CHAPTER VIITHE GREAT CITY
Helen Morrell never forgot her initial impressions of the great city.
These impressions were at first rather startling—then intensely interesting. And they all culminated in a single opinion which time only could prove either true or erroneous.
That belief or opinion Helen expressed in an almost audible exclamation:
“Why! there are so many people here one couldneverfeel lonely!”
This impression came to her after the train had rolled past miles of streets—all perfectly straight, bearing off on either hand to the two rivers that wash Manhattan’s shores; all illuminated exactly alike; all bordered by cliffs of dwellings seemingly cut on the same pattern and from the same material.
With clasped hands and parted lips the girl from Sunset Ranch watched eagerly the glowing streets, parted by the rushing train. As it slowed down at 125th Street she could see far along that broadthoroughfare—an uptown Broadway. There were thousands and thousands of people in sight—with the glare of shoplights—the clanging electric cars—the taxicabs and autos shooting across the main stem of Harlem into the avenues running north and south.
It was as marvelous to the Montana girl as the views of a foreign land upon the screen of a moving picture theatre. She sank back in her seat with a sigh as the train moved on.
“What a wonderful, wonderful place!” she thought. “It looks like fairyland. It is an enchanted place——”
The train, now under electric power, shot suddenly into the ground. The tunnel was odorous and ill-lighted.
“Well,” the girl thought, “I suppose thereisanother side to the big city, too!”
The passengers began to put on their wraps and gather together their hand-luggage. There was much talking and confusion. Some of the tourists had been met at 125th Street by friends who came that far to greet them.
But there was nobody to greet Helen. There was nobody waiting on the platform, to come and clasp her hand and bid her welcome, when the train stopped.
She got down, with her bag, and looked abouther. She saw that the old gentleman with the wig kept step with her. But he did not seem to be noticing her, and presently he disappeared.
The girl from Sunset Ranch walked slowly up into the main building of the Grand Central Terminal with the crowd. There was chattering all about her—young voices, old voices, laughter, squeals of delight and surprise—all the hubbub of a homing crowd meeting a crowd of friends.
And through it all Helen walked, a stranger in a strange land.
She lingered, hoping that Uncle Starkweather’s people might be late. But nobody spoke to her. She did not know that there were matrons and police officers in the building to whom she could apply for advice or assistance.
Naturally independent, this girl of the ranges was not likely to ask a stranger for help. She could find her own way.
She smiled—yet it was a rather wry smile—when she thought of how Dud Stone had told her she would be as much of a tenderfoot in New York as he had been on the plains.
“It’s a fact,” she thought. “But, if they didn’t get my message, I reckon I can find the house, just the same.”
Having been so much in Denver she knew agood deal about city ways. She did not linger about the station long.
Outside there was a row of taxicabs and cabmen. There was an officer, too; but he was engaged at the moment in helping a fussy old lady get seven parcels, a hat box, and a dog basket into a cab.
So Helen walked down the row of waiting taxicabs. At the end cab the chauffeur on the seat turned around and beckoned.
“Cab, Miss? Take you anywhere you say.”
“You know where this number on Madison Street is, of course?” she said, showing a card with the address on it.
“Sure, Miss. Jump right in.”
“How much will it be?”
“Trunk, Miss?”
“Yes. Here is the check.”
The chauffeur got out of his seat quickly and took the check.
“It’s so much a mile. The little clock tells you the fare,” he said, pleasantly.
“All right,” replied Helen. “You get the trunk,” and she stepped into the vehicle.
In a few moments he was back with the trunk and secured it on the roof of his cab. Then he reached in and tucked a cloth around his passenger, although the evening was not cold, and got inunder the wheel. In another moment the taxicab rolled out from under the roofed concourse.
Helen had never ridden in any vehicle that went so smoothly and so fast. It shot right downtown, mile after mile; but Helen was so interested in the sights she saw from the window of the cab that she did not worry about the time that elapsed.
By and by they went under an elevated railroad structure; the street grew more narrow and—to tell the truth—Helen thought the place appeared rather dirty and unkempt.
Then the cab was turned suddenly across the way, under another elevated structure, and into a narrow, noisy, ill-kept street.
“Can it be that Uncle Starkweather lives in this part of the town?” thought Helen, in amazement.
She had always understood that the Starkweather mansion was in one of the oldest and most respectable parts of New York. But althoughthismight be one of the older parts of the city, to Helen’s eyes it didnotlook respectable.
