“Tell me all about it, Amy. What has George been doing now? I thought you would be satisfied when I let you sleep upstairs.”
“No, sir, I ain’ satisfied nohow. I wouldn’t wu’k heah or sleep heah ’nother night not for all the money in the worl’. Dat man he sets an’ sets lookin’ at nothin’ an’ then he runs knives inter his hans—an’ he don’ bleed. He ain’ human—that’s what.”
“I’m sorry, Amy—I don’t want you to go and neither does Gloria, but of course we can’t keep you. Let me know if you don’t get another place or if anything goes wrong. Perhaps later George may go and then you can come back.”
“He won’t go. One mawnin’ you-all will wake up dade—that’s what goin’ happen.”
She shook her head, looking at Ruth with real tears in her eyes. Apparently she thought she looked at one doomed to early death, and Ruth, though she knew the threatened evil was not for herself, had long since lost the ability to laugh at Amy’s superstitions.
CHAPTER X
Terry Riordan arranged an interview for Ruth with the Sunday editor of the Express, with the result that she found herself promised to do a weekly page of theatrical sketches, beginning the first of the year, and she discovered the unique joy of having real work which was wanted and for which she would receive money. Also she discovered that association with a newspaper and connection with a weekly stipend gave her a prestige with her fellow students which no amount of splendid amateur effort would have won for her. Dorothy and Nels told every one they knew about “Ruth Mayfield’s splendid success,” and Professor Burroughs congratulated her.
“It is always sad to see a student with a real gift neglecting it for a fancied talent,” he said, “and it is equally satisfying when any of our students wisely follow the line of work for which they are fitted. We don’t want to turn out dabblers, and too often that’s what art students become.”
Ruth would have looked forward to the beginning of the next year eagerly, had she been thinking only of herself, for her new work was throwing her much in the company of Terry Riordan, who was taking her to the theatre every night, so that she would become familiar with the appearance and mannerisms of the popular actresses and actors. Of course he was doing it only because he was such a kind-hearted man and because he wanted to help her, but even Ruth knew that if she had not been a rather pleasant companion he would not have taken so much interest in helping her. His cheerfulness puzzled her. He seemed so brave and happy—but perhaps it was merely the forced gaiety of a man who is trying to forget.
It was not, however, her own affairs that interested her most. Terry had found a producer for his play and despite the lateness of the season, rehearsals for it were to begin in January. Gloria had been offered the leading rôle, and with characteristic perverseness had said that she was not at all sure that she wanted it, information that Terry refused to convey to the manager. This, coupled with the fact that Gloria was now constantly in the company of Prince Aglipogue, made Ruth remember vividly her conversation with George. Her beauty, her restlessness, her changeful moods seemed to increase from day to day. She was always kind to Ruth, but she was very seldom with her. Invitations that a month before would have been thrown away unread were now accepted and Gloria dashed about from one place to another, always with Prince Aglipogue in her wake. His ponderous attentions seemed to surround her like a cage and she, like a darting humming-bird, seemed ever to be struggling to escape and ever recognizing the bars that enclosed her.