Amy was kindly received by Madam when she reached her house after that terrible night on the streets of Cleveland, and under the woman's skillful treatment, rapidly regained her strength and beauty. Never doubting that Whitley had made it impossible for her ever to return to Boyd City, she felt that she was dead to the kindly world she had once known, and looked upon the life she was entering as her only refuge from the cruel world she had learned to know. Several of the girls proved very pleasant and sympathetic companions. Little by little she grew accustomed to her surroundings and learned to look upon the life they led from their point of view; and when the time came for her to join the company in the parlor she accepted her lot with calm resignation.
When she had carefully dressed in a silken evening gown provided by Madam, she made her way alone down to the wine rooms. The scene that met her eye was beautiful and fascinating. The apartment was large and brilliantly lighted; the furniture, appointments and pictures were of the finest, with rare bits of statuary half-hidden in banks of choicest flowers. Upon the floor were carpets and rugs, in which the foot sank as in beds of moss; and luxurious chairs and couches invited the visitor to ease and indolence. From behind silken curtains came soft strains of music, and deft waiters glided here and there, bearing trays of expensive wines and liquors.
Seated at the card tables, drinking, laughing and playing, were the wealthy patrons of the place, and mingling with them, the girls, all of exceptional grace and beauty, dressed in glittering evening costume; but not one eclipsed the radiant creature who stood with flushed cheeks and shining eyes hesitating on the threshold.
Madam, moving here and there among her guests, saw Amy as she stood in the doorway, and went to her at once. Leading the girl to a little alcove at one end of the room, she presented her to a middle-aged man who was seated by himself and seemed to be waiting for someone. Amy did not know that he was waiting for her. As the three stood there chatting, a servant came quietly to Madam's side and whispered in her jeweled ear.
"Certainly," she answered, "Tell them to come in." Then turning, she stepped to a table and rapping with her fan to attract attention, cried, "The Salvation Army people want to hold a prayer meeting here, what do you say?"
There was a babble of voices, shrieks of feminine laughter, and an oath or two from the men. Some shouted, "Let them come." Others protested until Madam stopped the clamor by saying sharply: "Of course they shall come in. You know it is my custom never to refuse these people. I respect and admire them. They believe in their own teaching and live what they preach; and I want it understood that they shall not be insulted in this house. Jake--" A huge ex-prize fighter stepped into the room from a side door. "You all know Jake, gentlemen," continued Madam, with a smile; "and if you are not acquainted with him you can easily obtain an introduction by making some slighting remark, or offering an insult to these Salvation Soldiers. Here they come; remember."
As the little band of men and women filed slowly in, everybody rose at a sign from Madam, and gathered about the soldiers, who took their position in the center of the room; all except the girl in the alcove, who turned her back to the group and stood partly screened by the lace drapery of the archway.
The visitors opened their service with a song, rendered with much good taste and feeling. Not loud and martial as on the street, but soft, low and pleading. Many eyes glistened and many lips trembled when the song came to a close; and as the singers dropped to their knees, not a few heads involuntarily bowed.
One after another, the little band prayed, pleading with God to be kind and merciful to the erring; asking the Father, in the name of Jesus, to pity and forgive. Truly it was a picture of great contrasts--of brightest lights and deepest shadows--almost as when the Son of God prayed for his enemies, and wept because they were his enemies.
Three out of the six had offered their prayers and the fourth began to speak: "Our Father and our God,"--At the first word, uttered in a clear, manly, but subdued tone, the girl behind the curtain started violently; and as the prayer continued slowly, in that voice so full of manly truth and vigor, she raised her head and the rich blood colored neck and cheek. Little by little the hard look in her eyes gave way to mingled wonder, doubt and awe; then the blood fled back to the trembling heart again, leaving her face as white as the marble figure near which she stood; and then, as though compelled by a power superior to her own will, she turned slowly, and stepped from her hiding place into full view. As if stricken dumb, she stood until the prayer was finished. The captain gave the signal and the little company rose to their feet.
"O God!" The young soldier who had prayed last, sprang forward; but he was not quick enough, for before he could cross the room, with a moan of unutterable anguish, the girl sank to the floor.
"God help us, she's dead," cried Dick. And dropping on one knee, he supported the senseless girl in his arms.
All was confusion in an instant. Men and women crowded about their companion, and the Salvationists looked at one another in pity, surprise and wonder. Then Madam spoke: "Girls be quiet. Gentlemen make way. Amy is not dead. Bring her in here." The stalwart prize-fighter touched Dick on the shoulder and the latter, with the lovely form still in his arms, followed as in a dream, to Madam's own private apartments. A doctor came, in answer to a hurried call, and after no little effort the color slowly returned to the cheeks and the long, dark lashes began to tremble.
The physician turned to Dick. "Leave us now; she must not see you at first."
Dick looked at Madam. "May I have a few words privately with you?"
The woman nodded; and with the Army captain, they retired to another room, leaving Amy in charge of the doctor and one of the Salvation lassies.
Then Dick told Madam and the captain the whole story of Amy's life and home, how she had gone away because of her father's mistake, how Whitley had deceived her, and how they had searched for her in vain. Then as he told of the mother's broken health, and the sorrowing friends, though he made no mention of himself, they could not but read as he spoke of others, something of his own trouble.
Tears gathered in Madam's eyes, and when the tale was finished, she said: "Somehow I have always felt that Amy would never remain with us." And then she told of the poor girl's bitter experience alone in the great city, and how as a last resort, she had accepted her present situation. "She is more refined and gentle than the others," continued Madam, "and in my heart, I have always hoped that she would leave here. But what could she do? She had no friends; and we can't afford to have any feelings in this wretched business. Oh sir, this life is a very Hell on earth, and bad as I am, I would never lay a straw in any girl's way who wanted to get out of it. I am glad, glad, that you came in time. You know, captain, that I have never opposed your work; and have seen you take several girls from my place without protest. But I can't be expected to look after them myself."
They discussed the situation for some time, and finally Madam said again, "Mr.--; I don't know your name, and I don't want to; you wear that uniform and that's enough for me--just let Amy remain here for a day or two. One of the Salvation girls will stay with her, and can do more for her than you. She shall have my own room and no one shall see her. Then when she is strong enough, you may come and take her if she will go; a............