Part 40 (1/2)

”Oh, is she? I am sure then I am very sorry. Can I do anything about helping to get her ready to be buried?”

”No, she was buried long ago. You may see her grave some day in Greenwood Cemetery.”

”I don't see, then, what was the gentleman's great hurry, if n.o.body is sick and n.o.body to be buried.”

”Perhaps the mother is sick--perhaps in want--perhaps some unknown power has drawn him to her a.s.sistance. I have seen stranger things than that. This is a strange world.”

”Indeed it is, ma'am. And there is a strange noise in the street.” And she looked from the window.

”What can it be, Bridget, there is a crowd around our area fence, and see, there is a woman under the steps by the bas.e.m.e.nt door. Go down and see what is the matter. Are you afraid? Well then, I will go with you; it is somebody that a parcel of brutal men and boys are persecuting. No matter who, or what she is, she is a woman, and should be protected.”

So down they went and she said to them, ”Oh men, men, where is your manhood, thus to hunt a woman through the streets? Have you forgotten that mothers bore you in pain into this world? Have you no daughters, no sisters, are you savages--wolves--is this a lamb or stricken deer, that ye trail by her b.l.o.o.d.y track?”

”No, ma'am,” said a bull pup looking boy, ”she is drunk, and we is just having a little fun with her, that is all.”

G.o.d of mercy! Didst thou make man in thine own image, and yet leave him void of that heavenly attribute--mercy! Why, ”a merciful man is merciful to his beast,” and yet these images of their Maker hunt this poor woman through the streets of a Christian city, as savages hunt tigers through the jungles of Africa--for fun. What for? ”She is drunk.” A potent reason, surely. Who made her so? How came she drunk? Who is she, what is she? No matter, she is a woman, in distress at a woman's door, and she must, she shall be protected. There is a commotion in the crowd. The human blood-hounds are about to lose their prey--They want more _fun_.

”Bring her out Bill, never mind the women--it is none of their business--bring her out and let us see her run again. She is a real '2.40' nag.”

And they shouted and screamed like so many wild Indians.

What but savages are they? True they had white skins and Christian clothes, and spoke the language of a civilized nation, and dwelt in ”one of the first cities in the world.” Yet they pursued a poor, young, helpless female, like a hunted hare through the streets, and now press hard upon her two protectors; one a delicate, sickly lady, the other a timid servant girl, with a cry to Bill, the leader, to ”bring her out”--to drag her by force from where she has sunk down upon the very threshold of a house which she hopes may offer her protection, yet she dares not ask it. Shame has overcome her, she buries her face in her hands as she sits crouched up in a corner, but neither looks up nor speaks. The crowd press forward, the servant shrinks back, the lady stands firm, with a determination to protect or perish.

Can she do it? What can a woman without strength, do against a pack of loosened blood-hounds, already licking their chops with delight at the sight of their prey?

”Drag her out, some of ye, down there, why don't ye,” screamed a human tiger, in the rear of the crowd; ”don't mind that woman, she is no better than the gal. Let me in and I'll bring her.”

A strong hand is laid upon the poor girl's arm, and for the first time she looks up, but ventures not a word. The look was enough. It appealed to a woman's heart for protection--an appeal that never failed. How can she protect the helpless with her feeble strength, against the brutal force of rum crazed men and vicious boys, who shout, ”drag her out, drag her out.”

Will they do it? They heed not the appealing look of their victim--their object of sport--_fun_--fun for them, death to her. They heed not the appealing words of her who would protect. G.o.d help you, poor soul, you have drank wine--you are drunk in the streets at midnight--you have none but those who are as weak as yourself, to save you, poor, timid, stricken fawn.

”Drag her out, drag her out.” How it rung in her ears! How those terrible words went down into her soul!

Succor is at hand.

There was a shout, a yell, a horrid scream of anguish, a few hurried oaths, a pus.h.i.+ng, shoving, care-for-self-only struggle among the crowd, as a shower of smoking water fell among them, and they were gone.

The lady turned her eyes, and there stood Mrs. McTravers, in her night cap, pail in hand, her effective engine of war.

”Oh, Mrs. McTravers, how could you scald them?”

”Didn't they deserve it, the brutes?”

”Yes, yes; no, not so bad as that. I am afraid you have put out their eyes.”

”Oh, never fear that. Didn't I timper it, like 'the wind to the shorn lamb,' just warm enough to wash the faces of the dirty spalpeens, and give them a good fright? How the cowards did run. What were they afraid of? I had spent all my ammunition in the first volley. This is nothing but cold water, and that never hurt anybody. It is a pity the scurvy dogs did not use more of it every day, and nothing else. They would never chase poor girls through the streets, if they drank nothing but water.”

”Come, young woman, you can get up now and go home, if you have any to go to, and if you have not, what are you going to do with yourself?”