Katie

  “Oh, dry up your pious talk!” cried Ella. “How do you think we get along in this house?”

  “Do you all work in dollar stores?” asked Philo in wonder.

  “Go down to Five Points,” said Ella. She sat on the edge of Philo’s bed, and scratched the coverlet with her nails. “Go down to the Black Triangle, and the houses round the Battery, and walk in ’em. There you’ll find the really honest ones, the seamstresses, and the girls who make umbrella ribs, and the ones who fashion silk flowers for the hats you’ve seen on the Ladies’ Mile, and you’ll see ’em working without light, and without enough heat to warm their fingers, and without even enough money to buy drink on. Oh, you’ll find enough of ’em, and they all die honest. And they all die soon.”

  “Is it better to be dishonest?” Philo asked the question as if she truly did not know the answer – and indeed, at that moment she did not.

  Ella looked away. “Ask me again in three months,” she replied. “But in three months,” she went on grimly, “you won’t need to be asking.”

  When Ella saw that Philo, once past her initial shock, was willing to attend to the situation of unmarried young women in New York, she told her new friend a little of the histories, a little of the manners of Mrs. Classon’s boarders. Four worked in dollar stores, one in a stationery store, two in a millinery shop on Broadway (not quite in the Ladies’ Mile but near enough it to hold themselves annoyingly high in their own estimations), one sold cigars and candy to workers in the printing district out of a “seven-by-nine” store, and the most successful was a victorine- and muff-maker especially in demand because of her skill in sewing furs.

  These, to Philo’s eye, were all respectable occupations, but Ella gave her to understand that none provided funds sufficient for comfortable living but that each gave opportunity for making the acquaintance of gentlemen. It was difficult to repulse forever men who were handsome, de bon air, flattering, and willing to give presents to a girl whose every penny was expended on shelter, food, and clothing.

  Philo sighed. “Village life is different,” she said.

  “Are we all to pack up and descend on New Egypt then?” cried Ella. “Five thousand girls with carpetbags climbing down off the cars, looking about for lodging and employment? Are there enough single farmers in New Egypt to marry us all off to? This city belongs to us,” said Ella, “as much as to the bankers on Wall Street and the ladies who buy the clothing we sew.”

  “What is it you do?” asked Philo.

  “Through the kind offices of a friend . . .” Here Ella paused significantly. “. . . I got employment as a searcher in the Dead Letter Office of Station D.”

  “Station D?”

  “The sub-post office at the Bible House. It’s the largest in the city. I work there now.”

  “I am glad,” said Philo, “that you have honest employment.”

  “I am paid three dollars a week,” replied Ella meaningfully, and by this Philo understood that her friend had some other source of funds. Yet what would have scandalized Philo a week before had little power to shock her now. Whatever wrongs Ella and the other young women of Mrs. Classon’s house committed, the extremities to which they had been driven were probably no more desperate than those which Philo would herself feel within the month. If Philo could not entirely countenance Ella’s way out of her difficulties, it was not from lack of sympathy with her plight, only from an unfamiliarity with the customs and mores of single ladies in New York.

  “I apologize,” said Philo quietly, “if I have offended you by my thoughtless observations.” She smiled grimly. “I realize this can be a hard life.”

  “I supposed you knew that,” said Ella. “Miss Green, tell me about New Egypt.”

  Of New Egypt Philo said little, but of her mother and her grand­father she said much. And of Katie Slape, who murdered them both, and of John and Hannah Slape, who stole her fortune.

  Chapter 31

  ON THE BROADWAY STAGE

  As the two young women talked late into the night, the house quietened. Voices left off, doors no longer slammed, Mrs. Clas­son’s snoring was stifled in her pillow. Outside there was no traf­fic along the street, and they could hear no more than a bark­ing dog closed in a neighboring cellar. The breezes that blew through the window from the river were fragrant of spring.

  Despite the lateness of the hour when Ella LaFavour left Philo to seek her own chamber and bed, and despite the unaccustomed weariness of her day, Philo did not sleep. She sat at the single window of her room and stared out over the little plots of rocky soil three floors below, and wondered what on earth she was to do with herself.

