MRS1 The Under Dogs (8 page)

On the fifth day Mme. Storey called me up. At the sound of the well-known, slow voice, with a little crinkle of amusement in it, a great gladness filled my breast. We conducted our conversation prudently, since there was a chance that we might be overheard, though it was a slight one. Mme. Storey's name was so much on all lips that the sound of it might have arrested the attention of even the busiest telephone operator.

"Hello, there!" she said.

"Hello yourself," I answered. "Are you all right?"

"Right as a trivet! What I want first is news; of course I've read the papers."

"There is no news, except what has been in the papers. Our friend has made no progress."

"Well, if no body has been found, that is something. Have they been interesting themselves in your movements?"

"I think so. You told me not to notice anything of the sort. Since yesterday, I think they've been called off."

"You'd better make sure of that now. Walk once or twice through one of the long, empty blocks in your neighbourhood, and look behind you. Seat yourself for awhile on a bench in the Park, from where you can see in every direction."

"I will. Have you made your plans?"

"Yes, but we'd better not go into details over the phone, I'm still looking for just the job I want. I must establish a background. I mean to be a laundry worker."

"A laundry worker; in July!" I exclaimed, thinking of her beautiful hands.

"It will only be a few days."

"But why a laundry?"

"The work is so hard, and the pay so poor, you can always get a job without any to do about references."

"I can't imagine you in a laundry," I said helplessly.

"I am much changed, my friend."

"Any instructions?" I asked.

"Yes. I want you to send a telegram to my well-known friend in Tuxedo. Do you get me?"

"You mean E. M.?" I asked. ("E.M." stood for Emily Marquardt—Mrs. Cornelius Marquardt.)

"Yes. I couldn't send it in my present make-up without exciting remark in the telegraph office. But you can. Send it from an office where you are known. Just say: 'Four o'clock, Saturday. If not convenient, name your own time.' And sign it: 'Louisa.'"

I repeated this over the wire.

"That's all now. I'll call you up at your boarding-house to-night."

I sent the telegram; and in two hours I got this answer, "I'll be there: Emily."

At home that night, I was just finishing dinner when I was summoned to the phone. The instrument is in the hall, just outside the dining-room door; and as all the boarders pricked up their ears, it behooved me to be more careful than ever about my end of the conversation. The voice that came over the wire was strange to me; a slightly husky voice, speaking the clipped, derisive jargon of the streets.

"Hello, guyl! Say, listen. T'ere's a band concert over in Tompkins Square t'night. Kalsomine yer neck and c'm on over."

I suppose I gasped audibly. A delighted laugh came winging over the wire, and I heard my mistress's natural voice.

"That's my new character, Bella. Hereafter, I must think in it, speak in it, walk in it, eat in it, and even dream in it! ... Any news?"

Still a little dazed, I told her of the telegram I had received.

"That means you are to meet Mrs. Marquardt at the Arts Club at four to-morrow afternoon," she said. "In the morning's mail you will receive a letter which you are to hand to her. The answer, which will be simply yes or no, is to be conveyed to me through you. But tell her she had better consult her husband before she answers."

"I understand," I said.

Mme. Storey dropped into the vernacular again. "Say, listen, guyl, I got a job already. Pushin' a gas-iron over starched fronts. I put in half a day there. It's a fierce dump, but watcha gonna do? The bunch ain't so bad. And tough! my word! you gotta hand it to 'em!"

I had never seen (or heard) Mme. Storey in this rôle. It was marvellous. It scared me a little.

"Can we meet?" I faltered.

"Say, it would look funny if the like of youse was to be seen talkin' to the like of me. But we could give each other the once over, if you wanted. That was on the level about Tompkins Square. C'mon over. Know where it is?"

"No."

"You just hop an Eighth Street car bound east, and unload when you hear the band play. Walk up and down on the Avenue A side. If you see me, don't let anythin' on. I can't say posi
tively
I'll be there, but watch out for me. Bye-bye!"

When I left the telephone, old Mrs. Pruefrock looked in my face, and cackled. "Have you had bad news?"

I put on my plainest hat and boarded an Eighth Street car. I felt like one venturing into the unreal. Yet Avenue A was entirely matter-of-fact.

