Would that be so bad? True Christian doctrine told her that suicide was a sin, but the ancients had held it no more a sin than healing a wound was. When the soul was wounded past bearing-when life became intolerable-why tolerate it?
Why, indeed? Why spend the remaining years of her life in an existence that was less than life? Why must she smother her very soul to see her body fed? Surely that was no less a sin than simple suicide!
How many grim, gray spinsters had she seen in her schools, withered creatures who had ruthlessly rooted out every vestige of intellectual curiosity in themselves and now sought to do the same to the pupils beneath them? Life as one such as they would be less than life.
Better to end it all now.
She spent a moment in fantasy, imagining what the news of her death would mean to those around her. The Ivorssons, of course, would cluck and shake their heads, and say that they had expected nothing else from her-she knew better than to anticipate remorse from any of them. She could leave a note, blaming her despair on Neville Tree-a subtle sort of revenge, since the stigma of having caused a girl's death would ruin him, especially if she did not say precisely why he had driven her to this. People would assume the worst; they always did.
She uncurled herself from her pillow; felt for her glasses and put them on, since she could not write a suicide note if she could not see. But her hand fell upon something else as well; Jason Cameron's letter. Almost against her will, she found herself drawing the letter from the envelope and reading it again.
But this time, reading it carefully rather than skimming it, she got a much different sense of the writer's personality than she had in the restaurant. There, she had been startled by the strangely accurate description of someone with precisely the same accomplishments as her own. Now she was drawn to the paragraph about the children.
In particular, her eyes were drawn to the statements about the daughter.". . . the victim of prejudice that holds her sex as inferior to the male . . ."
Surely the man who wrote such words was not the uncouth tyrant she had imagined! And surely he would not object to her continuing her own education-even if she had to choose an area of specialization other than her first choice-
Perhaps she would not be treated like a servant after all. This letter seemed to have come from the pen of a man who cherished scholarship, and would accord a scholar honest respect.
Shouldn't she at least see if he was the enlightened man his letter promised?
After all, the bottle would still be in her valise. She could end her life at any time; it did not have to be here. She could make the journey to the West Coast first; see the vast hinterlands in between. She had never personally seen a buffalo, a cowboy, or a Red Indian. She had never seen a mountain, or an ocean. She had lived all her short life in Chicago; surely before she committed any rash act, she ought to see more than just one city.
Besides, if one ended one's life-the setting ought to be something less squalid than this.
The ancient Romans called in all their friends, gathered their most precious belongings about them, and had a great feast complete with poetry and music. Then, in the midst of splendor, they drank their bitter cup.
She should take more thought to the setting of her demise.
Besides, it would distress those pleasant girls if I did away with myself here. It might even cast a stigma upon poor Mrs. Abernathy, and neither she nor they have done anything to harm me. No. It would be impolite and unpoetic to drink my cup here.
If she waited until she reached the West Coast, however-
I could go to the Opera House when Caruso sings there.
That would be a setting worthy of the Romans, and a properly poetic ending as well.
If I saved-I could have enough for a fine gown, and a private box. Even if the promised wages come to less than he states, I could save enough.
Yes; that would be the way. To drink the dose at the first intermission, perhaps-drift away into death with glorious music accompanying her-be found dressed exquisitely, with her letter of farewell lying beside her on the table-
She might be thought to haunt the place afterwards, which would do the Opera House no harm, since every good theater should have a ghost.
Not in squalor, but in splendor; turning her back on this world in a way that could not be ignored or pushed onto the back pages of a newspaper.
I seem to have decided to live. For now, at least.
But now she was impatient to be gone. The sooner she was on her way, the sooner she would find out if the promise of the letter was true gold, or dross.
She managed to get herself out of bed, and went to the washstand, to pour cold water from the pitcher into the waiting basin. Just as well that it was cold; her ablutions succeeded in removing the outward signs of her despair from her face. She dressed in an odd combination of luxury and penury; her most intimate underthings were silk (though much darned), but her stockings were of the coarsest and cheapest cotton at five cents the pair, and they were as heavily darned as the silk. The one thing that she never regretted about losing her maid was that she never again had anyone about to tie the laces of her corset as tightly as a human could manage; she had not retied the laces in a year. She donned that garment by letting out her breath and hooking it up the front, and tolerated being that much more out of fashion by not having a fifteen-inch waist.
Petticoats were the same mixture of luxury and thrift, depending entirely on whether or not she had been able to mend them. Her shoes were still good, although they would need resoling soon; her walking-skirt and shirtwaist ready-made, from a store that was far from fashionable, and of fabric that could be laundered at home. All of her expensive gowns had been sold long ago to dealers in second-hand clothing. Much of her own wardrobe had come from the stores of those same worthies.
