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Dust Flower

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<h2>Chapter V</h2> “See that the poor thing gets some breakfast,” had been Allerton’s parting command, and having finished the room, Steptoe went down the flight of stairs to carry out this injunction. He was on the third step from the landing when the door of the back room opened, and a little, gray figure, hatted and jacketed, crept out stealthily. She was plainly ready for the street, an intention understood by Beppo, the late Mrs. Allerton’s red cocker spaniel, who was capering about her in the hope of sharing the promenade. As Steptoe came to a halt, the girl ran toward him. “Oh, mister, I gotta get out of this swell dump. Show me the way, for God’s sake!” To say that Steptoe was thinking rapidly would be to describe his mental processes incorrectly. He never thought; he received illuminations. Some such enlightenment came to him now, inducing him to say, ceremoniously, “Madam can’t go without ’er breakfast.” “I don’t want any breakfast,” she protested, breathlessly. “All I want is to get away. I’m frightened.” “I assure madam that there’s nothink to be afryde of in this ’ouse. Mr. Allerton is the most honorable—” he pronounced the initial h—“young man that hever was born. I valeted ’is father before ’im and know that ’e wouldn’t ’urt a fly. If madam’ll trust me—Besides, Mr. Allerton left word with me as you was to be sure to ’ave your breakfast, and I shouldn’t know how to fyce ’im if ’e was to know that you’d gone awye without so much as a hegg.” She wrung her hands. “I don’t want to see him. I couldn’t.” “Madam won’t see ’im. ’E’s gone for the dye. ’E don’t so often heat at ’ome—’ardly never.” Of the courses before her Letty saw that yielding was the easiest. Besides, it would give her her breakfast, which was a consideration. Though she had nominally dined on the previous evening, she had not been able to eat; she had been too terrified. Never would she forget the things that had happened after she had given her consent in the Park. Not that outwardly they had been otherwise than commonplace. It was going through them at all! The man was as nearly “off his chump”—the expression was hers—as a human being could be without laying himself open to arrest. After calling the taxi in Fifth Avenue he had walked up and down, compelling her to walk by his side, for a good fifteen minutes before making her get in and springing in beside her. At the house opposite he had stared and stared, as if hoping that some one would look out. During the drive to the place where they got the license, and later to the minister’s house, he spoke not a word. In the restaurant to which he took her afterward, the most glorious place she had ever been in, he ordered a feast suited to a queen, but she could hardly do more than taste it. She felt that the waiter was looking at them strangely, and she didn’t know the uses of the knives and forks. The man she had married offered her no help, neither speaking to her nor giving her a glance. He himself ate but little, lost in some mental maze to which she had no clue. After dinner he had proposed the theatre, but she had refused. She couldn’t go anywhere else with him. Wherever they moved, a thousand eyes were turned in amazement at the extraordinary pair. He saw nothing, but she was alive to it all—more conscious of her hat and suit than even in the street scene in “The Man with the Emerald Eye.” Once and for all she became aware that the first standard for human valuation is in clothes. In the end they had got into another taxi, to be driven round and round the Park and out along the river bank, till he decided that they might go home. During all this time he hardly noticed her. Once he asked her if she was warm enough, and once if she would like to get out and take a walk along the parapet above the river, but otherwise he was withdrawn into a world which he kept shut and locked against her. That left her alone. She had never felt so much alone in her life, not even in the days which followed her mother’s death. It was as if she had been snatched away from everything with which she was familiar, to find herself stranded in a country of fantastic dreams. Then there was the house and the little back room. By the use of his latchkey they had entered a palace huge and dark. Letty didn’t know that people lived with so much space around them. Only a hall light burned