Wired Love, Page 2

  CHAPTER II.

  AT THE HOTEL NORMAN.

  Miss Nattie Rogers, telegraph operator, lived, as it were, in twoworlds. The one her office, dingy and curtailed as to proportions, butfrom whence she could wander away through the medium of that slendertelegraph wire, on a sort of electric wings, to distant cities andtowns; where, although alone all day, she did not lack socialintercourse, and where she could amuse herself if she chose, bylistening to and speculating upon the many messages of joy or of sorrow,of business and of pleasure, constantly going over the wire. But theother world in which Miss Rogers lived was very different; the worldbounded by the four walls of a back room at Miss Betsey Kling's. It mustbe confessed that there are more pleasing views than sheds in greater orless degrees of dilapidation, a sickly grape-vine, a line of flappingsheets, an overflowing ash barrel; sweeter sounds than the dulcet notesof old rag-men, the serenades of musical cats, or the strains of acornet played upon at intervals from nine P. M. to twelve, with theevident purpose of exhausting superfluous air in the performer's lungs.Perhaps, too, there was more agreeable company possible than Miss BetseyKling.

  Therefore, in the evening, Sunday and holiday, if not in the telegraphicworld of Miss Rogers, loneliness, and the unpleasant sensation known as"blues" are not uncommon.

  Miss Betsey Kling, who, although in reduced circumstances, boasted ofcertain "blue blood," inherited from dead and gone ancestors--whoperhaps would have been surprised could they have known at this late dayhow very genteel they were in life,--rented a flat in Hotel Norman, onthe second floor, of which she let one room; not on account of theweekly emolument received therefrom, ah, no! but "for the sake of havingsome one for company." In this respect she was truly a contrast to Mrs.Simonson, a hundred and seventy-five pound widow, who lived in theremaining suite of that floor, and who let every room she possiblycould, in order, as she frankly confessed, to "make both ends meet." Fora constant struggle with the "ways and means" whereby to live had quiteannihilated any superfluous gentility Mrs. Simonson might have had,excepting only one lingering remnant, that would never allow her to hangin the window one of those cheaply conspicuous placards, announcing:

  "Rooms to Let."

  Miss Betsey Kling was a spinster--not because she liked it, but onaccount of circumstances over which she had no control,--and herprincipal object in life, outside of the never-expressed, but muchthought-of one of finding her other self, like her, astray, was to keepwatch and ward over the affairs of the occupants of neighboring flats,and see that they conducted themselves with the propriety becoming theneighbors of so very genteel and unexceptionable a person as Miss BetseyKling. In pursuit of this occupation she was addicted to sudden andsilent appearances, much after the manner of materialized spirits, atwindows opening into the hall, and doors carelessly left ajar. She was,however, afflicted with a chronic cold, that somewhat interfered withher ability to become a first-class listener, on account of itsproducing an incessant sniffle and spasms of violent sneezing.

  Miss Rogers going home to that back room of hers, found herself stillpondering upon the probable sex of "C." Rather to her own chagrin, whenshe caught her thoughts thus straying, too; for she had a certain scornof anything pertaining to trivial sentiment. A little scorn of herselfshe also had some-times. In fact, her desires reached beyond theobtaining of the every-day commonplaces with which so many are contentto fill their lives, and she possessed an ambition too dominant to allowher to be content with the dead level of life. Therefore it was that anyhappy hours of forgetfulness of all but the present, that sometimes camein her way, were often followed by others of unrest and dissatisfaction.There were certain dreams she indulged in of the future, now hopefully,now utterly disheartened, that she was so far away from theirrealization. These dreams were of fame, of fame as an authoress. Whetherit was the true genius stirring within her, or that most unfortunate ofall things, an unconquerable desire without the talent to rise abovemediocrity, time alone could tell.

  Compelled by the failure and subsequent death of her father to supportherself, or become a burden upon her mother, whose now scanty meansbarely sufficed for herself and two younger children, Nattie chose themore independent, but harder course. For she was not the kind of girl tosit down and wait for some one to come along and marry her, and relieveher of the burden of self-support. So, from a telegraph office in thecountry, where she learned the profession, she drifted to her presentone in the city.

