alone?" she asked.
"Oh, yes," replied Emma McChesney, and decided it was time to go in.
"Lonesome, ain"t it, without company? Goin" far?"
"I"m accustomed to it. I travel on business, not pleasure. I"m on the road, representing T. A. Buck"s Featherloom Petticoats!"
The once handsome violet eyes of the plump blonde widened with surprise. Then they narrowed to critical slits.
"On the road! Sellin" goods! And I thought you was only a kid. It"s the way your hair"s fixed, I suppose. Say, that must be a hard life for a woman--b.u.t.tin" into a man"s game like that."
"Oh, I suppose any work that takes a woman out into the world--" began Emma McChesney vaguely, her hand on the door-k.n.o.b.
"Sure," agreed the other. "I ought to know. The hotels and time-tables alone are enough to kill. Who do you suppose makes up train schedules?
They don"t seem to think no respectable train ought to leave anywhere before eleven-fifty A.M., or arrive after six A.M. We played Ottumwa, Iowa, last night, and here we are jumpin" to Illinois."
In surprise Emma McChesney turned at the door for another look at the hair, figure, complexion and kimono.
"Oh, you"re an actress! Well, if you think mine is a hard life for a woman, why--"
"Me!" said the green-gold blonde, and laughed not prettily. "I ain"t a woman. I"m a queen of burlesque.
"Burlesque? You mean one of those--" Emma McChesney stopped, her usually deft tongue floundering.
"One of those "men only" troupes? You guessed it. I"m Blanche LeHaye, of the Sam Levin Crackerjack Belles. We get into North Bend at six to- morrow morning, and we play there to-morrow night, Sunday." She took a step forward so that her haggard face and artificially tinted hair were very near Emma McChesney. "Know what I was thinkin" just one second before you come out here?"
"No; what?"
"I was thinkin" what a cinch it would be to just push aside that canvas thing there by the steps and try what the newspaper accounts call "jumping into the night." Say, if I"d had on my other lawnjerie I"ll bet I"d have done it."
Into Emma McChesney"s understanding heart there swept a wave of pity.
But she answered lightly: "Is that supposed to be funny?"
The plump blonde yawned. "It depends on your funny bone. Mine"s got blunted. I"m the lady that the Irish comedy guy slaps in the face with a bunch of lettuce. Say, there"s something about you that makes a person get gabby and tell things. You"d make a swell clairvoyant."
Beneath the comedy of the bleached hair, and the flaccid face, and the bizarre wrapper; behind the coa.r.s.eness and vulgarity and ignorance, Emma McChesney"s keen mental eye saw something decent and clean and beautiful. And something pitiable, and something tragic.
"I guess you"d better come in and get some sleep," said Emma McChesney; and somehow found her hand resting on the woman"s shoulder.
So they stood, on the swaying, jolting platform. Blanche LeHaye, of the Sam Levin Crackerjack Belles, looked down, askance, at the hand on her shoulder, as at some strange and interesting object.
"Ten years ago," she said, "that would have started me telling the story of my life, with all the tremolo stops on, and the orchestra in tears. Now it only makes me mad."
Emma McChesney"s hand seemed to s.n.a.t.c.h itself away from the woman"s shoulder.
"You can"t treat me with your life"s history. I"m going in."
"Wait a minute. Don"t go away sore, kid. On the square, I guess I liked the feel of your hand on my arm, like that. Say, I"ve done the same thing myself to a strange dog that looked up at me, pitiful. You know, the way you reach down, and pat "m on the head, and say, "Nice doggie, nice doggie, old fellow," even if it is a street cur, with a chawed ear, and no tail. They growl and show their teeth, but they like it. A woman--Lordy! there comes the brakeman. Let"s beat it.
Ain"t we the nervy old hens!"
The female of the species as she is found in sleeping-car dressing- rooms had taught Emma McChesney to rise betimes that she might avoid contact with certain frowsy, shapeless beings armed with bottles of milky liquids, and boxes of rosy pastes, and pencils that made arched and inky lines; beings redolent of bitter almond, and violet toilette water; beings in doubtful corsets and green silk petticoats perfect as to accordion-plaited flounce, but showing slits and tatters farther up; beings jealously guarding their ten inches of mirror s.p.a.ce and consenting to move for no one; ladies who had come all the way from Texas and who insisted on telling about it, despite a mouthful of hairpins; doubtful sisters who called one dearie and required to be hooked up; distracted mothers with three small children who wiped their hands on your shirt-waist.
[Ill.u.s.tration: ""You can"t treat me with your life"s history. I"m going in""]
So it was that Emma McChesney, hatted and veiled by 5:45, saw the curtains of the berth opposite rent asunder to disclose the rumpled, shapeless figure of Miss Blanche LeHaye. The queen of burlesque bore in her arms a conglomerate ma.s.s of shoes, corset, purple skirt, bag and green-plumed hat. She paused to stare at Emma McChesney"s trim, cool preparedness.
"You must have started to dress as soon"s you come in last night. I never slep" a wink till just about half a hour ago. I bet I ain"t got more than eleven minutes to dress in. Ain"t this a scorcher!"