  Ella had advised her to return to the dollar store with Ger­trude. “Some work is better than no work, and some money is a vast deal better than no money at all.” An archness of Ella’s brows was uncomfortably interpreted by Philo as a reminder that there were ways for a young woman to eke out a too-small wage.

  This Philo felt that she was unable to do. She had a repugnance to the bartering of her possibly very meager charms. She had no experience in flirtation and suspected the art was one that came naturally to young women like Gertrude Major or Nellie Stanwood. Philo was certain it had been in the milk that Jewel suckled at Caroline Varley’s ample breast. But for herself, she was convinced she would be a miserable failure if she set about to snare a gentleman who stood on the other side of the counter and examined her when he had professed interest only in a pair of eighteen-penny gloves.

  And if Philo’s surmises were correct, she wouldn’t have been able to get by on mere flirtation.

  The next morning she told an astonished Gertrude Major that she would not be returning to Aachen’s Dollar Emporium. “My money was stolen last night, and I must report it to the police. Later I will seek for work which will support me here at Mrs. Classon’s. The dollar store wages would have fallen short of my weekly rent anyway.”

  Here – for this conversation took place at the breakfast table, where the disappearance of Ida Yearance with Philo’s money was all the talk – Ella LaFavour said, “Philo, this morning I’ve been speaking to Nellie.”

  Nellie, who was Ella’s beautiful blonde roommate, nodded her head vigorously and grinned. She wore cheap pearls around her wrists.

  “Nellie wouldn’t mind having your room, if you’d move in with me. You would save three dollars a week.”

  “If you’re only to pay four,” cried Gertrude, “then you can still work at the dollar store!”

  Philo looked round in astonishment. She thought that in all of New Egypt the only person who had been really solicitous of her well-being had been Mary Drax, her own mother. The other inhabitants of the town would have been interested, certainly, if Philo had inherited three millions of dollars or had thrown herself down a well (these the extremities of fate to an inhabitant of New Jersey), but there was not one of them who would have put it in the way of duty to be of material assistance to Philo or her mother. Yet here were half a dozen young women, strangers to Philo three days ago, who appeared genuinely concerned with her welfare, who talked about what was best for her, who seemed willing to walk several squares out of their way for her benefit or amusement.

  The sensation of being cared about was almost bewildering.

  “I hope,” said Mrs. Classon in her wispy voice that Philo could hear only because the landlady sat directly beside her, “that you remain with us. You are a pretty girl.” And she laid her hand over Philo’s on the cloth.

  Philo persisted in her refusal to return to the dollar store that morning. She walked out of the house with Ella LaFavour and with a map of New York on which the Centre Street police headquarters had been marked in violet ink. She marveled anew at the size of the city, which was rather larger than her child­hood conception of the entire state of New Jersey. Ella took her directly across town to the Bible House, a building whose im­mensity startled Philo, and then told her very carefully what cars she ought to take to get to Centre Street.

&nbs
p; At police headquarters Philo told how her money had been stolen, gave a description of Ida Yearance, and meekly received a lecture on the evils that invariably befell young women who ought to have stayed in the country. She was questioned not very subtly on the subject of her employment and revenues and blushed when she realized the purport of that interrogation. She hurried away without even the reassurance being given her that “everything would be done . . .”

  From a newsboy on the corner she purchased three papers in order to examine the advertisements for employment. She con­sulted her map, intending to walk back to West Thirteenth Street, but was instead attracted to the vast rectangle, shaded in green, that was labelled The Central Park. Of this expanse she had heard the clerks in the dollar store speak, and one man had asked her if she would like to accompany him there some Sunday after­noon. The morning was bright and warm, and for the first time Philo felt a pang for New Egypt, specifically for her garden and the flowers in it.

  She returned to the corner where she had purchased the papers, bought a fourth, and asked the boy how she should get up to the Central Park.

  “Got a nickel?” he asked.