  To her, as yet, there was a certain fascination about telegraphy. Butshe had a presentiment that in time the charm would give place tomonotony, more especially as, beyond a certain point, there waspositively no advancement in the profession. Although knowing she couldnot be content to always be merely a telegraph operator, she resolved tolike it as well and as long as she could, since it was the best for thepresent.

  As she lighted the gas in her room, she thought not of these things thatwere so often in her mind, but of "C," and then scolded herself forcaring whether that distant individual was man or woman. What matteredit to a young lady who felt herself above flirtations?

  So there was a little scowl on her face as she turned around, that didnot lessen when she beheld Miss Kling standing in her door-way. For MissRogers did not, to speak candidly, find her landlady a congenial spirit,and only remained upon her premises because being there was a lesserevil than living in that most unhomelike of all places, aboarding-house.

  "I thought I would make you a call," the unwelcome visitor remarked,rubbing her nose, that from constant friction had become red andshining; "I have been lonesome to-day. I usually run into Mrs.Simonson's in the afternoon, but she has been out since twelve o'clock.I can't make out--" musingly, "where she can have gone! not that she isjust the company I desire. She has never been used to anything above thecommon, poor soul, and will say 'them rooms,' but she is better than noone, and at least can appreciate in others the culture and standing shehas never attained," and Miss Kling sneezed, and glanced at Nattie withan expression that plainly said her lodger would do well to imitate, inthis last respect, the lady in question.

  "I am very little acquainted with Mrs. Simonson," Nattie replied, with atinge of scorn curling her lip, for, in truth, she had little reverencefor Miss Kling's blue blood. "Her lodgers like her very much, I believe;at least, Quimby speaks of her in the highest terms."

  "Quimby!" repeated Miss Kling, with a sniffle of contempt. "Ablundering, awkward creature, who is always doing or saying someshocking thing!"

  "I know that he is neither elegant nor talented, and is often veryawkward, but he is honest and kind-hearted, and one is willing tooverlook other deficiencies for such rare qualities," Nattie replied, alittle warmly, "and so Mrs. Simonson feels, I am confident."

  Miss Kling eyed her sharply.

  "Not at all! Allow me, Miss Rogers, to know! Mrs. Simonson endures hisblunders, because, as she says, he can live on the interest of hismoney, 'on a pinch,' and she thinks such a lodger something of which toboast. On a pinch, indeed!" added Miss Kling, with a sneeze, and givingthe principal feature in her face something very like the exclamation,"a very tight pinch it would be, I am thinking!" Then somewhatspitefully she continued, "But I was not aware, Miss Rogers, that youand this Quimby were so intimate! The admiration is mutual, I suppose?"

  "There is no admiration," replied Nattie, with a flash of her gray eyes,inwardly indignant that any one should insinuate she admiredQuimby--honest, blundering Quimby, whom no one ever allowed a handle tohis name, and who was so clever, but like all clever people, such adreadful bore. "I have only met him two or three times since thatevening you introduced us in the hall, so there has hardly been anopportunity for anything of that kind."

  "You spoke so warmly!" Miss Kling remarked. "However," conciliatingly,"I don't suppose by any means that you are in love with Quimby! You aremuch too sensible a young lady for such folly!"

  Nattie shrugged her shoulders, as if tired of the subject, and after aspasm of sneezing, Miss Kling continued:


  "As you intimate, he means all right, poor fellow! and that is more thanI should be willing to acknowledge regarding Mrs. Simonson's _other_lodger, that Mr. Norton, who calls himself an artist. I am sure I neversaw any one except a convict wear such short hair!" and Miss Kling shookher head insinuatingly.

