AT THE HOTEL NORMAN.
Miss Nattie Rogers, telegraph operator, lived, as it were, in two
worlds. The one her office, dingy and curtailed as to proportions, but
from whence she could wander away through the medium of that slender
telegraph wire, on a sort of electric wings, to distant cities and
towns; where, although alone all day, she did not lack social
intercourse, and where she could amuse herself if she chose, by
listening to and speculating upon the many messages of joy or of sorrow,
of business and of pleasure, constantly going over the wire. But the
other world in which Miss Rogers lived was very different; the world
bounded by the four walls of a back room at Miss Betsey Kling's. It must
be confessed that there are more pleasing views than sheds in greater or
less degrees of dilapidation, a sickly grape-vine, a line of flapping
sheets, an overflowing ash barrel; sweeter sounds than the dulcet notes
of old rag-men, the serenades of musical cats, or the strains of a
cornet played upon at intervals from nine P. M. to twelve, with the
evident purpose of exhausting superfluous air in the performer's lungs.
Perhaps, too, there was more agreeable company possible than Miss Betsey
Kling.
Therefore, in the evening, Sunday and holiday, if not in the telegraphic
world of Miss Rogers, loneliness, and the unpleasant sensation known as
"blues" are not uncommon.
Miss Betsey Kling, who, although in reduced circumstances, boasted of
certain "blue blood," inherited from dead and gone ancestors--who
perhaps would have been surprised could they have known at this late day
how very genteel they were in life,--rented a flat in Hotel Norman, on
the second floor, of which she let one room; not on account of the
weekly emolument received therefrom, ah, no! but "for the sake of having
some one for company." In this respect she was truly a contrast to Mrs.
Simonson, a hundred and seventy-five pound widow, who lived in the
remaining suite of that floor, and who let every room she possibly
could, in order, as she frankly confessed, to "make both ends meet." For
a constant struggle with the "ways and means" whereby to live had quite
annihilated any superfluous gentility Mrs. Simonson might have had,
excepting only one lingering remnant, that would never allow her to hang
in the window one of those cheaply conspicuous placards, announcing:
"Rooms to Let."
Miss Betsey Kling was a spinster--not because she liked it, but on
account of circumstances over which she had no control,--and her
principal object in life, outside of the never-expressed, but much
thought-of one of finding her other self, like her, astray, was to keep
watch and ward over the affairs of the occupants of neighboring flats,
and see that they conducted themselves with the propriety becoming the
neighbors of so very genteel and unexceptionable a person as Miss Betsey
Kling. In pursuit of this occupation she was addicted to sudden and
silent appearances, much after the manner of materialized spirits, at
windows opening into the hall, and doors carelessly left ajar. She was,
however, afflicted with a chronic cold, that somewhat interfered with
her ability to become a first-class listener, on account of its
producing an incessant sniffle and spasms of violent sneezing.
Miss Rogers going home to that back room of hers, found herself still
pondering upon the probable sex of "C." Rather to her own chagrin, when
she caught her thoughts thus straying, too; for she had a certain scorn
of anything pertaining to trivial sentiment. A little scorn of herself
she also had some-times. In fact, her desires reached beyond the
obtaining of the every-day commonplaces with which so many are content
to fill their lives, and she possessed an ambition too dominant to allow
her to be content with the dead level of life. Therefore it was that any
happy hours of forgetfulness of all but the present, that sometimes came
in her way, were often followed by others of unrest and dissatisfaction.
There were certain dreams she indulged in of the future, now hopefully,
now utterly disheartened, that she was so far away from their
realization. These dreams were of fame, of fame as an authoress. Whether
it was the true genius stirring within her, or that most unfortunate of
all things, an unconquerable desire without the talent to rise above
mediocrity, time alone could tell.
Compelled by the failure and subsequent death of her father to support
herself, or become a burden upon her mother, whose now scanty means
barely sufficed for herself and two younger children, Nattie chose the
more independent, but harder course. For she was not the kind of girl to
sit down and wait for some one to come along and marry her, and relieve
her of the burden of self-support. So, from a telegraph office in the
country, where she learned the profession, she drifted to her present
one in the city.
