Gilded Needles (Valancourt 20th Century Classics) (26 page)

Chapter
38

The Stallworth pew was curiously underpopulated the following Sunday morning, with both Helen and Benjamin Stallworth missing. Benjamin’s hours had always been irregular, and Saturday nights in particular he was often out late in the company of Duncan Phair and Simeon Lightner, so Edward did not think it strange that he did not see his son before it was time to leave that morning for the church. It was probable, Edward Stallworth considered, that Benjamin had overslept, or that he had had a sick headache—the result of too much lager beer perhaps. In any case, he would doubtless make his appearance at the family dinner on Gramercy Park later in the day.

Although Benjamin’s absence was lightly considered, Helen’s was not. The Stallworth in the pulpit and the Stallworths in the pew looked anxiously throughout the service for the entrance of Mrs. General Taunton and her protégée, for they were determined to demand Helen’s return to the manse. And when neither Helen nor Mrs. General Taunton appeared in the church, Marian, with grim satisfaction, judged that it was shame over their inexcusable conduct that kept them away. Helen’s sudden departure from the manse occupied all their minds and the congregation went away disappointed that morning from the Madison Square Presbyterian Church—Edward Stallworth had been distracted, and his sermon decidedly inferior.

It was really only at dinner that afternoon that Benjamin’s absence became as marked as his sister’s. Judge Stallworth alone remained unperturbed: “I do not intend to allow my digestion to be impaired on Benjamin’s account,” he said. “No doubt he will sidle through the doorway at the very moment we have given up expecting him.”

“Benjamin is probably in the company of Simeon Lightner,” said Duncan Phair, “investigating Sunday openings of the gambling houses south of Bleecker.” Marian merely thought it tiresome of her nephew that he so disregarded their feelings in remaining away so long without a word.

After dinner, Judge Stallworth and Marian, notwithstanding their pique at Benjamin’s failure to present himself in the last twenty-four hours, went to the theater to witness a special performance of the only small-footed Chinese lady in the world who sang coon songs. They told Duncan sternly—as if it were a matter under his jurisdiction—that they expected better news by the time that they returned home.

In their absence, Duncan visited the lodgings of Simeon Lightner. The reporter had no idea where Benjamin might be—he had neither seen nor heard from him since they parted company at the door of The Jolly Tar’s Tavern on Friday night.

Even the desertion of her niece, and the unaccountable disappearance of her nephew had not disturbed the equanimity and good feeling that Marian Phair had gained by the acquisition of Katie Cooley as a nursemaid to Edwin and Edith. Marian had spoken to the nurse a quarter of an hour longer, to strengthen her fine first impression—for Marian realized that to hire a girl in the park, and an Irish one at that, within the course of a five-minute conversation, was hardly the way that responsible society procured its servants. But then Marian reflected that she might boast of Katie Cooley to her friends, and yet tell them only that she had been obtained through the newspaper advertisement.

What Marian did not know about Katie Cooley, however, was that this demure young woman of melancholy aspect actually encouraged Edwin’s feats of tumbling and athleticism. These had always been forbidden on Gramercy Park, since Edwin had shown his mother what acrobatics he was capable of by exactly imitating the tricks and pratfalls of the clowns in a pantomime she had taken him to see. Marian had been shocked by Edwin’s performance and warned him severely that young boys of his class
could
not do such things with their bodies. Yet Katie Cooley delighted in all his miraculous contortions and strange dexterities. Cautioning Edith to silence, she laid double mats across the nursery floor and allowed him to entertain them to his heart’s content.

When Marian and Judge Stallworth returned from the theater on Sunday night, Marian went upstairs to remove her wraps and gloves. She peered into the nursery and, by the light of the third-quarter moon shining through the window, saw Edith warmly enfolded in the arms of Katie Cooley in the nursery bed. Marian nodded her silent approval of Katie’s ruffled nightdress and her soft white cap. A girl who dressed so neatly, even in sleep, was a treasure, without doubt.

In the morning, over breakfast, Marian declared to Duncan her intention of restoring Helen to the manse. Marian was fearful that Helen’s work in the Black Triangle was already known to half the city. She imagined hotly that her friends and acquaintances must have been at great pains to hide their pity and their laughter in the past months.

