CHAPTER VII

THE GOLDEN-HAIRED ONE

Frank was in Pittsburgh the following Saturday night, and Pittsburgh is a weird city. It is a narrow point of river-ringed land, circled with mills that flame like Inferno all night long. All day the soft-coal smoke shrouds the streets, and at times thickens into a dirty fog. The buildings are soot-blackened and look old. The stranger goes about with an umbrella, momently expecting a storm to break. Not all the water in the Ohio River can keep the hands of the town clean. One dabs up soot from the parlor-table, and clean linen lasts an hour. Out of the mouths of the converters lining the river below shoots up a snow of golden flakes, and as one draws near one hears the wild _klong-a-al_, _bang-bang_, _st-st-st_, _spla_, _wow_ of the mills as of a jungle howling, and one sees half-naked men, like imps, running in and out among the flames. Shanties and palaces cling to the hollows and hills of the town, side by side.

What can a full-blooded man do in such a town on a Saturday night? There are a few theaters, but Frank was not allured. Besides, he was saving money. He had finished his day’s business, and as there was no train for the next town till the morning, he was forced to inhabit Pittsburgh overnight. He had written the daily letter to Edith, and sent it by special delivery. Some old friends had asked him to “go out with the boys.” He had refused, much to their amusement.

So he sauntered down Fifth Avenue, which end to end was a blaze of wild advertisements and glaring shop-windows. The music of the Nickel Theaters blared out over the street; globes of copper light flooded the pavement; a long procession of lighted trolley-cars thumped by, up, and down; and a black swarm of holiday-happy people streamed about him. Newsboys shouted; young girls laughed. For the week’s work was ended, for all save the toilers in the mills--those souls being consumed in the fires of Pittsburgh--and a glad irresponsible freedom leaped from heart to heart, from eye to eye, from lip to lip. A wine of splendor drenched the cool air; an electricity of romance was abroad.

Frank was listless; Frank was lonely. The evening stretched before him interminably long. What should he do? Girls laughed in his eyes--sweet faces, daring faces, flashing faces. He grew restless, feverish. Old voices began to call him; the old wildness swept round him. He could not help thinking back to the wild-oats days, when his Saturday nights held an intoxication long since put by. It was the wine of life that was offered to his lips again; the wine that courses through the veins like fire, and sweeps the brain with a glad delirium. More and more restless he trudged along, trying to keep himself in hand, trying to deafen his ears to the siren voices of the past.

But the Past keeps a strange grip on the soul. Bury the old Frank ever so deep, he is still there. Those brain-cells wrought by the wild young years are still there in the gray convolutions. We are but prisoners of the Past that bore us. And so this night Frank was beginning to pay for his youth.

He was startled to feel these old desires, these old memories swarming over him like roused hornets. And then suddenly he remembered the “golden-haired one”--over the river, in Alleghany, Madge Madden, the strapping Valkyrie-woman, blue-eyed and golden-haired. Madge was a country girl, full-blooded, the health of the hills and the sun and wind not yet worn away. She had not the flaccid appearance of vice; rather the flaunting bold strength of a daring adventuress. She was a strong goddess of the streets. How well Frank remembered her! How she had enchanted him in the old days!

And now strolling along he remembered her glad bold voice; he felt her touch; he saw vividly her face. The young girls smiled on him, recalling the fact that he was handsome. His blood began to beat faster; his pulses thronged with life; he wanted adventure, enjoyment. Edith began to fade far; New York was a long distance to the East; a man lives but once. Why not enjoy _this_ night, too? This night is as real as any other, and it is fast slipping through the fingers.

The old Frank was in the ascendant. His eyes began to sparkle, he smiled, he hurried. By instinct, if not by forethought, he began to wander across dark vacant streets to the river. He paid the penny-toll at the bridge and began walking across. Below him ran the smooth river-tide with here and there a suspended lantern casting its gold or red or green reflection like a lance along the swaying waters. A soft cool air blew sweet over his face, with dark hint of pungent coal smoke. Overhead, here and there, was a star. Behind him glowed the towering city; before him were the low dim lights and the strings of street-lamps of Alleghany. A madness seized him; lusty sang his blood. And so he penetrated those streets, trudging by lonely one and two-story brick houses, and passing now and then some shattered woman who emerged from the shadows.

Those months which had so changed him fell off, dropping into far abysses. And yet, but a few days before he had kissed Edith good-by, and they had shed tears together! And yet this very afternoon he had written her a tender letter, full of heartache and loneliness and passionate vows and sweet kisses--which letter on the morrow Edith would cry over, and press to her lips and her heart. But far away was the sweet, true little woman--quite vanished. Such is the strength of the buried Past.

Up a little hilly street he wandered, entered a dark empty hall, and knocked on a door. He felt laughably excited and daring. He even felt that he had regained his true manhood, that now he was free and bold and brave.

The door flung open. In a dim glow stood the golden-haired one, large as life.

