The silence was awkward and oppressive. Through the closed door of the private office was heard a man's harsh voice; then a woman's softer tones in reply. One of those waiting whispered to a neighbor and then some one laughed, which relieved the unnatural tension. All forced themselves to appear cheerful and unconcerned, each secretly ashamed to be there, humiliated at being subjected to the same treatment as menials in this Intelligence office of the stage.
Two women were talking in an undertone and Weston, sitting close by, could not help hearing what they said. One, an attractive, modest-looking girl, was almost in tears, complaining bitterly of indignities to which she had been subjected by a manager.
"I wouldn't stand for it," she said, "so he gave me two weeks' notice, on the pretext that the author didn't like me in the part. He knew he was lying—my notices were fine! Such a time as I had with him! I made a hit on the opening night. He came back on the stage and invited me to supper. As he talked of signing with me for five years, I didn't dare refuse. At supper he let me understand what the price would be. I instantly rose from the table and told him I wasn't that kind of a girl. Then he got mad. He told me to think well before I made the mistake of my life. He said no girls got along on the stage unless they consented to these conditions, and that if I refused I would be blacklisted by every manager in town. I didn't even deign to answer. I called a cab and left him. The following day I got my walking papers. I did not care so much about leaving the company. Under the circumstances I couldn't have stayed and retained my self respect. I laughed at his threat, but I've since found it was no idle one. I've been turned down everywhere."
Her companion, an older woman, more sophisticated and more worldly, shook her head sympathetically:
"Nonsense, child, that's only a coincidence. It's preposterous to imagine for a moment that reputable managers would lend themselves to anything of the kind. You happened to come across a scoundrel—that's all. Broadway's full of such human vultures—more's the pity—and they're giving the stage a bad name. But a woman doesn't have to be bad unless she wants to be. Maybe advancement is quicker by the easiest way, but the good girls get there just the same, if they've talent. Look at the women who have succeeded on the stage and whose name not a breath of scandal has ever touched. Take, for instance, Maude——"
Before she could complete the name, the door of Mr. Quiller's sanctum opened, and a young woman emerged, followed to the threshold by the dramatic agent, a jaundiced little man, with ferret-like eyes, and a greasy frock coat.
"Next!" he exclaimed in a rasping voice.
"Miss Durant!" called out the office boy.
The woman whose warm championship of the stage had been so abruptly interrupted, rose with alacrity and disappeared behind Mr. Quiller's closed door, while the young actress whose interview was ended made her way to the main entrance. Her face was veiled and she walked quickly, looking to neither left nor right, her eyes fixed on the floor, as if anxious to avoid observation. As she passed Weston, he happened to look up.
"Hello, Laura!" he exclaimed, as he recognized her. "So it was you in there with old skinflint all that time."
It was Laura Murdock, but what a startling change a few months had wrought! Who could have recognized in this pale, attenuated-looking young person, whose old-fashioned clothes, and out-of-style hat, suggested poverty's grim clutch, the famous beauty, whose jewelry and gowns used to be the envy of every woman in New York? Where the pace is so swift, those who do not keep up with the procession soon drop far behind. The girl had had a hard time of it since she bade John Madison good-bye in Colorado. He had resigned his newspaper position and had gone with a companion to search for gold. He travelled East with her as far as Chicago, where they said farewell.
"You'll be true, little one," he cried, as he clasped her in his strong arms.
"Until death, John!" she said through her tears.
They promised to write at least once a week and tell each other everything. The time would soon pass, and when he came back they would get married. And so they parted, he to Nevada; she back to New York, once more to take up her work—not her old life.
Faithful to her solemn promise, she gave up her fine apartment, and took less expensive rooms. She dressed more modestly, eschewed taxicabs, after-theatre suppers, and other unnecessary luxuries and shunned her old associates. Little champagne suppers, and the small hours, knew her no more. She was sincere in her determination to break off with that kind of life forever. Henceforth she would live within such income as she could legitimately earn on the stage.
But she soon found that it was more difficult than she supposed. Managers' offices did not seem so easy of access as before. The success of her stock engagement at Denver had not impressed the New York managers so favorably as she expected it would. When she called and stated she was at liberty, they were evasive and non-committal; the next time she called they were out. It was the same everywhere. No one seemed to want her at any price. She did not realize that at no time had the stage been clamoring for her services. She saw only that there was a conspiracy of silence and indifference around her now.
