STAR BARTON SEEKS A NEW HOME.
Star Barton? She was the one scintillating light that shone out of the
milky way of the Barton family. She was a sport of the family tree--a
lily nourished in a quagmire. And how a wondering world marvels at such
unaccountable things of nature!
Through eighteen weary summers and eighteen dreary winters she went,
before seeing a light above the dim horizon of her impoverished world.
Through babyhood she crawled in frightful filth, as if it were a part of
her wretched existence, seeing nothing beyond the bare walls and bare
floors of her cramped up playgrounds; through childhood she toddled,
with the same dismal conditions abetting her expanding innocence;
through the period of adolescence she walked without a thought of what
the outside world contained, except as she intuitively gathered such
knowledge as the thick curtain of ignorance slowly rose before her; till
now she had come to the springtime of womanhood, full of its snares and
pitfalls for such as she. Then, like the bursting of the sun through a
rent-way in the clouds on a rainy day, she, for the first time, saw the
beckoning star that should lead her on--on--on--to a life of rectitude,
or--dissoluteness.
Star Barton was the second child of Kate Barton, and early in her
teening years gave some promise of her future. When only ten she began
to be a drudge, doing all the things that her delicate hands could, with
exertion, be laid to. She was the patient "little mother" to all the new
babies as they yearly floated out of Paradise to this place of
desolation. She was the scrub-woman, the washer-woman, the charwoman,
the cook, the chamber maid, ever cheerful in her efforts to perform her
tasks. Illy clad, scantily fed, roundly abused by her father,
continually scolded by her mother, and never praised by either parent,
she mutely submitted, like a black slave, to all the torments of
blighting servitude that could be heaped upon her. Thus, for eighteen
long years, Star Barton was subjected to all the demoralizing influences
of drunkenness and poverty; and how she came out of it unblighted any
one may wonder at. And now, at this age, she stood looking out the
narrow window of her vantage point, seeing the promise of a brighter
life.
Then why was she a freak of nature from the family tree? Because she had
a round face, pink cheeks, two even rows of white teeth, two mild blue
eyes underneath dark eyebrows, a sharp, shrewd, straight nose, and dark
hair; and because she was of average height, well formed, muscular and
courageous; and still, because nature had provided her, as it provides
the offspring of the weak, sometimes, with all the qualities and graces
that were necessary to combat the deteriorating effects of a life of
toil.
As suddenly as she had seen the new light mount the horizon of her life,
as suddenly did she long for better ways, a better home, a better life.
This longing came to her the very time her father disappeared. She
sought work, and found it, still as a drudge, in a lodging house up in
Birmingham. The small pittance that she earned she took home every
Saturday night, and gave it to her mother as a helping mite towards
banishing the horde of wolves that constantly prowled about her door.
This small sum was not sufficient to maintain a successful contest with
those beasts of starvation that gnawed their way, like famished whelps,
into the growing bodies of the ten starvelings of Kate Barton. But,
notwithstanding, Star never failed in her willingness to turn her last
penny for their sustenance. An older brother had been her assistant in
this trial, and he kept it up with a good will till about the hour the
father had deserted them; but he, losing heart, after acquiring new
habits and forming ill-savored acquaintances, so far forgot his duty to
his mother that he also deserted her in her time of greatest need. He
went away as suddenly as her father--they knew not where. And Star was
ever faithful, ever trustworthy, ever to be relied upon by her hapless
mother.
One day, after ten hours of the severest toil, Star came home, with the
little bundle of her personal effects under her arm. It was on that
memorable day in November when the heavens seemed to have bursted their
flood gates and let out a deluge to come down in gimlets to pierce the
fog and smoke with its weird pattering. Without cloak, or coat, or
protection of any kind, Star waded through the sodden streets, arriving
at the door of her home as wet as a drowning rat. Entering, she
deposited her bundle on the only table in the house, and took up a
position close to a cast iron stove that was about as cheerless in its
warmth as the evening itself. She was so thoroughly soaked that every
lineament of her form could be seen through the thin garment that clung
to her body as closely as paper on a wall.
"Mother," said Star, as that lean creature came indolently into the
room, "I have quit my job."
"You have?" answered the mother, about as carelessly as if she were
talking gossip over the back fence.
"Yes, mother, I have quit."
