While Letty was beginning a new experience Judson Flack was doing his
best to carry out his threat. That is to say, he was making the round
of the studios in which his step-daughter had occasionally found work,
discreetly asking if she had been there that day. It was all he could
think of doing. To the best of his knowledge she had no friends with
whom she could have taken refuge, though the suspicion crossed his
mind that she might have drowned herself to spite him.
As a matter of fact Letty was asking the question if she wasn't making
a mistake in not doing so, either literally or morally. Never before
in her life had she been up against this problem of insufficiency.
Among the hard things she had known she had not known this; and now
that she was involved in it, it seemed to her harder than everything
else put together.
In her humble round, bitter as it was, she had always been considered
competent. It was the sense of her competence that gave her the
self-respect enabling her to bear up. According to her standards she
could keep house cleverly, and could make a dollar go as far as other
girls made two. When she got her first chance in a studio, through an
acquaintance of Judson Flack's, she didn't shrink from it, and had
more than once been chosen by a director to be that member of a crowd
who moves in the front and expresses the crowd psychologically. Had
she only had the clothes....
And now she was to have them. As far as that went she was not merely
glad; she was one sheer quiver of excitement. It was not the end she
shrank from; it was the means. If she could only have had fifty
dollars to go "poking round" where she knew that bargains could be
found, she might have enjoyed the prospect; but Steptoe could only
"take measures" on the grand scale to which he was accustomed.
The grand scale frightened her, chiefly because she was dressed as she
was dressed. It was her first thought and her last one. When Steptoe
told her the hour at which he had asked Eugene to bring round the car
the mere vision of herself stepping into it made her want to sink into
the ground. Eugene didn't live in the house--she had discovered
that--and so would bring the stare of another pair of eyes under whose
scrutiny she would have to pass. Those of the three women having
already scorched her to the bone, she would have to be scorched
again.
She tried to say this to Steptoe, as they stood in the drawing-room
window waiting for the car; but she didn't know how to make him
understand it. When she tried to put it into words, the right words
wouldn't come. Steptoe had taken as general what she was trying to
explain to him in particular.
"It'll be very important to madam to fyce what's 'ard, and to do it
bryve like. It'll be the mykin' of 'er if she can. 'Umble 'ill is
pretty stiff to climb; but them as gets to the top of it is tough."
She thought this over silently. He meant that if she set herself to
take humiliations as they came, dragging herself up over them, she
would be the stronger for it in the end.
"It'd 'ave been better for Mr. Rashleigh," he mused, "if 'e'd 'ad 'ad
somethink of the kind to tackle in 'is life; it'd 'ave myde 'im more
of a man. But because 'e adn't--Did madam ever notice," he broke off
to ask, "'ow them as 'as everythink myde easy for 'em begins right off
to myke things 'ard for theirselves. It's a kind of law like. It's
just as if nyture didn't mean to let no one escype. When a man's got
no troubles you can think of, 'e'll go to work to create 'em."
"Didn't _he_"--she had never yet pronounced the name of the man who
had married her--"didn't _he_ ever have any troubles?"
"'E was fretted terrible--crossed like--rubbed up the wrong wye, as
you might sye,--but a real trouble like what you and me 'ave 'ad
plenty of--never! It's my opinion that trouble is to char-_ac_-ter
what a peg'll be to a creepin' vine--something to which the vine'll
'ook on and pull itself up by. Where there's nothink to ketch on to
the vine'll grow; but it'll grow in a 'eap of flop." There was a
tremor in his tone as he summed up. "That's somethink like my poor
boy."
Letty found this interesting. That in these exalted circles there
could be a need of refining chastisement came to her as a surprise.
"The wife as I've always 'oped for 'im," Steptoe went on, "is one
that'd know what trouble was, and 'ow to fyce it. 'E'd myke a grand
'usband to a woman who was--strong. But she'd 'ave to be the wall
what the creepin' vine could cover all over and--and beautify."
