Pray You, Sir, Whose Daughter?
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Banter of this nature met him on every hand. He realized more fully than ever how changed the point of view had grown to be from the historical days of Washington or even of Lincoln. He recalled the time when in his own boyhood his honored father had served in the Legislature of his native state, and had not felt it other than a crowning distinction. Nor had it been so looked upon then by his associates.
Nevertheless the constant jokes and gibes, which held something of a real sting, had become so frequent that, young Avery felt like resenting his friends' humorous thrusts.
"I can't see that I need be ashamed to follow in the footsteps of my father," he said, a little hotly. "Some of the noblest of men – those upon whom the history of this country depends for lustre – held seats in the Assembly, and helped shape the laws of their states. I don't see why I need apologize for a desire to do the same."
"It used to be an association of gentlemen up at the state capital, my boy. Today it is – Lord! you know what it is, I guess. But if you don't, just peruse this sacred volume," laughed his friend, sarcastically, producing a small pamphlet.
"Looks to me as if you'd be rather out of your element with your colleagues. 'M-m-m! Yes, here is the list. Hunted this up after I heard you were going to stand for your district."
The English form of expression was no affectation, for the speaker was far more familiar with political nomenclature abroad than at home. He would have felt it an honor to a man to be called upon to "stand" for his constituency in London, but to "run" for it in New York was far less dignified. Standing gave an idea of repose; running was vulgar. Then, too, the State Legislature did not bear the proportionate relationship to Congress that the Commons did to Parliament, and it was always in connection with that latter body that he had associated the term.
"Let me see. One, two, three, four, 'teen 'steen – yes, I thought I was right! Just exactly nineteen of your nearest colleagues are saloon keepers. One used to keep that disorderly house on Prince Street, four are butchers, one was returned because he had won fame as a base-ballist and – but why go further? Here, Martin, I'm trying to convince Avery that it will be a trifle trying on his nerves to hobnob with the new set he's making for. Don't you think it is rather an anti-climax from the Union to the lower house at Albany? Ye gods!" and he laughed, half in scorn and half in real amusement.
John Martin had extended his hand for the small pamphlet of statistics. He ran his eye over the list, and then turned an amused face upon Avery.
"Think you'll like it?" he asked, dryly. "Or are you taking it as my French friend here says his countrymen take heaven?"
"How's that?" queried Avery, smiling. "In broken doses – or not at all?"
The French gentleman stood with that poise which belongs to the successful man. He glanced from one to the other and spread his hands to either side.
"All Frenchmen desire to go to ze heaven, zhentlemen. Why? Ah, zere air two at-traczions which to effrey French zhentle-man air irresisteble. Ze angels – zey air women – and I suppose zat ze God weal also be an attraction. Ees eet not so?"
Every one in the group laughed and he went on gravely on.
"I zink zat eet ees true – ees eet not? – zat loafly woman will always be vara much ob-searved even in ze heaven eef we zhentlemen are zere. Eef?" He cast up the comers of his eyes, and made another elaborate movement of his hands.
The others all laughed again.
"Yes, zhentlemen, ze true Frenchman cares for two zings: a new sensation – someings zey haf not before experienced, – and zat ees God; and for zat which zey haf obsearved, but of which zey can naavear obsearve enough – loafly woman!"
The explosion of laughter that greeted this sally brought about them a number of other gentlemen, and the talk drifted into different channels. Presently young Avery glanced at his watch and started, with rather a sore heart toward the door. He remembered that he had promised the managers of his campaign that he would be seen that evening at a certain open-air garden frequented by the humbler portion of his constituency. He concluded to go alone the first time that he might the better observe without attracting too much attention. This plan was thought wise to enable him to meet the exigencies of the coming campaign when he should be called upon to speak to this element of this supporters.
Once outside the club house, he took a card from his pocket and glanced at the directions he had jotted upon it.
"I'll walk across to the elevated," he thought, "and make my connection for Grady's place that way. It will save time and look more democratic."