To her, as yet, there was a certain fascination about telegraphy. But
she had a presentiment that in time the charm would give place to
monotony, more especially as, beyond a certain point, there was
positively no advancement in the profession. Although knowing she could
not be content to always be merely a telegraph operator, she resolved to
like it as well and as long as she could, since it was the best for the
present.
As she lighted the gas in her room, she thought not of these things that
were so often in her mind, but of "C," and then scolded herself for
caring whether that distant individual was man or woman. What mattered
it to a young lady who felt herself above flirtations?
So there was a little scowl on her face as she turned around, that did
not lessen when she beheld Miss Kling standing in her door-way. For Miss
Rogers did not, to speak candidly, find her landlady a congenial spirit,
and only remained upon her premises because being there was a lesser
evil than living in that most unhomelike of all places, a
boarding-house.
"I thought I would make you a call," the unwelcome visitor remarked,
rubbing her nose, that from constant friction had become red and
shining; "I have been lonesome to-day. I usually run into Mrs.
Simonson's in the afternoon, but she has been out since twelve o'clock.
I can't make out--" musingly, "where she can have gone! not that she is
just the company I desire. She has never been used to anything above the
common, poor soul, and will say 'them rooms,' but she is better than no
one, and at least can appreciate in others the culture and standing she
has never attained," and Miss Kling sneezed, and glanced at Nattie with
an expression that plainly said her lodger would do well to imitate, in
this last respect, the lady in question.
"I am very little acquainted with Mrs. Simonson," Nattie replied, with a
tinge of scorn curling her lip, for, in truth, she had little reverence
for Miss Kling's blue blood. "Her lodgers like her very much, I believe;
at least, Quimby speaks of her in the highest terms."
"Quimby!" repeated Miss Kling, with a sniffle of contempt. "A
blundering, awkward creature, who is always doing or saying some
shocking thing!"
"I know that he is neither elegant nor talented, and is often very
awkward, but he is honest and kind-hearted, and one is willing to
overlook other deficiencies for such rare qualities," Nattie replied, a
little warmly, "and so Mrs. Simonson feels, I am confident."
Miss Kling eyed her sharply.
"Not at all! Allow me, Miss Rogers, to know! Mrs. Simonson endures his
blunders, because, as she says, he can live on the interest of his
money, 'on a pinch,' and she thinks such a lodger something of which to
boast. On a pinch, indeed!" added Miss Kling, with a sneeze, and giving
the principal feature in her face something very like the exclamation,
"a very tight pinch it would be, I am thinking!" Then somewhat
spitefully she continued, "But I was not aware, Miss Rogers, that you
and this Quimby were so intimate! The admiration is mutual, I suppose?"
"There is no admiration," replied Nattie, with a flash of her gray eyes,
inwardly indignant that any one should insinuate she admired
Quimby--honest, blundering Quimby, whom no one ever allowed a handle to
his name, and who was so clever, but like all clever people, such a
dreadful bore. "I have only met him two or three times since that
evening you introduced us in the hall, so there has hardly been an
opportunity for anything of that kind."
"You spoke so warmly!" Miss Kling remarked. "However," conciliatingly,
"I don't suppose by any means that you are in love with Quimby! You are
much too sensible a young lady for such folly!"
Nattie shrugged her shoulders, as if tired of the subject, and after a
spasm of sneezing, Miss Kling continued:
"As you intimate, he means all right, poor fellow! and that is more than
I should be willing to acknowledge regarding Mrs. Simonson's _other_
lodger, that Mr. Norton, who calls himself an artist. I am sure I never
saw any one except a convict wear such short hair!" and Miss Kling shook
her head insinuatingly.
From this beginning, to Nattie's dismay, Miss Kling proceeded to the
dissection of their neighbors who lived in the suite above, Celeste
Fishblate and her father. The former, Miss Kling declared, was setting
her cap for Quimby. Mr. Fishblate being an unquestionably disagreeable
specimen of the _genus homo_, with a somewhat startling habit of exploding
in short, but expressive sentences--never using more than three
consecutive words--Nattie naturally expected to hear him even more
severely anathematized than any one else. But to her surprise, the lady
conducting the conversation declared him a "fine sensible man!" At which
Nattie first stared, and then smiled, as it occurred to her that Mr.
