CHAPTER VIII.
A CHAPERON ON A CATTLE TRAIN.
June 4.
This has been one of my worst days, and I have for a long time had nodays but bad ones. Three things have happened, either one of whichwould alone have been a calamity. Together they crush, they frighten,they humiliate me!
This morning came this letter from Father:--
Hannibal, May 31.
"DEAR NELLY:--
"I take my pen in hand to tell you that we are all well and hope thatyou are the same. It was a very cold winter and we were so put to it toget water for the stock after the dry fall that I am thinking ofputting down a driven well this summer if I can find the money. Ma hasa sprained wrist which is painful but not serious. John Burke sent homesome little items from the papers. We are glad that you have beenhaving a good time. We were glad that you had gone to Timothy's house,though John Burke said the girl you were with before was very nice. Buttwas right not to stay long enough to wear out your welcome. I do notsee how I can get so much money. I have sent you all I had by me and wehave been pinched a good deal too. I had a chance of a pass on a cattletrain and Ma said why don't you go east yourself and see Nelly. But Isaid no school's most done and she'll be coming home and how can Ileave? Shaw said she we can tend to everything all right so maybe Iwill come. I have written to Timothy and will do as he says. I have afeeling Daughter that you need some one by you in the city. Ma sendsher love and asks why you don't write oftener. We wouldn't scarcelyknow what you was doing at all if it wasn't for John.
"Your Loving Father,
"EZRA D. WINSHIP." It seems I'm to have a new chaperon. He's a littlestiff in the joints and his face is wrinkled and his talk is not thatof society and he's coming out of the West on a cattle train. Good Lord!
Oh, yes, he'll come. Uncle Timothy'll urge him to take me back to thefarm.
I won't go back! As soon as I had read this news I started for theImperial Theatre to see the manager. I walked, for I have no morecredit at the livery stable; and I was grimly amused to see in the shopwindows the "Winship hats" and graceful "Winship scarves" that arecoining money for other people while I have scarcely carfare.
The unusual exercise may have tired me, or perhaps it was somelingering remnant of the old farm superstition against the theatre thatmade me slacken my steps as I neared the office. I remembered myfather's tremulous voice cautioning me against play-houses before Istarted for the city.
"Now don't ye go near them places," he said, wiping his nose anddodging about the corners of his eyes. "They're bad for young girls."
Why do I think of these things? If he cares so much for me, why doesn'the get me the money I asked for; instead of coming here-on a cattletrain?
Whatever the reason, Puritanic training or fear of my errand, I walkedslowly back and forth in front of the dingy little office of thetheatre for some time before I conquered my irresolution and wentdesperately into the place.
They told me the manager was out, but after a little waiting I began tosuspect that this was a dingy white lie, and so it proved; for when Ilifted my veil and blushing like a school-girl, told the people in theoffice who I was, at once some one scurried into a little den andpresently came out to say that Mr. Blumenthal had "returned."
Oh, the manager's an important person in his way; he has theatres inevery part of the country and is a busy man. But he was willing enoughto see me when his stupid people had let him know that I was the MissWinship! Sorry as was my heart, I felt a thrill of triumph at this newproof of my fame and the power beauty gives.
When I entered his office, a bald little man turned from a litter ofpapers and looked at me with frank, business-like curiosity, as if hehad a perfect right to do so-and indeed he had. I was not there tobarter talent, but to rent my face. I understood that; but perhaps forthis very reason my tongue tripped as it has seldom done of late when Iblunderingly explained my errand.
"Guess we can do something for you," he said promptly. "Of coursethere's a horde of applicants, but you're exceptional; you know that."
He smiled good-naturedly, and I felt at once relieved and indignantthat he should treat as an everyday affair the step I had ponderedduring so many sleepless nights.
"Must remember though," he added, "on the stage a passably pretty womanwith a good nose, who has command of her features and can summonexpression to them, often appears more beautiful than a goddess-facedstick. However, it's worth trying. I don't believe you're a stick.Ah,--would you walk on?"
"I don't understand."
"Stage slang; would you be willing to go on as a minor character--wearfine clothes and be looked at without saying much--at first, you know?Or--of course your idea's to star-you got a backer?"
"I don't understand that, either."
"Some one to pay the bills while you're being taught. To hire a companyand a theatre as a gamble."
"Impossible! I want money at once. I supposed that my--my beauty wouldcommand a position on the stage; it's certainly a bar to employment offit."
"Of course it would; yes, yes, but not immediately. Why, even Mrs.Farquhar had to have long and expensive training before she made herdebut. And you know what a scandal there had been about her!
"Not that there's been any about you," he added hastily, to my look ofamazement. "But you know--ah--public mention of any sort piquescuriosity. Er--what's your act?"
"My act?"
"Yes; what can you do?"
"Sing a little; nothing else. I thought of opera."
This proposition didn't seem to strike him favourably.
"I don't know--" he hesitated. "You have a wonderful speaking voice,and you've been advertised to beat the band. Who's your press agent?"