  From this beginning, to Nattie's dismay, Miss Kling proceeded to thedissection of their neighbors who lived in the suite above, CelesteFishblate and her father. The former, Miss Kling declared, was settingher cap for Quimby. Mr. Fishblate being an unquestionably disagreeablespecimen of the _genus homo_, with a somewhat startling habit of explodingin short, but expressive sentences--never using more than threeconsecutive words--Nattie naturally expected to hear him even moreseverely anathematized than any one else. But to her surprise, the ladyconducting the conversation declared him a "fine sensible man!" At whichNattie first stared, and then smiled, as it occurred to her that Mr.Fishblate was a widower, and might it not be that Miss Klingcontemplated the possibility of _his_ becoming that other self not yetattained?

  Fortunately Miss Kling did not observe her lodger's looks, so intent wasshe in admiration of Mr. Fishblate's fine points, and soon took herleave.

  After her departure, Nattie changed her inky dress, and put on her hatto go out for something forgotten until now. As she stepped into thehall, a tall young man, with extremely long arms and legs, and mouth,that, although shaded by a faint outline of a mustache, invariablysuggested an alligator, opened the door of Mrs. Simonson's rooms,opposite, and seeing Nattie, started back in a sort of nervousbashfulness. Recovering himself, he then darted out with suchimpetuosity that his foot caught in a rug, he fell, and went headlongdown stairs, dragging with him a fire-bucket, at which he clutched in avain effort to save himself, the two jointly making a noise that echoedthrough the silent halls, and brought out the inhabitants of the roomsin alarm.

  "What is it? Is any one killed?" shrieked from above, a voice,recognizable as that of Celeste Fishblate--two names that could never byany possibility sound harmonious.

  "What _is_ the matter now?" screamed Miss Kling, appearing at her doorwith the query.

  "Have you hurt yourself?" Nattie asked, as she went down to where thehero of the catastrophe sat on the bottom stair, ruefully rubbing hiselbow, but who now picked up his hat and the fire-bucket, and rose toexplain.

  "It's nothing--nothing at all, you know!" he said, looking upward, andbowing to the voices; "I caught my foot in the rug, and--"

  "Did you tear the rug?" here anxiously interrupted the listening Mrs.Simonson, suddenly appearing at the banisters; not that she felt for herlodger less, but for the rug more, a distinction arising from thatconstant struggle with the "ways and means."

  "Oh, no! I assure you, there was no damage done to the rug--orfire-bucket," the victim responded, reassuringly, and in perfect goodfaith. "Or myself," he added modestly, as if the latter was scarce worthspeaking of. "I--I am used to it, you know," reverting to his usualexpression in accidents of all descriptions.

  "I declare I don't know what you will do next!" muttered Mrs. Simonson,retreating to examine the rug.

  "I think you must be in love, Quimby!" giggled Celeste; an assertionthat caused Miss Kling to give vent to a contemptuous "Humph" andawakened in its subject the most excruciating embarrassment. The poorfellow glanced at Nattie, blushed, perspired, and frantically clutchingat the fire-bucket, stammered a protest,--

  "Now really--I--now!--you are mistaken, you know!"

  "But people who are in love are always absent-minded," persistedCeleste, with another giggle. "So it is useless to--"

  But exactly what was useless did not appear, as at this point astentorian voice, the voice of Miss Kling's "fine, sensible man,"roared,

  "Enough!"

  At which, to Quimby's relief, Celeste, always in mortal fear of herfather, hastily withdrew. Not so Miss Kling. She silently waited to seeif Nattie and Quimby would go out together, and was rewarded by hearingthe latter ask, as Nattie made a movement towards the door,--

  "May I--might I be so bold as to--as to ask to be your escort?"

  "I should be pleased," Nattie answered, adding with a mischievousglance, but in a low tone, aware of the listening ears above,--

  "That is, if you will consent to dispense with the fire-bucket!"

  Quimby started, and dropping the article in question, as if it hadsuddenly turned red-hot, ejaculated,--

  "Bless my soul! really I--I beg pardon, I am sure!" then bashfullyoffering his arm, they went out, while Miss Kling balefully shook herhead.

  "So, Celeste will insist upon it that you are in love, because youtripped and fell down stairs!" Nattie said, by way of opening aconversation as they walked along--a remark that did not tend to lessenhis evident disquietude. And having now no fire-bucket, he clutched athis necktie, twirling it all awry, not at all to the improvement of hispersonal appearance, as he replied,--

  "Oh! really, you know! its no matter! I--I am used to it, you know!"