If she were willing to go on living as before, and use the influence of such men as Willard Brockton, she could have all the parts she wanted to play, but that was a price she would pay no longer. The weeks went by, and no money coming in, it was not long before her slender earnings were depleted. For a time she managed to keep the wolf from the door by selling some of her old finery, dainty creations in point lace and chiffons, which she would never wear again, but when these were gone, blank destitution stared her in the face. A brief engagement she was lucky enough to secure after unheard-of exertions, helped matters for a while, but the show came to grief, and then things were as bad as ever. Visits to the pawnshop became frequent and soon she was compelled to give up her rooms and seek still cheaper quarters. But in all her troubles, she never lost courage. Sleeping and waking, the searching, questioning eyes of John Madison were continually before her. At all times she could hear him saying: "You'll be true, little one!" And it strengthened her resolve to battle bravely on, until he came to claim her for his bride.
"I didn't see you, Jim," said Laura, sinking wearily into a chair near him. "Well, what luck to-day?"
He shook his head.
"Bad—bad. Guess you don't want to hear."
"I'm sorry," she said. "Where have you been?"
She listened with sympathetic interest, as he told her of the day's useless trampings. When he had finished, he looked inquiringly at her. Abruptly he asked:
"And you—got anything yet?"
She shook her head despondently.
"No, Jim, not yet."
He made a gesture towards the private office, which she had just vacated.
"You were in there such a long time, I made sure there was something doing."
Laura shrugged her shoulders impatiently:
"Quiller sent for me, and I hurried here thinking it was serious. Then he had the nerve to say he'd guarantee me an engagement, if I could put up five hundred dollars. I could not help laughing. 'Where would I get five hundred dollars?' I said. 'You know that better than I,' he replied. 'Surely you've plenty of admirers who'd be willing to put the money up for you.' What do you think of his impudence? I felt like slapping his face."
The advance man gave a dry chuckle.
"Up to the old game," he said. "Do you think these people live on the petty commissions we pay 'em? Not on your life! They gets just such gals as you to find an angel willing to put up the 'dough'. That's why there are so many near-actresses on the stage. It isn't talent they want nowadays, it's money." Changing the subject, he went on: "By the way, I met an old chum of yours just now. She asked after you——"
"An old chum?" echoed Laura, puzzled.
"Yes—Elfie St. Clair."
The girl's pale face reddened slightly. Involuntarily her manner stiffened. Indifferently she said:
"I haven't seen her for months. What did she say?"
"She seemed to know things weren't quite right with you. She's a bad lot, that girl, but she has a good heart. She asked where you lived."
"You didn't tell her, I hope," exclaimed Laura hurriedly.
"Yes, I did," answered the advance man doggedly. "Why shouldn't I?"
"I'm sorry," she said. "She's the last woman in the world I want to see. I never want to see her again. If she calls I won't see her." Glancing at the clock, she added: "I must be going. What are you doing here?"
Weston smiled grimly.
"Wasting time, I guess. Quiller said there might be something to-day. He's said the same every day for three months past."
"Well, I must go," she said. "Good-bye, I'll probably see you at the house."
"Yes," he nodded. "Maybe there'll be some good news to tell you, but I doubt it."
The girl disappeared and Jim resumed his seat, patiently awaiting his turn to see Mr. Quiller.
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."
"InNevada?" 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.
SHE BEGAN TO SEW A RIP IN HER SKIRT.
SHE BEGAN TO SEW A RIP IN HER SKIRT.Page162.
"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.
CHAPTER XI.
Immediately the maid had disappeared, Laura sprang to her feet and picked up John's letter. It was only with the greatest difficulty that she had managed to curb her impatience. Eagerly she tore open the envelope.
The letter consisted, as usual, of several pages closely written. Things were pretty much the same, he said. It was a wonderful country, vast and unconquered, a land where man was constantly at war with the forces of Nature. Extraordinary finds were being made every day; one literally picked up gold nuggets by the handful. If he and his partner were only reasonably lucky, there was no reason why they should not become enormously rich. He hoped his little girl was happy and prosperous. He was sure she was true. Each night when he went to sleep in his tent, he placed two things under his pillow, things that had become necessary to his salvation—a Colt revolver and her sweet photograph. He quite understood that it was difficult to secure good engagements, especially since Brockton's backing was withdrawn, but he advised her to take heart and accept anything she could get—for the present. It would not be for long. When he came back, rich beyond the dreams of avarice, she would not have to worry about theatre managers any more.
She read the letter through hurriedly, re-read it, and then, pressing the missive to her lips, laid it down on the table.
"Accept anything!" she murmured. "Ah, he does not understand. How should he? If only there was something to accept!" Rising wearily, she sighed: "Hope, just nothing but hope."
