Читать книгу The Left Lady - Margaret Turnbull - Страница 5

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When a man fronts catastrophe on the road, he looks in his purse—but a woman looks in her mirror.

Emmietta's mirror told her, distinctly, that there was no time to lose in consulting Mrs. Calla Lilley, beauty specialist, at the address obtained by Lib.

The first impulsive plunge toward freedom had carried her successfully out of East Penniwell, but here in New York, the magnificent but unknown, the thought of what lay before her in her effort to regain some portion of her lost looks terrified Emmietta.

Visions of placing herself, beyond recall, in the hands of some one who would relentlessly proceed to make upon her all the experiments which she had read of in books and magazines, haunted Emmie, waking and sleeping.

She could see herself delivered over to some autocratic, intolerant, beauty doctor, who would peroxide her hair, "lift" her face, change the shape of her nose, pluck out her eyebrows, put belladonna in her eyes, give her a permanent wave and rouge, powder and paint her—without listening to her protests that all she wanted was to remain herself, plus a little of what she had lost.

Emmie felt peculiarly inarticulate when she tried to formulate just what she did want done. The trouble was she did not really know what could, or should, be done. She must place herself in somebody's hands.

It was an uncertain business at the best, and here was Lib—her green eyes narrowed to slits by her terror of the new and strange, and the complications that arise from suddenly finding oneself sitting in luxury's lap—watching her like a cat.

Emmie's heart failed her. Lib was so overwhelmed by the big hotel and the city that Emmietta would have to take her with her. And what if, after all, Emmie came out of the beauty shop worse than when she went in?

Emmie, who was waiting in the hotel lobby for a taxicab to take her to Calla Lilley's establishment, cast a wary glance at Lib, who, with her head thrust before her, and an expression on her face that told the stranger nothing and Emmie everything, came toward her. Emmie noted idly that Lib was clutching a bit of yellow paper convulsively in one of her hands, but as Lib volunteered no comment, and Emmie wanted her to approach the coming trial in as amiable a frame of mind as possible, Emmie did not question her about it.

"Are you sure you want to come, Lib?" she began, as the doorman indicated the cab was ready, but Lib swept on toward the door, without waiting.

"Nuthin' would make me stay here alone," was Lib's reply, as they went through the revolving doors, which always so rattled Lib that she went round more than once, unless rescued.

In the cab, Lib shook so visibly, and emitted such mouse-like cries of terror at their hairbreadth escapes from certain death in the ride from the hotel to Madison Avenue, that involuntarily Emmie braced herself. Other people did this every day. She must take her chance. When there is nothing to look back for, it is as well to go on.

Emmie stole a slightly contemptuous look at Lib, who was still clutching in her hand the yellow paper, which Emmietta never doubted contained their names and addresses in case of fatal accident. She might be in little better case than Lib, she reminded herself, but at least she would keep it to herself. "Brace up! Lib," Emmie said, with the kindly impatience one uses in cases of hysteria. "Come, here we are!"

It was characteristic of Mrs. Lilley's shop that it was never spoken of as a "beauty shop," a "hairdressing parlor," or a "manicure place," although all three industries were carried on there. It was to a great number of well-known people just "Calla Lilley's." Hair, face and nails were beautifully attended to, it is true, but all those things one could get elsewhere. It was Calla's personality that made her place unique, combining all the delightful chattiness of an old-time barber shop, with up-to-date sanitary methods, and a private cell to yourself.

A tall, strong, handsome woman, her Saxon origin showing in the strength of her arms and her fair hair, Calla had an abiding interest in other people's affairs, and an enthusiasm for her trade that made her literally priceless. She believed so firmly in the tonic she sprinkled on your hair and rubbed in with strong fingers, that you could not help but believe it would perform all the marvelous things she promised.

It was not Calla's way to tell you that your hair was splendid when it was not. No, she admitted it was in a sad way, but in the next breath, while she rubbed your head with her wonderful hands, she so filled you with hope that what could be done would be done that you went out looking far better than when you came in.

With the aid of her clever husband, Calla was amassing a fortune, for fortunes are to be made by anyone who will aid, or pretend to aid, women to look with satisfaction in their mirrors. Calla's honesty, her splendid enthusiasm and her skillful hands had built for her a clientele that required the hiring of half a dozen assistants in the shop itself, to say nothing of an equal number in the laboratory, whence Calla's preparations, with the famous golden lily on the label, went far and wide.

Her customers numbered not only the rich and pampered, who wished to be freshened after a night at the hard work of amusing themselves, and of whom she had many, but artists, authors, business men and women, who found it paid them to relax and let Calla rub the tired wrinkles from their faces and the cobwebs from their brains.

Not every one who could pay the price could enter Calla's door. There was a "Sorry, no appointment possible. Our books are full," ready for any customer whom Calla did not like, or whom she had ceased to desire.

Into this discreet temple, dedicated to the art of beauty, came the two odd-looking women from East Penniwell.

The appearance of the two having been observed carefully through the partly opened office door, Miss Boldar, Calla's secretary, advanced and asked their business. Emmie, without looking at Lib, said that Mrs. Kent, Mrs. Horace Kent, had sent her. The secretary, asking them to wait, went in search of Calla, herself.