V
The infinite pathos of life was never better illustrated, perhaps, than in the merrymaking that night at Grady's Pavilion. The easy camaradarie between conscious and unconscious vice; the so-evident struggle the young girls had made to be beautiful and stylish, and the ghastly result of their cheap and incongruous finery; their ignorant acceptance of leers that meant to them honest admiration or affection, and to others meant far different things; their jolly, thoughtless, eager effort to get something joyful out of their narrow lives; the brilliant tints in which they saw the future, and the ghastly light in which it stood revealed to older and more experienced eyes, would have combined to depress a heart less tender and a vision less clear than could have been attributed to Selden Avery. Not that Grady's Pavilion was a bad place.
Many of the girls present would not have been there had it been known as anything short of quite respectable; but it was a free and easy place, where vice meets ignorance without having first made an appointment, where opportunity shakes the ungloved hand of youth and leaves a stain upon the tender palm too deep and dark for future tears to wash away.
"I wonder if I am growing morbid," mused Avery, as he sighed for the third time while looking at the face of a girl not over eighteen years old, but already marked by lines that told of a vaguely dawning comprehension of what the future held for her. Her round-eyed companion, a girl with a childish mind and face, sat beside her, but all the world was bright to her. Life held a prince, a fortune and a career which would be hers one day. She had only to wait, look pretty, and be ready when the apple of fortune fell. Her part was to hold out a pretty apron to break its descent.
"Oh, the infinite pathos of youth!" muttered Avery, feeling himself very old with his thirty years of wider experience as his eyes turned from one girl to the other. "It is hard to tell which is the sadder sight; the disillusioned one or the one who will be even more roughly awakened to-morrow."
His heart ached whenever he studied the face of a young girl. "There is nothing so sad in all the wretched world," he sometimes said, "as the birth of a girl in this grade of life. I am not sure that the nations we look upon as barbarous because they strangle the little things before they are able to think – I am not at all sure that they are not more civilized than we after all. We only maim them with ignorance and utter dependence, and then turn them out into a life where either of these alone is an incalculable curse, and the combination is as fatal as fire in a field of ripened grain."
The younger girl was looking at him. Her wide expectant eyes rested on his face with a frankness and interest that touched his mood anew.
"Poor little thing," he said, half aloud; "if I were to see her bound hand and foot and cast into a den of wolves, I might hope to rescue her; but from this, for such as she there is absolutely no escape. How dare people bring into the world those who must suffer?"
"Huh?" said a voice beside him. He had spoken in a semi-audible tone, and his neighbor had responded after his habitual fashion, to what he looked upon as an overture to conversation.
"I did not intend to speak aloud," said Avery, turning to glance at the man beside him; "but I was just wondering how people dared to have children – girls particularly."
The man beside him turned his full face upon him and examined him critically from head to foot. Then he laughed. It was the first time he had ever heard it hinted that it was not a wholly commendable thing to bring as many children into the world as nature would permit. His first thought had been that Avery was insane, but after looking at him he decided that he was only a grim joker.
"I reckon they don't spend no great deal of time prayin' over the subject," he said, laughing again. Then he crossed his legs and added, "an' I don't suppose they get any telegrams tellin' them they're goin' to be girls, neither. If they did, a good many men would lick the boy that brought the despatch, for God knows most of us would a dam sight ruther have boys."
The laugh had died out of his voice, and there was a ring of disappointment and aggrieved trouble in it. Selden Avery shifted his position.
"I was not looking at it from the point of view of the parents of unwelcome girls," he said, presently, "but from the outlook of the girls of unwelcome parents. The reckoning from that side looks to me a good deal longer than the other." His voice was pleasant, but his eyes looked perplexed and determined. His neighbor began to readjust his opinion of Avery's sanity, and moved his chair a little farther away before he spoke.
"Got any children of your own?" he inquired, succinctly. Avery shook his head. The man drew down the comers of his mouth in a contemptuous grimace. "I thought not. If you had, you'd take it a dam sight easier. Children are an ungrateful lot. They're never satisfied – or next to never. They think you're made for their comfort instead of their bein' for yours. I've got nine, and I know what I'm talkin' about. If you've got any sympathy to throw away don't waste it on children. Parents, in these days of degenerate youngsters, are passin' around the hat for sympathy. In my day it was just the other way. If one of the young ones went wrong, people pitied the father and blamed the child. Now-a-days they blame the father and weep over the young one that makes the mischief. It makes me mad."