“I will visit Edward, and enlist his aid,” she said. “The woman who has bewitched Helen is after all a member of his congregation, and doubtless stands in awe of him—or is at least in love with him. If he appears at her door, she will hardly fail to render Helen up. Helen will be back on Twenty-fifth Street in time for dinner.”

Duncan Phair made no objection to his wife’s plan, and after breakfast, Marian hurried upstairs to dress. A quarter of an hour later, just as she was pinning her hat, there was a soft knock at her dressing room door.

“Yes?” cried Marian impatiently.

Katie Cooley entered, and presented Edwin and Edith for their mother’s inspection. “Ma’am,” she said, “I’ve promised the children that if you gave your permission I would take them this morning up to Madison Square to play.”

“Why should they not play in Gramercy Park, Katie? It is closer, it is protected, the company is select. Why go to Madison Square?”

“The children want exercise, ma’am,” said Katie Cooley, “and if you’ll excuse my saying so, there’ll be more opportunity of showing ’em off. . . .”

“Yes of course,” said Marian, well satisfied, “I’m going that way myself, and if you have given them their breakfasts already I’ll be happy to walk with you.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” replied Katie Cooley, “I know Edwin and Edith would relish their mother’s company this morning, wouldn’t you?”

Both children nodded eagerly. “Thank you, Mama,” whispered Edwin politely, and Edith murmured incomprehensibly and with downcast eyes—both children saw that their mother was agitated, and thought it best to remain with their nurse in the doorway.

“Well then, Katie,” said Marian, “we shall leave the house immediately. I’m going to Twenty-fifth Street to pay a little visit to my brother.”

Marian’s visit to the manse was a wasted journey. Edward Stallworth heard patiently his sister’s excoriations of Helen’s conduct, then refused flatly to have anything more to do with the young woman. “Helen, as she writes in her letter, is her own mistress. I have no more real control over her movements than I do over her fortune. They are both her own. Father forbade her to return again to the Black Triangle. If she will disobey him, why do you hope that she will listen either to you or to me?”

“I have no intention of allowing my niece to reside with that . . . that deranged widow!” cried Marian. “Be waited on by mangled servants, spend her time keeping company with thieves and fallen women and diseased children. You may say that you give her over, but the fact is, Edward, her position reflects on us all!”

Edward did not reply to this speech, but when he was seeing his sister to the door, he said, “When you see Helen, ask her if she knows where Benjamin might be found. . . .”

Marian shook her head in exasperation. “Edward, if I thought that Edwin and Edith would turn into such troublesome beings as Benjamin and Helen have been to you, I might wish them both at the ends of the earth! Please send word to Gramercy Park as soon as Benjamin has returned; I have no wish to worry myself into an early grave with the difficulties raised by
your
offspring!”

Marian took exasperated leave of her brother. A few minutes later in Madison Square she found Katie Cooley, who proudly pointed to Edwin and Edith who were playing a complicated and demure round game with several other well-dressed children a little way off. “I’m proud to have ’em by me,” sighed Katie, “so proud!”

Marian nodded distractedly at the compliment to her children. “Katie, an important matter requires my expedition. In a while, you may return to Gramercy Park alone. I don’t want Edith too long exposed to the sun. Her skin is delicate—”

“Beautiful skin! Such beautiful skin! Oh, ma’am!”

Marian did not see her niece at the home of Mrs. General Taunton. The widow politely but firmly refused that interview. “Helen is ill,” said Mrs. General Taunton gravely. “The doctor was sent for this morning and has recommended that she have uninterrupted rest and quiet. Helen is suffering from an exhaustion of her faculties. She entrusted herself to my care, and I will not see her out of her bed.”

Even a threat of legal action did not deter Mrs. General Taunton’s resolution, and Marian Phair hurried away from that house in anger and frustration. She cursed the woman in widow’s weeds for Helen’s plight. Passing a telegraph office, she stopped in and sent a message to her father at the Criminal Courts Building, asking him to meet her that evening on Gramercy Park, “to discuss the matter of H and Mrs T.” Another was sent to the Madison Square Presbyterian Church and read: “Mrs T claims H is ill. Not to be credited. Come to Gramercy Park, six o’clock.”