"I don't quite know what a press agent is; but I'm sure I never hadany."
"Well, you don't need any. Now that I see you--, but I fancied monthsago that you were probably getting ready for this. Suppose you sing alittle song for me."
We stumbled through dim passages to the stage, half-lighted by a windowor two high overhead. Mr. Blumenthal sat alone in the orchestra, and Isummoned all my resolution, and then, frightened and ashamed anddesperate, I sang the "Sehnsucht," following it with what Cadge calls a"good yelling song" to show the power of my voice.
Then the rotund little manager rolled silently back to the office, andI knew as I followed him that I had been judged by a different standardfrom that of an applauding drawing-room.
"Well!" said he, when we had regained his room. "You are a marvel! Singby all means; but, if you must have immediate results, not in opera.Music halls get pretty much the most profitable part of the businesssince they became so fashionable in London. Tell you what I'lldo.--I'll give you a short trial at--say a hundred a week. You've awonderful voice and no training; but any teacher can soon put you inshape to sing a few showy songs. Give me an option on your services fora longer term at a higher figure, if you take to the business and ittakes to you, and you can start in next month at the roof garden."
"The roof garden!" I cried out; but then I saw how foolish it would beto feel affronted at this common man with money who would rank me as anattraction among acrobats and trick dogs.
"I shouldn't like that," I said more calmly; "people are very foolish,of course, but I've been told that--that if I were to sing in public,my appearance would mark a new era in music; now, I wouldn't care tosing in such a place; I had hoped, too, that I could get more--moresalary."
"Would seem so, wouldn't it?" said Mr. Blumenthal. "But it's a fairoffer. Tell you why.
"You'll take with an audience, for a short run, anyhow, if you'vegot--er--temperament; but I run the risk that you haven't. I spendconsiderable money getting you ready to appear, and then you're on thestage only a few minutes. Another thing: Most people nowadays are shortsighted; you have to capture 'em in the mass--two Topsies, four UncleToms, eight Markses the lawyers, twenty chorus girls kicking atonce-big stage picture, you know, not the individual. And theindividual must have the large manner. Y
es, yes; I use you for bait todraw people, but I need other performers to amuse 'em after they'rehere. They want to feel that there's 'something doing' all the while,something different. Curiosity wouldn't last long; either you'd turnout an artist and--er--do what a music hall audience wants done, oryou'd fail. In the former case you could command more money; never somuch as people say, though. There's so many liars."
"I--I'll think over your offer," I said. "I wouldn't have to wear--"
"Costumes of approved brevity? No; at least not to start with."
Mr. Blumenthal also had risen. He looked at me, as if aroused to myignorance of things theatrical, with a more personal and kindlyinterest.
"Sorry my offer doesn't strike you favourably," he said. "I'd likemighty well to bring you out; but if you hold off for opera--that isn'tmy line, though--mind you, I don't say it could be done; but if someone were found to put up the money, would you wait and study? Know whatyou'd be undertaking, I suppose--hard work, regular hours, open air,steady habits? That's the life of a singer. Your health good? Nonerves? We might make a deal, if you mean business. Trouble is, so manybeautiful women think beauty as an asset is worth more than it is; itmakes 'em careless about studying while they're young, and it can'tlast--"
I never heard the end of that sentence. I flew home and went straightto my mirror. Sure enough, I fancied I saw a haggard look about theeyes--
My God! This gift of beauty doesn't confer immunity from fatigue,accident, old age. This loveliness must fade and crack and wrinkle,these full organ tones must shrivel to a shrill pipe; and I--I! shallone day be a tottering old woman, bent, gray, hideous!
And all the little disfiguring hurts of life--they frighten me! I neverenter a train that I do not think, with a shudder, of derailment andbleeding gashes and white scars; or cross a street without lookingabout for the waving hoofs of runaway horses that shall beat me down,or for some bicycle rider who might roll me over in a limp heap on thepaving stones.
Yesterday I saw a horrid creature; her face blotched with red by acidstain or by a birth mark. Why does she not kill herself? Why didn't shedie before I saw her? I shall dream of her for months--of her andDarmstetter, old and wrinkled as I shall be some day, and dead--withthat same awful look in my fixed eyes!
Ah, what a Nelly I have come to be! Is it possible that I once rodefrisky colts bareback and had no nerves! I mustn't have nerves! Theymake one old. Mr. Blumenthal said so. But how to avoid them? Oh, I mustbe careful; so careful! How do women dare to ride bicycles?
And this theatrical Napoleon, part of whose business is theappraisement of beauty--did he suspect that mine was less than perfect?It was perfect a month ago.
He couldn't have meant that, or he was trying to make a better bargainby cheapening the wares I brought--
But I can't go upon the stage. How could I have thought of it? Imustn't subject myself to the late hours, the grease paint, the badair! Of what use would be a mint of money, if I lost my beauty?
