INTRODUCING MARTHA FARNUM
In the cosmopolitan atmosphere of any famous health resort, strangely
contrasting types are often found. Amid the vain, the foolish, the
inebriates and the idle who flocked to the Springs for amusement and
diversion, there were a few who really came to seek health. For three
months, the gay passers-by on the shaded walks near the hotel had
noticed one such, an elderly lady, feeble, gray-haired, evidently
recovering from a severe illness, who invariably occupied a wheel-chair,
the motive power for which was furnished by a most attractive young girl
always clad in simple black. The girl was about nineteen, slender,
graceful, with the clear and partly sunburnt complexion which comes
from life spent much in the open air. Her eyes and hair were brown--her
eyes large and wistful, her hair light and wavy. She wore no jewelry,
and there was no suggestion of color about her costume. Yet there seemed
a certain lightness and gayety in her face which conveyed the impression
that sadness was not a component factor in her life. She smiled as, hour
after hour, she read to the invalid on the veranda, and seemed actually
to enjoy her task of wheeling the chair back and forth to the Springs in
the rear of the hotel.
Once, when a traveling man who had strayed down to the Springs for a
weekend offered the front clerk a cheap cigar and expressed curiosity as
to the name of the young lady, that obliging encyclopedia explained:
"Oh, that's Miss Farnum. She's old Mrs. Kilpatrick's companion. No, not
a nurse--sort of poor relative, I guess."
[Illustration: "OH, THAT'S MISS FARNUM. SHE'S OLD MRS. KILPATRICK'S
COMPANION."]
Whereupon the aforesaid traveling gentleman, disappointed at the obvious
impossibility of a chance to speak to Miss Farnum, whistled and said:
"Anyhow, she's deuced pretty. I'd like to see her wearing a real gown."
Martha's constant adherence to simple black gowns, however, was due to
two reasons. She wanted every one to know that she was there simply as a
companion: it saved her the necessity of pretending, for other girls of
her own age, guests of the hotel, made no advances of a social nature
which would have required reciprocity. Additionally, and even more
important, black was inexpensive and durable.
For three months, now, Martha Farnum had been the companion of Mrs.
Kilpatrick, a wealthy invalid from Marion, a small town near
Indianapolis. Mrs. Kilpatrick was suffering from sciatic rheumatism, and
her physician had recommended a stay at the Springs. To her objection
that both her sons were too busy to accompany her, and that she knew no
one else who could act as a companion, the doctor had replied:
"I know a person who will be ideal. Her name is Farnum; she's the
daughter of an old friend of mine who has been in hard luck for three
years. Lives on a farm near here. Martha is the eldest girl in a family
of seven, and I know she'll jump at the chance. You'll find her modest,
well-bred and well-educated, with just two faults"--he smiled at Mrs.
Kilpatrick's hesitation--"she's very pretty and very poor."
Martha had been sent for, the arrangements made, and she found herself
for the first time in her life living at a real hotel, with all her
expenses paid and thirty-five dollars a month besides. Her duties were
not arduous, for the hotel servants attended to most of Mrs.
Kilpatrick's wants. She, however, read to the invalid, talked, laughed,
sang, pushed the chair around the beautiful walks, and dined with her.
Every afternoon, while Mrs. Kilpatrick took a nap, Martha was free.
At first the hotel life dazzled her. It almost stunned her. The
transition from life on their humble farm, with all its privations and
discomforts, to what seemed to her a fairyland of lights, music,
beautiful gowns and jewels, and the wasteful extravagance and display of
wealth, seemed unreal and impossible. Back on the farm, as the eldest of
a family of seven, she had worked, endured--and hoped. But in her
wildest dreams she had never imagined such a beautiful escape. No one at
home had had the imagination to understand her. No one, unless perhaps
her father, had even sympathized with her in her dismay, when the panic
three years before had forced the little town bank to close, and a
hail-storm that same summer ruined their crops. For before that they had
intended to send her away to boarding-school at Logansport; she had even
passed her entrance examinations. Then, all that had to be forgotten in
the poverty that had followed.
