CHAPTER III
A PROPHECY
At the end of the afternoon, a few days later, a fierce battle was beingwaged in the basement room that was the Aldrich home, when a knock madeDavid lower his defensive fists.
"Ah, don't stop, pard," Tom begged of his cornered enemy. "Let 'empound. It's just somebody else kickin' about de heat."
"We'll only stop a second. Ask what they want, and say I'll attend to itat once."
Tom, grumbling fiercely, opened the door. "What's de matter?" hedemanded. "Ain't you got no heat?"
But it was not an angry tenant who stepped in from the darkness of thehall. It was Helen Chambers. She was flushed, and excitement quivered inher eyes. She looked from one pillow-fisted belligerent to the other,and said, smiling tremulously:
"I had thought there was no heat, but after looking at you I've decidedthere's plenty. Is this the way you always receive complainants?"
Tom glanced guiltily at David, then darted behind Helen and through thedoor. David gazed at her, loose-jawed. Suddenly he remembered hisshirt-sleeves.
"I beg your pardon," he said, and in his bewilderment he tried tothrust his huge fists into his coat.
"Perhaps you can do that"--again the tremulous smile--"but I reallydon't think you can."
"I should take the gloves off, of course," he stammered. He franticallyunlaced them, slipped into his coat, and then looked at her, throbbingwith wonderment as to why she had come.
She did not leave him in an instant's doubt. She stepped toward him withoutstretched hand, her smile gone, on her face eager, appealingearnestness.
"I have come to ask your forgiveness," she said with her old, directsimplicity. "I believed that you and the boy were--pardon me!--werestealing together; that you were letting yourself slip downward. Thisafternoon the boy came to me at St. Christopher's and told me the realstory. I could hardly wait till I was free so that I could hurry to youand ask you to forgive me."
"Forgive you!" David said slowly.
"Forgive me for my unjust judgment," she went on, a quaver in her voice."I judged from mere appearance, mere guess-work. I was cold--horrid. Iam ashamed. Forgive me."
Her never-expected coming, her never-expected words, rendered him forthe moment speechless. He could only gaze into her fresh face, so fullof earnestness, of appeal.
"You do not forgive me?" she asked.
David thrilled at the tremulous note in her voice. "I have nothing toforgive. You could not help judging as you did."
Her deep brown eyes, looking straight into his face, continued theappeal.
"I forgive you," he said in a low voice.
"Thank you," she said simply; and she pressed his hand.
"And I came for something else," she went on, "I came to assure you ofmy friendship, if it can mean anything to you--to tell you how much Iadmire your brave and bitter upward struggle. I'd be so happy if therewas some way I could help you, and if you'd let me."
"You want to help me!" was all he could say.
"Yes. Won't you let me--please!"
He throbbed with exultation. "Then you believe I am now honest!"
"You have proved that you are--proved it by the way you have resistedtemptation during these four terrible months."
His eyes suddenly sank from hers to the floor. Her words had broughtback New Year's eve. She had come to him with friendship because she wascertain of his unfallen determination to make his new life an honestlife. If she knew of that night in Allen's house, would she be givinghim this praise, this offer?
The temptation to say nothing rose, but he could not requite franknessand sincerity such as hers with the lie of silence--he could not accepther friendship under false pretenses. He looked up and gazed at hersteadily.
"I am innocent where you thought me guilty, but"--he paused; the truthwas hard--"but I am guilty where you think me innocent."
She paled. "What do you mean?" she asked in a fearing voice.
"I have not resisted temptation."
He saw that his words had hurt her, and there was a flash of wonder thata lapse of his should give her pain. An appeal, full of colour, offeeling, that would justify himself to her was rising to his lips, butbefore it passed them he suddenly felt himself so much the wronged thathis confession came forth an abrupt outline of his acts, spoken with noshame.
"I had been starved, rebuffed, for over three months. I grew desperate.Temptation came. I yielded. I entered a house--entered it to steal. ButI did not steal. I could not. I came away with nothing."
He paused. His guilt was out. He awaited her judgment, fearful of hercondemnation, with resentment ready for it if it came.
"Is that all!" she cried.
Vast relief quivered through him. "You mean then that--" He hesitated.
"That you have been fiercely tempted, but you are not guilty."
"You see it so!"
"Yes. Had you conquered temptation on the outer side of the door, youwould certainly have been guiltless. Since you conquered temptation onthe inner side of the door, I cannot see that those few more steps arethe difference between guilt and innocence."
They were both silent a moment.
"But don't you want to tell me something about yourself--about yourplans?" she asked.
The friendship in her voice, in her frank face, warmed him through."Certainly," he said. "But there's very little to tell."
He now became aware that all the while they had been standing. "Pardonmy rudeness," he said, and set a chair for her beside the table, andhimself took a chair opposite her.
"There is little to tell," he repeated. "I am what you see--the janitorof this house." As he spoke the word "janitor" it flashed upon him thatthere had been a time when, in his wild visions, he had thought ofwinning this woman to be his wife. He flushed.
