BETTY AT LARGE
It was not till Betty found herself many blocks distant from the office
of _Peaceful Moments_ that she checked her headlong flight. She
had run down the stairs and out into the street blindly, filled only
with that passion for escape which had swept her away from Mervo. Not
till she had dived into the human river of Broadway and reached Times
Square did she feel secure. Then, with less haste, she walked on to the
park, and sat down on a bench, to think.
Inevitably she had placed her own construction on John's sudden
appearance in New York and at the spot where only one person in any way
connected with Mervo knew her to be. She did not know that Smith and he
were friends, and did not, therefore, suspect that the former and not
herself might be the object of his visit. Nor had any word reached her
of what had happened at Mervo after her departure. She had taken it for
granted that things had continued as she had left them; and the only
possible explanation to her of John's presence in New York was that,
acting under orders from Mr. Scobell, he had come to try and bring her
back.
She shuddered as she conjured up the scene that must have taken place
if Pugsy had not mentioned his name and she had gone on into the inner
room. In itself the thought that, after what she had said that morning
on the island, after she had forced on him, stripping it of the
uttermost rag of disguise, the realization of how his position appeared
to her, he should have come, under orders, to bring her back, was
well-nigh unendurable. But to have met him, to have seen the man she
loved plunging still deeper into shame, would have been pain beyond
bearing. Better a thousand times than that this panic flight into the
iron wilderness of New York.
It was cool and soothing in the park. The roar of the city was hushed.
It was pleasant to sit there and watch the squirrels playing on the
green slopes or scampering up into the branches through which one could
see the gleam of water. Her thoughts became less chaotic. The peace of
the summer afternoon stole upon her.
It did not take her long to make up her mind that the door of
_Peaceful Moments_ was closed to her. John, not finding her, might
go away, but he would return. Reluctantly, she abandoned the paper. Her
heart was heavy when she had formed the decision. She had been as happy
at _Peaceful Moments_ as it was possible for her to be now. She
would miss Smith and the leisurely work and the feeling of being one of
a team, working in a good cause. And that, brought Broster Street back
to her mind, and she thought of the children. No, she could not abandon
them. She had started the tenement articles, and she would go on with
them. But she must do it without ever venturing into the dangerous
neighborhood of the office.
A squirrel ran up and sat begging for a nut. Betty searched in the
grass in the hope of finding one, but came upon nothing but shells. The
squirrel bounded away, with a disdainful flick of the tail.
Betty laughed.
"You think of nothing but food. You ought to be ashamed to be so
greedy."
And then it came to her suddenly that it was no trifle, this same
problem of food.
The warm, green park seemed to grow chill and gray. Once again she must
deal with life's material side.
Her case was at the same time better and worse than it had been on that
other occasion when she had faced the future in the French train;
better, because then New York had been to her something vague and
terrifying, while now it was her city; worse, because she could no
longer seek help from Mrs. Oakley.
That Mrs. Oakley had given John the information which had enabled him
to discover her hiding-place, Betty felt certain. By what other
possible means could he have found it? Why Mrs. Oakley, whom she had
considered an ally, should have done so, she did not know. She
attributed it to a change of mind, a reconsideration of the case when
uninfluenced by sentiment. And yet it seemed strange. Perhaps John had
gone to her and the sight of him had won the old lady over to his side.
It might be so. At any rate, it meant that the cottage on Staten
Island, like the office of _Peaceful Moments_, was closed to her.
She must look elsewhere for help, or trust entirely to herself.
She sat on, thinking, with grave, troubled eyes, while the shadows
lengthened and the birds rustled sleepily in the branches overhead.
* * * * *
Among the good qualities, none too numerous, of Mr. Bat Jarvis, of
Groome Street in the Bowery, early rising was not included. It was his
habit to retire to rest at an advanced hour, and to balance accounts by
lying abed on the following morning. This idiosyncrasy of his was well
known in the neighborhood and respected, and it was generally held to
be both bad taste and unsafe to visit Bat's shop until near the
fashionable hour for luncheon, when the great one, shirt-sleeved and
smoking a short pipe, would appear in the doorway, looking out upon the
world and giving it to understand that he was now open to be approached
by deserving acquaintances.
When, therefore, at ten o'clock in the morning his slumbers were cut
short by a sharp rapping at the front door, his first impression was
that he had been dreaming. When, after a brief interval, the noise was
resumed, he rose in his might and, knuckling the sleep from his eyes,
went down, tight-lipped, to interview this person.