“Who is it?” the voice held harsh, strong music.

“Me, Madge!”

“_You?_” she cried, delighted. “Well, I’ll be hanged! Hello!” She seized his hand and pulled him into the room. “Frank, but I’m glad to see you! Show your face. Let me get a look.”

She had a little asbestos gas-grate rippling low flame under the mantel. No other light was in the room, and the soft blue glow spread out and up, leaving the ceiling and walls in shadow. The air was just cool enough for a bit of fire.

“Well,” he laughed, “I’m here!”

She drew him before the fire, looked him over, and plunged him in a low Morris chair. He settled back comfortably. She took a deep chair opposite, and offered him cigarettes.

They both lit up and puffed idly.

In the dancing blue light he noticed her face, the wild golden hair, the blue eyes and red lips, the rosy cheeks. A little voice in him cried out that there was coarseness and vulgarity in the face, but he hushed it, and gave himself over to enjoyment.

The strong music of her voice rose again:

“You’re a nice one! I’ve been as lonely as a cat!”

“Miss me, Madge?”

She spoke musingly:

“Every Saturday night I thought it was you coming. I had everything ready. Look.”

He looked. On a small table at his side was a bottle of whiskey and a siphon of vichy and two glasses.

“Well!” he cried, his pride roused, “you’re a dandy.”

Her voice was almost sad:

“I’ll never forget _you_ Frank.”

“Oh, why not?” he asked lightly.

“Hard to say,” she sighed. “I’ve known many men--but a woman only takes to one.”

He felt a thrill at the words. Suddenly she laughed gaily, throwing back her head:

“But away with the mopes! This won’t do, my handsome! Fill the glass, and let’s forget!”

He leaned and poured whiskey and sprayed vichy, and each held up a glass.

“Here’s--us,” she cried.

“Us!”

Glasses clinked, and they drank. She put hers on the broad arm of her chair, and leaned over and took his hand and looked in his face.

“Frank, you didn’t go back on me?”

He smiled and shook his head no.

“You’re sure, Frank?”

“Sure,” he muttered.

“You know,” she mused, “they all go, sooner or later, one by one.” She spoke in an intimate rich voice: “You didn’t come here to say good-by?”

“To say hello, Madge,” he murmured.

“Then why,” she asked low, “did you keep me waiting all this time?”

“I was busy.”

“Busy! No, it wasn’t that! I know what it was!”

He laughed softly and she patted his hand.

“It’s some other woman, Frank,” she said slowly, “it’s someone else. I know you. Will-o’-the-wisp!”

He lied to her face:

“No, no!”

Mad was his blood that moment; near were her lips, her eyes, her hair.

“Madge!” he whispered.

She laughed softly:

“I believe the boy still cares.”

She sat back, still laughing, and Frank started to fill his glass again.

Suddenly Madge sat up.

“Hello,” she cried sharply.

Frank turned toward her.

She got to her feet, seized his hands, and pulled him up.

“You’ve changed,” she said sharply, “you’re different. Where’s your horseshoe pin, your high collar, your--Frank! You’re not a sport any more. You’ve toned down. I see it. Don’t say you haven’t. What’s happened?”

“What of it?” he stammered.

“Yes, you have, you have!” She drew him nearer. “Look in my eyes, Frank, look me straight in the eyes.”

He tried to meet her eyes; he was confused and annoyed.

She spoke in a low voice:

“It _is_ some other woman.”

He looked down. She breathed closer.

“Are you going to be married?”

He said nothing.

“Are you going to be married?”

He said angrily:

“What if I am?”

She spoke very low:

“You lied to my face! You lied to my face!”

He could not meet her eyes. Suddenly he felt a terrific sweep of shame pass through him; shame and guilt. Why was he here? He had a sharp vision of Edith, reproach on her face. Why had he come? All passion went out of him; he was angry with Madge, and hated himself.

“Let me alone,” he blustered.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going--good-by!”

She seized his arm:

“No--forgive me--I didn’t mean it--tell me about her, Frank. Tell me!”

He pushed her hand away and started.

“Frank!”

“I’m going to leave you. I had no business to come!”

“But now you’re here. You must stay--you must!”

“I tell you I’m going.”

“You’re not!” Again she seized his arm. “You’re going to stay! You must!”

“Will you let me alone?” He threw off her arm, and reached for his hat.

“Frank! Frank!”

“Good-by!” he cried.

“But just to-night! I didn’t mean it. Can’t you forgive me? For old sakes’ sake?”

“I’m going back to her.”

She laughed wildly:

“Then go. But I’ll have my last kiss!”

She flung her arms about his neck and kissed him. He turned madly, he drew her close. But she pushed him away, wildly laughing.

“Go! Go!”

She opened the door, and seized his arm:

“Go, I tell you!”

He passed through and she slammed the door. Then he reeled out like a drunkard in the cool night air, and knew himself as he was.