MISS BOBINET'S
Nance's new duties, compared with those at the bottle factory, and the
sweat-shop seemed, at first, mere child's play. She arrived at eight
o'clock, helped Susan in the basement kitchen, until Miss Bobinet awoke,
then went aloft to officiate at the elaborate process of that lady's
toilet. For twenty years Susan had been chief priestess at this ceremony,
but her increasing deafness infuriated her mistress to such an extent
that Nance was initiated into the mysteries. The temperature of the bath,
the choice of underclothing, the method of procedure were matters of the
utmost significance, and the slightest mistake on the part of the
assistant brought about a scene. Miss Bobinet would shriek at Susan, and
Susan would shriek back; then both would indulge in scathing criticism of
the other in an undertone to Nance.
The final rite was the most critical of all. Miss Bobinet would sit
before her dresser with a towel about her neck, and take a long breath,
holding it in her puffed-out cheeks, while rice powder was dusted over
the corrugated surface of her face. She held the theory that this opened
the pores of the skin and allowed them to absorb the powder. The sight of
the old lady puffed up like a balloon was always too much for Nance, and
when she laughed, Miss Bobinet was obliged to let her breath go in a
sharp reprimand, and the performance had to start all over again.
"You laugh too much anyhow," she complained irritably.
When the toilet and breakfast were over, there followed two whole hours
of pinochle. Nance came to regard the queen of spades and the jack of
diamonds with personal animosity. Whatever possible interest she might
have taken was destroyed by the fact that Miss Bobinet insisted upon
winning two out of every three games. It soon became evident that while
she would not cheat on her own behalf, she expected her opponent to cheat
for her. So Nance dutifully slipped her trump cards back in the deck and
forgot to declare while she idly watched the flash of diamonds on the
wrinkled yellow hands, and longed for the clock to strike the next hour.
At lunch she sat in the kitchen opposite Susan and listened to a recital
of that melancholy person's woes. Susan and her mistress, being mutually
dependent, had endured each other's exclusive society for close upon
twenty years. The result was that each found the other the most
stimulating of all subjects of conversation. When Nance was not listening
to tirades against Susan up-stairs, she was listening to bitter
complaints against Miss Bobinet down-stairs.
In the afternoon she was expected to read at the top of her voice from
"The Church Guide," until Miss Bobinet got sleepy; then it was her duty
to sit motionless in the stuffy, camphor-laden room, listening to an
endless succession of vocal gymnastics until what time the old lady saw
fit to wake up.
If Nance had been a provident young person, she might have improved those
idle hours during that interminable winter by continuing her study of
stenography. But, instead, she crouched on the floor by the window,
holding her active young body motionless, while her thoughts like
distracted imprisoned things flew round their solid walls of facts,
frantically seeking some loophole of escape. Day after day she crouched
there, peeping out under the lowered shade with hungry eyes. The dreary
street below offered no diversion; sometimes a funeral procession dragged
its way past, but for the most part there was nothing to see save an
occasional delivery wagon or a staid pedestrian.
She was at that critical time of transition between the romance of
childhood, when she had become vaguely aware of the desire of the spirit,
and the romance of youth, when she was to know to the full the desires
of the flesh. It was a period of sudden, intense moods, followed by
spells of languor. Something new and strange and incommunicable was
fermenting within her, and nothing was being done to direct those
mysterious forces. She was affectionate, with no outlet for her
affection; romantic, with nothing for romance to feed upon.
The one resource lay in the bookcase that rose above the old-fashioned
secretary in Miss Bobinet's front hall. She had discovered it on the day
of her arrival and, choosing a volume at random, had become so engrossed
in the doings of one of Ouida's heroes, that she had failed to hear Miss
Bobinet's call. From that time on she was forbidden to take any books
away from the bookcase, an order which she got around by standing beside
it and eagerly devouring bits at a time.
The monotony of the days she might have endured if there had been any
relief at the close of them. But when she returned home there was always
endless work to be done. Her four years' absence at Forest Home had
separated her from the young people she had known, and she had had no
time to make new friends. The young bar-keeper at Slap Jack's, who always
watched for her to pass in the morning, the good-looking delivery boy who
sometimes brought parcels to Cemetery Street, the various youths with
whom she carried on casual flirtations on her way to and from work, were
her nearest approach to friends.
Dan, to be sure, still came for her every Saturday afternoon, but
Cemetery Street was across the city from Clarke's, and their time
together was short. Nance lived for these brief interviews, and then came
away from them more restless and dissatisfied than before. Dan didn't
look or talk or act like the heroes in the novels she was reading. He
never "rained fervent kisses on her pale brow," or told her that she was
"the day-star of his secret dreams." Instead he talked of eight-hour
laws, and minimum wage, and his numerous church activities. He was
sleeping at Mrs. Purdy's now, looking after the place while she was away
with her brother, and Nance was jealous of his new interests and new
opportunities.
As the long weeks stretched into long months, her restlessness grew into
rebellion. So this was the kind of job, she told herself bitterly, that
nice girls were supposed to hold. This was what Miss Stanley and Mrs.