The street was full of children and grown people in odd costumes. And there was a babel of voices that certainly were not English.
They shot across another narrow street—thenanother. And then the cab stopped beside the curb near a corner gaslight.
“Surely this is not Madison?” demanded Helen, of the driver, as her door was opened.
“There’s the name, Miss,” said the man, pointing to the street light.
Helen looked. She reallydidsee “MADISON” in blue letters on the sign.
“And is this the number?” she asked again, looking at the three-story, shabby house before which the cab had stopped.
“Yes, Miss. Don’t you see it on the fanlight?”
The dull light in the hall of the house was sufficient to reveal to her the number painted on the glass above the door. It was an old, old house, with grimy panes in the windows, and more dull lights behind the shades drawn down over them. But there really could be no mistake, Helen thought. The number over the door and the name on the lamp-post reassured her.
She stepped out of the cab, her bag in her hand.
“See if your folks are here, Miss,” said the driver, “before I take off the trunk.”
Helen crossed the walk, clinging to her precious bag. She was not a little disturbed by this strange situation. These streets about here were the commonestof the common! And she was carrying a large sum of money, quite unprotected.
When she mounted the steps and touched the door, it opened. A bustle of sound came from the house; yet it was not the kind of bustle that she had expected to hear in her uncle’s home.
There were the crying of children, the shrieking of a woman’s angry voice—another singing—language in guttural tones which she could not understand—heavy boots tramping upon the bare boards overhead.
This lower hall was unfurnished. Indeed, it was a most unlovely place as far as Helen could see by the light of a single flaring gas jet.
“What kind of a place have I got into?” murmured the Western girl, staring about in disgust and horror, and clinging tightly to the locked bag.
CHAPTER VIIITHE WELCOME
Helen would have faced almost any peril of the range—wolves, a bear even, a stampede, flood, or fire—with more confidence than she felt at this moment.
She had some idea of how city people lived, having been to school in Denver. It seemed impossible that Uncle Starkweather and his family could reside in such a place as this. And yet the street and number were correct. Surely, the taxicab driver must know his way about the city!
From behind the door on her right came the rattle of dishes and voices. Putting her courage to the test, Helen rapped on the door. But she had to repeat the summons before she was heard.
Then she heard a shuffling step approach the door, it was unlocked, and a gray old woman, with a huge horsehair wig upon her head, peered out at her.
“Vot you vant?” this apparition asked, her black eyes growing round in wonder at the appearance of the girl and her bag. “Ve puysnoddings; ve sells noddings. Vot you vant—eh?”
“I am looking for my Uncle Starkweather,” said Helen, doubtfully.
“Vor your ungle?” repeated the old woman.
“Mr. Starkweather. Does he live in this house?”
“‘S’arkwesser’? I neffer heard,” said the old woman, shaking her huge head. “Abramovitch lifs here, and Abelosky, and Seldt, and—and Goronsky. You sure you god de name ride, Miss?”
“Quite sure,” replied the puzzled Helen.
“Meppe ubstairs,” said the woman, eyeing Helen curiously. “Vot you god in de pag, lady?”
To tell the truth this query rather frightened the girl. She did not reply to the question, but started half-blindly for the stairs, clinging to the bag with both hands.
Suddenly a door banged above and a quick and light step began to descend the upper flight. Helen halted and looked expectantly upward. The approaching step was that of a young person.
In a moment a girl appeared, descending the stairs like a young whirlwind. She was a vigorous, red-cheeked girl, with dark complexion, a prominent nose, flashing black eyes, and plump, sturdy arms bared to her dimpled elbows. She sawHelen there in the hall and stopped, questioningly. The old woman said something to the newcomer in what Helen supposed must be Yiddish, and banged shut her own door.
“Whaddeyer want, Miss?” asked the dark girl, coming nearer to Helen and smiling, showing two rows of perfect teeth. “Got lost?”
“I don’t know but what I have,” admitted the girl from the West.
“Chee! You’re a greenie, too; ain’t you?”
“I reckon so,” replied Helen, smiling in return. “At least, I’ve just arrived in town.”
The girl had now opened the door and looked out. “Look at this, now!” she exclaimed. “Did you come in that taxi?”
“Yes,” admitted Helen.
“Chee! you’re some swell; aren’t you?” said the other. “We don’t have them things stopping at the house every day.”
