The Pomona, on West ---- Street, was well known among those swell
apartment houses of Manhattan which find it profitable to cater to the
liberal-spending demi-monde, and therefore are not prone to be too
fastidious regarding the morals of their tenants. Many such hostelries
were scattered throughout the theatre district of New York, and as a
rule they prospered exceedingly well. Invariably they were of the same
type. There was the same monotonous sameness in the gaudy decorations
and furnishings; the same hilarious crowd in the cafe downstairs; the
same overdressed, over-rouged women in the elevator and halls. They
enjoyed in common the same class of patronage--blonde ladies with
lengthy visiting-lists of gentlemen callers.
Willard Brockton occupied a suite on the sixth floor, and it was one of
the handsomest and most expensive in the hotel. It consisted of ten
large rooms and three baths. The large sitting-room in white and gold
had two windows overlooking fashionable Fifth Avenue. The furnishings
were expensive and rich, but lacked that good taste which would
naturally obtain in rooms occupied by people a little more particular
concerning their reputation and mode of life. At one end of the room a
large archway hung with tapestries led to the sleeping chambers. At the
other end a door opened onto a small private hall, which, in turn, had
another door communicating with the main corridor. The apartment was
expensively and elaborately furnished. The inlaid floors were strewn
with handsome Oriental rugs, the chairs and sofas were heavy gilt,
upholstered in crimson silk, while here and there were Louis XV writing
desks, teakwood curio cabinets, costly bronzes and statuary. The walls
were covered with valuable paintings and engravings. Near the window
stood a superb full-length Empire cheval glass, the kind that women
love to dress by and survey their beauty.
Two months had sped quickly by since that cold, stormy day in February,
when Laura, distracted, half-starved, her spirit broken, despairing of
aid from Madison or any other decent quarter, threatened with eviction
even from Mrs. Farley's miserable lodgings, weakly surrendered,
listened to the call which summoned her back to her former life, and
once more became Brockton's mistress.
At first the sudden transition from misery and absolute want to all the
comforts and extravagant luxuries that unlimited means can command was
so gratifying that she saw no reason to repent of the step she had
taken. On the contrary, she rejoiced that she was still pretty enough,
still young and clever enough to hold a man of Brockton's influence and
wealth. Decidedly, she thought to herself, Elfie was right. Virtue was
all very well for nice, good girls who did not mind doing chores,
practicing painful economy, wearing shabby clothes, and tiring
themselves out for small wages in petty, humiliating occupations, but
she could never stand it. She would die rather. Life would not be worth
living if she were to be always denied the sweets of life, and to her
that meant champagne suppers, gorgeous gowns, and all that goes with
them. So, banishing from her mind any unpleasant memories or regrets,
she plunged headlong into the boiling vortex of gay metropolitan life.
Thanks to Brockton, she secured one of the best parts of the expiring
theatrical season, and made such a hit that her name was in everybody's
mouth. The newspapers interviewed her, society women copied her,
toothpaste and perfume manufacturers solicited her testimonials. In a
word, she was famous overnight. Burgess, the manager, was now eager to
sign for five years, but Laura laughed, and tore up the contract before
his face. What did she care now? She had the whip hand. The managers
had neglected and despised her long enough; they could do the running
after contracts now.
Meantime she drained the cup of pleasure to the very dregs. It was one
continual round of gaiety. She seemed insatiable. With Elfie St. Clair
and others, she formed an intimate circle of friends, a little coterie
of the swiftest men and women in town, and entertained them lavishly,
spending wilfully, recklessly. Her extravagances were soon the talk of
New York. A thousand dollars for a single midnight supper, $700 for a
new gown, $200 for a hat were as nothing. Once more she reigned as the
belle of Broadway, Almost each night, after the play, she was the
centre of an admiring throng in the pleasure resorts, and none ventured
to dispute the claim that she was the prettiest as well as the
best-dressed woman in town. Dressmakers, attracted by her matchless
figure and eager to profit by her vogue, turned out for her their
latest creations; milliners designed for her hats that were the despair
of every other woman. She had her carriages, her automobiles, and her
saddle horse, her town apartment and her bungalow by the sea, and for a
time set a pace so swift that no other woman of her acquaintance could
keep up with her. All this cost money, and a lot of it, but Brockton
gave her free rein. The broker did not care. He smiled indulgently and
footed her enormous bills without protest. On the contrary, he was
delighted. Never had she proved so fascinating a companion or attracted
so much attention in public. He was getting plenty of other people's
money in the Wall Street game, so why should he care if his mistress
spent a few thousands a year more or less? It amused him to see her
plunging, as he put it. Besides, he was proud of his protegee. It
flattered him when they entered a theatre or restaurant, Laura wearing
her $200 picture hat, to hear people whisper: "That's Brockton's girl.
Isn't she stunning?"