I steadied my nerves with a tiny glass of Curacoa, and looked again.The face in the mirror was beautiful, beautiful! There is no other likeit! And gazing upon radiant Her, I might have recovered myself but forthe third untoward event of the day.
It came in the shape of Bellmer.
Perhaps I ought not to have seen him alone, but it is hard for one whohas lived in the free atmosphere of the prairie, and has been abachelor girl in New York with Kitty Reid to think about caution.Besides, it was such a blessed relief to see his full-moon face riseabove the darkness of my troubles! I greeted him with my sweetestsmile, and did my very best to make myself agreeable.
"You've been out of town, haven't you?" I asked when the talk began toflag, as it soon does with Hughy.
"Aw, yes," he said; "pickin' up a record or two, with my 'mobe;' y'ought to see it; it's a beauty, gasolene, you know. Awful nuisance,punctures, though. Cost me thirteen dollars to repair one; vulcanizethe tire, y'see. Tires weigh thirty pounds each; awful lot, ain't it?Stripped one right off, though, trying to turn in the mud; fastened onwith half-inch spikes, too. Can't I persuade you to--aw--take a spinsome day? Where's Mrs. Whitney?"
"Gone to the country; she--she's ill."
"Awful tabby, wa'n't she?"
"Oh, no; I like her very much, but she was in a hurry to leave town."
"So Aunt Terry said. Awf'ly down on you, Aunt Terry is," he drawledwith even more than his usual tactlessness, "but I stand up for you, Iassuah you, Miss Winship. I tell her you're awf'ly sensible an'jolly--lettin' a fellow come like this, now, and talk to you's jolly,ain't it? An' you will try my mobe? Awf'ly jolly 'twould be to take aspin."
"Very jolly indeed," I said. I turned my head that I might not see hisshining scalp. Thank heaven, I thought, Hughy doesn't know enough to bedeterred by two rejections, nor even by the gossip about Strathay. Iwished--it was wicked, of course--I wished I were his widow; but I wasdetermined not to repeat such folly as I had shown about the Earl.
"Very jolly," I repeated, "but you don't know what a coward I am; Ibelieve I'd be afraid."
"Aw, no, Miss Winship," he remonstrated; "afraid of the mobe? Aw, no;not with me. I'll teach you how to run it, I do assuah you; awf'lyjolly that would be."
"Why, yes; that would be nice, of course," I said; "but--"
Oh, how shall I tell the rest? I was afraid of the machine; I knew Icould never mount it, with his hand on the lever; I was just trying torefuse without offending him.
"--I'm such a coward, really," I went on; I smiled painstakingly intohis stupid pink face that seemed suddenly to have grown pinker; andthen I felt my smile stiffen upon my lips, for he had whirled around onthe piano stool on which he was sitting, and he smiled back at me, butnot as he would have done in Mrs. Whitney's presence. He--he leered!
"You wouldn't be afraid, with me, y' know,--" was all he said, but herose as if to come nearer me.
"Oh, yes, I should--I should--" I stammered; I couldn't move; Icouldn't look away from him.
I seemed face to face with some foolish, grinning masque of horror. Myheart beat as I think a bird's must when a snake has eyed it; and acold moisture broke out upon me.
"Oh, yes, I should!" I cried as I broke loose from the spell of terror,and made some halting excuse to get rid of him. I didn't dare even waitto see him leave the room, but fled from it myself, conscious as I wentof his open-mouthed stare, and of his detaining: "Aw, now, MissWinship--"
To get as far away as possible, I retreated to the kitchen, where Isurprised Nora and Annie in conclave. They seized the opportunity to"give notice." Nora has a sweetheart and is to be married; Annie hasinvented the excuse of an ailing mother, because she dares not stayalone with me. They are both afraid, now that Mrs. Whitney--selfishcreature!--has gone, and left me helpless against the world.
At any other time the news would have been a fresh calamity--for howcan I pay them, or how get rid of them without paying? But with thememory of that awful scene in my head, I could think of nothing else. Idon't know what I said in reply.
Bellmer's insult has stayed with me and haunted me. I had bearded atheatrical manager in his den and had been received with kindness andcourtesy. He had even assumed that some things in the profession aboutwhich I was inquiring might be trying to a tenderly reared girl, andthat he ought to give me advice and warnings. But this Thing bearing agentleman's repute; this bat-brained darling of a society that I'm notthought good enough to enter, had insulted me like a boor under my ownroof; and he would probably boast of it like a boor to others as baseas himself! The poverty of it, the grossness of it!
I'm not ignorant, now. I know there's a way open to me--God knows Inever mean to walk on it--but if ever I do go, open-eyed, into what theworld calls wrong to end my worries, it will be at the invitation ofone who has at least the manner of a gentleman!
Sometimes I wonder if I did right about Ned. If he had known that Iloved him, if I had made it plain, if I were even now to tell him allthe truth.--But he said--
I hate him! The whol
e world's against me, but I won't be beaten! Iwon't go back to the farm with Father. I will not give up the fight!
What shall I do?