“I am looking for my uncle, Mr. Willets Starkweather.”
“That’s no Jewish name. I don’t believe he lives in this house,” said the black-eyed girl, curiously.
“But, this is the number—I saw it,” said Helen, faintly. “And it’s Madison Avenue; isn’t it? I saw the name on the corner lamp-post.”
“Madison Avenyer?” gasped the other girl.
“Yes.”
“Yer kiddin’; ain’t yer?” demanded the stranger.
“Why—— What do you mean?”
“This ain’t Madison Avenyer,” said the black-eyed girl, with a loud laugh. “Ain’t you the greenie? Why, this is MadisonStreet!”
“Oh, then, there’s a difference?” cried Helen, much relieved. “I didn’t get to Uncle Starkweather’s, then?”
“Not if he lives on Madison Avenyer,” said her new friend. “What’s his number? I got a cousin that married a man in Harlem.Shelives on Madison Avenyer; but it’s a long ways up town.”
“Why, Uncle Starkweather has his home at the same number on Madison Avenue that is on that fanlight,” and Helen pointed over the door.
“Then he’s some swell; eh?”
“I—I guess so,” admitted Helen, doubtfully.
“D’jer jest come to town?”
“Yes.”
“And told the taxi driver to come down here?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he’ll take you back. I’ll take the number of the cab and scare him pretty near into a fit,” said the black-eyed girl, laughing. “Then he’s sure to take you right to your uncle’s house.”
“Oh, I’m a thousand times obliged!” cried Helen. “Iama tenderfoot; am I not?” and she laughed.
The girl looked at her curiously. “I don’t know much about tender feet. Mine never bother me,” she said. “But I could see right away that you didn’t belong in this part of town.”
“Well, you’ve been real kind to me,” Helen said. “I hope I’ll see you again.”
“Not likely,” said the other, shaking her head.
“Why not?”
“And you livin’ on Madison Avenyer, and me on Madison Street?”
“I can come down to see you,” said Helen, frankly. “My name is Helen Morrell. What’s yours?”
“Sadie Goronsky. You see, I’m a Russian,” and she smiled. “You wouldn’t know it by the way I talk; would you? I learned English over there. But some folks in Russia don’t care to mix much with our people.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” said Helen. “But I know when I like a person. And I’ve got reason for liking you.”
“That goes—double,” returned the other, warmly. “I bet you come from a place far away from this city.”
“Montana,” said Helen.
“I ain’t up in United States geography. But I know there’s a big country the other side of the North River.”
Helen laughed. “I come from a good ways beyond the river,” she said.
“Well, I’ll have to get back to the store. Old Jacob will give me fits.”
“Oh, dear! and I’m keeping you,” cried Helen.
“I should worry!” exploded the other, slangily. “I’m only a ‘puller-in.’ I ain’t a saleslady. Come on and I’ll throw a scare into that taxi-driver. Watch me.”
This sort of girl was a revelation to Helen. She was frankly independent herself; but Sadie Goronsky showed an entirely different sort of independence.
“See here you, Mr. Man!” exclaimed the Jewish girl, attracting the attention of the taxicab driver, who had not left his seat. “Whadderyer mean by bringing this young lady down here to Madison Street when with half an eye you could ha’ told that she belonged on MadisonAvenyer?”
“Heh?” grunted the man.
“Now, don’t play no greenie trick withme,” commanded Sadie. “I gotcher number, and I know the company youse woik for. You take this young lady right to the correct address on the avenyer—and see that she don’t get robbed beforeyou get her there. You get in, Miss Morrell. Don’t you be afraid. This chap won’t dare take you anywhere but to your uncle’s house now.”
“She said Madison Street,” declared the taxicab driver, doggedly.
“Well, nowIsays Madison Avenyer!” exclaimed Sadie. “Get in, Miss.”
“But where’ll I find you, Sadie?” asked the Western girl, holding the rough hand of her new friend.
“Right at that shop yonder,” said the black-eyed girl, pointing to a store only two doors beyond the house which Helen had entered. “Ladies’ garments. You’ll see me pullin’ ’em in. If youdon’tsee me, ask for Miss Goronsky. Good-night, Miss! You’ll get to your uncle’s all right now.”
The taxicab driver had started the machine again. They darted off through a side street, and soon came out upon the broader thoroughfare down which they had come so swiftly. She saw by a street sign that it was the Bowery.
