Читать книгу The Blind Goddess - Arthur Train - Страница 5

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Mrs. Clayton watched the motor containing Moira Devens and Hugh Dillon disappear in the uptown traffic of Lafayette Street, then tightened the chinchilla about her throat, and walked to the Worth Street subway station. Never before had she found it so hard to adhere to the letter of the contract which she had executed more for the girl’s best good than for her own financial benefit.

As she felt her way down the iron staircase leading to the lower level the past arose as from an open grave. “Clayton”—the magic word—stared at her from a hoarding on the landing, and for a moment her heart fluttered. Could she have dreamed those last terrible ten years? If she only had! She strained her eyes at the billboard, but they refused to focus even upon that huge type. There was no need. The face below the name was that of a jolly-jowled pianist with a leonine mane!

The lights swam in the tunnel, but she managed to follow the pushing crowd into the train and clutch swaying at a strap. It was not so long ago that with her own brougham and snappy pair of bays she would have scorned the thought of putting foot to sidewalk. Only twenty years! Had she not been one of the most famous divas of the age? The operatic world had been at her feet. Only Ellie Yaw could rival her high F.

Forty-second Street! A pock-marked foreigner who had been sitting just in front of her arose and forced his way past. She followed the smell of garlic and rank tobacco in his wake, and climbed the stairs to the street. She had been a fool to go down there and get herself all stirred up! Besides, she had broken her word. Suppose O’Hara had told Richard on her, and the monthly check had stopped? It would have been Ward’s Island! The morgue! The Potter’s Field for hers!

“Careful, madam!”

A policeman had taken her by the elbow and was piloting her through the tangle of vehicles. He had been in his cradle when she had made her début as Cio Cio San at the Metropolitan in 1901. Had she given him her name, the chances were that he would not have remembered who she was. Sic transit gloria——!

Eileen Clayton continued eastward toward the river, passing in course the gleaming windows of cafeterias, cheap movie palaces, and still cheaper cigar stores, until she reached the region of shabby respectability achieved through the accommodation of “paying guests.” Her hotel, the Blackwell, had once been popular with the theatrical profession, upon whom it had lost its hold by reason of the management’s insistence upon a ridiculously prompt payment of bills, and it was now in that stage of metamorphosis between habitability and collapse where it was useless to spend money on repairs. Outsiders could still get dinner at the Blackwell for eighty-five cents, which meant that they could really eat for a dollar net; and, as an added lure, the dining-room opened directly upon the sidewalk, the guests being concealed from the view of the wayfarer by a dusty collection of imitation palms and fly-blown rubber plants.

Mrs. Clayton entered the hotel by a side-door and started up a steep flight of oilcloth-covered stairs, beneath which, behind a counter holding a case of cigars, cigarettes, chewing-gum, and “life savers,” lolled a coffee-colored mulatto girl. The walls had once been decorated to resemble those of an Italian villa, but most of the veneer had fallen off, and the dirt had become so ground into the marble floor that it was no longer possible to discriminate clearly between which squares had once been gray and which white. A door opened from the dining-room broadside upon the counter, and directly opposite a cash register, where the mulatto made change for such of the waiters as had transient customers. “Fifteen off a one-spot, Tilly!” “Gimme a quarter and a nickel, gal. I don’t want to give dat couple no chance to ingratiate me with a dime!”

As a matter of fact, cash transactions were few, most of the guests being permanent fixtures at a weekly rate, and the only transients, descendants of such rural visitors as, visiting the metropolis in the Gilbert and Sullivan era at the height of the Blackwell’s popularity, had not yet learned of its decline and proximate fall. Mrs. Clayton herself had selected it as a place of residence less because of its cheapness than because, since nobody longer knew of its existence, she was completely hidden there. That was her main reason, but there were others of a sentimental and less humiliating character, the chief of these being that she had been living there when she first sprang into fame—in the very room she now occupied. She was, in a way, a tradition associated with the Blackwell’s history, and a colored enlargement of her as a flaxen-haired Marguerite—salvaged from the lobby of the Metropolitan Opera House, had once hung in the dining-room over the imitation palms, whence later on it had been shifted up-stairs to her bedroom. In addition, the Blackwell, while as inexpensive as a boarding-house, had the social advantage of an hotel. “I’m staying at the Blackwell,” sounded much better than “I live at Mrs. Guiness’s,” and almost like “I’m staying at the Ritz.”

The mulatto girl behind the cigar counter nodded to her.

“Good evenin’, Miss Clayton. How you feelin’? We got chicken ’sevenin’. I tole Moses to set off a po’tion of white meat for you.”

