_ CHAPTER X
Mrs. Farley's establishment was situated on Forty ----th Street, between Eighth and Ninth Avenues, a neighborhood at one time much in vogue, but now given up almost entirely to boarding-houses of the cheaper kind. Old-fashioned brownstone residences, with high ceilings, cracked walls, dirty, paper-patched windows, and narrow little gardens choked up with weeds, they were as unattractive-looking from without as they were gloomy and destitute of comfort within. Yet poverty-stricken as were the surroundings, the street itself was respectable enough. As in the case of a homely woman, its very ugliness served to keep its morals above reproach. Vice required more alluring quarters than these for profitable pursuit of its red-light trade. If, therefore, a woman stood in need of a certificate of character, all that was necessary was to say that she lived there.
The back room, which, for nearly six long, weary weeks Laura had occupied on the second floor was characteristic of the place and the class of lodgers who lived there. For years the house had been falling into general decay, with no attempt at repairs. The ceilings were cracked; the wall-paper was old and spotted, and in places hung down brazenly in loose flaps. The cheap carpet was worn threadbare, with here and there large rents, which acted as so many dangerous pitfalls for the unwary. The furniture, of the cheapest possible description, comprised a large, old-fashioned wardrobe, for the most part full of rubbish, a dresser scattered with a few cheap toilet articles, a broken-down washstand and a three-quarter old wooden bed, which, placed against the wall right in the center of the room, monopolized most of the little space there was. At the foot of the bed, a small table, covered with a soiled and ink-stained cloth, was heaped with newspapers and magazines; on the right, facing the door, leading to the hall outside, an old-style mantelpiece surmounted a rusty fireplace. A single arm gas jet served for illuminating purposes, and in a little alcove stood a table with a small gas stove connected by rubber tubing with a gas fixture. There were two windows in the room, opening outward in the French manner on to a dilapidated balcony which overlooked the street below.
This was the wretched place for which Laura had given up all her former ease and magnificence--her $8,000 apartment, her crystal bathtub, her French maid, her automobile, and every other conceivable luxury. The descent from affluence to actual want had been gradual, but none the less swift and sure. It had cost her many a bitter pang, many an hour of keen humiliation, but she had made the sacrifice willingly, cheerfully, feeling in her heart that he would wish it and commend her for it. In all her troubles, John was never for a moment out of her thoughts. Everywhere about the room were reminders of the man who any day might return to claim her for his wife. On the dresser stood a small photograph of him in a cheap frame; tacked over the head of the bed was a larger portrait. A small bow of dainty blue ribbon at the top covered the tack, and underneath was a bunch of violets, now withered, but a silent and touching tribute to the absent one.
The room showed every evidence of being occupied, and at a glance it was easy to guess the vocation and also the sex of the tenant. In the wardrobe hung a few old dresses, most of them a good deal worn and shabby, while in an open drawer at the bottom could be seen several old pairs of women's shoes. On an armchair was thrown a cheap kimona. The dresser, in keeping with the general meanness, was adorned with pictorial postcards stuck in between the mirror and the frame, and on it were all the accessories necessary to the actress--powder box and puff, a rouge box and a rabbit's paw, a hand mirror, a small alcohol curling-iron heater, and a bottle of cheap perfume, purple in color, and nearly empty. On the mantelpiece were arranged photographs of actors and actresses and pieces of cheap bric-a-brac. Conspicuous in a corner was a huge theatrical trunk, plastered with the labels of hotels and theatres. Had the lid been raised, a caller might have seen in the tray, among the remnants of a once elaborate wardrobe, one little token that told at once the whole miserable story--a bundle of pawntickets!
Another week had gone by, and Laura's situation, instead of improving, grew steadily more precarious. An engagement seemed farther away than ever; it was impossible to secure one of any kind. One disappointment followed another. Either the companies were all full, or the part offered was not in her line. Managers consciencelessly broke their promises; Mr. Quiller and the other dramatic agents were blandly indifferent. Meantime no money was coming in, and the girl was completely at the end of her resources. Her clothes were now little better than rags; very soon she would not be able to go out at all, let alone make the round of the managers' offices. She owed three weeks rent to her landlady, a matter-of-fact, hard-as-nails type of woman, who was not to be put off much longer with mere promises. Unless she could settle soon, Mrs. Farley would tell her to get out, and then where could she go?