Then, to calm herself, Marian stopped at an ice cream parlor on Fifth Avenue and vindictively consumed a strawberry ice. Afterward, she took a cab to the home of the woman who had served second on the Committee for the Suppression of Urban Vice. At the end of half an hour’s conversation concerning the views and works of various members of the committee, including her niece, Marian was satisfied that her companion knew nothing of Helen’s innumerable journeys to the Triangle.

Yet when she had taken her leave, Marian again fell prey to doubt. She considered that this good friend might out of courtesy and respect have avoided what she would have known to be a painful subject. Accordingly, Marian took a cab to the home of a woman with whom she shared neither affection nor sympathy, who had been admitted to the committee only because of her husband’s important position as superintendent of public works of the city. This second lady was no friend to Marian, and Marian was sure that if she knew anything of Helen’s unchaperoned visits to the Black Triangle she would not fail to commiserate with Marian on the unfortunate adventures to which Helen must have fallen victim.

Although suspicious of Marian’s unannounced calling, this second lady was very polite. Only her observation that, “In such changeable weather as we are experiencing at this time, it is inexpressibly difficult for a lady to maintain the freshness of her appearance for two hours together, do you not agree?” might have been interpreted as surreptitiously malicious.

Marian plucked nervously at the perspiration-stained wristbands of her dress and nodded grimly. “Oh yes, I entirely concur.”

Slowly, Marian walked back to Gramercy Park from West Fifteenth Street at Fifth Avenue, and several passing acquaintances were offended when friendly nods and soft words to Marian were unreturned.

Marian was thinking with a concentration that came only with difficulty to her, thinking what she must do in order to return Helen to the manse. It would be terrible if it became commonly bruited about that her niece had left her father’s side and joined the establishment of a second-rate widow of marked eccentricity—this, even if the world never heard of her visits to the Black Triangle.

During the three-quarters of an hour that Marian had spent with the lady who was not her friend, great storm clouds had been flung over the city from the west. Had her mind not so occupied itself with thoughts of Helen’s disgrace, Marian surely would have hailed a cab, but the walking soothed her some. She was caught by surprise in a deluge of rain that began without warning but with quite awful intensity. Even after she ran the last square to her house, she arrived at the door sodden and bedraggled.

Peter Wish immediately opened the door to her when she precipitously knocked. Marian stepped into the hallway, with water pouring from her ruined dress.

“Peter, is Mr. Phair in? Has he come in yet?”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Peter Wish hesitantly as Marian in the hallway before the mirror unpinned her hat and untied her veil. The running of the dye in them had left her visage a pale streaked blue.

“Is he in his bedroom?”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Peter, still with hesitation.

“What is it, Peter?” demanded Marian, turning her blue face on him full.

Amy Amyst peeped out of the drawing room door. “Are you alone, ma’am?” she asked, in a distressed whisper.

“Of course, who should be with me? Amy, I want you upstairs this moment to help me out of these clothes!”

Peter Wish clasped his white-knuckled hands tightly before his waistcoat.

“The children, ma’am,” said Amy Amyst. “And Katie Cooley. It’s almost five o’clock, and they not been home since eleven this morning. We had hoped they’d be with you!”

Chapter
39

Lena Shanks sat in her scarlet wicker chair beside the mirror set in the window frame, and only now and then cast a cursory eye over the crowds in King Street below. Since their return from New Jersey, she and her family had remained undetected, their presence known only to such women as could be trusted absolutely. Pet Margery Porter had not even told her father that it was Lena Shanks who had set up the young forlorn-looking gentleman to be cheated and robbed, and the gaunt old man—since he had received his gambling-table money again—asked no questions of his daughter.

Still, Lena considered, a woman could not be too careful, and not many hours of the day found her away from her position by the window. Gradually she came to know, by appearance and occupation and habit, those who frequented King Street, came to know them almost intimately, though they had no idea that an observer existed in the second-floor room.