"Very well, I've lots to do here; I reckon you can keep busy," said the
mother, as if the future had been provided with all the necessaries of
life.
Star left her mother suckling a child by the stove, and proceeded to her
dark and shabbily furnished room for a change of clothing. Presently she
returned looking less distressful. Then she bathed her face in a water
bucket that stood on a box by a besmoked window, following with the
combing of her long dark hair. After which, she rolled her hair into a
knot at the back of her head, looked into a crooked mirror, dampened her
fingers on her tongue and touched her eyebrows, then set to work to cook
the evening meal for the brats caterwauling around like so many
wild-cats.
Kate Barton gave no concern about Star's future. She asked no questions
as to why she quit her work as scrub-woman at the lodging house. She
said nothing that would leave the least impression as to what she
thought about providing for the family. Deplorable mortal!
"Mother," said Star, after awhile, "I am going away tomorrow to look for
a new place."
"It makes no difference, Star," was the response of the mother. "I can
use you here."
"How will we live, if I don't work, mother?"
"As we have always lived, s'pose."
"And that has been poorly, mother."
"Yes."
"Don't you want me to go away, mother?"
"It makes no difference, s'pose," answered the mother. "I've put up with
it this long, s'pose I can put up with it the rest of my days."
"Mother," said Star, whose love for her mother was of the
undemonstrative kind, the kind born of instinct, and is taken for
granted among the very poor; "mother, I am going to the East End
tomorrow to look for a job as a domestic in a rich man's home."
"Yes," replied the mother.
"A woman came to me today and told me to go to a certain house, in the
East End, where I could get work at six dollars a week, and board thrown
in."
"Yes, Star," returned the mother, now showing a little more interest in
the conversation than she had shown in any thing before--unless it was,
perhaps, her drunken husband.
"Mother?"
"Yes, Star."
"That is twenty-four dollars a month; that will keep me in clothing, and
plenty for the children to eat."
"Yes, Star," said the mother, as she rose from her chair, with the
suckling still hanging to her breast, and walked across the floor, for
no purpose whatever, other than that perhaps the performance might
dissolve her cold brooding into a semblance of interest in her material
welfare. Then she sat down again and rocked to and fro with the
rockerless chair, as a jolting dose of soothing syrup for the pain that
had suddenly twisted the child's mouth into a howling breadth.
"And mother," continued Star, "the woman gave me the address of a rich
family that wants a maid for a young lady, or a cook, or something
else, I forget which."
"Yes, Star."
"And she said I could get the job if I go at once."
"Yes, Star," responded the mother between the infinitisimal intervals of
the noise of the thumping chair and the yelling child.
"And mother, she said they live in a grand house as big as all our forty
shanties here put together."
"Yes," said the mother.
"And she said it was lit up by electric lights, and had steam heat, and
furniture as grand as any place, mother--as grand as any king's palace,
mother. I am going tomorrow, mother."
"Yes," returned the mother, as she turned the yelling child over her
knee and gave it two or three smacks, causing it to become so red in the
face that its phiz shone more brightly than the lambent rays that
filtered through the smoky chimney of the kerosene lamp sitting on the
table.
"And she said, mother," still pursued Star, as she went about among the
battered pans and rattled the cracked and broken dishes she was
displaying on the family board, the while stirring the frying potatoes
in the sheet-iron skillet, and watching the coffee pot that it did not
boil away all the aroma, "that the young lady who wants a maid is so
very handsome and so fine that I cannot sleep till I get there."
"Yes," croaked the mother, a little irritated, it appeared, by all these
revelations that Star was unfolding before her; for nothing disturbed
her so, it seemed, as the mention of such hifalutin things, although she
herself, in all her lowliness, never disparaged, by word, anybody who
had more than she, being a woman absolutely contented with her lot.
"May I go?" asked Star, who always felt it a matter of filial respect to
defer to her parents' beck and call.
"Yes," dolefully replied the mother, as she rocked the squalling brat on
the rockerless chair with greater vigor than had been her practice.