Now, for the first time, Martha was seeing _life_. It was new to her; it
frightened her, but still she was learning to love it.
Mrs. Kilpatrick had been kind, and had grown to be genuinely fond of
her. Thus it was with a touch of sadness that she stopped Martha pushing
the chair up and down the veranda this same autumn afternoon, and
mentioned a subject which she had persistently ignored for three days.
"Martha, dear, let me speak with you," said Mrs. Kilpatrick, suddenly.
"Bring up your chair," she added.
"The doctor has told me," continued Mrs. Kilpatrick, "that he thinks a
sea voyage will be beneficial. He suggests that I spend the coming
winter in some warm climate, preferably Italy, and I have decided to do
so."
Although uncertain as to just how it affected her, Martha could not
restrain her pleasure and excitement at the possible thought of going.
She clasped her hands convulsively, her eyes lighted up with
anticipation, and she cried gladly:
"Lovely! And am I to go, too?"
Mrs. Kilpatrick shook her head. "My dear child," she said sadly, "I am
sorry, but I shall be unable to take you. My sister, who is in New York,
is to accompany me," she explained. "I'm afraid I shall have to let you
return home this week. Unless," she added, "you can get something else
to do."
"I must. I will. To return home now would be to admit defeat. I'll never
do that. And we're all so dreadfully poor. I haven't any right to impose
myself on them, now that I've commenced to earn my own living."
"Perhaps the doctor can suggest another position for you, child," said
Mrs. Kilpatrick.
"Perhaps. Anyway, I must make my own living," declared Martha, with
conviction. "Other girls are doing it; I ought to be able to. I'll go
to New York or Chicago or some other big city, and I'll work at--at
something or other," she concluded, rather lamely.
Mrs. Kilpatrick smiled indulgently at her earnestness.
"That's the proper spirit, my child," she said. "I'm sure something will
turn up."
Martha gazed out through the trees, for at that moment the lumbering old
stage-coach came driving up from the little railroad station at the foot
of the hill, with a part of several carloads of visitors who had come on
the afternoon train from the North. She was still thinking rather
dismally of this sudden change in her future when a bell-boy brought a
card to Mrs. Kilpatrick.
"I forgot to tell you, Martha," broke in the latter, glancing at the
card. "I was expecting a Mr. Clayton from New York. He is a well-known
collector of curios and is coming 'way out here very largely to look at
my collection of scarabs. I feel a little tired now. Won't you see him
for me, Martha, and show him the collection?"
"Of course, Mrs. Kilpatrick."
"Show Mr. Clayton here, please," she said to the boy, "and ask him to
wait." Then, as the boy departed, the invalid turned wearily to Martha:
"Take me to my room now, dear, then you can come back with the scarabs."
George Clayton's thirty-three years sat lightly upon his shoulders,
though a close observer would have noticed that his clean-shaven face
was tanned a trifle more than one would expect, and one might likewise
have expressed surprise to find a slight suggestion of gray around the
edges of his slightly curly hair. The athletic build of his shoulders
and the erect bearing indicated that, while he might not be "the hope of
the white race" from a pugilistic standpoint, he was amply able to take
care of himself in any emergency.
Clayton's visit to the Springs was two-fold. He needed a rest, for in
the course of a law practice which had developed amazingly in the past
seven years, he had overworked. The only recreations he had enjoyed had
been temporary, the persistent pursuit of a number of fads. Though not
wealthy, his unusual success at law had produced an income more than
sufficient for his needs, and the surplus had been used from time to
time in developing the latter. Just now one of these happened to be
Egyptian scarabs, and the well-known collection of Mrs. Kilpatrick
having been called to his attention, he had decided to take a vacation
and look at them.
"Are you Mr. Clayton?"
A slender, girlish figure, clasping a large leather case, stood before
him, and, as he smiled an assent and bowed, extended her hand in cordial
greeting.