I told Papa I didn't care about dresses, that I would rather have books ... I wonder if he believed me. Did he ever guess how much I missed the silks and velvets?
She wondered, too, what her new employer would think. Or would he even notice the sad state of her wardrobe?
She arranged her hair-her one real beauty-into a neat Frenchbraid, and set a pathetic little excuse for a hat squarely on the result, securing it with a dagger-like hatpin. Putting Jason Cameron's letter into her reticule, she stepped out into the hallway.
She would need to contact Mr. Cameron to let him know that she was accepting the post, so that he didn't hire someone else while she was making the arduous journey across the country, Her ticket was really a series of tickets, a rainbow of colored pasteboard, each of them for a different pair of cities. Evidently one did not simply "get on" a train in Chicago and arrive at San Francisco to "get off" the same train. From Chicago, one went to Kansas City; there one boarded a train from a second rail company bound for Los Angeles. Once there, a third and final change of rail companies took one to the final destination. But within the three stages, there were other options, other changes of trains, depending upon what day one traveled. It was all very bewildering.
No doubt-she must get in touch with Mr. Cameron, and the only one who knew how to do that was Professor Cathcart. So she must venture back into the beloved and hallowed halls of learning and endure a veritable barrage of memories in order to find the Professor himself.
She bundled herself in her old wool coat and slipped down the stairs and out the front door without meeting anyone. She walked to the University, since she could not afford street-car fare, much less a cab. It was not much more than a mile, and she was used to walking. It was going to be another grim, grey day, but at least it wasn't raining anymore. What would the weather be like in San Francisco?
Wasn't California supposed to be hot, even tropical? She occupied her thoughts with such speculations until she reached the University campus, ignoring the shouts of a group of young men playing football in the Quadrangle.
Every step brought out another memory that hurt, and she felt like the little mermaid in the Hans Anders
on tale, who felt as if she walked upon knives with every step she took on her conjured legs. Somehow she found Professor Cathcart, who took one look at her and insisted that she sit down while he sent for some coffee. She had always ignored his secretary before this; now, acutely sensitive to women in subservient positions, she watched the drab woman carefully. I must learn to move and talk like that, she thought, paying careful attention to the little things that made Cathcart's secretary so inconspicuous. I will have no choice but to learn ...
"Are you certain that you wish to pursue this offer?" the Professor was saying anxiously, as he pressed a cup of coffee into her cold hands. "Are you positive?"
Beneath his questioning, she detected something else, and after a moment, she identified it with some surprise.
Relief. He was already regretting his hasty impulse in setting himself up as her protector and rescuer, and he wanted her off his hands as quickly as possible!
Resentment built, and was quickly vanquished by weariness. This should have been expected. The Professor, a confirmed bachelor, had suddenly found himself burdened with an unwanted female who was not even related to him. Yes, he was her mentor and teacher, but he had never expected to find himself caring for her mundane needs, only the intellectual ones. Now that he had the time for second thoughts, he was probably cursing himself for last night's visit. If he had waited a few days, she would have been gone, and he would not have felt the need to find out what had happened to her.
If she should take Cameron's offer, she would not only be off his hands, but halfway across the continent. He would never have to bother about her again. He could soothe his conscience with the content of Cameron's letter, which promised a secure and fulfilling position. He had urged thought and caution, she had taken both, and he was under no obligation to interfere further-or to assist her in any way.
"Yes," she said, with weary resignation. "I am sure. I would like to notify Mr. Cameron that I will accept his position, but there was no address on the envelope."
"I can take care of that," Professor Cathcart replied a bit too eagerly. "I'll have him wired that you're coming, in fact, so that he doesn't hire anyone else." There was no doubt; he was unhappy about his current obligation to her and wanted it done with.
"I don't want to put you to any trouble," she began, hiding her bitterness at his reaction.
"It won't be any trouble," he said heartily. "I'll just send a message to the rail office, and they'll see to it all. While I'm at it, I'll have them check the timetables for the correct schedule-you do want to leave tomorrow, don't you?"
She shrugged. It was obvious that her welcome here was at an end. "Why not?" she replied, which sent another look of relief across his face. "It's not as if I have anything to stop for. My research-well, what's the use in pretending? I'll never finish the degree, so I'll hardly need my notes. Perhaps one of your other students could use them."
Professor Cathcart made a token protest, but she could tell his heart wasn't in it. Not when both of them knew that she was only speaking the truth. The sour taste of anger and despair rose in her throat, and she stood up, hastily.
"I'll go back to the boarding-house and set things in order," she said, suddenly feeling as if she could not breathe properly in the dusty office. "If you could have that railway schedule sent over-I know you are busy, Professor, you can't be spending all your time with me when you have students who will be completing their degrees to help-"
He flushed, but did not contradict her; he merely fumbled in his pocket and pressed some money into her hand. "This is for a cab in the morning, and one now," he stammered hastily. "I'm sorry it isn't more. Your ticket entitles you to meals on the train, so you should be fine ..."