"Yes, I know. But you have other plans--other ambitions."
"A week ago my ambition was to find work that would keep me alive," hereturned, smiling. "I have just attained that ambition. I have hardlyhad time to dream new dreams."
"But you will dream them again," she said confidently.
"I had them when--when I came back, and I suppose they will return."
"Yes. Go on!"
He had thought, in his most hopeful moments, that some day she mightregard him with a distant friendliness, but he had never expected suchan interest as was shown in her eager, peremptory tone. "There were twodreams. One was this: I wondered, if I were honest, if I worked hard, ifI were of service to those about me, could I, after several years, winback the respect of the world, or its semi-respect? You know the worldis so thoughtless, so careless, so slow to forgive. And I wondered ifperhaps, after several years, I could win back the respect of some of myold friends?"
"I was sure that was one dream, one plan," she said, quietly. "Formyself----" She gave him her hand.
"Thank you!" he said, his voice low and threaded with a quaver.
"And though the world is thoughtless, and slow to forgive, and thoughthe struggle will be hard, I'm certain that you are going to succeed."Her rich voice was filled with quiet belief. "And the other dream?"
"It's presumptuous in me to speak of the other dream, for to work forits fulfilment would require all the things I've lost and many things Inever had--a fair name, influence, some money, a personality, ability ofthe right sort. Besides, the dream is vague, unshaped--only a dream. Itis not new, and it is not even my own dream. Thousands have dreamt it,and many are striving to turn it into a fact, a condition. Yes, it wouldbe presumptuous for me to speak of it."
"But I'd like very much to hear about it--if you don't mind."
"Even though it will sound absurd from me? Well, if you wish me to."
He paused a moment to gather his thoughts. "One thing the last fourmonths have taught me," he began, "is that the discharged criminal haslittle chance ever to be anything but a criminal. Many come outhardened; perhaps the prison hardened them--I've seen many a youngfellow, who had his good points when he entered, hardened
toirreclaimable criminality by prison associates and prison methods. Thesehave no desire to live useful lives. Some come out with moderatelystrong resolutions to live honestly, and some come out with a fiercedetermination. If these last two classes could find work a largeproportion of them would develop into useful men. But instead of a worldwilling to stretch to them a helping hand, what do they find? They finda world that refuses them the slightest chance.
"What can they do? They persist as long as their resolution lasts. If itis weak, they may give up in a few days. Then, since the upward road isclosed against them, they turn into the road that is always open, alwayscalling--the road of their old ways, of their old friends. They arelost.
"A week ago I was all bitterness, all rebellion, against the world forits uncaring destruction of these men. I said the world pushed these menback into crime, destroyed them, because it feared to risk itsworshipped dollars. I feel bitter still, but I think I can see theworld's excuse. The world says, 'For any vacancy there are usually atleast two applicants; I choose the better, and let the other go.' It isa natural rule. So long as man thinks first of his own interest thatrule will stand. Against such a rule that closes the road of honesty,what chance does the discharged convict have? None!--absolutely none!
"Since the world will not receive back the thief, since there is nosaving the thief once he has become a thief, the only chance whateverfor him is to save him before he has turned to thievery--while he is achild.
"Have you ever thought, Miss Chambers, how saving we are of all materialthings, and what squanders, oh, what criminal squanderers! we are ofhuman lives? How far more rapidly the handling of iron, and hogs, andcotton, has developed than the handling of men! The pig comes out meatand soap and buttons and what not, and the same rigid economy isobserved with all other materials. Nothing is too small, too poor, to besaved. It is all too precious!
"There is no waste! But can we say the same about the far more importantbusiness of producing citizens? Look at the men in our prisons. Wastedmaterial. Had they been treated, when they were the raw material ofchildhood, with even a part of the intelligence and care that is devotedto turning the pig into use, into profit, they would have beenmanufactured into good citizens. And these men in prisons are but afraction of the great human waste. Think of the uncaught criminals, ofthe stunted children, of the human wreckage floating about the city, ofthe women who live by their shame!--all wasted human material. And allthe time more children are growing up to take the places of these whenthey are gone. Why, if any business man should run his factory as weconduct our business of producing citizens, he'd be bankrupt in a year!
"This waste _can_ be saved. I do not mean the men now in prison, nor thewomen in the street, nor those on whom ill conditions have fasteneddisease--though even they need not be wholly lost. I mean theirsuccessors, the growing children. If the production of citizens were abusiness run for profit--which in a sense it is, for each good citizenis worth thousands of dollars to the country--and were placed in thehands of a modern business man, then you would see! Had he been packer,steel manufacturer, goldsmith, not a bristle, not an ounce of steel, notthe infinitesimal filings of gold, escaped him. Do you think that hewould let millions of human beings, worth, to put a sordid money valueupon their heads, ten thousand dollars apiece, be wasted? Never! Hewould find the great business leak and stop it. He would save all.