"That wouldn't be me."
"If I was madam I wouldn't be so sure of that. It don't do to
undervalyer your own powers. If I'd 'a done that I wouldn't 'a been
where I am to-dye. Many's the time, when I was no more than a poor
little foundlin' boy in a 'ome I've said to myself, I'm fit for
somethink big. Somethink big I always meant to be. When it didn't seem
possible for me to aim so 'igh I'd myde up my mind to be a valet and a
butler. It comes--your hambition does. What you've first got to do is
to form it; and then you've got to stick to it through thick and
thin."
To say what she said next Letty had to break down barrier beyond
barrier of inhibition and timidity. "And if I was to--to form the--the
ambition--to be--to be the kind of wall you was talkin' about just
now----"
"That wouldn't be hambition; it'd be--consecrytion."
He allowed her time to get the meaning of this before going on.
"But madam mustn't expect not to find it 'ard. Consecrytion is always
'ard, by what I can myke out. When Mr. Rash was a little 'un 'e used
to get Miss Pye, 'is governess, to read to 'im a fairy tyle about a
little mermaid what fell in love with a prince on land. Bein' in love
with 'im she wanted to be with 'im, natural like; but there she was in
one element, as you might sye, and 'im in another."
"That'd be like me."
"Which is why I'm tellin' madam of the story. Well, off the little
mermaid goes to the sea-witch to find out 'ow she could get rid of 'er
fish's tyle and 'ave two feet for to walk about in the prince's
palace. Well, the sea-witch she up and tells 'er what she'd 'ave to
do. Only, says she, if you do that you'll 'ave to pye for it with
every step you tykes; for every step you tykes'll be like walkin' on
sharp blydes. Now, says she, to the little mermaid, do you think it'd
be worth while?"
In Letty's eyes all the stars glittered with her eagerness for the
denouement. "And did she think it was worth while--the little
mermaid?"
"She did; but I'll give madam the tyle to read for 'erself. It's in
the syme little book what Miss Pye used to read out of--up in Mr.
Rash's old nursery."
With the pride of a royal thing conscious of its royalty the car
rolled to the door and stopped. It was the prince's car, while she,
Letty, was a mermaid born in an element different from his, and
encumbered with a fish's tail. She must have shown this in her face,
for Steptoe said, with his fatherly smile:
"Madam may 'ave to walk on blydes--but it'll be in the Prince's
palace."
It'll be in the Prince's palace! Letty repeated this to herself as she
followed him out to the car. Holding the door open for her, Eugene,
who had been told of her romance, touched his cap respectfully. When
she had taken her seat he tucked the robe round her, respectfully
again. Steptoe marked the social difference between them by sitting
beside Eugene.
Rolling down Fifth Avenue Letty was as much at a loss to account for
herself as Elijah must have been in the chariot of fire. She didn't
know where she was going. She was not even able to ask. The succession
of wonders within twenty-four hours blocked the working of her
faculties. She thought of the girls who sneered at her in the
studios--she thought of Judson Flack--and of what they would say if
they were to catch a glimpse of her.
She was not so unsophisticated as to be without some appreciation of
the quarter of New York in which she found herself. She knew it was
the "swell" quarter. She knew that the world's symbols of money and
display were concentrated here, and that in some queer way she, poor
waif, had been given a command of them. One day homeless, friendless,
and penniless, and the next driving down Fifth Avenue in a limousine
which might be called her own!
The motor was slowing down. It was drawing to the curb. They had
reached the place to which Steptoe had directed Eugene. Letty didn't
have to look at the name-plate to know she was where the great stars
got their gowns, and that she was being invited into Margot's!
You know Margot's, of course. A great international house, Margot--the
secret is an open one--is but the incognita of a business-like English
countess who finds it financially profitable to sign articles on
costume written by someone else, and be sponsor for the newest
fashions which someone else designs. As a way of turning an
impoverished historic title to account it is as good as any other.