Fishblate was a widower, and might it not be that Miss Kling
contemplated the possibility of _his_ becoming that other self not yet
attained?
Fortunately Miss Kling did not observe her lodger's looks, so intent was
she in admiration of Mr. Fishblate's fine points, and soon took her
leave.
After her departure, Nattie changed her inky dress, and put on her hat
to go out for something forgotten until now. As she stepped into the
hall, a tall young man, with extremely long arms and legs, and mouth,
that, although shaded by a faint outline of a mustache, invariably
suggested an alligator, opened the door of Mrs. Simonson's rooms,
opposite, and seeing Nattie, started back in a sort of nervous
bashfulness. Recovering himself, he then darted out with such
impetuosity that his foot caught in a rug, he fell, and went headlong
down stairs, dragging with him a fire-bucket, at which he clutched in a
vain effort to save himself, the two jointly making a noise that echoed
through the silent halls, and brought out the inhabitants of the rooms
in alarm.
"What is it? Is any one killed?" shrieked from above, a voice,
recognizable as that of Celeste Fishblate--two names that could never by
any possibility sound harmonious.
"What _is_ the matter now?" screamed Miss Kling, appearing at her door
with the query.
"Have you hurt yourself?" Nattie asked, as she went down to where the
hero of the catastrophe sat on the bottom stair, ruefully rubbing his
elbow, but who now picked up his hat and the fire-bucket, and rose to
explain.
"It's nothing--nothing at all, you know!" he said, looking upward, and
bowing to the voices; "I caught my foot in the rug, and--"
"Did you tear the rug?" here anxiously interrupted the listening Mrs.
Simonson, suddenly appearing at the banisters; not that she felt for her
lodger less, but for the rug more, a distinction arising from that
constant struggle with the "ways and means."
"Oh, no! I assure you, there was no damage done to the rug--or
fire-bucket," the victim responded, reassuringly, and in perfect good
faith. "Or myself," he added modestly, as if the latter was scarce worth
speaking of. "I--I am used to it, you know," reverting to his usual
expression in accidents of all descriptions.
"I declare I don't know what you will do next!" muttered Mrs. Simonson,
retreating to examine the rug.
"I think you must be in love, Quimby!" giggled Celeste; an assertion
that caused Miss Kling to give vent to a contemptuous "Humph" and
awakened in its subject the most excruciating embarrassment. The poor
fellow glanced at Nattie, blushed, perspired, and frantically clutching
at the fire-bucket, stammered a protest,--
"Now really--I--now!--you are mistaken, you know!"
"But people who are in love are always absent-minded," persisted
Celeste, with another giggle. "So it is useless to--"
But exactly what was useless did not appear, as at this point a
stentorian voice, the voice of Miss Kling's "fine, sensible man,"
roared,
"Enough!"
At which, to Quimby's relief, Celeste, always in mortal fear of her
father, hastily withdrew. Not so Miss Kling. She silently waited to see
if Nattie and Quimby would go out together, and was rewarded by hearing
the latter ask, as Nattie made a movement towards the door,--
"May I--might I be so bold as to--as to ask to be your escort?"
"I should be pleased," Nattie answered, adding with a mischievous
glance, but in a low tone, aware of the listening ears above,--
"That is, if you will consent to dispense with the fire-bucket!"
Quimby started, and dropping the article in question, as if it had
suddenly turned red-hot, ejaculated,--
"Bless my soul! really I--I beg pardon, I am sure!" then bashfully
offering his arm, they went out, while Miss Kling balefully shook her
head.
"So, Celeste will insist upon it that you are in love, because you
tripped and fell down stairs!" Nattie said, by way of opening a
conversation as they walked along--a remark that did not tend to lessen
his evident disquietude. And having now no fire-bucket, he clutched at
his necktie, twirling it all awry, not at all to the improvement of his
personal appearance, as he replied,--
"Oh! really, you know! its no matter! I--I am used to it, you know!"
