footlights leaped into the air.One of the beer-bottles, which the madame had placed on a convenienttable, popped as though it were champagne. Fragments of glass andporcelain fell about like hail. The place was lighted by a tuft of threebig incandescent globes; and, last of all, one by one, they crashed intoatoms, and the room was in total darkness. Then silence fell, startlingin contrast to the late confusion, while the pungent odor of burntgunpowder intruded upon the nostrils.
For a moment there was inaction; then the assembly broke into motion. Nothought was there now of retaliation or revenge; only, as at a suddenconflagration or a wreck, of individual safety and escape. The hallwaywas cleared as if by magic. Within the room the men and women jostledeach other in the darkness, or jammed imprecating in the narrow doorway.In a few seconds Ben was alone. Calmly he thrust the empty revolversback into his pockets and followed leisurely into the hall. There thedim light revealed an empty space; but here and there a lock turnedgratingly, and from more than one room as he passed came the sound offurniture being hastily drawn forward as a barricade.
No human being ever knew what occurred behind the locked door of BenBlair's room at the hotel that night. Those hours were buried as deep aswhat took place in his mind during the months intervening between thecoming of Florence Baker to the city and his own decision to follow her.By nature a solitary, he fought his battles alone and in silence. Thathe never once touched his bed, the hotel maids could have testified thenext morning. As to the decision that followed those sleepless hours,his own action gave a clue. He had left a call for an early train West,and at daylight a tap sounded on his door, while a voice announced thetime.
"Yes," answered the guest; but he did not stir.
In a few minutes the tap was repeated more insistently. "You've onlytime to make your train if you hurry," warned the voice.
For a moment Blair did not answer. Then he said: "I have decided not togo."