in a many-colored oriental lamp, and in the half-gloom the rooms on each side of the entry were cavernous. There was not a servant, not a sound. The only living thing was a little dog which pattered out of the obscurity and, raising his paws against her skirt, adopted her instantaneously. “He was my mother’s dog,” Allerton explained briefly. “He likes women, but not men, though he’s never taken to the women in the house. He’ll probably like you. His name is Beppo. I’ll show you up at once.” The grandeur of the staircase was overpowering, and the little back spare-room of a magnificence beyond all her experience outside of movie-sets. The flowers on the chintz coverings were prettier than real ones, and there was a private bath. Letty had heard of private baths, but no picture she had ever painted equaled this dainty apartment in which everything was of spotless white except where a flight of blue-gray gulls skimmed over a blue summer sea. The objects in the bedroom were too lovely to live with. On the toilet table were boxes and trays which Letty supposed must be priceless, and a set of brushes with silver backs. She couldn’t brush her hair with a brush with a silver back, because it would be journeying too far beyond real life into that of fairy princesses. On opening the closet to hang up her jacket the very hangers were puffed and covered with the “sweetest flowered silks,” so she hung her jacket on a peg. But she wasn’t comfortable, she wasn’t happy. Alice had traveled too far into Wonderland, and too suddenly. Unwillingly she lay down in a bed too clean and soft for the human form, but she couldn’t sleep in it. She could only tremble and toss and lie awake and wish for the morning. With the dawn she would be up and off, before any one caught sight of her. For Allerton had used words which had terrified her more than anything that had yet happened or been said—“the other women in the house!” Not till then had she sufficiently visualized the life into which he was taking her to understand that there would be other women there. Now that she knew it, she couldn’t face them. She could have faced men. Men, after all, were simple creatures with only a rudimentary power of judgment. But women! God! She pulled the eiderdown about her head so as not to cry out so loudly that she would be heard. What mad thing had she done? What had she let herself in for? She didn’t ask what kind of women they would be—members of his family or servants. She didn’t care. All women were alike. The woman was not born who wouldn’t view a girl in her unconventional situation, “and especially in that rig”—once more the expression was her own—without a condemnation which Letty could not and would not submit herself to. So she would get up and steal away with the first gleam of light. She got up with the first gleam of light, but she couldn’t steal away. Once more she was afraid. Unlocking the door, she dared not venture out. Who knew where, in that palace of cavernous apartments, she might meet a woman, or what the woman would say to her? When Nettie walked in later, humming a street air, Letty almost died from shame. For one thing, she hadn’t yet put on her shirtwaist, which in itself was poor enough, and as she stood exposed without it, any other of her sex could see.... She had once been on the studio lot when a girl of about her own age, a “supe” like herself, was arrested for thieving in the women’s dressing-rooms. Letty had never forgotten the look in that girl’s face as she passed out through the crowd of her colleagues. In Nettie’s presence she felt like that girl’s look. She had no means of telling the time, but when she could no longer endure the imprisonment she decided to make a bolt for it. She hadn’t been thieving, and so they couldn’t do anything to her—and there was a chance at least that she might get away. Opening the door cautiously, she stole out on the landing, and there was, not a woman, but a man! Joy! A man would listen to her appeal. He would see that she was poor, common, unequal to a dump so swell, and would be human and tender. He was a nice looking old man too—she was able to notice that—with a long, kindly face on which there were two spots of bloom as if he had been rouged. So she capitulated to his plea, making only the condition that if she took the hegg—she pronounced the word as he did, not being sure as to what it meant—she should be free to go. “Certainly, if madam wishes it. I’m sure the last