Without knowing who Margot was Letty knew what she was. She couldn't
have frequented studios without hearing that much, and once or twice
in her wanderings about the city she had paused to admire the door. It
was all there was to admire, since Margot, to Letty's regret, didn't
display confections behind plate-glass.
It was a Flemish chateau which had been a residence before business
had traveled above Forty-second Street. A man in livery would have
barred them from passing the wrought-iron grille had it not been for
the car from which they had emerged. Only people worthy of being
customers of the house could afford such cars, and he saw that Steptoe
was a servant. What Letty was he couldn't see, for servants of great
houses never looked so nondescript.
In the great hall a beautiful staircase swept to an upper floor, but
apart from a Louis Seize mirror and console flanked by two Louis Seize
chairs there was nothing and no one to be seen. Steptoe turned to the
right into a vast saloon with a cinnamon-colored carpet and walls of
cool French gray. A group of gilded chairs were the only furnishings,
except for a gilded canape between two French windows draped with
cinnamon-colored hangings. A French fender with French andirons filled
the fireplace, and on the white marble mantelpiece stood a _garniture
de cheminee_, a clock and two vases, in biscuit de Sevres.
At the end of the room opposite the windows a woman in black, with
coiffure a la Marcel, sat at a white-enamelled desk working with a
ledger. A second woman in black, also with coiffure a la Marcel,
stood holding open the doors of a white-enamelled wardrobe, gazing at
its multi-colored contents. Two other women in black, still with
coiffure a la Marcel, were bending over a white-enamelled drawer in a
series of white-enamelled drawers, discussing in low tones. There were
no customers. For such a house the season had not yet begun. Though in
this saloon voices were pitched as low as for conversation in a
church, the sharp catgut calls of Frenchwomen--and of French
dressmakers especially--came from a room beyond.
Overawed by this vastness, simplicity, and solemnity, Steptoe and
Letty stood barely within the door, waiting till someone noticed them.
No one did so till the woman holding open the wardrobe doors closed
them and turned round. She did not come forward at once; she only
stared at them. Still keeping her eye on the newcomers she called the
attention of the ladies occupied with the drawer, who lifted
themselves up. They too stared. The lady at the desk stared also.
It was the lady of the wardrobe who advanced at last, slowly, with
dignity, her hands genteelly clasped in front of her. She seemed to be
saying, "No, we don't want any," or, "I'm sorry we've nothing to give
you," by her very walk. Letty, with her gift for dramatic
interpretation, could see this, though Steptoe, familiar as he was
with ladies whom he would have classed as "'igher," was not daunted.
He too went forward, meeting madam half way.
Of what was said between them Letty could hear nothing, but the
expression on the lady's face was dissuasive. She was telling Steptoe
that he had come to the wrong place, while Steptoe was saying no. From
time to time the lady would send a glance toward Letty, not in
disdain, but in perplexity. It was perplexity which reached its climax
when Steptoe drew from an inside pocket an impressive roll of bills.
The lady looked at the bills, but she also looked at Letty. The honor
of a house like Margot's is not merely in making money; it is in its
clientele. To have a poor little waif step in from the street....
And yet it was because she was a poor little waif that she interested
the ladies looking on. She was so striking an exception to their rule
that her very coming in amazed them. One of the two who had remained
near the open drawer came forward into conference with her colleague,
adding her dissuasions to those which Steptoe had already refused to
listen to.
"There are plenty of other places to which you could go," Letty heard
this second lady say, "and probably do better."
Steptoe smiled, that old man's smile which was rarely ineffective.
"Madam don't 'ave to tell me as there's plenty of other plyces to
which I could go; but there's none where I could do as well."
"What makes you think so?"
"I'm butler to a 'igh gentleman what 'e used to entertyne quite a bit
when 'is mother was alive. I've listened to lydies talkin' at tyble.
No one can't tell me. I _know_."
Both madams smiled. Each shot another glance at Letty. It was plain
that they were curious as to her identity. One of them made a
venture.