“Thank you, Tilly. Would you ask him to bring it up to me in about fifteen minutes?”

“I sho will, Miss Clayton! I sho will!”

The staircase had never seemed so high and narrow as to-night, and her shoes kept slipping on the brass-bound treads. Her proximity to Moira for two whole hours had exhausted her emotionally and physically. She was obliged to lean against the wall for support before attempting to unlock her door, and once inside she sank down weakly on a chair without taking off her hat or turning on the light. The street lamps shone through the grimy windows upon her emaciated figure as she sat with her head in her hands under the portrait of the smiling and buxom Marguerite. A slowly travelling succession of white reflections chased one another across the yellow wallpaper as the surface cars clanged by outside, each drowning for an instant the snapping of the steam radiator beneath the window. Occasionally a crackle of blue flame from the slot between the tracks would illuminate the room and dim the streak of light beneath the door into the hall. For Eileen Clayton the room was as crowded with memories as it was with shadows. This had been her home for ten years. Presently she arose, removed her hat, and threw herself upon the bed.

There was a knock on the door.

“Wait a moment, please!”

Mrs. Clayton got up, snapped on the electric cluster, and went over to the “dressing-table,” as she called the bureau when speaking to the chambermaid. She had no need to ask who was at the door. No one—except the colored “help” and a certain regular monthly visitor—ever asked for admittance.

“Just a minute!” she added, as, having swiftly arranged her hair, rubbed on a dab of rouge, and powdered her nose and chin, she took a small, shining object from her top drawer, and pressed it to her wrist. Instantly her whole manner changed. “Come in!” she called cheerfully.

Moses Wellington, a very tall negro in a white duck jacket, opened the door with one hand while poising upon the other a japanned tin tray, on which was heaped a mountain of white crockery.

“Evenin’, Miss Clayton. I got a lovely supper to-night fer you!” he said in the coaxing tone one would use to a child.

Mrs. Clayton dragged a small card-table into the centre of the room, and Moses, having placed the tray upon it, brought a chair and adjusted her ceremoniously at the table. Then with a flourish he handed her a napkin and, thrusting his thumb through the round hole in the cover, removed the inverted plate which protected five shrinking oysters from the contamination of the surrounding atmosphere.

Mrs. Clayton examined the oysters.

“I don’t think I’ll take oysters to-night, Moses,” she said. “I’ve eaten so many!”

“You doan’ want no oysters, Miss Clayton!”

“I don’t believe so! Do you know, Moses, I can remember when oysters were regarded as a luxury? People used to go to the Hoffman House and the Broadway Central just on that account.”

“You doan’ say! Soup, Miss Clayton?”

Moses gallantly made another bull’s-eye and removed the target with his thumb, disclosing a thick white paste.

“What kind of soup is it?”

“I kinder guess it’s just soup, Miss Clayton.”

“I don’t believe I want any soup, Moses. I don’t seem to care much for soup any more.”

“Yes, ma’am. I doan’ care so much fer soup mahself. This here soup doan’ seem to have no particular individuality.”

“What else is there?”

Moses’ face showed sudden animation.

“I got a surprise for you, Miss Clayton!”

“Oh, how nice!” she played up bravely to the occasion.

“Chickun! Fried chickun! I kep’ out a nice piece of white meat for you! Dey was a feller asked me for another piece of white, an’ I tole him it was all out!”

“That was thoughtful of you, Moses! I love chicken—particularly the white meat.”

“Course you do, Miss Clayton.”

But after a few mouthfuls she shook her head and pushed away the plate.

“It’s no use, Moses. I can’t eat to-night!”

“Not eben de chickun!”

He gazed at it regretfully.

“No, not even the chicken!”

“Dat’s too bad! Doan’ you want me to leave it here so’s you could eat it in the night if you woke up?”

“I shan’t wake up, Moses. There’s no use wasting it—on me!”

Her lips quivered. Moses busied himself with the crockery.

“Good night, Miss Clayton. Good night ’n thank you!”

Eileen closed the door after him and stood with her back against it. With one exception Moses and Tilly were the nearest approach to friends left her! Why should she have to go on forever paying? Why had she been such a fool! She turned to the dressing-table, where stood half a dozen framed photographs of Moira Devens: Moira in evening-dress at her coming-out ball; Moira in street costume taken in the “Easter Parade”; Moira in riding habit, showing her hunter; Moira as leading lady in the Junior League play; Moira as a bridesmaid; Moira in fancy dress as Peter Pan. She had bought them all at a shop devoted to “pictures of celebrities.”