The man slowed down and spoke to her through the tube.
“I hope you don’t bear no ill-will, Miss,” he said, humbly enough. “You said Madison——”
“All right. See if you can take me to the right place now,” returned Helen, brusquely.
Her talk with Sadie Goronsky had given her more confidence. She was awake to the wiles of the city now. Dud Stone had been right. Even Big Hen Billings’s warnings were well placed. A stranger like herself had to be on the lookout all the time.
After a time the taxicab turned up a wider thoroughfare that had no elevated trains roaring overhead. At Twenty-third Street it turned west and then north again at Madison Square.
There was a little haze in the air—an October haze. Through this the lamps twinkled blithely. There were people on the dusky benches, and many on the walks strolling to and fro, although it was now growing quite late.
In the park she caught a glimpse of water in a fountain, splashing high, then low, with a rainbow in it. Altogether it was a beautiful sight.
The hum of night traffic—the murmur of voices—they flashed past a theatre just sending forth its audience—and all the subdued sights and sounds of the city delighted her again.
Suddenly the taxicab stopped.
“This is the number, Miss,” said the driver.
Helen looked out first. Not much like the same number on Madison Street!
This block was a slice of old-fashioned New York. On either side was a row of handsome,plain old houses, a few with lanterns at their steps, and some with windows on several floors brilliantly lighted.
There were carriages and automobiles waiting at these doors. Evening parties were evidently in progress.
The house before which the taxicab had stopped showed no light in front, however, except at the door and in one or two of the basement windows.
“Is this the place you want?” asked the driver, with some impatience.
“I’ll see,” said Helen, and hopped out of the cab.
She ran boldly up the steps and rang the bell. In a minute the inner door swung open; but the outer grating remained locked. A man in livery stood in the opening.
“What did you wish, ma’am?” he asked in a perfectly placid voice.
“Does Mr. Willets Starkweather reside here?” asked Helen.
“Mr. Starkweather is not at home, ma’am.”
“Oh! then he could not have received my telegram!” gasped Helen.
The footman remained silent, but partly closed the door.
“Any message, ma’am?” he asked, perfunctorily.
“But surely the family is at home?” cried Helen.
“Not at this hour of the hevening, ma’am,” declared the English servant, with plain disdain.
“But I must see them!” cried Helen, again. “I am Mr. Starkweather’s niece. I have come all the way from Montana, and have just got into the city. You must let me in.”
“Hi ’ave no orders regarding you, ma’am,” declared the footman, slowly. “Mr. Starkweather is at ’is club. The young ladies are hat an evening haffair.”
“But auntie—surely there must besomebodyhere to welcome me?” said Helen, in more wonder than anger as yet.
“You may come in, Miss,” said the footman at last. “Hi will speak to the ’ousekeeper—though I fear she is abed.”
“But I have the taxicab driver to pay, and my trunk is here,” declared Helen, beginning suddenly to feel very helpless.
The man had opened the grilled door. He gazed down at the cab and shook his head.
“Wait hand see Mrs. Olstrom, first, Miss,” he said.
She stepped in. He closed both doors and chained the inner one. He pointed to a hard seat in a corner of the hall and then stepped softlyaway upon the thick carpet to the rear of the premises, leaving the girl from Sunset Ranch alone.
Thiswas her welcome to the home of her only relatives, and to the heart of the great city!
CHAPTER IXTHE GHOST WALK
Helen had to wait only a short time; but during that wait she was aware that she was being watched by a pair of bright eyes at a crevice between the portières at the end of the hall.
“They act as though I came to rob them,” thought the girl from the ranch, sitting in the gloomy hall with the satchel at her feet.
This was not the welcome she had expected when she started East. Could it be possible that her message to Uncle Starkweather had not been delivered? Otherwise, how could this situation be explained?
Such a thing as inhospitality could not be imagined by Helen Morrell. A begging Indian was never turned away from Sunset Ranch. A perfect stranger—even a sheepman—would be hospitably treated in Montana.
The soft patter of the footman’s steps soon sounded and the sharp eyes disappeared. There was a moment’s whispering behind the curtain. Then the liveried Englishman appeared.
“Will you step this way, Miss?” he said, gravely. “Mrs. Olstrom will see you in her sitting-room. Leave your bag there, Miss.”
“No. I guess I’ll hold onto it,” she said, aloud.