Perhaps for the first time in her life Laura realized now how utterly alone she was in the world. Never had it seemed to her so big, so indifferent, so heartless. Her parents were dead, and as far as she knew she had no relatives. Friends--so-called friends--were at best only fair weather acquaintances. There was not one from whom she would accept assistance. One man would help her, a man to whose generosity she could appeal with the certainty of instant response--Willard Brockton. But she would die sooner. She would not confess defeat. The one being who really cared for her and to whom she could properly appeal was thousands of miles away, in complete ignorance of her plight. She could telegraph him for money, but he might not understand, and she was too proud to lay her actions open to misconstruction. No, she must have patience and wait. If she had to go out scrubbing she would hold out until John Madison came back for her. But it was a bitter experience for a girl who had grown accustomed to every luxury, and, at times, her fortitude and patience were tried to the utmost. The constant humiliation, to say nothing of the mental and physical suffering, was sometimes more than she could bear, and there were many nights when she sobbed herself to sleep. Even her good looks suffered. Constant anxiety made her thin; sleepless nights drove the color from her cheeks and put dark circles round her eyes. She did not have even enough to eat. Forced to economize, she went without regular meals, satisfying her hunger cravings with what little she could cook herself in her own comfortless room.
But in these dark hours, there was one ray of light, and that was her serene faith in her absent lover. She was convinced now that her attachment for the journalist was no passing fancy, no mere caprice of the moment. For the first time in her life, she felt the uplifting, exalted emotion of a pure love, and it seemed to burn in her bosom like a cleansing touch, wiping out the stain in her past. With all her experiences, tragic and otherwise, Laura Murdock had found nothing equal to this sudden, swiftly increasing love for the young Westerner.
That he would come back for her sooner or later, she never for a moment doubted. Of his perfect loyalty, she was convinced. He was her one thought, night and day, and there was no keener pleasure in this, her new life, than in maintaining their constant correspondence. Not a day passed that did not carry a letter Westwards; each morning the postman brought a letter from Madison, full of what he was doing, setting enthusiastically forth his plans for the future. These letters, which were her most treasured possessions, she kept in a big, cardboard box under the bed. By actual count, there were 125 letters and 80 telegrams, tied in eight separate bundles with dainty blue ribbon. On days when she was particularly depressed and discouraged, she felt comforted if she could drag out the letter-box and reread the messages from the loved one.
This is what she was doing one afternoon about a week after her fruitless visit to Mr. Quiller's office. The weather being stormy, she could not go out, so, after lunching abundantly on a glass of milk and a few dry crackers, she once more dragged the box from under the bed. Selecting a bundle of letters, she climbed on the bed, and, squatting down, her feet crossed in Oriental fashion, proceeded to enjoy them. Every now and then she would glance up from the sheet of closely written paper, and take a long, loving look at the large portrait of her sweetheart over the bed.
While thus busily engaged, there suddenly came a knock at the door. Quickly Laura jumped from the bed, replaced the letters in the box, which she slid back in its place, and called out:
"Come in."
Cautiously the door was opened a few inches, and a chocolate-colored negress put her head in. Seeing that Laura was alone, she pushed the door open wider and came in, letter in hand.
"Hello, Annie!" said Laura amiably.
"Heah's yo' mail, Miss Laura," said the slavey, with a significant leer.
"Thank you," said the young actress, taking the proffered missive.
She merely glanced at the familiar, beloved superscription, making no attempt to open the envelope in the presence of the maid. But Annie, the slovenly type of negress one encounters in cheap theatrical boarding-houses, showed no disposition to withdraw. Like most servants, she was inquisitive, and never neglected an opportunity to spy and gossip, considering it a part of her duties to learn everything possible of the private affairs of the lodgers. Quite unlike the traditional, smiling, good-natured "mammy" of the South, she was one of those cunning, crafty, heartless, surly Northern negresses, who, to the number of thousands, seek employment as maids with women of easy morals, and, infesting a certain district of New York where white and black people of the lower classes mingle indiscriminately, make it one of the most criminal and dangerous sections of the city. Innately and brutally selfish, such women prey on those they profess to serve, and are honest and faithful only so long as it serves their purpose.
Annie kept one eye on the letter, while she pretended to tidy things about the room. Presently she said:
"One like dat comes every mornin', don't it? Used to all be postmahked Denver. Must 'a' moved."
As she spoke, she tried to get a glimpse of the letter over Laura's shoulder, but as the actress turned, she quickly looked away, and added:
"Where is dat place called Goldfield, Miss Laura?"
"In Nevada."
"In
Nevada?" echoed the woman, laying comical stress on the pronunciation.
"Yes--Nevada. What's strange about that?"
Annie drew her jacket closer around her, as if she were chilly. Shaking her head, she said:
"Must be mighty smaht to write yuh every day. De pos'man brings it 'leven o'clock mos' always, sometimes twelve, and again sometimes tehn. Today he was late. But it comes, every day, don't it?"
"I know," said Laura, with a faint smile.