Her mouth quivered, and her bosom, agitated by the emotion she was trying hard to suppress, rose and fell convulsively. He did not understand. How was it possible for her to wait? She had already waited until everything was gone—her rings, her watch and chain, even the clothes on her back. She was absolutely penniless; unless relief came soon she would be turned into the streets. Oh, why could he not have guessed the truth from her letters, and come back to her?
Going to the bed, she fell face down upon it, burying her face in her hands. A convulsive sobbing shook her entire being. It was too hard to bear. She had tried to be brave, but her heart was breaking. Ah, if John only knew! What did she care for riches? If only he would come to comfort her and give her courage.
For fifteen minutes she lay there, motionless, a pathetic figure of utter despondency. The minutes might have lengthened into hours, when suddenly a hurdy-gurdy in the street below started to play a popular air. Often the most trivial and commonplace incident will change the entire current of our thoughts. It was so in this instance. The cheap music had the effect of instantly galvanizing the young actress into life. It suddenly occurred to her that she was ravenously hungry. She rose from the bed, went to the wardrobe and took out a box of crackers. Then opening the window, at the same time humming the tune of the hurdy-gurdy, she got a bottle of milk that was standing on the sill outside and placed it on the table. Next she went to the washstand and rinsed out a tumbler. While thus engaged, there came a timid knock at the door. Startled, not knowing who it could be, unwilling that strangers should detect the traces of tears, she went quickly to the dresser and powdered her nose. The knocking was repeated.
"Come in!" she called out, without turning round.
The door opened and Jim Weston appeared. He halted on the threshold, holding the knob in his hand.
"May I come in?"
"Hello, Jim! Of course you may. I'm awfully glad you came. I was feeling horribly blue. Any luck?"
The advance agent came in, closing the door carefully behind him.
"Lots of it," he grinned.
"That's good," exclaimed Laura, who was still at the mirror arranging her hair. "Tell me."
"It's bad luck—as usual. I kind o' felt around up at Burgess's office. I thought I might get a job there, but he put me off until to-morrow. Somehow those fellows always do business to-morrow."
Laura closed the window, shutting out the sound of the street music, which now could be heard only faintly. Grimly, she said:
"Yes, and there's always to-day to look after." Going up to him, she said kindly: "I know just how you feel. Sit down, Jim."
He took a seat near the table, and accepted a dry cracker which she offered him. As he munched it, Laura went on:
"It's pretty tough for me, but it must be a whole lot worse for you, with a wife and kids."
The agent made a wry face.
"Oh, if a man's alone he can generally get along—turn his hand to anything. But a woman——"
"Worse, you think?"
He eyed her a moment without replying. Then he said:
"I was just thinking about you and what Burgess said."
"What was that?" asked the girl indifferently, as she sipped her milk.
The agent cleared his throat. With an air of some importance, he said:
"You know Burgess and I used to be in the circus business together. He took care of the grafters when I was boss canvas man. I never could see any good in shaking down the rubes for all the money they had and then taking part of it. He used to run the privilege car, you know."
Laura looked puzzled.
"Privilege car?" she echoed.
"Yes," he went on, "had charge of all the pick-pockets—dips we called 'em—sure-thing gamblers and the like. Made him rich. I kept sort o' on the level and I'm broke. Guess it don't pay to be honest——"
Laura gave him a quick look. In a significant tone of voice, she said:
"You don't really think that?"
The man shook his head dubiously.
"No, maybe not. Ever since I married the missis and the first kid come we figured the only good money was the kind folks worked for and earned. But when you can't get hold of that, it's tough."
The girl nodded, and, averting her head, looked out of the window.
"I know," she said simply.
The agent was in a loquacious mood this afternoon, and needed little encouragement to do all the talking. He went on:
"Burgess don't seem to be losing sleep over the tricks he turned. He's happy and prosperous, but I guess he ain't any better now than he ought to be."
"I guess he isn't," rejoined Laura quickly. "I know I've been trying to induce him to give me an engagement, but for some reason I get no satisfaction. There are half a dozen parts in his new attractions that I could do. He has never said absolutely 'no'; but, somehow, he's never said 'yes'."
"That's odd," said her visitor, scratching his head, as if puzzled. "He spoke about you to-day."
"In what way?" demanded the girl.
"I gave him my address, and he saw it was yours, too. He asked if I lived in the same place."
"Was that all?"
"He wanted to know how you was getting on. I let him know you needed work, but I didn't tip my hand you was flat broke. He said something about you being a damned fool."
Laura looked up in surprise.
"How?" she demanded.
Weston twirled his hat round nervously, and remained silent.