The footman looked pained, but said nothing. He led the way haughtily into the rear of the premises again. At a door he knocked.
“Come in!” said a sharp voice, and Helen was ushered into the presence of a female with a face quite in keeping with the tone of her voice.
The lady was of uncertain age. She wore a cap, but it did not entirely hide the fact that her thin, straw-colored hair was done up in curl-papers. She was vinegary of feature, her light blue eyes were as sharp as gimlets, and her lips were continually screwed up into the expression of one determined to say “prunes.”
She sat in a straight-backed chair in the sitting-room, in a flowered silk bed-wrapper, and she looked just as glad to see Helen as though the girl were her deadliest enemy.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“I am Helen Morrell,” said the girl.
“What do you want of Mr. Starkweather at this hour?”
“Just what I would want of him at any hour,” returned the Western girl, who was beginning to become heartily exasperated.
“What’s that, Miss?” snapped the housekeeper.
“I have come to him for hospitality. I am his relative—rather, I am Aunt Eunice’s relative——”
“What do you mean, child?” exclaimed the lady, with sudden emotion. “Who is your Aunt Eunice?”
“Mrs. Starkweather. He married my mother’s sister—my Aunt Eunice.”
“Mrs. Starkweather!” gasped Mrs. Olstrom.
“Of course.”
“Then, where haveyoubeen these past three years?” demanded the housekeeper in wonder. “Mrs. Starkweather has been dead all of that time. Mr. Willets Starkweather is a widower.”
“Aunt Eunice dead?” cried Helen.
The news was a distinct shock to the girl. She forgot everything else for the moment. Her face told her story all too well, and the housekeeper could not doubt her longer.
“You’re a relative, then?”
“Her—her niece, Helen Morrell,” sobbed Helen. “Oh! I did not know—I did not know——”
“Never mind. You are entitled to hospitality and protection. Did you just arrive?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Your home is not near?”
“In Montana.”
“My goodness! You cannot go back to-night, that is sure. But why did you not write?”
“I telegraphed I was coming.”
“I never heard of it. Perhaps the message was not received. Gregson!”
“Yes, ma’am,” replied the footman.
“You said something about a taxicab waiting outside with this young lady’s luggage?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Go and pay the man and have the baggage brought in——”
“I’ll pay for it, ma’am,” said Helen, hastily, trying to unlock her bag.
“That will be all right. I will settle it with Mr. Starkweather. Here is money, Gregson. Pay the fare and give the man a quarter for himself. Have the trunk brought into the basement. I will attend to Miss—er——?”
“Morrell.”
“Miss Morrell, myself,” finished the housekeeper.
The footman withdrew. The housekeeper looked hard at Helen for several moments.
“So you came here expecting hospitality—in your uncle’s house—and from your cousins?” she observed, jerkily. “Well!”
She got up and motioned Helen to take up her bag.
“Come. I have no orders regarding you. I shall give you one of the spare rooms. You are entitled to that much. No knowing when either Mr. Starkweather or the young ladies will be at home,” she said, grimly.
“I hope you won’t put yourself out,” observed Helen, politely.
“I am not likely to,” returned Mrs. Olstrom. “It is you who will be more likely—— Well!” she finished, without making her meaning very plain.
This reception, to cap all that had gone before since she had arrived at the Grand Central Terminal, chilled Helen. The shock of discovering that her mother’s sister was dead—and she and her father had not been informed of it—was no small one, either. She wished now that she had not come to the house at all.
“I would better have gone to a hotel until I found out how they felt toward me,” thought the girl from the ranch.
Yet Helen was just. She began to tell herself that neither Mr. Starkweather nor her cousins were proved guilty of the rudeness of her reception. The telegram might have gone astray.They might never have dreamed of her coming on from Sunset Ranch to pay them a visit.
The housekeeper began to warm toward her in manner, at least. She took her up another flight of stairs and to a very large and handsomely furnished chamber, although it was at the rear of the house, and right beside the stairs leading to the servants’ quarters. At least, so Mrs. Olstrom said they were.
“You will not mind, Miss,” she said, grimly. “You may hear the sound of walking in this hall. It is nothing. The foolish maids call it ‘the ghost walk’; but it is only a sound. You’re not superstitious; are you?”
“I hope not!” exclaimed Helen.
“Well! I have had to send away one or two girls. The house is very old. There are some queer stories about it. Well! What is a sound?”