He had got as far as a preliminary "Say!" when speech was wiped from
his lips as with a sponge, and he stood gaping and ashamed, for the
murderer of sleep and untimely knocker on front doors was Betty.
Mr. Jarvis had not forgotten Betty. His meeting with her at the office
of _Peaceful Moments_ had marked an epoch in his life. Never
before had anyone quite like her crossed his path, and at that moment
romance had come to him. His was essentially a respectful admiration.
He was content--indeed, he preferred to worship from afar. Of his own
initiative he would never have met her again. In her presence, with
those gray eyes of hers looking at him, tremors ran down his spine, and
his conscience, usually a battered and downtrodden wreck, became
fiercely aggressive. She filled him with novel emotions, and whether
these were pleasant or painful was more than he could say. He had not
the gift of analysis where his feelings were concerned. To himself he
put it, broadly, that she made him feel like a nickel with a hole in
it. But that was not entirely satisfactory. There were other and
pleasanter emotions mixed in with this humility. The thought of her
made him feel, for instance, vaguely chivalrous. He wanted to do risky
and useful things for her. Thus, if any fresh guy should endeavor to
get gay with her, it would, he felt, be a privilege to fix that same
guy. If she should be in bad, he would be more than ready to get busy
on her behalf.
But he had never expected to meet her again, certainly not on his own
doorstep at ten in the morning. To Bat ten in the morning was included
with the small hours.
Betty smiled at him, a little anxiously. She had no suspicion that she
played star to Mr. Jarvis' moth in the latter's life, and, as she eyed
him, standing there on the doorstep, her excuse for coming to him began
to seem terribly flimsy. Not being aware that he was in reality a tough
Bayard, keenly desirous of obeying her lightest word, she had staked
her all on the chance of his remembering the cat episode and being
grateful on account of it; and in the cold light of the morning this
idea, born in the watches of the night, when things tend to lose their
proportion, struck her as less happy than she had fancied. Suppose he
had forgotten all about it! Suppose he should be violent! For a moment
her heart sank. He certainly was not a pleasing and encouraging sight,
as he stood there blinking at her. No man looks his best immediately on
rising from bed, and Bat, even at his best, was not a hero of romance.
His forelock drooped dankly over his brow; there was stubble on his
chin; his eyes were red, like a dog's. He did not look like the Fairy
Prince who was to save her in her trouble.
"I--I hope you remember me, Mr. Jarvis," she faltered. "Your cat. I--"
He nodded speechlessly. Hideous things happened to his face. He was
really trying to smile pleasantly, but it seemed a scowl to Betty, and
her voice died away.
Mr. Jarvis spoke.
"Ma'am--sure!--step 'nside."
Betty followed him into the shop. There were birds in cages on the
walls, and, patroling the floor, a great company of cats, each with its
leather collar. One rubbed itself against Betty's skirt. She picked it
up, and began to stroke it. And, looking over its head at Mr. Jarvis,
she was aware that he was beaming sheepishly.
His eyes darted away the instant they met hers, but Betty had seen
enough to show her that she had mistaken nervousness for truculence.
Immediately, she was at her ease, and womanlike, had begun to control
the situation. She made conversation pleasantly, praising the cats,
admiring the birds, touching lightly on the general subject of domestic
pets, until her woman's sixth sense told her that her host's panic had
passed, and that she might now proceed to discuss business.
"I hope you don't mind my coming to you, Mr. Jarvis," she said. "You
know you told me to if ever I were in trouble, so I've taken you at
your word. You don't mind?"
Mr. Jarvis gulped, and searched for words.
"Glad," he said at last.
"I've left _Peaceful Moments_. You know I used to be stenographer
there."
She was surprised and gratified to see a look of consternation spread
itself across Mr. Jarvis' face. It was a hopeful sign that he should
take her cause to heart to such an extent.
But Mr. Jarvis' consternation was not due wholly to solicitude for her.
His thoughts at that moment, put, after having been expurgated, into
speech, might have been summed up in the line: "Of all sad words of
tongue or pen the saddest are these, 'It might have been'!"
"Ain't youse woikin' dere no more? Is dat right?" he gasped. "Gee! I
wisht I'd 'a' known it sooner. Why, a guy come to me and wants to give
me half a ton of the long green to go to dat poiper what youse was
woikin' on and fix de guy what's runnin' it. An' I truns him down 'cos
I don't want you to be frown out of your job. Say, why youse quit
woikin' dere?" His eyes narrowed as an idea struck him. "Say," he went
on, "you ain't bin fired? Has de boss give youse de trun-down? 'Cos if
he has, say de woid and I'll fix him for youse, loidy. An' it won't set
you back a nickel," he concluded handsomely.