"How?" she demanded again.
Thus encouraged, he proceeded:
"Well, Johnny Ensworth—you know he used to do the fights on theEvening Screamer; now he's press agent for Burgess; nice fellow and way on the inside—and he told me where you were in wrong."
"What have I done?" she asked, taking a seat in the armchair.
"Burgess don't put up the money for any of them musical comedies—he just trails. Of course, he's got a lot of influence, and he's always Johnny-on-the-Spot to turn any dirty trick that they want. There are four or five rich men in town who are there with the bank-roll, providing he engages women who ain't so very particular about the location of their residence, and who don't hear a curfew ring at eleven-thirty every night."
"And he thinks I am too particular?" interrupted Laura dryly.
"That's what was slipped me. Seems that one of the richest men who is in on Mr. Burgess's address book is that fellow Brockton. You're an old friend of his. He's got more money than he knows what to do with. He likes to play show business. And he thought that if you——"
Rising quickly, the girl went to the wardrobe, and, taking out her hat, picked up a pair of scissors, and proceeded to curl the feathers. The hat was already in so deplorable a condition that this belated home treatment was not likely to help it, but the diversion served its purpose, which was to distract the agent's attention away from her face.
"I didn't mean no offence," said Jim apologetically. "I thought it was just as well to tell you where he and Burgess stand. They're pals."
Laura jumped up, and, putting the hat and scissors down on the bed, went close up to her visitor. Confronting him, she said with angry emphasis:
"I don't want you to talk about him or any of them. I just want you to know that I'm trying to do everything in my power to go through this season without any more trouble. I've pawned everything I've got; I've cut every friend I knew. But where am I going to end? That's what I want to know—where am I going to end?" Sitting down on the bed, she went on: "Every place I look for a position something interferes. It's almost as if I were blacklisted. I know I could get jobs all right, if I wanted to pay the price, but I won't. I just want to tell you, I won't. No!"
Nervous and restless, she again rose, and, going to the fireplace, rested her elbow on the mantel. The advance agent coughed and nodded his head approvingly.
"That's the way to talk," he said. "I don't know you very well, but I've watched you close. I'm just a common, ordinary showman, who never had much money, and I'm going out o' date. I've spent most of my time with nigger minstrel shows and circuses, but I've been on the square. That's why I'm broke." Rather sadly he added: "Once I thought the missis would have to go back and do her acrobatic act, but she couldn't do that, she's grown so deuced fat." Rising and going up to Laura, he said: "Just you don't mind. It'll all come out right."
"It's an awful tough game, isn't it?" she said, averting her face.
She wiped away the tears that were silently coursing down her wan cheeks. Then, going to the table, she took up the glass, poured the unused milk back in the bottle, and replaced the biscuits in the wardrobe.
"Tough!" exclaimed the agent. "It's hell forty ways from the Jack. It's tough for me, but for a pretty woman with a lot o' rich fools jumping out o' their automobiles and hanging around stage doors, it must be something awful. I ain't blaming the women. They say 'self-preservation is the first law of nature,' and I guess that's right; but sometimes when the show is over and I see them fellows with their hair plastered back, smoking cigarettes in a holder long enough to reach from here to Harlem, and a bank-roll that would bust my pocket and turn my head, I feel as if I'd like to get a gun and go a-shooting around this old town."
"Jim!" protested Laura.
"Yes, I do," he insisted hotly; "you bet!"
"That wouldn't pay, would it?"
"No; they're not worth the job of sitting on that throne in Sing Sing, and I'm too poor to go to Matteawan. But all them fellows under nineteen and over fifty-nine ain't much use to themselves or any one else."
"Perhaps all of them are not so bad," said Laura meditatively.
"Yes, they are," he insisted angrily; "angels and all. Last season I had one of them shows where a rich fellow backed it on account of a girl. We lost money and he lost his girl; then we got stuck in Texas. I telegraphed: 'Must have a thousand, or can't move.' He just answered: 'Don't move.' We didn't."
"But that was business."
"Bad business," he nodded. "It took a year for some of them folks to get back to Broadway. Some of the girls never did, and I guess never will."
"Maybe they're better off, Jim."
"Couldn't be worse. They're still in Texas. Wish I knew how to do something else—being a plumber or a walking delegate—they always have jobs."
"I wish I could do something else, too, but I can't. We've got to make the best of it."
Weston rose and took his hat.
"I guess so. Well, I'll see you this evening. I hope you'll have good news by that time." He started to open the door, and then came back a step, and in a voice meant to be kindly, he said: "If you'd like to go to the theatre to-night, and take some other woman in the house, maybe I can get a couple of tickets for one of the shows. I know a lot of fellows who are working."