* * * * *
That night Star Barton went to bed with more stirring imaginings in her
untrained head than she had ever presumed upon before in all her dreary
life. For a long time she lay awake seeing of the new vista that so
suddenly opened before her disreputable habitat; dreaming of another
place, so widely dissevered from hers, that it was like the enchanted
land she once read about in a book that some roving spirit had conveyed
to her haunts; dreaming of the wonders she had oftentimes conjured up to
placate her plagued thoughts that hung like burning tapers of despair in
her abiding place of want; dreaming, yea dreaming, for the first time in
her whole unvaried life, of the things that are beautiful, grand and
regal. Then she went to sleep to dream some more:--of the fantasies of
an idle brain, of the children of her unconscious world, of the evil
spirits that had ever been a part of her uneventful being, of the
spirits that come to checkmate us in our mad rush, causing us to turn
aside to ponder over their real meaning.
But none of the visions of the sleeping hours was as promising as the
fancies of her wakeful time. For when she awoke in the morning, the
lustre that had pervaded her dreaming had waned, and she faltered over
making the new and uncertain step. Oh what a bad little imp it is that
seems to possess those of us, at times, who, when a new undertaking is
to be entered upon, hesitate, procrastinate, pause and deliberate, till
the time of opportunity is over!
Star was, on this morning, in such a state of uncertainty, probably very
much on account of the continuation of the nasty weather, that it was
near the noon hour before she could resolve finally to spend ten cents
for the fare to take the journey she had so set her head on the previous
day. She donned her best blue gingham dress; coiled her hair up into a
knot on top of her head; tied a faded black ribbon in it; adjusted an
odd looking round black straw hat, with some faded flowers breaking its
sombre monotony, to her head; looked into the crazy little mirror that
reflected her not much unlike some distorted beast with a white face;
threw a grayish cape over her shoulders, and went out into the rain.
After a period of time that was very slow in passing, and after much
fluttering of her virtuous heart, and considerable indecision whether to
go on or to return to the place she knew so well, she arrived at the
Highland avenue address given her the day before by the unknown, but
friendly disposed, woman who met her at her last place of bondage. When
she reached the great iron gate that opened into the spacious yard of
the mansion on the hill, she again hesitated, and walked back and forth
on the pavement so many times that the keeper of the gate, with
suspicion cast upon her, came out to inquire the meaning of her actions.
"I have come--I have come--" faltered Star, feeling like fleeing from
him in that moment of her bewilderment over the bigness of the outside
world, "--to look for a place. They gave me this number," handing the
keeper a card.
The keeper, who was an oldish man, and perhaps had a daughter of his
own, took the card, looked it over, looked at her, then looked at it;
then looked at her. He saw that she had a beautiful face, was innocent
and unbeguiling.
"This is the place, miss," he answered, kindly. "This is the way in,"
and he opened the large gate, and passed her in.
Star went up the smooth asphaltum walk with considerable trepidation,
heeding nothing about her, and seeing only the big house at the end. The
most serious thing that she did was to go directly to the big front
door, with its shining knocker that looked to her like the face of a
bull in brass with a pendulous ring in its nose. She was in such a
flurry that she could not have believed her own tongue, had she spoken
then and there. She had never, in all her dreaming, imagined such
things. Her head was in a whirl, and more than once she was on the point
of turning back to her forlorn mother, where she felt she would be equal
to her surroundings.
However, summoning up all the courage and fortitude that she possessed,
she at last tapped timidly at the door. No answer. She touched her red
knuckles on one of the polished panels. No answer. Then, merely as a
matter of curiosity, caught hold of the ring in the bull's nose, pulled
on it, and let it drop back into place, which was immediately followed
by a dull brassy ring. Suddenly the door swung wide open, appearing to
her as the door of a factory building, in its immensity.
A tall, pompous gentleman--dressed like the men she had seen in a book
on colonial characters, only this one had short hair and scragly
sideburns--loomed up before her, like the Giant did to Jack, perhaps.
His sudden appearance caused her to involuntarily start and draw back,
with a greater desire than ever to flee; but in a moment he spoke,
hoarsely:
"Go to the rear door!"
Whereupon, he closed the door. The way into such gilded piles of luxury,
for such as Star Barton in her present condition, is not by the front
entrance. No graven lintel was ever raised to pass such as Star
thereunder. Away, away, like a rat to its hole, steal into the less
prominent openings leading to the apartments of the flunkies!
Star was dazed by this action; but not knowing that it was any more than
a big apartment house for the rich, she judged she had gone to the wrong
door. So she, with a still fluttering heart, proceeded in the direction
indicated. Before she had found the proper place, she had tried a number
of the openings in the grim, gray walls, receiving the same reception at
all of them as at the first. "Go to the rear," "go to the rear," was
repeated so often to her that she began to feel dizzy from its
repetition, and drowsy and faint over the possibility of failure.