“Very true, ma’am,” agreed Helen, rather confused, but bound to be polite.
“Now, Miss, will you have some supper? Mr. Lawdor can get you some in the butler’s pantry. He has a chafing dish there and often prepares late bites for his master.”
“No, ma’am; I am not hungry,” Helen declared. “I had dinner in the dining car at seven.”
“Then I will leave you—unless you should wish something further?” said the housekeeper.
“Here is your bath,” opening a door into the anteroom. “I will place a note upon Mr. Starkweather’s desk saying that you are here. Will you need your trunk up to-night, Miss?”
“Oh, no, indeed,” Helen declared. “I have a kimono here—and other things. I’ll be glad of the bath, though. One does get so dusty traveling.”
She was unlocking her bag. For a moment she hesitated, half tempted to take the housekeeper into her confidence regarding her money. But the woman went directly to the door and bowed herself out with a stiff:
“Good-night, Miss.”
“My! But this is a friendly place!” mused Helen, when she was left alone. “And they seem to have so much confidence in strangers!”
Therefore, she went to the door into the hall, found there was a bolt upon it, and shot it home. Then she pulled the curtain across the keyhole before sitting down and counting all her money over again.
“They gotmedoing it!” muttered Helen. “I shall be afraid of every person I meet in this man’s town.”
But by and by she hopped up, hid the wallet under her pillow (the bed was a big one with deep mattress and downy pillows) and then ran to lether bath run in the little room where Mrs. Olstrom had snapped on the electric light.
She undressed slowly, shook out her garments, hung them properly to air, and stepped into the grateful bath. How good it felt after her long and tiresome journey by train!
But as she was drying herself on the fleecy towels she suddenly heard a sound outside her door. After the housekeeper left her the whole building had seemed as silent as a tomb. Now there was a steady rustling noise in the short corridor on which her room opened.
“Whatdidthat woman ask me?” murmured Helen. “Was I afraid of ghosts?”
She laughed a little. To a healthy, normal, outdoor girl the supernatural had few terrors.
“Itisa funny sound,” she admitted, hastily finished the drying process and then slipping into her nightrobe, kimono, and bed slippers.
All the time her ear seemed preternaturally attuned to that rising and waning sound without her chamber. It seemed to come toward the door, pass it, move lightly away, and then turn and repass again. It was a steady, regular——
Step—put; step—put; step—put——
And with it was the rustle of garments—or so it seemed. The girl grew momentarily more curious.The mystery of the strange sound certainly was puzzling.
“Who ever heard of a ghost with a wooden leg?” she thought, chuckling softly to herself. “And that is what it sounds like. No wonder the servants call this corridor ‘the ghost walk.’ Well, me for bed!”
She had already snapped out the electric light in the bathroom, and now hopped into bed, reaching up to pull the chain of the reading light as she did so. The top of one window was down half-way and the noise of the city at midnight reached her ear in a dull monotone.
Back here at the rear of the great mansion, street sounds were faint. In the distance, to the eastward, was the roar of a passing elevated train. An automobile horn hooted raucously.
But steadily, through all other sounds, as an accompaniment to them and to Helen Morrell’s own thoughts, was the continuous rustle in the corridor outside her door:
Step—put; step—put; step—put.
CHAPTER XMORNING
The Starkweather mansion was a large dwelling. Built some years before the Civil War, it had been one of the “great houses” in its day, to be pointed out to the mid-nineteenth century visitor to the metropolis. Of course, when the sightseeing coaches came in fashion they went up Fifth Avenue and passed by the stately mansions of the Victorian era, on Madison Avenue, without comment.
Willets Starkweather had sprung from a quite mean and un-noted branch of the family, and had never, until middle life, expected to live in the Madison Avenue homestead. The important members of his clan were dead and gone and their great fortunes scattered. Willets Starkweather could barely keep up with the expenditures of his great household.
There were never servants enough, and Mrs. Olstrom, the very capable housekeeper, who had served the present master’s great-uncle before the day of the new generation, had hard work to satisfythe demands of those there were upon the means allowed her by Mr. Starkweather.
There were rooms in the house—especially upon the topmost floor—into which even the servants seldom went. There were vacant rooms which never knew broom nor duster. The dwelling, indeed, was altogether too large for the needs of Mr. Starkweather and his three motherless daughters.