He shut his teeth with a suddenness that suggested a snap, and flashed a defiant look about the room.
Avery glanced at his heavy, stubborn face, and decided not to reply. He was in no mood for controversy. And what good could it do, he said to himself, to argue with a mere lump of selfish egotism?
"That is an unusually pretty girl over by the piano," he said, in a tone of mild indifference which he hoped would serve as a period to the conversation.
"She's Tom Berton's girl," was the quick reply. "Berton's up to Albany most o' the time, with me. I represent our district. She's a nice little thing. She'll do anything you ask her to. I never see her equal for that. It's easier for her to do your way than it is to do her own. She likes to; so everybody likes her. I wish I had one like her; but my girls are as stubborn as mules. They won't drive, and they won't lead, and they'd ruther kick than eat. I don't know where they got it. Their mother wasn't half so bad that way, and the Lord knows it ain't in my family. The girl she's with is one o' mine. She looks like she could eat tenpenny nails. She might be just as pretty an' just as much liked as Ettie Berton, but she ain't. She's always growlin' about somethin'. I'll bet a dollar she'll growl about this when we get home. Ettie will think it was splendid. She'd have a good time at a funeral; but that girl of mine 'll get me to spend a dollar to come here and then she'll go home dissatisfied. It won't be up to what she expected.
"Things never are. She's always lookin' to find things some other way. Now, what would you do with a girl like that?" he asked suddenly. Then without waiting for a reply, he added, "I give her a good tongue lashin', an' as she always knows it's comin', she's got so she don't kick quite so much as she used to, but she just sets an' looks sullen like that. It makes me so mad I could – "
He did not finish his remark, but got up and strolled away without the formality of an adieu.
Avery watched his possible future colleague until he was lost in the crowd, and then he walked deliberately over to where the two girls stood.
"I have been talking with your father," he said, smiling and bowing to the older girl, "and although he did not say that I might come and talk to you, he told me who you were, and I think he would not object."
"Oh, no; he wouldn't object," said the younger girl, eagerly. "Would he, Fan? Everybody talks here. He told me so before we came. It's the first time we've been; but he's been before. I think it's splendid, don't you?"
The older girl had not spoken. She was looking at Selden Avery with half suppressed interest and embryonic suspicion. She still knew too little of life to have formed even a clearly defined doubt as to him or his intentions in speaking to them. She was less happy than she had expected to be when she dressed to come with her ever-dawning hope for a real pleasure. She thought there must be something wrong with her because things never seemed to come up to her expectations. She supposed this must be "society," and that when she got used to it, she would enjoy it more. But somehow she had wanted to resent it the first time a man spoke to her, and then, afterward, she was glad she did not, for he had danced with Ettie twice, and Ettie had said it was a lovely dance. She had made up her mind to accept the next offer she had, but when it came, the eyes of the man were so beady-black, and the odor of bay rum radiated so insistently from him that she declined. She hated bay rum because the worst scolding her father ever gave her was when she had emptied his cherished bottle upon her own head. The odor always brought back the heart-ache and resentment of that day, and so she did not think she cared to dance just then.
Selden Avery looked at Ettie. He did not want to tell her what he did think and he had not the heart to dampen her ardor, so he simply smiled, and said:
"It is my first visit here, too; and I don't know a soul. I noticed you two young ladies a while ago, and spoke of you to the gentleman next to me and it chanced to be your father" – he turned to the older girl again – "so that was what gave me courage to come over here. If I had thought of it before he left me, I'd have asked him to introduce me, but I'm rather slow to think. My name is Selden Avery."
"Did father tell you mine?" she asked, looking at him steadily, with eyes that held floating ends of thoughts that were never formed in full.
"No, he didn't," replied Avery, laughing a little. "He told me yours, though," turning to the merry child at his side. "Ettie Berton, Tom Berton's daughter."
Ettie laughed, and clapped her hands together twice.
