The back room, which, for nearly six long, weary weeks Laura had occupied on the second floor was characteristic of the place and the class of lodgers who lived there. For years the house had been falling into general decay, with no attempt at repairs. The ceilings were cracked; the wall-paper was old and spotted, and in places hung down brazenly in loose flaps. The cheap carpet was worn threadbare, with here and there large rents, which acted as so many dangerous pitfalls for the unwary. The furniture, of the cheapest possible description, comprised a large, old-fashioned wardrobe, for the most part full of rubbish, a dresser scattered with a few cheap toilet articles, a broken-down washstand and a three-quarter old wooden bed, which, placed against the wall right in the center of the room, monopolized most of the little space there was. At the foot of the bed, a small table, covered with a soiled and ink-stained cloth, was heaped with newspapers and magazines; on the right, facing the door, leading to the hall outside, an old-style mantelpiece surmounted a rusty fireplace. A single arm gas jet served for illuminating purposes, and in a little alcove stood a table with a small gas stove connected by rubber tubing with a gas fixture. There were two windows in the room, opening outward in the French manner on to a dilapidated balcony which overlooked the street below.
This was the wretched place for which Laura had given up all her former ease and magnificence—her $8,000 apartment, her crystal bathtub, her French maid, her automobile, and every other conceivable luxury. The descent from affluence to actual want had been gradual, but none the less swift and sure. It had cost her many a bitter pang, many an hour of keen humiliation, but she had made the sacrifice willingly, cheerfully, feeling in her heart that he would wish it and commend her for it. In all her troubles, John was never for a moment out of her thoughts. Everywhere about the room were reminders of the man who any day might return to claim her for his wife. On the dresser stood a small photograph of him in a cheap frame; tacked over the head of the bed was a larger portrait. A small bow of dainty blue ribbon at the top covered the tack, and underneath was a bunch of violets, now withered, but a silent and touching tribute to the absent one.
The room showed every evidence of being occupied, and at a glance it was easy to guess the vocation and also the sex of the tenant. In the wardrobe hung a few old dresses, most of them a good deal worn and shabby, while in an open drawer at the bottom could be seen several old pairs of women's shoes. On an armchair was thrown a cheap kimona. The dresser, in keeping with the general meanness, was adorned with pictorial postcards stuck in between the mirror and the frame, and on it were all the accessories necessary to the actress—powder box and puff, a rouge box and a rabbit's paw, a hand mirror, a small alcohol curling-iron heater, and a bottle of cheap perfume, purple in color, and nearly empty. On the mantelpiece were arranged photographs of actors and actresses and pieces of cheap bric-a-brac. Conspicuous in a corner was a huge theatrical trunk, plastered with the labels of hotels and theatres. Had the lid been raised, a caller might have seen in the tray, among the remnants of a once elaborate wardrobe, one little token that told at once the whole miserable story—a bundle of pawntickets!
Another week had gone by, and Laura's situation, instead of improving, grew steadily more precarious. An engagement seemed farther away than ever; it was impossible to secure one of any kind. One disappointment followed another. Either the companies were all full, or the part offered was not in her line. Managers consciencelessly broke their promises; Mr. Quiller and the other dramatic agents were blandly indifferent. Meantime no money was coming in, and the girl was completely at the end of her resources. Her clothes were now little better than rags; very soon she would not be able to go out at all, let alone make the round of the managers' offices. She owed three weeks rent to her landlady, a matter-of-fact, hard-as-nails type of woman, who was not to be put off much longer with mere promises. Unless she could settle soon, Mrs. Farley would tell her to get out, and then where could she go?
Perhaps for the first time in her life Laura realized now how utterly alone she was in the world. Never had it seemed to her so big, so indifferent, so heartless. Her parents were dead, and as far as she knew she had no relatives. Friends—so-called friends—were at best only fair weather acquaintances. There was not one from whom she would accept assistance. One man would help her, a man to whose generosity she could appeal with the certainty of instant response—Willard Brockton. But she would die sooner. She would not confess defeat. The one being who really cared for her and to whom she could properly appeal was thousands of miles away, in complete ignorance of her plight. She could telegraph him for money, but he might not understand, and she was too proud to lay her actions open to misconstruction. No, she must have patience and wait. If she had to go out scrubbing she would hold out until John Madison came back for her. But it was a bitter experience for a girl who had grown accustomed to every luxury, and, at times, her fortitude and patience were tried to the utmost. The constant humiliation, to say nothing of the mental and physical suffering, was sometimes more than she could bear, and there were many nights when she sobbed herself to sleep. Even her good looks suffered. Constant anxiety made her thin; sleepless nights drove the color from her cheeks and put dark circles round her eyes. She did not have even enough to eat. Forced to economize, she went without regular meals, satisfying her hunger cravings with what little she could cook herself in her own comfortless room.
But in these dark hours, there was one ray of light, and that was her serene faith in her absent lover. She was convinced now that her attachment for the journalist was no passing fancy, no mere caprice of the moment. For the first time in her life, she felt the uplifting, exalted emotion of a pure love, and it seemed to burn in her bosom like a cleansing touch, wiping out the stain in her past. With all her experiences, tragic and otherwise, Laura Murdock had found nothing equal to this sudden, swiftly increasing love for the young Westerner.
That he would come back for her sooner or later, she never for a moment doubted. Of his perfect loyalty, she was convinced. He was her one thought, night and day, and there was no keener pleasure in this, her new life, than in maintaining their constant correspondence. Not a day passed that did not carry a letter Westwards; each morning the postman brought a letter from Madison, full of what he was doing, setting enthusiastically forth his plans for the future. These letters, which were her most treasured possessions, she kept in a big, cardboard box under the bed. By actual count, there were 125 letters and 80 telegrams, tied in eight separate bundles with dainty blue ribbon. On days when she was particularly depressed and discouraged, she felt comforted if she could drag out the letter-box and reread the messages from the loved one.
This is what she was doing one afternoon about a week after her fruitless visit to Mr. Quiller's office. The weather being stormy, she could not go out, so, after lunching abundantly on a glass of milk and a few dry crackers, she once more dragged the box from under the bed. Selecting a bundle of letters, she climbed on the bed, and, squatting down, her feet crossed in Oriental fashion, proceeded to enjoy them. Every now and then she would glance up from the sheet of closely written paper, and take a long, loving look at the large portrait of her sweetheart over the bed.
While thus busily engaged, there suddenly came a knock at the door. Quickly Laura jumped from the bed, replaced the letters in the box, which she slid back in its place, and called out:
"Come in."