But their living in it gave them a prestige which nothing else could. As wise as any match-making matron, Willets Starkweather knew that the family’s address at this particular number on Madison Avenue would aid his daughters more in “making a good match” than anything else.
He could not dower them. Really, they needed no dower with their good looks, for they were all pretty. The Madison Avenue mansion gave them the open sesame into good society—choice society, in fact—and there some wealthy trio of unattached young men must see and fall in love with them.
And the girls understood this, too—right down to fourteen-year-old Flossie. They all three knew that to “pay poor papa” for reckless expenditures now, they must sooner or later capture moneyed husbands.
So, there was more than one reason why the three Starkweather girls leaped immediately fromchildhood into full-blown womanhood. Flossie had already privately studied the characters—and possible bank accounts—of the boys of her acquaintance, to decide upon whom she should smile her sweetest.
These facts—save that the mansion was enormous—were hidden from Helen when she arose on the first morning of her city experience. She had slept soundly and sweetly. Even the rustling steps on the ghost walk had not bothered her for long.
Used to being up and out by sunrise, she could not easily fall in with city ways. She hustled out of bed soon after daybreak, took a cold sponge, which made her body tingle delightfully, and got into her clothes as rapidly as any boy.
She had only the shoddy-looking brown traveling dress to wear, and the out-of-date hat. But she put them on, and ventured downstairs, intent upon going out for a walk before breakfast.
The solemn clock in the hall chimed seven as she found her way down the lower flight of front stairs. As she came through the curtain-hung halls and down the stairs, not a soul did she meet until she reached the front hall. There a rather decrepit-looking man, with a bleared eye, and dressed in decent black, hobbled out of a parlor to meet her.
“Bless me!” he ejaculated. “What—what—what——”
“I am Helen Morrell,” said the girl from Sunset Ranch, smiling, and judging that this must be the butler of whom the housekeeper had spoken the night before. “I have just come to visit my uncle and cousins.”
“Bless me!” said the old man again. “Gregson told me. Proud to see you, Miss. But—you’re dressed to go out, Miss?”
“For a walk, sir,” replied Helen, nodding.
“At this hour? Bless me—bless me—bless me——”
He seemed apt to run off in this style, in an unending string of mild expletives. His head shook and his hands seemed palsied. But he was a polite old man.
“I beg of you, Miss, don’t go out without a bit of breakfast. My own coffee is dripping in the percolator. Let me give you a cup,” he said.
“Why—if it’s not too much trouble, sir——”
“This way, Miss,” he said, hurrying on before, and leading Helen to a cozy little room at the back. This corresponded with the housekeeper’s sitting-room and Helen believed it must be Mr. Lawdor’s own apartment.
He laid a small cloth with a flourish. He set forth a silver breakfast set. He did everythingneatly and with an alacrity that surprised Helen in one so evidently decrepit.
“A chop, now, Miss? Or a rasher?” he asked, pointing to an array of electric appliances on the sideboard by which a breakfast might be “tossed up” in a hurry.
“No, no,” Helen declared. “Not so early. This nice coffee and these delicious rolls are enough until I have earned more.”
“Earned more, Miss?” he asked, in surprise.
“By exercise,” she explained. “I am going to take a good tramp. Then I shall come back as hungry as a mountain lion.”
“The family breakfasts at nine, Miss,” said the butler, bowing. “But if you are an early riser you will always find something tidy here in my room, Miss. You are very welcome.”
She thanked him and went out into the hall again. The footman in livery—very sleepy and tousled as yet—was unchaining the front door. A yawning maid was at work in one of the parlors with a duster. She stared at Helen in amazement, but Gregson stood stiffly at attention as the visitor went forth into the daylight.
“My, how funny city people live!” thought Helen Morrell. “I don’t believe I ever could stand it. Up till all hours, and then no breakfast until nine.Whata way to live!
“And there must be twice as many servants as there are members of the family—— Why! more than that! And all that big house to get lost in,” she added, glancing up at it as she started off upon her walk.
She turned the first corner and went through a side street toward the west. This was not a business side street. There were several tall apartment hotels interspersed with old houses.
She came to Fifth Avenue—“the most beautiful street in the world.” It had been swept and garnished by a horde of white-robed men since two o’clock. On this brisk October morning, from the Washington Arch to 110th Street, it was as clean as a whistle.
She walked uptown. At Thirty-fourth and Forty-second streets the crosstown traffic had already begun. She passed the new department stores, already opening their eyes and yawning in advance of the day’s trade.