She disliked the negress, but reasons of policy prompted her always to appear cordial. Annie began brushing the armchair vigorously, and, as she worked, tried once more to see the postmark on the letter. Finally she said:
"Guess mus' be from yo' husban', ain't it?"
Laura shook her head.
"No, I haven't any."
The negress whisked her feather duster triumphantly.
"Dat's what Ah tole Mis' Farley when she was down talkin' about yo' dis mornin'. She said if he was yo' husban' he might do somethin' to help yo' out. Ah tole her Ah didn't think yo' had any husban'. Den she says yo' ought to have one, yo're so pretty."
Laura laughed.
"Don't be so foolish, Annie."
Noticing that she had left the room door ajar, the negress went and banged it shut. Then, proceeding to hang a clean towel on the washstand, she continued gossiping:
"Der ain't a decent door in dis old house. Mis' Farley said yo' might have mos' any man yo' wanted just for de askin', but Ah said yuh was too particular about the man yo'd want. Den she did a heap o' talkin'."
"About what?" demanded Laura quickly.
She was amused as well as annoyed at the woman's impudence, but it was just as well to know what was being said about her downstairs. Pretending, therefore, to be interested, and curbing her impatience, she placed the still unopened letter on the table, and, going to her trunk, took from it a thimble and thread. Closing down the lid again, she sat on the trunk and began to sew a rip in her skirt. Annie, meantime, had begun to fuss at making the bed.
"Well, yo' know," went on the maid, "Mis' Farley she's been havin' so much trouble wid her roomers. Yestuhday dat young lady on de second flo' front, she lef. She's gwine wid some troupe on the road. She owed her room for three weeks, and jus' had to leave her trunk. My! how Mis' Farley did scold her. Mis' Farley let on she could have paid dat money if she wanted to, but, somehow, Ah guess she couldn't----"
She was carrying the pillows round the table, when suddenly she stopped talking and stooped to inspect the letter, which was still lying there. Laura happened to look up. Indignantly, she exclaimed:
"Annie!"
The negress looked confused, but was not otherwise abashed. Going on with her work, she continued coolly:
"--For if she could, she wouldn't have left her trunk, would she, Miss Laura?"
"No, I suppose not," replied the actress guardedly. After a pause, she asked: "What did Mrs. Farley say about me?"
The negress picked up the kimona from the chair and carried it to the wardrobe. With some hesitation, she said:
"Oh, nothin' much."
She needed encouragement, and Laura gave it to her.
"Well, what?"
Thus coaxed, Annie went on:
"She kinder say somethin' 'bout yo' bein' three weeks behind in yo' room rent, an' she said she t'ought it was 'bout time yuh handed her somethin', seem' as how yuh must o' had some stylish friends when yuh come here."
"Who, for instance?"
"Ah don't know. Mis' Farley said some of 'em might slip yo' enough jest to help yuh out." Stopping in her work, she looked curiously at the actress. "Ain't yo' got nobody to take care of yo' at all, Miss Laura?"
Laura shook her head despondently. Sadly, she replied:
"No! No one."
"Dat's too bad."
"Why?"
The negress grinned. Significantly, she said:
"Mis' Farley says yuh wouldn't have no trouble at all gettin' any man to take care of yuh if yuh wanted to."
Laura averted her head. A chill ran through her. Only too well she knew what the girl meant. She wished she would stop gossiping and go. With some display of irritation, she said:
"Don't talk that way, Annie--please."
But the negress was not to be put off so easily. In her coarse, brutal way, she felt sorry for the pretty young lady, and aware that in some quarters good looks are negotiable, she felt chagrined that such valuable assets should not be realized upon. Playing nervously with a corner of the table-cloth, she continued:
"Dere's a gemman dat calls on one of de ladies from de Circus, in de big front room downstairs. He's mighty nice, and he's been askin' 'bout yo'."
"Oh, shut up!" cried Laura, thoroughly exasperated.
The doors of the wardrobe, being loose on their hinges, kept swinging open, and the negress several times had impatiently slammed them shut. Turning to Laura, she went on:
"Mis' Farley says----"
The doors came open again, and hit her in the back. This time the maid lost her temper completely. Giving them a vicious push, she exclaimed:
"Damn dat door!"
Then going to the washstand, and grabbing a basin which was half-full of water, she emptied it into the waste jar. Now thoroughly angry, she went on sourly:
"Mis' Farley says if she don't get some one in the house dat has reg'lar money soon, she'll have to shut up and go to the po'house."
A look of distress and annoyance crossed Laura's face. It was hard to hear this from a menial.
"I'm sorry," she said; "I'll try again to-day."
Rising from the trunk, she crossed the room, and, taking a desk-pad from the mantel-piece, returned and took a seat at the table.