  "Used to falling in love?" queried Nattie, with raised eyebrows.

  "No--no--the other, you know, that is--" gasped Quimby, hopelessly lostfor a substantive. "I mean, it's a mistake, you know" then with adesperate rush away from the embarrassing subject, "Did you knowwe--that is, Mrs. Simonson, was going to have a new lodger?"

  "No, is she?" asked Nattie.

  "Yes, a young lady coming to-morrow, a--a sort of an actress--no, aprima donna, you know. A Miss Archer. If you and she should happen tolike each other, it would be pleasant for you, now wouldn't it?" askedQuimby eagerly, with a devout hope that such might be, for then shouldhe not be a gainer by seeing more often the young lady by his side,whose gray eyes had already made havoc in his honest and susceptibleheart.

  "It would be pleasant," acquiesced Nattie, in utter unconsciousness ofQuimby's selfish hidden thought; "for I am lonely sometimes. Miss Klingis not--not--"

  "Oh, certainly! of course not!" Quimby responded sympathetically andunderstandingly, as Nattie hesitated for a word that would express hermeaning. "They never are very adaptable--old maids, you know!"

  "But it isn't because they are unmarried," said Nattie, perhaps feelingcalled upon to defend her future self, "but because they were born so!"

  "Exactly, you know, that's why no fellow ever marries them!" saidQuimby, with a glance of bashful admiration at his companion.

  Nattie laughed.

  "And this Miss Archer. Did you say she was a prima donna?" shequestioned.

  "Yes--that is, a sort of a kind of a one, or going to be, or some waymusical or theatrical, you know," was Quimby's lucid reply. "I'll makeit a point to--to introduce you if you will allow me that pleasure?"

  "Certainly," responded Nattie, and added, "I shall be quite rich, forme, in acquaintances soon, if I continue as I have begun. I made a newone on the wire to-day."

  "On the--I beg pardon--on the what?" asked Quimby, with visions oftight-ropes flashing through his mind.

  "On the wire," repeated Nattie, to whom the phrase was so common, thatit never occurred to her as needing any explanation.

  "Oh!" said the puzzled Quimby, not at all comprehending, but unwillingto confess his ignorance.

  "The worst of it is, I don't know the sex of my new friend, which makesit a little awkward," continued Nattie.

  Quimby stared.

  "Don't--I beg pardon--don't know her--his--sex?" he repeated, withwide-open eyes.

  "No, it was on the wire, you know!" again explained Nattie, privatelythinking him unusually stupid; "about seventy miles away. We firstquarreled and then had a pleasant talk."

  "Talk--seventy miles--" faltered the perplexed Quimby; then brightening,"Oh! I see! a telephone, you know!"

  "No indeed!" replied Nattie, laughing at his incomprehensibility. "Wedon't need telephones. We can talk without--did you not know that? Andwhat is better, no one but those who understand our language can knowwhat we say!"

  "Exactly!" answered Quimby, relapsing again into wonder. "Exactly--onthe wire!"
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  "Yes, we talk in a language of dots and dashes, that even Miss Klingmight listen to in vain. And do you know," she went on confidentially,"somehow, I am very much interested in my new friend. I wish I knew--itsso awkward, as I said--but I really think it's a gentleman!"

  "Exactly--exactly so!" responded Quimby, somewhat dejectedly. And duringthe remainder of their walk he was very much harassed in his mind overthis interest Nattie confessed in her new friend--"on the wire,"--who_would_ appear as a tight-rope performer to his perturbed imagination.And he felt in his inmost heart that it would be a great relief to hismind if this mysterious person should prove a lady, even though, if agentleman, he _was_ many miles away. For Quimby, with all his obtusity,had an inkling of the power of mystery, and was already far enough onthe road to love to be jealous.

  Of these thoughts Nattie was of course wholly unaware, and chattedgayly, now of the distant "C" and now of the coming Miss Archer, toher somewhat abstracted, but always devoted companion.