Happiness which existed now only in her memory, in time to grow
incredible even there....
One year!
She remembered very well when she had made that first visit to Miss
Eppendorfer. She had never before been alone in New York, didn’t know
how to find the address, had to ask one policeman after another, and try
in a sort of agony to comprehend the directions they gave. And when she
had arrived, her terror of the unknown city was supplanted by a worse
one; suppose she didn’t get the job, that the authoress didn’t like her,
and she had to return home, shamefully defeated.
She had plenty of time to contemplate this, waiting in the sitting-room
of Miss Eppendorfer’s flat. An insolent coloured girl showed her in and
left her there without a word. She was almost ill from nervousness; she
watched the door without stirring for fifteen minutes or so, then, when
no one came, grew bold enough to look about her. It was a small and
rather dark room, furnished in a style new to her--the ubiquitous
Mission style. Little square chairs of imitation weathered oak, with
imitation leather seats, studded with gilt nails, fit for an authoress
from the Middle West to sit in while she laughed indulgently at
Victorian mahogany. Mock austerity, mock simplicity, a crowd of cheap
and monotonous stuff, all square and squat; plain curtains, bookcases
with sets of books selected always by authorities, and never by the
owner. Replica of a thousand rooms, mirror of a thousand souls, a room
which signified and expressed nothing. It was the first
cheaply-furnished room Frances had ever entered, and she was innocently
impressed with it. The good taste she possessed was not innate, it was
traditional; she wasn’t able to judge the unknown.
The mistress of all this came in an hour late. She was a thin, blonde
woman with hollow cheeks and a sweet, sweet smile; she hurried forward,
holding out both hands with a profuse cordiality that surprised Frances.
“Is this the little country girl who’s going to do so much for me?”
Blushing but courageous, Frances made some sort of answer, her candid
eyes fixed on the face before her. If she hadn’t _known_, she might have
thought that this haggard woman with bleached hair was “not quite nice.”
But she knew that her rural standards couldn’t be applied everywhere.
She wasn’t a bumpkin....
“Sit down,” Miss Eppendorfer invited, “and we’ll have tea while we
chat.”
It was the first time Frances had ever had tea; it was an institution as
yet unknown in the suburbs during her girlhood, and utterly undeveloped
in Brownsville Landing; there, when one had guests in the afternoon,
they were splendidly served with lemonade and good cake. Tea and toast
would have been almost an insult.
The authoress had to fetch everything herself from the kitchen.
“I don’t dare to disturb that black wretch,” she whispered to Frances.
“She’s only looking for an excuse to go, and _then_ where shall I be?
_I_ couldn’t boil an egg, could you?”
Frances said that she could.
“Well, my dear,” said the authoress, when she had got her samovar
started, “tell me about yourself.”
But she didn’t need much telling; aside from the letter she had had from
the librarian in Brownsville Landing, she could see in one shrewd glance
that Frances would “do”; was able to realise, as only an imitation
could, how honest, how genuine was this girl.
She engaged her then and there, said she was “strangely attracted” by
her. And urged her to take up her duties at once.
“Send home for your things,” she advised, “and settle right down
to-night in your comfy little room. That’s the way I always like to do
things--on the spur of the moment.”
“I’d like to, but I couldn’t. They’d worry at home.”
“Send a telegram, honey,” Miss Eppendorfer suggested.
It was her first telegram, too, and it gave her a delightful sense of
adventure, and of defiance, for she knew that Minnie would disapprove.
Miss Eppendorfer opened the door of a tiny room, which, she said, was to
be Frankie’s “very own.”
“Isn’t it _dear_?” she asked. “I think I must have _known_ when I
furnished it, that someone just like you was coming to me some day. It
_expresses_ you, don’t you think so?”
At first Frances thought it a delightful room, furnished all in wicker
even to the bed and decorated in gay chintz; there were candles on the
dressing table with rose-covered shades which at once took her eye, and
a brocade glove box. She felt that she would be tremendously happy in
such a nest.
And then, as she laid her hat on the bed, she was startled, dismayed, at
the sight of the pillow-cases. Suspicions aroused, her glance travelled
from corner to corner, and she apprehended the appalling griminess of
the place. Griminess not confined to this room of “her very own,” as she
was soon to discover.
She had turned back the lace-trimmed chintz bedspread and was
suspiciously examining the sheets when Miss Eppendorfer came in again
with a filmy nightdress decorated with pale green ribbons, a boudoir cap
and an elaborate negligee.
