The trip home was uneventful, and, on account of Verley, spent for the
most part in my state-room. The minute I left the room he would start
to whine and bark so piercingly and piteously that of course I got into
trouble, and was obliged either to take him with me or stay with him.
I used to eat my meals with Verley cuddled in my lap, thrusting up his
funny, inquiring little nose, and eating the morsels I surreptitiously
gave him from my plate, much to the disgust of some of the passengers
and the amusement of others.
Once they tried to take Verley from me,--some of the ship's
people,--but I went to the captain, a friend of Captain Hollowell,
about whom I talked, and I pleaded so fervently and made such promises
that when I reached the tearful stage he relented, and let me keep my
little dog.
I had an address of a Boston lodging-house, given me by a woman guest
of the Myrtle Bank. A cab took me to this place, and I was fortunate
in securing a little hall room for three dollars a week. There was
a dining-room in the basement of a house next door where for three
dollars and fifty cents I could get meal-tickets enough for a week.
My landlady made no objection to Verley, but she warned me that if
the other lodgers objected, or if Verley made any noise, I'd have to
get rid of him. She gave me a large wooden box with straw in it. This
was to be his bed. I didn't dare tell her that Verley slept with me.
He used to press up as closely to my back as it was possible to get,
and with his fore paws and his nose resting against my neck, he slept
finely. So did I. I kept him as clean as fresh snow. I had tar soap,
and I scrubbed him every day in warm water, and I also combed his
little white coat. If I found one flea on him, I killed it.
The first day I went into the dining-room next door with little Verley
at my heels, every one turned round and looked at him, he was such a
pretty, tiny little fellow, and so friendly and clean. The men whistled
and snapped their fingers at him. He ran about from table to table,
making friends with every one, and being fed by every one.
I was given a seat at a table where there was just one other girl.
Now here occurred one of the coincidences in my life that seem almost
stranger than fiction. The girl at the table was reading a newspaper
when I sat down, and I did not like to look at her at once; but
presently I became aware that she had lowered her paper, and then I
glanced up. An exclamation escaped us simultaneously, and we jumped to
our feet.
"Nora!" she screamed.
"Marion!" I cried.
She was one of my older sisters!
As soon as we recognized each other, we burst out hysterically laughing
and crying. Excited words of explanation came tumbling from our lips.
"What are you doing here?"
"What are you?"
"Why aren't you in Jamaica?"
"Why aren't you in Quebec?"
I soon explained to Marion how I came to be in Boston, and then, crying
and eating at the same time, she told me of her adventures. They were
less exciting, but more romantic, than mine. She had left Quebec on
account of an unhappy love-affair. She had quarreled with the young
man to whom she was engaged, and "to teach him a lesson, and because,
anyway, I hate him," she had run away. She had been in Boston only one
day longer than I. She said she had been looking for work for two days,
but only one kind had been offered her thus far. I asked her what that
was. Her eyes filled with tears, and she said bitterly, that of an
artist's model.
Marion could paint well, and papa had taught her considerably. It was
her ambition, of course, to be an artist. In Quebec she had actually
had pupils, and made a fair living teaching children to draw and paint
on china. But here in Boston she stood little chance of getting work
like that. Nevertheless, she had gone the rounds of the studios,
hoping to find something to do as assistant and pupil. Nearly every
artist she had approached, however, had offered to engage her as a
model.
Marion was an unusually pretty girl of about twenty-two, with an almost
perfect figure, large, luminous eyes, which, though fringed with black
lashes, were a golden-yellow in color; hair, black, long, and glossy;
small and charmingly shaped hands and feet; and a perfectly radiant
complexion. In fact, she had all the qualities desirable in a model. I
did not wonder that the artists of Boston wanted to paint her. I urged
her to do the work, but poor Marion felt as if her best dreams were
about to be shattered. She, who had cherished the hope of being an
artist, shrank from the thought of being merely a model. However, she
had scarcely any money. She said she would not mind posing in costume;
but only one of the artists had asked her to do that, a man who wanted
to use her in "Oriental studies."
In her peregrinations among the studios she had come across other girls
who were making a profession of posing, and one of them had taken her
to a large art school, so that she could see exactly what the work was.
This girl, Marion said, simply stripped herself "stark naked," and then
went on before a large roomful of men and women. Marion was horrified
and ashamed, but her friend, a French girl, had laughed and said:
"Que voulez-vous? It ees nutting."
She told Marion that she had felt just as she did at first; that all
models experienced shame and embarrassment the first time. The plunge
was a hard thing; and to brace the girl up for the ordeal, the model
was accustomed to take a drink of whisky before going on. After that it
was easy. Marion was advised to do this.
"Just tek wan good dreenk," said the French girl; "then you get liddle
stupid. After zat it doan' matter."
Marion remarked hysterically that whisky might not make _her_ stupid.
She might be disposed to be hilarious, and in that event what would the
scandalized class do?
However, Marion was hopeful, and she expected to get the costume work
with the artist mentioned before.
As for me, just as I advised Marion to take this easy work that was
offered her, so she most strenuously advised me not to waste my time
looking for work in Boston, but to go on to Richmond, where a real
position awaited me.
It is curious how natural it is for poor girls to slip along the path
of least resistance. We wanted to help each other, and yet each advised
the other to do something that upon more mature thought might have been
inadvisable; for both courses held pitfalls of which neither of us was
aware. However, we seized what was nearest to our hand.
Marion got the work to pose in Oriental studies next day, and I, who
had telegraphed Dr. Manning, received by telegraph order money for my
fare. I at once set out for Richmond, and I did not see my sister again
for nearly five years. I left her crying at the station.