Chapter XXV
Mary Blaine settled down comfortably to years of peace. For the first time in her life she was completely happy. At last she had a real home where she was loved. Occasionally her heart bothered her when she climbed the stairs. But the pains usually passed when she rested awhile. She had lived a pretty strenuous life.
In the mornings she liked to loll about in her own sitting room, wearing one of her favorite ruffled dressing gowns. She still painted and rouged outrageously. Terese prepared her bath every morning and went downstairs and brought her breakfast up on a tray. Timothy, much to his annoyance, was commissioned to get his mistress all the morning papers. She liked to read what was going on everywhere, though she seldom read more than the headlines unless the matter was of a scandalous nature.
One morning after she had finished a late breakfast, Timothy, nose in air, appeared on the threshold.
"There is a person downstairs to see you," he announced disdainfully, as though for her to have visitors at all was a near crime.
"What sort of a person?" she asked.
"A common sort of person, if I may say so."
"You mean shabby?"
"No, he is well enough dressed, though the cut of his clothes is rather vulgar. If you will pardon me for the liberty of giving an opinion, Madame, he seems to lack breeding."
"Did he tell you his name?"
"Yes. Blackie Gray."
Madame closed her eyes. She felt a sharp pain at her heart. Her little world of happiness was tottering about her. The past was whispering. From it had come a ghost in the form of Blackie Gray who had been a frequent visitor at the establishment of Madame Leota. His reputation was evil. He had plenty of money with no apparent means of support. Blackie had discovered that there was a way.
Mary Blaine sighed wearily as she drew on her shoe. Even her bunion was forgotten. Her face under its rouge had taken on an ashen hue. Nevertheless she was unafraid.
"Will you please show Mr. Gray up here?" she directed.
In a few moments Blackie Gray was in her presence. Not till Timothy had departed did he speak. Terese, at Madame's suggestion, had gone into the adjoining room. Blackie walked across the room and closed the door leading into the hall before he spoke, then he said: "Hello, Madame Leota."
"My name," she said coldly, "is Mary Blaine. While you are in this house, you will so address me. There is no need of beating about the bush. My time is limited. State briefly why you are here."
"All right, I will," he said bluntly. "The fact is I'm hard up, I need some dough."
"I see. So you looked around to find some beer-keg you could tap."
"You have marvelous powers of perception."
"And what made you think you would get money from me?"
"I knew I would," he said brazenly.
"Well you knew wrong," she snapped.
"I don't suppose you would like it to be generally known that you are the former notorious woman, Madame Leota."
"Of course I wouldn't."
"And I need money."
"I see. And I'm to buy your silence."
"Coarsely put, but in the main correct."
"And if I refuse?"
"I will outline a plot for a comedy to Dorothy Blaine."
"Make sure that it is not a tragedy."
"It's too droll for that."
"And if I give you money," she mused, "I suppose when it is gone, you will come back for more."
"Those are my plans."
"There have been thousands of people who knew me. Suppose they all got the idea that I should pension them merely that I might enjoy a pleasant old age."
"That woula be unfortunate, Madame."
"It most surely would. By the way, where are you stopping in New York?"
He named the hotel.
"Thanks," she said curtly. "I wanted to know in case your body turned into remains. There should be some place to send them."
"Threatening?" he sneered.
Madame leaned back against the cushions of her chair and closed her eyes.
"No," she said softly, "I'm not threatening. The past must come out. I know when you leave my room you will shout it from the housetops. For a moment I was thinking of the way I used to treat the men who forced their way into my private apartment in my establishment. I used to grab them by the scruff of the neck as one might grab a mangy cat and I'd throw them downstairs. I found it a most excellent corrective after I'd been forced to eat something that didn't agree with me. I was wondering if my indigestion wasn't beginning to bother me now."
She rose to her feet, a giant of a woman. With clenched fists she stood over the quavering, spindly form of Blackie Gray.
"You wouldn't dare," he managed to gasp.
She would dare. She seized him by the coat collar and dragged him out to the top of the stairs. With one mighty effort she cast him down. For Blackie's sake it was well that the stairs were heavily carpeted. Still the assault was violent enough to make the old stairs squeak with agony, though their protestations were nothing compared to the curses of Blackie. Bruised and breathless he lay at the bottom and called her every foul name he could think of. Madame strode down the stairs. Her anger was at fever pitch. Before he could rise to his feet she was towering over him again. She placed one of her large feet on his chest.
"I wonder if I should squash you like a slimy beetle," she mused.
That was too much for Blackie. He struggled to get free. It was a hard task to wiggle out from under the ponderous weight that crushed down from behind that foot. He whimpered and whined and pleaded for mercy.
Timothy stood in the doorway. His eyes were popping but he was still dignified. He had thought it best to bring Blackie's hat and coat. He had come to the conclusion that Blackie would be leaving shortly.
"Now get the hell out," ordered Mary Blaine. "I'm thankful indeed that I am still able to forget that I'm a lady when the necessity arises."
As she spoke she walked majestically up the groaning stairs, a mountain of a woman who had suddenly fallen into the valley of despair.
Blackie seized his hat and departed as though intent on entering a marathon. His brain, however, was still active and despite the pain of his sundry bruises he was plotting his revenge.
Timothy stood mournfully surveying the retreating figure of Madame Leota whom he knew as Mary Blaine.
"A harmless maniac," he reflected, "is bad enough. Whatever we shall do with her now that she has become violent, only the Creator knows."
Mary Blaine went back in her room and slouched into a chair. She sat all hunched up, like a balloon that has been pricked with a pin and is slowly getting smaller. This was a catastrophe indeed. A calamity was clamoring at her doorstep. She never should have come to New York. Now that it was too late to retreat gracefully, she knew that she loved Dorothy as much as though the girl had been her own daughter. How was it to end? In disgrace? She was bringing disgrace down on Dorothy's head. She must find a way out. She must go back to the Midwest to spend her declining years, a broken-down Madame with nothing but bleak memories to console her.