Democratic Sentinel, Volume 7, Number 41, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 9 November 1883 — A NIGHT'S BATTLE. [ARTICLE]

A NIGHT'S BATTLE.

BY LILY M. CURRY.

Without, the wind, sighing softly, lingered in the iron lattice and at intervals brushed the windows with a faint spray of rain. Within, the shadows deepened —deepened from the corners, gradually closing up over all the central barrenness of the room and shielding the woman who had thrown herself despairingly across the bed. She lay very quietly in the darkness; but it was the quiet of bodily exhaustion. She could still think, and her thoughts were a passionate multitude. A month before, she had believed herself reconciled—aye, even content to walk the weary treadmill of linked days and hope no more. She had ceased to care if she grew round-shoul-dered as other girls, and pale and pinched from the routine of the dusky factory-office, from which' she could only see the sweet sunlight creeping into the street along the forenoon’s stretch, and creeping out again upon the gray buildings opposite, where the afternoon shadow rose like a strong eea-tide. She had evep striven to go cheerfully, to her work morning after morning and to put into it what little heart was left, her out of all the tragic past. She' had learned to me&sure off the hours by certain infallible, sounds of the city; at half-past 9, the bell jringing for the opening of the warehouses; at 11, the same bell for the closing; at 12, the news-boys, shouting the nooni 'edition (at 1 she had a halfhour’s noon-time) ; at 2, again the warehouse bell; at 3, the early evening paper (now the sea-tide shadow crept toward the third-story window); at 5, a later edition; and at 6 came the end of the long day, when the whirr of machinery was done and the “hands” in the shipping-room back hushed their jargon and departed, when she, too, tired-eyed and with aching chest, might oreep along to her lonesome fourthstory lodgings. What a starved, stunted existence had been hers sine® she had come to the city! With what keen anguish she remembered the sweetness of the old, Affluent days, past forever! For, standing up to battle with the world, sfcr flbore, besides, the awful, burdening of a parent’s disgrace, Death had come upon her swiftly, 'Crushingly, that terrible night when her father had cut the knot of his •dilemma—insolvency and betrayed public trusts—with a single pistol-shot and lso —escaped. She had loved him too well to reproach him, dead, for deserting her—for not having prepared her, at least, to work. But all else being gone, she, too, had fled from the old town and flung herself into the whirl of the city. God only knew how hard it had been, and she so weak, so inexperienced! Had she been but fitted, as men fit their sons (hut not daughters, alas!) with a profession, or even a trade! This had been her only lament in darkest hours. Nevertheless, she had found work at last; hard, inexorable, poorly-recom-pensed. For every working day, a single dollar wherewith to purchase food and shelter, clothing and cleanliness, peace and virtue, and the thousand trifles of life. Those who paid it, thought it an excellent price. And all the stifling summer she had toiled on, silently, uncomplainingly, only at last to lose even this foothold, without wage or warning, at an employer’s caprice. That was a fortnight since—and ever since she had been hunting other employment. To-night she was penniless And in debt for rent. She wondered what would happen now. Was it beggary or starvation ? The river, or —a charitable institution! Of the two, she chose the river. When the shadows had conquered, some one struck a match in the long, outer passage, and the hall gas-light fihone through the transom. Still she lay silent and listened to the beating of a banjo —patient and persisting—in another apartment of the great building. The sounds jarred upon her in fretful continuity. And she was so tired, so hopeless, that she rose but slowly when some one came knocking. She rose but slowly and lit the gas; she smoothed her hair wearily, and stood a seconfl in thought. In the flash of unsteady light, her figure was pitifully fragile; her beauty—for beauty was not ■wholly wrecked —strange, awsome, with olivg-pallor, hectic-spotted and sharptinea profile. She opened the door, at length, and so stood face to face with a man whose bearing and attire bespoke prosperity. Less surprised than annoyed, apparently, she gave him scant welcome. ■“Natalie!" he cried, reproachfully,

