Loves Entanglement
THE VICTIM
It was in a little woodland glen, with a streamlet
tumbling through it. She sat with her back to
a snowy birch-tree, gazing into the eddies of a pool
below; and he lay beside her, upon the soft, mossy
ground, reading out of a book of poems. Images
of joy were passing before them; and there came four
lines with a picture—
“Hard by, a cottage-chimney
smokes,
From betwixt two aged oaks,
Where Corydon and Thyrsis,
met,
Are at their savory dinner
set.”
“Ah!” said she. “I always loved
that. Let us be Corydon and Thyrsis!”
He smiled. “They were both of them men,”
he said.
“Let us change it,” she responded—“just
between ourselves!”
“Very well—Corydon!” said he.
Then, after a moment’s thought, she added, “But
we didn’t have the cottage.”
“No,” said he—“nor even
the dinner!”
Section 1. It was the Highway of Lost Men.
They shivered, and drew their shoulders together as
they walked, for it was night, and a cold, sleety
rain was falling. The lights from saloons and
pawn-shops fell upon their faces—faces haggard
and gaunt with misery, or bloated with disease and
sin. Some stared before them fixedly; some gazed
about with furtive and hungry eyes as they shuffled
on. Here and there a policeman stood in the shelter,
swinging his club and watching them as they passed.
Music called to them from dives and dance-halls, and
lighted signs and flaring-colored pictures tempted
them in the entrances of cheap museums and theatres;
they lingered before these, glad of even a moment’s
shelter. Overhead the elevated trains pounded
by; and from the windows one could see men crowded
about the stoves in the rooms of lodging-houses, where
the steam from their garments made a blur in the air.
Down this highway walked a lad, about fifteen years
of age, pale of face, and with delicate and sensitive
features. His overcoat was buttoned tightly about
his neck, and his hands thrust into his pockets; he
gazed around him swiftly as he walked. He came
to this place every now and then, but he never grew
used to what he saw.
He eyed the men who passed him; and when he came to
a saloon he would push open the door and gaze about.
Sometimes he would enter, and hurry through, to peer
into the compartments in the back; and then go out
again, giving a wide berth to the drinkers, and shrinking
from their glances. Once a girl appeared in a
doorway, and smiled and nodded to him; he started
and hurried out, shuddering. Her wanton black
eyes haunted him, hinting unimaginable things.
Then, on a corner, he stopped and spoke to a policeman.
“Hello!” said the man, and shook his head—“No,
not this time.” So the boy went on; there
were several miles of this Highway, and each block
of it the same.