The girl smiled sadly; tears filled her eyes.
"No, thanks, Jim; I haven't anything to wear to the theatre, and I don't——"
He understood. His face broadened into a sympathetic smile, and, putting his arm affectionately round her waist, as a father might with his daughter, he said kindly:
"Now, you just cheer up! Something's sure to turn up. It always has for me, and I'm a lot older than you, both in years and in this business. There's always a break in hard luck some time——"
Laura dried her eyes, and tried to force a smile.
"I hope so," she said. "But things are looking pretty hopeless now, aren't they?"
"Never mind," he said, as he went toward the door. "I'll go and give Mrs. F. a line o' talk and try to square you for a couple of days more, anyway. But I guess she's laying pretty close to the cushion herself, poor woman."
"Annie says a lot of people owe her."
"Well, you can't pay what you haven't got. And even if money was growing on trees, it's winter now. I'm off. Maybe to-day is lucky day. So long!"
"Good-by," smiled Laura.
"Keep your nerve," he said, as he closed the door behind him.
CHAPTER XII.
"Keep your nerve!"
The words rang mockingly in the girl's ear long after the good-natured advance agent had made his departure. Keep her nerve? That was precisely what she was trying to do, and it was proving almost beyond her strength. Why had John left her to make this fight alone? He must have known, even better than she, herself, what a terrific, heart-breaking struggle it would be. Or did he wish to put her to the test, to find out if her professed determination to live a new and cleaner life was genuine and sincere. If that was his motive, surely she had been tried enough. Then, as she gave herself up to reflection, doubts began to creep in, doubts of herself, doubts of him. If he really loved her, truly and unselfishly, would he let her suffer in this way, would he have so completely deserted her? It did not once occur to her that John, being thousands of miles away, could not possibly realize her present plight. A sudden feeling of rebellion came over her. She began to nourish resentment that he should show such little concern, that he should have taken no steps to keep informed of her circumstances.
For a long-time she sat in moody silence, engrossed in deep thought, listening only abstractedly to the street sounds without. Presently her glance, wandering aimlessly around the room, fell on the letter she had just received from Goldfield. She picked it up, as if about to read it; then, as if in anger, she threw it impatiently from her. Leaning forward on the table, her face buried in her two hands, she broke down completely:
"I can't stand it—I just simply can't stand it," she moaned to herself.
A sudden knock on the door caused her to sit up with a jump. Rising, confused, as if surprised in some guilty action, she called out:
"What is it?"
"A lady to see you!" cried Annie's shrill voice on the other side of the door.
Laura went to open.
"To see me?" she exclaimed in unaffected surprise.
"It's me—Elfie," called out a familiar voice below. "May I come up?"
Laura started. Her face turned red and white in turns. Elfie St. Clair! Should she see her, or say she was out? Yet, why shouldn't she see her? She needed some one like Elfie to cheer her up. Drying her eyes, she quickly pulled herself together, and hastened to the top of the stairs. Her voice, trembling with suppressed excitement, almost unable to control the agitation that suddenly seized upon her, she cried out:
"Is that you, Elfie?"
"Yes, shall I come up?"
"Why, of course—of course!"
Panting and flushed from the extraordinary exertion of climbing two flights of stairs, Elfie at last appeared, gorgeously gowned in the extreme style affected by ladies who contract alliances with wealthy gentlemen without the formality of going through a marriage ceremony. Her dress, of the latest fashion and the richest material, with dangling gold handbag and chatelaine, contrasted strangely with Laura's shabbiness and the general dinginess of Mrs. Farley's boarding-house. But the two girls were too glad to see each other to care about anything else. With little cries of delight, they fell into each other's arms.
"Laura, you old dear!" exclaimed the newcomer in her customary explosive and vivacious manner. "I've just found out where you've been hiding, and came around to see you."
"That's awfully good of you, Elfie. You're looking bully. How are you, dear?"
"Fine."
"Come in, and sit down. I haven't much to offer, but——"
Laura was visibly embarrassed. Even her forced gayety and attempt at cordiality did not quite conceal her nervousness. It was the first time that Elfie had seen her living in such surroundings, and, in spite of her efforts to remain cool and self-possessed, her cheeks burned with humiliation.
"Oh, never mind," said Elfie quickly. Her first glance had told her how matters stood, but she made no comment. Good-naturedly, she rattled on: It's such a grand day outside, and I've come around in my car to take you out. You know, I've got a new one, and it can go some.
"I am sorry, but I can't go out this afternoon, Elfie."