and, entering, seemed disposed to remain. She hesitated a moment, then closed the door. “Well,” ho began, scanning the room with evident comprehension, “How do yon get along?” “Very well,” she answered, unwillingly. “I’m afraid you’re not glad to see me,” he said, after a moment, as if chagrined. She was silent. He drew his chair to her side and spoke appealingly: “Natalie, why do you hate me so?” She answered sadly, with drooping head; “It is out of my power to hate, or like —forever.” “Nonsense!” She lifted her face with a look o wonder and misgivings; and presently she questioned, as earnestly as had he himself: “Why do you follow me about, Harvey Drew ? It cannot be for old friendship’s sake, for you were not friend then, but enemy/ “ ‘ Enemy ’is a strong word. I was sore because you preferred Hunt Pierce—that was all. A thousand pities it was that he must be lost at sea just at the hour of your trouble —” Her solemn eyes rebuked him ere her passion-tremulous words: “Spare the dead, at least!” He moved back his chair impatiently, “You were engaged to him, then ?” “ Y es, ” —proudly. “Not married, though?” “Married?” “Oh, you might pardon the question. Remember I left the town before the trouble came. lam glad you were not married. ” “Why?” she asked, unflinchingly. He smiled in a quiet way, and said nothing. She studied his face fearfully for a space. It was not ill-favored, with its fair coloring, fine eyes and regular features; it was rather pleasant, but for a curve about the lips—the same curve that she remembered knowing in the old days, when Huntley Pierce (lover dead and gone, God help her!) had mistrusted, and counselled her against, this Harvey Drew. “An unprincipled fellow, ” her betrothed had said. (Ah, how she remembered all his words.) “When he sets his heart on having anything, he will go any length, stoop to any measures to secure it!” As she studied his face, it seemed to her the lip-curve grew deeper, more definite, and threatened a sneer, perhaps a snarl. She could hardly endure it. She lowered her eyes, and they were dazzled by > the diamond blazing in his cravat. Yes, Hunt had not trusted him, and Hunt had ever been true and right. , Bhe wished that’ he would go. Surely he must see that his oompany was distasteful. Why had he not more ■ manliness ? Why had he pursued her so of late ? She wondered if he knew she-had lost her place, and pitied her. But she did not ask his pity. She only praybd for his departure. Perhaps he divined as much. “You are going to send me away?” he asked, smiling faintly. She grasped the nearest excuse. “I have not yet been to my supper.” “Come right along with me.” She wondered if he would force her to absolute rudeness. “Why,” he burst out, sharply, “what is the matter? You won’t evQn be friendly. Don’t you suppose I know what a struggle you are having, and all about your financial state? You are too proud altogether* and. I—l want to help you.” He lowered his voice, and made a step forward as if to embrace her. She recoiled, trembling with rage. “If you have come to insult me, there is the door. You may go. Do not make me hate you!” Her scornful eyes blazed upon him until his face flushed. He took a step as if to leave, and an oath escaped him. Then he turned, .laughing lightly. “I like your snap. You are worth winning, Natalie, and—you have misjudged me. I meant no harm, believe . n me. She answered with dry incredulity, “Don’t do it again.” He waived the remark, and went on: “I am going now, but listen first to what I have to say. I always loved you—you know it, too. I’ve thought a great deal about marrying you—especially of late, because I knew what hard times you were having, and how pleasant I could make life for you.” She averted her face lest he note the scorn, the repugnance, she could not conceal, as his voice sank into an easy confidence. How absurd it all seemed! Was he joking V She could not determine. In any event, it was the sheerest mockery; even though he really cared for her, she could neither respect nor esteem, much less love him. And what if Hunt could know? She shuddered. “Please, please let it go!” she implored at length. “This is only the wildest fancy. I—l will not doubt your words. But it is absurd. Perhaps you are pitying me. Be oertain, I can always sustain myself. I will be your friend, if you like. That should be sufficient, I think,” concluding uneasily. “But, you see, it is not. Ah, Natalie !” with a touch of tenderness, “if you knew how much I cared for you 1 But—we’ll talk of it to-morrow. I see you want me to go. Good-night, dear.” He turned abruptly and swung himself out of the door. “Good-night,” she said, after him, in bewildered tone, and paced the room slowly, trying to reason sense out of his actions. It was grotesque, horrible, this notion of his. She wondered if he were truly sane! She fell into hysterical laughter. To marry him despising him as she “did! The wildness of hysteria passed away and left her gobbing quietly at her own desolation. That it should have come to pass that she must give Am second thought to this man’s words. Oh, it was terrible! And now her faced burned with a fever, and her brai# was crowded with an uproar of sounds, above which din the banjo was distinct, fretting over one trifling, fourbar strain of a comic song. Occasionally a sharp thought would