Then she came to a door where a cook answered her knock. He wore a
white, brimless cap, and a big white apron covered up the rotundity of
his front clear up to his chin and almost to his feet. He was large and
fat and filled up almost the entire space of the opened door. He was
red-faced and genial, and had a merry twinkle in his blue eyes. He
reminded Star of a big German butcher whom she knew in the marts of
Birmingham.
"Well!" he exclaimed, seeing the visitor to his quarters was a lady.
"I came to see if you want a cook," said Star, now feeling more composed
since some one deigned to talk with her.
"A cook!" he exclaimed, grinning.
"A cook, yes, sir," she answered.
"We employ none but men cooks here, lady," he replied, and was about to
close the door.
"Surely, I have made a mistake," thought Star, in this moment of her
rebuff, as she took it. Her heart was failing her. She felt
disconsolate. She was about to turn and flee--back to her own elements,
back to her own humble surroundings; to all the shortcomings of her
home, to her stupid mother, to her unfortunate brothers and sisters, to
her wretched existence again, and there take up her burdens as she
before had borne them.
The fat cook noticed the pallor that had come over Star's face, as the
consequence of his remark, and instead of closing the door in her face,
as he intended, he opened it wider, and said:
"You must be in the wrong place, Miss."
"No sir; I am not," she answered. "This is the address that was given
me, where a cook was wanted--or I might be mistaken--it might be a maid
is wanted for a young lady."
"Very doubtful," said the cook, scratching his head.
"None wanted?" she asked.
"To get a place here you must have recommendations," he answered.
"I have never worked away from home," she replied, "except for a few
months. I have never been a maid to a lady. But--but--I want to learn."
"Wait," said the cook, quickly, as if he had thought of something that
had been commended to his keeping and it had slipped his memory, as he
retreated, and closed the door.
In a few minutes the cook returned, with a smile on his round face that
made him look like the full moon, and bade Star to walk within. Star
walked within, dazed, trembling and mortally afraid of the line of
domestics, before whom it appeared she was passing in review. She was
conducted into the presence of a bouncing little lady, dressed like a
princess, with gold on her wrists, in her ears, on her breast, around
her neck--a charmingly spry little lady, with a dignified nose, a pretty
smile, and an air of geniality about her that might not be expected in
the mistress of such a household. The little lady looked Star over,
scrutinized her from head to foot. Every inch of the plumpy girl she
seemed to weigh in the fine scale of her discrimination. She was neither
pleased, nor displeased, so far as Star could see. She took her in as if
she read the whole story of her life without the aid of a palmist's text
book, or geanalogical dictionary from which to take her cue.
"So you want to be my daughter's maid?" asked Mrs. Jarney, for that is
whom the lady was, the mother of Edith.
"I had thought I would like to learn," replied Star, who was already
feeling at home in the presence of this fine lady.
"Have you had experience?"
"None; but I can learn."
"How old are you?"
"Eighteen, past."
"You are large for your age."
"But I have worked hard--that has made me strong."
"You will need a little fixing up--what's your name?"
"Miss Barton."
"I kn--I mean your given name?"
"Star."
"Have Edith come down," said Mrs. Jarney to her maid; and she told Star
to be seated.
Edith came down in a few moments. She was so radiant that Star fairly
held her breath. Edith advanced and presented her hand to Star, saying:
"What is your name?"
"Star Barton."
"I kn--that is a fine name," replied Edith, holding Star's hand, and for
the first time she began to feel that there was some mystery about her
coming here, or else why this kindly greeting? "Mama," she said, still
holding Star's hand and turning to her mother, "I shall like her, I
know. I shall take her to my room and have her redressed. Will you come
with me? Yes, of course."
Edith, who had been very light hearted all that day, wheeled gracefully,
lifted her skirts, and went up the stairs so lightly that she was like a
bird of Paradise, so fairily did she trip along. Star Barton, in her
poverty-stricken clothing, followed in such a delirium of amazement that
she felt as if she were treading the clouds into Heaven itself.
And thus into a new Heaven she went, with as little formality
surrounding her going--once she was let into the mansion by the ever
guardful servants--as is seldom found in this world of inequality.