"What's the matter?"
"You see, I'm staying home a good deal nowadays. I haven't been feeling very well, and I don't go out much."
"I should think not. I haven't seen even a glimpse of you anywhere since you returned from Denver. I caught sight of you one day on Broadway, but couldn't get you—you dived into some office or other."
Rising from her chair, for the first time she surveyed the room critically. Unable to contain herself any longer, she burst out explosively:
"Gee! Whatever made you come into a dump like this? It's the limit!"
Laura smiled uneasily. Going to the table, she said awkwardly:
"Oh, I know it isn't pleasant, but it's my home, and, after all—a home's a home."
Elfie shrugged her shoulders.
"Looks more like a prison." Finding on the mantel a bit of stale candy, she popped it into her mouth from sheer force of habit. But it was no sooner in than, with an expression of disgust, she spat it out on the floor. Scornfully, she added: "Makes me think of the old days, the dairy kitchen and a hall bedroom,"
Laura sighed.
"It's comfortable," she said wearily.
"Not!" retorted Elfie saucily. Sitting on the bed, she jumped on the mattress as if trying it: "Say, is this here for effect, or do you sleep on it?"
"I sleep on it," said Laura quietly.
"No wonder you look tired," laughed her caller. "Say, listen, dearie, what else is the matter with you, anyway?"
Laura looked up at her companion in pretended surprise.
"Matter?" she echoed. "Why, nothing."
"Oh, yes, there is," insisted Elfie, shaking her head sagaciously. "What's happened between you and Brockton?" Noticing the faded flowers in the vase on the table, she took them out, and after tossing them into the fireplace, refilled the vase with the fresh gardenias which she was wearing. Meantime, she did not stop chattering. "He's not broke, because I saw him the other day."
"You saw him? Where?"
"In the park. He asked me out to luncheon, but I couldn't go. You know, dearie, I've got to be so careful. Jerry's so awful jealous—the old fool."
Laura had to smile in spite of herself.
"Do you see much of Jerry nowadays?"
"Not any more than I can help and be nice," chuckled Elfie. "He gets on my nerves. Of course, I have heard about your quitting Brockton."
"Then why do you ask?" demanded Laura.
"Just wanted to hear from your own dear lips what the trouble was. Now, tell me all about it. Can I smoke here?"
Pulling her gold cigarette-case up with her chatelaine, she opened it, and selected a cigarette.
"Certainly," said Laura, getting the matches from the bureau and putting them on the table.
"Have one?" said her companion.
"No, thank you," said Laura, sitting down so that she faced her companion.
"H'm-m, h'm-m, hah!" sputtered Elfie, lighting her cigarette. "Now, go ahead. Tell me all the scandal. I'm just crazy to know."
"There's nothing to tell," said Laura wearily. "I haven't been able to find work, that is all, and I'm short of money. You can't live in hotels, you know, and have cabs and all that sort of thing, when you're not working."
"Yes, you can," retorted her visitor. "I haven't worked in a year."
"But you don't understand, dear. I—I—well, you know, I—well, you know—I can't say what I want."
"Oh, yes, you can. You can say anything to me—everybody else does. We've been pals. I know you got along a little faster in the business than I did. The chorus was my limit, and you went into the legitimate thing. But we got our living just the same way. I didn't suppose there was any secret between you and me about that."
"I know there wasn't then, Elfie; but I tell you I'm different now. I don't want to do that sort of thing, and I've been very unlucky. This has been a terribly hard season for me. I simply haven't been able to get an engagement."
"Well, you can't get on this way," said Elfie. She paused a moment, knocking the ashes off her cigarette to cover her hesitation, and then went on: "Won't Brockton help you out?"
Laura rose abruptly and walked over to the fireplace. With some display of impatience, she exclaimed:
"What's the use of talking to you, Elfie? You don't understand."
Her legs crossed in masculine style, and puffing the cigarette deliberately, Elfie looked at her friend quizzingly:
"No?" she said mockingly. "Why don't I understand?"
"Because you can't," cried Laura hotly; "you've never felt as I have."
"How do you know?" demanded the other, with an elevation of her eyebrows.
Laura made a gesture of impatience.
"Oh, what's the use of explaining?" she cried.
Her visitor looked at her for a moment without making reply. Then, with the serious, reproachful manner of a mother reproving a wayward child, she said:
"You know, Laura, I'm not much on giving advice, but you make me sick. I thought you'd grown wise. A young girl just butting into this business might possibly make a fool of herself, but you ought to be onto the game, and make the best of it."