She drank more champagne than was good for her, and when this happened,
Brockton himself would chide her. But she only laughed at him, and,
disregarding his rebuke, turned to the waiter and imperiously ordered
another bottle. Not that she liked the golden, hissing stuff. It made
her sick and gave her a bad headache the next morning, but still she
must drink it, drink it unceasingly. It was the only way she could
deaden that terrible, accusing conscience which persistently demanded
an accounting. With her knowledge of her own guilt and her tendency to
introspective brooding, it was only natural that her sensitive nature
suffered atrociously. All day and all night her conscience tortured
her. Incessantly it put the agonizing question: Have you been true,
true to yourself and to the man to whom you gave your word? And always
came the damning answer: "No--I've been false, miserably false, both to
myself and him."
In her quieter moods--the moods she dreaded most--she allowed her mind
to dwell on the past. She wondered what John was doing and where he
was. Had he succeeded or had he failed? For a long time she had
received no word. On leaving Mrs. Farley's, she had left no address and
had taken no pains to have her mail forwarded. No doubt his letters had
been returned to him. Sometimes she regretted having burned the message
of farewell which Brockton had dictated. It would have been fairer,
more honest, to have told him the truth frankly. Brockton had wanted to
do the right thing, and she had lied, making him believe she had done
it.
That was why she despised herself, and that was why she drank
champagne--so she might forget. Sometimes she took too much. One night
Elfie St. Clair celebrated her birthday by giving a supper in her
apartment. It was a jolly gathering, and they made merry until the late
hours of the morning. Laura had been particularly high spirited and
hilarious until, toward the end, her face grew deathly white. Seized
with a sudden dizziness, she had to be wrapped in furs and carried down
to her carriage. Brockton, embarrassed, declared it to be due to the
heat. Everybody present knew it was the champagne.
But gaiety that is forced and only artificially stimulated cannot be
kept up long. One day the reaction inevitably comes, and then the
awakening is terrible, disastrous. At times, when, in company of
others, she was laughing loudly and appearing to be thoroughly enjoying
herself, she would suddenly become serious, talk no more, and go away
in the corner by herself. Her companions teased her about it, and
called such symptoms "Laura's tantrums." The truth was that each day
the girl realized more the hollowness and rottenness of the life she
was leading. She was filled with repulsion and disgust, both for
herself and her associates. While she was weak and luxury-loving, she
was not entirely devoid of character. There was enough sentimentality
and emotion in her moral fibre to make her see the impossibility of
continuing to live this irregular, vicious kind of existence. Women of
Elfie St. Clair's type could do it, because they had no innate
refinement of feeling, but she could not, and, in her saner moments,
when she thought of what she had lost, when she remembered how she had
been regenerated, purified, by her disinterested love for a good man,
she looked wistfully back on those weeks at Mrs. Farley's
boarding-house. Her attic, miserable as it was, was a haven of
happiness and respectability compared with her present degradation.
Then, again, she had an uncomfortable idea that there was an accounting
still to be made. In her sleep she saw John Madison approaching, stern,
terrible, exacting some awful penalty, like an implacable judge. She
had a premonition of an approaching catastrophe, a feeling, vague but
nevertheless palpable, that something was going to happen. The idea
obsessed her, haunted her; she could not shake it off. She became
nervous of her own shadow. Gradually, too, she grew to dislike
Brockton. Instead of feeling gratitude for all the luxuries he gave
her, she blamed him for having made her what she was. She classed him
as the type of man who preys on woman's virtue and exults in the number
of souls he is able to destroy. She looked upon him as responsible for
all her troubles, for her degradation and sacrifice of her womanhood.
He was the eternal enemy of her sex, the arch tempter, the anti-christ.
Her mind became obsessed with this idea, and a savage, unreasoning hate
for him and all his kind sprang up in her heart.
Meantime, things pursued the even tenor of their way, at least
outwardly. Brockton was careless, indifferent, good natured as usual.
Laura was seemingly as gay and carefree as ever. None saw the ripples
on the apparently serene surface, except, perhaps, one pair of black
eyes which, always spying, never missed anything. Annie guessed her
mistress' thoughts, but was shrewd enough to hold her tongue. The
negress, promoted from the rank of maid of all work at Mrs. Farley's
establishment, had been elevated to the dignity of lady's maid. Laura
never liked the negress, but well aware of the difficulty she might
have in finding a servant, she accepted her voluntary offer to follow
when she went with Brockton. The woman knew her ways, and in some
respects was a good servant--at least as faithful and honest as any she
could expect to get, which was not, of course, saying a great deal. But
smart as she was, the negress never quite succeeded in deceiving her
young mistress. Laura never trusted her further than she could see her.
A hundred times, her patience tried to the limit, she had discharged
her.
"You'll go in the morning, Annie."
"Yassum!"
But somehow Annie always stayed.