"Got it right the first time! But what did he give me away for and not her? She is Francis King. That is, her father's name's King, but she is so awfully particular about things and so hard to suit she ought to be named Queen, I tell her, so I call her Queen Fan mostly." There was a little laugh all around, and Avery said: —
"Very good, very good, indeed;" but Francis looked uncomfortable and so he changed the subject. Presently she looked at him and asked: —
"Do you think things are ever like they are in books? Do you think this is? She waved her hand toward the music and the lights. In the books I have read – and the story papers – it all seems nicer than this and – and different. It is because I say that, that they all make fun of me and call me Queen Fan, and father says – " she paused, and a cold light gathered in her eyes. "He don't like it, so I don't say it much, now. He says it's all put on; but it ain't Everything does seem to turn out so different from what you expected – from the way you read about. I've not felt like I thought maybe I should to-night because – because – " she stopped again.
"Because why?" asked Avery, laughing a little. "Because I'm not a bit like the usual story-book prince you ought to have met and – ?"
She smiled, and Ettie made a droll little grimace.
"No, it wasn't that at all. I've been thinking most all evening that it wasn't worth – that – "
"Oh, she's worried," put in Ettie, "because she got her father to spend a dollar to bring her. She's afraid he'll throw it up to her afterward, and she thinks it won't pay for that, so it spoils the whole thing before he does it – just being afraid he will. But I tell her he won't, this time. I – " Francis' eyes had filled with tears of mortification, and Avery pretended not to have heard. He affected a deep interest in the music.
"Do you know what it is they are playing now?" he asked, with his eyes fixed upon the musicians. "I thought at first that it was going to be – No, it is – Ton my word I can't recall it, and I ought to know what it is, too. The first time I ever heard it, I remember – "
He turned toward where Francis had stood, but she was gone. "Why, what has become of Miss King?" he asked of the other girl. Ettie looked all about, laughed and wondered and chattered as gaily as a bird.
"I expect she's gone home. She's the queerest you ever saw. I guess she didn't want me to say that about her pa. But it'll make him madder than anything if she has gone that way. He won't like it at all – an' I can't blame him. What's the use to be so different from other folks?" she inquired, sagely, and then she added, laughing: "I don't know as she is so different, either. We all hate things, but we pretend we don't. Don't you think it's better to pretend to like things, whether you do or not?"
"No," replied Avery, beginning to look with surprise upon this small philosopher who had no conception of the worldly wisdom of her own philosophy.
"I do," she said, laughing again. "It goes down better. Everybody likes you better. I've found that out already, and so I pretend to like everything. Of course I do like some of 'em, and some I don't, but it's just as easy to say you like 'em all." She laughed again, and kept time with her toe on the floor.
"Just what don't you like?" asked Avery, smiling. "Won't you tell me, truly? I won't tell any one, and I'd like to be sure of one thing you object to – on principle."
"Well, tob – Do you smoke?" she asked.
He shook his head, and pursed up his lips negatively.
"I thought not," she said, gaily. "You look like you didn't. Well, I hate – hate – hate – hate smoke. When I go on a ferry-boat, and the air is so nice and cool and different from at home, and seems so clean, I just love it, and then – "
"Some one sits near you and smokes," put in Avery, consolingly.
"Yes, they do; and I just most pray that he'll fall over and get drownded – but he never does; and if he asks me if I object to smoke, I say, 'Oh! not at all!' and then he thinks I'm such a nice, sensible girl. Fan tells 'em right out that she don't like it. It makes her deadly sick, and the boys all hate her for it. Her father says it's da – I was going to say his cuss word, but I guess I won't. Anyhow, he says it's all nonsense and put on. I guess I better go. There is her father looking for us. Poor Fan'll catch it when we get home! Good-night. I've had a lovely time, haven't you?" She waved her hand. Then she retraced the step she had taken. "Don't tell that I don't like tobacco," she said, and started away laughing. He followed her a few steps.
"How is any fellow to know what you really do like?" he asked, smiling, "if you do that way?"