She began to feel very tired again. She should have taken something to eat. She never had any appetite any more. The dope had done it; that was why she was so thin. Well, thank God for it! It was always there! Just one more shot——!

Eileen Clayton opened the top drawer. Feeling for the silver needle that was always in readiness for instant use, her fingers came in contact with something else—a tiny pair of baby’s shoes. She took them out and touched them to her lips.

A knock caused her to stiffen in her chair. Nine o’clock. She had been sitting there for two hours! The little shoes were still in her lap. She put them back and opened the door.

“Hello, Dan! Come in.”

Mr. Shay patted her hand as she led him to a chair.

“How are you, Eileen? You’ve put on no more weight, I’m thinkin’! First of the month——”

He took out a red Russia leather wallet and handed her a check drawn to her order for a thousand dollars, signed with his own name as treasurer of the Associated Architects and Builders Corporation.

“You oughtn’t to moon around like this, Eileen. It ain’t good for you. Why don’t you try to amuse yourself? It’s bad to think too much. Let me take you to a play or a movie some night—Why not to-night? We can get there in time for the ‘feature.’”

“Not to-night, Dan. I’m not up to it. I’ve been through rough weather to-day.”

“Sometime soon, then! I don’t like to see you so down.”

“I’m afraid I’ll never be up, Danny! How’s Dick?”

“Fine and dandy.”

“And—Moira?” She strove to keep her voice calm.

“She’s got a sweetheart, I’m thinkin’—or will have!”

Eileen leaned forward eagerly.

“Who is he?”

“Oh, I know nothing about it. She brought a young fellow home to dinner with her to-night—a kind of Donnybrook lad.”

“What did he look like?”

Mr. Shay rubbed the white pin feathers of his chin.

“Whoever says women aren’t all alike now!—Not too tall and very black—as black as comes out of Donegal. You should see the hair and eyes of him!”

“I saw a young man like that this very—” She bit her lip. “And she’s well?” she hurried on.

“Prettier than ever—a real ‘Irish rose.’”

Silence came between them as their minds flew back over the years. A blue sputter came from the car tracks—a clang.

“Dan!” said Mrs. Clayton. “I can’t stand this much longer. It’s killing me. I might better be dead. It seemed to be for the best once, but—but—Oh, Dan!”

She let her head drop on his shoulder.

“I know, my dear! I know!” he nodded, stroking the gray hair. “One can’t talk about such things. It’s hard. But it is for the best, Eileen.”

“It can’t be right!” she cried desperately. “Moira’s old enough to look after herself. I couldn’t do her any harm. Do you think I’d do her any harm, Danny?” she implored him.

Mr. Shay arose.

“Don’t ask me that, Eileen! It’s too late to discuss that question. You know how sorry I am for you. But after all, you gave her up.”

“But I didn’t need her then!” she protested. “And I had no time to look after her. How could I carry a baby about with me on tour? She’d have died of pneumonia. I didn’t mean to part with her forever! I miss her more and more every day. I can’t live without her any longer. I can’t! I can’t!”

The old man laid his hand on her shoulder, the bones of which were barely covered by the flesh.

“Do you think that she’d be better off if she knew who she was? Do you think she’d be happier to know you were her mother?”

Mrs. Clayton put her hands to her temples.

“Is she the only one? Ain’t I to be considered at all? Don’t you think it a crime against nature for a mother to be deprived of her own flesh and blood when—when she’s old and sick and hasn’t anybody else? Oh, Danny——”

He held out his arms to her, and she buried her face in them, sobbing.

“Poor Eileen!” he said huskily. “Poor girl! It breaks my heart. But it’s no use. He won’t let you.”

It was at approximately the same hour at which Eileen Clayton bade good-night to Daniel Shay that Hugh Dillon, having been deposited by the Devens’ motor, began climbing the precipitous staircase leading to the dwelling-place of Mr. Ignatius Loyola O’Hara. A delicious odor of frying onions floated from above, which grew stronger and stronger as he ascended until he reached the top landing and threw open the door of the rear tenement, disclosing the palsied form of Jeffrey Quirk. The “ambulance chaser” crouched before a small stove, holding a sizzling frying-pan in one hand while apparently endeavoring to read a book in the other; O’Hara, stretched in his shirt sleeves on a broken-down horsehair couch and smoking a short black pipe, watched him through half-closed lids.

“Well,” announced O’Hara, “I got forty-five hundred out of the gas company. They were scared pink! Friend Renig is a rich man, now. And I only charged him fifteen hundred!”

“Supper’s ready!” interrupted Quirk, dumping the sizzling contents of the frying-pan into a dish in the middle of the table. “Come and get it.”