"Pardon me--I expected to see Mrs. Kilpatrick," said Clayton.
"I am sorry to say she is not well," said Martha. "I am her companion,
Miss Farnum."
Clayton bowed again and murmured something unintelligible.
"Mrs. Kilpatrick asked me to show you the scarabs. Afterwards you can
tell her what you think of them."
"I shall be glad to do so. I shall probably envy them."
"Mrs. Kilpatrick tells me you are quite a collector."
"Yes," answered Clayton, slowly. "I have collected almost everything in
my time, except money."
"It must be interesting," said Martha naively, sitting in one of the
easy rockers and opening the case, while Clayton drew his chair
alongside.
"First it was postage stamps," explained Clayton, picking up one of the
queer little beetles and examining it intently. "But postage stamps
soon proved tiresome. Then came Indian relics, but they lost favor when
I took up antique weapons of war. Then I went in for emeralds and
jewels, but they proved too expensive. I think I have had twenty fads in
the last ten years."
"But your business--hasn't that suffered?" Martha smiled.
"Not a particle. I've had a glorious time, and my clients who knew of my
fads thought all the more of me because they fancied I must be a brainy
chap to have them." He laughed.
"It must be wonderful to do as one pleases," mused Martha, gazing out
among the trees.
Clayton laughed again.
"Even that gets tiresome," he said. "The girl in the candy shop never
wants a caramel after the third day. Everything grows tiresome after a
while. Now that I've exhausted my list of fads, a horrible future
confronts me--thirty-three years of age, enough money to supply my
needs, and no new fad on which to waste the surplus. What am I to do?"
"There's always the Salvation Army," laughed Martha.
"Yes, or the Anti-Cigarette Society," he responded lightly.
A porter carrying two large suit-cases, each covered with many foreign
labels, crossed the veranda toward the waiting 'bus at the foot of the
steps. Another man, evidently a valet, followed with more luggage, and
then a tall, distinguished-looking man of uncertain age emerged from the
hotel. He gazed curiously at Martha, but his eyes lighted up with
recognition when they fell upon Clayton.
"Hello, Clayton, what are you doing here?" he inquired loudly.
Clayton looked up with just a shadow of annoyance, but, with the
well-bred air of a gentleman, rose and extended his hand.
"How are you, Gordon?" he said easily. "I haven't seen you since the
Compton breach of promise case."
Gordon winced at the reminder, but gave utterance to a forced laugh.
"You toasted me to a turn that time," he admitted. "Do you know,
Clayton, ever since you had me on the witness stand, I've been wanting
to engage you to handle my own business."
"Thank you," replied Clayton, coldly. "But I don't care for your kind of
business."
"What do you mean?"
"I prefer the kind where there is never a woman in the case."
Gordon laughed again uneasily.
"I can't help it every time a girl takes me seriously. I offered to
settle handsomely then, but like all these women, they think because I'm
rich I am an easy mark. Now, if you'll see me in New York--maybe we can
come to terms."
"I fancy not," replied Clayton, briefly.
Gordon's eyes, even during this brief conversation, had never left
Martha, whose attention was given to her scarabs.
"Deuced pretty girl!" remarked Gordon, quietly, to Clayton. "You might
introduce me."
"Are you leaving the hotel?"
"Yes--in a few minutes."
"Then I've no objection. Miss Farnum, may I present Mr. Sanford Gordon,
of New York?"
"Charmed to meet you, Miss Farnum," cried Gordon, extending his hand as
Martha merely bowed. "Sorry I'm leaving the hotel just when I meet the
only interesting person here." Then, aside to Clayton as he bowed to
Martha and passed out of earshot: "Who is she?"
Clayton coughed ominously.
"She is the companion of a Mrs. Kilpatrick."
Gordon's face showed his disappointment.
"Oh, I say," he murmured. "A paid companion? Anyhow, she's deuced
good-looking." He glanced back at Martha, then turned. "See you in New
York, Clayton, and don't forget my offer."