"No, no," cried Betty, horrified. "Mr. Smith has been very kind to me.
I left of my own free will."
Mr. Jarvis looked disappointed. His demeanor was like that of some
mediaeval knight called back on the eve of starting out to battle with
the Paynim for the honor of his lady.
"What was that you said about the man who came to you and offered you
money?" asked Betty.
Her mind had flashed back to Mr. Parker's visit, and her heart was
beating quickly.
"Sure! He come to me all right an' wants de guy on de poiper fixed. An'
I truns him down."
"Oh! You won't dream of doing anything to hurt Mr. Smith, will you, Mr.
Jarvis?" said Betty anxiously.
"Not if you say so, loidy."
"And your--friends? You won't let them do anything?"
"Nope."
Betty breathed freely again. Her knowledge of the East Side was small,
and that there might be those there who acted independently of Mr.
Jarvis, disdainful of his influence, did not occur to her. She returned
to her own affairs, satisfied that danger no longer threatened.
"Mr. Jarvis, I wonder if you can help me. I want to find some work to
do," she said.
"Woik?"
"I have to earn my living, you see, and I'm afraid I don't know how to
begin."
Mr. Jarvis pondered. "What sort of woik?"
"Any sort," said Betty
valiantly. "I don't care what it is."
Mr. Jarvis knitted his brows in thought. He was not used to being an
employment agency. But Betty was Betty, and even at the cost of a
headache he must think of something.
At the end of five minutes inspiration came to him.
"Say," he said, "what do youse call de guy dat sits an' takes de money
at an eatin'-joint? Cashier? Well, say, could youse be dat?"
"It would be just the thing. Do you know a place?"
"Sure. Just around de corner. I'll take you dere."
Betty waited while he put on his coat, and they started out. Betty
chatted as they walked, but Mr. Jarvis, who appeared a little
self-conscious beneath the unconcealed interest of the neighbors, was
silent. At intervals he would turn and glare ferociously at the heads
that popped out of windows or protruded from doorways. Fame has its
penalties, and most of the population of that portion of the Bowery had
turned out to see their most prominent citizen so romantically employed
as a squire of dames.
After a short walk Bat halted the expedition before a dingy restaurant.
The glass window bore in battered letters the name, Fontelli.
"Dis is de joint," he said.
Inside the restaurant a dreamy-eyed Italian sat gazing at vacancy and
twirling a pointed mustache. In a far corner a solitary customer was
finishing a late breakfast.
Signor Fontelli, for the sad-eyed exile was he, sprang to his feet at
the sight of Mr. Jarvis' well-known figure. An ingratiating, but
nervous, smile came into view behind the pointed mustache.
"Hey, Tony," said Mr. Jarvis, coming at once to the point, "I want you
to know dis loidy. She's going to be cashier at dis joint."
Signor Fontelli looked at Betty and shook his head. He smiled
deprecatingly. His manner seemed to indicate that, while she met with
the approval of Fontelli, the slave of her sex, to Fontelli, the
employer, she appealed in vain. He gave his mustache a sorrowful twirl.
"Ah, no," he sighed. "Not da cashier do I need. I take-a myself da
money."
Mr. Jarvis looked at him coldly. He continued to look at him coldly.
His lower jaw began slowly to protrude, and his forehead retreated
further behind its zareba of forelock.
There was a pause. The signor was plainly embarrassed.
"Dis loidy," repeated Mr. Jarvis, "is cashier at dis joint at six
per--" He paused. "Does dat go?" he added smoothly.
Certainly there was magnetism about Mr. Jarvis. With a minimum of words
he produced remarkable results. Something seemed to happen suddenly to
Signor Fontelli's spine. He wilted like a tired flower. A gesture, in
which were blended resignation, humility, and a desire to be at peace
with all men, particularly Mr. Jarvis, completed his capitulation.
Mr. Jarvis waited while Betty was instructed in her simple duties, then
drew her aside.
"Say," he remarked confidentially, "youse'll be all right here. Six per
ain't all de dough dere is in de woild, but, bein' cashier, see, you
can swipe a whole heap more whenever you feel like it. And if Tony
registers a kick, I'll come around and talk to him--see? Dat's right.
Good-morning, loidy."
And, having delivered these admirable hints to young cashiers in a
hurry to get rich, Mr. Jarvis ducked his head in a species of bow,
declined to be thanked, and shuffled out into the street, leaving Betty
to open her new career by taking thirty-seven cents from the late
breakfaster.