Louisa kept constant company with Charlotta Kegoe downstairs, and only now and then, in ample disguise, ventured out to do business at the banks. Gradually, Louisa had converted the family’s financial holdings into negotiable securities. Half of these papers were kept locked in a box that rested beneath Lena Shanks’s chair, and the other half were sewn into the lining of Louisa’s petticoats. After Daisy’s sudden, unforeseeable death had demonstrated the frailty of Lena and Louisa both, the mother and surviving daughter had thought it best that access to their wealth ought not be dependent upon Louisa’s abilities at forgery.

The twins were as watchful as their aunt and their grandmother. Because they were small, because no one took notice of them—at least when they were not together—they were the ideal messengers and errand runners; and there was no end to the trust that Lena and Louisa Shanks placed in Rob and Ella. The children always performed their parts with expedition and glad hearts. They were equally content to run miles to a distant part of the city simply to copy down a name from a brass plate on the side of a building, or to while away hours late in the night attending Pet Margery on her rounds of the gambling saloons, allowing themselves to be punched and knocked about by the bullying newsboys, to be shooed away by the police, to be lectured by the unctuous. And when not wanted, they sat in their grandmother’s dim chamber, cross-legged on the bed, playing at écarté and pinochle. Each had a little chipped red china cup—gifts from Maggie Kizer in a happier time—and pennies that they bet against one another now filled Ella’s cup, only a few days later all to be lost to Rob again.

On this Monday afternoon the children had laid aside their cards and crept up to the attic of the house. Through a hole in the roof they could see the North River and the hundred ships that sailed there. A great storm had come up over the Jersey Palisades and whipped down across the gray water. Boats were blown crazily about, and several appeared actually in danger of capsizing. The clouds grew darker and dropped lower and almost at once the rain began falling torrentially. It drenched the children’s surprised upturned faces, doused their clothes, and formed shallow pools on the straw-strewn floor of the attic.

Ella drew back quickly, removed her new spectacles and wiped them dry on the hem of her skirt.

Rob and Ella descended to their grandmother’s room. The door was locked, but a brief characteristic knock admitted them.

The rain beat so heavily against the glass on the room’s two windows that for a moment nothing else could be heard. Before they had stepped far into the room, however, Rob and Ella could distinguish a tiny voice that cried, “Mama! Oh, Mama!”

In a large chair brought up from Charlotta Kegoe’s apartments and set directly across from Lena Shanks, two small children were tied with a thick leather strap. The elder child, a boy, wriggled and wept piteously and cried for his mother. The smaller, a girl, stared intently at Lena Shanks. They were dressed in rain-drenched blue pinafores.

Weeping Mary, lately known as Katie Cooley, nodded friendlily to Rob and Ella.

“Piece of cake,” she sighed, “piece of cake. Could have stayed for the jewels, but didn’t want to hurt Lena’s plans. Wouldn’t harm Lena’s plans for the world. Their mother had beautiful jewels, I tell you, no end of beautiful jewels. Her two beautifullest jewels are sitting right here though,” she said mournfully, knocking her head in the direction of the two children strapped into the chair. “I got ’em here, but I tell you what, I tell you they almost drowned, those jewels almost washed away!”

“Go down, Mary,” said Lena, “and tell Louisa to bring us tea.”

“Oh sure!” cried Weeping Mary, and shook Rob and Ella by the shoulders as she went out.

Lena Shanks briefly broke her attention from the two small children and motioned Rob and Ella over. “Come,” she said.

Rob and Ella slowly approached. Ella went around and stood between Lena and the rain-pounded window. Rob placed himself on the other side of his grandmother.

Edwin and Edith Phair regarded Rob and Ella Shanks dismally. They knew that their mother would never allow them to consort with children who were so poorly clothed.

“Mama!” cried Edwin. “Mama wants us home!”

“No, she don’t,” said Ella with a smile. “You’re to live here with us now.”

“Here?” said Edith, looking around and wondering at the dim poor chamber.

“No!” cried Edwin. “Mama wants us home! We live on the park, we live—”

“Your mama has sold you to us,” said Rob, and Lena Shanks laid a coarse hand atop her grandson’s fine slender fingers. “So now you’re ours, both of you, that’s all. From now on, you’ll live here with us.”