"Fan says nobody wants to know," she said, slyly. "She says they want to know that I like what they want me to like, and think what they think I think." She laughed again. "And of course I do," she added, and bowed in mock submission. "Now, Fan don't. That's where she misses it; and if she don't – reform," she said, lowering her voice, as she neared that young lady's father, "she is going to see trouble that is trouble. I'll bet a cent on it. Don't you?" she asked, as she bestowed a bright smile upon Mr. King.
"Yes," said Avery, and lifting his hat, turned on his heel and was lost in the crowd.
"Where's Fan?" inquired that young lady's father in a tone which indicated that, as a matter of course, she was up to some devilment again.
"She got a headache and went home quite a while ago," said that young lady's loyal little friend. "She enjoyed it quite a lot till she did get a headache." As they neared the street where both lived, Ettie said: "That man talked to her, and I think she liked him."
"Humph!" said Mr. King. "I wouldn't be surprised. She'd be likely to take to a lunatic. I thought he was about the damnedest fool I ever saw; didn't you?"
"Yes," said Ettie, laughing, "and I liked him for it."
Mr. King burst into a roar of laughter. "Of course you did! You'd like the devil. You're that easy to please. I wish to the Lord Fan was," and with a hearty "goodnight," he left her at her father's door, and crossed the street.
Once outside the garden, Avery drew from his pocket the little pamphlet which his club friend had given him, and ran his finger down the list.
"King, member the – ah, ha! one end of his ward joins mine! 'M-m-m; yes, I see. He is one of the butchers. I suspected as much. Let me see; yes, he votes my ticket, too. If I'm elected we'll be comrades-in-arms, so to speak I suppose I ought to have told him who I was; but if I'm elected he'll find out soon enough, and if I'm beaten – well, I can't say that I'm anxious to extend the acquaintance." He replaced the book in his pocket as the guard called out, 'Thirty-Fourth Street! 'strain for Arlem!' and left the train, musing as he strolled along. "Yes, Gertrude was quite right – quite. We fortunate ones have no right to allow all this sort of thing to go on. We have no right to leave it entirely to such men as that to make the laws. I don't care if the fellows up at the club do guy me. Gertrude – " He drew from his breast-pocket a little note, and read it for the tenth time.
"I am so gratified to hear that you have accepted the nomination," it said. "You have the time, and mental and moral equipment to give to the work Were I a man, I should not sleep o' nights until some way was devised to prevent all the terrible poverty and ignorance and brutishness we were talking about the other day. I went to see that Spillini family again. I was afraid to go alone, so I took with me two girls who are in a sewing class, which is, just now a fad at our Church Guild. I thought their experience with poverty would enable them to think of a way to get at this case; but it did not. They appeared to think it was all right It seems to me that ignorance and poverty leave no room for thought, or even for much feeling. It hurt me like a knife to have those girls laugh over it after we came out; at least, one of them laughed, and the other seemed scornful, It is not fair to expect more of them, I know, for we expect so little of ourselves. It is thinking of all this that makes me write to tell you how glad I am that you are to represent your district in Albany. Such men are needed, for I know you will work for the poor with the skill of a trained intellect and a sympathetic heart. I am so glad. Sincerely your friend, Gertrude Foster."
Mr. Avery replaced the note in his pocket, and smiled contentedly. "I don't care a great deal what the fellows at the club say," he repeated. "I'm satisfied, if Gertrude – " He had spoken the last few words almost audibly, and the name startled him. He realized for the first time that he had fallen into the habit of thinking of her as Gertrude, and it suddenly flashed upon him that Miss Foster might be a good deal surprised by that fact if she knew it. He fell to wondering if she would also be annoyed. There was a tinge of anxiety in the speculation. Then it occurred to him that the sewing class of the Guild might give an outlet and a chance for a bit of pleasure to that strange girl he had seen at Grady's Pavilion, and he made a little memorandum, and decided to call upon Gertrude and suggest it to her. He fell asleep that night and dreamed of Gertrude Foster, holding out a helping hand to a strange, tall girl, with dissatisfied eyes, and that Ettie Berton was laughing gaily and making everybody comfortable, by asserting that she liked everything exactly as she found it.