It is a quaint neighbourhood; the New York of sixty or seventy years ago, very little changed. The wide street is lined with plain, red brick tenements, only three stories high, decorated with rusty fire-escapes, and having little shops on the street level. Only the big, gaudily-painted electric cars that clang up and down are out of keeping; one calls up in one's mind the little horse-cars, with battered fronts and gleaming brass brake handles, that used to jog along to the accompaniment of a tinkling bell.

The people have changed more; for the ghetto is sweeping up from the South, fast obliterating the Irish-American element that first set the East Side's gallant derisive tone. The Jews have their qualities, but they are different. However, one still sees the Irish faces on the street corners, with their provoking eyes and wry mouths, uttering witticisms out of one corner.

It was a hot night, and the populace lay about on the grass of the little park undisturbed by the police, and listening to the music with the air of those who are consciously improving themselves. On the surrounding pavements promenaded the youths and maidens, these not giving a hang for the music, but probably enjoying it just as much. I joined the promenaders, keeping to the extreme outside of the walk, and making myself as inconspicuous as possible. I felt horribly out of place. Particularly my rainy day hat. I should have worn the gayest I had.

Walking towards me, arm-in-arm, came two girls, who were typical of the scene. One was tall, and had a great bush of crass blonde hair standing out from her head, and roving dark eyes. She wore a sports-dress of tub silk, which clung to her fine figure scantily. It had scarlet stripes three inches wide running up and down. Like all the other girls, she was outrageously painted; it almost robbed her face of humanity; nevertheless, there was something splendid and barbaric about her, that caused every youth who passed to cock an eye her way. Her companion was small and dark, and piquant; they made admirable foils to each other. They were closely followed by two young men, making humorous remarks which the girls made believe to ignore.

I walked to the end of the Park and turned around. When I came back I saw them again. They had stopped to listen to the music and I passed behind them. The young men had evidently been admitted to a footing of acquaintanceship; the two girls still clung together, arm-in-arm, but they now had a youth on each side. Obliged to keep in step with the slowly-moving crowd, I heard some snatches of their talk as I passed, but I could make nothing of it. It was just a lively noise.

One young man wore a straw hat with a very tall crown, and no brim to speak of. He said vaguely: "I'll tell the world..."

To which the tall girl replied: "There'll be no wash in Heaven."

And they shouted with laughter.

The other young man wore an alleged Panama hat, which was most unnaturally ironed into the shape of a Fedoro, with a little hollow in each side of the crown. With a killing side-glance at the little girl, he warbled: "Oh, Min! Oh, Min! Come down to your child!"

Whereat she replied with hauteur: "Somebody oughta give that buyd a wuym."

Then the tall girl announced once more: "There'll be no wash in Heaven."

And they redoubled their laughter.

The next time our paths crossed they were walking. It never occurred to me that one like myself could attract the attention of this giddy quartet, and I looked at them with frank curiosity as we passed. Imagine my feelings when the tall girl suddenly turned her head, and said close in my face in sepulchral tones:

"There'll be no wash in Heaven, kid!"

Her companions roared. As for me, I walked on a little dizzily, for in that flamboyant girl I had suddenly recognised my mistress. I recognised her, yet I couldn't believe in the evidence of my own senses. Mme. Storey, the elegant, the exquisite, the admired of New York and Paris, and that great, showy flower of the East Side! Yet they were one and the same! I don't know what I had expected to find; certainly not that. Arm in arm with a girl of Avenue A and flirting with two of its fellows! Was it any wonder that I felt as if I had flown apart, and was unable to collect the pieces?

But in due course my composure returned, and with it the deepest and richest feeling of amusement. What a marvellous piece of acting I was privileged to witness. Surely such acting had never been seen on any stage. What art, what humour, what humanity were in that impersonation; and it was all for me, so to speak; at least I was the only one in a position to appreciate it.

I turned back, eager to see all I could. The four had now seated themselves in a row on the grass, facing the sidewalk, and by taking fairly short turns to and fro, I was able to pass them frequently. They paid no further attention to me. It was chiefly that blonde bush of hair which had created such a change in my mistress's outward seeming. I saw that it was not a wig. She had bobbed her hair, and dyed it with peroxide to that peculiarly crass shade. She had frizzed it till it stood out perpendicularly from her head. The hair, and the heavy make-up, of course, entirely destroyed her usual expression.

