“What do you mean?” asked the girl, puzzled. “What can I do for you?”
“Youse kin do dis fer me. When Mallory gits here youse kin tell him dat de engagement is all on again—see!”
In the wide eyes of the girl Billy read a deeper hurt than he had dreamed of. He had thought that it would not be difficult for her to turn back from the vulgar mucker to the polished gentleman. And when he saw that she was suffering, and guessed that it was because he had tried to crush her love by brute force he could carry the game no further.
“O Barbara,” he cried, “can’t you see that Mallory is your kind—that he is a fit mate for you. I have learned since I came into this house a few minutes ago the unbridgeable chasm that stretches between Billy Byrne, the mucker, and such as you. Once I aspired; but now I know just as you must have always known, that a single lifetime is far too short for a man to cover the distance from Grand Avenue to Riverside Drive.
“I want you to be happy, Barbara, just as I intend to be. Back there in Chicago there are plenty of girls on Grand Avenue as straight and clean and fine as they make ’em on Riverside Drive. Girls of my own kind, they are, and I’m going back there to find the one that God intended for me. You’ve taught me what a good girl can do toward making a man of a beast. You’ve taught me pride and self-respect. You’ve taught me so much that I’d rather that I’d died back there beneath the spears of Oda Iseka’s warriors than live here beneath the sneers and contempt of servants, and the pity and condescension of your friends.
“I want you to be happy, Barbara, and so I want you to promise me that you’ll marry Billy Mallory. There isn’t any man on earth quite good enough for you; but Mallory comes nearer to it than anyone I know. I’ve heard ’em talking about him around town since I came back—and there isn’t a rotten story chalked up against him nowhere, and that’s a lot more than you can say for ninety-nine of a hundred New Yorkers that are talked about at all.
“And Mallory’s a man, too—the kind that every woman ought to have, only they ain’t enough of ’em to go ’round. Do you remember how he stood up there on the deck of the Lotus and fought fair against my dirty tricks? He’s a man and a gentleman, Barbara—the sort you can be proud of, and that’s the sort you got to have. You see I know you.
“And he fought against those fellows of Yoka in the street of Oda Iseka’s village like a man should fight. There ain’t any yellow in him, Barbara, and he didn’t leave me until there seemed no other way, even in the face of the things I told them to make them go. Don’t harbor that against him—I only wonder that he didn’t croak me; your dad wanted to, and Mallory wouldn’t let him.”
“They never told me that,” said Barbara.
The bell rang.
“Here he is now,” said Billy. “Goodbye—I’d rather not see him. Smith’ll let me out the servants’ door. Guess that’ll make him feel better. You’ll do as I ask, Barbara?”
He had paused at the door, turning toward her as he asked the final question.
The girl stood facing him. Her eyes were dim with unshed tears. Billy Byrne swam before them in a hazy mist.
“You’ll do as I ask, Barbara!” he repeated, but this time it was a command.
As Mallory entered the room Barbara heard the door of the servants’ entrance slam behind Billy Byrne.
Part II
I
The Murder Trial
Billy Byrne squared his broad shoulders and filled his deep lungs with the familiar medium which is known as air in Chicago. He was standing upon the platform of a New York Central train that was pulling into the La Salle Street Station, and though the young man was far from happy something in the nature of content pervaded his being, for he was coming home.
After something more than a year of world wandering and strange adventure Billy Byrne was coming back to the great West Side and Grand Avenue.
Now there is not much upon either side or down the center of long and tortuous Grand Avenue to arouse enthusiasm, nor was Billy particularly enthusiastic about that more or less squalid thoroughfare.
The thing that exalted Billy was the idea that he was coming back to show them. He had left under a cloud and with a reputation for genuine toughness and rowdyism that has seen few parallels even in the ungentle district of his birth and upbringing.
A girl had changed him. She was as far removed from Billy’s sphere as the stars themselves; but Billy had loved her and learned from her, and in trying to become more as he knew the men of her class were he had sloughed off much of the uncouthness that had always been a part of him, and all of the rowdyism. Billy Byrne was no longer the mucker.
He had given her up because he imagined the gulf between Grand Avenue and Riverside Drive to be unbridgeable; but he still clung to the ideals she had awakened in him. He still sought to be all that she might wish him to be, even though he realized that he never should see her again.
Grand Avenue would be the easiest place to forget his sorrow—her he could never forget. And then, his newly awakened pride urged him back to the haunts of his former life that he might, as he would put it himself, show them. He wanted the gang to see that he, Billy Byrne, wasn’t afraid to be decent. He wanted some of the neighbors to realize that he could