  Philo hesitated whether the information were worth so much. She had fifteen dollars in her pocket, which, with her now re­duced charges for boarding, ought to be made to last her three weeks at least – but could she afford to trade a newsboy five cents for what could not be much of a secret?

  “Got a nickel?” the boy repeated with some impatience at Philo’s country density. “If you got a nickel then you can take the Broadway stage.”

  “Oh!” cried Philo. “Thank you!”

  New Yorkers were less mercenary than she had supposed. When the boy pointed to the west and told her to walk two squares over to catch the stage, she thanked him and purchased yet another paper.

  She went west, waited for the stage at the corner of Franklin Street, and was warned of its approach by the tolling of a shrillish bell. She climbed on, exchanged a nickel for a ticket, slipped the ticket beneath her glove, folded her hands across the papers in her lap, and prepared to enjoy the long ride uptown.

  What she had seen of New York before was nothing to what she saw now: square after square of immense buildings, each with five, six, or seven floors, each floor with the name of some business plated in a gilded crescent across the window. More persons than she had imagined existed in all the city together streamed along the walks, and the progress of the stage seemed slower than that of the hurrying throng.

  At West Third Street the gentleman who had sat beside her got up, and his place was taken by a sweet-faced woman of middle age. Her tastefully sumptuous dress was worn with con­sid­erable grace. Moreover, something in this lady’s friendly physiognomy seemed so familiar that Philo could not resist a polite nod, which was politely returned.

  The Broadway stage had become crowded and the ticket-taker did not get round quickly. However, at his approach, the lady sitting next to Philo opened her bag, but as she did so uttered an exclamation of dismay.

  Philo turned to her and in a low voice questioned whether anything were wrong.

  “I have foolishly mislaid my porte-monnaie at the shop I just left,” said the lady ruefully.

  “Oh!” cried Philo in unfeigned sympathy. She knew what it was to have lost money. “Was there much in it?”

  “No,” said the lady, “no more than thirty or forty dollars, I think. But I haven’t any money to pay my fare.”

  The ticket-taker was upon them. Philo showed her own and then handed the man five cents for the lady next to her.

  “That is very kind of you,” said the lady.

  “It’s nothing,” said Philo. “Pray don’t—”

  “Please come to my house and let me reimburse you.”

  “It’s not necessary,” said Philo. “I was very happy to be of service to you.”

  “If you are not busy, I insist.”

  “I’m not pressed, I’ll admit,” replied Philo, smiling.

  The lady eyed Philo’s papers. “Do you plan to sell them on a street corner?” she asked archly.

  Philo sighed. “If I don’t find employment in the advertisements, I may finish up so.”

  “You are looking for work?” asked the lady.

  “Yes,” Philo replied.

  The stage had stopped before an immense hotel. On the other side was a park, filled with large trees, with a fountain in the center, and brightly painted benches all round.

  “Is this the Cen­tral Park?” Philo asked.

  The lady laughed. “No,” she said, “this is Madison Square. The Central Park is somewhat larger. You have but recently come to the city, I take it.”

  “Yes, I have been here only a few days.”

  The stage started up again. “This is Twenty-fourth Street,” said the lady quickly. “I live on Twenty-sixth Street between Broad­way and Sixth Avenue. I would deem it a favor if you would stop with me at my home now.”

  “I will,” said Philo, amused that this lady – evidently quite well off if the loss of thirty-five or forty dollars meant so little to her – should go to such trouble to reimburse her for a five-cent fare.

  “What is your name?”

  “Philomela Drax, ma’am.”

  The lady smiled. “My name is Mrs. Maitland.”

  Before Philo could express her astonishment – she was certain, hearing the name and looking closely at the woman’s face, that this was Henry Maitland’s mother – the stage had stopped again, Mrs. Maitland had stood, and the ticket-taker was ushering them down the steps and into the street.