Laura was fast losing her temper. Her eyes flashed, and her hands worked nervously. Angrily, she exclaimed:
"If you came up here, Elfie, to talk that sort of stuff to me, please don't. Out West this summer, I met some one, a real man, who did me a lot of good. You know him. You introduced him to me that night at the restaurant. Well, we met again in Denver. I learned to love him. He opened my eyes to a different way of going along. He's a man who—oh, well, what's the use! You don't know—you don't know."
She tossed her head disdainfully as if the matter was not worthy of further discussion, and sank down on the bed. Elfie, who had listened attentively, removed the cigarette from her mouth, and threw it into the fireplace. Scornfully, she said:
"I don't know, don't I? I don't know, I suppose, then, when I came to this town from up-State—a little burg named Oswego—and joined a chorus, that I didn't fall in love with just such a man. I suppose I don't know that then I was the best-looking girl in New York, and everybody talked about me? I suppose I don't know that there were men, all ages, and with all kinds of money, ready to give me anything for the mere privilege of taking me out to supper? And I didn't do it, did I? For three years I stuck by this good man, who was to lead me in a good way, toward a good life. And all the time I was getting older, never quite so pretty one day as I had been the day before. I never knew then what it was to be tinkered with by hairdressers and manicures, or a hundred and one of those other people who make you look good. I didn't have to have them then." Rising, she went up to the table and faced her companion. "Well, you know, Laura, what happened."
"Wasn't it partly your fault, Elfie?"
Her friend leaned across the table, her face flushed with anger.
"Was it my fault that time made me older and I took on a lot of flesh? Was it my fault that the work and the life took out the color, and left the make-up? Was it my fault that other pretty young girls came along, just as I'd come, and were chased after, just as I was? Was it my fault the cabs weren't waiting any more and people didn't talk about how pretty I was? And was it my fault when he finally had me alone, and just because no one else wanted me, he got tired and threw me flat——" Bringing her hand down on the table with a bang, she added: "Cold flat—and I'd been on the dead level with him." With almost a sob, she went up to the bureau, powdered her nose, and returned to the table. "It almost broke my heart. Then I made up my mind to get even and get all I could out of the game. Jerry came along. He was a has-been, and I was on the road to be. He wanted to be good to me, and I let him. That's all!"
"Still, I don't see how you can live that way," said Laura, lying back on the bed.
"Well, you did," retorted Elfie, "and you didn't kick."
"Yes," rejoined Laura calmly, "but things are different with me now. You'd be the same way if you were in my place."
"No," laughed Elfie mockingly, "I've had all the romance I want, and I'll stake you to all your love affairs. I am out to gather in as much coin as I can in my own way, so when the old rainy day comes along I'll have a little change to buy myself an umbrella."
Laura started angrily to her feet. Hotly she cried:
"What did you come here for? Why can't you leave me alone when I'm trying to get along?"
"Because I want to help you," retorted Elfie calmly.
With tears streaming down her cheeks, almost hysterical, Laura tossed aside the quilt and sank down in a heap on the bed.
"You can't help me!" she sobbed. "I'm all right—I tell you I am." Peevishly she demanded: "What do you care, anyway?"
Elfie rose, and going over to the bed, sat down and took her old chum's hand. Quietly she said:
"But I do care. I know how you feel with an old cat for a landlady, and living up here on a side street with a lot of cheap burlesque people." Laura snatched her hand away, and going up to the window, turned her back. It was a direct snub, but Elfie did not care. Unabashed, she went on: "Why, the room's cold, and there's no hot water, and you're beginning to look shabby. You haven't got a job—chances are you won't have one." Pointing contemptuously to the picture of John Madison over the bed, she went on: "What does that fellow do for you? Send you long letters of condolences? That's what I used to get. When I wanted to buy a new pair of shoes or a silk petticoat he told me how much he loved me; so I had the other ones re-soled and turned the old petticoat. And look at you—you're beginning to show it." Surveying her friend's face more closely, she went on: "I do believe there are lines coming in your face, and you hide in the house because you've nothing to wear."
Jumping off the bed, Laura went quickly to the dresser, and picking up the hand mirror, looked carefully at herself. Then laying the glass down, she turned and faced the other. Sharply she retorted:
"But I've got what you haven't got. I may have to hide my clothes, but I don't have to hide my face. And you with that man—he's old enough to be your father—a toddling dote, hanging on your apron strings. I don't see how you dare show your face to a decent woman!"
It was Elfie's turn now to lose her temper. She rose, flushed with anger.