pierce the maze—the thought of possibility— the query of whether there could be more torture than she now endured, even if she were to take him at his word. Surely, she could not be worse distracted. And if he fret and vex her by' persistent following, he might as well “pay the piper.” And she laughed again hysterically. The banjo-player was still beating his instrument in a merciless way, but the hours wore on. She wished she could find a good side of the matter. It would be a relief to discover some virtue in him. She knew that he was a clever business man and always prosperous. Still, she despised him. Good heavens! Why keep on going over and over it? Why could she not dismiss it—-and him, since he could never be aught to her? What was it she remembered hearing about a girl marrying a man to get rid of him ? As the hours wore on, the house grew still, the gas flared and the wind struck the high window sharply. It was growing colder without. Sometimes she walked to and fro, sometimes she fell despairingly on the bed; always her face burned and her hands were icy and powerless. She heard a clock strike twelve. Perhaps he would not return; perhaps he had done this to revenge himself —to rouse her hopes, knowing her distress, and disappoint them. She felt the need of composing herself to rest, since on the morrow she mnst search anew. The rent was due; cold weather coming on. Work must be found. Merciful heaven! what longings, what anxiety! Sleep? She dozed a little,-despite the gnawing pain. Perhaps this was hunger; she had not eaten since morning. Hunger and heartache. The clock struck again over the fill 1 ATI PA fwi PA Why, then, did she still live? Why had she not died that night, when the pistol-shot seemed to pierce her own brain as it had pierced her father’s? Why had she not died when the news had come of her lover’s fate ? Lost at sea! Ah, heaven! Since she had once loved and should never love again, it mattered little what happened. Even she might marry this man—if he came again, and were in earnest. He would possibly be kind. No; she would struggle no longer; she felt herself grown weakly pliant. And the worst would be only death; the worst, also the best. Aye, but if he took her he knew what he was taking. A soulless, worn-out creature, who endured him. And yet, thousands of women had done infinitely worse. She was moaning aloud, moaning as if in pain. By-and-by her moand subsided to long-drawn sighs, as though after anguish had come relief. “She would say to him,” she sighed, if lie came again on the morrow, “that if —if he cared so much, he might —take her!” And now she sat upright with blurred vision and dull murmurs in her ears. No longer suspense! No further uncertainty. Only a stupid weariness of mind. * * * * The clock had struck four long since. The blue darkness was resolving into gray at the high window, for dawn approached. The room seemed stifling. She climbed up and knelt on the sill, raised the sash and looked out over the neighboring roof, panting for the freshness of the new day. Yonder, from behind the great lake, should rise ere long the morning. Already a pale green flickered from thread to shield, and gradually grew golden, glorious, as the slow sun’s splendor touched the sky line, and thrilled the dumb heavens to waking rapture. So kneeling, and gazing, she hardly felt the coldness of the air piercing her chest like steel; she only saw the glory of liquid gold bridging the great waters as if yonder were paradise. And slowly out of those shining precincts she by-and-by seemed to see advanoe his image—or himself, her lover—glorified, -With outstretched, compassionate hands.

She gave a low, moaning cry as if in answer: “See! Ah see! I have been true! I have been true!” Then a mist veiled her heavily; vaguely she knew herself falling. The room was bright with another soul-mocking morrow when she opened her eyes and found herself lying bruised and cramped where she had fallen from the high sill. It was a great effort to arise. Her limbs were full of pain, sharp-lasting pain. It was long before she could straighten herself sufficient to reach up and extinguish the still-burning gas. Yet there was an inward strength and a strange peace of soul. When some one knocked she quietly unbolted the door; nor did she start or tremble to find it was Drew, calling early and looking surprised at her haggardness. “Are you ill ?” lie asked. “No;I am—quite well, —and strong.” “Well, I only dropped in on my way to business—and to tell you—to ask you if I should come to-night. Somehow I felt as if you treated what I said as a—joke. But I was not joking.” She looked at him very calmly. “I thought it over last night,” she said, presently. “I did not think you were joking.” “Well?” “Well—l do not love you; I cannot sell myself—let it go—and—l thank you.” He was daunted at last; he stared, then flushed angrily. “You may be sorry, Miss Grey,” he said. “Good morning.” She flung herself upon her knees as he turned away, and gave a wild, sobbing cry: “Thank God! Thank God for temptation—and for the strength to resist—and to suffer!” Was it the end? Whose brisk step rang up the bare hall? Who thrust the door wider and, as he heard her sobs, gave passionate utterance to a long-stored greeting ? “Natalie, my darling!” She turned as if the dead had called her, turned with ashen face. “Huntl Oh, God I You are not dead!” “Not dead, oh, my loved one!” and his arms received her; and she was safe.— Chicago Ledger .