thing Mr. Allerton would desire would be to detain madam against ’er will.” She allowed herself to be ushered down the monumental stairs and into the dining-room, which awed her with the solemnity of a church. She knew at once that she wouldn’t be able to eat amid this stateliness any more than in the glitter of last evening’s restaurant. She had yielded, however, and there was nothing for it but to sit down at the head of the table in the chair which Steptoe drew out for her. Guessing at her most immediate embarrassment, he showed her what to do by unfolding the napkin and laying it in her lap. “Now, if madam will excuse me, I’ll slip awye and tell Jyne.” But telling Jyne was not so simple a matter as it looked. The council in the kitchen, which at first had been a council and no more, was now a council of war. As Steptoe entered, Mrs. Courage was saying: “I shall go to Mr. Rashleigh ’imself and tell ’im that hunder the syme roof with a baggage none of us will stye.” “You can syve yourself the trouble, Mrs. Courage,” Steptoe informed her. “Mr. Rash ’as just gone out. Besides, I’ve good news for all of you.” He waited for each to take an appropriate expression, Mrs. Courage determined, Jane with face eager and alight, Nettie tittering behind her hand. “Miss Walbrook, which all of us ’as dreaded, is not a-comin’ to our midst. The young lydy Nettie see in the back spare-room is Mr. Rashleigh’s wife.” “Wife!” Mrs. Courage threw up her hands and staggered backward. “’Im that ’is mother left to me! ‘Courage,’ says she, ‘when I’m gone––’” Jane crept forward, horrified, stunned. “Them things can’t be, Steptoe.” “Mr. Rash told me so ’imself. I don’t know what more we want than that.” Steptoe was not without his diplomacy. “It’s a fine thing for us, girls. This sweet young lydy is not goin’ to myke us no trouble like what the other one would, and belongs right in our own class.” “’Enery Steptoe, speak for yourself,” Mrs. Courage said, severely. “There’s no baggages in my class, nor never was, nor never will be.” Jane began to cry. “I’m sure I try to think the best of everyone, but when such awful things ’appens and ’omes is broken up––” “Jynie,” Steptoe said with authority, “the young missus is wytin’ for ’er breakfast. ’Ave the goodness to tyke ’er in ’er grypefruit.” “Jyne Cakebread,” Mrs. Courage declared, with an authority even greater than Steptoe’s, “the first as tykes a grypefruit into that dinin’-room, to set before them as I shouldn’t demean myself to nyme, comes hunder my displeasure.” “I couldn’t, Steptoe,” Jane pleaded helplessly. “All my life I’ve wyted on lydies. ’Ow can you expect me to turn over a new leaf at my time o’ life?” “Nettie?” Steptoe made the appeal magisterially. “Oh, I’ll do it,” Nettie giggled. “’Appy to get another look at ’er. I sye, she’s a sight!” But Mrs. Courage barred the way. “My niece will wyte on people of doubtful conduck over my dead corpse.” “Very well, then, Mrs. Courage,” Steptoe reasoned. “If you won’t serve the new missus, Mr. Rashleigh, will ’ave to get some one else who will.” “Mr. Rashleigh will ’ave to do that very selfsame thing. Not another night will none of us sleep hunder this paternal roof with them that their very presence is a houtrage. ’Enery Steptoe was always a time-server, and a time-server ’e will be, but as for us women, we shall see the new missus in goin’ in to give ’er notice. Not a month’s notice, it won’t be. This range as I’ve cooked at for nearly thirty years I shall cook at no more, not so much as for lunch. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What’s the world comin’ to?” In spite of her strength of character Mrs. Courage threw her apron over her head and burst into tears. Jane was weeping already. “There, there, aunt,” Nettie begged, patting her relative between the shoulders. “What’s the good o’ goin’ on like that just because a silly ass ’as married beneath ’im?” Mrs. Courage pulled her apron from her face to cry out with passion: “If ’e was goin’ to disgryce ’imself like that, why couldn’t ’e ’a taken you?” So Steptoe waited on Letty himself, bringing in the grapefruit, the coffee, the egg, and the toast, and seeing that she knew how to deal with each in the proper forms. He was so brooding, so yearning, so tactful, as he bent over her, that she was never at a loss as to the fork or spoon she ought to use, or the minute at which to use it. Under his protection Letty ate. She ate, first because she was young and hungry, and