"You don't, eh?" she cried hotly. "But you did once, and I never caught you hanging your head. You say he's old. I know he's old, but he's good to me. He's making what's left of my life pleasant. You think I like him. I don't—sometimes I hate him—but he understands; and you can bet your life his cheque is in my mail every Saturday night, or there's a new lock on the door Sunday morning."
"How dare you say such things to me?" exclaimed Laura indignantly.
"Because I want you to be square with yourself. You've lost all that precious virtue women gab about. When you've got the name, I say get the game."
Almost speechless from anger, Laura pointed to the door.
"You can go now, Elfie, and don't come back!"
"All right," exclaimed Elfie, gathering up her muff and gloves, "if that's the way you want it to be, I'm sorry."
She was hurrying toward the door, when suddenly there came a knock. Laura, with an effort, controlled herself.
"Come in," she called out.
Annie entered, with a note, which she handed to Laura.
"Mis' Farley sent dis, Miss Laura."
Laura read the note. A look of mingled annoyance and embarrassment came into her face.
"There's no answer," she said sharply, crushing the note up in her hand.
But Annie was not to be put off.
"She tol' me not to leave until Ah got an answah."
"You must ask her to wait," retorted Laura doggedly.
"She wants an answer," persisted the negress.
"Tell her I'll be right down—that it will be all right."
"But, Miss Laura, she tol' me to get an answah."
She went out reluctantly, closing the door.
"She's taking advantage of your being here," exclaimed Laura apologetically, half to herself and half to her visitor.
"How?" demanded Elfie.
"She wants money—three weeks' room-rent. I presume she thought you'd give it to me."
"Huh!" exclaimed the other, tossing her head.
Changing her tone, Laura went up to her.
"Elfie," she said, "I've been a little cross; I didn't mean it."
"Well?" demanded her companion.
"Could—could you lend me thirty-five dollars until I get to work?"
"Me?" demanded her visitor, in indignant astonishment.
"You actually have the face to ask me to lend you thirty-five dollars?"
"Yes, you've got plenty of money to spare."
"Well, you certainly have got a nerve!" exclaimed Elfie.
"You might give it to me," pleaded Laura. "I haven't a dollar in the world, and you pretend to be such a friend to me!"
Elfie turned angrily.
"So that's the kind of a woman you are, eh? A moment ago you were going to kick me out of the place because I wasn't decent enough to associate with you. You know how I live. You know how I get my money—the same way you got most of yours. And now that you've got this spasm of goodness, I'm not fit to be in your room; but you'll take my money to pay your debts. You'll let me go out and do this sort of thing for your benefit, while you try to play the grand lady. I've got your number now, Laura. Where in hell is your virtue, anyway? You can go to the devil, rich, poor, or any other way. I'm off!"
She rushed toward the door. For a moment Laura stood speechless; then, with a loud cry, she broke down and burst into hysterics:
"Elfie! Elfie! Don't go now! Don't leave me now! Don't go!" Her visitor stood hesitating, with one hand on the doorknob. Laura went on: "I can't stand it. I can't be alone. Don't go, please, don't go!"
She fell into her friend's arms, sobbing. On the instant Elfie's hardness of demeanor changed. With all her coarseness, she was a good-natured woman at heart. Melting into the tenderest womanly sympathy, she tried her best to express herself in her crude way. Leading the weeping girl to the armchair, she made her sit down. Then, seating herself on the arm, she put her arm round her old chum and hugged her to her breast.
"There, old girl," she said soothingly, "don't cry, don't cry. You just sit down here and let me put my arms around you. I'm awful sorry—on the level, I am. I shouldn't have said it, I know that. But I've got feelings, too, even if folks don't give me credit for it."
Laura looked up through her tears.
"I know, Elfie, I've gone through about all I can stand."
Her friend smoothed her by stroking her hair.
"Well, I should say you have—and more than I would. Anyway, a good cry never hurts any woman. I have one myself sometimes, under cover."
As Laura recovered control of herself, she grew meditative. Musingly she said:
"Perhaps what you said was true."
"We won't talk about it—there!" said Elfie, drying her friend's eyes and kissing her.
"But perhaps it was true," persisted Laura, "and then——"
"And then——"
"I think I've stood this just as long; as I can. Every day is a living horror——"
Elfie nodded acquiescence. Glancing round the room, she exclaimed, with a comical grimace of disgust:
"It's the limit!"
"I've got to have money to pay the rent," continued Laura anxiously. "I've pawned everything I have, except the clothes on my back——"
Elfie threw her arms consolingly round her friend.
"I'll give you all the money you need, dearie. Great heavens, don't worry about that! Don't you care if I got sore and—lost my head."
Laura shook her head.