The lawyer swung his feet to the floor and pulled up a chair.

“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” he asked Hugh.

“I’ve had my dinner.”

“You have, eh? Where?”

Hugh, who had taken O’Hara’s place on the sofa, lit a cigarette with ostentatious indifference.

“With some friends of mine named Devens up on Fifth Avenue.”

“Devens! Fifth Avenue! You can’t mean ‘The Old Man’?”

“I wasn’t aware that he enjoyed that title. I’m referring to Mr. Richard Devens.”

O’Hara laid down his knife and fork.

“You’re kidding me!”

“Not at all. I’ve just left there. He sent me home in his car. I’m going to dine there again next week.”

“If you’re telling the truth, will you kindly explain how you got to know him?”

“Through his daughter.”

“And how did you get to know her?”

Hugh blew a few desultory smoke rings.

“I met her—socially—in a way. She’s a friend of mine.”

O’Hara eyed him suspiciously from beneath his shaggy brows.

“I’ll wager she picked you up!”

“Well, what if she did? She was willing to make an honest man of me by taking me home to dinner.”

O’Hara reached over and pinched Hugh’s leg just above the knee.

“Do you mean to tell me you didn’t know that Richard Devens is one of the richest men in New York? That he is the organizer and president of the Associated Architects and Builders, with a capital of fifteen million dollars, and that he has nearly as much political influence as Murphy himself?”

“No,” answered Hugh. “I hadn’t an idea of it.”

“Well, that is the fact. They’re the people who build all the State capitols, and viaducts, and giant hotels, and railway terminals—they plant ’em overnight—work while you sleep. My boy, you’re in clover! Richard Devens could make you governor if he’d a mind to.”

“I don’t want his money!” said Hugh. “And I don’t believe he could make anybody governor.” He glanced sharply at O’Hara. “Is the Associated Architects and Builders the corporation there was such a howl about last year—where the syndicate that marketed some of its bonds was supposed to have made such an unholy profit, and——”

“And where the syndicate and the board of directors looked so much alike you couldn’t tell ’em apart?—That’s it!” finished his partner.

“I also met an amiable ancient called Uncle Danny Shay. Who’s he?”

“Devens’ side partner and alter ego. They grew up together. Dick has the brains; Dan does what Dick tells him.”

“The voice is the voice of Shay, but the hand is the hand of Devens?”

“You’ve said it! Dick pulled him out of a hole one time, and since then Dan thinks he’s the voice of Almighty God.”

“How do you know so much about them?”

“Because we have a retainer from the A. A. and B.—we act as counsel to them in some things. Dan is secretary and treasurer. Devens is chairman of the board—’way out of reach. So if anybody gets into trouble it will be Dan. He won’t mind! He’d go to jail for Dick any time. I guess that’s fair enough too, considering Dick kept him out.”

He reached for his pipe and refilled it.

“Ever been up to the Devens’ house?” asked Hugh, endeavoring to conceal his interest under a veil of nonchalance.

“Sure I have. Not so often as Hoyle, though. He’s Devens’ confidential attorney. When anything comes up that’s likely to attract public attention, he retains fellows like Choate, or Stanchfield, or Elihu Root. But they’re only window dressings. We do the work.”

Quirk had retired to the corner and was immersed in his book.

“Did you ever know Mrs. Devens?” asked Hugh. “There’s a picture of her in the dining-room. If she was anything like it she must have been a beauty.”

“She was!” agreed O’Hara, lighting his pipe upside down from the lamp. “A famous one. Supposed to be the prettiest woman in New York—daughter of old Tibbetts, the dry-goods man—but cold as a stone, and socially on the make. She married Devens for his money and then turned sour because he couldn’t give her the social position that she wanted. Lucky for all of them she died when she did!”

“Why couldn’t he give her what she wanted?” inquired Hugh.

“She wanted to be in the smart set—the Newport and Long Island crowd. But as the wife of an Irish Roman Catholic contractor she found she couldn’t make it, even with all his money. It smelt a bit too strong of—well—to use a euphemism—of politics.”

“Of graft, I suppose you mean?”

“Oh, say not so!” protested O’Hara. “But I believe Devens did build some hospitals and courthouses for the city—not to mention a few insane asylums, incinerating plants, almshouses, et cetera, et cetera. The swells took her money and went to her big entertainments, ate her suppers, drank her champagne, listened to Jean de Reszke and Melba—and then dropped her. It was too much for her!”

“From your account of the lady’s character, I shouldn’t say her daughter resembled her in the least,” remarked Hugh.

O’Hara knocked the ashes from his pipe.

“She takes more after the old man!” he said. “How about bed?”