then because she felt him standing between her and all vague terrors. By the time she had finished, he moved in front of her, where he could speak as one human being to another. Taking an empty plate from the table to put it on the sideboard, he said: “I ’ope madam is chyngin’ ’er mind about leavin’ us.” Letty glanced up shyly in spite of being somewhat reassured. “What’ud be the good of my changin’ my mind when—when I’m not fit to stay?” “Madam means not fit in the sense that––” “I’m not a lady.” Resting one hand on the table, he looked down into her eyes with an expression such as Letty had never before seen in a human face. “I could myke a lydy of madam.” At the sound of these quiet words, so confidently spoken, something passed through Letty’s frame to be described only by the hard-worked word, a thrill. It was a double current of vibration, partly of upleaping hope, partly of the desperate sense of her own limitations. A hundred points of gold dust were aflame in her irises as she said: “You mean that you’d put me wise? Oh, but I’d never learn!” “On the contrary, I think madam would pick up very quick.” “And I’d never be able to talk the right––” “I could learn madam to talk just as good as me.” It seemed too much. She clasped her hands. It was the nearest point she had ever reached to ecstasy. “Oh, do you think you could? You talk somethin’ beautiful, you do!” He smiled modestly. “I’ve always lived with the best people, and I suppose I ketch their wyes. I know what a gentleman is—and a lydy. I know all a lydy’s little ’abits, and before two or three months was over madam ’ud ’ave them as natural as natural, if she wouldn’t think me overbold.” “When ’ud you begin?” The bright spot deepened in each cheek. “I’ve begun already, if madam won’t think me steppin’ out o’ my plyce to sye so, in showin’ madam the spoons and forks for the different––” Letty colored, too. “Yes, I saw that. I take it as very kind. But—” she looked at him with a puzzled knitting of the brows—“but what makes you take all this trouble for me?” “I’ve two reasons, madam, but I’ll only tell you one of ’em just now. The other’ll keep. I’ll myke it known to you if—if all goes as I ’ope.” He straightened himself up. “I don’t often speak o’ this,” he continued, “because among us butlers and valets it wouldn’t be understood. Most of us is what’s known as conservative, all for the big families and the old wyes. Well, so am I—to a point. But––” He moved a number of objects on the table before he could go on. “I wasn’t born to the plyce I ’old now,” he explained after getting his material at command. “I wasn’t born to nothink. I was what they calls in England a foundlin’—a byby what’s found—what ’is parents ’ave thrown awye. I don’t know who my father and mother was, or what was my real nyme. ’Enery Steptoe is just a nyme they give me at the Horphanage. But I won’t go into that. I’m just tryin’ to tell madam that my life was a ’ard one, quite a ’ard one, till I come to New York as footman for Mr. Allerton’s father, and afterward worked up to be ’is valet and butler.” He cleared his throat. Expressing ideals was not easy. “I ’ope madam will forgive me if I sye that what it learned me was a fellow-feelin’ with my own sort—with the poor. I’ve often wished as I could go out among the poor and ryse them up. I ain’t a socialist—a little bit of a anarchist perhaps, but nothink extreme—and yet—Well, if Mr. Rashleigh had married a rich girl, I would ’a tyken it as natural and done my best for ’im, but since ’e ’asn’t—Oh, can’t madam see? It’s—it’s a kind o’ pride with me to find some one like—like what I was when I was ’er age—out in the cold like—and bring ’er in—and ’elp ’er to tryne ’erself—so—so as—some day—to beat the best—them as ’as ’ad all the chances––” He was interrupted by the tinkle of the telephone. It was a relief. He had said all he needed to say, all he knew how to say. Whether madam understood it or not he couldn’t tell, since she didn’t seize ideas quickly. “If madam will excuse me now, I’ll go and answer that call.” But Letty sprang up in alarm. “Oh, don’t leave me. Some of them women will blow in––” “None of them women will come—” he threw a delicate emphasis on the word—“if madam’ll just sit down. They don’t mean to come. I’ll explyne that to madam when I come back, if she’ll only not leave this room.” <hr class='major' /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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