"And is this your--your daughter?"
Steptoe explained, not without dignity, that the young lady was not
his daughter, but that she had come into quite a good bit of money,
and had done it sudden like. She needed a 'igh, grand outfit, though
for the present she would be content with three or four of the dresses
most commonly worn by a lydy of stytion. He preferred to nyme no
nymes, but he was sure that even Margot would not regret her
confidence--and he had the cash, as they saw, in his pocket.
Of this the result was an exchange between the madams of comprehending
looks, while, in French, one said to the other that it might be well
to consult Madame Simone.
Madame Simone, who bustled in from the back room, was not in black,
but in frowzy gray; her coiffure was not a la Marcel, but as Letty
described it, "all anyway." A short, stout, practical Frenchwoman, she
had progressed beyond the need to consider looks, and no longer
considered them. The two shapely subordinates with whom Steptoe had
been negotiating followed her at a distance like attendants.
She disposed of the whole matter quickly, addressing the attendants
rather than the postulants for Margot's favor.
"Mademoiselle she want an outfit--good!--bon! We don't know her, but
what difference does that make to me?--qu'est ce que c'est que cela me
fait? Money is money, isn't it?--de l'argent c'est de l'argent,
n'est-ce pas?--at this time of year especially--a cette saison de
l'annee surtout."
To Steptoe and Letty she said: "'Ave the goodness to sit yourselves
'ere. Me, I will show you what we 'ave. A street costume first for
mademoiselle. If mademoiselle will allow me to look at her--Ah, oui!
Ze taille--what you call in Eenglish the figure--is excellent. Tres
chic. With ze proper closes mademoiselle would have style--de
l'elegance naturelle--that sees itself--cela se voit--oui--oui----"
Meditating to herself she studied Letty, indifferent apparently to the
actual costume and atrocious hat, like a seeress not viewing what is
at her feet but events of far away.
With a sudden start she sprang to her convictions. "I 'ave it. J'y
suis." A shrill piercing cry like that of a wounded cockatoo went down
the long room. "Alphonsine! Alphon_sine_!"
Someone appeared at the door of the communicating rooms. Madame Simone
gave her orders in a few sharp staccato French sentences. After that
Letty and Steptoe found themselves sitting on two of the gilded
chairs, unexpectedly alone. The other ladies had returned to their
tasks. Madame Simone had gone back to the place whence they had
summoned her. Nothing had happened. It seemed to be all over. They
waited.
"Ain't she goin' to show us nothin'?" Letty whispered anxiously. "They
always do."
Steptoe was puzzled but recommended patience. He couldn't think that
Madame could have begun so kindly, only to go off and leave them in
the lurch. It was not what he had looked for, any more than she; but
he had always found patient waiting advantageous.
Perhaps ten minutes had gone by when a new figure wandered toward
them. Strutted would perhaps be the better word, since she stepped
like a person for whom stepping means a calculation. She was about
Letty's height, and about Letty's figure. Moreover, she was pretty,
with that haughtiness of mien which turns prettiness to beauty. What
was most disconcerting was her coming straight toward Letty, and
standing in front of her to stare.
Letty colored to the eyes--her deep, damask flush. The insult was
worse than anything offered by Mrs. Courage; for Mrs. Courage after
all was only a servant, and this a young lady of distinction. Letty
had never seen anyone dressed with so much taste, not even the stars
as they came on the studio lot in their everyday costumes. Indignant
as she was she could appreciate this delicate seal-brown cloth, with
its bits of gold braid, and darling glimpses of sage-green wherever
the lining showed indiscreetly. The hat was a darling too, brown with
a feather between brown and green, the one color or the other
according as the wearer moved.
If it hadn't been for this cool insolence.... And then the young lady
deliberately swung on her heel, which was high, to move some five or
six yards away, where she stood with her back to them. It was a
darling back--with just enough gold braid to relieve the simplicity,
and the tiniest revelation of sage-green. Letty admired it the more
poignantly for its cold contempt of herself.