There were a few pedestrians headed uptown like herself. Some well-dressed men seemed walking to business. A few neat shop girls were hurrying along the pavement, too. But Helen, and the dogs in leash, had the avenue mostly to themselves at this hour.
The sleepy maids, or footmen, or pages stared at the Western girl with curiosity as she strodealong. For, unlike many from the plains, Helen could walk well in addition to riding well.
She reached the plaza, and crossing it, entered the park. The trees were just coloring prettily. There were morning sounds from the not-far-distant zoo. A few early nursemaids and their charges asleep in baby carriages, were abroad. Several old gentlemen read their morning papers upon the benches, or fed the squirrels who were skirmishing for their breakfasts.
Several plainly-dressed people were evidently taking their own “constitutionals” through the park paths. Swinging down from the north come square-shouldered, cleanly-shaven young men of the same type as Dud Stone. Helen believed that Dud must be a typical New Yorker.
But there were no girls abroad—at least, girls like herself who had leisure. And Helen was timid about making friends with the nursemaids.
In fact, there wasn’t a soul who smiled upon her as she walked through the paths. She would not have dared approach any person she met for any purpose whatsoever.
“They haven’t a grain of interest in me,” thought Helen. “Many of them, I suppose, don’t even see me. Goodness, what a lot of self-centred people there must be in New York!”
She wandered on and on. She had no watch—neverhad owned one. As she had told Dud Stone, the stars at night were her clock, and by day she judged the hour by the sun.
The sun was behind a haze now; but she had another sure timekeeper. There was nothing the matter with Helen’s appetite.
“I’ll go back and join the family at breakfast,” the girl thought. “I hope they’ll be nice to me. And poor Aunt Eunice dead without our ever being told of it! Strange!”
She had come a good way. Indeed, she was some time in finding an outlet from the park. The sun was behind the morning haze as yet, but she turned east, and finally came out upon the avenue some distance above the gateway by which she had entered.
A southbound auto-bus caught her eye and she signaled it. She not only had brought her purse with her, but the wallet with her money was stuffed inside her blouse and made an uncomfortable lump there at her waist. But she hid this with her arm, feeling that she must be on the watch for some sharper all the time.
“Big Hen was right when he warned me,” she repeated, eyeing suspiciously the several passengers in the Fifth Avenue bus.
They were mostly early shoppers, however, or gentlemen riding to their offices. She had noticedthe number of the street nearest her uncle’s house, and so got out at the right corner.
The change in this part of the town since she had walked away from it soon after seven, amazed her. She almost became confused and started in the wrong direction. The roar of traffic, the rattle of riveters at work on several new buildings in the neighborhood, the hoarse honking of automobiles, the shrill whistles of the traffic policemen at the corners, and the various other sounds seemed to make another place of the old-fashioned Madison Avenue block.
“My goodness! To live in such confusion, and yet have money enough to be able to enjoy a home out of town,” thought Helen. “How foolish of Uncle Starkweather.”
She made no mistake in the house this time. There was Gregson—now spick and span in his maroon livery—haughtily mounting guard over the open doorway while a belated scrubwoman was cleaning the steps and areaway.
Helen tripped up the steps with a smile for Gregson; but that wooden-faced subject of King George had no joint in his neck. He could merely raise a finger in salute.
“Is the family up, sir?” she asked, politely.
“In Mr. Starkweather’s den, Miss,” said the footman, being unable to leave his post at the moment.Mr. Lawdor was not in sight and Helen set out to find the room in question, wondering if the family had already breakfasted. The clock in the hall chimed the quarter to ten as she passed it.
The great rooms on this floor were open now; but empty. She suddenly heard voices. She found a cross passage that she had not noticed before, and entered it, the voices growing louder.
She came to a door before which hung heavy curtains; but these curtains did not deaden the sound entirely. Indeed, as Helen hesitated, with her hand stretched out to seize the portière, she heard something that halted her.
Indeed, what she heard within the next few moments entirely changed the outlook of the girl from Sunset Ranch. It matured that doubt of humanity that had been born the night before in her breast.
And it changed—for the time being at least—Helen’s nature. From a frank, open-hearted, loving girl she became suspicious, morose and secretive. The first words she heard held her spell-bound—an unintentional eavesdropper. And what she heard made her determined to appear to her unkind relatives quite as they expected her to appear.