When the train stopped at North Bend, Emma McChesney, on her way out, collided with a vision in a pongee duster, rose-colored chiffon veil, chamois gloves, and plumed hat. Miss Blanche LeHaye had made the most of her eleven minutes. Her baggage attended to, Emma McChesney climbed into a hotel "bus. It bore no other pa.s.sengers. From her corner in the vehicle she could see the queen of burlesque standing in the center of the depot platform, surrounded by her company. It was a tawdry, miserable, almost tragic group, the men undersized, be-diamonded, their skulls oddly shaped, their clothes a satire on the fashions for men, their chins unshaven, their loose lips curved contentedly over cigarettes; the women dreadfully unreal with the pitiless light of the early morning sun glaring down on their bedizened faces, their spotted, garish clothes, their run-down heels, their vivid veils, their matted hair. They were quarreling among themselves, and a flame of hate for the moment lighted up those dull, stupid, vicious faces.
Blanche LeHaye appeared to be the center about which the strife waged, for suddenly she flung through the shrill group and walked swiftly over to the "bus and climbed into it heavily. One of the women turned, her face lived beneath the paint, to scream a great oath after her.
The "bus driver climbed into his seat and took up the reins. After a moment"s indecision the little group on the platform turned and trailed off down the street, the women sagging under the weight of their bags, the men, for the most part, hurrying on ahead. When the "bus lurched past them the woman who had screamed the oath after Blanche LeHaye laughed shrilly and made a face, like a naughty child, whereupon the others laughed in falsetto chorus.
A touch of real color showed in Blanche LeHaye"s flabby cheek. "I"ll show"m she snarled. That hussy of a Zella Dacre thinkin" she can get my part away from me the last week or so, the lyin" sneak. I"ll show"m a leadin" lady"s a leadin" lady. Let "em go to their hash hotels. I"m goin" to the real inn in this town just to let "em know that I got my dignity to keep up, and that I don"t have to mix in with sc.u.m like that. You see that there? She pointed at something in the street. Emma McChesney turned to look. The cheap lithographs of the Sam Levin Crackerjack Belles Company glared at one from the bill-boards.
"That"s our paper," explained Blanche LeHaye. "That"s me, in the center of the bunch, with the pink reins in my hands, drivin" that four-in-hand of johnnies. Hot stuff! Just let Dacre try to get it away from me, that"s all. I"ll show"m."
She sank back into her corner. Her anger left her with the suddenness characteristic of her type.
"Ain"t this heat fierce?" she fretted, and closed her eyes.
Now, Emma McChesney was a broad-minded woman. The scars that she had received in her ten years" battle with business reminded her to be tender at sight of the wounds of others. But now, as she studied the woman huddled there in the corner, she was conscious of a shuddering disgust of her--of the soiled blouse, of the cheap finery, of the sunken places around the jaw-bone, of the swollen places beneath the eyes, of the thin, carmined lips, of the--
Blanche LeHaye opened her eyes suddenly and caught the look on Emma McChesney"s face. Caught it, and comprehended it. Her eyes narrowed, and she laughed shortly.
"Oh, I dunno," drawled Blanche LeHaye. "I wouldn"t go"s far"s that, kid. Say, when I was your age I didn"t plan to be no b.u.m burlesquer neither. I was going to be an actress, with a farm on Long Island, like the rest of "em. Every real actress has got a farm on Long Island, if it"s only there in the mind of the press agent. It"s a kind of a religion with "em. I was goin" to build a house on mine that was goin" to be a cross between a California bungalow and the Horticultural Building at the World"s Fair. Say, I ain"t the worst, kid. There"s others outside of my smear, understand, that I wouldn"t change places with."
A dozen apologies surged to Emma McChesney"s lips just as the driver drew up at the curbing outside the hotel and jumped down to open the door. She found herself hoping that the hotel clerk would not cla.s.s her with her companion.
At eleven o"clock that morning Emma McChesney unlocked her door and walked down the red-carpeted hotel corridor. She had had two hours of restful sleep. She had bathed, and breakfasted, and donned clean clothes. She had brushed the cinders out of her hair, and manicured.
She felt as alert, and cool and refreshed as she looked, which speaks well for her comfort.
Halfway down the hail a bedroom door stood open. Emma McChesney glanced in. What she saw made her stop. The next moment she would have hurried on, but the figure within called out to her.
Miss Blanche LeHaye had got into her kimono again. She was slumped in a dejected heap in a chair before the window. There was a tray, with a bottle and some gla.s.ses on the table by her side.
"Gawd, ain"t it hot!" she whined miserably. "Come on in a minute. I left the door open to catch the breeze, but there ain"t any. You look like a peach just off the ice. Got a gent friend in town?"
"No," answered Emma McChesney hurriedly, and turned to go.
"Wait a minute," said Blanche LeHaye, sharply, and rose. She slouched over to where Emma McChesney stood and looked up at her sullenly.
"Why!" gasped Emma McChesney, and involuntarily put out her hand, "why--my dear--you"ve been crying! Is there--"
"No, there ain"t. I can bawl, can"t I, if I _am_ a b.u.m burlesquer?"
She put down the squat little gla.s.s she had in her hand and stared resentfully at Emma McChesney"s cool, fragrant freshness.
"Say," she demanded suddenly, "whatja mean by lookin" at me the way you did this morning, h"m? Whatja mean? You got a nerve turnin" up your nose at me, you have. I"ll just bet you ain"t no better than you might be, neither. What the--"
Swiftly Emma McChesney crossed the room and closed the door. Then she came back to where Blanche LeHaye stood.