Dudley was turning his head monotonously from side to side and babbling strange sentences that were utterly unintelligible. He frightened her and made her feel as if she were back in the car going down that steep incline while he shouted awful curses at the brakes! She began to cry softly and hid her face in her handkerchief, her little, crumpled, dirty handkerchief that had done overduty for the last forty-eight hours.
The nurse put her arm about her and led her from the room.
“I wouldn’t feel so bad,” she said comfortingly. “He might get well after all. The doctor said he had a chance.”
A chance! Only a chance!
“If I only hadn’t gone with him!” Betty sobbed, unaware that she was revealing herself.
“Well, now I wouldn’t blame myself,” soothed the nurse. “You know we can’t help these things. What was to happen has to happen, I always say, and no good comes of blaming anybody. Like as not some other girl woulda gone if you hadn’t uv.”
Betty thought of the loud, coarse, common creature at Springfield and admitted to herself that this was probably true. Dudley Weston would always find a girl, of some kind. Yet she felt herself judged guilty by some finer moral judgment.
“You’d better lie down awhile now,” said the nurse. “I’ll just spread up the bed, and you can take a nice nap. You need it after going in there. It’s kind of a strain, and you’re sort of shaken up. You’ll have plenty of time for a good rest before the doctor makes his rounds, and like as not he’ll dismiss you.”
Betty submitted to having her shoes taken off and being put to rest under a blanket. But as soon as the nurse’s footsteps had died away down the hall she slipped up again and put on her shoes and her hat and coat. She did not want to wait for that doctor and more questions. She wanted to get away without having her name taken. She was fairly in a panic about it. It seemed as if her full senses had just come back to her. Also, she wanted to get away from Dudley in the room down the hall, moaning and turning his head from side to side. If she could do nothing she must get away. She could telephone afterward and find out how he was, but she must go quickly. If his father and mother were coming they would look after him.
She stole to the door and listened. There seemed to be nobody in the immediate vicinity of her room just then. There were two nurses down at the end of the hall walking, but their backs were turned. There was only an old woman with a mop and pail just going into the room next to hers.
She glanced down the hall in the other direction. The stairs were only a few feet away, with the elevator next to them, and the incessant bell sounding mysteriously in the passage. It seemed a propitious time to make an escape.
With another quick look around she opened the door, crossed the hall like a wraith, and slid into the stairway.
The stairs were white marble, a few steps and then a turn to a landing, then a few more steps and another turn. She was out of sight from the floor above in a moment.
Her knees felt shaky yet, but her fear of being held up and made to tell her name and address gave her strength to go on, down and around, turn after turn, floor after floor. She had no idea she had been brought up so far in that wheelchair in the elevator.
But at last she came to a hall that had a great arched doorway to the street and a row of patients sitting in line waiting to see the doctors.
She gave them one quick wild glance and hurried past them out through the door, into the noise and bustle of the street. No one had seemed to notice her; no one had tried to detain her or seemed to realize that she was a patient escaping before she had been dismissed, but she felt as if an army with banners were pursuing her.
At the first corner she turned and walked rapidly, feeling a little easier. Then suddenly she stopped, realizing that she did not know the name of that hospital. She could not send them money for what they had done for her, and she could not find out how Dudley was unless she knew where he was.
It took courage, but she turned back and went almost to the door till she was able to read the name on the great brick building. Then she walked to the corner on either side and read the signs of the streets and memorized them. She started on again, not caring which way she went, only to get out of that region. She kept repeating the names of the streets and the name of the hospital like a charm, and feeling very noble and satisfied with herself that she had compelled herself to go back and read those names.
Chapter 24
But after she had walked a good many blocks she suddenly began to feel very tired, as if she must sit right down on a doorstep and rest. She must get to Aunt Florence’s at once and try to think what to do next. If she only had some money she could telephone Aunt Florence to come after her, but two cents wouldn’t buy anything. Not anything! But a newspaper. And what would she want of a newspaper?
Well! She might buy a newspaper and look at the want advertisements and get a job. If she didn’t feel so shaky all over that might be quite a thrill, something with a kick in it to tell forever after. Something she could even tell to Dudley with pride!
But somehow when she came to think about any kind of a kick she felt no enthusiasm. Her pep was all gone. She didn’t seem to want anything but a bed to lie down upon. Perhaps she ought to have stayed longer in the hospital. She could have closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep if they came around asking for her name again. But then if Mr. and Mrs. Weston came in the room to see her they would know her. She wouldn’t have to speak, or even look at them. They would know her at once and would probably telegraph
Dad and Mother, and there would be a mess in no time. No, she must fight this thing out with dignity. Having swung off from home she could not go back crestfallen and become subject to her parents again. That would be too humiliating!
So she began to take account of numbers, and discovered that she was walking downtown instead of uptown where Aunt Florence lived. Fortunately she knew Aunt Florence’s address, away up in the hundred and eighties, on Riverside Drive. And this was only in the forties! It was going to be a long walk! Oh, if she only had a few pennies that she might take the bus!