  Chapter 32

  ON TWENTY-SIXTH STREET

  Philo remained silent in the brief walk from the stage to Mrs. Maitland’s house. She tried desperately to recall what she had heard of Henry Maitland’s circumstances in New York: whether his parents were living, whether he resided with them, any single fact at all – but she could remember nothing.

  On each side of Twenty-sixth Street was an unbroken row of brownstone-front houses, each five stories high, each with a wide, high stoop, each with two windows on each floor. The walks were lined with flowering crab apples, and tiny beds of bright spring flowers had been planted before nearly all the houses. The morning sun was dazzlingly reflected off the win­dows on the northern side of the street. The very air smelled sweet. Philo for the first time was confronted with New York pros­perity, and she was impressed.

  A female servant opened the door to Mrs. Maitland and Philo, and Philo entered the house curiously. The hallway was richly papered in blue, the furniture was heavy mahogany, and everywhere were purple and white lilacs in white milk-glass vases.

  “Philomela – may I call you so? – you will please stay for luncheon?”

  The maid smiled and gently tugged at the papers Philo held clasped tightly in her hands. Philo let go of a sudden, and the papers were set neatly on the white marble table in the hall.

  Philo hesitated to accept the offer.

  “Is something the matter?” Mrs. Maitland asked.

  “No,” replied Philo quickly, “I’m only not certain . . .”

  “I would be glad of company at luncheon,” said Mrs. Maitland. “Only this morning my son went away on a long journey. It is foolish of me, but I miss his presence already.”

  “I don’t think it foolish at all,” said Philo. Then this was Henry’s mother. Philo wondered now that she could have doubted it.

  When the maid had opened the double doors into the parlor, Philo suddenly became aware of the shabbiness of her dress. The furniture, the fabrics, the pictures in gilt frames on the walls had all been assembled in the richest manner conceivable to Philo.

  She was uncomfortable and felt as if she were somehow de­ceiving this kind woman. If her money had not been stolen the night before and if she had not thought immediately of turning to Henry Maitland for assistance, this fortuitous meeting with his mother would have seemed only a happy coincidence. She sat upon the sofa at Mrs. Maitland’s behest wh
ile that lady pulled the pins from her hat.

  “Where are you from, Philomela?”

  “New Jersey.”

  “My brother lives in New Jersey,” said Mrs. Maitland.

  Philo looked away. “Your brother is Jacob Varley of New Egypt, I believe.” She spoke guiltily, as if admitting having broken into the man’s house and stolen his plate.

  Mrs. Maitland turned around astonished and stared at Philo.

  “Are you seeking employment as a clairvoyant, Philomela?” she asked at last.

  Philo shook her head. “I am from New Egypt,” said Philo. “And I have met your son.”

  “You know Henry?”

  Philo blushed. “I was introduced to him in New Egypt. And last evening, quite by chance, he saw me on Eighth Avenue. He took me to dinner.”

  “Ah,” said Mrs. Maitland, thoughtfully. “That is why he was so late in coming to say good-bye.”

  Philo was convinced that Mrs. Maitland, who was evidently very rich, would entirely disapprove her son’s prosecuting an a­cquain­tance with a girl so obviously poor as herself.

  Mrs. Maitland was a handsome woman and imposing in the way that her sister-in-law, Caroline Varley, would have liked to be. She seated herself on the sofa next to Philo.

  “Why are you not in New Egypt?” asked Mrs. Maitland.

  Philo looked away. “My mother is dead. I have no other family there. I have no other family at all. I came to New York hoping to support myself here.”

  “It is difficult for a young woman alone,” said Mrs. Maitland gently.

  “I know,” replied Philo, “I—”

  “Wait!” cried Mrs. Maitland. “Are you the young woman Henry described to me?”

  Philo was confused. She suspected she was but did not want to give the impression that she assumed so much.

  “Philomela,” said Mrs. Maitland, taking the girl’s hand, “was your mother murdered?”

  Philo nodded dumbly. She was near to tears and felt that to speak at all would be to release them.

  “I see,” said Mrs. Maitland. She released Philo’s hand, sat back on the sofa with her finger on her chin, and thought for several moments.