Chapter IV
The next five years Louella devoted to studying people. She was taking a post-graduate course in humanity. Men, men, men, they filled her life. But there were none that found a way to her heart. She was cold and merciless, a scheming, designing woman. She made a great deal of money and saved it. She was charitable when once her sympathy was aroused but she did not squander money.
She drank moderately, and smoked cigarettes at a time when cigarettes were still a novelty for women. She never permitted herself to get drunk because she always wanted to be in complete control of her faculties. She had once been sold into bondage and she did not wish it to happen again. Men were all right as long as you didn't trust them or marry them.
In her girlhood she had not studied much, but now she read everything. She wanted to be equally as well-educated as any woman she might encounter, as well-educated as most men, so that when she decided to climb back again into a decent life she would not find it beyond her capacities.
During that entire five years she remained with Hattie Holt. The two became friendly after a fashion. Hattie was expansive and rather vulgar. Men liked her because she was a hail fellow. She was a great comfort to many. Her friendly attitude was infectious. But she never read a book and only read the headlines in newspapers. Life was devoted to the art of love and she pined for no other recreation.
Sometimes of an evening when there were no men cluttering up the house she joined Louella in a pint of beer and some cheese sandwiches.
"Funny world," she declared once. "Wonder where in hell I'll end? You'd never think to look at me that I was happily married once."
"Oh, I don't know," reflected Louella. "You're not so bad to look at if one isn't too critical. I can imagine a man marrying you, but I can't for the life of me see why he should."
"Damn rude," pouted Hattie, "but I'll overlook it. Yes, I was happily married not once, but twice, and both my husbands were narrow-minded. When they found out about each other they were provoked. They were even worse than that and so I thought it might be a good idea to leave them both. So I ran away with a drummer. But before a week was over he went back to his wife a sadder and a wiser man but in many ways contented. However, I never missed him. Among the succeeding crowds that came to the carnival, I'd have hardly known he was about anyway. Would you mind giving me a bit more cheese?"
"Not at all," said Louella. "Is that the doorbell?"
"What else could it be?"
"I hope to Heaven it is for you. I'm tired."
Mandy went to the door and admitted a sleek, thin individual with patent-leather hair and a breezy manner. They knew him as Don Raymond, the manager of a barber-supply house.
"Hello, girls," he cried. "I'll take beer."
"What the hell do you think this is, a bar?" asked Hattie peevishly.
"No matter what it is," said he, "I'll still take beer." As he drained the glass which Louella handed him, he went on: "Tonight I'm bored with living and so I decided to drop in and see if Hattie would marry me."
"I'm not in a marrying mood today," said Hattie.
"She never gets married on Tuesdays," broke in Louella.
"This isn't Tuesday," said Hattie thoughtfully.
"It's wedding's day," chuckled Don.
"That's awful," commented Louella. "Such humor always makes me bilious."
Don Raymond ignored the remark. "What do you say, Hattie," he asked, "shall we get married?"
"Why should we?" she wanted to know.
"Oh, I don't know," he replied. "Today I was fired from my job. I lost my last hundred dollars playing poker. And a chap threatened to cut my throat. You see it was my unlucky day, so I decided I might as well get married as not. As you were the first lady I thought of, I came to you."
Hattie Holt had a weakness for marriage and besides she had a great fondness for Don Raymond. She liked him particularly because he did not snore. It would be good, she decided, to have a man about the house.
"All right," she said abruptly, "I'll marry you."
"Thanks," said he. "We'll dash right out to the minister's. By the way you don't happen to have a second-hand wedding ring around anywhere that we can use?"
"Oh, yes," she said, "I have several."
"One will be quite enough."
"But I can't see why you are in such a dreadful hurry to get married."
"It can't come too soon for me."
"I'd like a bit of time to bake a cake."
"If you give her time to reflect," interrupted Louella, "She'll never marry you."
"Oh, I've got to get married tonight," explained Don. "My landlady turned me out today because I owed her for seven weeks' room rent. I have no place to sleep—which is a pity, because at that I am a past master."
"Oh," said Louella, "I see. You've decided to marry to avoid sleeping on a park bench."
"Don't be jealous."
"I couldn't be. I'd rather marry a baboon than you."
"Stop quarreling," requested Hattie, "because I want you to come along with us as a witness. Just wait a few minutes till I change my dress."
While Hattie was upstairs, Don Raymond made love to Louella. She permitted his kisses good-naturedly until Hattie returned.
"I've got a horse and rig outside," said he, "so we can ride through the streets in style."
"Why didn't you bring the horse in?" asked Louella.
"He doesn't like to visit folks he doesn't know. Say, why not make it a double wedding?"
"Perhaps I would," said Louella, "if there was anybody kissable around."
"How about the horse?" asked Don dryly.
"Then," said she, "your stable would be entirely empty. At that I think I'd rather him than you."
It was only a short distance to the minister's house but it was not too short for Don Raymond and Louella to quarrel all the way.
Hattie did not join in the conversation. As a matter of fact she paid no attention to it. She sat softly weeping.
"I always cry at my weddings," she explained when Louella asked her what was the matter. "What would be the use of getting married if you couldn't have a good cry?"
Half an hour later they were back at Hattie's house. Don Raymond strutted up and down the room as pompously as a peacock. He had a silly smile on his face.
"He looks as though he were going to lay an egg," said Louella.
During the following days Don made no effort to find a position. He loafed around all day, smoking cigarettes, reading newspapers, or drinking whiskey and soda. Gradually he became complete master of the house. Hattie even told Louella in the future to pay her room-rent to Don.
"He's my manager now," she said coyly.
"I see," commented Louella. "He isn't so dumb at that."
"He's very clever," declared Hattie. "I think he's terribly handsome."
"Terribly," agreed Louella.
As the days wore on, the house grew irksome to Louella. Don Raymond was in many ways a good manager. He visited various poolrooms and drummed up trade. But gradually he attempted to manage her as well as his wife. She thought of John Rott. She must never repeat those blunders. If she remained with Hattie she knew that gradually she would get into the clutches of Don. Many of the men who came to the house she recognized as underworld characters. She didn't want to get mixed up with his friends. They could only lead to ultimate ruin. Finally she told Hattie one morning that she intended to leave.
Hattie took the announcement hard.
"Don't go," she pleaded. "I think a tremendous lot of you." It was the year 1893. The World's Fair had just opened in Chicago. Louella had read a great deal about it in the newspapers, one of the most stupendous expositions ever presented in the history of the world. She desired to see the great buildings, the gorgeous canals and fountains. One building she had heard was a thousand feet long.
Louella placed her arm fondly about Hattie's shoulder.
"You're a grand girl," she said, "and I've never had a friend I've cared for more. But I'm tired. I've never had a vacation since I left home. And I've got a longing to go to the Fair in Chicago. Perhaps afterward I'll come back."
But even as Louella Leota spoke she knew that she would never come back. She had a dread of returning to former scenes. She dreaded remorse. She tried not to regret anything. She lived solely in the present. The past was forgotten. At least she pretended it was. On the road she had chosen there was no returning.