After walking what seemed like weeks to her weary soul, she began to feel uneasy. Things did not look natural, and when she tried to cut across to where it seemed to her the right street ought to be, there loomed the park, wide and white and interminable. At last in desperation she went to a policeman.
It was quite against her ideas of what was proper for a modern young girl to have to ask advice from a policeman, but she was desperate, and little chills were beginning to creep down her back and up her ankles, clad only in their thin silk stockings, with thin little shoes on her feet.
“Yer wy off, miss,” said the policeman, red haired and blue eyed and brusque, eyeing her trim little figure in its fur coat and modish little hat. “Ya mustav come up the wrong side of the pahk! Plenty of um does. You jus’ stan’ heah till a bus comes along goin’ that wy, and you git on an’ it’ll tak’ ye within two blocks uv yer house.”
“Thank you,” said Bett,y looking dismayed and hesitating at the curb.
“Right here, miss. I’ll put ya on the right bus. Ya can’t miss it.” Betty turned her big beautiful eyes upon him and seemed ready to cry.
“But—I’ve spent all my money,” she said childishly. “I’ll have to walk. Couldn’t you tell me which way to walk?”
He looked her over thoughtfully from the crown of her pretty hat, which was pretty in spite of being somewhat battered, to the tip of her little scuffed patent leather shoe. He cast his blue eyes at the lowering sky and flicked a lazy snowflake from his sleeve.
“It’s a good two miles, miss,” he said. “Hundred and Eighty-Third Street. You can’t make it across the pahk ‘fore the storm breaks. We’re due for more snow this afternoon. I better lend it to ya. I got a goil myself, ya know. The bus oughtta be comin’ any minute. Heah she comes now. I’ll jus’ speak a woid to the driveh. He’ll put ya off at the right place.”
The bus was bearing down upo
n her as he spoke, and before she had time to protest he had signaled it and pressed a quarter in her hand.
“Oh, thank you,” said Betty, “but won’t you give me your address so I can return it? I couldn’t let you—”
“Just bring it next time ya come this wy,” he smiled. “Ask ennybody fer Pat.”
He smiled and winked, and Betty found herself seated in the coach, with the conductor ringing up her fare.
Oh, it was good to sit down and rest, to close her eyes and forget just for an instant what an awful situation she was in. What would Dad and Mother say if they knew? But it would be all right when she got to Aunt Florence’s. Aunt Florence wouldn’t ask too many questions. She was a good sport. She wore imported hats and frocks and wasn’t as straitlaced as Mother. She was Mother’s youngest brother’s wife, and Mother didn’t quite approve of her, but Betty admired her with her whole soul. Aunt Florence belonged to the smart set of New York and went to nightclubs and never had a dull day. Betty had longed to visit her, but Dad and Mother had always managed to have a good excuse for declining all the New York invitations she had received.
It came to her as she rode along, through the white streets blurred with the scurrying flakes coming down closer together now, that she must arrange some tale to tell Aunt Florence before she reached the house. Well, why couldn’t she just say that she was bored to death up there at the farm and took a notion to run away and spend Christmas in New York? From what she knew of Aunt Florence she would laugh and pinch her cheek, and maybe tell her to run and telephone to the folks so they wouldn’t be scared, and say she was going to keep her the rest of the winter!
What a great thing that would be! To stay with Aunt Florence all winter during the lively season in New York, and go to nightclubs and plays and parties with her! My! That would be worth even the accident. Why hadn’t she thought of just running away to New York? She could have pulled that off without Dudley Weston’s help, and then all this awful mess wouldn’t have happened.
And if she stayed the rest of the winter in New York, why, then everything would be quite smoothed over by spring, and Daddy would likely be only too glad to have her come home and to go back to Briardale, too. If she made that a condition of returning. Daddy would get over his social purity complex and maybe learn a thing or two in the bargain!
Betty’s spirits were quite revived by the time the conductor motioned to her that she had reached her corner.
She got out in the falling snow and even enjoyed the refreshing bite of the flakes on her cheeks as she walked the few steps to her aunt’s number.
As she stood waiting for the door to be opened she looked around with growing elation. The tall buildings filled her with joy. Apartment houses loomed in the background, and mansions were all about her. She had heard that a famous movie actress, of New York and Hollywood, owned the house two doors from here. Which was it, she wondered, up or down?
Then the door was opened grudgingly by an elderly woman in working garb.
Betty lifted her voice eagerly:
“Is my aunt—I mean is Mrs. Cassatt in?”
“No, Mrs. Cassatt ain’t in.”
Betty’s face fell.
“Oh, well, I’ll just come in and wait for her, then. When will she be back?”
“Mrs. Cassatt has gone to Palm Beach,” said the woman frigidly. “She won’t be back till spring.” Betty exclaimed in dismay:
“Oh, what shall I do? I’ve come to make her a visit. I didn’t know she was going away. She said I was to come anytime I liked.”
“Did you send her word you was coming, miss?” asked the woman, cruelly calm, eyeing her battered hat and the torn place on her fur coat.
“Why, no,” said Betty. “I came in a great hurry, and I was going to surprise her!”
“She’s been gone two weeks,” said the woman. “There ain’t anybody here but the caretakers.”