"I didn't care to introduce him to you, Miss Farnum," explained Clayton,
after Gordon had driven away in the 'bus. "He's not the sort of man I
should care to have any girl know well."
"Oh, it's of no consequence," laughed Martha. "I have heard of him. The
Sunday papers have printed lots of stories about his little attentions
to actresses. He's been with that English actress here most of the
time."
"He generally is with some kind of an actress," admitted Clayton.
"Mrs. Dainton, I mean. Is she such a great actress?"
"Well," sparred Clayton, carefully examining another scarab, "opinions
differ as to her greatness."
"But she must make an awful lot of money," insisted Martha.
"She _spends_ an awful lot."
"Isn't that the same thing?"
"Not always. You have to get the money before you can spend it."
"Then she has another income, like Mrs. Kilpatrick, I suppose?"
"She probably has another income, only it's not quite the same. In
fact--But I don't think we had better worry about her, Miss Farnum."
"But I'm interested. Perhaps--why, perhaps I might go on the stage
myself, some day," added Martha, suddenly, as an afterthought.
"You go on the stage?" laughed Clayton. "Nonsense!"
"I don't see why it is nonsense," cried Martha, rising to her feet so
suddenly that Clayton had only time to grasp the case of precious
scarabs in time to save them from a fall. "I must do something, and from
what I have seen of theatrical people here at this hotel, they all have
plenty of money. Even that Miss Forsythe, who dresses so loudly, earns a
lot."
Clayton leaned back in his chair and laughed.
"My dear child," he tried to explain, "I know the girl you mean. She's a
show-girl in New York. I saw her at the station just now when my train
arrived. To see her in that elaborate costume, you wouldn't believe that
her salary is just twenty dollars a week, would you?"
"Twenty dollars a week?"
"Yes. She's in the chorus."
"But how can she afford to stay at this hotel on such a salary?"
At that Clayton coughed and began to sort out the scarabs.
"She probably also has an--er--independent source of income," he
stammered.
"Could I get twenty dollars a week on the stage?" inquired Martha,
thoughtfully, not noticing his confusion.
"Very likely, if you are willing to start in the chorus," replied
Clayton.
Martha clenched her fists with determination.
"Why, I'd start at the very bottom; I'd work like anything, to succeed,"
she said tensely.
Clayton closed the case and rose to his feet.
"Really, Miss Farnum, I didn't know you were so much in earnest about
it," he explained.
"You see, my service with Mrs. Kilpatrick ends in a few days," said
Martha, simply. "She is going to Italy, and there is nothing left for me
to do but return home, and our people are too poor and I must earn a
living to help them."
"So you really want to go on the stage?" said Clayton, thoughtfully. "I
wouldn't advise it. There are too many dangers, too many temptations."
"Do you think I care for the dangers?" cried Martha, almost
contemptuously. "All of the temptations are not on the stage. The
department stores, the shops, the offices--why not think of them? Girls
work there, hundreds and thousands of them. But the moment a girl
mentions the stage, some one cries out about the temptations. It's
absurd."
The fiery outburst of the young girl startled Clayton, who realized that
in an argument on this theme he was likely to be worsted. Moreover, he
was placed in the unenviable position of being obliged to argue against
a course which he felt sure would be disastrous, or at least difficult,
while during their short talk he had grown to be genuinely interested in
Martha. Like a prudent general, he sought safety in retreat.
"About these scarabs," he began, "I should like to speak to Mrs.
Kilpatrick."
Martha's thoughts, however, so suddenly directed to a new channel, were
difficult to concentrate on anything so mundane as scarabs. It was
several seconds before she recollected herself and answered his
question:
"Oh, yes," she repeated. "Mrs. Kilpatrick is in parlor A. She said she
would be glad to see you a little later."
Clayton bowed. "And I won't say farewell," he said, "as I'll surely see
you at dinner."
"The stage," repeated Martha, dreamily, after he had gone, sinking into
one of the large chairs and placing both hands to her throbbing temples.
"The stage. Why not? Why not?"