"Ain't yo' got any job at all?" demanded Annie, who was watching her as closely as she dared.
"No."
"When yuh come here yuh had lots of money and yo' was mighty good to me. You know Mr. Weston?"
"Jim Weston?"
"Yassum, Mr. Weston, what goes ahead o' shows and lives on the top floor back; he says nobody's got jobs now. Dey're so many actors and actresses out o' work. Mis' Farley says she don't know how she's goin' to live. She said you'd been mighty nice up until three weeks ago, but yuh ain't got much left, have you, Miss Laura?"
The girl shook her head mournfully.
"No. It's all gone."
The negress threw up her hands and from sheer excitement sat plump down on the bed.
"Mah sakes!" she exclaimed, rolling her eyes. "All dem rings and things? You ain't done sold them?"
"They're pawned," said Laura sadly. "What did Mrs. Farley say she was going to do?"
"Guess maybe Ah'd better not tell."
"Please do."
"Yuh been so good to me, Miss Laura. Never was nobody in dis house what give me so much, and Ah ain't been gettin' much lately. And when Mis' Farley said yuh must either pay yo' rent or she would ask yuh for your room, Ah jest set right down on de back kitchen stairs and cried. Besides, Mis' Farley don't like me very well since you've been havin' yo' breakfasts and dinners brought up here."
"Why not?"
Taking the kimona off the chair-back,' Laura went to the dresser, and, putting the kimona in the drawer, took out her purse, an action not unobserved by the stealthy African, who at once grew correspondingly more amiable and communicative.
"She has a rule in dis house dat nobody can use huh chiny or fo'ks or spoons who ain't boa'ding heah, and de odder day when yuh asked me to bring up a knife and fo'k she ketched me coming upstairs, and she says, 'Where yuh goin' wid all dose things, Annie?' Ah said, 'Ah'm just goin' up to Miss Laura's room with dat knife and fo'k.' Ah said, 'Ah'm goin' up for nothin' at all, Mis' Farley, she jest wants to look at them, Ah guess.' She said, 'She wants to eat huh dinner wid 'em, Ah guess.' Ah got real mad, and Ah told her if she'd give me mah pay Ah'd brush right out o' here; dat's what Ah'd do, Ah'd brush right out o' here."
She shook out the towel violently, as if to emphasize her indignation. Laura could not restrain a smile.
"I'm sorry, Annie, if I've caused you any trouble. Never mind, I'll be able to pay the rent to-morrow or next day, anyway."
Fumbling in her purse, she took out a quarter, and turned to the servant:
"Here!"
"No, ma'am; Ah don' want dat," said Annie, making a show of reluctance.
"Please take it," insisted Laura.
"No, ma'am; Ah don' want it. You need dat. Dat's breakfast money for yuh, Miss Laura."
"Please take it, Annie. I might just as well get rid of this as anything else."
Rather reluctantly, the negress took the money. With a grin, she said:
"Yuh always was so good, Miss Laura. Sho' yuh don' want dis?"
"Sure."
"Sho' yo' goin' to get plenty mo'?"
"Sure."
Suddenly a shrill, feminine voice was heard downstairs, calling loudly:
"Annie! Annie!"
The negress hastily went to the door and opened it.
"Dat's Mis' Farley!" she said in an undertone. Answering in the same key, she shouted: "Yassum, Mis' Farley."
"Is Miss Murdock up there?" cried the same voice.
"Yassum, Mis' Farley; yassum!"
"Anything doin'?"
"Huh?"
"Anything doin'?"
The negress hesitated, and looked at Laura.
"Ah--Ah--hain't asked, Missy Farley."
"Then do it," said the voice determinedly.
Laura advanced to the rescue.
"I'll answer her," she said. Putting her head out of the door, she cried:
"What is it, Mrs. Farley?"
The irate landlady's voice underwent a quick change. In a softened voice, she called up:
"Did ye have any luck this morning, dearie?"
"No; but I promise you faithfully to help you out this afternoon or to-morrow."
"Sure? Are you certain?"
"Absolutely."
"Well, I must say these people expect me to keep----"
There was an exclamation of skeptical impatience, and the door below slammed with a bang. Laura quietly closed her door, through which Mrs. Farley's angry mutterings could still be heard indistinctly. Laura sighed, and, walking to the table, sat down again. Annie looked at her a moment, and then slowly opened the door.
"Yo' sho' dere ain't nothin' I can do fo' yuh, Miss Laura?"
"Nothing," said Laura wearily.
The negress reluctantly turned to go. Her work now finished, there was no further excuse for remaining. Slowly she left the room, carrying her broom and dustpan with her. _