“No!” cried Edwin and burst into loud tears.

Ella leaned forward, quickly twisted around several of the rings on her fingers, and slapped Edwin hard across the mouth. He broke off suddenly in surprise, and then began to whimper from the pain. He touched his hand to his cheek, and wonderingly gazed at the blood that he brought away on his fingers.

Thoughtfully, Ella licked the child’s blood from her rings.

“Now you have to behave,” said Rob with a smile, “or we’ll have to sell you again. We’ll sell you to a pudding maker, and he’ll throw you in a great hot vat and melt you down till there’s nothing left but your bones and your hair, and we’ll sell your bones to a man who’ll carve little soldiers out of them for me to play with, and we’ll make your hair into a wig to put on my sister’s head.”

Edwin sat back terrified, and plucked at the leather strap that cut so tightly into his belly.

“My name is Edith,” said his sister politely, “and I’m very, very wet.”

Edwin and Edith Phair slept that night on a cot placed by the side of Lena Shanks’s bed. Edith, despite the unaccustomed coarseness of the shift that Rob had dropped over her head in exchange for her wet clothing, fell asleep immediately, and seemed not to stir the night through. Edwin, however, with a little gleam in his sullen eye, had sought to lengthen the evening, with the confused conviction that he and his sister were more likely to be discovered by their mother if he remained awake. He insisted on displaying for the twins and their grandmother all his nimble tumbling tricks: the way that he could walk upon his hands, and dance around the furniture in a series of graceful flips, and whirl about with a lighted candle balanced upon his nose. Rob and Ella gleefully applauded this performance, and even Lena Shanks smiled a crooked little smile; but at nine o’clock the light clapping subsided, the smile faded in the wrinkled face, and Edwin Phair was strapped into the bed beside his sister. Though he attempted to remain awake behind his closed lids, the strangeness of the day and his predicament had wearied him so that he soon fell unconscious, with his hot weepy eyes pressed into his sister’s tangled hair.

Next morning, the children tasted coffee for the first time in their lives, and devoured less than their fill of the sweet rolls that were delivered to the door of the room by a tall, fearful-looking woman, whose jewelry, painted onto her skin, mesmerized Edwin and Edith.

This woman held whispering conference with the great fat woman, and all the while glanced coldly on Marian Phair’s unfortunate offspring. After a little, the twins were brought over, and shortly instructed.

“Edith,” said Rob then, turning to the little girl with a bright smile, “you’re to go out with me today.”

“Home?” cried Edith. “The park!?”

“This is your home,” smiled Rob. “Your clothes are here, let me help to dress you. Let me show you how.”

While Edwin looked on, horrified—for a year older than his sister, his understanding of their situation was infinitely greater than hers—Rob dressed Edith in a thin layer of dun dirty rags, chalked out the roses in her skin with wood ash, and then smudged her all over with soot. Edith laughed, and confusedly told what her mother had once done and said when she had returned from the park looking much the same as now.

When Rob had completed the transformation of the child, Lena Shanks said, “Come,” and motioned Edith over. Edith went forward bashfully.

“Turn,” said Lena, but Edith stood stiff. She glanced back to Rob—not her brother—for guidance.

He indicated with his fingers that she ought to turn around, and smiled comfortingly. Edith obeyed.

“Good, good,” said Lena Shanks, and waved the child away.

“What about me?” cried Edwin timorously.

No one answered him, and Edith giggled.

Rob, who had effected a similar costume for himself, took Edith’s hand and led her from the room. “Good-bye Edwin,” she called from the hallway. “Good-bye Edwin!”

Edwin bolted for the door, but Rob slammed it in his face, and he collapsed crying onto the bare floor of the room.

A few minutes later, Ella came over to his cot and the way of the door, and the woman whose jewelry was painted onto her skin slipped a key into the lock and let herself out of the room. “There’ll be someone coming for you later,” she whispered to Edwin malignantly.

Edwin turned piteously to Ella and Lena Shanks. “The man with the vat?” he cried. “Is she bringing back the man with the vat?”

“Come here,” said Ella, and motioned Edwin over to the window. “Quick,” she said, when he hesitated.