Purdy and Mr. Demry approved. But they were old. They had forgotten. Dan
Lewis wasn't old. Why couldn't he understand? What right had he to insist
upon her sticking it out when he knew how lonesome and unhappy she was?
Dan didn't care, that was the trouble; he thought more of his old church
and the factory than he thought of her.
She remembered, with sudden understanding, what red-haired Gert had said
in the finishing room; some people weren't content with a good job; they
had to have a good time with it. She told herself that she was one of
these; she wanted to be good and do what was expected of her; she wanted
fervently to please Dan Lewis, but she couldn't go on like this, she
couldn't, she couldn't!
And yet she did. With a certain dogged commonsense, she stayed at her
post, suppressing herself in a thousand ways, stifling her laughter,
smothering the song on her lips, trying to make her prancing feet keep
pace with the feeble steps of age. She lived through each day on the
meager hope that something would happen at the end of it, that elusive
"something" that always waits around the corner for youth, with adventure
in one hand and happiness in the other and limitless promise in its
shining eyes.
Almost a year crawled by before her hope was realized. Then one Tuesday
morning as she was coming to work, she spied a bill poster announcing
the appearance of the "Rag-Time Follies." Rows upon rows of saucy girls
in crimson tights and gauzy wings smiled down upon her, smiled and
seemed to beckon.
Since Birdie's departure from the alley, eighteen months ago, Nance had
heard no word of her. Long ago she had given up the hope of escape in
that direction. But the knowledge that she was in the city and the
possibility of seeing her, wakened all manner of vague hopes and exciting
possibilities.
Whatever happened Nance must see the play! She must be on hand to-morrow
night when the curtain went up; perhaps she could wait outside for
Birdie, and speak to her after the performance!
If only Dan would take her, and they could sit together and share the
fun! But the very thought of Dan in connection with those frisky girls
made her smile. No; if she went, she would have to go alone.
The all-important question now was how to get the ticket. Miss Bobinet
could never be induced to advance a penny on the week's wages, and Susan,
while ready to accept financial favors, was adamant when it came to
extending them.
By six o'clock Nance had exhausted every resource but one. On her way
home she visited a small shop which was all too familiar to the residents
of Calvary Alley. When she emerged, the beloved locket, which usually
dangled on the velvet ribbon around her neck, was no longer there, but
tied in the corner of her handkerchief was a much desired silver coin.
In high spirits she rushed home only to be confronted on the threshold by
a serious domestic complication. Mrs. Snawdor, with her hat on, was
standing by the bed in the dark inside room that used to be Nance's,
futilely applying a mustard plaster to whatever portion of Fidy's
anatomy happened to be exposed.
"How long has she been like this?" cried Nance, flinging her jacket off
and putting the tea kettle on the stove.
"Lord knows," said Mrs. Snawdor in a tone that implied a conspiracy on
the part of poor Fidy and her Maker to interfere with her plans. "When I
come in ten minutes ago, she was tryin' to eat the sheet."
"Didn't you give her the medicine the doctor left last time?"
"There ain't a drop left. Mr. Snawdor took every bit of it."
"Where's the bottle? We must get it filled."
"What's the use? It ain't no good. I was handlin' Fidy's fits before that
there young dispensary doctor was out of knee pants. Besides I ain't got
fifty cents in the house."
Nance stood for a moment irresolute. She looked at the writhing figure on
the bed; then she snatched up her hat and jacket.
"Quick! Where's the bottle?" she cried. "I got the money."
But after the medicine had been bought, and Fidy had grown quiet under
its influence, Nance went across the hall to her own cold, barren room
and flung herself across her narrow bed. The last chance of seeing the
play had vanished. The only light of hope that had shone on her horizon
for months had gone out.
When she got up, cold and miserable, and lighted the gas, she saw on
the floor, where it had evidently been slipped under the door, a
mysterious pink envelope. Tearing it open, she found, written in a
large, loose scrawl:
"Dear Nance. We have just struck town. Reckon you thought I was a
quitter, but I ain't. You be at the Gaiety to-morrow morning at nine A.M.
Maybe I can land you something. Don't say a word to anybody about it, and
make yourself look as pretty as you can, and don't be late. Don't tell my
folks I'm here. I got a room down-town.
"Bye bye,
"B.S."
Nance's breath caught in her throat. The bubble was so radiant, so
fragile, so unbelievable, that she was afraid to stir for fear of
breaking it. She waited until she heard Mrs. Snawdor's heavy feet
descending the stairs, and then she crept across the hall and sat on the
side of Fidy's bed, waiting to give her the next dose of medicine. Her
eyes were fixed on the bare lathes over the headboard where she had once
knocked the plaster off tacking up a tomato-can label. But she did not
see the hole or the wall. Calvary Alley and Cemetery Street had ceased to
exist for her. She was already transported to a region of warmth and
gaiety and song. All that was ugly and old and sordid lay behind her,
and she told herself, with a little sob of joy, that at last the
beautiful something for which she had waited so long was about to happen.