The Dust Flower. Basil King

dinner he had proposed the theatre, but she had refused. She couldn’t go anywhere else with him. Wherever they moved, a thousand eyes were turned in amazement at the extraordinary pair. He saw nothing, but she was alive to it all—more conscious of her hat and suit than even in the street scene in “The Man with the Emerald Eye.” Once and for all she became aware that the first standard for human valuation is in clothes.

      In the end they had got into another taxi, to be driven round and round the Park and out along the river bank, till he decided that they might go home. During all this time he hardly noticed her. Once he asked her if she was warm enough, and once if she would like to get out and take a walk along the parapet above the river, but otherwise he was withdrawn into a world which he kept shut and locked against her. That left her alone. She had never felt so much alone in her life, not even in the days which followed her mother’s death. It was as if she had been snatched away from everything with which she was familiar, to find herself stranded in a country of fantastic dreams.

      Then there was the house and the little back room. By the use of his latchkey they had entered a palace huge and dark. Letty didn’t know that people lived with so much space around them. Only a hall light burned in a many-colored oriental lamp, and in the 55 half-gloom the rooms on each side of the entry were cavernous. There was not a servant, not a sound. The only living thing was a little dog which pattered out of the obscurity and, raising his paws against her skirt, adopted her instantaneously.

      “He was my mother’s dog,” Allerton explained briefly. “He likes women, but not men, though he’s never taken to the women in the house. He’ll probably like you. His name is Beppo. I’ll show you up at once.”

      The grandeur of the staircase was overpowering, and the little back spare-room of a magnificence beyond all her experience outside of movie-sets. The flowers on the chintz coverings were prettier than real ones, and there was a private bath. Letty had heard of private baths, but no picture she had ever painted equaled this dainty apartment in which everything was of spotless white except where a flight of blue-gray gulls skimmed over a blue summer sea.

      The objects in the bedroom were too lovely to live with. On the toilet table were boxes and trays which Letty supposed must be priceless, and a set of brushes with silver backs. She couldn’t brush her hair with a brush with a silver back, because it would be journeying too far beyond real life into that of fairy princesses. On opening the closet to hang up her jacket the very hangers were puffed and covered with the “sweetest flowered silks,” so she hung her jacket on a peg.

      But she wasn’t comfortable, she wasn’t happy. Alice had traveled too far into Wonderland, and too suddenly. Unwillingly she lay down in a bed too clean 56 and soft for the human form, but she couldn’t sleep in it. She could only tremble and toss and lie awake and wish for the morning. With the dawn she would be up and off, before any one caught sight of her.

      For Allerton had used words which had terrified her more than anything that had yet happened or been said—“the other women in the house!” Not till then had she sufficiently visualized the life into which he was taking her to understand that there would be other women there. Now that she knew it, she couldn’t face them. She could have faced men. Men, after all, were simple creatures with only a rudimentary power of judgment. But women! God! She pulled the eiderdown about her head so as not to cry out so loudly that she would be heard. What mad thing had she done? What had she let herself in for? She didn’t ask what kind of women they would be—members of his family or servants. She didn’t care. All women were alike. The woman was not born who wouldn’t view a girl in her unconventional situation, “and especially in that rig”—once more the expression was her own—without a condemnation which Letty could not and would not submit herself to. So she would get up and steal away with the first gleam of light.

      She got up with the first gleam of light, but she couldn’t steal away. Once more she was afraid. Unlocking the door, she dared not venture out. Who knew where, in that palace of cavernous apartments, she might meet a woman, or what the woman would say to her? When Nettie walked in later, humming a street air, Letty almost died from shame. For one 57 thing, she hadn’t yet put on her shirtwaist, which in itself was poor enough, and as she stood exposed without it, any other of her sex could see. … She had once been on the studio lot when a girl of about her own age, a “supe” like herself, was arrested for thieving in the women’s dressing-rooms. Letty had never forgotten the look in that girl’s face as she passed out through the crowd of her colleagues. In Nettie’s presence she felt like that girl’s look.

      She had no means of telling the time, but when she could no longer endure the imprisonment she decided to make a bolt for it. She hadn’t been thieving, and so they couldn’t do anything to her—and there was a chance at least that she might get away. Opening the door cautiously, she stole out on the landing, and there was, not a woman, but a man!

      Joy! A man would listen to her appeal. He would see that she was poor, common, unequal to a dump so swell, and would be human and tender. He was a nice looking old man too—she was able to notice that—with a long, kindly face on which there were two spots of bloom as if he had been rouged. So she capitulated to his plea, making only the condition that if she took the hegg—she pronounced the word as he did, not being sure as to what it meant—she should be free to go.

      “Certainly, if madam wishes it. I’m sure the last thing Mr. Allerton would desire would be to detain madam against ’er will.”

      She allowed herself to be ushered down the monumental stairs and into the dining-room, which awed her with the solemnity of a church. She knew at once 58 that she wouldn’t be able to eat amid this stateliness any more than in the glitter of last evening’s restaurant. She had yielded, however, and there was nothing for it but to sit down at the head of the table in the chair which Steptoe drew out for her. Guessing at her most immediate embarrassment, he showed her what to do by unfolding the napkin and laying it in her lap.

      “Now, if madam will excuse me, I’ll slip awye and tell Jyne.”

      But telling Jyne was not so simple a matter as it looked. The council in the kitchen, which at first had been a council and no more, was now a council of war. As Steptoe entered, Mrs. Courage was saying:

      “I shall go to Mr. Rashleigh ’imself and tell ’im that hunder the syme roof with a baggage none of us will stye.”

      “You can syve yourself the trouble, Mrs. Courage,” Steptoe informed her. “Mr. Rash ’as just gone out. Besides, I’ve good news for all of you.” He waited for each to take an appropriate expression, Mrs. Courage determined, Jane with face eager and alight, Nettie tittering behind her hand. “Miss Walbrook, which all of us ’as dreaded, is not a-comin’ to our midst. The young lydy Nettie see in the back spare-room is Mr. Rashleigh’s wife.”

      “Wife!” Mrs. Courage threw up her hands and staggered backward. “ ’Im that ’is mother left to me! ‘Courage,’ says she, ‘when I’m gone––’ ”

      Jane crept forward, horrified, stunned. “Them things can’t be, Steptoe.”

      “Mr. Rash told me so ’imself. I don’t know what 59 more we want than that.” Steptoe was not without his diplomacy. “It’s a fine thing for us, girls. This sweet young lydy is not goin’ to myke us no trouble like what the other one would, and belongs right in our own class.”

      “ ’Enery Steptoe, speak for yourself,” Mrs. Courage said, severely. “There’s no baggages in my class, nor never was, nor never will be.”

      Jane began to cry. “I’m sure I try to think the best of everyone, but when such awful things ’appens and ’omes is broken up––”

      “Jynie,” Steptoe said with authority, “the young missus is wytin’ for ’er breakfast. ’Ave the goodness to tyke ’er in ’er grypefruit.”

      “Jyne Cakebread,” Mrs. Courage declared, with an authority even greater than Steptoe’s, “the first as tykes a grypefruit into that dinin’-room, to set before them as I shouldn’t demean myself to nyme, comes hunder