"Used to falling in love?" queried Nattie, with raised eyebrows.
"No--no--the other, you know, that is--" gasped Quimby, hopelessly lost
for a substantive. "I mean, it's a mistake, you know" then with a
desperate rush away from the embarrassing subject, "Did you know
we--that is, Mrs. Simonson, was going to have a new lodger?"
"No, is she?" asked Nattie.
"Yes, a young lady coming to-morrow, a--a sort of an actress--no, a
prima donna, you know. A Miss Archer. If you and she should happen to
like each other, it would be pleasant for you, now wouldn't it?" asked
Quimby eagerly, with a devout hope that such might be, for then should
he not be a gainer by seeing more often the young lady by his side,
whose gray eyes had already made havoc in his honest and susceptible
heart.
"It would be pleasant," acquiesced Nattie, in utter unconsciousness of
Quimby's selfish hidden thought; "for I am lonely sometimes. Miss Kling
is not--not--"
"Oh, certainly! of course not!" Quimby responded sympathetically and
understandingly, as Nattie hesitated for a word that would express her
meaning. "They never are very adaptable--old maids, you know!"
"But it isn't because they are unmarried," said Nattie, perhaps feeling
called upon to defend her future self, "but because they were born so!"
"Exactly, you know, that's why no fellow ever marries them!" said
Quimby, with a glance of bashful admiration at his companion.
Nattie laughed.
"And this Miss Archer. Did you say she was a prima donna?" she
questioned.
"Yes--that is, a sort of a kind of a one, or going to be, or some way
musical or theatrical, you know," was Quimby's lucid reply. "I'll make
it a point to--to introduce you if you will allow me that pleasure?"
"Certainly," responded Nattie, and added, "I shall be quite rich, for
me, in acquaintances soon, if I continue as I have begun. I made a new
one on the wire to-day."
"On the--I beg pardon--on the what?" asked Quimby, with visions of
tight-ropes flashing through his mind.
"On the wire," repeated Nattie, to whom the phrase was so common, that
it never occurred to her as needing any explanation.
"Oh!" said the puzzled Quimby, not at all comprehending, but unwilling
to confess his ignorance.
"The worst of it is, I don't know the sex of my new friend, which makes
it a little awkward," continued Nattie.
Quimby stared.
"Don't--I beg pardon--don't know her--his--sex?" he repeated, with
wide-open eyes.
"No, it was on the wire, you know!" again explained Nattie, privately
thinking him unusually stupid; "about seventy miles away. We first
quarreled and then had a pleasant talk."
"Talk--seventy miles--" faltered the perplexed Quimby; then brightening,
"Oh! I see! a telephone, you know!"
"No indeed!" replied Nattie, laughing at his incomprehensibility. "We
don't need telephones. We can talk without--did you not know that? And
what is better, no one but those who understand our language can know
what we say!"
"Exactly!" answered Quimby, relapsing again into wonder. "Exactly--on
the wire!"
"Yes, we talk in a language of dots and dashes, that even Miss Kling
might listen to in vain. And do you know," she went on confidentially,
"somehow, I am very much interested in my new friend. I wish I knew--its
so awkward, as I said--but I really think it's a gentleman!"
"Exactly--exactly so!" responded Quimby, somewhat dejectedly. And during
the remainder of their walk he was very much harassed in his mind over
this interest Nattie confessed in her new friend--"on the wire,"--who
_would_ appear as a tight-rope performer to his perturbed imagination.
And he felt in his inmost heart that it would be a great relief to his
mind if this mysterious person should prove a lady, even though, if a
gentleman, he _was_ many miles away. For Quimby, with all his obtusity,
had an inkling of the power of mystery, and was already far enough on
the road to love to be jealous.
Of these thoughts Nattie was of course wholly unaware, and chatted
gayly, now of the distant "C" and now of the coming Miss Archer, to
her somewhat abstracted, but always devoted companion.