"Two people, sent by Mrs. Kent, want to see you."

Calla sighed. This had been a rush day and few of her assistants seemed to realize that she was human. It took time and tact to leave one customer, yet keep her satisfied, while she took a look at another's scalp, and jollied a third along by telling her that she would be "there in a minute." Calla had every desire to send these people away with the statement that she was too busy to see anyone, but she was a business woman, and Mrs. Kent, though trying at times, was a good customer, and had sent her several desirable people.

"What do they look like?"

"Queer and countrified."

Calla looked at her in secret disgust. The blockhead! Was that all she could see? Mrs. Van Dieman was rolling in money, and one of Calla's best customers, yet she looked like a ragbag.

"Ask them to wait a minute. I'll be out just as soon as I get Mrs. Hemming's hair in the curlers."

That done, Calla called the colored maid to hold the electric dryer and went out to interview Mrs. Kent's friends.

There was something about Calla that appealed to tired, worn-out Emmie the moment she saw that erect, vital personage coming toward her. Equally there was something about Emmietta that made Calla desire to get her hands on her at once. Never would she let that woman go out of her shop, provided she had money enough to pay for all that ought to be done! Calla would even give her cheaper rates, if necessary, for the pleasure of seeing it done. Within Calla surged the urge of the creator. She itched to have her hands on that hat and drag it from the lusterless hair. Where the average person would have passed Emmietta as an overworked, middle-aged woman, Calla saw great possibilities. Emmie's hair, though dry and lifeless now, was reddish brown and needed only a little polishing to gleam again. Her face was drawn and lined, but it was not too old to yield to face creams and massage. She might be just a little too wiry, but exercise and diet, and again massage would take care of that. There were possibilities in Emmie—an Emmie properly looked after and dressed.

"My sister, Mrs. Kent, sent me. I want you to look at my hair, and let me talk to you a little about what I want done."

It had taken all Emmie's courage to get so far, but Calla immediately caught her up.

"Just a minute, Mrs.—"

"Miss Weston."

"Just a minute, Miss Weston. Berry"—this to the maid slowly crawling toward the booth with the electric dryer—"give me that. I'll dry Mrs. Hemming's hair myself while you fix Booth 7 for Miss Weston. Just go in there when Berry tells you it's ready, Miss Weston. Your friend? Make her comfortable here, and I'll be with you in a jiffy."

She went swiftly, but she made Emmie feel quite safe, though Emmie had yet to face Lib, who was looking with disapproval at everything in the shop, and especially at the transformations, the powder, lip sticks and other preparations that filled the glass cases in the waiting room.

"Miss Emmie, you ain't gonna—"

"Now, Lib, do I need false hair? Use your good sense. Would I be bothered with lip sticks? I'm going to get a good shampoo and you'd better stay here. The booth would be too crowded. Take a magazine and wait for me, or go back to the hotel."

"Back to the hotel!" Lib looked at her despairingly. "Miss Emmie, it took us all our time finding it, when you and me and Bill Sladen drove in last night, and several of them sarcastic policemen lost their tempers at Bill, too, before he got the right of it. How do you think I'm going to find it—alone?"

"Take a taxicab," Miss Emmie told her cruelly, and followed the beckoning maid, as though she did not know that Lib would rather face the day of judgment than hail a taxi on a New York street.

Emmie felt a little ashamed of herself, as she saw Lib sink back in her chair and reach for a magazine, but she could not bear Lib's eyes, or ears for that matter, in the booth. There were a lot of things she meant to ask this Mrs. Lilley and they would be said much more easily without a witness.

Lib, who was not nearly as stupid as she looked, had guessed that Miss Emmie did not want her about, and felt a little bitter about the whole business. First, this rushing off to the city the very night of Eli Weston's funeral, and then the awful hotel! There was no doubt Miss Emmie was treating her like a queen and spending all kinds of money, but kiting off the very next morning to this sorta place, instead of going to a good shop and getting some decent black clothes, was terrible!

Lib pursed up her mouth and looked about her, regarding with interest the show cases, the opening and shutting of the tiny elevator as it took down and brought up the constant stream of customers. Each was greeted by the particular assistant to whom she belonged for an hour or so, and disappeared into a booth. Lib turned, as the elevator door opened to allow a lovely girl to step out. Fresh as paint, Lib said to herself, and no need to come here. No fixing could make her prettier.

The girl evidently did not agree with Lib. She asked for Miss Elsie, and when that young woman arrived and greeted her as Miss Lansing, she averred that she was filthy and needed a wash, a curl and a manicure at once. Her appointment, she announced, as she pulled the smart little hat from her sleek blonde head, was for that very minute, and she could not wait.

The assistant, who seemed accustomed to her rapid orders, followed her toward the booth, smiling, and saying, "It must be something wonderful, Miss Lansing, that makes you come here on the dot."

And then the door of the booth closed on them and Lib could only hear a murmur, added to the other murmurs from the other booths, which made the place hum like a beehive, with only here and there a distinguishable word or phrase, when some one's voice was raised above the general pitch.