“Well, I don’t know what I’m going to do,” said Betty. “You see, I’ve spent all my money. I haven’t enough to get back home, and besides I’ve lost my suitcase on the way. I wonder if you could lend me some money till tomorrow. I could return it right away, you know.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed.
“That’s a common dodge for beggars,” she said. “You can’t pull one like that off on me!”
Betty’s cheeks flamed, and her eyes flashed. “I’m not a beggar!” she said haughtily. “I’m Mrs. Cassatt’s niece, Betty Thornton from Briardale, Pennsylvania, and we are spending the winter up in Vermont at my father’s old home on the Thornton farm.”
“I never heard of no such people,” said the woman dryly, her eyes hard and amused.
“Well, at least you can let me come in and telephone to my father to wire me some money, can’t you?”
“We’ve had our orders to admit no one, miss!” said the woman curtly.
“Well, what am I to do?” asked Betty with her princess air.
“It’s none of my concern, miss.”
Betty stood stormily trying to think what to do.
“At least you can go in and telephone for me, then, can’t you? Just say that Betty is here without money and will they tell her what to do, or wire some money or something? I can sit on the front steps till they come for me if you won’t let me in the house. The number is—”
But the woman interrupted:
“No, miss, I won’t do no telephoning for ye. I got no time to fool with beggars of any kind, and as for that old gag, you can’t fool me. You’re just tryin’ to get into this house, and you ain’t going to do it. As for settin’ on the steps, just try it and I’ll hand you over to the p’lice quicker’n you can think. Now, you better be moving on or I’ll call the dog out. He’s a p’lice dog and he’s fierce. He don’t like strangers!”
Betty tried to maintain her dignity, though the tears were very near to falling.
“I shall take care that my aunt knows how I was treated at her house when I was in trouble,” she said as she whirled about and walked unsteadily down the steps.
“Help yourself,” called the woman disagreeably. “I’m doing my duty, and ef you was doin’ yours you wouldn’t be here.”
And with that wholesome truth she slammed the door and locked it noisily.
Betty walked out into the fast-falling snow and stared up and down the street, wondering what she should do now. She looked across the drive at the torpid black river with its border of dirty drifts, and wished she dared fling herself over one of those cliffs and down into the icy depths below. What was life worth anyway?
But life still had a hold on Betty, much as she might toy with the idea of youthful suicide. And when a big bus lumbered down and paused at her very side, she remembered the change from her quarter still in her purse and climbed on board. At least she could not continue to stand on the sidewalk in the snow.
As she settled back in her seat she realized that her feet were wet and her throat was beginning to burn roughly. Now she was getting a cold, she supposed. She must get somewhere out of the cold. There were chills going down her back again, and her limbs ached like a toothache. Her head ached and her eyeballs burned, and her soul burned with humiliation. To think she had been called a beggar and openly suspected of being a thief! Betty Thornton! How mortified Daddy and Mother would be!
And now she must sell her watch. It was the only thing she had that was worth much, but where should she go to sell it?
Following an impulse, she got off the bus in the shopping district and went into one of the largest department stores.
In the jewelry department where she made her request they eyed her suspiciously again. Betty flamed gorgeously as she looked the two men clearly in the eye while they took her watch and examined it.
She needed no rouge to make her cheeks vivid. The snow and the excitement and embarrassment had painted them crimson.
“Whose watch is this? Where did you get it?” asked one of the men.
“It is a very valuable watch,” added t
he other man. Betty looked up and tried to smile engagingly but only succeeded in looking frightened.
“It is mine. My father gave it to me. You’ll find my name, Elizabeth Thornton, on the back of it. I wouldn’t want to sell it permanently, you know. I wouldn’t part with it for anything, but I spent all my money, and I must get enough to get home. I just want to leave my watch as security, and I’ll be glad to pay something extra for your trouble, you know.”
The two men looked at one another meaningfully and handed back her watch.
“We don’t purchase secondhand jewelry,” said the first man.
“You’d have to go to a pawnshop for that,” said the second.
“Oh,” said Betty pitifully. “Where is one? Could you send me to a respectable one? I thought they were all quite common places.”
The two men did not smile.
“There is one around the corner, two blocks over and then turn to your right a block,” said one of the men after a due pause. “It doubtless is common. But it is a pawnshop.”
They bowed and left her standing amid the gorgeous display of jewels and silver and platinum, her little watch in her hand.
Slowly Betty walked out of the store, the two men standing together at a distance and following her with hard, suspicious eyes, like the Pharisees in sacred paintings.
Her feet were wet and cold. It seemed as if the bones were breaking in places when she walked. Her back ached, and her head was whirling and dizzy. The oatmeal and the egg she had taken at the hospital were long ago forgotten. Her stomach was empty, and she felt faint, but she was not hungry. She felt her throat growing sore again as she went out into the wet snow. She heard people saying that it was going to be a white Christmas, and wasn’t it nice to have the fresh snow for tomorrow.
Christmas! Tomorrow was Christmas! And she was wandering about New York alone!
The Prodigal Girl Page 26