“Put these on now and be comfy,” she urged, “and we’ll have a nice
little supper, all alone together.”
She herself had got into a lace tea-gown over a torn lace petticoat and
quilted satin slippers which weren’t high enough to hide the holes in
her stockings....
“Thank you,” said Frances, “but I’m quite comfortable as I am.”
She felt that her neat linen blouse and dark skirt gave her a sort of
advantage; anyway she _couldn’t_ have gone trailing about in a wrapper,
she wasn’t that sort.
Disillusionment progressed rapidly. She sat down at the supper table,
hungry and curious, and disposed to be charitable; but the dirtiness of
the tablecloth was flagrant and her napkin had obviously been used
before. And her glass had a milky ring inside it.... She was not
over-fastidious, or inclined to give great importance to domestic
matters, but she had a genuine passion for cleanliness. She couldn’t
help being disgusted. Still, she reflected, it was no doubt all due to
the scornful coloured girl, and she consoled herself by thinking that
perhaps, when not engaged in literary work, she could look after things
a bit.
She put on the ribbon-trimmed nightdress and went to sleep between the
dubious sheets, a little homesick for the big, airy bedroom where Minnie
was lying, and the darkness and the quiet. Her window opened on to a
court; she could hear voices talking and phonographs playing, and the
light from Miss Eppendorfer’s room shone under her door and disturbed
her. She couldn’t compose herself, she was excited and confused, and
imagined that she lay awake for hours.
Miss Eppendorfer came in to wake her up the next morning, in a state of
great excitement, still wearing the trailing tea-gown. She told Frankie
that the coloured girl had gone; and she related a long story of wrongs
and grievances; the girl drank, lied, pilfered, was even engaged in
complicated plots against one of the best and kindest mistresses extant.
Miss Eppendorfer gave a list of her benefactions: a pink hat, a dotted
veil, blouses, shoes, and still----!
“She used to say all sorts of things about me over the telephone, if
anyone rang up when I was out. And, my dear, the things she told that
hall-boy!”
Frankie pitied her distress and was eager to soothe her excitement.
“Never mind!” she said, “We’ll find another. And now wouldn’t you like
me to make a cup of coffee for you?”
“Oh, I _would_, my dear! I’m no good till I’ve had my coffee, and I
can’t make it decently myself.”
She sat down on the bed, and though Frances waited impatiently for a
chance to get up, she showed no signs of moving. Nothing could have
induced Frankie to dress in her presence. A faint annoyance crept over
her. She got out of bed on the other side, gathered up her clothes and
went into the bathroom, with a brusque excuse.
She came out, stiffer and straighter than ever, and went into the tiny
kitchen to make the coffee. It was the filthiest place; roaches running
over everything, grease, dust, crumbs.
“That girl was a very poor servant,” she said severely.
Miss Eppendorfer was sitting on a corner of the table, swinging her
slippered feet.
“I spoil them,” she said. “I’m too good to them. And then I don’t _keep
after_ them. You have to, if you want anything done.... But with my
writing, of course I can’t keep my mind on that sort of thing very
well.”
She praised the coffee extravagantly, and, as she drank it, explained to
Frankie that she was very, very nervous, and that a scene such as she
had had with that dreadful girl upset her beyond measure. Frances
noticed her trembling hands, her quick breath, and accepted this
nervousness, and, in her competent way, went about making her
comfortable.
They had a rather pleasant day together. The hall-boy was sent to fetch
“Jennie” who had often before come to fill in gaps, and while she was
creaking and wheezing, scrubbing and mopping her faithful way round the
flat, the authoress lay on a sofa and talked to Frankie. She told her
about her work, which so far consisted of three short stories and two
very successful novels.
“But I’m really only beginning,” she said.
(Frances thought privately that she was rather old for any sort of
beginning.)
Her latest book was called “The Lonely Woman.” She gave a copy to
Frances and begged for a candid opinion after she had read it.
“But I’m not a judge,” Frances told her earnestly, “I don’t know
anything about literature. Only that I love books and reading.”
“My dear,” said Miss Eppendorfer, “I saw at once how sensible and
level-headed you were. I _want_ your opinion!”
Noon came. Miss Eppendorfer sighed as the clock struck.
“I do _not_ feel equal to going out,” she said, “I’d rather do without
lunch. Of course, there’s plenty in the house, but Jennie can’t cook a
thing.”
Frances was quite willing to get a lunch ready, and to bring it on a
tray to the nervous authoress. Also tea and supper. Otherwise there was
nothing to do but sit and talk.