A Desertion

The yellow gaslight that came with an effect of difficulty through the
dust-stained windows on either side of the door gave strange hues to the
faces and forms of the three women who stood gabbling in the hallway of
the tenement. They made rapid gestures, and in the background their
enormous shadows mingled in terrific conflict.

"Aye, she ain't so good as he thinks she is, I'll bet. He can watch over
'er an' take care of 'er all he pleases, but when she wants t' fool 'im,
she'll fool 'im. An' how does he know she ain't foolin' im' now?"

"Oh, he thinks he's keepin' 'er from goin' t' th' bad, he does. Oh, yes.
He ses she's too purty t' let run round alone. Too purty! Huh! My
Sadie--"

"Well, he keeps a clost watch on 'er, you bet. On'y las' week, she met
my boy Tim on th' stairs, an' Tim hadn't said two words to 'er b'fore
th' ol' man begin to holler. 'Dorter, dorter, come here, come here!'"

At this moment a young girl entered from the street, and it was evident
from the injured expression suddenly assumed by the three gossipers that
she had been the object of their discussion. She passed them with a
slight nod, and they swung about into a row to stare after her.

On her way up the long flights the girl unfastened her veil. One could
then clearly see the beauty of her eyes, but there was in them a certain
furtiveness that came near to marring the effects. It was a peculiar
fixture of gaze, brought from the street, as of one who there saw a
succession of passing dangers with menaces aligned at every corner.

On the top floor, she pushed open a door and then paused on the
threshold, confronting an interior that appeared black and flat like a
curtain. Perhaps some girlish idea of hobgoblins assailed her then, for
she called in a little breathless voice, "Daddie!"

There was no reply. The fire in the cooking-stove in the room crackled
at spasmodic intervals. One lid was misplaced, and the girl could now
see that this fact created a little flushed crescent upon the ceiling.
Also, a series of tiny windows in the stove caused patches of red upon
the floor. Otherwise, the room was heavily draped with shadows.

The girl called again, "Daddie!"

Yet there was no reply.

"Oh, Daddie!"

Presently she laughed as one familiar with the humors of an old man.
"Oh, I guess yer cussin' mad about yer supper, Dad," she said, and she
almost entered the room, but suddenly faltered, overcome by a feminine
instinct to fly from this black interior, peopled with imagined dangers.

Again she called, "Daddie!" Her voice had an accent of appeal. It was as
if she knew she was foolish but yet felt obliged to insist