But she did not depend on outward seeming. She had got under the very skin of her part. She portrayed a nature the exact opposite of her own. I could not sufficiently admire the subtle touches; the slightly thickened voice; the ungainly movements of her long body, which nevertheless expressed a natural grace; the crude gesticulation which suggested a powerful personality, but ignorant and unformed. It was a treat to see the way she made play with her hands in her fuzzy hair. She was studying her own effects, too, and enjoying them; one could tell it from the slightly withdrawn expression of her eyes. For conversation, that one phrase seemed to do her pretty well, on which she rang a hundred changes like a charming clown.

"There'll be no wash in Heaven!"

When the band put away its instruments, the crowd scattered, and I lost my quartet. I could not, in any case, have followed them. I went home, hugging the recollection of that rich, artistic treat, and dwelt on it half the night. There was an undercurrent of anxiety, too. To what dangerous end were these talents to be devoted?

The letter for Mrs. Cornelius Marquardt arrived next morning under cover for me. A bulky letter that I weighed thoughtfully in my hand. I a little resented that I had not so far been taken into the secret of the contents of this letter. Shortly before four, I carried it into the Arts Club. I had satisfied myself the previous day that my movements were no longer being watched.

Mrs. Cornelius Marquardt is, as everybody knows, a very great lady. She married the Marquardt millions under romantic circumstances; she entertains royalty; she possesses marvellous jewels, etc., etc. She is a "friend" of Mme. Storey's, but I cannot say there is any great degree of intimacy between them. It may be simply that it suits these two great ladies, in such different spheres, to make an alliance.

Mrs. Marquardt came sailing into the club like a cup defender across the finish line. She greeted me with her well-known charm, which she turns on for the benefit of high and low alike, and immediately sat down to read her letter. This covered page after page with my mistress's characteristic, long-tailed handwriting, and it made me rather jealous to see it. Yet, as Mrs. Marquardt read, the natural woman began to crack the veneer of her charm, and I liked her better. Once or twice she giggled delightedly, and when she had finished reading, she looked both scared and delighted.

She said immediately: "The answer is 'yes.'"

I said: "My mistress suggested that you ought to consult Mr. Marquardt before you committed yourself."

"I will answer for him," she said. "I have already spoken to him in a general way about the matter." She tucked the letter in her bag. "Tell our friend," she said, "that as soon as I have committed the contents to memory, I will burn it."

Mme. Storey called me up at the same hour as on the night before. I conveyed Mrs. Marquardt's answer to her. I have been too well-trained to ask questions, but I suppose Mme. Storey must have heard in my voice that I felt my exclusion, for she said:

"Have patience until Tuesday morning, my Bella. It will all be in the papers."

She asked me if I thought she would pass muster in her new rôle; and I tried to tell her what I thought about it.

"That was only a preliminary study," she said, laughing. "It will have to be better than that to see me through to the end."

"The end of what?" I wondered—but did not ask.

"I shall probably not call you up again," she said. "Don't forget Tuesday. And, by the way, my name is Jessie Seipp. Good-bye."

"Ah ... good-bye!" I said.

I spent a wretchedly uneasy Sunday and Monday. Towards the end of Monday, especially, my restlessness became almost unbearable. "By this time," I thought, "the happening, whatever it may be, has already taken place." After supper, while I was vainly trying to occupy myself with a book, I was tormented by the knowledge that reporters, pressmen, and everybody connected with the newspapers must know everything by this time, while I, who was so deeply concerned in the matter, was still in the dark. I knew that morning papers came off the press at two or three o'clock; but I could not prowl around the streets at that hour.

After a few hours of broken sleep, I was out in the streets soon after sunrise. The news-stand at the corner was not open, of course, but the morning papers were lying on the sidewalk, tied up in bundles. This time there was no need of searching through the paper for what I wanted. It was displayed under a two column head on the right-hand side of the front page. I caught my breath when I read it.