He babbled on for a little longer, and she finally fled his office to avoid his embarrassment. And she did not take a cab back to the boardinghouse; every penny in her purse was one more than she had expected to have, and she was not going to waste those pennies with frivolities like cabs. She had no choice, though, in the morning; there was no way that she was going to get herself and her heavy trunk to the train station without a cab-unless she was lucky enough to find a cart and driver for hire at that hour.
When she reached the boardinghouse, not only was the schedule waiting, but a telegraph from Jason Cameron himself. In the terse words required by telegraphy, he expressed pleasure that she had chosen to take up the position, promised her needs would be met on the way, and assured her that she would be greeted by his people at the Pacifica switch.
What, she wondered, is a "Pacifica switch?"
It must mean something to a rail baron, she reasoned. That would have to do for now.
After missing breakfast, she did not intend to skip any other meals although her appetite had vanished again; she managed a luncheon of tea, wafer-thin ham and thick toast, and joined the other girls for a dinner of potato-laden stew with astonishingly little meat in it, more thick slices of bread, and a bread-pudding. On the whole, if this was the daily fare here, she was just as glad not to be staying. A diet so starch-heavy would quickly bloat even the slimmest person.
She took to her bed early, like the nurses who had awakened her, for her first train left the station almost at dawn. After so much walking and emotional turmoil, she was exhausted and drained.
Her last thought before sleep finally caught her was actually one of wonder-wonder at herself, for having made so clear and final a break between her past and her future. Perhaps it was true that despair could drive people to heroism and daring.
But she went into sleep, not with a feeling of excitement, but of resignation. She might be stepping off into the unknown, but it was not with a sense of adventure.
Perhaps that, too, had died with her father. She had once greeted each day with anticipation. Now, her only hope was that the new day would not be worse than the old.
And when all was said and done, for that, too, she had an answer, in a small bottle in her valise....
CHAPTER
TWO
Rose ignored the rocking of the railway car and the steady, vibrating rhythm of the wheels as she ignored the stares of the rude man across from her and kept her eyes firmly fixed on her book. This fellow had gotten on the train at a stop outside Los Angeles; with his "snappy" checked suit and well-oiled hair, pomaded with brilliantine, he evidently thought he cut quite a fine figure and that she should be well aware of the fact.
She wasn't certain why he had fixed his attention on her, but she wished that he would go away. He had been trying to attract her attention for miles, and she could not imagine what attracted him to her. She was grimy with days of nonstop travel; she hadn't had a bath since Mrs. Abernathy's boardinghouse. Her hair felt so greasy that she thought she must resemble one of those outlandish aboriginal people who coated their locks with oil. Perhaps it was only that she was the only unaccompanied female in the car below the age of sixty. By the huge leather case under his seat, she suspected that he was a drummer-a traveling salesman.
Whatever he's selling, I want none of it.
She was weary to the bone with days of hard traveling. Mrs. Abernathy had awakened her before dawn on the day she had left, with the welcome news that the man who carted away boxes and other "clean" rubbish was willing to take her and her trunk to the station for half the cost of a cab. She had also given Rose some sound advice in the matter of traveling attire.
"Whatever you put on," she had warned, "make certain that it won't show stains, and that it is something you will be willing to throw away at the end of your trip. Believe me, child, you won't want it after that."
Rose had followed her advice, wearing the dreadful black Manchester-cloth street-skirt and sateen waist she had bought for her father's funeral. The clothing was cheap, but serviceable enough to last the journey and look respectable. She had thought that Mrs. Abernathy had meant that after wearing the same clothing continuously, riding and sleeping in it for days, she would simply never want to see it again.
That might also have been true, but what Mrs. Abernathy had been too well-bred to explain was that the floor of the common railway-carriage-particularly in the West-was filthy. The uncouth men who shared the carriage with her chewed tobacco, and often did not bother to travel to the end of the carriage to use the spittoon. They brought mud and worse in on their boots, and the dust of the plains blew in at the window. The floor was sticky with the residue of tobacco juice, and coated with the ashes that often floated in through the windows. The outsides of the carriages gave no hint as to the state of the floors; the carriages were kept as clean as possible given the circumstances. Try as she might to keep her hem free of the floor, it dragged whenever she sat, or when the carriage lurched as she walked, and she was forced to drop her skirt and clutch at the backs of the seats for balance. She did not think that she was ever going to get the skirt clean again, and she only hoped she could prevail on some hardy soul in Mr. Cameron's employ to clean her boots, for she was nauseated by the notion of having to touch them, sticky and odorous as they were.
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