Steptoe was not often put out of countenance, but it seemed to have
happened now. "I _can't_ think," he murmured, as one who contemplates
the impossible, "that the French madam can 'ave been so civil to begin
with, just to go and make a guy of us."
"If all her customers is like this----" Letty began.
But the young lady of distinction turned again, stepping a few paces
toward the back of the room, swinging on herself, stepping a few paces
toward the front of the room, swinging on herself again, and all the
while flinging at Letty glances which said: "If you want to see scorn,
this is it."
Fascination kept Letty paralyzed. Steptoe grew uneasy.
"I wish the French madam'd come back agyne," he murmured, from half
closed lips. "We 'aven't come 'ere to be myde a spectacle of--not for
no one."
And just then the seal-brown figure strolled away, as serenely and
impudently as she had come.
"Well, of all----!"
Letty's exclamation was stifled by the fact that as the first young
lady of distinction passed out a second crossed her coming in. They
took no notice of each other, though the newcomer walked straight up
to Letty, not to stare but to toss up her chin with a hint of laughter
suppressed. Laughter, suppressed or unsuppressed, was her note. She
was all fair-haired, blue-eyed vivacity. It was a relief to Letty that
she didn't stare. She twitched, she twisted, she pirouetted, striking
dull gleams from an embroidery studded with turquoise and jade--but
she hadn't the hard unconscious arrogance of the other one.
All the same it pained Letty that great ladies should be so beautiful.
Not that this one was beautiful of face--she wasn't--only
piquant--but the general effect was beautiful. It showed what money
and the dressmaker could do. If she, Letty could have had a dress and
a hat like this!--a blue or a green, it was difficult to say
which--with these strips of jade and turquoise on a ground of the
purplish-greenish-blue she remembered as that of the monkshood in the
old farm garden in Canada--and the darlingest hat, with one long
feather beginning as green and graduating through every impossible
shade of green and blue till it ended in a monkshood tip....
No wonder the girl's blue eyes danced and quizzed and laughed. As a
matter of fact, Letty commented, the eyes brought a little too much
blue into the composition. It was her only criticism. As a whole it
lacked contrast. If she herself had worn this costume--with her
gold-stone eyes--and brown hair--and rich coloring, when she had any
color--blue was always a favorite shade with her--when she could
choose, which wasn't often--she remembered as a child on the farm how
she used to plaster herself with the flowers of the blue succory--the
dust-flower they called it down there because it seemed to thrive like
the disinherited on the dust of the wayside--not but what the
seal-brown was adorable....
The spectacle grew dazzling, difficult for Steptoe to keep up with. He
and Letty were plainly objects of interest to these grand folk,
because there were now four or five of them. They advanced, receded,
came up and studied them, wheeled away, smiled sometimes at each other
with the high self-assurance of beauty and position, pranced, pawed,
curveted, were noble or coquettish as the inner self impelled, but
always the embodiment of overweening pride. Among the "real gentry,"
as he called them, there had unfailingly been for him and his
colleagues a courtesy which might have been called only a distinction
in equality, whereas these high-steppers....
It was a relief to see the French madam bustling in again from the
room at the back. Steptoe rose. He meant to express himself. Letty
hoped he would. For people who brought money in their hands this
treatment was too much. When Steptoe advanced to meet madam, she went
with him. As her champion she must bear him out.
But madam forestalled them. "I 'ope that mademoiselle has seen
something what she like. Me, I thought the brown costume--_coeur de le
marguerite jaune_ we call it ziz season----"
Letty was quick. She had heard of mannequins, the living models,
though so remotely as to give her no visualized impression. Suddenly
knowing what they had been looking at she adapted herself before
Steptoe could get his protest into words.
"I liked the seal-brown; but for me I thought the second one----"
Madame Simone nodded, sagely. "Why shouldn't mademoiselle 'ave both?"