Edwin flew to the window, and Ella pointed down into the street.

“What?” cried Edwin. “What should I see?”

“There!” said Ella. “Your sister, with Rob.”

Two little beggars skipped happily along the street, dodging carts and goat wagons. As Edwin watched, his sister fell headlong onto the muddy pavement of King Street, and he gasped. Rob dragged the child out of the mire and held her hands at her side when she instinctively tried to brush the filth from her. She struggled for a moment, then submitted, and they proceeded on, out of Edwin’s sight.

“Be like your sister,” said Ella. “Be very quiet, lie down on the bed and be very still, or I’ll toss you out the window and have done with you!”

For several hours then, Edwin sat silent and morose upon the bed. He begged to be allowed to visit the water closet, but Ella merely pointed to the chamber pot beneath the bed. Humiliated, Edwin turned his face away, but after several minutes had passed he found that he must avail himself of it after all.

A few minutes later, Ella came over to his cot and tossed him a pack of cards with which he amused himself for a time in a most worried and desultory fashion.

Ella Shanks sat quite still at her grandmother’s side, reading aloud out of a newspaper, one column after another, without respect to subject: the list of bankruptcies in the city of Brooklyn occupying her and her grandmother’s attention as fully as the account of the arrival in New York of Lily Langtry.

Lena Shanks, in the shadow of the thick curtains, watched her mirror continually. At some time, however, she dropped her hand on Ella’s shoulder, which signal silenced the child immediately, and she said to Edwin: “You like to do tricks,
nicht?
”

Edwin nodded sullenly.

“Show me again.”

Edwin slipped off the cot, and in a lackluster ungainly fashion, walked about in a circle on his hands.

“Better! Better!” cried Lena. “Last night you did better!”

Edwin turned a series of little Catherine wheels, with a kind of aggressive dexterity.

“Oh yes! Yes!” cried Ella, and clapped her hands. “Do it that way!”

There was a brief knock at the door, and Edwin, hoping it was his mother or his father or someone known to him, fell over to the floor in happy expectation of rescue.

In came the woman with painted jewelry, and a thin man with a blue sallow face, sunken eyes, and a colorless frown. He wore a blue suit and a green waistcoat and a green felt hat.

“This is the boy,” he said, with cadaverous certainty.

Lena Shanks nodded.

“Somersault,” he said to Edwin. “Forward.”

Edwin stared at the man.

“Is he deaf?” shouted the man.

Edwin somersaulted.

“Backward!”

Edwin did so.

The man reached into the pocket of his coat, and withdrew a pair of tiny slippers. He tossed them at Edwin’s feet. “Put ’em on.”

Edwin poked his feet into the slippers.

“They’re nailed to the floor,” said the man, staring intently at Edwin, “now somersault out of ’em.”

Edwin stared down at his feet for a moment, and then did a backward flip out of the slippers, leaving them wholly unmoved.

“Very good,” said the gaunt man, his frown abating a little for the first time.

“Girl,” he said to Ella, “fetch me half a dozen bottles—beer, wine, empty, filled, don’t matter.” Ella ran out of the room, and Edwin was commanded to walk on his hands, his knuckles, the tips of three fingers. There was something in the attention of the gaunt man that made Edwin want to do his best, as if success would save him from the vat, and he whirled about with an abandonment he had never dared display in the kitchen of Gramercy Park, or before his grandfather.

When Ella returned with eight brown beer bottles, the gaunt man took them and lined them straight across the center of the room, about a foot and a half apart.

He stood at the end of the line and motioned Edwin over. “Take hold of the neck,” he said. Edwin squatted upon the floor and grasped the slender neck of the bottle with both hands.

“Alley-oop!”

Edwin threw his legs up into the air behind him, and his little body rose straight above the bottle. It wobbled just once, then sat perfectly erect and still on the floor, not out of its position.

“Hold!”

Edwin remained perfectly still.

“One hand!”

Edwin drew one hand away.

“Next bottle!”

Without disturbing the first, Edwin reached before him and grasped the neck of the bottle next in line. His body moved faultlessly into the space between and above the two bottles.