In her own booth, Emmie, having had her hair unpinned by an attendant, had been invited to turn the neck of her dress in, or take the dress off, and a long piece of figured muslin, with a place hollowed out for her neck, was thrown over her, and pinned at the back of the neck. Her hair had been smartly brushed and she had been left to wait for Mrs. Lilley. Nothing had been said about prices, but Emmie felt reckless. Cost what it might, she was going through with it.

Calla Lilley came through the doorway, with her infectious smile, and bent over Emmie's hair to scrutinize her scalp. "Fine," was her verdict. "I'll wash you first and then see what we can do with it. It's pretty dry, and the scalp looks as though it needed a tonic, but it's good hair, and we'll have it looking—Guess I'll rub in the oil first."

Calla reached for a gay bottle and took a piece of cotton from a glass case, poured the tonic into a scarlet saucer, began dipping the cotton into it and rubbing it into the partings of Emmie's hair. Her strong fingers, which seemed to know what they were about so well, had a soothing effect. "We'll have you looking like your old self in no time."

Miss Emmie said nothing, but looking at her Calla saw, in the mirror, tears rolling down Emmie's cheek.

"Are you feeling faint?"

"No, no," Emmie begged. "Don't notice me. I—I have had a trying time. My father—"

"Yes, of course," Calla agreed sympathetically, with a quick look at the obsolete and ugly black frock. "Mrs. Kent did say, the last time she was in, that her father had died."

"Yes," Emmie openly wiped her eyes. She could talk to this woman. It wouldn't matter to Calla what she said. "I had all the care of him—the nursing, you know. It's—it's the let-down afterward, and what you said about looking like my old self. Oh, Mrs. Lilley, can I—could I—get back something—something of what I used to look like?"

It was the universal cry, world-old, but it was Mrs. Lilley's call to battle. She rose to it now.

"Why, my dear, we'll get right after this thing. We'll get after this hair, and as to your complexion—it's just fatigued. That's what's wrong. You're just tired, nothing more. You come to me for the next week or so. We'll say the next two or three weeks. Can you do it?"

"Of course, I can, and I will. I'll stay on at the hotel."

"Good, we'll get to work right now, and every day you'll spend some time here. Come, brace up! I'm going to brush your hair and then I want to cut the ends. I'll just brush, and rub to-day and we'll try a new style of doing it to-morrow. Dress come off?"

"Yes," said Emmie, hesitating and glancing around.

"Then off it comes. I want to get a good look at your neck and arms, and rub your back a little."

"Berry," she called, "bring me the alcohol and salt rub."

"How long can you stay here, Miss Weston? This is going to take time as well as money."

"For as long as I need to." Miss Emmie hesitated, and, conquering her father's spirit which rose up within her, added, "I don't care what it costs."

"Give me a month," breathed Mrs. Lilley. This was a customer after her own heart. "Give me just a month, and I promise you won't know yourself."

The door of Booth 7 opened hurriedly and Lib put her head in.

"Miss Emmie," she began, excited and breathless, "this came just when you was getting your check cashed in the lobby. The boy yelled out your name, and I says 'Here' for you, and signed. In the excitement of gitting the taxi and all, I just kep' it clenched-like in my hand, and forgot to give it to you."

Emmie took the telegram, with the little thrill of apprehension which the sight of its yellow envelope always gives to country-bred people. She read:

"Tom Hastings anxious to see you regarding property. When will you be home so that we can all three meet? John Fair."

Emmie let the telegram fall on the dressing table, and stared at it.

"Well," said Lib. "Anybody dead?"

"No," said Emmie, "not yet. It's from Lawyer Fair."

"We gotta go home?" asked Lib, with a gleam of joy in her eyes.

All Emmie's new-found independence rose up to oppose the thought. "No," she said as quietly as she could, for her heart was beating tempestuously at her own daring, "seeing that Tom Hastings took eighteen years to get round to East Penniwell, we'll take our time coming back."

Lib watched open-mouthed while Emmie, at Mrs. Lilley's suggestion, wrote a return message, which Lib was to give to Mrs. Lilley's secretary to send.

When she had finished writing, Lib's imploring eyes were more than Emmie could stand.

"You may read it," she said, taking some money from her purse, "before you give it to the secretary, with this."

Lib took the yellow form in her hand and read:

"Stay indefinite. Will notify you in time so that you can advise Mr. Hastings."

Resolutely Lib turned on her mistress. They were alone. Calla had gone out of the booth to respond to a telephone call.

"Miss Emmie, that won't do. It'll be read over the 'foam at East Penniwell, you know."

"Well?" questioned Emmie, defiantly.

"Well," returned Lib, "do you want to make 'em think that Tom Hastings did give you the go-by? Git a little suttelty into it, Miss Emmie, for the sake of women."

Emmie looked at her quickly. "Lib, I believe you're right."

"Miss Emmie, never lower yer flag."

Emmie thought for a moment and then wrote:

"Business here important. Notify you when we are ready to return. You can then inform Hastings. Emmietta Weston."

"Better," said Lib judicially. "Not all it might be, but still a lot better. It'll keep 'em guessing what the important business is, anyway."