The clock struck midnight, but Mrs. Fremby did not even glance up from
her work. She had an old skirt, stretched over the transom, so that the
landlady could not see that the light was still on. The door was locked.
She was safe, and very snug.
Outside, a preposterous storm raged. It was almost the beginning of
April, yet it snowed, and the wind howled. Let it! Mrs. Fremby had a
forbidden electric heater glowing richly before her. It could not warm
the vast and dingy front parlor that she inhabited, but it could and did
keep her feet warm. The flame of righteous indignation in her heart
helped, too, as she wrote:
At last the American woman has definitely rebelled. She refuses any
longer to accept unquestioned the dictates of Paris as to what she
shall or shall not wear. This season it is plain to any impartial
observer that the influence of the French capital is distinctly on
the wane.
Heavens, how she hated Paris! For years and years she had been fighting
its insidious influence upon American modes. Even when, in order to earn
her daily bread, she was obliged to describe what milady had worn at the
Longchamp races, she always managed to get in some clever bit of
propaganda--something like this, for instance:
A certain American woman of unimpeachable social standing attracted
considerable attention by her costume of this and that, made in New
York, and showing in every line a skillful adaptation to the
American type.
What if this independent American woman of unimpeachable standing was an
invention of Mrs. Fremby’s? Never having been within thousands of miles
of Longchamp, she was obliged to invent a little, and this mythical
creature was very real to her, and dear. She could absolutely see that
“American type,” tall, proud, and beautiful, completely dominating all
the _Parisiennes_.
Mrs. Fremby herself was small. That was her misfortune; but she made the
most of herself. Even now, in an old and faded dressing gown, she was a
mighty smart, trim little woman, and, if she was not pretty, she had the
wit to know it, and to behave accordingly. Her good points were her
miniature figure, which was excellent, and her crown of glittering, wiry
red hair, which she arranged with much skill. The very foundation of
style, she often said, was individuality, and she had it.
“The modes of this season will be marked by--” she was writing, when
there was a knock at the door.
Mrs. Fremby got up. Swiftly and noiselessly she detached the heater and
thrust it, still red-hot, into a cupboard under the washstand. Then,
with a lofty expression of annoyance, she went to open the door; but it
was not the landlady--it was Judith Cane.
“My dear!” cried Mrs. Fremby. “Come in!”
Judith came in. Snowflakes were melting upon her furs, her eyelashes
were damp, and there was a fine color in her cheeks. She was indeed a
superb creature, tall, dark, and beautiful, the physical embodiment of
that “American type” who should have attracted considerable attention
at Longchamp. Unfortunately, however, she lacked a certain vital
quality--animation, Mrs. Fremby would have said, but in the office of
the _Daily Citizen_ they called it “bean.” They said in that office that
Judith was beautiful but dumb.
Mrs. Fremby, however, was not one to pick flaws in her friends. She was
loyal, even to the point of prejudice. She was devoted to Judith, and
she acknowledged no faults in her.
“Sit down, my dear child,” she said.
As Judith did so, she locked the door again, and hastened about, making
hospitable preparations. She connected the heater again, and also a
small electric grill. The light grew perilously dim.
“They ought to put in a larger meter,” observed Mrs. Fremby, with the
air of an electrical expert. “I can’t make coffee, my dear. It smells;
but we’ll have tea and rolls, and some perfectly delicious Bologna.
Isn’t it wretched weather?”
“Yes,” said Judith. “And there I sat, rewriting and rewriting that
article about smoking accessories for Mr. Tolley, and in the end he
killed it!”
“Beast!” said Mrs. Fremby.
She remembered how Mr. Tolley had once described Judith.
“She is,” he had said, “a space writer--which means that she fills blank
space in a blank manner.”
“Never mind!” she went on. “I’ve got a thing here that ought to run to a
column, if you pad it a little. We’ll fix it up, and you can turn it in
to-morrow. Now, my dear, do tell me!”
“I’ve lost,” said Judith.
“I knew it!” cried Mrs. Fremby. “I felt it all along! What an outrage!”
It was a question here of an orphan child. The child’s mother had been
Judith’s sister, and upon the sister’s decease Judith had put in a claim
for the custody of the infant. According to all the laws of justice and
humanity--as interpreted by Mrs. Fremby--Judith should have got the
infant, but another woman, a sister of the mere father, had likewise put
in a claim; and as this woman had a very wealthy husband, and a home,
and other things which surrogates deem advantageous for infants, and
Judith had none of these, the other claimant had triumphed.
“It’s an outrage!” Mrs. Fremby repeated. “You’ll fight it, of course?”
Judith shed a few melancholy tears.
“I don’t know, Evelyn,” she said.
“Don’t know! You must!”
“It’s so expensive, Evelyn. Even if I got the poor little thing, I don’t
know what I could do with her. I only made twelve dollars last week.”
Mrs. Fremby recognized in her friend a mood which exasperated her--a
large, vague despair and resignation.
“You ought to know that I’ll always help you till you get on your feet,”
she said sternly.
“I do know,” said Judith, shedding more tears; “but it seems to take me
so long to get on my feet! All I do is--to get on your feet.”
“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Fremby.
She had, in her heart, no very great illusions about Judith’s ability to
earn money, but what did that matter? Judith wanted her niece, and what
Judith wanted she ought to have. That was nothing more than justice.
“Judith, I’m going to handle this,” she announced.
“Don’t do anything--awful,” said Judith. “You know, Evelyn, you’re so--”
Mrs. Fremby smiled as if she had received a compliment.
“Leave it to me,” she said. “Just drink your tea, my dear child, and
don’t worry.”
So Judith, with a sigh, let slip the burden from her magnificent
shoulders.