"And how save? I am a believer in heredity, yes; but I believe far morein the influence of surroundings. Let a child be cradled in the gutterand nursed by wickedness; let wickedness be its bedfellow, playfellow,workfellow, its teacher, its friend--and what do you get? The prisonstell you. Let the same child grow up surrounded by decency, and you havea decent child and later a decent man. Could the thousands and thousandsof children who are developing towards criminality, towards profligacy,towards a stunted maturity, be set amid good conditions, the leak wouldbe stopped, or almost--the great human waste would be brought to an end.They would be saved to themselves, and saved to their country.
"Nothing of all this is new to you, Miss Chambers. I have said so muchbecause I wanted to make clear what has become my great dream--the greatdream of so many. I should like to do my little part towards rousing thenegligent, indifferent world to the awfulness of this waste--towardsmaking it as economical of its people as it is of its pigs and itspig-iron. That is my dream."
He had begun quietly, but as his thought mastered him his face hadflushed, his eyes had glowed, and he had stood up and his words hadcome out with all the passion of his soul. Helen's eyes had not for aninstant shifted from his; her's too were aglow, and glow was in hercheeks.
For several moments after he had stopped she gazed at him with somethingthat was very like awe; then she said, barely above a whisper: "You aregoing to do it!"
"No, no," David returned quickly, bitterly. "I have merely builded outof words the shape of an impossible dream. Look at what I dream; andthen look at me, a janitor!--look at my record!"
"You are going to do it!" she repeated, her voice vibrant with belief."The dream is not impossible. You are doing something towards itsfulfilment now--the boy, you know. You are going to grow above yourrecord, and above this position--far above! You are going to grow intogreat things. What you have been saying has been to me a prophecy ofthat."
He grew warmer and warmer under her words--under the gaze of her browneyes glowing into his--under the disclosure made by her left hand, onwhich he had seen there was no engagement ring. Her praise, hersympathy, her belief, thrilled him; and his purpose, set free in words,had given him courage, had lifted him up. As from a swift, dizzy growth,he felt strong, big.
A burning impulse swept into him to tell her his innocence. For a momenthis innocence trembled on his lips. But the old compelling reasons forsilence rushed forward and joined battle with the desire of his love.His hands clenched, his body tightened, he stared at her tensely.
At length he drew a deep breath, swallowed with difficulty. "May theprophecy come true!" his dry lips said.
"It will!"
She studied him thoughtfully for a minute or more. "Something has beenoccurring to me and I'd like to talk to you about it." She rose. "But Imust be going. Won't you walk with me to the car, and let me talk on theway?"
A minute later they were in the street, from which the day had all butfaded and into which the shop-windows and above them the tier on tier ofhome-windows, were stretching their meagre substitute. David's blood wasleaping through him, and in him were the lightness and theall-conquering strength of youth. The crisp winter air that thrust itssting into many of the stream of home-coming workers, tinglingly prickedhim with the joy of living.
"Have you thought again of writing?" she asked.
"About as much as a man who has leaped from a house-top to try hiswings, thinks again of flying."
"I am speaking seriously. If the impulse to write should return, wouldyou have time for writing?"
"I think I could manage three or four hours a day."
"Then why not try?"
"The ground where one alights is so hard, Miss Chambers!"
"But perhaps you did not soar the other time because you had over-wornyour wings. Perhaps they have grown strong and developed during theirrest. Many of us used to believe they would carry you far up. Why nottry? You have nothing to lose. And if you succeed--then the dream youhave told me of will begin to come true."
For several paces David was silent. "I, too, have thought of this. Asyou say, there is nothing to lose. I shall try."
"Why not take an idea in the field of your dream?" she pursued eagerly."Why not write a story illustrating how the criminal is to besaved?--say, the story of a boy amid evil surroundings that urged himtoward a criminal life; the boy to come under good influence, and todevelop into a splendid citizen."
"That may be just the idea," said David.
They discussed the suggestion warmly the remainder of their walk to thecar. A little farther on, as they were coming out upon the Bowery,
theMayor of Avenue A swayed into view. Astonishment leaped into his pinkface when he saw who David's companion was. His silk hat performed awide arc, and David had a sense that backward glances over the Mayor'sshoulders were following them.
"And you really believe in me?" David asked, as Helen's car drew to astop.
"I do--and I believe all the other things I have said." She gave theanswer with a steady look into his eyes and with a firm pressure of herhand.
"I hope you'll not be disappointed!" he breathed fiercely, exultantly.
He retreated to the sidewalk and standing there, the clanging of theelevated trains beating his ears, he watched the slow passage of hercar through the press of jostling, vituperating trucks, volleying overthe cobble-stones, till it disappeared beyond Cooper Union. Then heturned away, and strode the streets--chin up, shoulders back, eyesstraightforward--powered with such a hope, such a determination to do,as he had not known since his first post-college days. Perhaps he wouldconquer the future. He would try.
Yes ... he _would_ conquer it!